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Sam knows how dangerous he is.
Hell, that's something he's known since long before his powers started developing. From a very young age he was taught to fight and to kill and to steal, and just because those skills were directed at monsters doesn't mean they're not applicable to any human being, too. He knows how to kill a person in a countless amount of ways, and then dispose of their body in a way that will never trace back to himself. Never let anyone even know a crime was committed, if he wanted to.
So, yeah. It's never been lost on him that he—and Dean, of course, with the same training—is objectively a dangerous person. But he's never felt dangerous.
Not until he watched his hands kill another hunter, saw the light go out in Steve Wandell's eyes. Not until he sat in front of Jo and touched her and threatened her with a knife. Not until he dug his thumb into Dean's gunshot wound, so close to killing him. Would've killed him, if Bobby had only been a few seconds slower.
He saw himself do all of that because the demon wanted him to. The demon who was Meg, who now said she was Sam, who was so delighted by Sam's distress and Dean's, too. Who loved the way Sam was screaming inside his head. Who mocked him for his pitiful attempts at taking back control.
Aw, what's the matter, can't get it up with those powers of yours? Don't worry, I'm gonna take you on a fun ride.
Sam stands in the bathroom of their latest motel room and stares down at his hands and doesn't recognize them. How can these be the hands that brutally murdered a fellow hunter? How can these be the hands that rested on Jo's thighs, closer than he had any right to? He just—it doesn't make sense. It doesn't comprehend in his mind that he did all of these terrible things.
And he—he knows that it wasn't actually him. He knows that, logically. He was possessed by a demon and he's not responsible for a Hell beast's actions. But he can't stop picturing everything his body did, anyway. Everything he's capable of. He can't stop thinking about everything this could mean, everything the Yellow-Eyed Demon said about his plans for Sam.
Can't stop thinking about what his dad told Dean.
And yet, Dean wouldn't shoot. Dean thought he'd murdered a man, thought he was filled with rage and lost it, had Not-Sam begging him to kill him, and he refused.
Sam can't help but think that Dad would've taken the shot.
A humorless laugh bubbles out of him, and he can't stop it. Can't stop the way his eyes sting with tears, either. He spent a whole week possessed. A whole week trapped inside his own mind, watching the demon play with his body like it was a useful tool. A week. It—he just—
Dude, you—you like, full-on had a girl inside you for like a whole week.
Nausea churns in Sam's gut. He grips the edges of the sink and takes deep breaths, trying to shove down his panic. He's fine. And Dean—Dean just cracks jokes when he doesn't want to deal with heavy shit. If Sam told him how sick with himself he feels, if he told Dean how—how violated and dirty he feels, his brother wouldn't joke about it. Dean isn't like that.
But Sam doesn't know how to broach that topic. How could he even begin to explain it? Dean's never been possessed, it would all be such a distant concept for him. No way he'd understand. And—and Dean doesn't have to understand to listen, to provide comfort, but it just makes Sam feel...weird, to bring it up, with such a distance between Dean and the topic. Especially now that days have passed since it all happened.
Sam's supposed to be over this by now. That's the Winchester Way, isn't it? They don't feel trauma, no sir. They get on the road. They keep moving. Nothing touches them.
Except it does, and Dean's denial of that has never fucking worked out for him. Dad's never worked out, either, that's for damn sure.
Weirdly, for the first time since Dean told him what Dad said about killing him, Sam wishes his dad was here. Because John Winchester would have clear, black and white thoughts on this subject. He'd be able to tell Sam what to do, tell Dean what to do. He would've been able to pull that trigger, put them all out of their misery.
And...and, in a separate vein, Dad would understand the horrors of being possessed. He had the demon who killed his wife inside of him. Sam can't even imagine how terrible that would be. And, hell, maybe Dad wouldn't want to talk about it, maybe he'd shut Sam down like he has so many times before, but maybe he'd help, instead. Maybe he'd let Sam speak about everything he went through, and be able to offer the simple, perfect comfort of understanding just what he experienced.
Sam grimaces, shaking his head. God, his head's a mess. He can't follow one train of thought for long, bouncing around randomly. There's just—there's just so much shit to deal with. There's just so much shit happening, so much happening to him. To John, and Dean, and, fuck, just about everybody unfortunate enough to be around him.
Dean doesn't deserve to deal with all this shit. He deserves better than his future-killer-in-the-making little brother and drill sergeant father. He deserves better than to have someone he loves not once, but twice stand in front of him and hurt him, controlled by a demonic source. First Dad and now Sam—how can Dean even stand to look at Sam? Sam fucking shot him. Fuck, Sam tried to fucking kill him how do they come back from that, how is Dean not scared of him, how can Dean stand to be around him—
"Breathe," Sam tells himself when he feels his panic rising, his chest getting tight. His voice trembles, his fingers white and shaking on the sink.
He's not okay. But he has no other option than to be. There's too much to do, too much coming their way. Sam has to be fine. Even while he feels the urge to stand under scalding hot water and try to burn the demonic stain away, he—he can't. He has to keep it together. He has to stop being such a burden on his big brother.
There's a knock on the door, and Sam flinches, hating himself instantly for the action. It's just Dean. It's—he's fine. Everything's fine.
"Been in there a while," comes Dean's voice, slightly muffled. "You good?"
Sam takes a deep breath through his nose and releases it through his mouth. Steady on, Winchester.
"I'm good," Sam calls back, keeping his voice as level as possible. "Be out in a sec."
Dean doesn't respond, and Sam hears him walking away, muttering something to himself. Sam ignores it and turns on the sink, splashing some cold water on his face. He steels himself, and then looks up, meeting his own eyes in the mirror.
He sees a flash of a cruel smile and jerks back from the sink, gasping and blinking rapidly. The image vanishes immediately, nothing more than a figment of his imagination, but it makes his heart pound in his chest, a fight or flight response rising in him. He stares at his reflection, eyes flicking all over it, searching for a sign that there's still some demonic presence inside of him, that the exorcism didn't actually work.
But there's nothing. Of course there's nothing.
"It's just you," Sam tells himself, trying to sound confident. "It's all you."
He avoids looking at himself any longer, though.
Avoids looking at his hands, too.