That Ache
Chapter Five

Author's Note: I had a lot of trouble with this chapter; I've been re-writing it for two weeks and I'm still not sure about it. Also, I'm not really sure what a Beta is, but if anyone would be interested in hashing around some ideas or reading some of this stuff before it's posted to give some insight, that would be great!

I'm wide open and keen on suggestions, anything you'd like to see and reviews! Please do drop a note; good, bad or ugly.

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

Sam banged the door open with his hip, keeping a firm grip on his brother as he helped him into the small room. "Here… Easy…" he settled the elder gently on the nearest bed before quickly shutting the door and twisting the lock.

Scrambling for towels and their duffel, Sam risked a glance to his brother. Dean sat stiffly, breathing sharply through his teeth, but uttered no complaint of pain.

Fishing hurriedly for the first aid kit, Sam demanded, "What were you doing back there?"

"Ridding Lafayette of its paranormal menace."

"Dammit, Dean! This was supposed to be an easy job! Hell, it was an easy job! What happened?"

"Shit. Shit happens, Sam. You know that."

"Why didn't you fire?"

"Tried. Too slow."

"Bull!" The younger yanked the first aid kit from the bag. "That spirit was slow! You could have gotten off six shots before it reached you!"

"Apparently not."

Shaking his head flustered, Sam moved to the bed. "Let's see it."

"I can handle it."

"Yeah, with the eyes in the back of your head and the arms that face the wrong way!"

Dean smirked. "That'd be cool."

"What?"

"Actual eyes in the back of your head."

Sam felt his anger sparking. "You let that thing cut you open and throw you through a fucking wall!"

"You're overreacting."

Setting his jaw and swallowing hard, Sam reached for the jacket draped over his brother's shoulders, "Here."

"I got it."

"Shut up."

"Panties in a twist, little brother?" Dean watched him from the corner of his eye. "I'm not dead. I've been hurt before. This is no big deal."

"You let it happen!"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?" Sam spat. "What, you promise not to cut, so you get yourself sliced open by some damn spirit instead?"

Dean looked straight ahead, eyes set in a calm mask. "Do you think we could argue after getting the bleeding controlled?"

Concern flashed across the younger's face, settling there. "Well, how the hell bad…" Sam's breath hitched as he pulled the jacket away. "Holy…"

The back of Dean's shirt was shredded, fabric soaked with cherry blood that seeped into the waistband of his jeans. Sam swallowed, "Keep still while I cut it off."

"Easy on the threads, man."

"Believe me, it's trashed anyway." Sam hated the calmness of his brother's voice, the easy shield he'd drawn over the pain.

The younger slit the damp cloth, gently easing it away from where is stuck to the wound. "Shit."

"Not too shabby, huh?"

Deep, already darkening contusions hugged the elder's shoulders, stretching down the length of his spine and wrapping slightly about his ribs before tapering off, two long gashes slicing through bruised flesh, seeping blood.

"Sam?"

"All right, hang on." Gritting his teeth, the younger pressed a towel over the bleeding gashes, flinching as his brother's back arched away automatically before Dean regained control, suffering the pressure. "Sorry." Sam ripped open the first aid kit, digging through it. "Here, I saw some codeine still in here… You aren't allergic, are you?"

"That was you, genius."

"Well, I figured I should be sure!" Sam snapped, concern blurring into anger. "The prescription's under some alias! I didn't know if it was yours or Dad's!"

"Dad's."

"I'm sure he won't mind," the younger retorted, locating the bottle.

"I don't need it, Sam. Save it."

"Dean," Sam's voice took on a deadly intonation. "I have to stitch this."

"Fine."

"The stitches have to be set through the bruise! How much pain are you in already? Take the fucking drugs!"

"I've been sewn up before without meds."

Biting his lip, Sam jabbed his finger into the contusion cloaking his brother's shoulder, feeling only minutely guilty when the elder's breath hitched, Dean pulling away instinctively. "Now, imagine sutures."

"Just stitch it, Sam."

"I won't cause you unnecessary pain!" the younger hissed sharply. "I won't." He thrust the pills into his brother's face. "Take them! Please."

