Underneath it All - A Supernatural Fanfiction

Chapter 1- Broken Canvas

A/N: Okay, folks, this is a sad one. It takes place right after "Road Trip." I should probably mention that Dean does play a big part in this story, starting in chapter 2.

Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine (amazing, I know).

Pairing: Sastiel

Warnings: language, VERY graphic depiction of self harm, lots of angst, some mentions of suicidal thoughts

I hope you like it :)

***

Sam was done. He was just done. He was tired of being the good little soldier, quiet and brave. He missed his brother, who had abandoned him again.

Dean had said it was because he was poison, because everyone who got near him die.

"Or got possessed by a fucking angel," Sam whispered, leaning over the bathroom sink.

He knew that wasn't the real reason Dean left, even if Dean said it was. Dean was tired. Tired of lugging around his useless little brother who kept fucking everything up. First he was a psychic demon kid, then he got addicted to drinking the blood of the spawn of Hell, then he was possessed by Satan himself, then he was soulless, and then Sam went insane, like clinically inane. Then, he had gotten his insides ripped apart in an incomplete attempt to close the gates of Hell. Sam had ben ready to die then, but Dean dragged him back to life by having some psycho angel possess him. And because of that, he had Kevin's blood on his hands.

Sam let out a shaky sigh. He still wanted to die. He had wanted to then, and he wanted to now.

Sam dug around in his bag with trembling hands, gripping a small package between his fingers. Unzipping it, he pulled out a silver razor blade.

/It's funny how I protect my fingers my keeping the blades in this goddamn package when I'm just planning on slicing up my arms anyway./

Sam could already feel his pull towards the blade. He missed the feeling of his skin being sliced apart, of the red blood rushing over his arms. He even missed losing consciousness when he cut too deep, a sweet release rom the hell he was living.

Rocking back and forth on his heels, he pushed his hands against the cold porcelain of the sink. He was so disgusting. He was so wrong for wanting this, for wanting the pain. He was still the addict.

Letting out a fast breath of air, Sam pushed himself off the sink, rolling up his sleeves to reveal a plethora of self-inflicted scars, spanning from wrist to shouler, although the fabric still covered his biceps.

He traced a thin, light mark on his left arm with his finger, smaller than the rest. It had been his first. He had made it with a kitchen knife when he was thirteen, and he had been doing it ever since.

Placing the blade on his arm in between scars, Sam slowed his breathing.

If Dean ever came back and found out, he was going to kill him. Or leave him again. Which, in a way, was killing him.

"Fuck," Sam whispered, and dragged the blade across his skin. The blood welled up immediately, as if it was waiting to escape.

Right above the new cut, Sam pressed the blade down again, harder this time. Slowly, he made a deep slice. The red warmth sprang faster, pooling in the cut and spilling over. The stream of blood poured into the sink, coloring the white bowl a deep maroon.

Strangely mesmerized, he watched, his arm throbbing.

Cas was going to kill him. That defective angel had saved him over the last few years almost as much as Dean had. He had dragged Sam back from the edge of death more than he ever should have.