A/N: They say write what you know. So, please don't argue with me on this. I'm taking a huge risk in putting this up on a personal level. Now, I'm not saying that I'm Sam or Dean in this instance. I will admit I've been in Sam's place. More than once. I know how to pick some real damaged people to be friends with. So, as you read this, I'm asking you...not necessarily to like this, I don't think very many people will, and I'm begging for reviews, this is me, begging you. I would honestly one day like to write my own story about this theme, cutting and self destruction, from the place of a friend who sees one of their best friends trying to destroy themselves, and what that's like. I want to write what it's like to cut yourself, so that people who call people like this 'emo' realise how full of shit they are, and how they don't understand. Regardless of whether or not I've ever popped out a safety razor and cut myself, this is who I am. And I'd like you to respect that, and I'd like to hear your comments, even if it's "I hate this, and I completely disagree" I'd like to hear your stories if you've found yourself in this place. Someone has to speak for all those who stay silent. And so, in maybe ten, twenty years, you'll see my name on a book, and it will be about this. Consider this a forerunner into what I want to do. I'm just borrowing Dean from Krikpe as some common ground to reach an audience. So, again, reviews are needed and appreciated, and I didn't write this for shits and giggles.
The rating is of course for the theme. And the dedication goes for everyone who doesn't understand, and especially to everyone's life who has been touched by this in some way. Because it hurts.
Amarintha.
Sometimes, things hurt. Sometimes you don't feel at all, so you gotta make your own feelings. That's the thing about pain, it'll always be there. Pleasure won't, it'll just turn into pain. And that's why there's no point to pleasure. You can't control it, can't ever have anywhere near enough of a good thing, forget too much of it. That's what sucks. Meet a girl, like the girl, your dad moves you and your brother to another state halfway across the U.S. that's life. No pleasure. Sleep with all the girls you want, don't know 'em well? Fuck 'em. But it's never as good as when you know them and like them. But you've only had that once or twice, and sometimes you're afraid you're the girl, because you're attached, and you want them. You don't want someone prettier, or with more experience really, you want them. Hell, you screwed 'em, so you want 'em. Familiarity, comfort, warmth. They know your name. Maybe they don't call it out, but they sure as hell don't call out someone else's. Well, they said "Dad!" once but that was because he caught you both. That's different, though.
But here's another thing about pleasure. It's never in your control. Even if it's not like, sex pleasure. Maybe it's just eating a damn ice cream with your family. But, there're other factors, things you can't control. Like your family being there. Having money. Having ice cream. Or maybe it's being in the sun. Just lying in it, with it on your face and your body, soaking into your black shirt and warming you up. Instead, you have school that locks you inside, then you have homework that locks you inside, and then you have a dad who locks you in the car while he hunts, but all the same it's dark out by the time you can go outside. So you're always in the dark. You forget about the sun, it just becomes an annoyance in your eyes when you walk home or drive.
Pain? Pain you can control. You can make yourself hurt. Because feeling pain? It's better than feeling nothing at all. Shows you your blood is still red, you're still human. You might be becoming a creature of the dark and the night like your dad, but at least you're still human somewhere. And that red blood? It's better than nothing. Can't have a girl on your arm, can't like a girl, can't have friends, can't go out and play. Can't go watch a movie with the guys. There are no guys. There's always just you, because you're a freak, you school hop, and by the time anyone learns your name in all its four letter glory, you're moving on again.
So you can make fine thin red lines in your wrist while you wait for your brother to get done at summer camp. Lucky about that, he can stay, and you all can move around so long as you're back in time to pick him up. And that's not hard. And while you're making those lines, you think about the people who really do this to themselves in the way it splits the flesh and the blood spits out. You're just doing it to feel a little, but you're not ready to die. Not even close. So the lines you make don't look that much worse than paper cuts, you watch the blood bead up and blossom, and you can make more beads of it, making a chain that drips all over your wrist and hand, but you don't have to go deep. It'll heal in a few days so when your Dad comes back, he won't know anything's wrong. Not that he'll care even if he does know. Hell he's known for years things aren't all right. He just doesn't care. It'll be easy and faint to hide, but still stings, and it still bleeds.
