***TRIGGER WARNING FOR SELF HARM AND SEVERAL ATTEMPTS OF SUICIDE***

I decided to write this because this is what I'm going through at the moment, and it's how I feel. It was two in the morning, and I felt like slitting my wrists, so I'm sorry if there's some grammar and spelling mistakes. Also there is a major character death, be warned. Takes place after the season 8 finale.


Sleepy Vitamins


He's going to be here soon. Hurry up. Take your time. It's going to be fine. He will never notice. Just one. Maybe two. It doesn't matter now.

Sam locked the door of the bathroom, and slammed it once Dean had decided there wasn't enough beer. He took out his assortment of knives he always hid on the waistband of his pants. They helped not only with this but during hunts too.

His breath quickened as soon as he gripped the hilt of the blade. This knife in particular was his favorite. The edge wasn't ragged like the other blades. It was smooth and sharp. Sometimes he didn't use it for that fact. Even so, he felt the need to use it now.

Sam knew not to cut on his arm. It was in plain sight, and would surely be noticed from the top of a fifty-three story building at night, through fog. Well, that might've been a slight exaggeration. Okay, maybe a big one.

He slid his jeans down his legs. Sitting, leaning against the bathroom door just in case Dean did get back to the motel before expected. Though he highly doubted it considering it was Dean, his brother, the one who had no clue what the fuck was going on. He stopped himself. He shouldn't be blaming Dean for any of this if it was his own fault.

Sam looked down at all the thin pink lines that adorned his legs, going from his hip to just above the knee. All those scars had stories behind them. His arm even had some. The scars on his arms was when he first started hurting himself. He was only thirteen, well, almost fourteen as a matter of fact.

He didn't want to be reminded of that day, so he did the only thing he could do to keep himself from crying. Sam dragged the blade across his thigh rapidly. A thick, deep cut appeared. Slowly but surely blood oozed out of the cut, slipping down the side of his leg, and onto the linoleum floor. Just a drop of blood, nothing more.

He brought the blade back up to his thigh, near the cut he had just made. His hand shook. This happened most of the times. It resulted in him having to close his eyes every time he sliced his skin. That's what he did then. Closing his eyes he slid the blade near the recent cut. Then he did it again. Again. Again.

"...Just...One...More..." He whispered to no one but himself in between the slices of more skin "One...More..."

Fading out of consciousness. He dropped the blade. It clattered. He broke. Vision blurred. Head spun. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He took heavy breaths. His heart beat faster than usual. Eyes stung. Tears spilled down his cheeks. Body shook. Hands quivered. Teeth chattered. Blood dripped.

"Sam would you hurry up dammit. I kind of need to piss." Shit. Had he really just faded out of reality for over an hour? This hadn't happened before. Something was wrong. He was wrong. He cut more, and more every time he went on one of his little, over-emotional tangents.

Dean slammed his fists against the door a couple times. "Yeahammmmcomeendan." That didn't sound very good. Especially if he slurred it.

"You drunk in there Sammy?" Dean yelled through the door.

Sam strung a white as snow fabric towel around his thigh to stop the blood from seeping through his jeans. He made sure that he knotted it as tight as humanly possible. The goal was to try to cut off some of the blood circulation. Then he slipped on his jeans. They were baggy so the towel wrapped around his thigh wasn't noticeable at all. Good. He tucked his blades back into the waistband of his jeans, mopped up the floor with toilet paper, flushed the toilet, and swung open the door.

He winced as he took a step forward. His thigh stung. Even if the towel numbed most of the pain, feeling a burning on his thigh was inevitable. Sam liked it that way.

"About time Sam." Dean growled. He nudged Sam as got up off the bed, making it creak, and padding into the washroom.

"Sorry. I'm so sorry Dean." He murmured, holding his head in his hands as he slouched over on his bed.

He was the biggest fuck up ever. For pete's sake he couldn't even close the gates of hell. What did it matter if he died anyways. No one would miss him, he failed everyone either way, so he should do something right for once in his life. But no, Dean had to come up with some lame excuse for him to stay. Who cared about Sam? All Dean needed him for was for hunts. Plus why stay when his own brother trusted a vampire more than him? What was next, siding with Lucifer, or maybe even Metatron? Who the fuck would he turn to when he decided that Sam wasn't to be trusted anymore. He was a failure, a disappointment. He let down the people he cared about most.

