AN: A special thanks to kazluvsbooks for prereading.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no copyright infringement intended.
Chapter Four
Sam opens the door of the impala and gets out. They're back at the motel after a long day of hunting. Dean is right behind him as he heads for the room.
"You were such a bitch back there," Dean says between laughs.
Sam smiles and gives his shoulder a shove. "Hey, if I remember right, you were the one that was screaming like a little girl. You practically jumped into my arms when that shadow moved."
"It was a creepy shadow, Sam," Deans says. "Who knows what it was thinking."
Sam shakes his head and laughs. "I'm pretty sure shadows don't think."
"Whatever. It moved on its own. That's enough for me."
When they get to the room, Sam unlocks the door and walks inside. He strips off his coat and tosses it on the bed.
"God, I can't wait until I can take a shower," Dean says, bending down to undo his boots.
"Yeah, that sewer wasn't exactly clean."
"You're telling me. I fell in that dank ass water, remember?"
"How could I forget? You dragged me down with you."
Dean laughs and kicks his boots under the table. "So who's got dibs on the shower first?"
"You can go. I'll clean the weapons."
"Go ahead, but leave my knife alone. I don't like the angle you put on it last time."
Sam waves him off and walks over to the duffel. He grabs what he needs and sits down at the table. He begins to clean the blade. The hunt had dragged them through the sewers, and more than once, they had taken a dip in the foul water.
Sam begins to sharpen the knife. By the time he's done, the water is shutting off in the shower, and shortly after, the bathroom door swings open.
"It's all yours," Dean steps out, towel wrapped around his waist.
"Thanks," Sam says as he goes to retrieve his bag of toiletries and a pair of sweats.
He steps into the bathroom and closes the door, quietly turning the lock behind him. He still worries about Dean finding him, even after all this time. It's been a month since he first broke apart that razor to get to the blade, and in that month, he has learned a lot.
Stripping off his pants and shirt, he tosses them in a pile on the floor. He reaches in his bag of supplies and pulls out a small pocket knife. He pulls the blade out and looks at it glint in the light. He's been waiting all day for this moment.
His hand doesn't tremble like it did the first few times; it's practiced now. He slides off his boxers and exposes his leg. There are rows of cuts, some old, some new, but all of them are neatly spaced. He places the knife beside the newest and makes a cut. Immediately, he feels the rush of endorphins and he relaxes. He watches with fascination as the blood bubbles up from the cut and begins to drip down his leg.
Some days he needs more than one, but today wasn't too bad and one will do just fine. He folds the knife back up and sticks it back in his bag.
He turns on the water and steps into the shower. The blood gets washed away in swirls of pink down the drain.
When he's done washing, he checks the cut, making sure the bleeding has stopped, which it has. It's now just a deep red line amongst the others.
He gets dressed and grabs his bag and heads back to the room. Dean is lying on the bed watching something that sounds suspiciously like porn.
"Dude, we talked about this," Sam says, walking by the TV.
Dean sighs and reaches for the remote. "Whatever, you were in the shower."
"Yeah, and I was coming back out, thanks."
Dean rolls his eyes. "So, I say we stick around here for a few days. What do you think?"
Sam shrugs. "Sounds good to me. I could use a break."
"Good. I'm going to head out to the bar then since you put the kibosh on my Asian beauties marathon. A man has needs, something you wouldn't know much about."
Sam flips him off as he goes and gets his laptop from the table. "Try not to land on me when you get home. Remember, your bed's on the right."
"I did that one time," Dean says, grabbing his coat.
"One time too many." Sam takes his laptop over to the bed and settles in. "I'll keep my phone on. Call me if you need a ride."
"Bar's close enough. I can walk," Dean says as he heads out the door. "Oh, and Sam, keep the door locked."
Sam waves him off. "I think I can handle being alone for a few hours, dad."
Once alone, Sam hurries off to the bathroom to gather the dirty laundry. He couldn't risk Dean catching sight of the blood stains on his boxers. They were faint, but Dean wouldn't miss them if he caught a glimpse.
He tucks the laundry into the bag and cinches it closed. He sets it in the corner of the room by the table to take to the Laundromat in the morning.
He goes over to the bed and lies back against the headboard. He scrubs a hand over his face. He feels so empty inside, so incredibly lost and alone. He feels like the world's worst little brother, lying to Dean's face every day, but what other choice does he have? He can't tell him how he's coping. He wouldn't understand. He would try to make him stop, and that idea scares him more than it should.
It's the only way he has of coping with the box of nightmares that has been opened. All he can think about is that day when he confessed to Dean. It was like that moment made it all real, like up until then it was just a nightmare, something his mind had conjured up, something he could dismiss as make believe.
The memories begin to creep in around the edges of mind, and he shivers, not liking what his mind is showing him. He brings his hand down to his leg and presses hard against the cut. There is a stabbing pain, and he grits his teeth through it. He doesn't care if it bleeds a little, as long as there is pain. Because the pain is real and pulls him back just like Dean said it would, just like he promised.
