Trigger Warning: Suicidal Ideation and Attempts.

Title is the name of a heavy metal band, and the chapter titles are song titles by that band.

"Now I see I can't see myself;
I believed I was stronger than I felt.
Everything turned to golden,
Then it fell apart.
It's the same old story.
It's the same sad song.
Where did I go wrong?

Lay me down in the waves;
Let the water wash away.
And if I leave with the tide,
In the morning I will rise,
So lay me down.
Don't lift me out.
Let me drown."

- Let Me Drown, We As Human

Sam splashed his face and leaned on the sink, cool water dripping from his nose and chin. He tilted his head up and met his own eyes, bloodshot and raw from rubbing. Each heavy, crackling pant left a small spot of fog on the mirror.

Come on… come on…

His heart pounded against his sternum, muscles wound tight around his ribcage, and he couldn't breathe. His head was spinning, throbbing, aching. His legs and arms quivered, his vision swam, and fire ran hot through his veins.

He had been that way for about fifteen minutes.

When the symptoms had first started, Sam hadn't wasted any time getting away from Dean long enough to pop an Ativan. And then he waited… and waited… and he still had a few minutes to go.

Do you really want it to work, though?

Sam shoved the voice aside. He refused to debate that question—refused to even consider it—no matter how valid it might have been. Which was hard, because it was valid.

Not that Sam didn't want his panic attack to be over, he just knew that as soon as it was… the crushing fatigue, the guilt and self-loathing, the cloud of fog cloaking his brain, the depression would all come rushing back.

No. I have to keep it together. Sam screwed his eyes shut. I can't afford to break now. I don't have the right, not after what I've done. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. This is my mess. I did this, and I need to fix it.

How, he didn't know, because he had never screwed up apocalyptically before, but he knew he had to fix things. Depression would have to wait. Anxiety would have to wait. When the stakes were considered, his health wasn't even in the backseat, it was in the trunk. Or being pulled along in a trailer.

Okay. Here we go.

Sam took another deep breath and ran his hands through his hair, giving himself a determined look in the mirror. He was still a wreck, but he wasn't so much of a wreck that he couldn't fake it for a few minutes. Once he was out of the motel, he could panic all the way to the library, and by then, the drug would be in full effect.

Let's do this.

Sam took another breath and opened the bathroom door, reentering the motel room with a small smile and a nervous question. "Did you, uh, did you call Bobby?"

"Yup." Dean didn't glance up from Sam's computer, one hand absently maneuvering a beer to his lips. "He's on his way." Dean took a drink. "I'm googling a list of hills in the United States named after dogs."

Sam blinked in surprise, tilting his head. "There's a list?"

"No, which is why it's taking me a million years." Dean heaved a sigh and shook his head. His tone was humorous but not lighthearted, and he still couldn't bring himself to look Sam in the eyes.

Which Sam understood fully, but it still hurt. Not that he would complain. He had made his bed, and he had to lie in it.

"You're a monster, Sam; a vampire."

Sam cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, uh, since you're using the laptop, I'll find the closest library and start looking for castles… if America even has any. We might have been founded after castles had their heyday."

Dean nodded and hummed absentmindedly. "Hey, hit a store on the way back and bring me some pie, would you?"

Sam smiled weakly even though Dean wasn't looking. "Sure."

Sam left the motel room with research in the front of his mind, something he hoped would ground his thoughts. Thankfully, his panic attack wasn't random, it was induced by a trigger, so if he could distract himself with the job…

Sam didn't feel as claustrophobic once he got outside, the chilly air working wonders to ease the sensation of being choked to death in a sauna. His chest eased up every five or six breaths, allowing a substantial amount of air into his lungs before they contracted again. It got a little easier to hide his shaking hands.

It wasn't good, but it was better, and Sam couldn't complain.

After all he'd done, he didn't have the right.

Sam closed the door to the utility closet and fell back against it, heaving a sigh of relief. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed one of the many numbers he knew by heart, pressing the device to his ear as he struggled to get his breathing under control. He rubbed his forehead and then tucked that same arm against his stomach, listening to the ringing on the other end of the line.

It shouldn't have bothered him. He knew that. He needed help, so he was getting it. It was perfectly normal. No one would think twice about calling an ambulance for a heart attack or calling the police for a violent dispute.

Except Sam hadn't called the suicide hotline since before Dean was resurrected.

For the first two months after Dean was mauled by Hellhounds, Sam had called on a near-daily basis. Once he had demon blood in his system—once his life started to feel a little less like plane crashing to Earth in a flaming tailspin—he only called once every three or four days. Then once a week. Then Dean came back, and that, combined with his admittedly unhealthy method of self-medication, enabled him to stop calling altogether.

Calling again after all that time—while hiding in a utility closet, no less—felt like defeat.

But Sam found himself whispering in the dark nonetheless, fifteen minutes into a conversation and thrumming with the spring-loaded sensation of waiting for Dean to find him.

"No, this isn't the first time. I just… I've been fighting with my brother, and my uncle is in the hospital, and normally I'm better at managing my triggers, but…" he sucked air between his teeth, "…it's just been a really rough year—rough couple of years—and I went through a patch about two weeks ago where I didn't have access to my antidepressants for a few days, and that really threw me." He swallowed hard, picking up speed. "Like, like, I couldn't get out of bed. I told my brother it was a migraine, but it wasn't, it was just—it just felt so familiar, and I—I can't do another episode, I just can't. I remember what it was like to be at rock bottom, and I'm—I'm scared to go back. I can't go back."

Sam didn't know how long he was on the phone, but Dean was less than pleased when Sam finally returned to the waiting room. Understandably; Dean was just as stressed out as Sam, and Sam had seemingly bailed. But that was one of the many downsides to hiding his suicidal tendencies… and depression… and anxiety… and general lack of mental health. It certainly wasn't Dean's fault.

"I talked to the doctor." Dean's voice was rough.

Sam swallowed and nodded his head, exhaling discreetly to cast the tension from his body. "I…" He chuckled softly and shook his head, looking at the ground. "I feel like I should ask what they said, but I… kind of don't want to know."

Dean looked at him with an expression Sam couldn't quite read, but there was undeniable pain in his eyes. "It doesn't look good, Sam."

Sam's heart sank to the floor, but all he did was offer another nod. What could he say? He had added yet another name to the ever-growing list of people he had failed; another tally mark on the record of sins he could never hope to pay penance for.

And Bobby wasn't like most of the other names. He was right up there with Dean, Jess, John, and Mary. Five people, more dead than alive, whom Sam truly cared about, and he had failed them all.

Failing in general was one thing. Failing family was another beast altogether, and Sam had no excuse.

Not that Bobby seemed to care. He lied to spare Sam's feelings, and he didn't throw away the sense of responsibility for Sam that he never should have been burdened with in the first place.

"I was awake. I know what I said back there. I just want you to know that... that was the demon talking. I ain't cutting you out, boy. Not ever."

If Sam had been just a smidge more off-balance, the words would have brought him to tears. Because Sam knew the truth. Sam knew the demon was a conduit, not a cause. Bobby might have said things while possessed that he never would have otherwise, but that didn't mean they weren't true. It just meant demonic possession lowered inhibitions a little more effectively than, say, alcohol. Bobby still meant what he said, deep down.

But that didn't matter, because rather than taking advantage of the situation, Bobby went out of his way and lied. He lied for Sam.

Later, when Dean left Sam alone in the hospital parking lot, Sam would consider going to Bobby for comfort and advice. Sam's heart would tell him to mention the lie to Bobby, just to see if Bobby cared enough to keep on lying, just to hear some kind words, just to throw up a red flag saying, 'Attention: Sam Winchester is Not Okay.'

But, in the end, Sam's brain would chastise his heart for the display of selfishness, for even considering the idea of seeking out a pat on the back like a spoiled child pining after a participation trophy, and he would wander off to a bar instead. And Dean would be asleep when Sam stumbled into the motel at three in the morning, clutching his stomach and moaning. Dean would sleep through Sam throwing up for an hour, and he would sleep through Sam indulging in a moment of weakness right there on the floor. He would sleep through the night while Sam stayed awake, and in the morning, he would believe it when Sam claimed to have achieved a solid six hours of sleep.

And Sam wouldn't complain. Sam didn't deserve to complain. He didn't have the right.

Sam spent at least an hour every day on the hotline after he and Dean split up.

Sam was ashamed to admit it, but when he had approached Dean with the idea of separation, he had foolishly been hoping Dean would push back. He thought maybe Dean would realize Sam couldn't be left alone and say something to that effect.

Sam could actually close his eyes and picture what he had been hoping for. He could see the little crinkle in Dean's brow that said he was unhappy. He could see Dean shaking his head with a somber expression, green eyes squinting ever-so-slightly.

"No, Sammy," he heard Dean say. "Maybe down the road, but not now. You're not okay, man. You aren't eating, you aren't sleeping, you grab your phone and disappear for hours at a time with lame excuses; I heard you in the bathroom the other night having a total meltdown, and with everything that's going on, I just… I can't let you go. You gotta tell me what's wrong."

But Dean didn't say that, or anything like that, so Sam grabbed his things and left.

And Sam dreamt about the boys he had killed in the town influenced by War.

And Sam got another hunter killed. And Sam almost got a barmaid killed.

And Sam found out he was Lucifer's vessel.

And Dean told Sam to pick a hemisphere.

So, once again, Sam grabbed his things and left. Really, he ran away, tearing out of town in a panicked frenzy and going a good twenty miles before swerving off the road and staggering into an open field. He collapsed in the damp grass and stared up at the stars until the frigid air cooled him down enough to feel like he could breathe again. He cried and whispered to a long-dead love that he wished she was there with him; that he wished it was his first year at Stanford again.

He wished it had only been a month since she dragged him to a psychiatrist despite his protests. He wished his first and only depressive episode was in his rearview mirror, along with his first and only suicide attempt. He wished he could nervously slide into bed next to her and ask questions about depression, about her sister's experience with it, and about all the little cracks and flaws he had always been too afraid to show. He wished he could sit there with a warm thrum in his chest when she reacted in the kind of compassionate and loving way he had only ever seen in his best dreams.

He wished he wasn't spiraling again.

