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Sam never drank water straight from the motel tap.
He always used the water filter Dean carried in his duffle - not that Dean ever used it, mostly drinking pre-bottled DeerPark. Sam also snatched his brother’s seldom used hotplate, boiling the water to purify it of any microbes before dunking in his tea bag.
Once they hit the road, back to hunting once again, he and his brother fell into a familiar routine. Find a case, book a motel in town, research and investigate, find the culprit, kill the thing, skip town before the cops show up, repeat.
Their relationship hadn’t changed too much in the 4 years Sam has been away, but the built up tension was definitely left behind, rather than resolved. In the days leading up to Sam’s departure for college, the brothers simultaneously grew distant and enmeshed. After finding his college applications, John began outright ignoring him while Dean fussed over him the typical amount, just with a bitchier attitude.
Sam had held off on calling him a nagging mother, it would only make him lash out.
All in all, their dynamic now felt remarkably similar to childhood. Where Sam had little autonomy and no choice. things had changed now, given that Sam was 22 and not 12, and the hunt for his father was Sam’s own prerogative. John hadn’t been around much in their childhood anyway, but now he wasn’t breathing down their necks demanding them to straighten up or straighten out. In the space without him, Sam could tell a lot was being left unsaid between him and his brother.
Dean doesn’t like saying anything though - talking about emotions or conflict outloud was too much for him. He avoided it like he would break out in hives.
Sam supposes he’s not much different.
-
“I’m bouta head to that diner up the road, you want anything?”
Sam says no easily, it wasn’t strategic at first. He grew up on corner store snacks and microwave dinners. After almost graduating at a fancy school with a fancy dining hall to match, he really didn’t miss cheap diner food.
The black tea Sam drinks every morning kills his appetite for breakfast, the sugar and honey spike his glycemic levels enough that the sugar rush lasts him till after lunch.
He can feel the acid eat away at his stomach, but something about the sensation is comforting rather than painful.
-
As close as they were, 4 years no contact was bound to leave an impact.
He can remember being 12, and sticking too close to Dean after dragging a razor in lines across the inside of his elbow. It was an easy spot to hide, and he’d done it locked in the bathroom - but Dean looked at him with his easygoing smile, his inquisitive eyes and said “you know you can tell me anything right?”
He didn’t say that phrase now, His eyes bore the same inquisition, dissecting Sam without effort of hiding it. But as they sat in comfortable silence drifting down the road, Dean instead says, “So what’s going on with you?”
“What do you mean?” Sam asks in return. There’s plenty going on with him really. The work he’d put into leaving his terror of a childhood had finally paid off - he’d escaped the life of gore, finally found a stable home and fell in love, only for it all to be ripped away in an instant. He figured that tends to leave a mark on someone’s psyche.
“Don’t play dumb.” Dean purses his lips and locks eyes with Sam before staring back out to the road. “I think you know what I’m gettin’ at.”
“Uh, no? Not really?”
When Dean nods sarcastically, smug grin, staring straight ahead, Sam asks, “Is this about the nightmares? Cause seriously they aren’t a big deal. I’m not a kid anymore, it’s not like you have to worry about me.”
“It’s not the nightmares.” Dean tells him, his mask dropping and his voice serious.
Sam scoffs a humorless laugh. “Okay? What is it then?”
Dean glances back and fourth, his expression changing from knowing to concerned, “Are you playing dumb? Or you think I’m dumb enough to believe that you aren’t doing it on purpose?”
“Dean, can you stop with the subtext and just tell me what the hell you’re talking about?” Sam bursts out. “What, did I piss you off?”
His brother only sighs heavily, bordering on a groan. “No.” Dean says quietly, “You didn’t piss me off.”
“Okay? Then what?”
“You know what - forget it, it’s nothing. We can talk about it later.”
Sam laughed, bitter like the acid reflux on his tongue. “You just chewed me out for basically nothing and you won’t even tell me what it is?”
“We’ll talk about it. Later.”
Dean’s voice was gentle, shockingly gentle, but it held the firm cadence of when he mimicked John’s fatherly imposition. The same inflection when he told a little Sam to finish his dinner and not to waste food.
“Fine. Whatever.” Sam bitched for the sake of bitching. While he certainly felt persecuted, he reasoned he felt a bit angrier than the situation really called for.
