AN: A special thanks to kazluvsbooks for prereading. She gave me the confidence to continue this past a one-shot.

Warnings: There is self-harm in this chapter. Please don't read if it bothers you.


Hidden Truths

Dean doesn't know what to say. The simple platitudes of 'it's okay' or 'it's going to be all right' don't seem like enough. They're lies and he knows it. Everything is not okay, not one bit. His baby brother has just told him that he was … that someone had hurt him when he should have been there to protect him. He had failed him. But even worse is the thought that Sam has been carrying this weight alone for all these years.

He leans his cheek against Sam's head and sighs into his hair. He wishes he could go back and change things, make Dad leave the hunt earlier, but he can't. He can't take his brother's pain away, and because of it, he feels completely helpless.

Sam shakes under him and Dean squeezes him tighter. He has no idea if what he's doing is helping or hurting but part of him needs the contact. He needs to feel that Sam is alive and safe in his arms.

Sam is keening now, has been for the last few minutes, and Dean holds him through it like somehow his arms can keep his little brother together. What he wouldn't give to take his pain. Dean can't remember a time where he's felt so lost, so utterly useless.

Eventually, Sam's breathing evens out and his sobs die off to hiccupsm and Dean breathes a sigh of relief. He can deal with any other kind of Sam, but Hurt Sam crushes him.

Dean brushes the hair out of Sam's eyes; the poor kid's forehead is drenched in sweat and his cheeks are soaked with tears. "Just take it easy, Sammy," Dean says. "Nice slow breaths."

It takes another five minutes of coaxing to get Sam back to himself enough that he's breathing like a regular person. And that's when things get awkward.

What do you say to you brother after something like this? What do you say to anyone?

Dean releases Sam, not sure whether to give him space or stay close. He's completely lost and looks to Sam to take the lead. Whatever he needed, Dean would give it to him.

Sam draws a shaky breath and pushes himself up and away from Dean. Dean stays crouched on the floor as he watches Sam run his fingers through his hair and wipe his face on his sleeve.

That's when Dean catches sight of the slight stain of blood on Sam's palm. It's faint but his trained eyes have no problem seeing it. He wonders what could have done it, and then he remembers Sam clenching his fists earlier. The thought that Sam had hurt himself makes him feel ill.

Dean stands and walks over toward Sam, who steps away, putting up a hand. "I just need a minute, all right?"

"Sam, your hand," Dean says, pointing to the pinkish stain of blood.

Sam closes his fist and turns without another word, hurrying into the bathroom. He locks the door behind him and goes over to the sink, leaning over it, hands gripping either side of the porcelain.

"Open up, Sam," Dean pounds on the door. "I need to know that you're all right in there."

Sam is far from all right. He's staring at his reflection in the mirror, wondering when the swollen eyed man in the mirror had become him. He splashes cool water on his face, letting it drip down off him. It feels good, but it stings his palm.

He looks down at the damage. There is a perfect crescent cut into his hand just beside the scar. He pushes on it out of curiosity and gasps. For a small cut it's rather painful. Strangely the pain feels good and makes it easier to concentrate. He presses down on it again and relaxes a little.

There is another round of pounding on the door and Sam glances over at it in time to see it shake under the force.

Sam doesn't know how to face Dean. Never in his life has he fallen apart so completely in front of anyone, especially his brother.

He takes a breath and lets it out slowly, trying to steady himself.

"Sammy, if you don't open up, I'm kicking in the door."

Sam sighs, knowing Dean would do just that. Reluctantly, Sam goes over to the door and unlocks it, stepping back. Sam knows he still looks like shit, and it's going to do nothing to calm his brother's worry. And that's really it, isn't it? He doesn't want Dean to worry about him. He doesn't want him to hurt along with him. When he confessed the truth, he'd ripped out Dean's heart at the same time.

"Hey," Dean says, pulling him from his thoughts. "How you doing?"

Sam shrugs, averting his gaze to the floor, something about Dean's eyes cut straight through him. It's like he can look right into his soul and see the scars there. It makes Sam swallow hard, and he shoves his hands into his pockets.

"I'm okay," Sam lies. "I just needed a minute."

Dean looks like he doesn't know what to say, and it scares Sam a little. Dean is always the strong one, and now he looks just as broken as Sam.

"Do you need anything." Dean half shrugs, looking around the small bathroom. "I mean, is there anything I can do?"

Sam shakes his head. "No, I don't think so. A shower would be nice, though."

Dean smiles tightly and shakes his head. "Can't help you there, man."

Sam tries to smile, but from Dean's reaction he figures it came out more like a grimace.

"Well, do you want something to eat, some of the rabbit food you like so much? I'll go pick it up."

