That Ache
Chapter Nine

Author's Note: Well… here she is! Thanks again to my fantastic Beta and all of you out there who took the time to share your thoughts! There should be one chapter left after this one, if, of course, anyone still wants to read it. Please do leave your notes; good, bad and ugly.

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

Sam was surprised how quickly he could go from terrified, to only slightly concerned, back to terrified again. He'd woken the morning after Dean's… confession, to the sound of the shower running; surprised he'd drifted off at all. Nervous, he'd crawled from beneath the covers, gotten dressed and made some instant coffee, while consciously trying not to concentrate on the way that his stomach roiled in apprehension when the water shut off.

He tried to prepare himself for anything - for rage, bitterness, violence, silence… And in the end, he had worried about every eventuality save for that which he was met with.

Dean was… himself. In the following days, Sam watched him closely, and, though the elder steadfastly refused to discuss or mention Evan or the demon, Dean seemed… fine. He was eating, sleeping, talking, joking and working as though naught had transpired.

Dean seemed completely unaffected. And Sam knew anyone save himself, who had spent more time in close proximity to his big brother than any other two people could, would have missed it.

The elder had come out of the bathroom that first morning with all his shields drawn across his countenance and had yet to lift any of them. No one else would have noticed… Sam did. And he worried.

Dean always wore a mask of calm indifference – for him to take that off completely took something extreme. Around strangers – on the job, in the bars, in the diners – Dean added layers to his barriers and did so effortlessly. But around Sam he had never had need for all the schooled makeup.

When the elder smiled at a stranger, he simply smiled, and the girl or the cop or the witness saw and believed it genuine. Sam knew otherwise; knew because when Dean smiled at his little brother – or, Sam recalled from their childhood, their father – there was a little glimmer of that grin in his eyes.

To Sam, it was an unspoken declaration of trust and recognition and the brotherly love he never doubted, but which neither spoke of.

But now… when Dean flashed him that trademark grin, that was all it was. The shields were down and they were bolted tight.

And Sam was scared to death as to what his brother was hiding behind those barriers – barriers that Sam had never seen so high and so thick, not when guarding against him.

Dean let out an exasperated groan, shucking a heavy duffle onto the simple table in the room. "I hate small towns."

Sam chuckled, closing the door behind them. "When we were in Denver, you said you hated big cities."

"Yeah," the elder smirked. "I hate small town people and big city traffic."

"Can't be helped then," Sam jibed, desperately searching his brother's grin for that little glimmer he'd taken for granted since childhood, but finding nothing – Dean's shields were still in place.

"Guess not." He nodded toward the bag. "Get it over with so we can go for beers?"

"You're gonna wind up an alcoholic."

"Not for a few more years," the elder quipped. He unzipped the bag, pulling out a .45, along with a pair of hunting knives that had taken a beating on their last hunt, arranging the supplies to clean and sharpen them. "Giving me a hand here, or what?"

"Yeah," Sam stepped to the table, quickly taking the knives from his brother. "You take the Beretta."

Dean raised an eyebrow, not missing the gesture. He shook his head, "All right, Sam, what the hell is going on?"

The younger sought frantically to pull an innocent expression over his features. "Weapons maintenance." He gestured the gear spread over the table, sitting casually across from his brother. "Your idea, remember?"

Clearing his throat, Dean looked pointedly to the blades sitting before the younger.

Sam followed his gaze nonchalantly. "What?" He forced a dismissive grin, "I'm not gonna cut."

"I know." The elder's tone was sober and cold. "You expect me to?"

"Dude," Sam desperately hoped the innocent look still hid his countenance. "You're quicker with the gun than me. I thought you'd want to get this done fast so we –"

"Sam, I'm not an idiot," he cut his brother off. "Don't treat me like one."

"What're you talking about?" Sam felt his cheeks burning, praying he hadn't flushed – he knew exactly what the elder meant.

"Come off it, man," Dean snorted in the back of his throat. "You've got the knife under my pillow sheathed or packed away before I can finish taking a piss in the morning…"

"If everything's packed we can leave sooner," the younger rationed weakly.

"You've taken your razor out of the bathroom."

"So what?" Sam shrugged. "You use the electric anyway."

Dean raised an eyebrow, anger staining his tone. "You're watching me like a fucking hawk and it's driving me insane! And don't even dream of claiming you don't know what I'm talking about!"

The younger lowered his eyes to the tabletop. "I'm worried about you…"

"Why?" the elder demanded haughtily.

"All this shit that's happened…"

"Are we living in different worlds or something?" Dean snapped. "Things've been going pretty damn well lately, Sam! That last job –"

"I meant with…" The younger took a steadying breath, preparing for an onslaught. "With Evan…"

"That was four years ago!" Dean smacked his palm down on the table. "Four fucking years! No one worried about me then, why the piss should anyone worry now?"

Sam flinched, "Dad didn't worry about you?"

The elder pursed his lips, glaring, "Dad had the decency to take me at my word when I told him I was all right."

Sighing inaudibly, Sam shook his head. That was typical – the dictated Winchester response to anything and everything was 'suck it up, shrug it off and don't mention it again.'

