That Ache
Chapter Seven

Author's Note: Well, the last chapter wasn't received as well as I'd hoped, but I thought I'd put this one out there regardless. Reviews remind us that's it's still worth posting! So, please do drop a note; good, bad or ugly. And another huge thanks to my wicked Beta!

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

Sam stifled a gasp of pain, steeling himself not to rip his arm away from his brother's ministrations. "Shit!"

"Dude, keep still!"

"Yeah, just take it easy, will you? It's still attached!"

"And you're damn lucky it is! That thing nearly took it clean off!"

Sam hissed, squeezing the sheets as the elder meticulously treated the ragged gash that spilt his left arm from shoulder to elbow. "Mother fucker…"

"What the hell did you think you were you doing back there?"

The younger felt a bloom of anger pulse through him. "Hunting bad things. You know, the usual."

"Dammit, Sam!" Dean began bandaging the laceration. "What the fuck were you thinking getting in my way like that? Didn't you see I had the fucking rifle up? Were you trying to get your head blown off?"

Sam felt his anger swelling. He hissed vehemently, "You weren't going to fire."

"Well, duh, Sam! I'm not going to intentionally replace your skull with buckshot! But – fuck! – if you'd have been a second later…"

"You weren't going to fire at all!" the younger spat.

"Yeah, that makes a lot of fucking sense!"

Sam's eyes narrowed at his brother, the elder fastening the bandage. "I'm not stupid, you know! I know you were trying to goad it into taking a piece out of you!"

"Are you fucking high or something?"

"Dean! You promised me you wouldn't cut, so now you're trying to get yourself wounded during the hunt!" Sam's breath shuddered in anger and fear. "You're going to get yourself killed! Is that what you want?"

"Don't ask retarded questions."

Sam snorted then shook his head slowly. "We need to do something about this. This can't go on."

"There's nothing going on!" Dean clipped the bandage, leaning back from his brother.

"That's bullshit and you know it!" Sam sighed, looking down. "Dean… Tell me about that kid. Tell me about when you started cutting."

"Excuse me?"

"Tell me about that kid. Help me understand what's happening with you. Let me help you…"

"No, Sam," Dean turned away, beginning to neatly repack the first aid kit. "We aren't doing this. We aren't talking about this. This is ridiculous!"

"I need to know."

"Why?" the elder spat. "It didn't involve you! You weren't there!"

"It's destroying you!"

"I'm fine!"

"Bullshit!" Sam held his bandaged arm carefully. "You told me to come to you… Why don't you take your own fucking advice?"

"I wasn't the one who wanted to be caught!"

Silence greeted the elder's exclamation. The words wrapped around Sam, the young man opening his mouth to speak, but finding no vocabulary at his disposal. Sam looked at his brother, taken aback by Dean's quick breaths and shuttered, nearly wild eyes.

"What… What do you mean?" Sam asked hesitantly.

"Nothing," Dean dismissed, turning back to the medical supplies spread across the table.

The younger shook his head, not trying to hide the first shimmer of tears lighting in his eyes. "Why can't you… Dammit… Don't you trust me?"

Dean looked to his brother's sad, hurt face. "Dude, there are two people in this world that I do trust. Why don't you take a stab in the dark as to who they are?"

"Then why won't you talk to me about this? Why won't you let me help?"

"Me? What the fuck about you?"

Sam blinked, puzzled. "What..."

"You told me that you trusted me."

"I do!" Sam sputtered. "Do you really think I'd be trying to have this discussion if I didn't?"

"Yeah? If you trust me, then when were you planning on telling me the truth?"

"About what?" the younger felt his grasp on the conversation slipping.

"About your cutting." Dean took a step toward his brother, managing to appear taller than Sam despite his height. "About why you started. And when."

The younger felt the color draining from his cheeks. "I told you…"

"You told me a lie. Or one of your half-truths, which is the same thing."

