A/N: Story is complete (~12k words total, obviously future chapters are much longer), so I'll post every few days. If anyone's been wondering why my other updates have been taking forever, this little sucker may be the reason why. Sam is fifteen, Dean is nineteen.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: physical abuse, themes of suicide, a bit of self-harm. This ain't a happy fic, folks.
That being said, feedback is my lifeblood. Reviews are treasured, and if you have any further questions/concerns regarding the triggers feel free to message me!
Beta'd by Mikey- you have my eternal gratitude.
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take
-18th Century prayer
The single bare bulb flickers and hums overhead, casting a weary glow over cracked porcelain and dingy, yellowing tiles. A cockroach scuttles behind the toilet, away from prying eyes and crushing feet. Sam stands, head bowed over the rusty sink, staring fixedly at the contents in his cupped palm.
The stark white pills seem magnified in the confines of the bathroom, their innocuous appearance twisted under harsh shadows. He tilts his hand, feeling the slim capsules roll over the bumps and ridges of his fingers. He abruptly flattens out before they can reach the tip. Sam squints at the drain- a black gaping maw staring back at him. He imagines angling his wrist ever so slightly, sending the pills tumbling down, falling effortlessly through the pipes. He can see them flow to sea, eventually eroded to nothing by the salt water.
And he would walk away. Back into the bedroom, taking care not to disturb the salt line on his way. Slide in next to Dean, who would probably snort in his sleep and roll over. Wake up the next morning to shouting that indicated Training, or silence that indicated Hangover. Sam shakes his head, closing his fingers protectively around the capsules. It had taken him long enough- faking injuries or playing up those that already existed. Sequestering one by one until he'd built up a large enough dose. Sam smiles bitterly to himself. If anything, he's good at research.
A noise from the next room startles him. He freezes, listening. A grunt. A rustle of sheets. A long sigh. Silence. Sam lets out the breath he's been holding, feeling icy sweat roll down his back. He reminds himself that he doesn't have much time. If John, or worse, Dean walked in… He only has one shot.
The pills are growing sticky in his fist. He wipes at his face with his free hand, angrily scrubbing away the tears. His mouth is so dry he doesn't even know if he can swallow. The pills look up at him expectantly. We can help you, they whisper in small, plaintive voices. Sam tips his head back like he's taking a shot, dumping the lot in. He takes a few small sips of water to ease their passage down his throat before sitting down on the edge of the bathtub, waiting for darkness to sweep over him.