Sighing, Dean took the dose from his brother's hand. "I hate these things. They put me out."

Readying supplies, Sam muttered, "Well, drowsiness is a side effect…"

"It hits me hard, man."

"Good. You could do with some sleep!" The younger looked up pointedly. "Stop fighting me and take them, or I swear I'll force them down your throat."

"Fine. PMS much?" Dean saw the poor attempt at levity went all but unnoticed by his brother, the elder sighing and tossing back the pills.

"Need water?"

Dean shook his head slowly, glad not to have attempted the motion with any greater speed.

"Okay." Sam bit his tongue as he lifted the towel slightly, peeking at the wound. "Hell…" He cleared his throat. "I can wait for those to kick in…"

"How bad is the bleeding?"

"Bad enough that I'd be worried about leaving it long enough for them to kick in…"

Dean almost sounded glad, "Do what you gotta do."

Steeling himself, Sam tore open a gauze pad, soaking it in alcohol. "You know I have to sanitize it."

"I know. Let 'er rip, Hawkeye."

Laying a steadying hand on his brother's shoulder, careful not to press against the contusion, Sam tipped the soaked bandage to the bloody mess of Dean's lower back. The elder hissed, jerking sharply.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Dean ground out, regaining control of his body and keeping still.

Splashing more alcohol on the pad, Sam moved it lower, the disinfectant revealing the lay of the slashes as it sterilized. The elder's shoulders tensed subconsciously, teeth gritting together.

Wincing, Sam coaxed the alcohol to drip into the cuts, flushing them thoroughly, having no idea how his brother could sit statue still through the burning agony both were too familiar with. "I need you to lean forward."

The younger took a pair of tweezers as his brother complied. "Brace yourself." Carefully, he dug the tips into the mangled flesh, grasping at a fair-sized piece of shrapnel from the wall, yanking it free.

Dean gripped the bedspread, squeezing it tightly, viscously willing himself not to twist away from Sam's ministrations.

Pressing his tongue between his lips, Sam ground the tweezers into ripped tissue, grappling for gritty chunks of plaster and bits of torn fabric. "Hey, so remember that summer down in Atlanta?"

"Don't try and distract me," Dean hissed tightly, tensing as the tweezers grated just beneath his skin, jerking free a chunk of something the elder couldn't see. "I hate that."

Sam bit his lip, scowling as the tweezers missed their mark, forcing the bit of plaster deeper. "Dammit…" He shoved the metal into flesh, pursuing it, wincing himself as Dean's breath caught. "Come on…"

The elder squeezed his eyes shut, strangling the blanket, forgetting to breathe again until Sam tugged the tweezers free.

"Okay. One more." Sam readied the instrument, using one hand to keep up pressure on the bloody towel.

Dean grunted as the younger jabbed the tweezers sharply into his lower back, twisting them to catch the grit that invaded his skin. "Shit…"

"Hanging on?"

"Yeah." The elder relaxed as the tweezers were pulled free, breathing heavily against the anguish that flowed from hip to neck.

Sam grabbed a fresh piece of gauze, dousing it in alcohol and sweeping it quickly over the slashes, forcing himself to ignore the subconscious reactions of the elder's body; the flinches and clenching of his muscles that Dean couldn't still. "Pills working yet?"

"Not yet…"

"Damn." The younger snatched a suture set from the kit. "The bleeding's pretty bad…"

"Stitch it, Sam. You need to do it; just get it done."

"Lean forward a little more." Taking a deep breath, Sam set his will, catching the bruised flesh on either side of the deepest gash and easing it together with his fingers, not missing the small sound his brother didn't quite choke back. "Okay?"

He speared the hooked needle through damaged skin, pulling the thread fluidly. Small and tight. Small and tight. Keep going.

Lacing three quick stitches, Sam risked a glance to his brother's face, the elder's features pressed with concentration and pain. "Still with me?"

"I'm good…"

Sam didn't believe it, but impaled skin with the needle again – it had to be done. He worked as quickly as he dared, knowing too well he was out of practice.

Dean breathed shallowly through his nose, thread tugging and grating in his flesh, each pinprick spiking like a stab wound through the contusions. Pain flooded his mind, the hunter doing nothing to try and keep it from swelling in his conscious.

