A/n: Okay so I wasn't originally intending to continue this story but well... It happened. Also I realize that the chapters are short and that I cold probably have fit all of them into one document and kept it as a oneshot but I think the length of the chapters works well so if you want to complain.. Don't.

Warning: Contains mention of self harm.


It isn't often that Sam is confused by his brother but right now he is. He doesn't understand what his brother means by being careful with his mood. Since when does he think about being careful with feelings or emotions? Dean has disappeared upstairs again. Sam wonders when he will come down again. He doesn't like this feeling of not understanding something about his brother, the only person he thinks he knows inside and out.

He sighs, not sure if he should try to follow his brother upstairs and talk to him or if he should just let him bee. Dean isn't much on talking. So maybe leaving him alone is his best bet for now. If his big brother wants to talk to him he will.

Ohlookalinebreak

Maybe he can just do it once for old time's sake? Dean shakes his head, sighing quietly and curling his hands into the blankets of the bed he is laying on. He doesn't want to hurt himself. He has no reason to. Everything is fine right now. Everything is alright and he doesn't need to do it. It is just that stupid feeling.

For now he just lies on his back, curling his fingers into the scratchy blanket under him. He tells himself that if he just ignores the fuzzy feeling it will go away. He doesn't have to hurt himself. But he still feels like he should, like he is supposed to because that is who he is.

He is Dean Winchester.

He is Dean Winchester and sometimes things get to be too much.

He is Dean Winchester and sometimes things get to be too much and he hurts himself.

He is Dean Winchester and sometimes things get to be too much and he hurts himself because he is dysfunctional.

But he hasn't done that in a while, a long while. It has been months since he took a razor to his skin. Only four of the last seven cuts he made still show. He always cuts himself in numbers divisible by either seven or three. They are scars now, not scabbed over cuts. They are shiny, pink, horizontal lines that are just slightly raised from the skin surrounding them. He wonders if they will become just faint, pale lines or if they will stay raised like a couple of the others.

With a growl of frustration he sits up, whipping his shirt off. He can't take it anymore. He has to do something. He leans gets up and goes to his bag of weapons that he brought inside with him. There is a small knife in there. It is really too tiny to do much damage to anything but he doesn't keep it with him to fight with. He keeps it for occasions like this.

The man breathes deeply, opening the small pocket knife once he finds it and going to lie back down in the bed. He closes his eyes and gently rests the small blade against his stomach, just below his navel. Not putting any pressure on his the knife but just letting gravity do that for him, he drags the knife up the center of his body until he reaches his collar bones. A tiny gasp escapes him as he drags the blade over his clavicle. He breaks out into gooseflesh and his nipples stiffen.

His lips part and he lifts the blade off of his skin for a moment, then places it on the center of his bottom lip. His tongue slips out just enough to press against the tip of the blade. With a shuddering breath he pulls the knife away and closes it then curls up on his side.

He loves the feel of the metal but he hates that he loves it so much.

The pocket knife is, surprisingly, safe for him. He doesn't like to use knives to hurt himself. His knives are sharp but they just aren't right for the job. He needs a blade from a disposable razor. Those are perfect.

They are thin, sharp and they slice through his skin so cleanly. He shivers at the feeling and bites his lip. He opens his pocket knife again and runs it over his left shoulder lightly, shivering again and letting out a quiet whimper.

He is so messed up.

Ohlooklinebreak

After John called him when he found out that Dean was hurting himself Bobby did what Bobby did best. He researched… and drank… a lot.

He sees Sam and Dean as his own kids half the time and to think that one of them found comfort in hurting themselves was painful for him. Is painful. He knows that Dean hasn't stopped, not completely. Dean is careful. It isn't easy to tell that he hurts himself if you don't know what to look for. Bobby does, though, because he knows that Dean hurts himself.

He knows that the reason that Dean always keeps his shirt on or if it is off he finds a way to hid his left shoulder is because there are new marks on it, fresh scars that are too neat and clean cut to be from being attacked by any monster on a hunt.

Bobby wonders why John never caught on to that. He probably didn't want to admit that his son was still doing it after he found out. Who would want to admit that their kid might still be hurting themselves even though you think you've done everything to keep him from doing it.

Take away his knives, don't let him use anything sharp without supervision, check him over for cuts and marks. But if you aren't checking everywhere then it doesn't work.

If you're gone for days to weeks on end it doesn't work.

If you don't pay enough attention to the little things or if you start to stop checking because you think your kid has gotten better… it doesn't work.

Bobby knows that Dean has never completely stopped.

But dean wasn't Bobby's kid. He doesn't have the right to strip him down, check him for cuts and keep him in his sights twenty-four-seven. He wishes he could, though. He hates not knowing what to do about this situation with Dean.

"Bobby."

The older man looks up to see Sam standing in the door way to his study.

"What d'ya need, Sam?" he asks, looking back down at the book spread open on his desk.

"Well its Dean," Bobby stiffens slightly in his seat. Sam notices but presses on. "He's been acting weird all day today. You know what's up with him?"

Bobby frowns, wondering if he should suspect that Dean is hurting himself again. For a moment he says nothing but then he shakes his head, not looking up from his book as he answers.

"Nope, I dunno what the ijit's problem is," he says.

Sam watches the older man but nods, accepting the answer then walking away. He really isn't happy with Bobby's answer at all. He knows something is up with his brother and he knows that both he and Bobby are keeping things from him. He just doesn't know what.

Ohlookalinebreak

His muscles twitch under the blade as he runs the tip of the knife over his thighs, pants on the floor with his shirt. Dean hates how much he loves how nice this feels. How comforting it is.

When he takes the blade away from his skin this time he smiles a bit, remembering a girl he met while he was out on the road after Sam left for college. She reminds him of his mother.

Even though he is older than her when she found out that he hurt himself she turned into a mother hen.

Even though she had been hurt and deserved someone to comfort her she didn't stop trying to take care of him.

Even though she barely knew him she let him sleep on her couch instead of letting him go back to some seedy motel after they met in a bar.

Even though his behavior was strange at best she never questioned why he did what he did.

He remembers the night that he woke up to hear her screaming.

He had leapt off the couch and ran to save her, to protect her from whatever was hurting her. Dean couldn't save his mother but he could save her. He couldn't let something hurt her. She was too kind to be hurt by one of the things that went bump in the night.

When he busted down the door to her room and saw that nothing was hurting her he was confused. She was just lying in her bed, screaming at the top of her lungs. He asked her why. She said that it helped, that it made it easier to resist the urge to hurt herself.

The next time he heard her screaming like that in the yard he still jumped up and ran to protect her, like a loyal dog, but he wasn't surprised to see that she wasn't hurt. She had been smashing an old mop against her clothes line. It broke and then she seemed to break. She just fell to her knees and cried. Dean took her back inside and held her until she felt better. It felt good to be able to take care of her. It felt like he was repaying her in some small way for taking care of him.

He wishes that he could just lay there and scream or go outside and destroy something like he saw her do before. Dean can't let Sam or Bobby see him fall apart, though. He can't let them see how fragile he is. He has to protect Sam and Bobby has to know he can keep Sam safe. Everyone has to know he can keep Sam safe.

Everyone except for the girl he met. Even though she isn't a hunter and she doesn't know about what goes bump in the night he still feels like she can keep him safe.

Her number is his phone. He wonders if he should call her.

She said he could if he ever needed her.

He thinks he needs her.

He fishes his phone out of his jeans.

He holds it close, debating on if he should call.


A/n: TBC