thinking about sam and dean going on one last hunt before sam leaves for college. dean gets hurt, enough to warrant stitches, and sam’s hands are steady and practiced as he sews dean shut.
thinking about dean driving sam to the bus station four days later, heart aching so bad in his chest that he thinks it might burst. he sits alone in their motel room, bottle of whisky in one hand, feeling numb and alone for the first time in eighteen years.
thinking about dean crying, screaming, destroying that room. it smells like sam. it feels like sam. the furniture gets broken and items are strewn across the room, more than half of them torn to shreds.
thinking about dean staring at himself in the mirror, wondering distantly if he just wasn’t good enough for sam to stick around for, knowing that that isn’t it at all but still wondering.
thinking about dean’s eyes falling to the stitches that have been there for five days tops.
thinking about his body heating up, anger thrumming through his veins before his blunt nails start digging at the wounds. he works at it until he’s ripping the dental floss out because they feel like sam, like they’re burning him from the inside out with sam sam sam.
thinking about dean having to patch himself up, having to clean away the blood, having to fix the mess he made of sammy’s hard work. it doesn’t exactly work, because the lines are crooked and there’s more of them now, but at least they don’t feel like sam anymore.
[thinking about sam finding out years later. he knows what happened without dean having to say a single word and he feels guilty, sick to the stomach with it. dean says it’s not his fault but sam punches a wall and begs dean to let him make it better.
thinking about sam pressing dean back onto the bed, hands fumbling as they shove dean’s shirt up. he presses kisses to scars he caused and whispers apologies, desperate, and dean pleads, tells him to let it go, it’s fine.
thinking about sam never really forgiving himself.]
