That Ache
Chapter Six

Author's Note: Sorry about the delay; you (and I) have my first and only Beta to thank for everything from here on out! The next chapter shouldn't be nearly so long in coming, it's already in the works. And, of course, 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.

Three weeks had passed.

Dammit, three fucking weeks.

Sam sat with one leg tucked beneath him on some hard bed in some motel he couldn't recall the name of in some city in Oklahoma, distractedly chewing on a granola bar.

He rubbed his eyes. Three weeks had passed and he had yet to speak with his brother. Three weeks – the bruises were faded or gone, the smaller cuts mostly healed, the sutures removed, Dean able to sit in the car and drive again without grimacing… and absolutely nothing solved.

They'd worked a job since and were on their way to another. The previous hunt hadn't been especially difficult, nor especially simple – it was, oddly, as 'normal' as it could have been. And Sam had spent every instant in that shit town in Texas scared out of his mind.

But Dean had been on his game; hadn't tried anything even remotely… self-destructive. And Sam had dared to let hope creep through; hope that he'd been wrong after all, hope that the last injury truly had been accidental.

But, really, he knew. Knew such wasn't the truth.

Dean didn't cut every night; he wouldn't constantly go looking for injury either. But how long would it be until the next time?

How long, Sam? How the fuck much longer can you afford to wait? You have to do something!

But how in the hell do breach a subject like that? Especially with someone not 'overly fond' of discussing personal matters…

'Overly fond.' Sam snorted quietly, unwilling to wake his brother.

Trying to get the elder to open up was like… Hell, Sam couldn't think of an adequate comparison. It seemed the only time he would even allow a serious discussion was when it was to help the younger.

Sam blinked. Sitting in the fresh light of dawn he came to realize just how much he and his brother had been talking lately – and not just about girls or cars or movies, but really talking.

The night Dean had found him in the bathroom, they had sat up nearly until sunrise, the elder discussing whatever Sam felt need to talk about, allowing the conversation to drift wherever Sam had seemed to need it to drift. When he thought Sam was contemplating suicide, Dean had not only allowed the dialogue, but had allowed space when Sam needed space and allowed himself to be close when Sam needed him close.

Dean had taken off his carefully prepared and perfected mask to aid Sam with his pain and his grief; had revealed that he too was cutting, that he had held a pistol between his teeth at fifteen. To help his little brother, Dean had divulged that which he would never have spoken of…

For me…

Sam rubbed his eyes; he hadn't even realized just how much his brother had done for him, was yet doing for him.

And not only with the cutting. Every nightmare, every vision, every single fucked up thing that had happened to Sam since he left Stanford, Dean had been there – been there for him. Sam continued to throw shit in his brother's face – premonitions, cutting, telekinesis – simply expecting the elder to deal with it and not question him.

And Dean had done whatever Sam had needed him to do. He went back to Kansas, left in the middle of the night to who-knows-where, Michigan, had found a way to stop Sam from needing to cut.

He'll do it for me. Selfless bastard. Fuck, how can he think he deserves to suffer?

Sam bit his lip. He knew Dean wouldn't speak of his darkest thoughts to help himself… But if Sam could make it so that discussing such appeared to be for the younger's benefit alone…

He sighed, a few of the more daring strands of sunlight reaching through the torn drapes to trace the faded bedspread of the quiet room. Sam leaned back against the headboard, taking a bite of the granola, musing on the lattice pattern the sunlight created along his legs.

Swallowing, he set the musili on the nightstand, checking on his sleeping brother before turning back to the strands of light. Leaning forward slightly, Sam pushed up his shirtsleeves, holding his forearm under the trellis pattern of sunlight, appreciating the way it decorated his skin.

Sighing, Sam traced the mostly faded lines marking his flesh. Most of the cuts had long since healed and vanished; only a few of the deepest slashes yet leaving their impression.

He'd lied when Dean had asked him if he'd ever cut before. Well… no; he hadn't exactly "lied"… he'd 'Obi-Wan-ed it.'

Sam shook his head, laughing that his brother's phrases had made their way into his thoughts. He hadn't lied… equivocated, yes, but not lied. He'd told a half truth. What he'd said was 'true… from a certain point of view.'

The younger still remembered watching "Star Wars" with his brother, still remembered Dean laughing his ass off at the line. The elder had declared it their family motto and every half-truth or near lie they'd told from that moment on had been dubbed 'Obi-Wan-ing it'.

And Sam had taken liberty with the phrase.

The time his brother had found him, bleeding, in the bathroom had been the first time Sam had cut since returning to hunting. "Have you done this before?" His answer had been true… from a certain point of view.

Sam sighed, squeezing his hands into sharp fists. He hated lying to his brother – which was just as well, considering he was terrible at it. Dean had been able to see through his lies since before Sam had learned the word.

But when he equivocated – when he 'Obi-Wan-ed it' – there was that hint of truth that just allowed him to appear sincere. He didn't much care for using half-truths with his brother either… but sometimes such was necessary.

