The blood mixes so prettily with the water. It stands out against the white of the bathtub, diluted to a delicate pink, dripping down his fingers and onto the tiles beneath. His other hand clutches the knife tightly - one of Dean’s best, sharp enough to cut through bone and demon. It made short work of Sam’s wrists.
Suicide, Sam muses, is one of those things that make your world shrink around you. Like being in love. Or losing someone. Or killing someone. In the time it took to cut the three deep gashes in his wrist that will, eventually, kill him, Sam’s entire world has shrunk down to fit in the motel bathroom with its green tiles and its blue towels. A bathroom, a bathtub, a knife, and a broken little boy.
Sam knows how death works. His family deals in death like a currency. A life for another week’s worth of food.
Does it still count as murder if it’s a monster?
Does it still count as murder if it’s a suicide?
He didn’t leave a note. What was there to say? I tried. I tried for you, but I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep lying and pretending it doesn’t matter. Pretending we don’t all know the truth.
Dear Dean. Are you ready for the punchline? You can’t fix all the broken little boys. Some of them have to stay broken.
The blood-water makes soft blood-flowers on the green tiles, too fragile to touch. Sam wonders how many flowers his blood will make. Enough for an apology?
Sam’s vision starts to go dark around the edges. The knife in his hand slips, cuts into his palm. Those blood-flowers dissolve in the water, disappear in writhing clouds of pale pink. Somewhere beneath him, a door slams shut.
The water’s cool when he slips under. Cool and blue and soft, wrapping around him like an embrace, dragging him down and he’s too weak to fight against it. Wouldn’t want to, even if he could.
The bathroom fades and Sam’s world gets even smaller. Just a broken little boy, now. A broken little boy with his bouquet of blood-flowers.