-
Coffee had been an arbitrary transition.
On one hand, the coffee Sam actually likes to drink is far more plentiful in calories than his blacktea sugarwater concoction. But that was ok, because the caffeine was far more potent, allowing him to run on adrenaline much longer than he’d last on sugar.
He still eats. In handfuls and in nibbles. When Dean opens a bag of gas station chips and extends him an offering, he takes one at a time and eats it slowly, only taking another once the first is entirely gone.
He eats alongside his brother in a 1:1 ratio, for every handful of candy Dean scarfs down, Sam eats a handful of Almonds. Every bag of chips, Sam will find an apple or a banana and eat mechanically until it disappears.
The act of acquiring food and actually eating it feels like such an inconvenience, a chore. Chewing feels exhausting, and swallowing is daunting. Sam dreads keeping up every time Dean has an actual meal - which is often - because Dean likes to eat.
He’d integrated his own routine of sorts into the cycle of hunting; Find a case, book a motel in town, research and investigate, find the culprit, kill the thing, skip town before the cops show up, repeat.
In between each step was a steady rhythm of coffee and black tea, and water spiked with salt or honey. His first meal is usually around 2 o’clock to avoid passing out, and typically instigated by Dean.
“You eat yet?” Dean’s voice perked Sam up from where his head was buried in a book about new age pagan witchcraft -
“Uh.” Sam stalled. He had eaten, but five pistachios was not a meal. “Yeah.”
“When did you eat?” Dean scrutinizes him, leaning forward from where he sat on the edge of the bed.
Sam looked back at the words on the page, describing the importance of karma and energy cycles. “This morning.” He answered.
Dean chuckled darkly. “Sammy, it’s almost two in the afternoon.”
“Oh…” Sam said, turning his scrunched face to the clock on the bedside table. Sure enough, it was 1:43 PM.
“Yeah, c’mon how about we get some food in you?” Dean suggested as he approached his boots on the floor.
“I’m not hungry.” Sam replied automatically, and while there was a faded gnawing in his stomach that permeated to his chest and hips, he didn’t have an appetite.
“Sam.” Dean suddenly stopped and stood in the middle of the room, facing where Sam sat on his bed. Dean was clearly agitated. He brought a hand to his face and huffed a deep sigh, “Christ. Okay look, I don’t know what this food restriction thing you’ve been doing is, but you’re not as slick as you think you are. Alright?”
Sam feels his empty stomach flip, the adrenaline pumping in his veins keeping him upright doubles in output and makes his heart flutter.
“I dunno what kinda wake up call you need, but this stops. You hear me?”
Sam looks up, his expression blank. He doesn’t have to fight to keep it that way, because really he just feels numb. His palms tingle, the adrenaline and low blood sugar making him clammy with trembles. “It’s nothing.”
“No, this is not nothing, Sam.” Dean shouts, harsh and angry. His eyes stare wide and heavy into Sam’s “Are you listening to me? This stops.”
Sam rolls his eyes and moves to put his shoes on, Dean watches him like a hawk, until Sam regards him lazily. “Are we going?” He asks.
Dean shudders on a deep breath, his expression twitching as he studies his brother. “Yes. Get a move on, let’s go.”
-
It doesn’t stop.
Sam cannot really explain it, because he doesn’t fully know why he does it.
He does know that Dean knows now, and Dean would like to know the reasoning for it, probably even more than Sam himself.
Fainting doesn’t happen like it does in the movies. He doesn’t feel shaky and fragile, his vision doesn’t vignette or blur, it just feels like he could fall asleep while standing. His eyes fall closed in a blink, his head lists to the side and he feels like he could go limp and fall to the ground if he let himself. He feels tired like he could go to sleep, but of course sleep never comes easy. It had already been hard enough to sleep, but the malnutrition keeps him awake to avoid falling unconscious. The sleep deprivation intertwined with the starvation carves out his face, his dark circles deepen while his already sharp features hollow out even more.
He doesn’t care all that much about the physical aspect, the way his ribs barely stick out doesn’t comfort him the way hunger does. He hates looking at his reflection, and Sam guesses that everyone assumes he must be a junkie.
“Ugh.” He groans as he flips up the mirror in the Impala.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asks, urgency laced in his voice.
“Nothing.”
