So, You're a Fucking Virgin

Chapter 15

Trigger Warning: Self Harm

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Sam had Dean propped up in the front passenger seat, passed out, Sam's jacket draped over him. He looked in the rearview mirror to you in the backseat. Eyes unblinking, just staring out the window, almost catatonic.

What have I done? echoed in your head over and over.

The side of the road blitzing by outside the car held no answers.

Sam knew all too well, what you were feeling at the moment. He, himself, had fallen prey on more than one occasion to someone or something else taking the wheel in the ole cabeza. He knew the shame and guilt you must have been feeling.

He also knew that nothing he could say would really make it any better. He could hit you with the old classic "it's not your fault" because it wasn't. It wasn't your fault. But he knew you. He knew you wouldn't listen. He knew you wouldn't believe that for a second. And it wouldn't do anything to stop you from pointing all the blame and hatred inward.

He'd just have to be there for you. To try and save you, you and Dean both, from yourselves. God, you guys were a mess, but at the moment he just wanted to get you both home.

Also, he was nursing a monster headache from when you'd knocked him out. In retrospect, he probably shouldn't have even been driving given the fact he was most definitely more than a little concussed.

All this to explain that the three of you road home in silence.

Sam tried a few times to gently wake Dean when you arrived back at the bunker. Dean just groaned and shifted away from him, still very much asleep. So, Sam had to carry him to his room, like he was a child that had fallen asleep trying to wait for New Year's.

You held Dean's bedroom door open so Sam could bring him in.

Sam laid Dean gently down on his bed. You watched as he peeled away the clothes you had ruined, revealing the severity of Dean's injuries. They weren't anything lethal, but they also weren't papercuts.

You were vaguely aware of Sam asking you something, the sound muddled as if you were underwater. It came into the focus as Sam yelling "______, first aid kit!" at you.

You obediently fetched the thing from the kitchen and delivered it to Sam so he could take care of Dean. Sam looked back to the doorway to tell you to go get some sleep, but you'd already disappeared.

What have I done?

This thought still echoed in your head, days later.

You'd largely quarantined yourself to your room. A self-imposed solitary confinement. You'd seen yourself unfit for gen pop. You only left your room for the essentials, which in this case just boiled down to using the toilet.

After you brought Sam the first aid kit you had found yourself in the bathroom, somehow. Just staring into the mirror. You didn't recognize the person staring back at you. Sure, she looked sort of familiar if you squinted your eyes just right, but there was something wholly foreign to this woman staring back at you. She looked old, wasted and twisted. That wasn't you. That couldn't be who you were. But that was you. It was who you were, now. You couldn't stand looking at her. You hated her.

With one strong thrust, your right fist went flying through the mirror. It shattered to pieces as your hand collided with the cinder block wall behind it, shredding your knuckles in the process. Blood trickled down the back of your hand, triggering flashbacks.