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The blinds of the dusty motel room are closed. Faint light comes from a small lamp on the bedside table. Dean went out for the night, claiming he needed a break. Sam is supposed to be researching, but the incessant, cruel voice of of Lucifer is in his head.

So he paces the room, beer in hand. Getting drunk usually just makes anything Sam imagines more vivid and horrible, so he just drinks a couple to calm down.

Oo! I just remembered this one time. You know, in Hell. You have one talented mouth, Sammy.

Sam clenches his jaw at the mention of him blowing Lucifer. He's always hearing that kind of shit from the inside of his head. It doesn't matter what he's doing; sleeping, hustling pool, brushing his teeth.

The way you used to gag when i forced my way down your throat. Mm mm, who knew?

It used to be frustrating, not being able to stop the voice. Now it's just tiring. He sighs and closes his eyes. With a small amount of hope, he digs his thumb into his hand scar.
It seems like it actually attracts Lucifer, because at that moment he appears in front of Sam. Sam jumps, but calms quickly in an attempt to not look so surprised. The fallen angel laughs condescendingly.

“Oh, Sammy,” he says with over-exaggerated sympathy, as if the man is no more than a child. “You know the scar doesn't work. It breaks my little heart everytime you try.”

Sam turns away, setting his beer on the table. He puts his hands on his head and threads his fingers through his long hair. He's trying to keep it together, wait it out until Dean gets back. Dean's usually good at keeping him sane enough to function.

“Not to be rude,” Luci says, in an ironically rude tone. “But you need a haircut. I don't see how Dean can stop himself from cutting it all off while your sleeping. But then again, I don't see why he doesn't just slit your throat whenever he gets the chance.”

“Just. Stop,” Sam growls, whipping back around to face Lucifer.

“Look at yourself! Hell, look at me, Sam,” Luci laughs lowly. “You're psychotic! You're worthless to Dean! He's only keeping you so the blame isn't placed on him when you finally get yourself killed.”

Sam's fingers curl around the razor blade in his pocket. He's found that disposable blades are much easier than always sharpening a knife. After all, the sharpness wears down awfully quick with the way Sam's been using it.

Glancing at Sam's hand in his pocket, Luci fakes a sympathetic look. “Poor, butthurt, emo Sammy. I didn't mean to hurt your fragile feelings.”

Sam rolls up his left sleeve, revealing deep cuts, old and new, riddling his skin. He curses at it and rolls up the right one.

“Fresh slate?” Luci wonders out loud, leaning towards Sam to get a better look. “Ran out of room on the other wrist?”

Sam's ashamed that he even started slicing into himself in the first place, but it was the only way. Making new scars, that actually work, to replace the old one.

“It's a wonder you haven't bled out already,” Luci observes.

Putting the blade in his left hand, Sam drags the blade across his right wrist. Blood droplets begin to roll off of his arm. His face is scrunched up in pain. Luci is barely effected. He soaks it up with his other sleeve, so he doesn't leave anything for Dean to find.

“Unless that's the plan?” Luci smirks and raises an eyebrow.

Gasping with the shock of the pain running up his arm, he digs deeper with the next cut. This time the angel's image falters.

“Remember, Sam,” Luci says.
Sam draws a third line across his bloody wrist. It almost works, but Lucifer steps a little closer.

“Down the street, not across the road.” Lucifer demonstrates on his own wrists, drawing lines down the middle of them with his finger.

“Ah!” Sam cries out in a small voice when he makes the fourth cut. The blood is almost too much to contain. He probably hit more than a couple veins. Not good.

Silence prompting him, he hesitantly looks up. Lucifer's nowhere to be found. His crazy is gone, at least for a while.

His sleeve isn't doing much in the cleaning department anymore, it's soaked with his blood. He starts walking towards the bathroom to get a shower and clean up. The room starts swaying and Sam has to balance himself on the wall.

“Oh no,” Sam whispers. The blood from his wrist is making his hand wet and warm. It drips onto the carpet and the first thing Sam thinks is, Dean can't see this. He's cleaned blood out of carpets before, he can do it... After he stops himself from bleeding to death.

Staggering, he sets his drooping eyes on the bathroom door. If he takes his hand off the wall to put pressure on the cuts he'll surely fall. But he knows he won't be able to stop it now, not by himself.
After grabbing his phone from his back pocket, he leans against the wall and slides to the floor.

Thankfully, Dean's on speed dial. Sam clicks the 1 button and waits. Each ring sends pain through his chest. What if Dean doesn't answer? What if he ignores the call? What if he's with some girl and-

“Hey Sam,” Dean answers. The faint chatter of people and the clank of plates and glass bottles can be heard in the background. “I'm kind of busy here.”

“Dean,” he says weakly.
His legs are pulled up to his chest, they're leaning on one another for support. Sam's hand and the phone are resting on his knees.

Immediately, his older brother is on red alert. “Sammy? What's wrong? Where are you?”

“I don't want to die, Dean. Please,” Sam chokes out.

“I'm coming. Where are you?” The bar noise fades out and is replaced with sounds of traffic.

“Motel. I'm bleeding,” Sam gasps. “A lot.”

A dark stain is forming on the carpet where his busted wrist is laying. Sam has seen a lot of blood, but hardly ever is that much of it his own.

“Okay, Sammy. Hang on, don't you dare fall asleep.”

“'M trying.” Sam says, struggling to hold his eyes open. He feels so damn tired. He's been on the verge of unconciousness before, he's not very good at holding it off.

“It's gonna be okay. I'm only a a few seconds away.”

God, Sam knows he's probably just up the street at that ugly biker bar. His eyes close involuntarily. For a moment, he can see stars behind his eyelids in his futile attempt to open them again.

“Mm,” Sam manages to get out before the phone slips from his hands.

“Sam? Sammy?”

Headlights shine through the blinds and the purring Impala stops abrubtly. Its door opens, but doesn't close. The door knob is jiggled for a moment before the door is busted open.