Sam let out a shaky breath when Dean got out of the washroom. Good, he had cleaned up well enough for his brother not to notice.

"I'm going out, Dean."

"What for? Why don't you stay here in the motel, and do some research on finding us a new hunt?" He flopped down on the bed. "You know what Sam? Fuck it. Go do whatever you want. Be the selfish little brat you are."

"What did I do now?" Sam rapidly stood up from the bed, whining a bit from the fact that his leg stung. "So you can go out to bars, hitting on girls, but I can't take a walk? What the hell Dean?" He didn't want to hear it anymore. Sam took off, slamming the door to their shit motel room.

He walked around the motel to the back. It smelled of garbage, and exhaust. Then again, what was he supposed to expect from an alley. Lights flickered. Cars honked. People talked. Everyone zipped past, ignoring the dark alley. Dark like his heart. This was a good place to do it. No one cared if he did it anyways. It was all his fault.

His hand reached for the small pistol he always carried with him on his waistband. Pulling it out, he moved it up to his face, into his mouth, and stuck it on the roof of his mouth.

Failure. Disappointment. Depressed. Lonely. Insane. Delusional. Awful. Untrustworthy. Guilty. Evil. Monster.

Sam pulled the trigger.


Pull the trigger.

Nothing.

Pull.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Kill me.

Sam flung the pistol out into the darkness of the alley. "Someone kill me! Please!" He fell to his knees, begging.

Tears spilled over his eyes, and down his cheeks. Spots of water fell onto his jeans. His body convulsed in sobs. He clawed desperately at his arms. Maybe that would kill him, not possible though.

"Why, oh god. Why? Help. Someone help. No, no, no. Why? This is all my fault. I give up! Please!" He hollered into nothing. No one heard. No one would come. No one cared. He yelled out to no one until his throat was raw.

Sam ran out into the bustling street ahead of him, hoping that maybe a car would come a hit him. Killing him in the process. Kill him. Someone. Please. Help.

His heart hammered in his chest. His breaths were ragged, and shaky. Tears dripped down his face. His body shook out of terror of what he wanted to do.

"I can't do this, oh god." He repeated the words "why", and "no", before he decided he shouldn't wait any longer.

Sam took a step over the sidewalk onto the busy street lane. He dug his nails into his forearm, and dragged them across skin. With a sharp intake of breath, he stepped off the sidewalk. Close your eyes. That always helped out when he was scared. Three steps. Four steps. Five. S-

Someone snatched his arms, and pulled him back. "Sam! The hell do you think you're doing?"

"Dying." He smiled, opening his eyes. It was Dean. Sam laughed, trying to pull away, back onto the street. Black spots appeared in his vision. DON'T BLACK OUT NOW. Of course he did the exact opposite of what he told himself to do.


"Sam, listen to me. Please, Sam. It's going to be fine." He heard Dean's breath hitch. "What would I have done? I can't do this alone, Sammy."

Everything was so awful. There wasn't any other way. It wasn't going to "be okay", everyone said it but they never really meant it. Besides, he was sick, and tired of hearing the same things over again. "Everything's going to be okay", "You deserve to live", "You're worth it", "Please don't go", "You aren't a failure or disappointment". To Sam, it seemed like people didn't care about the ones going through the storm. It seemed as though all everyone thought about was how someone's suicide would affect them. Everyone was selfish. It didn't matter, because he was the one who was being the most selfish in the first place. I guess it all balanced out in the end.

"I want to die. Wh-" Something caught in his throat. He snatched his favorite blade out of his pants, hiding it in his plaid sleeve. This would be easy.

"Hey, hey. No, don't you dare say that." Dean firmly grabbed Sam's shoulders, staring into his eyes. Hurt, sadness, fear filled his brother's eyes. It was all because of him that this was happening. If only he had made it more discreet. He could've slit his writs in the alley right then, and there. But no, he had to be an fucking incompetent idiot. He wasn't going to fuck it up this time though. He had to get this right for once, at least get one thing right in his whole goddamn sob life of his. If that's what it even was.

Sam stood up, pain shooting up through his thigh, followed by wincing. The pain was going to be over soon, it was all going to be okay, everything would be over. No more Sam.

