That Ache
Chapter Three

Author's Note: Been awhile… If anyone's interested in another chapter, I'm stoked to write it, but I have no ideas for what could transpire, so drop a hint if there's anything you'd like to see. And please leave a review; good, bad or ugly.

Summary: He had to do something to relieve that ache. Warnings: deals with self harm; some language.

Quietly closing the door to yet another cheap motel room behind him, Dean dropped a weighty, weary sigh. His body was drained; adrenaline bled from his system leaving only a too-small dose of sugar and caffeine.

He looked to Sam, the younger passed out on the bed furthest from the door. Dean couldn't quite bring himself to say 'asleep', seeing as his brother was still wearing his sneakers, legs tipped over the foot of the bed, Sam obviously having intended to but sit for a moment before losing his battle with exhaustion.

Dean sighed again, glad his brother had succumbed to the physical need for sleep – a blessing the elder doubted would grace him for some time. He never had been able to sleep when a kid was killed.

Dropping into an uncomfortable chair, Dean set a pair of knives on the table for sharpening before field-stripping the Glock to clean it.

He fell easily into the familiar motions, relaxing despite himself, the act cathartic. His hands were busy, his mind occupied with something other than that little girl's face.

That innocent little girl's screams.

Dean cursed, reaching into the duffel at his feet, pulling out the first aid kit for some aspirin. Rubbing his eyes, he reassembled the pistol, firing through the empty chamber to test it. Satisfied, he set the gun atop the kit, turning to the knives.

He froze, the light from the single lamp flashing along the blade, taunting him, reflecting a small girl's eyes. He saw blood; blood everywhere; warm and sweet and such a beautiful, horrible scarlet. The red of lollipops and licorice.

Dean shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut. He heard her screaming, crying, begging, pleading for him to save her. Why wouldn't you save me?

A spire drove down Dean's spine, through his chest. You failed. You failed.

We can't save everyone.

Why not her? Why not me? Just a little girl. A beautiful sweet little girl. Just a beautiful, sweet little corpse. Because of you!

Blurred vision settled on the knife clenched in his shaking hand. Not the serrated edge. Don't use the serrated one.

Can't you taste my blood? Sugary sweet, innocent blood? On your hands.

Dean smacked the knife down, trading it for the second. He could barely breathe for the pressure in his chest, the ache paralyzing his blood, the pain behind his eyes.

Why would you do this to me? Why would you let it happen? Why would you cause this?

He turned his arm, trembling hand pressing the blade taught against his flesh. No. No.

Why did I deserve to die? You could have saved me… You didn't! You let me die! You let me! You killed me, Dean! Damn you! I was a child! Why couldn't I live? Why

He pulled the handle sharply, his head clearing at the first sharp thrill of pain that danced through his body. Shuddering, he shifted the blade lower, relishing in the bite of metal in his skin, watching the scarlet track the knife left in its wake; his own blood ridding the images of honey-sweet scarlet from behind his eyes.

"Dean?"

He jumped sharply, whirling at the voice, eyes flashing.

Sam had propped himself up on his elbows, the younger blinking sleep from his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Uh…" the elder couldn't quite keep the shiver from his voice. "Just cleaning the Glock."

"It's the middle of the night."

"Gotta maintain your weapons."

Sam pushed himself up to sit, frowning at the casual response. "You all right?"

"Fine," Dean grinned. "Go back to sleep, Sammy."

"Why're you sitting so funny?"

"I'm not."

Chewing his lip, Sam rose, stepping over to his brother.

"What?"

The younger didn't reply, reaching out to grasp Dean's wrist.

"Let go, Sam. Back away."

Sam calmly met a tone and a glare that most would have run from, the younger possessing a deep-rooted knowledge that his brother would never hurt him. Determined, he twisted the elder's arm, revealing the twin slashes still seeping blood across pale skin. "What the hell is this?"

"Must've slipped."

"What is this?"

"You know what it is!"

"Fuck, Dean!" Sam fell into the second chair, dropping his face into his hands, elbows propped on the table. "Fuck."

The elder sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"What happed to 'the pain comes back'?"

"It does," Dean stated simply.

The younger lifted his eyes from his palms. "I don't understand… I thought that you…"

"I never said I'd stopped."

Sam sighed heavily, "How… How can I possibly hope you'll be able to help me, if you can't even help yourself?"

"Because I've always been better at helping you than me. It's part of being a big brother."

"No," Sam shook his head, voice firm. He looked to Dean. "No; it isn't going to happen this way."

"What?" the elder asked, puzzled. He frowned at his brother, moving the gun from atop the first aid kit. "What happen, what way?"

"I can't… can't stop cutting if you're going to be doing it." Sam swallowed, watching the too-casual way his brother was looking through the first aid kit. "We're going to do this together."

Dean didn't reply, readying gauze and antiseptic with one hand.

"Dean," the younger caught his wrist, halting the movement. "We do this together."

"Sammy…" he sighed, eyes tired.

"You said you would do anything."

Dean heaved his breath out, dropping his gaze to the table. "Yeah…" He looked up at his brother. "Then this is the last time. I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

"I don't."

Sam nodded. "Thank you." He took the bandages from the elder's hand, "Here, let me."

Dean acquiesced, though with the practice he'd had, he could have easily managed the cuts on his own.

"Why did you do it?" Sam asked, cleaning the slashes with alcohol. "Because of the girl?"

The elder bit his tongue. "Yeah…"

"It wasn't your fault." Sam wondered if the statement had yet become cliché. "You did everything you could."

"It wasn't enough."

"Sometimes it can't be." Sam tore open a sterile packet of gauze. "We can't save everyone."

"I know."

"You couldn't have saved that kid… and I couldn't have saved Jess…"

Dean pursed his lips. "You mean that?"

"My head does. I know that logically it's true." Sam smirked, "I'm just still working on getting the rest of me to agree."

"Well, your head's right."

"Yeah…" He taped the gauze in place and sighed. "Dean… Why did you start in the first place?"

The elder bit his lip. "Same reason you did. I had to let the ache out before it crushed me."

"What caused it?"

Dean sighed, "Kid got killed. It was really gruesome. Way worse than tonight."

"And Dad…"

"Dad didn't see it happen. I did."

"I thought we couldn't bring this shit home with us."

"Yeah. Well, I couldn't shake this. And after that first time, the cutting just got easier and easier…"

Sam sighed, "I can't believe Dad never knew."

"I used to be a lot more careful. I slipped up tonight."

"I'm glad you did." The younger rubbed his eyes. "You're good with kids, you know?"

"Kids get hurt around me."

"Not because of you."

"Still…"

"You were right before. You can't blame yourself for things beyond your control."

"No… You can't…" Dean cleared his throat, setting his brother with a sure, steady look. "The cutting we can control. I slipped tonight. I fucked up. But I'm not going to slip again and I won't let you fall either."

"All right," Sam nodded. "Good."

"We'll figure something out."

"Good." The younger couldn't help a soft smile.

Dean smirked, "But don't you dare give me shit for the knife under my pillow, 'cause I still believe in precaution and it's staying there."

Sam chuckled, rubbing his eyes. "All right. I won't."