"But you aren't all right…"

"Ah, hell, Sam! Come on!"

"You aren't acting like yourself…"

"What?" Dean barked. "How in the hell am I not acting like myself?"

Sam clamped down hard on his tongue. If he told his brother about that little ghost of a smile that used to reflect in his eyes, Sam would never see it again; Dean would bolt down the shields even tighter.

The elder snorted at the lack of response and shook his head. "At least Dad got the hell off my back."

Sam looked up, bracing himself, "It wasn't your fault. With that boy… None of it was your fault."

"Shut up!" Dean snapped vehemently, not missing the little flash of shock that went through his brother at his tone. "Just fucking stop! I don't want your damn pity! Your half-assed sympathy!"

"Dean…"

"The only reason you're forgiving me is because you fucking have to! You're in a position where you've got no option!"

"What?" Sam questioned, honestly confused.

"You can't fucking afford to blame me! Because, right now, you're stuck with me! And you need me to help you get your fucking revenge!"

"That is not…"

"Yes it is!" The elder hissed, "Face it, Sammy. If you'd have been at Stanford when you found out – if I had called you the night I shot that little child – you'd have just fucking disowned me. Just denied you ever had a brother to begin with!"

Sam could barely breathe for the lance that had driven through his chest. "That's not true."

"No? Your views on murder were always black and white, little brother."

"Nothing is black and white. There're always shades of grey…"

"Oh yeah?" Dean scoffed. "What would all your college friends say if they knew you were hanging out with a murderer?"

"Dammit, you are not a murderer!" Sam screamed in exasperation. His breaths heaved, "You… You're my brother. I know you…"

"And you know I killed someone! So what does that make me?"

Sam sighed weakly, squeezing the bridge of his nose, "Dammit, Dean…"

"And now you're stuck with a killer you don't trust."

The younger shook his head, meeting his brother's gaze directly. "You are not a killer. And I do trust you – beyond life and reason."

"Bull."

"No, it isn't."

"You don't even bloody trust me to sharpen the knives! You don't trust me not to cut myself. Or to help you with your cutting…"

"I think it's pretty obvious that I do trust you with that. I wanted you to catch me, remember?"

"And since that night?"

"Since that night you've done more for me than I could have possibly imagined!"

"All right… and what about since I told you about Evan?"

Emotion that Sam had struggled so hard to control was bearing down upon him. "Dean… I haven't cut…"

"You haven't come to me either."

"I've been all right…"

"Don't fucking lie to me!" Dean shoved his chair back sharply. "You think I don't notice the fucking nightmares, Sammy?"

"They're just nightmares…"

"Just?" Dean retorted. "Yeah, just nightmares that leave you fucking breathless and smearing half a bucket of ice up your arms!"

Sam paled, "You saw that?"

"I was trained to wake at the sound of a door opening! So, yeah, I notice when you're shouting in your sleep then spend the next hour trying not to resort to a blade!" The elder shook his head, "I thought you were going to come to me, Sam. When you felt the need to slash yourself apart!"

"Don't you see, though, man," Sam's voice gleaned a desperate hope. "You've helped me so much that I'm at the point where I can deal with it on my own. Where I can get through a bad night without falling back on the slashes."

"So, you'd rather cope alone?"

"Dean…" Sam closed his eyes. "Look, I…" He sighed, "You've done so much for me. I just… I wanted to put it aside – put my shit aside for the moment – and see if I couldn't do the same for you. See if I couldn't help you…"

"So, you think I'm so damn weak and fragile that I can't deal with what's happening to you?"

"That isn't it at all. That's not what I said." Sam took a long, calming breath. "Look, I know how hard this is. And, yes, I'm sorry, but I worry about you. I know how easy it is to slip…"

"To 'slip,' huh?" Dean scowled, anger blooming in his expression. "You figure I 'slipped,' do you?"

"That isn't…"

"Well, here, Sam!" Dean shoved his sleeves up brutally, displaying the unbroken skin of his forearms. "Are you fucking satisfied now?"

"Look, Dean, I…"

"No! Don't 'look, Dean' me! I made you a promise, Sam! A fucking promise! So, what? You don't take me at my word anymore? That it?"

"Of course I do! I just…" The younger forced several deep breaths, determined to stay calm. "This isn't… isn't something you can just stop. Especially not your own like this."

Dean snorted, "You quit on your own at college."

"Yeah, and a great job I did! First sign of trouble and I'm back at it again." He shook his head, "You helped me… You did. And I want to help you."

The elder squeezed his hands into fists, setting his brother with a firm stare. "You have no idea the shit that I've done, Sam. That I've seen."

"I realize that…"

"Good! Then smarten up and realize that you don't to want to fucking know either!"

"If it'll help you to talk about…"

"Play Dr. Phil with someone else, Sammy boy! I ain't interested!"

"I can handle it, you know? Knowing about this stuff. You don't have to try and protect me from it."

