(Sh tw) thinking about Sam, maybe 12 or so, cutting himself for the first time. It’s shallow, but his wrist bleeds enough for him to stop pretty quickly, and it stings a lot. He dabs at it with toilet paper, and just pulls the sleeve of his hoodie down over top. It’ll heal soon. But John gets in one of his moods and both boys are walking on eggshells around him—one wrong move and he storms out for a few days, leaving them stranded. Or he yells. Or he hits, even. They try to stay quiet, they try to stay out of his way, but John’s had a rough go of it lately, and he’s already a few drinks in. It’s late. Really late. And Sam says something—he can’t even remember what—that’s the final nail in the coffin for his father, who grabs him, pausing when little Sammy sucks in a sharp, pained breath as his father’s hand squeezes tighter around Sam’s smaller wrist, and the pain he’s in is obvious to everyone in the tiny hotel room. John glances at Dean, who only stares back in silence before he drags Sam out the door, yanking his sleeve up, and the neon lights reflect off the fresh wound, inflicted with one of Dean’s pocket knives. And John knows. This isn’t a monster attack, this isn’t his or Dean’s doing, and it isn’t an accident. He doesn’t say anything. Sam just sniffles, and John pulls the sleeve back down, roughly sliding it over the cut, causing Sam to flinch. But he doesn’t do anything else, just walks back inside, an unreadable expression on his face. Sam waits to hear something thrown, waits to hear yelling from Dean and his father, but he doesn’t. And he’s left to ponder in the cold.