That Ache
Chapter Eight

Author's Note: Well… you asked for it. Thanks to my Beta and all who reviewed! Again, please let me know if it's worth bringing this to an end by leaving me your suggestions, notions and notes; good, bad or ugly.

Fingers crossed that let me update!

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

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

Rain lashed against the thin glass of dusty windows, the storm loud in the sudden silence. A nauseating dizziness swirled through Sam's head, the young man astounded by the force with which three little words could strike.

"What?" His voice was barely audible, the younger taking a step back from his brother without realizing it.

"I killed him, Sam."

"What… what do you mean… killed him?"

"I put a bullet in his skull and two in his chest."

Sam staggered, haunted by the lack of emotion in his brother's voice. He forced his eyes up and found he couldn't breathe beneath the anguish painted in vivid colors across Dean's countenance, the sentiment quickly shielded as the elder brought down every last one of the barriers he'd been constructing and perfecting since he was five.

"I don't… You wouldn't…"

"I did."

"There…" he shook his head. "There has to be something… some reason… I know you wouldn't… Would never…"

"Maybe your opinion of me is just too damn high, little brother."

Sam looked at the elder – looked straight at that fucking perfect mask and hated that he could see nothing beneath it. His chest fluttered and he wondered just how low Dean's opinion of himself truly was.

"Dean… What… What happened?"

"I told you – "

"No… I mean…" Sam closed his eyes, head spinning. His limbs felt weak and he wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to remain standing. "What…"

Get it together, Sam! Come on! Breathe!

"What was the job?"

Dean squeezed his arm subconsciously, "It was a possession."

Sam felt a flash of light and hope that calmed the sickening turmoil within him, "Dean… Man, if you were possessed… You couldn't have stopped it! It wasn't your fault; there was nothing you…"

"I wasn't."

"What?"

"I wasn't possessed."

"Oh…" All the hope the younger had gleaned plummeted out of his blood and he felt himself sagging. "I… Hell…"

Sam didn't realize he was falling until he hit the mattress. He closed his eyes for a minute, trying to remember how to breathe, feeling colder than he ever recalled being.

Dean turned away from his brother, raking his nails up the inside of his arm. He could see a tow-headed little boy behind his eyes; saw them playing on the floor of Evan's room, the boy trembling as he told Dean about the 'bad man' that no one could see.

"Are you friends with Mommy?"
"My dad is, yeah."
"Oh… Wanna play Power Rangers with me?"
"Sure! Can I be the red guy?"
"Totally! The blue guy's better, anyway!"

Dean pressed his nails harder against his skin without being aware of it, shoulders tensing.

"You'll really make the bad man go away? You promise?"
"Yeah, Buddy. Cross my heart and pinkie swear."

"Dean?"

"I do, Dean. I do trust you. I'm so happy you're my friend!"

"Dean?"

The elder whirled, startled by Sam's voice. Abruptly, he clamped his palm flat against his arm, repairing the shields that had weakened. "What?"

"Was it a demon?"

"Yeah…"

"Why…" Sam pressed his hands through his hair. "Why didn't you find an exorcism?"

"We did – Dad did." The elder brought the last barrier into place, his face again completely neutral and unreadable. "An Aramaic one."

Sam blinked. "Woah."

"Yeah…"

The younger shook his head slightly, realizing he needed more information; he had to start at the beginning. "Tell me about the demon."

"It was old. Way old." Dean pressed his hands into tight fists. "It would… um… It would get into someone and use them to murder everyone close to them before having them commit suicide. Then it would… move on… to the next."

"Holy shit..."

Dean crossed his arms tightly across his chest. "You can see why we were interested."

"But…" Sam frowned. "I don't understand… If you had the exorcism…" He looked up at his brother, "Didn't you just send it back to Hell?"

"We… I… I fucked up!" Dean kicked the chair curtly, regretting the action when his brother flinched.

"I thought it was Dad who found it…"

"And I translated it! And – shit – I got it wrong! I…" The elder turned his back to Sam, smacking his palm against the dresser. "Stupid! I was so fucking…"

"Dean…" Sam forced himself to stand, taking a cautious step toward his brother. "Aramaic, man… That's not something…"

"It didn't expel the demon."

Sam had to strain to hear the low mutter. "What did it –"

"Bound it to the host."

The younger felt a sharp pain of empathy lance through his chest, "Oh sweet hell…"

"It was too late. No going back…" Dean bit the inside of his cheek hard. "That mother fucker was… in control of… of Evan… Permanently… No matter…" He grated his fingers up his arms. "I bound it to that little boy!"

Sam concentrated on forcing air into his lungs. "It would have… Hell, it would have killed the mother and then…" Damn, he fucking hated demons. "It would have just kept right on going. That kid's whole life would have been watching 'himself' commit… Over and again… And he couldn't have done anything…"

Dean didn't turn from the wall. The darkness of another night danced behind his eyes, the terrible laughter of monster scratching through the throat of a tiny child. An innocent. A tow-headed little boy that had trusted him, put his faith in him, bled because of him.

Sam caught the chair back to steady himself, "There would have been no way to reverse it… That was it… The boy was… He was already gone…"

The demon's mocking laughter swirled through the elder's skull. He heard Evan's voiceless, unuttered pleas – save me, don't leave me, please! You promised! You promised! You were my friend! I trusted you! I believed you! You did this! You did this to me!