Sam woke up the next morning in a motel room with little recollection of how he got there. He had a message on his phone from Dean, and once he listened to it, he shot out of bed in a rush to get to wherever Dean was.

Dean was still having trouble trusting—understandably, given all Sam had done—but Dean made a valiant effort. He even tried to crack a little joke.

"Oh, I know it. I mean, you are the second-best hunter on the planet."

But Sam only nodded. He couldn't laugh. He could barely smile anymore, and once again, he found himself hoping Dean would notice.

But once again, Dean didn't. Because Dean never did. Because no one ever did, and no one ever would, and that made Sam a little desperate. It made him desperate enough to lash out on their very first hunt as a team again.

"I deserve it, and worse. You'll never punish me as much as I'm punishing myself."

Sam hated himself for that; hated the way he tried to passive-aggressively start a fight and blame it on the other person, like he hadn't orchestrated the whole thing. Like the whole point wasn't to achieve a level of rage that got him out of the constant push and pull of knowing he needed help and being too scared and ashamed to admit it. Like he didn't know full-well that it was all a temperamental cry for attention, a futile attempt to get those around him to notice what was going on inside his head.

Because screaming, "I literally want to kill myself, so I assure you, I know exactly how bad I screwed things up, Dean!" in anger was so much easier than whispering, "I already want to kill myself, and you reminding me of my mistakes really hurts me, Dean," with tears in his eyes.

Because anger wasn't vulnerable, and anger wasn't afraid, and anger didn't want to be loved and accepted and respected; anger wanted to hurt other people, and anger wanted to attack and control and win, and anger wanted to be feared and vindicated.

In theory, anger let Sam finally tell someone he was in a bad place without him having to hand over a knife and his back. In reality, it just didn't work. Not with John. Not with Dean. Not with anybody. It either escalated but never got resolved, which made Sam's state that much worse, or it made people feel bad enough that they backed off.

"Point is, I was so worried about watching your every move that I didn't see what it was actually doing to you. So, for that I'm sorry."

No! Sam wanted to scream. Don't apologize, just—just fight with me! Just notice how I'm doing now, because it's not good, Dean! It's really not good, and I don't know what to do, and I'm scared, and I—

Sam wound up on the hotline again, sitting in the Impala until three in the morning, talking to a stranger about his feelings, exposing parts of himself that people he would die for didn't know about.

"I think there's a part of me that wants to live. I mean, of course there is, otherwise I wouldn't be calling you. I just meant—" Breath. "Men attempt suicide less frequently than women, but we have a higher success rate. So, if I've tried and failed three times, that must mean I want to live, right? That there's something keeping me here? Geeze, I don't know. I don't know anything anymore."

Over the next few days, Sam spent more time than he wanted to admit watching footage of disasters with high death tolls. He watched documentaries on 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina. He read and watched accounts of near-death experiences and last words. He thought about what his own last words might be, if he chose to leave a note or recording, which was odd, because he had never left anything before.

But Sam still got up every day. He might have dragged his feet a little, but he got his job done, and he was proud of that. That was an accomplishment in his book, and it helped to motivate him a little more each day.

Unfortunately, with an increase in energy came an increase in the ability to feel, and it came at the worst time. Because when Sam was feeling something other than numbness, he sometimes started to feel not awful about himself. And when Sam was feeling not awful about himself, he would sometimes sit down and think about his role in the Apocalypse. He would think about how he wasn't singlehandedly responsible. He would think about how Dean broke the first seal, the demons broke the rest while the angels let them, and Sam closed the whole thing off with a single seal of his own. He would think about the fact that he was only responsible for 1.51% of the Apocalypse.

"So, if we lay it all out for him—what he is, the Apocalypse, everything—he might make the right choice."

"You didn't. And I can't take that chance."

It made him want to scream.

Sam hadn't been informed. Nobody had laid anything out for him. It had been weeks of yelling and secrets and lies; guilting and shaming him, making him feel worse than he already did for doing what he thought was right. There was hatred and disdain and manipulation, but there was never honesty. There was never respect or trust or help. Not from anyone.

And that was bad, because when Sam was feeling really not awful about himself, he felt like maybe he had a right to be mad about that. Maybe it wasn't okay that he was being blamed for something that was only partly his fault. Maybe he did have the right to ask for forgiveness, and maybe it wasn't fair when that forgiveness was withheld. Maybe it was supposed to bother him that no one else saw what he did.

Except Sam rarely felt not awful about himself, let alone really not awful about himself.

Like the tide, those feelings of self-worth and confidence would come in for a couple hours and then recede, the undertow dragging him down until he remembered why it was his fault.

It was all his fault. It was always his fault.

"Because I have to believe someone can make the right choice, even if I couldn't."

Dean said nothing to defend Sam. Understandably; there was nothing to defend.

Dean said nothing to cheer Sam up afterward. Understandably; Sam didn't deserve that.

Sam spiraled back down to the bottom of his personal pit of self-loathing. He got a little closer to bridge-jumping than he wanted to admit, and he punched out a wall and found himself eerily enjoying the pain of bruised and bloody knuckles.

Time passed, and Sam kept surviving. He took the pills he could get his hands on—not an easy task, but there was no way he could function without them—and he started taking extra steps toward recovery. He drank more water, took some vitamins, cut down on sugar and alcohol, and regulated his sleep as much as he could. He didn't have the strength to do much more than that, but it was something.

Of course, Sam knew those things wouldn't help his depression, but they would help the overall state of his health. Sam was so far down he would take any improvement he could get.

Most days he failed. Most days he called the hotline.

Sam was raw, and hearing Bobby talk about putting a bullet in his mouth was too much. Sam couldn't think about it for more than a nanosecond; couldn't stand to picture it in his head. He couldn't bear the thought of losing Bobby, not only to a gun, but to the darkness. Sam couldn't stomach the idea of Bobby feeling—or not feeling—everything Sam did. Sam didn't know what would be worse: watching Bobby kill himself or watching Bobby spend every day wishing he could.

Sam didn't blame Bobby for gambling with years of his life. If Sam could sell twenty years to get out of the hole he was in, would he?

Faster than the speed of light.

Having said that, Sam had no qualms about gambling with his life to get years for Dean and Bobby. Sure, it worked out nicely when the female witch gave them a spell to stop Patrick, but even if she hadn't, Sam would have sat at the table and bluffed his way through a game of life and death.

"Don't do that, Sam."

Sam had found it incredibly ironic that a witch, of all people, of all things, would see through him.

"Look, there's poker, and there's suicide."

"Just play the hand."

Patrick had looked at Sam for a long moment, and a brief expression of understanding had crossed his face. He had glanced down at the chips, and then back up at Sam.

"How long have you wanted to die, Sam?"

"Play. The. Hand."

Patrick had looked at him for another long moment.

"Fine."

Unfortunately, Sam won. Not that he ever intended to lose—not with Dean and Bobby on the line—but it had been nice to think maybe he could go out doing something noble. Or trying to, anyway.

But he didn't. He lived. He walked out just as alive as he had been when he walked in.

When it was all said and done, and everyone was the right age again, Sam couldn't get out of the motel fast enough. He said he was going to get a booster shot, knowing the excuse was funny and relevant enough to be believed with a smile and a laugh.

He found a dark alley and hid behind a dumpster.

He spent about forty minutes on the hotline.

When he got back to the motel later, Dean had a grand time poking fun, and Sam let him. He laughed along, no matter how hard it got. He didn't tell Dean the truth. He didn't cry like he wanted to. He didn't sleep at all that night.

He didn't complain.

He didn't have the right.

"I just want it to be over."

Sam wet his lips and stared down at his lap, and for once, he didn't use his privacy to call the hotline. Instead, he sucked down a shaky breath and prayed.

"Hey, Gabriel, it's Sam. Uh, Winchester. I don't know if you can hear this… and I hope I'm not, like, giving away your location or something. I don't… really know how all that works." Sam sighed and leaned back against the Impala's windshield, staring up at the starry sky. "I just, uh… I wanted to say I understand. Dean doesn't. Not that what he said wasn't true, but…" Sam rubbed his face and sighed again. "I am… so, so tired; tired in a way… that has nothing to do with sleep… and I used to think it was going to go away, but now…"

Cool air rustled through the trees, a breeze ghosting over the back of Sam's neck and raising goosebumps. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted in just enough of a cliché to make Sam smile for a fraction of a second. It faded, though.

It always faded.

"I, uh… the last time I was this bad, I got some help. I was only like this for about three months. But, uh… the things that worked then aren't working now, and it's starting to feel like this tunnel leads to a dead end." Sam cleared his throat roughly. "So, you know, I get it. If the Apocalypse is your tunnel, and you don't see a light at the end anymore… I really do get it." Sam shook his head, feeling more like an idiot with every sentence that fell from his lips. "I wish I could tell you it's still worth it to try. I wish I could tell you not to give up, to always keep fighting… but I can't." He dropped his head, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. "Because I don't want to do this anymore. And I've gotten so far down, I… I don't want to be helped back up. Because…"

Sam felt the tears race down his cheeks—hey, look at that, he wasn't completely dead inside—and he wondered he was hoping to accomplish. Gabriel wasn't listening. Nobody was. Nobody ever listened. Nobody cared.

"If someone… threw me a lifeline, I would still have to hang on while they pulled me up, and I… I don't have the strength to do that anymore." He sat up and dropped his forehead to his knees, hot tears soaking into his jeans as he silently cried. "I don't know what I'm doing, but I know… I am so, so tired of doing it… and if you're tired, too… then screw Dean. Just… do what you have to. I wouldn't wish this feeling on anyone."

He screwed his eyes shut a little tighter, wrapping his arms around his legs and pressing himself into a ball. His lungs spasmed, trying to cry but stalling repeatedly as Sam repressed the noises. His treacherous brain played scenarios in front of his mind's eye. Scenarios where Dean woke up and went looking for Sam, worried about him, and Dean found Sam, but Sam didn't realize, and Dean got a little glimpse of just how broken Sam was, because if Sam didn't know he was being watched, he wouldn't hold back.

That didn't happen, of course. It never happened.

Sam thought about it every single time, but it never happened.

Sam was there a long time, though he wasn't sure how long exactly. He must have been exhausted, because he didn't remember returning to the motel room and tucking himself in. He didn't remember getting a glass of water and leaving it on the nightstand.

