Keeping the Devil at Bay
Title: Keeping the Devil at Bay
Pairings: None
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1700
Warnings: mentions of violence, mentions of verbal abuse, self injury
Spoilers: Season 6
Summary: Sam knows pain all too well, and he knows how to use it to his advantage. When Dean presses into the cut on his hand, he remembers this.
Author's Note: I've never really seen anything like this in the fandom before (granted, I'm not that well read in the fandom yet), so I'm anxious to see how it will be received, therefore, feedback would be especially appreciated with this one.
Sam didn’t like pain. Pain had been a constant in his life since he was old enough to hold a shotgun. It was something he was used to, but he got more than enough to not want more.
But pain had always made things make sense. If you get hit in a fight, it means you weren’t fast enough, needed to be better. Pain was a result of an action. It was logical. And Sam knew a lot of other things about pain; he had grown up watching it affect his father and brother in so many ways. He was familiar with the two types of pain; physical, and emotional. His family were experts in both. And sometimes, he learned, one could chase away the other. He slowly made the connection as he saw Dean come back to that week’s motel room battered from a bar fight after a day when they lost someone they were trying to save. He saw it too, when his father would hurl words at Dean, calling him useless and a failure after a hard day. Easing his pain by causing it for Dean.
But Sam wasn’t like them. He didn’t need the macho satisfaction of taking on an opponent and winning, revelling in the hurt that came with it. And throwing around painful words just left him agitated and guilty. So the first time it was his fault, a shotgun blast a second too late, he got back and locked himself in the bathroom staring at the floor, so full of emotion that it felt like he would burst. He was paralyzed with the urge to let his frustration and anger surge out, without knowing how to. He rubbed his hand over his face and felt the burn of a scrape he had forgotten about. Without thinking, he dug his nails into his skin and dragged them over the surface of his wound. His fingers came away with bits of scab sticking to them. He stood up and looked into the mirror, repeating the action. This time he was rewarded with little smears of red. After a few more minutes of doing this, he dabbed gently at his cheek with some toilet paper, washed his hands, and left the bathroom.
The progression was slow from that moment. It only occurred to him occasionally to press into whatever injury he was sporting at the time when things got difficult. It took a year before he had the thought to create the wounds himself when he needed the release.
Sam was tired of hunting. He was behind in school because of all the transfers, and the idea of not graduating on time felt like dying of shame. As usual, this topic brought on the same tired fight between Sam and his dad. Dean stood on the sidelines, trying to placate them both, like always. It felt like this every time, like Sam was just going to break with the anger of how much he hated their lives, the finality he felt every time, like something just had to change. He had to run, to get away. He made a move for the door, but John placed himself firmly in front of it, an immoveable force.
“No, not again Sam. You’re going to stay right here. You’re selfish and careless, and I won’t have you abandoning this family again.”
Sam turned and fled to the bathroom, unable to stay under the weight of two pairs of eyes.
When he slammed the door and whirled around to stare at the mirror, his first thought was to focus the spinning world around him the only way he knew how. He pressed at bruises and picked at old scabs, but it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t get his thoughts to slow. He yanked the knife out of his boot and pulled off his jeans, pressing the blade against his thigh lightly. He pushed the tip into his skin harder and drew it across his leg sharply. Blood welled up in a neat line. He did it again, drawing a parallel line above the first, deeper this time. He kept going until he had ten cuts in a row up his thigh. He let the blood trickle down and caught it with squares of toilet paper before it could hit the floor. When the bleeding stopped, he pulled up his pants and walked out of the bathroom, straight to his bed. He fell asleep quickly, despite the burning of his leg.
And once Sam had discovered it, he used the relief cutting gave him, but only when he couldn’t find anything else. He couldn’t risk Dean or his dad finding out.
But of course, that didn’t go as planned.
Sam was out cold from getting knocked against a wall by a poltergeist. Dean scooped him up and rushed out of the house. Sam was sixteen, finally getting big enough that Dean had trouble carrying him. John followed and flung himself into the driver’s seat just as Dean got Sam settled in the back. He climbed in beside his dad and they rocketed out of the driveway and down the street. When they got back to the hotel, Dean laid Sam down on the bed. John looked carefully at Sam’s head. There was a lump forming, but it wasn’t worse than any of them had before.