Sam closed his eyes, sinking onto the bed, knees suddenly feeling weak. "That night you found me… It was the first time since I started hunting again."

"Yeah. And before that? Want to tell me about when we were kids?"

"Shit…" Sam lowered his eyes to the floor. "How do you even know about that?"

"I'm your brother… And I'm not an idiot." He met Sam's questioning gaze without blinking. "That time in the motel… The slashes were perfect; even, none too deep to need stitches or to scar. And it's pretty plain that you're… addicted… That would have had to have happened awfully quickly, don't you think?"

"It could…"

"Yeah, but it didn't." Dean stood over his brother. "So why don't we cut the bullshit? I knew when we were kids too."

Sam looked up, threatening tears growing heavier. "You did?"

"You really think I wouldn't notice? The long sleeved shirts in summer, the three weeks we spent in Miami when you didn't want to go swimming once, the pocket knife in the medicine cabinet…"

"Oh man…" Sam squeezed his temples. "I thought…"

"And I should have said something then… But, you know what, Sam? I fucked up. I thought you were just going through some teenager thing. Just some insubstantial little phase that you wanted to deal with on your own. Because I didn't know shit about cutting and I thought you were just acting out."

"I'm sorry," the younger muttered. "I just… Fuck. Sometimes things just got to be too much, you know? I felt like I'd lost control of everything. And I just needed to… It just… It hurt… And the cutting… it helped…"

"You never said anything."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, "I couldn't… Damn. I knew I couldn't talk to Dad…"

"Yes, you could have."

"No. We were screaming at each other at least once a week then…"

"He's your father."

"Still…" For a moment, Sam entertained the idea of letting the conversation drift to John – if they were quarreling about their father, Sam wouldn't have to complete his confession… But arguing about John wouldn't help his brother. "And I… I was scared to talk to you about it."

"What?"

"I was afraid… Of what you'd say, how you'd react, how you'd look at me if you knew…" Sam hugged himself with his good arm. "I thought… I thought you'd be repulsed. That you'd think I was some twisted, sick, little freak…"

Dean sank heavily onto the second bed, back to his brother.

"I'm sorry…" Sam whispered.

"You're sorry?" A shudder raced up the elder's spine. "Dammit, Sammy… Whatever… Whatever I did that made you think you couldn't turn to me… Couldn't confide in me…"

"Dean…"

" 'Sorry' isn't enough."

"Dean," Sam rose stepping to the opposite bed. "It wasn't your fault. I didn't let you help me."

"Because you were scared." His hands closed into fists. "I should have been there for you."

"You can't blame yourself for something I did as a kid."

"Were you cutting in college too?"

"No," Sam swallowed. "I cut the first day I got there and not again until… until you caught me."

Dean closed his eyes, glad Sam had allowed him to keep his back to him. He cursed himself bitterly – his baby brother had felt the need to cut while he was with him growing up and again once they were back together… but not while Sam was at school, not while they were separated. "Shit, Sammy…"

"Dean…"

"You were clean for four years?"

"Clean? Yeah…"

"Why'd you start again? Why'd you slash at yourself in that motel?"

"Because I… Because of the guilt and Jess and… Because I was in pain, man." He looked away even though he couldn't see his brother's face. "And I needed someone to know. Because I needed to fucking talk to someone."

Dean shifted, twisting to face the younger, "What?"

"I needed to talk about all this shit. I needed to talk to you! And I just… I know how you hate your emotional discussions."

The look that crossed Dean's face sucked all the air from the younger's lungs, "You thought I wouldn't listen… wouldn't try to help unless… unless you put a blade to your wrists?"

Abruptly, Sam felt like the selfish bastard he'd been accused of being. "I didn't mean it like that…"

"Yes, you did."

"Dean…"

"Fuck. Is that what I…" The elder ran his hand through his hair. "Fuck. How did I become this? How could I… How did I let it get to where you thought you couldn't come to me?"

"Dean," Sam stepped forward. "You've helped me, man. Are helping me. More than you know."

