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This is how Sam found himself on his knees in a rest stop bathroom in bum fuck nowhere.
His fingers were halfway down his throat and he was retching. He hadn’t eaten anything in the last day and a half, only drinking coffee and energy drinks. Jess might come to him in his sleep again and he didn’t know if he had the heart to face her. Since seeing her on the street, white gown hanging in the wind, Sam couldn’t control his thoughts. Angry thoughts.
You killed her Sammy.
And of course Dean would tell him otherwise, tell him that he’s a good and kind and selfless but he’s not. His mind wouldn’t stop saying awful things to him, so he had to do it.
He was in control of his own body; he was vomiting bile and stomach acid and that was his choice.
“Hey, Sammy, what’s taking so long?” Dean’s rough hands were knocking against the splintering door. If he pushed any harder, it would fall off its hinges and Sam would be exposed in all his bulimic glory. He gave a weak grunt, so Dean knew he was still alive. “We set off in ten, so hurry it up.”
Sam blinked back the tears, swallowed the slime in his mouth and stood. The ground was moving underneath him, he was certain, or maybe it was just him. He spat out the remnants of vomit. There was a bottle of water in the car he could use to wash his mouth out with. Dean would never know.
He sank into passenger seat, taking slow sips from the lukewarm water. A quick side glance from Dean told him he wasn’t as subtle as he thought he was being.
“You okay, Sammy?” Dean said. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Sam since he sat. “You’re looking a lil green.” Sam hummed, but Dean was looking for something else.
“I’m fine, dude, I promise,” Sam smiled shakily. “The whole thing with Bloody Mary freaked me a bit, but I’m fine.”
“If you’re sure.”
The car pulled out of the rest stop parking lot, and Sam let the sound of Dean’s tape fill the air. It was better than Dean knowing.
They left another hunt, the Hookman, and Sam felt okay again.
It had been a week since he’d last made himself sick. There hadn’t been the familiar clawing in his throat, no acid sloshing in his stomach. He was managing with coffee, milk and sugar as well, and one meal a day. His stomach was still angry, growling, but Sam was managing.
They were in the car when the rumble happened. It was early in the morning, checked out of their motel at sunrise, and Sam was starving. The front cab shook as his stomach grumbled, and Dean just gave him a look. Maybe he was worried, Sam could understand. Sleep had been running away from him and Dean. Dean noticed things he’d never let onto.
“You hungry, little brother?”
And Sam wanted so desperately to say no. That this was the best he’d felt in weeks. That he’d finally managed to find a way to make himself feel whole, food and all.
“Yeah.”
“What for? I’ll stop wherever you want, dude.”
They pulled into a diner in the next town they drove through. It was bigger than what they were used to, but the waitress was nice – flirted with Dean – and they served oatmeal as well as grease and meats. So Sam ate oatmeal, strawberry jam, tried not to run to the bathroom and cry.
It wasn’t enough.
When they stopped off at a gas station, Sam offered to pay. He bought as much candy as he could fit in his pockets, Dean oblivious in the front seat. Chubby little Sammy, still with his baby fat and all. The chocolate melted in his pockets while he waited for Dean to look away. Sneaking bites between stop lights and bathroom breaks.
And when they stopped for the night, a no name motel off the highway, Sam was so full of sugar he felt sick. He threw up in shower and hoped to Hell Dean didn’t hear him.
There was something evil inside of him, Sam was sure.
That was the only reason that Sam had for his premunitions. On the way to Lawrence, Sam made Dean stop every few hours so he could make use of the bathrooms. The knees of his jeans were starting to turn dark with dirt every time he knelt over a toilet bowl.
Their first stop, Dean had insisted on them getting food. More than anything, he insisted on Sam getting food because he skipped dinner the night before. They caught the lunch rush at a drive through Burger King. Thank God, because when Sam said he didn’t want fries he could pass it off as not wanting to wait.
When they stopped for the fifth time, Dean started to get suspicious. Sam’s hands were starting to shake every time he got back in the car.
“You know I’m not mad at you,” Dean told him.
“Huh?”
“I’m not mad at you,” Dean repeated, “for having these visions or whatever. I wish you’d've told me but, you’re not bad for having them.”
Lying, Sam, he’s lying. Evil little monster you are.
“Okay.”
“So you can stop going to the bathroom to cry or whatever.”
“I’m not crying,” Sam said fast. Too fast. He coughed. “I’m not, I just feel sick, okay?”
“Not okay, you’ve been feelin’ sick a lot lately,” Dean said. He took one hand off the steering wheel and slapped it on Sam’s forehead. “Are you like sick sick? We’ll stop off at a drugstore and get you some meds.”
“Dean, I’m fine, it’s just the visions, they make me feel nauseous.”
Dean nodded, because he couldn’t dispute it. Lying would keep Dean off of him for a while.
There were dark spots in his vision. Splitting migraines and shaking skin, field of vision narrowing so fast it sent the world spinning.
It should have been a simple salt and burn.