It didn't matter. It had happened before, and it would happen again.

Sam drank the water and braced himself for another day.

Sam almost laughed at least fifty times during the Supernatural convention, especially when Dean angrily informed a couple fans that the lives Sam and Dean led were enough to send most people to the nut house. It was actually kind of painful to watch. Because it was like Dean knew they should have been crazy, but he never actually bothered to check.

I don't even remember what sanity is anymore.

But Sam didn't say that. He shut his mouth and focused on staying conscious and coherent enough to muddle through another hunt.

When they lost Jo and Ellen, Sam attempted suicide for the fourth time in his life. It was just as halfhearted as every attempt that came before it, and he berated himself for never having the guts to pick a more reliable method.

He couldn't even die right.

But then he overheard Dean crying—really crying—for the first time since they were kids, and… he just couldn't. It gave him the barest thread to cling to, so he did.

He said he needed some air, and he drove himself to the local hospital. He told them it was a mistake, he passed the psychological exams, and within twenty-four hours, he was wandering back home. He was out of it, but he pretended to be hungover; he said he spent the night in a motel, totally wasted, and Dean bought it. Bobby did, too.

Sam went upstairs and laid in bed. He stared at the ceiling, willing himself to cry, desperate to grieve the way Dean had, but his eyes stayed dry. He felt nothing. He laid there, loathing himself, numb to everything but the steady burn of a budding hatred.

Sam was pretty sure that was the thing about depression he hated the most; the anger or sadness or both that came over him the instant he started feeling again. It was the same anger that fueled his narcissistic arguments about how the Apocalypse really wasn't his fault. It was the same anger that made him start fights with Dean for attention.

Sam blamed everyone for everything, his brain connecting every single incident in his life to the way he felt in that moment. He blamed Dean, blamed John, blamed Mary, blamed Bobby, blamed Castiel, blamed Ruby, and Brady, and Jess, and Pastor Jim, and Gabriel, and Michael, and Lucifer, and Jo, Ellen, Azazel, Meg, Alistair, Anna, Uriel, and literally anyone else he could think of, no matter how insignificant.

He hated them all.

Except he didn't want to hate. He didn't want to be angry at all. He just wanted to feel better. But his brain didn't care. He was furious, and he hated everyone and everything, and as much as he wanted to be better, he didn't want to be numb again. He might not have liked the feeling of anger, but it was a feeling, and that was more than he'd had since playing poker against Patrick.

He blamed Dean for not noticing.

He blamed Bobby for the same.

He blamed Castiel for getting between him and Dean; for his involvement in their lives and all the trouble he had caused in the name of his bigger picture.

He tried to tell Dean when they left the asylum. Dean didn't want to hear it, and that made Sam furious all over again.

"What are you gonna do? You gonna take a leave of absence? You gonna say yes to Lucifer? What?"

Maybe Sam would. Maybe if he did, Dean would have a moment of self-reflection and ask himself what he had done. Maybe Dean would realize Sam didn't like being shut down, Sam didn't like being blamed, and every time Sam was ignored, a little piece of himself shriveled up and died. Maybe Dean would realize Sam was different and couldn't process and handle things the way Dean did, the way their dad did. Maybe Castiel would stop and ask himself if Sam liked being blamed for mistakes others had made, if he liked being manipulated and used as a weapon without his knowledge or consent, if he liked being treated like a pariah because he made a well-intentioned mistake. Maybe everyone would stop and ask themselves, 'Hey, when was the last time we asked Sam if he actually wants to get up in the morning?' And maybe—just maybe—they would all realize the answer was never.

"You're gonna take all that crap and you're gonna bury it. You're gonna forget about it, because that's how we keep going. That's how we don't end up like Martin. Are you with me?"

And with that, Sam fell off his high horse and returned to reality.

Most likely, the sedatives from the asylum and his lack of access to daily antidepressants had set up the fall. Dean's words just tipped him over the edge.

Dean was only trying to help. Dean was scared for Sam, worried about him winding up in an asylum. Dean was looking out for Sam, all while Dean was suffering, too. Dean was stressed. Dean had been manipulated. Dean felt guilty about his hand in the Apocalypse.

Sam hated the way anger made him think.

Selfish. Dramatic. Needy. Shallow. Weak.

Dean deserved better.

Sam reassured Dean as much as he could and took Dean's advice. He stuffed all the rage inside—what little was left after his plummet into numbness—and kept moving forward. On to the next town, the next case, the next reason not to stay in bed for eternity.

Switching bodies with a teenager was both terrible and a nice break. Part of depression was mental, and that part followed him into Gary's body, along with the self-loathing and guilt of his mistakes. But a bigger part of depression was physical, and that meant he got a break from his chemically imbalanced body. Of course, he had been thrown into another one, but the chemical imbalance was different, and in a weird way, it felt… good. It was kinda nice to stress about things, to get mad at stupid parents, to be embarrassed, to be annoyed by a sister, to feel his heart flutter around a pretty girl.

Gary's life sucked, but Sam found didn't mind. Gary, at least, had the energy and mental clarity to know and rue the fact that his life sucked.

As soon as Sam was back in his body, he realized Gary must have been running on pure adrenaline the entire time he was behind the wheel. Everything hit Sam at once, his body screeching at him with a painful reminder that no, he could not do things.

Why did you drink? Alcohol is a depressant; that's why you stopped!

Why did you pick up that lady at the bar? You have no sex drive!

Why did you make so many facial expressions, and why were you so animated, and why did you make your brain work so hard? What's wrong with you?

Sam blamed the three days he spent in bed on the physical strain of having their bodies switched. He speculated that Gary was having the same problem, that it was just an aftereffect of the spell and would pass.

It didn't. But it did get bearable enough for him to do what he needed to do. Rather, it got bearable enough to do what he needed to do when people could see him.

Sam found himself sitting down in the shower. He found himself listening to darker music. He found himself dragging his feet when he walked alone, and found he had a slower reaction time without the aid of adrenaline. Headaches increased, and joints and muscles ached, but he kept the almost constant chugging of painkillers hidden. It was easier to get dizzy and winded, but it wasn't suspicious to casually lean against walls or tables. It was harder to get up in the morning, but most of the time, fatigue could be blamed on a hunt or the stress of the Apocalypse.

Life went on, and Sam didn't complain. At least, not out loud.

Sam really would have been okay with Anna killing him to prevent the mess that was his existence. He tried to indicate that without coming right out and saying, 'Guys, it's time you learned I have severe depression and want to die, so let's just let Anna scatter my atoms and call it a day.'

Unsurprisingly, it didn't work.

They wound up in the past, wound up meeting John and Mary, wound up doing some of the most emotionally draining things Sam could think of. He felt himself dissolving with every passing second, nothing but adrenaline getting him from one minute to the next. His legs shook and the world tilted. If the angels hadn't shown up to fight, he would have collapsed before he was stabbed.

When it was over, Sam wished he could feel the same hopelessness Dean did. He wished he could sit with his brother and say he understood why Dean's conversation with Michael was so upsetting; that he could say he understood how frustrating it was to know that, no matter what they did, things always seemed to turn out a certain way.

He wanted to, but honestly? He couldn't tell the difference anymore. From his depression, to his role as Lucifer's vessel, to the death of their parents, and everything in between and beyond…

Was Dean's hopelessness like quicksand? Like the walls closing in around him? Like a riptide dragging him out to sea, threatening to drown him only if he fought back? Maybe. And Sam was familiar with all of those, but Sam wasn't there anymore.

Sam had gone down, down, down below those levels to the kind of hopelessness that didn't drown or drag. It didn't suck you into a dark hole, it was the dark hole; it was the bottom of the dark hole. It didn't press in on every side because it didn't need to. It didn't wrap you in chains, because you stopped trying to leave a long time ago. In a horrible and terrifying way… it almost hugged you. It held you gently and whispered sweet nothings in the silence.

Think about how hard it'll be to crawl all the way out of here.

Think about how painful it'll be when you get halfway up and fall back to the bottom again.

Think about how noisy it is up there. Think about the chaos of being alive. Dozens of emotions and obstacles, interactions and relationships, responsibilities and goals, work and family. So many decisions to make. So many people to disappoint. So many failures and flaws.

Not with me. It's safe with me. You like being with me. You like it because you can't screw up being a screw-up. You can't be disappointed if you never have hope. You can never fail if you never try. You like it. You want it. So just… stay.

Would wonders never cease? Sam managed to make himself cry.

Maybe he wasn't at the bottom of the pit yet.

Sam knew something was wrong the moment Castiel opened the door to the panic room. What exactly was wrong, Sam didn't know, because sorting out something like that would require thinking, and his withdrawals had sucked whatever little life he still had right out of him, so thinking was well beyond his capabilities.

It was a miracle he wasn't sprawled out on the floor, unconscious.

"You okay?" Sam murmured, eyes half-lidded.

Castiel met Sam's gaze briefly, and then he silently gestured for Sam to pass over the threshold.

Sam walked through the door and made for the stairs, his muscles straining under the effort. He probably should've asked what was wrong, but the thought of conversation was exhausting. Walking was exhausting. Being alive was exhausting.

Sam blinked at his own hands, watching them slide uncoordinatedly along the handrail. Once he was on the ground floor, he headed straight for the next flight of stairs, practically salivating at the thought of a nap in the guest room.

"Library." Castiel gave the lower, left-hand side of Sam's back the slightest of pushes to direct him.

Sam almost objected. I can't help. But he was too tired. It doesn't matter what's wrong, I can't help. Lucifer could be standing in front of me, and I…

Sam stepped into the library and came to a stop, his train of thought tumbling down the mountainside. By the looks he got from Bobby and Dean, something was definitely wrong, but their faces didn't tell him what. Sam looked over his shoulder at Castiel, but the angel just gave him another gentle push and stepped into the room with him.

It was all so confusing. He just wanted to sleep. He needed to sleep.

"So…" Sam shuffled over to the couch and collapsed in the seat next to his brother. "What's…?" He didn't have to finish the sentence, did he?

Dean wet his lips and inhaled slowly, mouth moving in silent words for a moment before he finally asked, "How, uh… how are you feeling?"