It’s silent for barely a moment until Dean asks, “You sure?”
“I just.” Sam stops short, feeling self conscious about the thought itself. He’s not a teenage girl, but with a condition like this perhaps he might as well be. “I look disgusting.”
Dean sighs, his voice quiet and gentle when he says, “You look perfectly fine.”
Sam doesn’t know why it makes him sad when he can tell Dean means it, and he isn’t just saying it to appease his pain in the ass little brother.
He sighs himself, which instigates Dean into talking more.
“You know everyone says we look a lot alike.” He nudges Sam in the shoulder, “If women throw themselves at me, then you must be a pretty fine catch yourself right?”
He’s smiling, half joking, but Sam can tell it’s an honest attempt at getting him to feel better, so he can’t help but laugh as his cheeks flush.
“You just look tired honestly.” Dean continues, his voice caring rather than mocking, “And trust me, I get it, I’m tired too…” He pauses. “But.”
“But you aren’t starving yourself?” Sam finishes for him.
He says it lightly, like it’s a punchline to a joke they both know. When he’s met with silence he turns to look at his brother, who stares at him for so long Sam almost corrects him to watch the road.
“Are we talking about this?” Dean asks, blunt.
Sam is silent for a bit. “I guess.” He mumbles just above a whisper.
Sam regrets his agreement when Dean turns on his blinker and swerves to pull over by the side of the road. They’re sat next to each other in a confined space, in the middle of a backroads highway, and Sam has nowhere to go.
“So it is on purpose.” Dean states, not a question.
Sam can’t look at him, instead he looks out the window, trying to focus on the foliage and not Dean’s reflection.
“Not at first… But it got out of hand.”
Dean hums patiently, nodding along. “Can I ask why it started in the first place?”
Sam coughed, awkwardly biding time, he twiddled his hands as he tried to think of a way to articulate words.
“I’m honestly not quite sure.” He confessed.
“Well.” Dean said on a deep exhale, “I’ll go ahead and ask questions and you just answer them.”
Sam turned towards his brother, still not looking him in the eye, to nod at his suggestion.
“I wouldn’t suppose this has anything to do with watching your boyish figure?”
Sam laughed, relieved that Dean didn’t treat him like a basket case or a delicate flower. It felt good to smile and it felt even better to be able to smile about this topic of all things, it became less threatening. “No. I don’t really care about that, I don’t think I even fully noticed I was doing it until it became like a ritual.”
“And by ‘doing it’ we mean…?”
“You know.” Sam tried to hint but Dean only looked at him expectantly. “The avoiding and restricting.”
Dean continued to nod along, gentle but respectful, and really how could Sam expect any different from his big brother?
“So if it’s not about how you look, then what exactly is the benefit you reap from all this?” Dean leans back and folds his arms, eyebrows scrunched in intrigue. “You know, why do it?”
Sam cringes when his mind supplies the answer readily. His nails dig instinctively into his opposite wrist and he can’t quite get the words out, he’s long given up trying to look Dean in the face.
His brother is quiet, waiting in perfect, calm, composure. He makes no movement or comment that would imply rushing Sam’s reply or pressuring a reply at all.
“I guess, I feel like I kind of deserve it.” Sam whispers just above a breath. He knows Dean hears him say it, because his breath hitches just so.
There is something serene about the environment they’ve found, Sam telling a secret in the quiet Impala to his older brother, who is currently a picture of kindness and understanding.
Dean takes a few deep breaths, opening his mouth to begin something but stopping short. “Thing is,” He finally starts, “I know these things can be precarious, and I don’t want to instigate it further but, ultimately you’re not a cheerleader throwing up to fit into her uniform - and thank God for that.”
Sam chuckles.
“But.” Dean continues. “I say this a lot, about the nightmares and the anger and the grief, but with this.” Dean leans forward trying to catch Sam’s eye. “I am serious when I say this will literally kill you.”
“I know.” Sam admits.
There’s a moment where ice fills the air, and Dean sharply asks, “Is that what you want?”
Sam quickly shakes his head. “No. No, I don’t think so.”
Dean nods, apprehensive. “You don’t think so.”
“No, I mean-” Sam tries to organize his thoughts, “I don’t want to kill myself I just…” He trails off.
“What?” Dean says, continuously leaning into Sam’s eyeline.