Standing, he turns of the light and pulls back the covers, climbing into bed.
He wakes up sometime later with a start when a clamoring Dean comes stumbling into the room. He's so drunk he can barely stand. Sam shakes his head. He hasn't seen Dean this far gone in a while.
Sam watches as Dean wanders into the room. He doesn't close the door behind him, so Sam gets up to shut and lock it. This is not how he wanted to spend his night, taking care of a wasted Dean.
He stumbles forward and crashes hard into the chair at the table. Sam sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He walks over to Dean and guides him toward the bed. Once they reach the it, Sam gives him a shove, knocking him backwards onto the bed.
"Stay," Sam says as he bends down to undo his boots.
Dean looks up and laughs. "Sam," Dean says.
"What?"
"I think I'm drunk."
"Yes, you are. Now shut up and roll over so I can cover you up."
Dean laughs, trying to push his way to sit. Then suddenly his laughs die off and his face goes serious.
"What's that?" Dean asks, nodding his head toward Sam.
Sam frowns, looking around for whatever it was that had caught Dean's eye. He doesn't see anything so he asks, "What's what?"
"There," he says, pointing a finger right into the spot where the cut lay. "Why you bleeding?"
Sam looks down and sees what Dean is talking about. The cut's bled through. It feels like gravity has shifted, and it makes Sam's stomach lurch. He swallows hard, trying to think of something to say, anything to cover up the truth.
"It's nothing. I just banged it on the counter in the bathroom. The edge is sharper than it looks." It's a shitty lie and he knows it. He can only hope that Dean will buy it.
Dean looks puzzled and his eyes track to the bathroom and then back to Sam, like he's trying to piece together the validity of the story. Finally, Dean blinks and then nods. "Well, be more careful."
Sam breathes a sigh of relief. It seems like Dean is buying it for now.
Sam tucks him into bed and then steps back looking over his brother. He's sprawled out spread eagle, snoring softly with the blanket half covering his legs.
Sam can only hope that Dean will forget about all this by morning. Because there was no way a sober Dean will believe a counter cut his leg.
When Sam does go to bed, he sleeps fitfully, constantly waking with the fear that Dean has found him out.
When morning comes, he's more tired than usual but marks it off to the poor sleep. He gets up and looks over at Dean, who is still asleep, drooling on his pillow.
Sam smiles at him and then walks over to the table and starts a pot of coffee. Dean is going to need it when he wakes.
Coffee brewing, Sam grabs his clothes for the day and goes to change. Out of habit, he inspects the cuts as he dresses. They all look okay, except for the most recent one. It's redder than the others and burns when he touches it. He wonders if he may have cut too deep.
He finishes dressing and then goes out to put on his boots. He still needs to run to the Laundromat as they're running out of things to where, that and he doesn't want bloody clothes hanging out any longer than necessary.
It takes him an hour and a half to finish the laundry, and when he gets back, he's anxious. He has no idea what he's going to face when he opens the door. He has no idea if Dean suspects anything. The idea his secret could be exposed terrifies him beyond belief.
Taking one last steadying breath, Sam reaches for the handle. It doesn't even turn all the way before it is being pulled open from the other side.
"Where the hell have you been?" an angry Dean asks, looking him over head to toe. "You didn't take your phone."
"I see you've finally decided to join the living." Sam lifts the laundry bag, showing Dean. "I thought you'd appreciate having some clean clothes to wear."
Sam hauls the bag into the room and tosses it onto the floor. He watches Dean as he pulls his clothes from the bag.
"So, about last night …" Sam says casually, testing the waters.
Dean frowns, looking confused. "Dude, the last thing I remember was the little blonde waitress at the bar. After that, things get fuzzy."
Sam lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding.
Dean's eyes narrow. "Why? Did I do something stupid?"
Sam shrugs "No, nothing more than usual."
"Well, that's reassuring," Dean says, walking over and putting the now clean clothes into his duffel.
A shiver passes through Sam and Dean notices. He looks at him curiously. "Cold?"
"Yeah, it's freezing in here."
"No, it's like eighty in here," Dean says, his face going serious. He walks over and presses a hand to Sam's forehead. Sam tries to pull away, but Dean is persistent.
Dropping his hand, Dean frowns. "You're a little warm."
"I'm not sick, so don't even start."
Dean scoffs. "I think I know you well enough to know when you're coming down with something."
Sam rolls his eyes and then yawns, ignoring him. "I'm think I'm gonna hit the sack. I slept like shit last night."
"That's because you're sick," Dean says, pointing at him. "While you get your beauty sleep, I'm going to head out to the diner and grab us some food. You want me to stop by the pharmacy on the way back, grab you something for your cold?"
Sam shrugs. "Do what you want."
"I'll take that as a yes," Dean says as he grabs his coat. "I'll be back soon. Oh, and try not to spread your germs all over the place while I'm gone. We both don't need to get sick."
Dean heads out the door and Sam sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He really is starting to feel like shit. He makes his way over to the bed and lies down. Throwing an arm over his eyes, he tries to block out the way the room feels like it's spinning.