Sam blinked, confused and increasingly concerned, but he couldn't manage much more than a quiet, "Better." He shrugged. "Tired. I was actually…" He indicated the stairs to the second floor with a slight point.

"Okay, well…" Dean cleared his throat, glancing at Bobby in an almost… uncertain way, like he was waiting for a cue. "We, uh, we gotta talk about something—something important—so, uh…" He wet his lips and rubbed his forehead for a second. "We need to, uh, to talk about you, actually. With the—with the whole detox thing, I just, uh—"

Sam heaved a sigh and blinked sluggishly. "Can we talk later?"

Dean cleared his throat again and shook his head. "Uh, no. We're actually pretty worried about you, so—"

"I'm fine," Sam muttered, leaning back against the couch. "Just tired."

Dean exhaled sharply, almost like a snort, but softer and heavy with sadness. "You're fine." It wasn't a question, but there was a distinct note of disbelief. "You're…" He inhaled again, blinking rapidly when his eyes started to water. "Look, I kinda… I don't know." He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "It was stupid, but when I saw you on demon blood, I started thinking about Ruby, and how, y'know, how you used to be hooked on the stuff pretty hardcore, and she was kinda your dealer, or whatever, and I just… needed to check. I had to get the thought out of my head."

Sam frowned slightly. "You…?" He glanced down and saw his phone in Dean's hand. "Oh." Dean must have gone through his phone. "Okay." He looked back up at Dean's face, his brain too fried to make the connections Dean clearly expected him to make. "I'm tired, Dean. Just…" He trailed off yet again.

Dean cleared his throat and rubbed his forehead. "Okay, well, uh, I was in your call log. I wasn't—I wasn't really looking for—"

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Bobby threw his hands up and extended one to indicate Sam while the other fell back to the desk. "Sam, you called the suicide hotline six hundred times in the past two years."

"Five hundred and ninety-one," Castiel helpfully corrected, concern creasing his brow as he gazed at Sam with his ever-wide, ever-blue eyes.

Sam blinked slowly, processing what he had just been told. He looked to Dean for help, trying to glean information from Dean's expression.

Dean's eyes were glassy, his lip pulled up ever-so-slightly as the urge to cry increased. His brow was crinkled, confusion and frustration and grief colliding on his features. It was raw and hurt and… and… and Sam didn't know what else.

Sam blinked again, opening his mouth. "Uh… I…" Somewhere deep, deep inside, Sam was panicking. "You…" But it never made it past the conceptual level. "I'm tired."

Dean inhaled sharply. "Can you focus, please? This is kinda huge. You were—you are—" He huffed. "I mean, Sam, you want to…" Dean couldn't make himself say it.

"Dean…" Sam sighed heavily. "I'm tired, I can't…" He slowly shook his head, eyelids fluttering. "I can't… talk… or think… please, I just… wanna sleep…"

"Sammy?" All irritation was gone, replaced by fear, and Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulders. "Hey, do I need to take you to a hospital?"

Sam stared blankly, confused but incapable of expression.

"Sam." Dean gave him a little shake. "Did you take something?"

Sam shook his head, eyes fluttering again before drifting shut.

Dean didn't say anything, and the sounds of shifting clothes said he was doing… something.

Sam didn't know. Sam didn't care. He started shifting himself into a better sleeping position, pulling away from Dean to lay against the arm of the couch. "Sorry," he breathed.

For everything. For dropping something so shocking on them like a bombshell and leaving them without answers. For the lying and the hiding and everything else they would blame him for; everything he deserved to be blamed for. For being broken. For everything wrong about him.

But he couldn't manage all that, so he just whispered another 'sorry,' and let the darkness take him down.

When Sam woke up again, he found Dean kneeling by the couch and shaking his shoulder. Dean had what appeared to be a chocolate milkshake, and despite Sam insisting he wasn't hungry, Dean demanded he drink at least half of it.

"You gotta eat something, Sammy."

It definitely tasted like a chocolate milkshake, and it was delicious, but Sam could still only manage the half that Dean required. Dean said that was okay, and then he played with Sam's hair until Sam fell asleep.

Sam woke up again in six hours, and Dean did the same thing.

"Pills… n'my bag… in the lining…"

Sam passed out again, and when he came to, blue eyes had replaced green.

"Sam, you need to take nourishment. Drink this."

Sam did as he was told and tumbled down, coming back up to green eyes back in play. Except the eyes were a little red and puffy, like they had been crying, like they had been rubbed obsessively for hours.

"Come on, Sammy. Just a little more."

Sam tried to figure out what was wrong with the eyes. It was the only thing that had held his attention in… however long he had been on the couch.

"S'okay, Sammy. You'll be fine. I'm gonna fix this."

At some point, Sam woke up enough to stumble to the bathroom to relieve himself, briefly noting Bobby asleep in his wheelchair nearby. Sam stayed under for quite a while after that.

When he did wake up, Dean tried to get him to eat some eggs, but he couldn't. Or maybe he wouldn't. He didn't know. He didn't care. He went back to sleep.

Sam woke up with the sun in the west.

"You just keep hangin' in there, boy. We've gotcha."

Sam woke up with the sun in the east. He rolled over and went back to sleep, slept until it was nighttime, refused food, and slept until the sun was back in the east again.

Sam wasn't really sure how long he went on like that. He remembered someone coming to see him, remembered slurring out some answers to questions. He remembered lying. He remembered a combination of annoyance and sheepishness when he was told self-medication was unhealthy and dangerous, like he didn't already know. He remembered worried faces perpetually hovering in doorways. He knew time was passing, he knew he was growing a beard, he knew he was starting to smell.

Dean tried to get him to shower, and when Sam said he couldn't, Dean opted for a bath instead. Sam knew he could make it to the bathroom, so he agreed. His pants were easy enough to get rid of, but he had to sit down to get his shirt, not having the strength to stay standing until the task was done. He wound up needing Dean's help with that, too, after a two-minute battle with a button resulted in frustrated tears. He sat in the bathtub, watched it fill up with a dazed expression.

"So… is anybody home? Or are you still sleeping internally?"

Sam didn't speak through the ordeal. He let Dean wash his hair, washed his upper body, and then struggled to stand through the process of drying himself. Dean had to help with that, and he had to help Sam get dressed. Even with all that assistance, Sam barely made it back to the couch, where he tumbled onto the cushions with a racing heart, aching muscles, and swirls of black and white flashing back and forth across his eyes.

Dean asked if he was okay.

Sam answered by passing out.

Sam woke up, took his pills with a milkshake, and went back to bed.

It was day eleven, according to Dean, when Sam quietly asked for a book to read. He managed to read a chapter and a half—while consuming an entire milkshake, no less—before he had to sleep again.

On day twelve, he ate some eggs with his milkshake, which Dean finally explained was made with various nutritional drinks, supplements, and powders. Dean had somehow done the impossible and made Ensure taste good.

That same day, Sam tried to read again, but his brain couldn't process the sentences; it ended in more frustrated tears and a long nap where he drooled on the pages.

He read another chapter on day thirteen.

He ate a scrambled egg on day fourteen.

He did neither on day fifteen.

On day sixteen, he couldn't even manage a milkshake.

He bathed on his own on day seventeen, though he still couldn't manage a shower.

He played cards with Dean, Castiel, and Bobby on day eighteen. He actually won a couple times, and he cracked a joke about having the perfect poker face because he was dead inside. That sort of dampened the mood, so he didn't tell anymore jokes after that.

He slept all the way through day nineteen.

He asked for his iPod on day twenty; music made him smile from time to time.

On day twenty-one, he said he was ready to try and talk.

Sam held his mug with both hands, inhaling the steam from his beverage with a weak smile. "Never would have pegged you for a tea-making master, but this brew says you've been holding out on me."

Dean leaned back against his end of the couch with a quiet chuckle, pulling one leg onto the cushions between them and making himself comfortable. "You don't know everything about me," he teased.

Sam smiled again, a little stronger but gone more quickly, and he tried to shift his focus to Castiel. His eyes wouldn't really cooperate, fixating on the lapels of Castiel's coat instead; eye contact was entirely too difficult.

"You should get some, too." Sam let his eyes wander over to the teapot.

For a moment, it looked like Castiel would refuse—which made sense; he didn't need sustenance and struggled with the human concept of comfort food—but in the end, he took an empty cup and poured himself a drink.

Sam looked down at his mug again. "So… I'm depressed." He blinked. "That's a thing."

There was a pause, and then Dean started speaking carefully. "Yeah… definitely a thing. You wanna… tell us about that?"

Sam snorted. "No." He was still staring at his cup. "But I get the feeling it's not optional."

"No kidding." Dean sucked in a quick breath, like he wished he could take the words back. "Sorry. I just meant…" He sighed. "No, it's not optional. We gotta talk about this."

Sam blinked down at his drink. "Don't do that." He wanted to look at Dean, but his head wouldn't move. "Don't… treat me like I'm fragile. I'm not that much of a wreck." Yes, he was.

Dean shifted on the couch, his legs moving in Sam's peripherals. "Look, Sam, if… y'know, if you break your arm, I'm not gonna wrestle with you like I normally do, and I'm gonna avoid hitting it, and I'm gonna help you out."

Sam somehow got his head up. "This isn't a broken arm. I don't need you to walk on eggshells so you don't hurt my feelings, okay?" He actually felt a little indignant at the implication that he did need that kind of treatment.

Though, to be fair, he really did.

"Sam." Bobby drew Sam's attention to the desk he was sitting behind, his voice somehow hard and soft at the same time. "It's not that simple, and you're smart enough to know that. You don't kick a man when he's down, and it just so happens you're down more often than we realized. You'll get better, and we'll make up for all the harassing, but for now…" He held out his hands in a 'down boy' gesture. "Take it easy."

Sam blinked, stuck on the words 'you'll get better.' It cut into his chest like a knife, the first glimpse of hope he had seen in months. He doesn't know. He doesn't know how bad it is. He doesn't know all the things you've tried. He doesn't know you can't get better. But Bobby's hope wasn't killed quite as easily as Sam's, and that little flicker of light toughed out the spell of darkness.

"So." Dean cleared his throat and shifted again. "You were gonna tell us about…" He gestured vaguely with his hand. "All that."