Just like your heart still bleeds and your soul still stings while it cries out.
Dean picked up the thin blade carefully between his index finger and thumb. Busting out the safety razor had been a bitch, considering you weren't supposed to be able to. And then it was thin and tiny. Damn near impossible to pick up if you accidentally let it drop on a flat surface. Having done it twice it was easier to slide it to the edge of the counter until it slipped into his palm. Lightly digging the point into his wrist, he froze, knowing if he cut too deep he wouldn't be able to hide it. He'd never done this before. Watching blood bead up around the corner of the blade, he pulled it away from his skin uncomfortably. Did he really want to do this? Lightly skating it across his wrist the sharp blade stung and slowly beaded up with blood. Not enough. Making another fine cut, he realized how shallow they were. Monsters had done worse on accident, why was he so chicken now? Because he had to hide it. That was why. That was always why, he had to hide everything. Any fear? That had to go away, any pain? Hell he wasn't allowed to be in pain or show weakness. Pain was weakness. Dean couldn't handle keeping everything inside all the time. So he let it bleed out drop by drop. Not that much at a time, he wasn't stupid. Didn't want to die. Just didn't want to live, either, if you could call this living.
John left him alone in the motel. Week two of being told he wasn't allowed to leave the room, and that he was alone. Dean hated being alone. Even if Sam would be back from camp soon. The cuts he made crisscrossed the few inches on his wrist he'd allotted himself. It had to be concealable. His watchband was thick enough that he could take almost two inches to nick and cut and slice. Dean never went deep. The cuts would take less than a week to really heal up, he wasn't stupid. And he didn't really want to do it. If he had wanted to, he could have really done some damage. But he knew if he tried to get to the veins there was the inevitable fact that he would slice through his tendons, too, rendering his hand useless the rest of his life –if he survived. It wasn't worth it, it really wasn't. But the cuts weren't ordered, weren't evenly spaced, they were all over in short jagged and uneven lines. Crisscrossing and sometimes right on top of each other. Not that he noticed. He didn't cut deep enough. He was too scared and he hated pain too much, but all the same. He just wanted to feel. And he'd forgotten how. But the crimson tears felt for him, and that was enough. The goal was to slash up every bit of available space, wait until the bleeding stopped, wash it off, wait a day, and then cut wherever there weren't fine lined scabs. Or to just cut over them in crisscross patterns again. It didn't matter anymore. He knew that if he let himself cut higher up, he would push deeper and do more damage because the skin was tougher, so he kept it to his wrist, where it hurt and where he was scared to press down. It kept him alive. He didn't want to die, he just didn't want to live.
Sam walked into the motel room, sighing as he dumped off his bag. Looked like the place was empty. Well, his key still worked, so hopefully his father was still renting the room, otherwise this would be a nasty shock for all parties involved. No, there was Dean's stuff, tossed around. Sam figured he'd been there alone since their Dad's stuff was gone, which explained why Dean's crap was all over everything. Without Dad around to enforce military discipline with threats of a good dressing down, Dean rarely kept anything clean. Sam figured it was kind of like flipping their dad off when his back was turned, but whatever worked and kept Dean going to fight another day. The 'end of camp festivities' had involved anything sticky, smeary, and easily thrown, and Sam was looking forward to a hot shower –one lasting longer than the regulated three minutes each. That was such crap. Calmly walking into the bathroom with a set of clean clothes carefully held by two fingers to avoid getting them sticky with soda, ice cream, icing, and god knew what all else, Sam had lost track of the things flung in the giant food fight. Whatever had been left over that couldn't be saved had been thrown. He found mac'n cheese in his shirt front on the bus home. Which was so gross in so many ways to the younger Winchester. He had half debated saving it and daring Dean to eat it, before wondering if his brother would be bored enough to take the dare, get some rare disease from it and drop dead. He'd decided not to bring home anything he didn't have to. Some things he'd made, along with all his clothes, the salt and small handgun he'd brought with him all made it back. Looking up he saw his brother, green eyes dull as Dean didn't even react to Sam walking in, Sam mumbled a quick "Sorry" before noticing something was wrong. Dean was in front of the sink, not the toilet, for one. For another, the real problem, there was blood on his brother's wrist. Instantly evaluating the situation, Sam knew it was very little blood, for all some of it had dribbled into Dean's palm, other drops had looped around his wrist like some sort of sick bracelet, and a few had traveled down his forearm about half way. He was still cutting small fine cuts. "Dean!" Sam snapped, his brother's eyes snapped up, welling with tears as the thin razor dropped from his senseless fingers and out of sight.