“I just want it to hurt. I guess.”
“Okay.”
Sam feels sick, like he’d said too much and he’s gotten himself in trouble. Dread creeps up his veins and it’s like the past few months of barely eating have finally had an impact on his stress and anxiety.
“Okay.” Dean says again. Stiff and tight like a timer on a bomb is going down. “Sammy, look at me.”
Sam flits his eyes up to his brother’s for a brief second.
“Sam… Look at me please?”
Sam holds his brother's eyes for as long as he can, he can’t keep the stare steady, flicking away to look at the steering wheel or his lap.
“This is about Jessica isn’t it?”
Sam can’t answer but he knows his face betrays something, and whether or not it is really about Jessica maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe what matters is that Sam should have been the one to burn that night 22 years ago. If he had, then poor Jessica would be alive, John would have a wife, and Dean would have a mother, instead of being stuck with an anorexic little brother who causes a world of problems.
Making himself suffer is the least he could do on the world’s behalf.
Sam shrugs. His voice creaks when he says, “Dean, I’m so sorry.”
Dean’s stoicism breaks, his face falling and he reaches out immediately, “Aw, Sammy…”
With his face shoved into Dean’s neck in the car like this, it reminds him of his first few years hunting. The panic attacks he’d have after seeing the creatures of the night, and worse, seeing the bloody messes they’d become. But big brother would hold him and tell him they’d done the right thing, and they’d be okay.
“I know I can’t fix this for you, Sammy,” Dean says as he scruffs a hand through his brother’s shaggy hair, “but I promise, you don’t deserve it, whatever your dumbass head tells you,”
Sam laughs wetly into Dean’s chest.
“You don’t deserve to hurt,” Dean goes on, “you don’t deserve the hurt from the loss or the guilt, and you don’t owe anybody pain to stop it. Anybody tells you different, you kick their ass.”
Sam laughs again, and they dissolve into sobs.
“Hey-” Dean pulls his face from his shoulder looking at him with so much love in his eyes it hurts, “You believe me yeah?”
Weakly, Sam nods, but Dean doesn’t settle.
“Tell me,” He insists. “Tell me you believe me?”
Sam musters up the strength required to speak, “I believe you.” He says, and whether it’s a lie or the truth or a wish he can’t tell, but he says it anyway and hopes maybe if he agrees with Dean verbally for long enough, he will eventually believe him.
“Good.” Dean pets his head affectionately before flicking him in the center of the forehead, causing Sam to yelp, “You tell me when shit like this is bothering you - I mean say it outloud, I’m not a mind reader.”
Sam laughs but shoves Dean in the chest anyway. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
They look at each other, awkward in the silence of the aftermath but fond all the same.
-
It’s not a switch either of them can flip to fix Sam’s brain. Their more pressing issues persist, which ultimately drives Sam to cling tighter to any illusions of control he can hold onto.
But Dean is there for him in the best ways a brother can be.
Instead of asking Sam to tag along for food, he buys an extra side of something he knows Sam likes, and places it in front of him without comment. He tucks granola bars into Sam’s jacket pockets and presses spoonfuls of peanut butter into his hands. He does it almost carelessly, as if he doesn’t even notice his own mothering behavior. He doesn’t comment on Sam gaining weight, or how the calories build muscle and fat onto his wiry frame.
Sam tries not to panic at the transition from waifish to built, but finds his brother’s supportive shoulder pats and the affectionate head ruffles to be an easy distraction.
Sometimes, the loss of a treasured coping mechanism makes Sam want to cry. In moments where he can’t fade back into his bleary, malnourished head - and focus on the gnaw of hunger instead of the turmoil in front of him - his nails grip his wrist digging bloody crescents into the skin. For a while it goes unnoticed, until Dean firmly grips his wrists and forces him to breathe instead.
He falls into less corporeal forms of self punishment - touching the locked door multiple times and checking the salt barriers until Dean snaps to knock it off.
His desire for control and tendency for harm don’t stop completely - but they disperse across a wide variety of bad habits that ultimately leave him better adjusted than a starved man trying to cope.
-
When Dean comes home bearing diner food or cheap take out and bellows “Hey, you hungry?”
Sam doesn’t tense or dissociate anymore - he smiles.
“Yeah.” He says.
And he eats.