You’d always had scars, may they be self inflicted, or gathered by time. So did Sam, but he never let them show as much as you did. Not like you had a choice.

When you were younger, before going through the foster system, your parents were very abusive. At the age of 15, you were sent to a psych ward for 3 months. You now have bumpy but healed scars up and down your arms and thighs like rungs on a ladder.

When you were 19, you’d had your fair share with alcohol. You don’t drink anymore since then, only the occasional Twisted Tea or punch with a bit of Vodka.

Now, you feel like it’s time for another fuck up. You’re in the bunker with Sam and Dean, a sweet tea in hand while Dean had a beer and Sam had a glass of water. You wore a pale green short sleeve shirt and a pair of shorts, scars out in the warm light. In past years, you’d always done something around this time; mid summer when the weather was warm enough and wet enough to be muggy.

Sam could tell something was up, he always could. It was the way you held yourself that changed; you’d shrunk into a shell of yourself, thoughts contained.

Later that night, in Sam’s room, both of you in pajamas and in bed, Sam dared to ask the question;

“Is something up?” He whispered into the darkness, his fingers playing with your hair.

“No.” You whispered back, lying through your teeth.

“You can’t lie to me.” He sighed, a frown playing on his lips. You didn’t respond.

“Come on, sweetheart.” Sam sighed. You ran your fingers down his arm slightly, feeling bumpy scars just like your own there.

“Feels like it’s gonna happen again.” You whispered, and you could feel Sam tense slightly.

“I get the feeling. But don’t let it happen.” He whispered, running his fingers down your arm in response. You buried your face in his chest with a sigh.

You couldn’t help but feel like you would fuck everything up again.