Sam was alone. Dean promised he’d be back in less than an hour. Sam’d been clean and healthy for the past week, and so both of them were feeling good, and Dean had gone on a food run while Sam hung back.
Now he stood in the bathroom, staring at his reflection and really, really looking at himself.
“Nothing’s ever been done to you that you haven’t deserved, Sammy boy—”
Three small cuts sat on his forearm from a few minutes before. The only thing that really, truly worked was pain, and lots of it. The knife still sat on the edge of the dirty sink.
“You’re wrong,” Sam protested, knuckles white.
“You know I’m not—” the Devil smirked and reached out, carding his fingers through Sam’s hair. “I always did like playing with these locks— pretty little Jess did, too, huh?”
Sam choked, bile rising in the back of his throat as he gripped the sink even harder. “Shut up.”
Dean always kept the hair razor and scissors deep in his duffel for whenever they would trim the dead ends off of Sam’s long brown hair or keep Dean’s sideburns nice and shapely. He gagged at the thought— a way out— maybe he could shave off the memories.
All the times Lucifer pulled at it. All the times Adam’s blood got caught in it.
He left the bathroom, dark eyes finally sliding away from themselves in the mirror, and went over to his brother’s duffel, digging the razor from deep within the bag and held it up to the light before heavy steps found him in front of the mirror again. “One last look,” he whispered to himself, a heavy gaze on the long strands of hair that hung from Sam’s head.
All the times Dean mussed it up in an affectionate manner and Sam shoved it off in protest.
All the times Jess ran her fingers through it late at night.
The time his girlfriends fussed with it on prom night.
Don’t cry, he begged himself, staring right into wet eyes reflected in the mirror. Not now.
He plugged in and flipped the razor on before lifting it to his scalp. Sam took a deep breath in before slowly, so agonizingly slow, starting to shave. There was no going back.