And there Sam was, half collapsed to the floor, stomach lurching at the emptiness. Starvation and sickness went hand in hand, and Christ, Sam was sick.
Dean was still off with him, you hurt him, Sam, of course he hates you, and Sam was clinging to a grave to hold himself up. Simple salt and burn. Sam was pathetic, he knew because Dean could manage just fine, and Sam was staggering along. Body empty and bones weak.
He hadn’t eaten since the asylum. The words he said to his brother were still running around his head. If he ate, maybe he would forget but. He didn’t deserve to forget, or to eat, because he had to be the best brother he could be to Dean. Had to prove himself. Had to-
And when his legs gave up underneath him and when the ground became home, he thought that maybe this is what he deserved. Face down in the dirt, in pain. He deserved it.
Dean caught up with him, eventually, saw Sam collapsed and decided that the ghost did it. Sam was too exhausted to tell the truth. So Dean dragged Sam home, watered him, fed him chicken noodle soup, hoped his little brother would regrow.
Sam had to regrow, didn’t he?
When Dean nearly died in Nebraska, Sam nearly died with him.
Sam should have been there to save him. Sam should never have brought him to the shady faith healer. Sam should have been better. Better, Sam, you can always be better.
The food at the hospital was bland. Easy to wolf down without a second thought. While Dean was holed up in his hospital cot with scratchy sheets, Sam was in the corridor feeding dollar bills to a vending machine. He’d emptied his wallet before he was satisfied with how much junk food he had. Empty calories. There was just enough guilt gnawing at his stomach, that he left a few candy bars on Dean’s bed.
It’s a small condolence when you’re going to die.
Sam spent the next few days hunting a reaper and scraping his insides. Dean, barely healed, was doing everything Sam could and more. Sam was hunched over a porta-potty, fist in mouth. There was only so much he could bring up, slime and chocolate, before he started bringing up blood.
He spat it out and pushed his fingers further down.
And at the next motel they stopped at, there was bloody bile when he brushed his teeth.
Sam wasn’t like Max, he wasn’t. But they had something in common with their powers. Dean would never say anything, but Sam noticed he’d been looking at him differently. And why shouldn’t Dean be scared of his own little brother, the freak.
Sam was leaning on their motel toilet, too weak to carry himself.
Evil Sammy. There’s something so evil inside of you.
Maybe if he broke himself, pulled his insides out of him, he could get rid of it. And so he heaved again, hoping to find whatever black sludge was tainting him.
“Sammy?”
Dean was stood in front of him, blurry, three Deans, vision spinning. But Dean was there and he knew that Sam was evil and that he couldn’t get it all out and. He was babbling, Dean shushed him so gently.
“You got it all, Sammy, there’s nothing left inside ya.”
The grip on Sam’s arm was vice tight and he couldn’t move as Dean pulled him away from the toilet. They were sat on a bed, Sam’s vision coming back to him and he could see how angry Dean was.
“I’m sorry.”
And Dean didn’t say anything for a while, just blinked. If Sam didn’t know him, he might’ve thought Dean was hiding tears. But Winchesters didn’t cry, and that was just another reason Sam felt like he didn’t belong. Not like them, Dad doesn’t want you back-
“Sam, are you listening?” Dean asked, voice hoarse. Sam shook his head clear. “You’re all skin and bones, man. I thought it was Jess but it’s not, is it? Why can’t you just eat something?”
The guidance counsellor at Stanford had asked the same thing. His first-year dorm mate, Jess, that one really nice English teacher. Just eat something they’d ask with desperate eyes. And Sam, so broken, would pretend - eat something that he could purge later, and everybody would be happy again.
“Sammy, say something.”
“I’m sorry, Dean, I can’t,” Sam begged, but Dean looked at him like he answered wrong. “I don’t know how to eat normally anymore.”
“It’s not hard!” Dean was shouting and Sam was flinching and suddenly it was quiet again. “I’ll help you but, man, you gotta help me too. I don’t understand all this anorexia shit, I thought it was a girl thing. How do I fix it?”
“I’m not anorexic, and you can’t fix it. Sometimes I just don’t want to eat.”
“Why though? There's gotta be a reason.”
“I don’t know, it’s just nice to know if I don’t want to do something, I don’t have to do it. Everything’s just bad and this, this feels safe.”
“Listen to me, if anything’s keeping you safe, it’s me. Not your fucked-up brain that thinks eating is bad. Me. If you need control over whatever bad things are happening, I’ve got you, little brother, okay?”
And Sam didn’t want to talk about it anymore, because his stomach was growling and angry again. So, he said okay.
“Awesome, now we’re grabbing food. You can choose where, but you are eating. And I’ll be dammed if I catch you chucking up in a toilet again.”
It would be fine, Sam decided, if Dean knew. He was tired and fucking hungry and things would be fine. Dean was there to hold him if things span too far out that Sam had no control. Even if Dean didn’t understand, he was there and that’s all Sam really needed.
They took off in the impala to a diner downtown, so Sam could finally eat.