The moon shines back through the window, just barely illuminating Sam. He can see Dean a little now that his eyes are adjusting to the nighttime again, that cold sort of sound to his tone unmistakable. A flash of betrayal and misery crosses Sam's face, almost an audible noise of despair that he swallows down as quickly as possible — he didn't think that Dean would exactly care to find him again after everything, or that he even held the same love for his brother anymore, but the sort of ache that comes with the knife at his throat is indescribable.

Of course, while Dean's lost part of his humanity, of his heroic strength, Sam has lost resolve, lost parts of himself that he's not sure death'll bring back. He doesn't deserve a death by his own hands. But he's not afraid at all of Dean cutting his throat; it'd be fitting, wouldn't it? Brother hates him enough to split his neck wide open? He leans into the blade sharply, and it sinks an uncomfortable degree. He can't kill himself, for the same reason he wasn't able to when Dean went to Hell. But Sam's always had an exception when it's Dean aiming at him.

"If you want to do it, do it," he says sharply. He's got stubble and tired eyes and raggedy hair, suited up in jackets and layers like he's homeless, because he is. Homeless and suicidally inclined to let his brother sink a knife into his heart or whatever. Blood dribbles out down his collarbone.

And he isn't fucking around either.