“Take care of him, I have to go back and finish off that poltergeist.” He turned and left without another word.
Sam woke up to Dean leaning over him with a strange expression. Dean didn’t say anything when he saw that Sam was awake.
“What?” Sam asked. He didn’t like the way Dean was looking at him.
“Sammy, tell me you didn’t do this to yourself.” He gestured at Sam’s lap.
Sam was sitting in bed in his boxers, the fresh cuts clearly visible, along with several scars. He didn’t say anything.
“I saw the blood and I thought you were hurt so I had to check. Jesus Sam, what could be that bad that you’d have to...”
“Like you don’t know,” Sam said harshly. He grabbed his pants from the edge of the bed and draped them over his legs. He was too dizzy to stand up and put them on. “Just because I don’t go out and get in fist fights doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use pain to my advantage Dean.”
Dean stared at him. “You’re just a kid. You shouldn’t, you can’t be this...”
“Fucked up? Broken?” Sam offered. “Well it comes with the lifestyle, I guess.”
“Sammy.” Dean yanked Sam forward into a tight hug. Sam was caught off guard. Dean didn’t really do this that often, not since they were little.
“Sammy please. Don’t do this. Somebody’s gotta come out of this family functional. If you got something to work out, you come to me. Just... you can do whatever you need to make yourself feel better, just don’t hurt yourself.”
“Don’t tell Dad,” was all Sam could think to say. Dean looked at him with an expression that made Sam want to take his knife to his leg.
It stopped after that, for a long time. He looks back and still isn’t sure how he dealt until college, when things got so much better. But now it’s different. Now it’s a whole new thing he’s struggling against.
He doesn’t think Dean realises the implications when he squeezes Sam’s stitched up hand in that warehouse. Maybe he doesn’t remember, but Sam does. The flash of clarity as the pain shoots through his hand brings it all back. And Lucifer vanishes.
Sam doesn’t fall back into the habit right away. He presses his thumb into his scarred palm whenever the fallen angel’s voice becomes too much to handle. But of course, his hand heals. And old habits die hard.
About a month after Sam starts chasing Lucifer away with his knife, Dean turns to him suddenly in their motel room and says,
“Sam, I’m not an idiot.”
“Okay?”
“I know you’ve been doing it again.”
Sam wants to say what, to pretend he doesn’t know what Dean is talking about, but there’s no point. So he doesn’t say anything.
“When I grabbed your hand, I didn’t want you to start doing that again, I just, I don’t know. I needed you to focus for a second.”
“Pain helps me focus.”
“Yeah, I know.” Sam hadn’t been expecting that answer. “But isn’t there anything else? Can’t you work it off or something, tire yourself out?” He sounds desperate, but resigned, like he knows the answer but can’t help asking.
“I’ve tried everything. When I’m tired or stressed it’s the worst.”
Dean nods and doesn’t say anything for a second. “Let me see.”
“No.”
“Sam, I just want to make sure you’re okay. I get it, alright? I don’t like it, but I get it. I just want to make sure they’re not too bad.”
“No.” Dean doesn’t need to see the thick red scars and the fresh cuts that run down the length of his thighs. Some of them probably are a little too deep, but Dean doesn’t need to know that. He can’t know that. Because Dean worries too much, blames himself for too much, and this doesn’t need to be one more thing on the list.
Dean glares at him, then his expression goes soft and concerned. “Just be careful, okay Sammy? Don’t let him get to you too much. And only do it when it gets bad. If you want to do it for any other reason, or if it starts to get out of control, fucking tell me, okay?”
Sam nods. He won’t, but he nods to reassure Dean. He doesn’t know whether he can keep it under control or not; he’s already started doing it for reasons other than the angel riding in his head, but he refuses to be a burden to Dean any further.
“I’m only letting you do this because it keeps the bastard out of your head.”
Sam wants to say ‘like you could stop me,’ but instead he says, “I know.” He tries not to think about how inevitable it seems now, that he would start this up again. He fell back into it so easily, sometimes Lucifer just felt like an excuse.
“You’re gonna be okay Sammy. I know you are. Eventually you won’t have to do this anymore.”