Sam looked at Dean for a second, then at Bobby, and then at Castiel, who was sitting on a chair to Sam's left. Then Sam looked back at Dean and the hopeful, albeit worried look on his face.

Sam swallowed and nodded a few times. "Yeah, okay." He took a breath and tried to get his usual string of lies straight in his head. "So… you know it started two years ago. It was, um…" He dropped his gaze back down to his tea, knowing it would be easier if he didn't have to look at anyone. "Do you remember… when Gabriel trapped us in that time loop?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Uh, Sam and I got trapped in a Tuesday." It took Sam a moment to realize Dean was explaining the incident to Bobby and Castiel. "I kept dying over and over, like dozens—"

"Hundreds," Sam interjected.

"…hundreds of times." Then, to Sam. "I remember it."

Sam inhaled slowly. "Well, uh, well there's a part of it you don't remember. Before Gabriel let us out… he fake let us out."

"Fake let us out?" Dean echoed.

"I woke up, and it was Wednesday… and the loop was broken… but you died again. You were, uh, stabbed in the motel parking lot." Sam had never stared so intensely at a drink. "But this time, the loop didn't start over. You were just… gone. And, um, and six months passed, and during those months, I… I did things." Maybe not apocalyptic things, but things. "And then Bobby said… that he found some ritual, some… thing to bring you back. He said we would need to bleed someone dry, and…" He laughed bitterly, tears thick in his voice, head shaking slightly. "You know, even high on demon blood, I hesitated to kill that nurse, but after six months in Gabriel's pocket universe…" He shook his head again, watching the tea ripple with the trembling of his hands. "Bobby said we'd need to kill someone, and I was like, 'Cool,' and headed for the door. Just—just like that." He bit his lip and inhaled through his nose, trying to stop the flood of tears, but he wasn't very successful.

"Woah, easy," Dean muttered, taking the cup from Sam's hands and setting it aside.

Sam held his hands in place, taking deep breaths and tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. He sniffed and chewed on his lips again. "Ah, this is pathetic." He sniffed again, hands falling to his lap as he laughed. "Sorry. I got it, just—just gimme a sec."

"Sam, that's not pathetic. That's—that would've been… I mean…" Dean trailed off, still making faint noises as he searched for words.

Something hit the couch, and Sam actually responded in a normal amount of time, looking down to find a tissue box between them.

"There," Bobby said, wheeling back into place behind his desk.

"Thanks," Sam muttered, grabbing a tissue and blowing his nose. He did the same thing again and then took a few more breaths. "I, uh, I'm good. Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Bobby replied simply.

Sam nodded and sniffed again. Well, that happened. Still, it was a distraction from what they actually wanted to talk about. Sam would rather discuss the impact of trauma than a failure to function that came and went with little to no reason. He would rather talk about his sensitivity to waking nightmares than his sensitivity to his own self-deprecating thoughts.

"Sam."

Sam turned his head slightly, looking in Castiel's direction and waiting.

"I… I know it doesn't mean anything, but I cannot apologize enough for what my brother did to you. I…"

Sam shook his head before Castiel could finish. "He was trying to help, Cas." He sniffed, eyes locking onto a spot on the carpet near-ish to Castiel's shoes. "That's the thing, y'know? He was showing me what would happen if I didn't—if I didn't let Dean go. But when Dean died for real, and Ruby told me about…" Sam shook his head with an angry laugh. "There should've been a giant neon sign. 'Attention: You've Played This Level Before. It Ended Horribly.' But I just… did the exact same thing all over again and, unsurprisingly, wound up bleeding someone dry and—"

Sam sucked in a breath and lifted a hand to his face, placing the inside of his hand along his forehead to shield his eyes. "I can't—I don't want to talk about this anymore. I'm sorry, I thought I could—" He shook his head, disgusted with himself. "I can't do this. I'm tired. I'm sorry."

For a moment, there was nothing, and then Dean startled to life and got off the couch. "Yeah, yeah, sure, of course. Uh, let me just—" He grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch and handed it over. "Here. Just, uh, lay down. Get some sleep. Sorry we… overwhelmed you."

Sam took the blanket without looking anywhere near Dean's face. He could tell just from the disjointed, uncharacteristically straightforward sentences that Dean was disturbed and shocked.

Because of Sam.

I can't do this. But he didn't know how to fix it. They knew about the depression, and they weren't going to stop digging, and he couldn't take that back. He couldn't fix it, couldn't make it go away.

But he could sleep, and if he was asleep, the problems temporarily ceased to exist. So, he grabbed his iPod from the floor, shoved his headphones in, curled up on the couch, and did exactly that.

"I don't want to talk about yesterday." Sam pulled his blanket around himself a little tighter. "Can't you just… ask questions and let me answer instead of me telling the whole story?"

Dean and Bobby exchanged a glance, but they ultimately nodded.

Dean started them off.

"Uh… so, you called the hotline, but… did you ever try anything?"

Sam shook his head. "No, it never got that far." Yes, four times.

Dean nodded his head, and Bobby took the next question.

"How long have you been on medication?"

Sam pursed his lips and thought for a moment. "Uh… about a year? Maybe a little more." More like five years, plus a little more. "I know it's not right, but… you know, people will deal anything. So… I did the research, and…" That wasn't how he started out, but that was pretty much how he had gotten his supply since he left Stanford. So, not a total lie.

Dean cleared his throat. "We, uh, we had someone come look at you while you were still half out of it. Do you… want to see him again?"

Sam shrugged and pursed his lips. "Eh." Yes. "I don't think it'll do a lot of good. I mean, he can give me pointers, I guess, but… it's not like we can have him ship prescriptions to us. We're always moving around." Actually, Sam handling his own medication was possibly the worst plan in the history of bad plans, and a psychiatrist would be extremely helpful.

"You can send'em here. Or get'em refilled at the local pharmacy, and I can pick'em up." Bobby huffed, giving both Sam and Dean a displeased stare. "If I've got your refills, I might actually see you boys more than once a month."

Thank God. Sam offered a small smile. "I mean, yeah. If you wanna do that…" He looked at Dean. "It's more driving, and…" he side-eyed Bobby, "…we'd have to put up with him more often."

Dean groaned theatrically. "Ugh. I don't know if that's worth the payoff, Sam. I just—I don't know if I can handle that. I mean, every month?"

Sam held up a finger. "Well, if we do if by mail order, it's once every three months."

Dean heaved a sigh of relief. "Oh, okay. I think I can do that."

Bobby deadpanned. "Ha ha. You're hilarious."

Dean smiled—it was the first smile Sam had seen in a while—and leaned back in his seat. "If you could get the meds, Bobby, that would be awesome." He looked at Sam then, eyes hopeful. "So, I'll schedule another appointment for you?"

Sam nodded. "Sounds good." Sounds amazing. Sounds freaking fantastic!

"Cool." Dean nodded and smiled, clearly pleased. Sam half expected him to make the call right then and there.

"Sam…" Castiel spoke up from where he stood in the archway to the kitchen, squinting at the floor, frozen in the same position he had held since the beginning of the conversation. "Do you hurt yourself?"

"Cas!" Dean scolded. "He's depressed, not freaking emo."

Castiel looked up and then tilted his head, ever curious and confused. "I apologize. I was under the impression the two were often related."

Sam gave Castiel a small smile. "They are, and it's nice of you to ask. But no, I don't hurt myself." Finally, something he could answer honestly.

Because Sam didn't really hurt himself. Sure, he took showers that were a little too hot, and he held onto cups and plates that burned his hands. And yeah, maybe he kinda liked having cuts and scrapes and bruises from hunting, but that wasn't the same as cutting with a razor or burning with a lighter. So what if he liked the way his knuckles burned and bled while he punched out a wall? That was a macho thing. It made him feel better because it was violent, and he was a man, and that was just the natural order of things. It had nothing to do with pain and aggression letting out some of that ever-building pressure, some of that overwhelming urge to cry and scream and murder all in one go.

And even if it did, that wasn't his depression. That was his anxiety.

So, not a lie. Maybe a deception, but not a lie.

"Look, I…" Sam struggled with himself for a moment and then let out a soft sigh. "I know it's kinda hard to come to terms with… but I'm still me." He laughed nervously and braved a glance in Dean's direction. "It's probably the worst part of me, but… it's me." He laughed again. "You guys know now, and I can… I can come to you for help." Nope. "I can talk to you instead of some stranger over the phone." Never. "I mean, if… if I'm honest…" what a joke, "…I've faked a lot of migraines because I was having a bad day. You know, like the bad days I had recently. I couldn't get out of bed, so…" He ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck again. "But now I can tell you the real reason."

Dean spoke softly, his face just outside Sam's field of vision. "What can I… what can we do to help?"

Sam shook his head with a reluctant smile and a shrug. "Nothing. If I can't get out of bed… then I can't get out of bed." He learned that the hard way back at Stanford, when he passed out in the shower and busted his head on the faucet. "Just help me keep up with my meds and wait it out." And make me feel like I'm not a total freak.

"Sam, we can't… not do something." Dean ran a hand through his hair and let out a sigh. "You're telling me you've been fighting this thing for two years, and in all that time, I never noticed. How am I supposed to—"

"You can't," Sam interrupted. "You can't protect me from this. You can't salt and burn this, and if you try, I'm gonna be the one who ends up burned, so just..." He looked at Dean, fatigue darkening his eyes, and he offered a wilted smirk. "I told you, it's still me. It's part of me. It's not going anywhere." He sighed. "I just want to go back to the way it was."

That was simultaneously the biggest lie and purest truth in the whole conversation. Because Sam wanted a support system, and he wanted his family to understand, and he wanted to have someone on his side again. But he didn't want to reach for that and have the floor fall out from under him, and he didn't want to work for it only to find the work was too hard. It was a hope-filled, wonderful, exhausting, terrifying notion.

"Sammy, we… we can't go back to the way it was. I don't want to go back to that." Dean shook his head a few times. "I don't ever want to go back to that."

Sam pressed his lips together for a moment. "Well, it won't be exactly like it was. Like I said, you guys know now, so… y'know, we'll learn as we go." He laughed softly and spread his hands. "I mean, it's not like we can stop what we're doing and have daily therapy sessions. It's the Apocalypse. We can't just, 'Oops, timeout guys, we need to get Sam's brain back in order. How's next year sound, Satan?'" He spread his hands a little more and then dropped them back into his lap.