Wiping blood from his fingers, Sam gripped the needle again, spearing tender, purple-tinged skin. He disconnected himself, forgetting the agony necessary actions were causing, forgetting it was brother that suffered. He moved automatically, instinctively, sweeping the needle in and out.

He was startled from the trance when his brother choked on a bizarre squawk, voice stuttering over pain and a desperate relief. Sam couldn't recall having ever heard a sound like it slip from the elder's throat and his eyes flashed, concerned, to Dean's face.

Sam's stomach clenched. His brother's countenance was drawn in pain, but his eyes, staring straight ahead at some nothing in the distance, reflected release and respite. Sam knew he'd been right – his brother had allowed, had orchestrated, the injury.

Fucking hell, no…

Swallowing his fear and concern, the younger returned to the brutal cuts, resuming the efficient pattern of needle and thread.

One thing at a time, Sam. Concentrate.

He tied off the sutures, carefully dabbing away the blood to check his work. "I need to do one more. I can just bandage the rest."

Dean nodded, letting his eyes fall shut. He gasped faintly as Sam squeezed bruised flesh together again, but remained motionless.

Flicking careful stitches through purple-black tissue, Sam asked, "Drugs kicking in yet?"

"Think so…"

Maybe that caused the relief inthe elder'seyes: the easing of pain, not its presence. Sam dared another glance to his brother's face and knew the optimist in him was wrong once again.

Why is always the worst-case scenario?

Meticulously, Sam threaded close stitches, ignoring the blood on his hands. Lacing the last few, he allowed a breath of relief, clipping the string and dutifully checking his work. "All right. How you doing?"

"Fine…" the elder's voice was clenched.

"I'm going to bandage them, okay?"

"Mm hmm," Dean allowed a vague nod.

"Pills?" Sam readied gauze and medical tape.

"I told you they put me out…"

"I can dress it while you're lying down…"

"Just finish."

Smoothly, Sam covered the open wounds, securing the bandages with enough pressure to encourage clotting, carefully pressing the tape atop bruises, doing his best not to aggravate them. "Okay. Lie down, man."

"I'm fine, Sam."

"Just lie down before the meds kick in and you fall on your face."

Sam tidied the mess of bloodied bandages, resisting the urge to aid his brother, Dean inching up the mattress and easing painfully down to rest on his stomach. His gaze was drawn to the hideous contusions and he sighed, "You going to be okay for a minute?"

"I don't need a sitter."

"Sure you don't," the younger grinned gently. "I'll be right back."

Dean gave a muffled grunt of response into the pillow, closing his eyes.

Biting his lip, Sam snatched a pail from the dresser, slipping from the room with a lingering glance to his brother. Quickly, he walked to the machine, scooping up a bucketful of ice and returning to the room, the cool night air not having time to soothe his thoughts.

Bolting the door behind him, Sam's gaze immediately flicked to the elder. Dean hadn't moved, lost to a deep, medicated sleep.

Sighing, he found a clean towel, dampening it with cool water and dumping the bucket into it. Gently, Sam laid the ice-filled towel over the gnarled bruises marring his brother's flesh. He winced sympathetically – Dean would be lucky to be able to move come morning.

Sighing heavily, he sat on the bed, running his hands over his face and through his hair. This was a serious problem. Dean had let himself get hurt – tried to get himself hurt. And it was because Sam wouldn't let him cut.

The younger pushed up his shirtsleeves, reaching into the ice bucket and taking one of the remaining pieces. Squeezing his fist, Sam pulled the ice across the inside of his arm, slowly working toward his wrist. He wasn't sure why, exactly, it eased the craving to slash –he only cared that it did.

Dean had said he'd heard about it somewhere, that he'd tried it and found it a waste of time until it worked for Sam. Apparently, the sting and the red marks left by the cold were meant to emulate the cutting without leaving any lasting effect. No blood, no wound, no danger. A safe alternative.

But Dean hadn't found himself a safe alternative.

Sam glanced worriedly to his brother's sleeping face and sighed. He knew the cutting was… 'wrong,' knew there were inherent dangers to the act itself, physical and physiological.