"Dean…"

Why?

Murderer. Murderer. Murderer!

"Dean," Sam touched the elder's sleeve, stepping back as Dean started, snapping around to face him. "If the demon was bound to corporeal form… If you destroy the host, you destroy the demon."

"That's right…"

"So you shot him – shot it." Sam saw only the flawless mask that cloaked his brother's expression. "What else could you have…"

"I should have fucking known what the fucking verses were going to do!" Dean snapped. "We could have had it possess someone else!"

The younger man flinched despite himself. "Someone still would have had to die…"

"Better me than that child!"

Sam closed his eyes, "I'm sorry."

"What're you sorry for?"

"It wasn't… wasn't your fault…"

Dean shook his head, looking away. "I shot him. Point blank."

"And then what?"

"What?"

"Then what happened? What did you do?"

Dean gritted his teeth, looking anywhere but his baby brother's eyes – he couldn't stand to see the pity and the shame and the disgust that must be glowing therein. Not directed toward him, not…

"Dean?" Sam clasped the elder's shoulders, frightened by the tremors he felt coursing through Dean's body. "Please. What happened then? Tell me."

Dean couldn't – couldn't tell his little brother. Couldn't tell him how he'd cradled the bloodied and broken little body in the darkness until John managed to locate him; couldn't tell him that he'd carried the small, lifeless boy back to his mother – the woman who had trusted them – trusted him – with her son, with her child, to tell her he was dead. He couldn't tell Sammy what she'd said, or about the funeral or the way he'd gone at himself with a hunting knife in the motel bathroom because – fuck – he did deserve to be punished for what he'd done. For the atrocity he'd committed. He deserved everything and worse!

You sick fuck! You fucking monster!

"Dean… What did you do then?"

"We got the fuck out of there!" the elder exploded, shoving his brother back sharply. "I murdered a child, remember? In cold blood! We couldn't exactly hang around for cupcakes and beer!"

Sam lowered his eyes, "Dean… I…" He knew what he needed to do – that he should reassure his brother, tell him there wasn't anything else he could have done. It was true. It should have been easy, but Sam felt his throat close up and he couldn't speak.

The elder shook his head once, reaching out to take his jacket off the chair back, opening the door and leaving the room without another word.

Sam swallowed convulsively as the door closed, consciously overriding his instincts to pursue his brother.

It had never ended like this before; no 'goodbye,' no 'be back later,' no snide little joke that would have been offensive had it not been so Dean.

The younger knew he hadn't been told the whole truth – not a lie, not even an equivocation; just the facts with something surrendered and kept in silence.

He stared at the faded paint of the door, not knowing where else to look. There were times in his life when he'd been worried about his brother – everyone worried. But, for the first time, he was scared – scared out of his mind – terrified as to where Dean would go, what he would do and what he would be like when he got back.

If he got back…

Sam fidgeted on the hard bed, eyes flicking from the novel he was trying, unsuccessfully, to read to the harsh red display of the clock. Hours had past – some of the longest and slowest of his life.

The fear he had felt for his brother swarmed into panic. It was late – so late… Any bar Dean might have wandered into would have been long closed…

Sam started as the door swung open. His heart leapt into his throat and caught there, strangling him. "Dean?"

The elder didn't reply; didn't so much as look in the direction of his brother. Icy water trailed off his body and clothes, puddling on the thin carpet, Dean shivering visibly.

Eyes lighting with concern, Sam moved to rise, halting as Dean simply turned his back to him, peeling off the soaked jacket and shirt underneath.

Hauling off sodden jeans, Dean reached for the switch on the lamp, clicking off the light and slipping into bed without a word, heedless of the fact that his boxers, hair and skin were all just as wet as the clothes he had abandoned on the floor.

Sam swallowed, blinded momentarily by the sudden darkness. Nervously, he set the book on the nightstand, lying back on his own bed.

The younger lay awake for a long time, listening to his brother's breaths and, once his eyes had adjusted, watching the elder's shoulders rising and falling. It was a fair while before Sam believed him to truly be sleeping.

Sam's chest was painfully tight. He'd had no idea the kinds of things his brother had been through. He'd had no idea how… 'messed up'… Dean was.

And he knew it wasn't just Evan. The child had been a trigger…

Sam didn't lie to himself – he was sure he knew less than half of the dire, unspeakable atrocities his brother had borne witness to, had been forced to play a part in and try to set right. Dean had always flirted casually with the darkness in their lives; Sam had been a fool to buy into the easy act of unaffectedness.

How the elder could bear so much hurt and still manage to wake with a smile for his brother, still manage to joke lightheartedly as they ground up the miles on the highway, still manage to set it all aside and caringly aid the younger with any little issue that troubled him, Sam had no idea.

Because, Sammy, he's your big brother. Sam squeezed his eyes shut.

Resolutely, Sam determined it was long past time for him to set his own troubles aside – and doing so would not be so difficult as he may have feared, for Dean had already alleviated so many of his anxieties, had already soothed Sam's mind and heart.

Sam had been in pain; had cried out for help and had embraced it as it was given. But now it was time for him to be the one offering aid and relief and freedom from such agony.

It was time for him to give aid to the selfless big brother who would never admit to needing it.