Sam smiles at that. At least Dean has hope.
Pairings: None
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1700
Warnings: mentions of violence, mentions of verbal abuse, self injury
Spoilers: Season 6
Summary: Sam knows pain all too well, and he knows how to use it to his advantage. When Dean presses into the cut on his hand, he remembers this.
Author's Note: I've never really seen anything like this in the fandom before (granted, I'm not that well read in the fandom yet), so I'm anxious to see how it will be received, therefore, feedback would be especially appreciated with this one.
Sam didn’t like pain. Pain had been a constant in his life since he was old enough to hold a shotgun. It was something he was used to, but he got more than enough to not want more.
But pain had always made things make sense. If you get hit in a fight, it means you weren’t fast enough, needed to be better. Pain was a result of an action. It was logical. And Sam knew a lot of other things about pain; he had grown up watching it affect his father and brother in so many ways. He was familiar with the two types of pain; physical, and emotional. His family were experts in both. And sometimes, he learned, one could chase away the other. He slowly made the connection as he saw Dean come back to that week’s motel room battered from a bar fight after a day when they lost someone they were trying to save. He saw it too, when his father would hurl words at Dean, calling him useless and a failure after a hard day. Easing his pain by causing it for Dean.
But Sam wasn’t like them. He didn’t need the macho satisfaction of taking on an opponent and winning, revelling in the hurt that came with it. And throwing around painful words just left him agitated and guilty. So the first time it was his fault, a shotgun blast a second too late, he got back and locked himself in the bathroom staring at the floor, so full of emotion that it felt like he would burst. He was paralyzed with the urge to let his frustration and anger surge out, without knowing how to. He rubbed his hand over his face and felt the burn of a scrape he had forgotten about. Without thinking, he dug his nails into his skin and dragged them over the surface of his wound. His fingers came away with bits of scab sticking to them. He stood up and looked into the mirror, repeating the action. This time he was rewarded with little smears of red. After a few more minutes of doing this, he dabbed gently at his cheek with some toilet paper, washed his hands, and left the bathroom.
The progression was slow from that moment. It only occurred to him occasionally to press into whatever injury he was sporting at the time when things got difficult. It took a year before he had the thought to create the wounds himself when he needed the release.
Sam was tired of hunting. He was behind in school because of all the transfers, and the idea of not graduating on time felt like dying of shame. As usual, this topic brought on the same tired fight between Sam and his dad. Dean stood on the sidelines, trying to placate them both, like always. It felt like this every time, like Sam was just going to break with the anger of how much he hated their lives, the finality he felt every time, like something just had to change. He had to run, to get away. He made a move for the door, but John placed himself firmly in front of it, an immoveable force.
“No, not again Sam. You’re going to stay right here. You’re selfish and careless, and I won’t have you abandoning this family again.”
Sam turned and fled to the bathroom, unable to stay under the weight of two pairs of eyes.
When he slammed the door and whirled around to stare at the mirror, his first thought was to focus the spinning world around him the only way he knew how. He pressed at bruises and picked at old scabs, but it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t get his thoughts to slow. He yanked the knife out of his boot and pulled off his jeans, pressing the blade against his thigh lightly. He pushed the tip into his skin harder and drew it across his leg sharply. Blood welled up in a neat line. He did it again, drawing a parallel line above the first, deeper this time. He kept going until he had ten cuts in a row up his thigh. He let the blood trickle down and caught it with squares of toilet paper before it could hit the floor. When the bleeding stopped, he pulled up his pants and walked out of the bathroom, straight to his bed. He fell asleep quickly, despite the burning of his leg.
And once Sam had discovered it, he used the relief cutting gave him, but only when he couldn’t find anything else. He couldn’t risk Dean or his dad finding out.
But of course, that didn’t go as planned.
Sam was out cold from getting knocked against a wall by a poltergeist. Dean scooped him up and rushed out of the house. Sam was sixteen, finally getting big enough that Dean had trouble carrying him. John followed and flung himself into the driver’s seat just as Dean got Sam settled in the back. He climbed in beside his dad and they rocketed out of the driveway and down the street. When they got back to the hotel, Dean laid Sam down on the bed. John looked carefully at Sam’s head. There was a lump forming, but it wasn’t worse than any of them had before.