Silence traveled around the room. Dean sat on his half of the couch, looking like he wanted to object but knowing Sam was right. Bobby glared downward and off to the side, clearly unhappy but realizing the same thing Dean did. Castiel stood in the same place, with the same stiff posture he always had, not showing a single thing on his face.

"Look, guys…" Sam inhaled and exhaled slowly. "I'm still here. It's been two years," five years, "and I haven't put a bullet in my mouth yet," just pills, "so… I know it's a lot, but it isn't as bad as it sounds." It was worse, it was so much worse. "Just keep an eye on me, and I'll let you know when I'm not doing well, and… we'll muddle through, like we always do."

They all looked at him, Dean's face showing more conflict than anyone else's, but in the end, even he conceded.

"If that's what you want, Sammy."

Sam smiled. "It is." Not. Not even a little bit.

But for all the time he spent not-so-subconsciously wishing someone would stumble upon his pitiful state and let him spill the truth about the mess in his brain, when presented with the opportunity to do just that, he realized… he didn't know how.

When the dead rose in Sioux Falls, Sam experienced a kind of loneliness he was certain he never had before. Watching Bobby and Karen… watching as families were pieced back together… watching everyone around him experience the kind of love and warmth he hadn't been able to get out of anyone in years.

Dean was the only other person unhappy about the resurrections, and while company helped to take the edge off, it wasn't enough.

Sam felt terrible about it, but he was almost happy when the resurrections went south. It wasn't right, and he knew that, but there was something incredibly embittering about seeing people get their loved ones back completely out of the blue, when he couldn't even get his will to live back, and he was trying so hard.

On the bright side, Sam had had the ability to actually feel terrible and jealous and guilty. So that, at least, was a step in the right direction.

Sam couldn't really share details when he called the hotline that night, but he got the general point across, so that was a plus. Because he did call the hotline. Because there was no way he was telling Castiel or Bobby or Dean about his shameful thoughts and feelings. Because Bobby didn't deserve to deal with Sam's problems along with the grief of losing Karen again, and Dean didn't need any more stress breaking him down, and Castiel… well, honestly, Castiel probably didn't care. Sam was pretty sure Castiel was only invested in Sam because Dean would cut him off otherwise.

But Sam had the hotline. He always had the hotline.

Except when he was in Heaven. He couldn't call anyone when his mother ignored his attempt to talk to her, or when he was standing face-to-face with Ash and Pamela, or when he started hating himself for having the wrong favorite memories. Once he was back on Earth, of course, he could call again.

But by then it was too late.

Sam held the amulet in shaking hands, eyes misting up as he felt, for the first time in a long time, something other than numbness or anger or the vague notion of sadness. He felt pain. He felt fear and desperation, and it hurt.

He opened his mouth to call out, to beg Dean to come back, but he couldn't get the words past his lips. His throat went tight, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth as his brain ran over the long list of reasons why he needed to keep his mouth shut.

You deserve this. You did this to him. You hurt him. You were selfish and narcissistic, and he doesn't care about your little tantrum. He's done with you. He hates you. And he should. It's a miracle he stuck around this long. You should be grateful. All he's done for you, and this is how you treat him? He deserves better. And you deserve this.

Sam tore his phone out of his pocket, breathing hard and frantically dialing that old, familiar number. He pressed the device to his ear, pulling his knees up to his chest and falling against the wall as a result.

How could you be so callous? Did you really never think about how Flagstaff affected him? How it hurt him when you left? No. No, you were too busy thinking about yourself and how unhappy you were. For someone who spends so much time wishing people would notice his suffering, you do a terrible job of noticing pain in other people. When's the last time you got Dean to tell you how he really is? Have you ever asked him if he wants to get up in the morning? No, of course not. You're too busy wallowing in self-pity to do something like that. You're too selfish to care about anyone but yourself.

"Hello? Hello, is anyone there?"

Sam jolted, torn from his thoughts, and pulled the phone away from his ear to look at it. His breath got shorter, tears welling up in his eyes, and he snapped it shut. He wasn't having a hotline day. It was a crisis day. It was a get-away-from-the-knives-and-guns-and-pills day. It was a don't-be-alone-for-more-than-five-minutes day. It was a locate-the-closest-hospital day.

It was a you're-going-to-try-again day.

Oh, sure. Commit suicide right after a fight with Dean so he carries that guilt for the rest of his life. Because it doesn't matter what he's feeling, it only matters what you're feeling, right? That's all you care about. Always looking out for number one. Never caring about Dean or Dad or Bobby… just yourself. Always yourself.

Sam scrambled to his feet and started to pace, opening his phone again and letting his finger hover over the three. He trembled and tried to get air down the swollen passages of his throat. The motel room fading into blurred colors until all he could see clearly was the phone in his hands.

Bobby only tolerates you because he loves Dean. Dean has always been his favorite. You just get in the way. He told you to lose his number, and we both know he really meant it, so do you really think he wants to get a call from you? Especially one where you're whining about your teen girl drama? He tried to help—they all did—and you wouldn't let them. This is what you deserve. You did this to yourself.

Sam snapped the phone shut and pressed it to his stomach, holding it there with both hands as he paced faster, breaths short and broken. He saw the door hanging open from when Dean left, and he went over and closed it. He started to pace again, mind racing with a thousand thoughts that all came up blank when he tried to look at them.

Sam walked over to Dean's bed and lifted the pillow Dean had used, revealing a loaded pistol. Dean always kept one under his pillow; Sam had, too, before Dean started keeping the guns under lock and key. Because Dean had started keeping the guns under lock and key. Because Dean knew about Sam's suicidal ideation, and he still threw out the amulet, because he didn't care about Sam, because Sam had screwed everything up again, because—

Sam gasped and backed away from the bed, swaying as he turned away and started pacing again. No, no, no. I can't. I can't let Dean find me like that. He deserves better than this. He deserves better than me.

Sam whirled around and went back to the bed. I know he does, but I can't do this anymore! He reached out to take the gun and then pulled his hand back, as if he had been burned. I don't want to die. I just want to get better.

You're never going to get better. You've known that for over a year now, you just can't bring yourself to admit it. You're never going to get better, Sam, because you don't deserve to get better. You deserve to suffer. You're broken and useless and tainted. You destroy everything you touch, and if there is anyone on this planet who deserves to crave death, it's you.

Sam made another grab for the gun, and that time, he picked it up and disengaged the safety.

But then he stopped again.

You're disgusting. Using his instincts to get what you want. Using his 'training' to make him care for you above all else. You selfish, worthless, disgusting waste of space. Dean was right about you. All that anger and resentment when you left for Stanford, when you abandoned him; it was all justified.

Sam looked at the phone in his other hand. He flipped it open. He looked at the keypad.

He looked at the keypad for a very long time.

He pressed the two. He held it until speed dial kicked in. He put the phone to his ear. He blinked. He sniffed. He swallowed.

Dean rejected the call after two rings.

Sam bit down on his lip and lowered his phone, closing it and tucking it into his pocket. He looked at the gun again, feeling its weight in his hand. He wet his lips.

What good is it going to do? Heaven brought you back once. They can do it again… and again… and again… it's never going to end.

Sam choked out a sob and leaned on the bed, shaking his head. No… no, no, no…

Yeah. Sucks, doesn't it? You can kill yourself over and over, and they'll just keep bringing you back. They'll just keep throwing you right back into suffering. It's fitting, don't you think? You started the Apocalypse. You condemned the entire world for your ego. It's only fair that you don't get to take the easy way out.

Sam sniffed and blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears, watching the hot droplets strike the blood-spattered comforter. No, please…

You've given Lucifer the perfect way to get in your head. If he offered to take these feelings away, you'd agree to be his vessel, wouldn't you? Who cares if the world is destroyed when Sam Winchester is depressed?

Sam let go of the gun and straightened up, wiping his face. No, no, no. No. This isn't what I want. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

Maybe not, but there's no other way out. Your best chance is to keep killing yourself until Heaven and Hell either let you stay dead or fix you. If you're even fixable at this point.

Sam staggered backward, the wind knocked completely out of him, one hand clutching his chest through his shirt. He opened his mouth and tried to suck air down into his rapidly compressing chest cavity, but he couldn't.

No, I can. I can. It just feels like I can't. I'm not dying. I have oxygen. I'm okay. I'm okay.

But it didn't feel okay. It didn't feel okay at all, and the tears had already begun to well up in his eyes, and his hands shook as he grappled with the hem of his shirt, and the struggle to get it up and over his head made him feel like his entire body was wrapped in a sheet, slowly suffocating as he fought. He tossed his shirt aside and rushed into the bathroom, turning on the cold water. He ducked his head under and waited a second or two—waited until the liquid ice soaked into his hair and started spreading over his scalp and down his neck—and then he pulled it out.

He panted, bracing his arms on the sides of the sink, shuddering as the cold water dripped from his nose and chin. He slowly tilted his head up and looked at himself in the mirror, meeting his own bloodshot eyes, underlined with shadows he could no longer recognize his face without. He inhaled, and exhaled, and swallowed, and blinked, and inhaled, and exhaled, and whimpered.

You aren't any better. You're in the exact same place as the night you opened the Cage. Different motel bathroom, same mental breakdown. Actually, this one might be worse. And it's still all your fault, and you still deserve it.

Sam reached up with one hand and rubbed his face before putting it back on the edge of the sink. He couldn't use the same fix as last time. He couldn't take an Ativan.

Because you'll swallow the whole bottle.

Sam looked down at his right hand, looked at the amulet still tangled around his hand. No. I can't do that to Dean. I won't. I won't do it. He doubled over, heart pounding against his sternum, muscles wound tight around his ribcage.

You've got two different antidepressants in the bag. You've got a gun and the demon knife, which would probably world especially well on something like you. You've got a belt. You've got a bathtub and electricity. Just do it. You deserve it. You know it won't work, you know Heaven will bring you back, and you know it's all pointless. So don't think, just do it. Just kill yourself. Do everyone a favor.

Sam choked out a sob, his head spinning and throbbing and aching. He blinked rapidly to clear his blurring vision. If it won't work, there's no point. It would just be another cry for attention. I'm better than that.