"How did I fuck up this badly?"

"Dean," the younger's voice became firm, Sam watching his brother begin rubbing at his arm, recognizing the gesture for what it was. "This is not your fault. This is what I did."

"I'm sorry, Sam. You can come to me, you know? With… With anything. Any time… I'm not… I'm not going to judge you or…"

"I know." Sam reached out to catch his brother's wrist, holding it still, worried by the glimmer of hysteria radiating from the elder. "Stop it. I know."

"When… When we were kids…"

"I don't want to talk about when we were kids." He forced his brother to meet his eyes. "I want to talk about now. I want you to trust me and let me take my turn at helping you, for once." Sam saw his brother about to make some retort, the younger not giving him the chance. "Because it's tearing me up that you're helping me with all my shit and I can't do crap for yours."

"I'm all right, Sam."

"You're not, though. You're not." The younger bit his lip. "You're not the only one who can read his brother… Your cutting… it's not just about release, or relieving an ache… You think you deserve it, don't you? That you deserve to be punished? To hurt? To suffer?"

Dean stood abruptly, "We're not doing this."

"So, what? You'll talk as long as it's about me? As long as it's only my problems?"

"I want to help you."

"You think I don't return the sentiment?" Sam shook his head. "Dean, the shit that affects you affects me too. Especially if it gives you a death wish."

"I don't have a death wish!"

"I can't stand seeing you getting yourself hurt! Fuck, Dean! This can't go on! We need to deal with this! And it's pretty clear you aren't coping on your own!"

"Fuck off, Sam! I'm fine!"

"Do you have any idea how much guilt I feel at not being able to help you? At not even being able to try?" Sam watched the expression on his brother's face change. "You say you trust me…"

"Of course I do…"

"Then talk to me! Let me fucking try!" The younger drew a long breath. "You said you started 'cause a kid was killed?"

"Yeah…"

"Well, Dean, I hate that it's true… but that's happened before. Why did this one get to you?"

"Let it alone, Sammy. Please."

Sam frowned, his brother wasn't one for 'please.' "Dean, what happened?"

"Nothing you need to worry about."

The younger shook his head. "Look, I get that you want to protect me, but I'm a grown up, all right? I can handle it. I need to know." Sam sighed when his brother didn't reply. "Does Dad know what happened?"

"Yeah. But he didn't see it…"

"If Dad knows then it isn't a secret. I can know too."

"No, Sam…"

"Dean, that little girl…"

"Boy. It was little boy."

Sam grasped for straws, deciding to stick with what his brother allowed until he could draw out more. "How old?"

"His seventh birthday was two weeks away."

Expression gentle, Sam pressed, "His name?"

"Evan Michaels…" Dean started rubbing at his forearm again. "Kid was obsessed with 'Power Rangers'… His favorite was the blue one, just like yours."

"When did you meet him?"

"Couple months after you went to Stanford…" The elder slid his hand beneath his sleeve to rub at bare skin. "It was just him and his mom… The dad bailed as soon as he found out his girlfriend was pregnant."

"Asshole."

"Yeah… But, um… You know… All they had was each other."

"Dean," Sam caught his brother's wrist once more. "What happened to him? What happened to Evan? Please… you have to tell me."

"He died."

"How, Dean?" Sam hadn't realized how much trepidation had seeped into him. He almost hoped his brother wouldn't reply. "You can trust me. Please, trust me. I need to know you can. I need to know that you do. It'll help me, to know that you do…"

"Dammit, Sammy…" the elder muttered, voice barely above a breath.

"What happened to that little boy, Dean?"

"Fuck..."

The nervousness swelled, but Sam knew his brother was close to caving – deep down he'd always known the elder would do anything for him… and that included revealing the worst things to ever transpire in his life. "Please, Dean. Tell me what happened to Evan."

And in the following instant, Sam wished he'd never asked.

Dean's voice was ragged as he whispered, "I killed him…"