Physiological issues… They were both pretty fucked up, weren't they?

Sam snorted humorlessly as a shiver slithered up his spine. He dragged a fresh piece of ice across the skin of his left, the movements jerky and awkward, unlike the confident, steady 'slashes' his brother had carved for him a few weeks previous.

The younger glanced to Dean again. Dammit, he should have known something was wrong. No one could have sauntered away from that last job unaffected. He doubted if even John-fucking-unshakable-Winchester would have been 'fine.'

And the pain from that damned hunt had been festering within his brother, Dean not finding an outlet.

Sam should have known. Damn, he had been so stupid. His brother had looked as though he had just taken a casual Sunday stroll through the deepest pits of Hell ever since that hunt. But Sam, gullible and trusting and stupid like he was, had believed the elder when he said was fine. 'Just a bit of a cold, Sammy. Nothing to stress about.'

Even gullible, trusting and stupid he should have fucking clued in when the man they interviewed for their latest hunt had stopped short in the doorway, asking if the elder was all right before they could so much as state who they were or what they wanted.

Dammit, Sam.

He looked again to his brother, exhaustion, weeks of tension and medication affording the elder a deep slumber. Sam found his eyes drawn to the ugly bruises and stark bandages covering fresh sutures.

This was what it had come down to. Dean promised to stop cutting; promised his little Sammy – the vow as unbreakable as steel in his mind. So, he'd found a source of pain elsewhere. And if cutting was unsafe… this was just incomprehensibly dangerous.

The elder had been lucky this time – that spirit could have broken his back just as easily as it had bruised it; could have sliced through his chest or his stomach or his throat.

And what was next? If his brother failed to sustain some injury at the hand of what they were hunting, what then would he try?

The thought terrified Sam through to the tips of his toes, images of his big brother 'hustling' and having an 'accidental misunderstanding' with some three hundred pound biker flashing through his mind.

Sam heaved his breath out, weary and troubled, carefully shifting the makeshift icepack lower. This was definitely worse than a few shallow cuts on Dean's arms.

"Fuck, Dean…" he muttered. Sam's chest was tight; he had no idea how to help his brother.

He knew he could let the elder out of his promise. Was the cutting really so awful if the alternative was this much worse? If the alternative could very possibly get his brother killed?

Sam drew his knees up, pressing his forehead against them. What the fuck was wrong with them? What kind of sick, disgusting freak did you have to be to end up in a situation like this?

He felt dirty – dirty and worthless. And helpless. And he hated that, were he awake, Dean could rid him all such feelings. But, Sam… Sam had no clue how to aid his brother.

All the guilt he'd felt for those events which Dean had actually begun to convince him weren't his fault was creeping back. The guilt and the ache…

Sam took a deep breath. He could control the ache. Could control it with ice and remembrance of his brother's words. He could best the guilt – granted, he needed help, but help he had. He could. He would.

But Dean…

The younger wasn't even sure it was just release from fault and grief that his brother sought. He wasn't confidant that the elder had been cutting to but free the ache that built within him in a spill of his own blood. Sam didn't believe his brother tore his flesh just to ease trouble over a child's death – though, Dean had always taken it hard when a kid died.

Sam was terrified that, for whatever failures, transgressions, and wrongs his brother had imagined himself accountable for, Dean felt he deserved to be punished. He was scared that his brother honestly believed he deserved the pain, deserved to hurt, deserved to suffer. The thought was more than enough to make a little brother sick.

The younger realized he was trembling slightly, Sam taking several large gulps of air to help calm himself down.

He had to get his brother to stop looking for injury; had to stop it now before the injuries had a chance to get worse. He knew he could tell Dean what the worry was doing to him; tell him, honestly, that alone he was lost. But such would only cause the elder to feel guilty for having attempted the outlet at all. And the last thing Dean needed was more guilt.

"You don't deserve this," Sam whispered, voice barely audible. He swept a hand through his brother's hair in a kind impulse that he would never have yielded to, had not the elder been lost to a drugged sleep. "Of all the people in the world why you would think you deserve this…"

He had no idea what, but Sam had to think of something.