"Sam?" Dean looked over to where he was walking to. The bathroom. "Don't you- God no. Sam listen to me!"

Now or never. Dean would stop him if he took one more step closer to the door. The blade fell from his sleeve, and into his hand. He tightly curled his fingers around the handle. His breaths became sharp, and quick. Eyes closed, he brought the blade up to his left wrist. His hands shook violently, similar to rest of his body.

"Sam. You don't have to do thi-"

"Fuck you Dean! I have to- Oh god," He opened his eyes, then burst into tears at the sight of his big brother. The big brother that would take care of him when he was sick. The big brother who would beat up anyone who bullied him. The big brother who stayed up all night with a gun in his hands trying to protect him. The big brother who swore he would take care of Sam no matter the circumstances. Nothing had changed, Dean hadn't changed, Sam was the one who had changed. It wasn't for the better, it was for the worse. He was lost, and broken. No one could save him now. Sam was too far gone for saving. "I'm sorry Dean. I'm so sorry. I- I'm- Sorry. Goodbye."

Sam dug the blade into his wrist, slicing it across veins. Then he did the same with the other wrist. Finally.

"Sammy! No, Sammy. No, please. Fuck. Please. Please. I'm sorry Sam. Please. Sam I..." Dean wrapped his arms around him, not wanting to let go. He held onto him for his dear life. His brother's body shook terribly. His breaths became uneven, and unbelievably rapid. Then something caught Sam's attention. Although he couldn't hear much of it due to tremendous amounts of blood he was loosing at the moment, he did understand part of it. "I- I... You uh... Remember that night? You were six, and y- you couldn't sleep. You asked uh... Why- why I... There were no more..." He let out a quiet sob. "Sleeping pills. Or uh... you called them uh... Sleepy Vitamins. I told you that a rat must've stolen them... To help him sleep. It was me. I a- attempt- attempted that ni- night." He breathed a shaky breath, rubbing Sam's back, hoping that maybe it would bring his brother back.


"Shh, Sam. Hey, dad's going to be back soon, okay?" Dean tried to reassure poor Sammy. "I'll be right back. M'kay?"

Sam nodded his head, looking at his older brother through bleary eyes.

Dean walked out into the chilly air outside the motel. He grabbed the bottle of "Sleepy Vitamins" he hid in his pocket on his way out, popped open the lid, and poured the remainder of pills into his shaky hand. There were only a measly total of five. He banged the back of his head hard against the door, leaning against it, then slid down until he was sitting on the filthy, cement ground.

Dean poured all the pills down his throat. Even if it didn't kill him it would affect him somehow, wouldn't it?

He sat there in the midst of all the cars zooming past, taking no interest whatsoever in this shitty excuse for a motel. Nothing happened.

He slammed his head against the door several times, then curled up in the fetal position. He cried, until he ran out if tears, accompanied by his dry throat, and tear-stained cheeks.

"Dean?" Sam knocked on the door. "Are you okay?"

Dean winced, hearing the sound of his concerned little Sammy. He rubbed his eyes, making them sting, and turn bright red like a tomato. "Y- yeah?" He covered his mouth as soon as his voice cracked.

He swung the door open, and looked down at his small brother through blurry eyes. "Hiya, Sammy." Everything had to go back to normal again. "What's wrong?"

"You were gone for a long time. I missed you Dean." He hugged him tightly.

Dean picked him up, and kicked the door closed. He playfully threw Sam onto the bed, jumping onto it along with him.

"I can't sleep." He looked up at his older brother for something to help. "Do you have sleepy pills?"

"Sam I-" He stopped himself. "You know, I think one of the rat's stole it. Rats need to sleep too, Sammy." Dean poked Sam's sides, making him giggle, and yell "stop" "no". Dean stopped tickling his younger brother, and chuckled.

Sam wrapped his arms around his body, holding him, and laughing. "I love you, Dean."


"Then you started laughing, and you hugged me. You said uh... You said-"

"I love you Dean." Sam smiled. Smiled for the first time in a long time.

Then his head lolled to the side, and his body lay limp in his brother's arms. "Sleepy Vitamins." Dean whispered to no one but himself. He grimaced. There was no one else to hear him anymore. Everyone he cared about was dead.