Biting his lip, Sam tugged his sleeves down – he didn't need the temptation; it was time to stop this. He was finally getting the help he needed; his brother was helping him. And what caused his heart to ache somewhat was the blooming realization that Dean would have helped him all along; that he'd never needed to manage on his own.

Or maybe he'd been right those years ago… Sam had started cutting long before the elder… Maybe the only reason Dean hadn't considered him a weak, disgusting freak when he he'd found out was because he had experienced it as well. Maybe if he had gone to his brother when he'd started Dean really would have judged him as bitterly as the younger had feared…

No. No, Sam knew that was horseshit. His brother had never condemned him, never judged him. Not when it came to anything serious. Dean would have helped…

The younger closed his eyes, remembering his first time; locked inside the handicapped stall in the school bathroom, his hands shaking so badly it took him three tries to get the pocketknife to his skin… And the wash of relief that flowed through him with the first rivulets of blood…

It had been pouring rain that day – he remembered his trainers had been soaked through and caked with mud from hunting the night before. It was a Tuesday afternoon like so many others… Nothing special about it, nothing noteworthy or remarkable…

Little things had been adding up, weighing on his shoulders, leaving him frustrated, angry, depressed… And that painfully normal afternoon, the last little burden had been added, sending the careful construction crashing down, violently, around him.

He'd been fighting with his father more than usual, the screaming matches enough to attract the attention of concerned neighbors, the consideration only serving to further infuriate John. The run-down townhouse they were sheltering in – Sam had never been able to say 'living in' when it came to that place – besides being a rat hole, hadn't had hot water or heat in over a week, John being too preoccupied with the current hunt to worry about bringing in any money, Dean's after school hustling only able to cover the rent and groceries enough to get by on.

Home was frustrating and school equally so. Midterm week was racing toward them and Sam felt as though he were drowning in the review work – some of which wasn't even review, but brand new as he'd started attending the current high school after the term had begun. He'd have been fighting to keep up even without the regimented hour of physical training and sparring his father drilled them through every night, without the target practice, without having to run around town searching for clues and interviewing anyone who might have information on John's latest 'evil son of a bitch.'

Plus, Sam had received the honor – and it was an honor, despite what his father had said – to join the scholastic decathlon team, John flat out forbidding him to accept, stating the extra study time would cut into Sam's research and the job came first above all things. Furious, Sam had simply slacked off on the research, doing a half assed job through spite.

And his spite had cost them.

The hunt had gone poorly from the instant it began. It should have been a quick kill – in and out, no difficulties. Instead, endless hours and far too much ammunition later, they had dragged themselves, filthy and aching through the ankle deep mud back to the truck.

And in the end they'd failed. The creature, yes, was dead… But so was the family it had threatened. Parents horribly mauled and mutilated even after life had been rent from their bodies, their teenage son escaping but long enough to make it outside before he was eviscerated in the mud.

Sam knew his crappy research job wasn't the cause of their deaths – they had simply arrived too late. Though the knowledge wasn't enough to stop his stomach from turning when they'd found the youth in the yard.

What he knew was his fault, was the wasted ammunition, the wasted time and that his brother had been hurt… And the fact that no one noticed.

As soon as the creature was dead Sam had laid into their father, John yelling right back. They'd both been so absorbed in their latest screaming brawl that neither noticed Dean was stumbling slightly as he walked, that all the color had drained from his cheeks or even that he was cradling his side.

Sam and John had managed to shout without pause for the entirety of the drive back, and continue though the townhouse and into the kitchen where John shouted even while making three cups of instant coffee and Sam had screamed back even while fishing chips from the cupboard.

They'd fought until Dean staggered into the kitchen, made some joke and collapsed, face first to the linoleum, before either his father or brother could steady him.

Sam shuddered in the shafted sunlight of the motel room, tugging his sleeves down though they already covered his wrists.

The injury had been bad, but could have been much, much worse. It was something they could manage on their own and, as such, Dean didn't consider it serious. But they hadn't been able to afford the gas bill, how could they buy painkillers? And, though, the elder had done his damnedest to suffer in silence, it was evident he was hurting.

Dean had told Sam to go ahead and go to school the next day and Sam had gone, even though John was going to be out most of the day making sure their tracks were covered and seeing about getting some money. And as soon as he'd walked into his first class, Sam had hated himself for thinking his tests were so damn important – important enough to leave his injured brother alone in that shit hole they called a residence – and the image of Dean's eyes, glassy with pain, haunted him the entire morning.

He was drowning at school, he'd fucked up at home and just before third period some asshole kid made some crack that managed to include both his 'freak' brother and his mother and Sam had just snapped. It was the kind of remark he would have easily ignored had it been said any other day at any other time, but as it was…

Sam needed a release and he needed it right fucking then.