“Take care of him, I have to go back and finish off that poltergeist.” He turned and left without another word.
Sam woke up to Dean leaning over him with a strange expression. Dean didn’t say anything when he saw that Sam was awake.
“What?” Sam asked. He didn’t like the way Dean was looking at him.
“Sammy, tell me you didn’t do this to yourself.” He gestured at Sam’s lap.
Sam was sitting in bed in his boxers, the fresh cuts clearly visible, along with several scars. He didn’t say anything.
“I saw the blood and I thought you were hurt so I had to check. Jesus Sam, what could be that bad that you’d have to...”
“Like you don’t know,” Sam said harshly. He grabbed his pants from the edge of the bed and draped them over his legs. He was too dizzy to stand up and put them on. “Just because I don’t go out and get in fist fights doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use pain to my advantage Dean.”
Dean stared at him. “You’re just a kid. You shouldn’t, you can’t be this...”
“Fucked up? Broken?” Sam offered. “Well it comes with the lifestyle, I guess.”
“Sammy.” Dean yanked Sam forward into a tight hug. Sam was caught off guard. Dean didn’t really do this that often, not since they were little.
“Sammy please. Don’t do this. Somebody’s gotta come out of this family functional. If you got something to work out, you come to me. Just... you can do whatever you need to make yourself feel better, just don’t hurt yourself.”
“Don’t tell Dad,” was all Sam could think to say. Dean looked at him with an expression that made Sam want to take his knife to his leg.
It stopped after that, for a long time. He looks back and still isn’t sure how he dealt until college, when things got so much better. But now it’s different. Now it’s a whole new thing he’s struggling against.
He doesn’t think Dean realises the implications when he squeezes Sam’s stitched up hand in that warehouse. Maybe he doesn’t remember, but Sam does. The flash of clarity as the pain shoots through his hand brings it all back. And Lucifer vanishes.
Sam doesn’t fall back into the habit right away. He presses his thumb into his scarred palm whenever the fallen angel’s voice becomes too much to handle. But of course, his hand heals. And old habits die hard.
About a month after Sam starts chasing Lucifer away with his knife, Dean turns to him suddenly in their motel room and says,
“Sam, I’m not an idiot.”
“Okay?”
“I know you’ve been doing it again.”
Sam wants to say what, to pretend he doesn’t know what Dean is talking about, but there’s no point. So he doesn’t say anything.
“When I grabbed your hand, I didn’t want you to start doing that again, I just, I don’t know. I needed you to focus for a second.”
“Pain helps me focus.”
“Yeah, I know.” Sam hadn’t been expecting that answer. “But isn’t there anything else? Can’t you work it off or something, tire yourself out?” He sounds desperate, but resigned, like he knows the answer but can’t help asking.
“I’ve tried everything. When I’m tired or stressed it’s the worst.”
Dean nods and doesn’t say anything for a second. “Let me see.”
“No.”
“Sam, I just want to make sure you’re okay. I get it, alright? I don’t like it, but I get it. I just want to make sure they’re not too bad.”
“No.” Dean doesn’t need to see the thick red scars and the fresh cuts that run down the length of his thighs. Some of them probably are a little too deep, but Dean doesn’t need to know that. He can’t know that. Because Dean worries too much, blames himself for too much, and this doesn’t need to be one more thing on the list.
Dean glares at him, then his expression goes soft and concerned. “Just be careful, okay Sammy? Don’t let him get to you too much. And only do it when it gets bad. If you want to do it for any other reason, or if it starts to get out of control, fucking tell me, okay?”
Sam nods. He won’t, but he nods to reassure Dean. He doesn’t know whether he can keep it under control or not; he’s already started doing it for reasons other than the angel riding in his head, but he refuses to be a burden to Dean any further.
“I’m only letting you do this because it keeps the bastard out of your head.”
Sam wants to say ‘like you could stop me,’ but instead he says, “I know.” He tries not to think about how inevitable it seems now, that he would start this up again. He fell back into it so easily, sometimes Lucifer just felt like an excuse.
“You’re gonna be okay Sammy. I know you are. Eventually you won’t have to do this anymore.”
Sam smiles at that. At least Dean has hope.