Sam takes a breath and nods, trying to put on his best face, trying to pretend that he hadn't just had all his emotional wounds on display.

"Sure, sounds good," he says.

Dean hesitates in the door. "You gonna be okay here by yourself?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "I'm a big boy, Dean."

"Okay, well, I'll be right back," Dean says. "And, Sam, take it easy while I'm gone, all right?"

Sam nods and waves him off. "Just go get the food. I'll be fine."

Dean walks off, and a second later, Sam hears the jingle of keys and then the door slamming closed.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. He thought he was past all this years ago. He had put it all in little boxes in the back of his mind, never intending to open them, but now that he has, there is little he can do to put it all back. It's like the past has flooded out and washed him away. He feels so lost and overwhelmed.

Needing to get some relief, he strips down and gets into the shower. He turns the water as hot as it will go and lets the water sting against his flesh. Just like the cut on his hand, this feels good, and he lets it sweep away his pain.

He presses his hands against the shower wall and ducks his head, letting the water wash over him. He turns his head and sees something on the shower shelf. It's innocent enough. It's only a razor, but it makes Sam feel something, something in his gut, something that he can't name.

He reaches for it without thinking, and it feels heavier than it should in his hand. He licks at his lips and then runs his thumb gently over the blades. Not sure what he's really doing, he twists the cheap plastic razor and breaks free the blades. They're tiny and Sam wonders how something so small could have as much power as it does.

Selecting one, he sets the broken pieces down on the shelf. He looks at the little sliver of metal in the light, blinking away the water still running down his face.

Feeling like he's in a trance, he brings the blade down and presses it to his hip. It's tentative at first; he's not afraid of the pain, but maybe more afraid of liking it. And he does. The first pass gives him the relief he has been seeking. It focuses the pain in a way that he can manage.

He cuts again, a little deeper, and the water runs pink. The sight makes him feel sick with himself. He can't believe what he's done, and he drops the blade. It's so small it slips down the drain.

In shock with himself, he turns the water off and gets out. His leg is still bleeding, and he presses the towel to it. It stops bleeding fairly quickly and Sam pauses to examine them. He wonders how something so simple could hold so much emotion, both good and bad.

He finishes toweling off and then slips on his clothes. He still needs to get rid of the towel before Dean gets back. He can't let him know what he's done. He wouldn't understand.

Grabbing the towel, he sneaks out of the room and down to the dumpster. He tosses the towel in and heads back to the room. Just as he closes the door to the room, he hears the rumble of the Impala. He made it just in time.

Dean comes in the room carrying a bag. He sets it down on the table and pauses to look Sam over.

'You still look like shit," he says.

Sam runs a hand through his hair. "Thanks."

"Well now that you smell better, why don't you sit down and eat? I got you some kind of salad. It's got egg on it. Looks nasty, but you'll probably like it."

"Thanks, Dean," he says, and they both know that he means more than for the food.

Sam sits and picks at the salad, shifting the egg to the side. Dean was right. It didn't look that great; in fact, overall it looked pretty bad. The lettuce was wilted and the veggies were soft.

He shifts in his seat and can feel the sting of the cuts on his leg. It feels surprisingly good, comforting even.

Sighing, he pushes the tray away and opens the bottle of water Dean had brought him. He takes a sip.

"You're not eating." Dean points to his tray with his fork.

Sam shrugs. Even if the food wasn't bad, he's not sure he could eat. His stomach was still in knots over what had happened. He wonders how Dean is able to do it, put it all behind him like it hadn't happened. It was just another way he was letting him down. He shouldn't let this get the better of him.

"Sammy?" Dean asks, making him look up. "I said you're not eating. Is there a reason?"

Sam shakes his head. "No, I'm just not that hungry."

Dean studies him for a second, and Sam wonders if he is going to say something about the elephant in the room, but he doesn't. He just nods and goes back to his food.

Sam excuses himself from the table. "I'm going out."

"Where?"

"Just for a walk around the block. I need some air."

"Well wait for me. I'll go with you." Sam knew that Dean wasn't ready to let him out of his sight just yet. He was always like that, even as a kid. If he got hurt, Dean would hover like a mother hen.

Sam swallows, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, I was thinking alone would be better."

Dean stares at him for a moment, fork stuck in his food. He blinks. "Yeah, fine. Go ahead. Take your phone with you, though."

"Always," Sam says.

Sam grabs his coat and walks out the door. He doesn't care where he goes, but he needs to get away from the room, away from Dean, not because he doesn't love him, but because he does. He can't let him see the hurt, how badly he's fucked up. He needs to protect him from any more pain.

With each step, he feels the cuts rub against the denim of his jeans and he focuses on it, pushing himself forward. He needs more and it scares him.