Are you though? Are you really?

Sam grit his teeth and threw his fist out, watching the mirror break, watching the fragments fall into the sink. He kept his knuckles pressed to the glass, exhaling with the sudden rush of relief, watching the blood soak into the cord of Dean's necklace—not Dean's, he didn't want it anymore, didn't want Sam anymore—watching the amulet develop a thin sheen of crimson over gold.

That could work.

Sam drew his fist back and hit the mirror again, relishing the pain. Because there was a part of Sam—a big part, a desperate part—that didn't care how he killed the pain. It hurt to be alive, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to not hurt at all, and suicide was no longer an out. Whether he liked it or not, he was going to suffer. And his internal monologue was right; Lucifer had the perfect bribe, and Sam didn't know if he would be able to say 'no' if he were offered relief, even if it came from the Devil.

So Sam hit the mirror again. He hit it again… and again… and again… because he just didn't care. He hurt, and he was tired, and he was done. He just wanted it to be over, and hitting the mirror helped, so he hit the mirror again, and again, and again, and faster, and harder, and again, again, again—

Someone grabbed him from behind—he screamed—wrapping their arms around his torso and pulling him away from the wall.

"Sam, stop," a low voice rumbled in his ear.

Sam couldn't process the need to keep a secret; couldn't process anything but terror. "Castiel, stop! Stop, I can't breathe! Let me go!" He thrashed around, trying to hit Castiel, pulling against the hold with everything he had. "Let go, let go, let go!"

"Sam, there's nothing wrong with your lungs and throat," Castiel assured, his voice soothingly calm but nauseatingly close, close, close, everything was too close.

"I can't breathe, Cas! I can't—I can't—"

He couldn't breathe. His skin was burning, and the walls were closing in, and everything was getting tighter and smaller and hotter, and he was trapped, and he couldn't get out, and he couldn't breathe, and smaller, tighter, hotter, closer, choking, screaming, help, help, help, help, help, help, help, help—

Castiel let go and Sam tore away, stumbling over himself and collapsing on the floor with a painful thud. He rolled onto his back and panted, open-mouthed, every muscle in his body tight with adrenaline.

"Sam?"

—st a panic attack, just a panic attack, all in my head, it's not real, not real, just a panic attack, no real danger, it's all in my head, all in my head, make it stop, make it stop, make it—

"Sam, I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

Sam sucked down air and turned his head enough to see Castiel kneeling on the ground beside him, looking worried and, in all honesty, a little scared.

"Sam, I want to help. How do I help?"

Sam gasped, bare chest heaving, body slick with sweat, hands and arms bloody, and hair dripping wet. He shuddered on the floor, clenching his jaw so tight he thought his teeth would break.

"Sam—"

"Tell me it's okay." It rushed out in one second, followed by a choked, gasping sound.

Castiel looked confused, but he didn't hesitate long. He wet his lips and nodded seriously. "It's okay, Sam."

Sam turned his face to the ceiling and closed his eyes, trying not to scream and nodding his head to encourage Castiel's actions.

"It's…" Castiel seemed uncertain if he was supposed to say it more than once. "It's okay, Sam." He paused. "It's okay, Sam."

It was repetitive and monotonous, tinged just slightly by confusion and concern, but it was something. It was calm. It was steady. It was predictable.

It was safe.

"It's okay, Sam. It's okay." Castiel's clothing rustled, and then Sam sensed something overhead. "It's okay, Sam."

Sam opened his eyes to find an arm on either side of him and a Castiel hovering up above.

Castiel didn't touch Sam. He simply stayed close, nodding emphatically as a genuine belief went into his words. "It's okay, Sam. It's okay." He nodded some more, blue eyes wide and earnest. "It's okay, Sam."

Sam choked out a sob and nodded in return, gulping down a few more lungfuls of air. "It's okay," he breathed, nodding faster. "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay."

"It is," Castiel confirmed. "It is very okay."

Sam tried to take deeper, slower breaths, his body temperature slowly easing its way back down to something less than an inferno. He was still trembling, and his ribs were still creaking under the invisible weight on his chest, but he could breathe a little.

"Sam?"

Sam swallowed hard and looked up at Castiel expectantly.

Castiel considered Sam for a moment, thoughtful, and then his head cocked to the side. "Dean loves you." He said it so simply. "He will always love you, Sam."

Sam clenched his jaw and tried to nod, mentally preparing himself for the captain of the Dean Defense Squad to start explaining why Dean did what he did, and how he didn't mean it, and why it was justified…

"Dean loves you," Castiel repeated, like it was supposed to mean something more than it did. "He'll come back. He always comes back."

Sam shrank in on himself, swarmed by both hope and guilt. Dean once said told Sam not to come back if he walked out, and then Dean went ahead and chased him to the church. Dean tried to tell Sam to pick a hemisphere but couldn't stick to his guns for more than twenty-four hours. Dean would be back, like a battered woman in an abusive relationship.

And Sam was the abuser. Sam was disgusting. Loathsome.

"Sam, it's okay." Castiel frowned, clearly unhappy with the emotions on Sam's face. "He really will come back."

Sam shook his head and whispered, "He shouldn't."

Castiel squinted, tilting his head to the other side. "Sam… it's okay."

Sam actually smiled a little. Castiel was nothing if not dogged in his following of instructions. It was endearing, and Castiel clearly wanted to help, which made Sam feel a little less unwanted.

"It's okay, Sam."

Sam nodded with another smile, weak and dampened by the tears and sweat on his face. "It's okay."

Castiel nodded seriously, and then he moved away, sitting back on his heels.

Sam reached up to wipe his face and was immediately reminded of the mirror, bits of glass digging into his shredded fingers with every movement. He dropped his hand back down with a sigh. "Don't… don't tell Dean about this. He's… this is, um, it's something different than depression." If Dean really knew how much Sam hated himself… if Dean knew Sam had anxiety, of all things… "I don't get a heads up when this is gonna happen, so it's not like I can warn you guys." He looked at Castiel imploringly. "Please. It'll just make him feel bad."

Castiel thought about it for a moment, and then he started to nod. "I will not tell Dean. But if it happens again, I will." He reached out and touched two fingers to Sam's forehead. "To erase the evidence," he explained.

Sam felt immediate relief in his hands, and he looked down to see them completely healed. He refused to admit he was a little disappointed by that.

"I…" Castiel wet his lips and glanced down at his lap for a moment. "I want to stay with you, but I also… would like to be alone right now. If you're alright…?"

Sam immediately remembered the news Castiel had gotten upon their return from Heaven, and he quickly started nodding. "Yeah, yeah, go ahead. Thank you for helping me, and… if you wanna talk about, you know, what's going—"

Castiel disappeared.

That's a no. Sam didn't blame him, though. He's going through a lot right now. They all were. Besides…

Castiel had come back to check on Sam. He couldn't have been looking for Dean, because he knew Dean left. And Castiel wanted to be alone, so he wasn't looking for company. He actually… came back… for Sam… to check on Sam…

And if that wasn't incredible enough all on its own, it was made twice as amazing when considering Castiel's general distaste for Sam. Or his apparent distaste. Castiel wouldn't have checked on Sam if he didn't like Sam at least a little.

Sam lifted his hand to rub his face, but he was once again stopped. He stared at the amulet still tangled around his fingers, and suddenly, it didn't really matter that Castiel might have liked him.

"He always comes back."

As if on cue, Sam's phone rang, and the ringtone said it was Dean. Sam took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and answered as solidly as he could.

"Hello?"

"Hey." Dean still sounded mad. "I, uh, shouldn't have rejected your call. I figured you wouldn't have called unless it was important." He cleared his throat and sniffed, trying to sound calmer than he was. "So, what's up?"

Sam pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, breathing through the pain in his chest. "Uh…" He wet his lips and smiled, knowing his tone would pick up the expression. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry, and… I'm gonna make it up to you. I don't know how yet, but… I'm gonna make up for all the times I screwed you over… and all the times I let you down. I promise."

Dean didn't say anything for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was a little lower than before. Sam couldn't pick out the emotion behind it. "I'm at a bar three blocks up from the motel. Can you walk that far, or do you…"

"No, no, I'm good. I can walk." Sam pulled the phone away to sniff and then brought it back. "I'll, uh… I'll take my time walking. I know you… wanna be alone right now."

"Mm." Dean paused. "You're not—?"

"No," Sam said, maybe too quickly.

"Okay." Dean paused again. "Just go out and turn left."

"Got it." Sam swallowed. "Sorry."

Dean hung up. Sam did, too.

"He always comes back."

Sam brought his hand to his face, covering his mouth to physically hold in the cries, and he could feel the amulet pressing into his lips as the tears started to roll.

I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry.

Sam held a handful of his own hair in one hand and his phone in the other, listening to it ring and waiting for someone to pick up. He grit his teeth, fingers digging into his scalp, body trembling in the chill of the night air.

I'm on a rooftop. How cliché.

He tried to talk when someone answered the phone, but he couldn't get the words out. Just like the last time, Sam hung up without a word. He was supposed to be telling Bobby and Castiel and Dean. They told him to tell them.

Of course they did. What else were they going to say?

But they weren't the kind of people who said the politically correct thing to spare feelings. Especially Castiel; he had no filter whatsoever.

Which is exactly why you know what he really thinks. What they all think.

Sam snapped the phone shut and pressed it to his forehead, swallowing the sobs trying to rise in his throat with limited success.

"Sam Winchester, the… Boy with the Demon Blood."

"Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak."

"I want you to lose my number."

"Sam, of course, is an abomination."

"You're a monster, Sam. A vampire. And there's no going back."

"I can't do this." He barely breathed the words, tilting his head back to look at the stars. "I can't. I just can't. I tried… and I know I didn't try hard enough, but I did try." He didn't even know who he was talking to. "I tried. I did. I—"

Sam let out a harsh sob and looked around himself for something sharp. Just a little. Just something to take the edge off. He found a broken bottle—apparently, he wasn't the only person who liked clichés—and rolled up his sleeve. I mean, alcohol's bad for you, too, but people drink to forget all the time. It's not like I'm doing heroin or ecstasy. I could be doing so many worse things to cope.

Sam took a deep breath and leaned back, looking up at the stars and feeling dried tears on his cheeks. He hadn't even realized they spilled over. He looked back down at the bottle and sniffed.