He'd have run, but to run out the degree of hurt and frustration he was suffering, he would have needed to cover at least five miles and he just didn't have time before his next class. He'd have slugged the kid, but he knew one punch wouldn't cut it and he was worried he'd lose control and bash the little bastard's face in over and over until all the cartilage in his nose had shattered and each hit was met with a just a wet, squishing sound. He'd have just fucking screamed, but in the middle of a high school hallway…

He couldn't control his life – his father dictated it. He couldn't control his grades – he was floundering. He couldn't control the hunt, couldn't control all the death around him, couldn't control his brother's pain and hurt and anguish.

So he'd found himself slamming the door to the handicapped stall, grappling for the pocketknife in his jeans. And when he finally got his shaking hands to drag the blade across his flesh, he felt relief. He felt release and his head cleared. He was in control. He controlled the slashes.

And with the second and the third, he let the ache that had built up inside of him wash out with the blood. He let the guilt and the worry and the sensation of drowning all flow right out of him in narrow streams of coppery burgundy. And he felt so little pain through the relief… It was but a little prick in the back of his mind reminding him that he was alive and that he was bleeding.

He'd been only five minutes late for his next class and he'd gotten more accomplished in his next two periods than he'd dared to hope was possible.

The relief and clear-headedness was still buzzing through him when he'd gotten home that afternoon, the sensation swelling when he found his father already getting some food prepared and his brother resting peacefully, their kitchen table buried under fresh first aid supplies.

That night, when Dean asked him how school had been, Sam simply replied that it was fine, just busy with exams. He didn't mention the cutting. Didn't mention it the next time things got to be too much and he thought he was losing control to the point where he tore his own flesh. Nor the time after that, nor any time following.

Sam never even considered telling his father. He fought with the man, he didn't talk with him. John would have thought him weak, would have been furious… No, Sam couldn't confide in his father.

And Dean… Sam was afraid his big brother would be disgusted with him, would think him some twisted, sick fuck; was afraid Dean would be angry and disappointed and turn his back on him. Or Dean would treat him like lace spun from glass, ready to shatter at any moment, lose it and start up with his sordid habit once again

So, Sam kept his secret. And he cut when the ache made it hard to breathe, cut when he felt he'd lost all control of everything and everyone around him, cut when the jobs were so fucking horrific it was a miracle his mind didn't shut down completely leaving him a vegetable in a strait jacket.

And he cut when he escaped to college. Cut out his father's irate words. Cut out the hurt look scarring his brother's features. Cut out the irritating knowledge that he was abandoning his family and that if he wasn't hunting there was a chance innocents could be hurt.

But once he'd cut out the regret and the remorse and the guilt, Sam put his knife away. He cleaned himself up, accepted his new roommate's offer for a tour and a drink and had fallen into a life he was suited to.

For four years he'd been, for the most part, happy. And when he got stressed, or when he missed his family, Sam surrounded himself with friends and laughter and cheer and it kept the knife sheathed beneath his mattress. And when he met Jessica… Once he met Jess, Sam simply never felt the desire to self-harm.

But she died. And Sam was hunting again. And none of it was Dean's fault, but he knew the elder would blame himself.

And after that job in fucking Georgia, and the solid week of nightmares and no sleep, he just couldn't fucking help it anymore. He didn't want to stop himself. He wanted release from the ache and the guilt and the images of the woman he loved burning.

And he wanted to be caught…

He was still deathly afraid of what Dean would say, but, shit, he was in such pain and he needed someone to know it. He needed someone to help.

But when Dean had come into the bathroom to find him bloody, Sam had panicked. He saw hurt and fear and anger all flashing across his brother's face and he knew he'd been right not to tell the elder he was cutting when he was younger and that he was wrong to have let him find out now.

And he believed that to be true until his arms were bandaged and Dean had sat down beside him, gently passing him a towel to wipe away the tear-streaked blood on his cheeks. Had believed it until his brother's arm was around his back and "It's okay Sammy." Believed it until they started talking and until Dean had not only failed to judge him harshly, but began doing everything Sam could have imagined to help the younger as well as some things Sam would never have thought of.

Believed it until Sam sat in streaky sunlight in some shitty motel, after one of the worst nights of his life, with his sleeves rolled down and all their knives stowed securely in their bags or the trunk.

And Sam knew he'd been and idiot and an asshole. He should have gone to his brother that first Tuesday afternoon.

But he hadn't told him then because he'd been afraid Dean would be revolted. And he didn't tell him now because he was afraid his brother would feel guilty – would believe that if he'd just taken better care of Sam when they were kids then, not only would Sam have never felt the need to cut in the first place, but the younger would have been able to come to him those years ago instead of trying to cope alone.

It wasn't even in the same hemisphere as truth, but Sam knew his brother had a penchant for self-depreciation and for taking full responsibility for things he held no fault in.

And Sam would not grant his brother any excuse for misplaced guilt.

Somehow, some way, he had to make things better; not worse. And he had to it soon, because three weeks was too fucking long.