"Dude, I got this killer splinter, and I couldn't, I was trying to get it out, but the tweezers sent it in deeper, and so I've been trying to find it and cut it out for a little bit, sorry, I know it looks bad," Dean lied, and Sam knew he was lying. Sam wrapped his hand around Dean's wrist, pressing tight, for all he was sure the cuts stopped bleeding a matter of minutes –if that long- after Dean made them. But it wasn't the actions, it was the thought, and the thought that as Dean got used to it, he'd learn to cut deeper and press harder. Until he got careless and so desensitized that he just bled out.
"You don't have a splinter, Dean," Sam said, shutting his eyes. He just wanted a shower. Turning the sink on cold, he thrust his brother's wrist under the spray, watching the blood spiral in the sink basin in pink swirls. "What the hell Dean!?" Sam snapped, unable to take it. "What if Dad caught you? He'd take your whole damn hand off just to teach you a lesson!" Dean's eyes were empty. "Damnit Dean!" Sam swore, gently pulling at the skin and making sure the cuts weren't bad. Some of them were shallow enough that Sam knew he'd had worse paper cuts, others were deep enough Sam knew Dean meant them. He was sticky, dirty, sweaty, and tired, and when he finally got 'home' he had to deal with fear. Washing Dean's blood off his hand, he sighed. "Lemme clean that up and bandage it, okay?"
"It's fine Sam, just a splinter," Dean said, wrenching his arm away. Sam knew he didn't have the razor. Knew he didn't want to hurt himself, because he would have used the hunting knife, or something more dangerous, Sam didn't know why Dean did it, he couldn't begin to understand. Well, he understood perfectly. Dad did that to you, but that was different. Sighing when Dean crawled into one of the beds, Sam knew he'd stay put and fake sleep until Sam irritated him enough that he gave up. For all he knew Dean would never talk about it. Dean would never talk about it, so he let his blood doing the talking for him. Sam found the razor and threw it into the trash, cleaned up any and all flecks of blood –there wasn't much, most of it was from the water making a bigger mess spreading the blood thin. Showering quickly, taking under ten minutes but more than three, Sam stepped out of the shower, a towel around his shoulders to keep his hair from dripping onto his t-shirt. Sitting down on the side of Dean's bed, Sam would stay there until Dean noticed him. Lightly shaking his brother's shoulder, Dean moaned –insisting on faking sleep, and rolled deeper into the bed, burying his face. Not soon enough that Sam couldn't see the shine on his brother's cheeks proving that Dean had at least shed a tear or two. Dean didn't really cry. Sometimes his eyes watered, sometimes a tear escaped, but he never cried.
"I know you're awake, when you're asleep you breathe funny," Sam told him, having spent the majority of the nights he could remember with his back against his brother's, sleeping easily thanks to the shared warmth. Sometimes he even remembered their Dad in bed with them, when it was really cold out, or John had been gone long enough that Dean was freaked out, which in turn upset Sam. Like when John had been gone long enough that the boys ended up in a foster home for a month. Sam felt that Dean still hadn't forgiven their father for that, and never would. Sam had only vague memories of it, because he was two. He just remembered that the woman liked to hold him a lot, and he hadn't cared that much. But he hadn't understood what was going on other than his big brother was upset and was acting weird, and he didn't know where their dad was. But the woman was nice, even if Dean hated her. On some level, Sam hated her, too. Just not with the same ferocity his brother had. Did, still did.
"What do you want Sam?"
"Let me take care of that," he said.
"It's fine Sam. Already sealed up, okay?"