Do it. Do it. Just to see if they notice. Or are you scared? Because deep down, you know they won't. They know you're suicidal, but they haven't changed the way they treat you. You think they'll notice the stiff movements of your arms? You think they'll see the little flinches and winces? They would have to watch you to notice, and they don't watch you, because they don't care. Because all you do is run away and break things and hurt people.

Sam felt his phone vibrate and lifted his head, dragging his arm over his eyes to clear his vision. He saw the caller ID and immediately answered with a quiet, "Did you find him?"

"Yes. He was exactly where you said he would be," Castiel replied.

"Okay." Sam nodded, slouching against the wall with a sigh. "Take him to Bobby's. I'm on my way." He had just stopped by an old, abandoned building to panic a little, that's all. "I'll be there in an hour."

"I won't let him out of my sight." Castiel paused, and then his voice returned, softer than before. "Sam, are you alright?"

Sam swallowed hard and looked down at the bottle in his hand. "Not, uh—" he cleared his throat and sniffed. "Not really, Cas." He smiled to himself. "Thanks for asking."

"Is there anything I can do?" Castiel didn't hesitate.

That made Sam smile a little more. "No, Cas." He tried to hang on to the upturn of his lips for as long as possible. "But it means a lot that you asked."

Castiel sound both disbelieving and confused. "Of course, Sam." He paused. "I'll… see you at Bobby's."

"Yeah." Sam snapped the phone shut and looked at it for a good thirty seconds before turning his attention to his other hand. He stared again, though only for a few seconds, and then he chucked the glass across the rooftop.

Not today.

Sam laughed.

It came out without permission, hard and bitter and dead. Hooded eyes stared at Dean with something faintly resembling amusement in them. His hands were limp at his sides, and he wore the remnants of a smirk on the corner of his mouth.

Sam could pinpoint the exact moment, down to the tenth of a second, that the will to keep trying went out of him. It was the moment the pain hit him and his chest went tight. It was the moment the muscles in his legs started to ache and twitch, quickly running out of the strength necessary to keep him from collapsing. It was the moment he was hit with a wave of such darkness, such heaviness, such an indescribable desire to not be, that it could only be described as some form of death.

"Okay." Sam nodded and turned to leave the panic room behind.

"Okay? What does that mean?" Dean sounded more confused than upset.

Sam shrugged his shoulders and grabbed onto the door handle. "It means okay. You win. You're right." He opened the door.

Dean took a cautious step closer, concerned. "Okay… but what does that mean?"

Sam laughed again, colder, and there was a bit of cruel amusement in his voice when he looked over his shoulder and replied, "Don't worry, Dean. I wouldn't kill myself right after we had a fight." He stepped out with a bitter smile still on his lips. "Unlike you, I care about what happens to the people I leave behind."

"Hey, wait a minute." Dean ran for the door. "Sam!"

Sam whirled on Dean, arms braced against the doorframe to keep Dean from getting out, and he snarled with a kind of beaten-down, exhausted hatred he hadn't felt in a long time. "What, Dean?" It was a good thing, too, because anger was the only thing keeping him upright. "What could you possibly say to me right now?"

Dean held his hands up slightly, keeping some space between them. "I wasn't trying to—"

"Trying to what? You were being honest." Sam's fingers curled around the doorframe, teeth grinding at the concern in Dean's eyes. "You never cared what your words did before. Don't start now just because you know I want to take a dirt nap."

"Come on, Sam, that's not fair. It's not that I didn't care, I didn't—I didn't know, man." Dean spread his hands slightly, taking a step but then moving back, as if he could sense how much of a bad idea it was to approach. "Look, we would fight, and you would say stuff that bothered me in the moment, but… when the fight was over, it was over. I didn't need an apology to know we were both angry and out of control and said stuff we didn't mean. If I had known you were different, I wouldn't have—"

"You could have known." Sam shook, voice raising, rage heating his chest while fatigue ran through the muscles in his legs. "If you had taken a moment or two to stop pretending you knew me inside and out, you could have known."

Dean wet his lips, and it was clear he was trying to tread carefully, but it was also clear he wasn't getting it. "Sam… I'm sorry, okay? Obviously, we didn't know each other as well as I thought we did."

Sam stopped him before he could go any further. "Don't you dare make this a two-way street. It's not. You have always assumed you know what goes on in my head." Sam swallowed around the lump in his throat, a steady burn starting at the backs of his eyes. "You never ask, and you never listen. You think you know why I hooked up with Ruby, and you think you know why I went to Stanford, and you think you know why my Heaven isn't what you expected. Well, here's a headline for you, Dean." Sam threw his hands up. "You don't!"

Dean opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but he didn't make any attempt at speech. Not that it would have mattered if he had, because Sam kept going, stuck somewhere between furious and frantic.

"You don't know anything, because you never ask." Sam worked his jaw for a moment, fingers curling and uncurling. "So don't stand there and tell me we don't understand each other, like you ever tried to figure me out. You didn't."

Dean took a step forward, and he either didn't sense the danger or didn't care, because he got in Sam's face to argue. "Yeah, like asking would have made any difference. How long have you been hiding the fact that you want to off yourself?"

Sam leaned forward, getting into Dean's space as much as Dean was trying to get into his, the moisture in his eyes wavering as he teetered between hurt and anger. "Why would I ever tell you the truth about that, Dean?"

"Because I'm family!" Dean shot back.

"Right," Sam laughed, throwing his head back and retreating a step. "Right, you're family. You're the family that punches me when you don't like what I have to say; who grabs me by the shirt and throws me against the nearest wall when you're mad; who shuts me down and makes me feel like a freak for daring to think or feel something you don't approve of." Sam reclaimed the step he had lost, eyes narrowing as he forced Dean back. "You're the family who acts like I'm less of a man because I actually care enough about your feelings to try and talk to you about them, like there's nothing respectable about caring about our relationship enough to want open communication."

"Sam?" Castiel called. "Is everything alright down there?"

Sam went on as if he hadn't heard anything, vaguely aware of wetness on his cheeks. "You wanted me to tell you I was suicidal when telling you I was angry ended with you telling me to cram it all down so I didn't get locked in a loony bin?"

Dean winced at that, averting his eyes. "That—that was a bad call, but—"

"You wanted me to tell you I had dark thoughts when your response to psychic visions was denial and a promise to 'fix' me?" Sam kept going, years of anger and confusion and pain tumbling past his lips like a runaway train, every syllable sucking a little more life from his veins. "You wanted me to tell the family who has no problems cutting me off for my mistakes that I'm a broken mess? That I am a mistake?"

"You're not a mistake, Sam—"

"And that!" Sam took another step forward, and Dean backed away again. "Do you really think saying it is going to make me believe it? That it's going to make it true?"

Dean averted his eyes again, but then he looked back at Sam with an expression of determination. "I know it doesn't work like that, but we've got to start somewhere."

"Have you ever considered asking me where to start?" Sam threw his arms wide, his voice echoing off the walls of the panic room while his heart thundered in his chest. "Have you ever thought maybe I know a few ways to make this noise in my head a little quieter?"

Dean wet his lips. "No… but I will now. I'll—I'll get better at it. I know I've made mistakes, Sam, just—just give me some time." Dean ran a hand through his hair, looking guilty and upset and still not getting it. "We'll do some more research, we'll get in touch with that psychiatrist again, we'll—we'll talk about all the feelings you want." Dean clearly didn't want to fight.

Sam did.

"I promise, Sammy, you're gonna get better." Dean flashed a weak smile, trying to calm the waters. "We're gonna fix this."

Sam grabbed Dean by the arms and screamed, "I don't want to be fixed!"

Dean stared, eyes wide and confused and fixed on Sam's face.

"I want it to be okay that I'm not okay!" Sam shook Dean, tears rolling down his cheeks, throat quickly growing sore. "I want you to be scared with me instead of making me feel like I'm the only one losing my mind!" His body hurt—it ached and trembled and it was done—and he hung his head. "I want—" he shook Dean again, "—I want to know you're still going to love me when you find out how broken I am."

"Sammy…" Dean sounded pained. "Of course I will."

"Really?" Sam lifted his head again and looked at Dean with eyes more dead than alive, tears running down the half-dried tracks on his cheeks. "Because you never have before."

Dean's face twisted up in pain. "Sam…" He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, and as he struggled to find his words, Sam reached his limit.

"Just leave me alone." Sam heard his own voice rasping back at him, and he dropped Dean's arms. "Just…" He shook his head and turned around, making a beeline for the stairs.

"Sam—" Castiel tried.

Sam held up a hand to shield himself as he ducked around Castiel, looking the other way so he didn't have to see the disappointment and disapproval and pity.

"Sam, of course, is an abomination."

Sam sucked air down into his lungs, going from the top of the basement stairs to the bottom of the flight to the second floor in two steps. He clutched the banister, black and white swirling across his vision, head throbbing.

"Sam?" Bobby called out from the library. "What happened? Hey!"

Sam only picked up speed. As much speed as he could with the tank on E. He grappled with the doorknob to the guest room, using his other arm to muffle his cries. He was a mess. He was a worthless, confused, useless, childish mess.

"You were reckless and selfish and arrogant… If, by some miracle, we pull this off, I want you to lose my number. You understand me?"

Sam choked out another cry and stepped into the room, shutting the door and falling against it for a moment to catch his breath. It was only a few more feet to the bed, but he honestly didn't know if he could make it.

"You're angry, you're self-righteous. Lucifer's gonna wear you to the prom, man. It's just a matter of time."

Sam's knees buckled and he sank to the ground, wrapping both arms around his head and wishing with every fiber in his being that he would just pass out. I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to do this anymore. He clenched his jaw and tried to hold in the sobs working their way up his throat, but he couldn't. He fell onto his side, not at all minding when his head smacked the baseboard, and he closed his eyes.

"I just… I don't believe."

Mercifully, he was unconscious before Dean could finish.

"Am I worthless? Am I filthy?
Am I too far gone for the remedy?
Will you help me? 'Cause I'm dying,
To be something more than a memory.

If I reach out, can I trust you?
Will you help me see the light of one more day?
Take the bullets away; take the bullets away!"

-Take The Bullets Away, We As Human