"It'll heal faster and Dad won't have to know."
"You won't tell him, he'll chop my hand off just to teach me a lesson, remember?"
"I'm not asking, I'm telling."
"What? You're Dad giving all the orders now? Here's something you oughta know Sammy, when Dad's gone, he puts me in charge. Dean? That's me? Ring any bells to you?" Sam got up, got the first aid kit, and stared at his brother, letting his eyes fill with the tears he'd been trying to hide.
"Please?" Dean muttered something best not repeated, but fairly creative, and held out his wrist for Sam.
"I barely scratched it, like I said, I just wanted the splinter out."
"Y'know, I can handle a lot of bullshit from you Dean, but this? This lie you think I'm going to believe? How stupid do you think I am, dude? Because I'm not. I'm not an idiot, and I know you did this on purpose. I saw you. And some of these aren't just scratches. And if Dad notices, he's going to turn you over his knee and beat you." Something John had never really had to do, the threat alone was usually enough to shut Dean the hell up. Smearing an antibiotic cream over Dean's wrist, Sam deftly placed a gauze pad down onto it, before taking medical tape and wrapping it twice around Dean's wrist, once at the top of the gauze, breaking it off, then again at the bottom. Then he pulled Dean's watch out of his pocket –having picked it up off the countertop in the bathroom, and buckled it around Dean's wrist, pleased to see it hid any signs of what his brother had done to himself. "Why?"
"I'm not trying to kill myself, Sam, and I'm not lying to you. Dude, you're the one bullshitting yourself, you're always so eager to place your problems on me, like I feel the same things you do, well I don't. I don't hate this life, I'm not angry with Dad, and I don't care about the things you do, okay? I'm fine! I wasn't trying to hurt myself, I was trying to deal with a goddamn splinter, so just leave me alone about it, okay!? I'll show Dad myself, if you want."
"Dad's not stupid, either Dean, he'll know you did it on purpose And fine, maybe you and I aren't exactly alike Dean, hell that's a good thing, right? But y'know what? You still feel things, you still care about something, and I think you are mad at Dad, and I think you're mad at you! And what I don't get is why you won't let me help you!"
"I don't need your help!" Dean shouted, his words punctuated by their father slamming the door open and tossing his guns onto a side table.
"What the hell are you boys fighting about now?" John snapped. He saw the med kit, and glanced at them both. Sam followed his gaze.
"I scraped up my knee at camp. Dean just wanted to look at it, but I didn't need anything done." The lie flowed easily, and Dean visibly relaxed. Too tired to care his boys were lying to him, John sighed, throwing his leather jacket across the room as he stepped out of his boots, stepping on the heel of one to pull it off before having to unlace the other. Dean caught the jacket.
"Place is a sty, what the hell Dean?"
"My fault. I was looking for a shirt and I tore up his bag, too. Dean had it all cleaned up when I got back."
"Please stop lying for your brother. He can speak for himself."
"Sorry sir," Dean mumbled, eyes down.
"Look at me when I speak to you, boy." Dean looked up, eyes meeting John's.
"Yes, sir."
"I'm taking a shower, and when I get done this better be cleaned up, y'hear me?"
"Yes, sir!" Both boys said, spines automatically straightening as they responded to the military tone in their father's voice. Sam looked at Dean, and saw the tears that Dean blinked away, and lightly reached out to squeeze his brother's hand.
Fin.
I guess. Before you review, I don't think Dean would ever really cut himself deeply. So, please don't even bring that up. I know people who have broken mirrors to get something jagged to cut themselves with. Or used a cuticle cutter to almost kill themselves. Dean's not like that, and most cutters aren't. Please keep that in mind. So, criticism, commentary, reactions, insults, bring it on. Add to my knowledge. Hate it, love it, tell me. Please. And if you think you could, and you have a story of your own to share, I'd 'love' to hear it. Because...I've been told that sometimes you just need someone to listen, who can mostly understand. And I have so many stories, things I've been part of, or just been told. And this isn't something I support.
I've almost lost a friend to this, and I don't think it's a good thing. So, please, no one get that idea. Other than that, reviews, please, please.