Dean scoffed, "If you could have handled it, then you'd have been there when it all went it down! But I didn't fucking see you covering me!" He shook his head, "Or maybe you could have handled it… You were just too fucking busy with your damn pep-rallies and bake sales to find time to watch your brother's back!"

"That's right, Dean…" Sam sneered. "Every time we disagree about something you manage to bring up my leaving for school. Just throw it my face again! What the fuck do you want from me, man! You want an apology or something? You want me to say, 'Oh, Dean! I'm so sorry that I had to get away from hunting and the life that I hated, that you damn well knew I hated!' Well, forget that!"

"I don't want some weak ass apology from you! Just don't you dare believe that you can understand…"

"Give it a rest! I can understand! I just don't know! And I only don't know because you're just too fucking tough to talk about anything! But I'm the selfish bastard, right?"

"You just didn't care –"

"Oh, bullshit!" Sam snapped. "Let's not even start with that crap, all right?" He seethed, "You could have done anything you wanted too! Don't bitch at me just because I actually did! You could have gone to any college you wanted, same as me!"

"Oh, sure. Yeah, I remember them just begging me to attend! Just throwing the fucking scholarships at my door!"

"You were always smart enough! You just never tried, 'cause Dad –"

"Stop!" Dean waved his arm angrily. "Maybe I do bring up your leaving… throw it in your face. But you throw Dad in mine! How I never think beyond his little 'crusade'! How I'm, just his good fucking little soldier!"

"Son of a bitch!" Sam exploded. "I was possessed when I said that! Fucking possessed! And I tried to fucking apologize for it even then! And what did you say? Something to the extent of: 'Chill Sammy. You think I'm some fucking greenhorn who's never dealt with possession before.' Am I warm?"

The younger drew up to his full height, "And you said you didn't blame me!"

"I don't…"

"Well, you know what, Dean; if you forgive someone – if you never fucking blamed them in the first place – you can't use that shit against them!"

The elder snarled, "You're going stand there and preach to me about fucking forgiveness? You think you have that right?"

"Dean…" Sam growled, voice low in warning.

"Shut up!" the elder snapped. "You're going to tell me to forgive! I've forgiven everything in my life! And you? You can't even fucking forgive Dad – forgive him for doing the best that he fucking could for us! You can't forgive me for getting you from Stanford! All I ever get from your ungrateful ass is whining about wanting to go back!"

Dean threw his arms out in exasperated fury, "And, you know what, Sam…" His voice dropped to a hiss. "You can't even forgive yourself for some damn demon setting your precious little girlfriend on fire! Even though you've stopped giving a fuck that it happened to Mom too!"

"Fuck you!" Sam hollered, swinging his fist around in a vicious right hook.

As soon as the punch was thrown, thought kicked back in and Sam knew he was going down. The shape shifter had been right – even when they were kids, Dean had always kicked his ass. Even when he gained the height advantage, Dean kicked his ass. And now, with his training having slacked for four years - even if he was still good - Dean was going to kick his ass.

But Sam was going to make him work for it.

Dean caught his fist in the air, twisting his wrist sharply and dragging him around. Sam responded on instinct, worming free and striking low.

The moves were still practiced, if not as graceful as they had been when they trained daily in their youth. Within seconds a wild fist-fight had become a spar.

Sam knew the exact instant he'd lost. He felt Dean force him into the position that used his height against him, one that his brother had used to take him down countless times, one that Sam knew how to counter, but wasn't always fast enough.

He grunted as his knee crumpled, leg swept out from beneath him, his back landing hard on the thin carpeting. Sam tried to move, but the elder had come down with him and Sam found himself with his right arm twisted and braced, a knee pinning his hip to the floor before he could respond.

Sam froze as a hand grasped his throat, the younger man looking up his brother, knowing beyond doubt that his trapped wrist would never be twisted too far, nor the grip on his windpipe tighten.

He panted hard, glad to see the elder was breathing heavily as well. Refusing to break eye contact, he lay still, unable to escape and knowing it was frivolous to try. After a time, he rasped, "Well?" Gaining no response, Sam hissed, "At least the shifter had the balls to squeeze."

Sam watched recognition and guilt flicker across his brother's face as Dean came to fully realize the position they were in. He was surprised when the elder didn't back away immediately.

"You gonna take another swing at me?"

Shame, but not regret burned through the younger, "No."

"All right," Dean rocked back easily onto his heels, standing, letting Sam crawl up to his feet himself.

"Sorry," Sam grumbled, scuffing the toe of his trainer on the floor in a nervous habit he'd picked up from his brother when he was young.

"Fuck it," Dean dismissed. "Hell I deserved it."

The younger man shook his head, closing his eyes, "You don't deserve pain. To suffer. You don't."

"Just get the hell off my back, Sam," the elder hissed.

Sam snorted, "Heaven forbid someone worry about you!"

"Fuck off! I don't need or want your concern! Or your sympathy!"

"What the hell do you want then?"

"I want you to get the fuck out of my face!" Dean ripped his jacket from the chair back. "And I want you to clean that fucking gun and sharpen those blades!"

"And where the hell are you going to be?"

"I am going to hustle some pool so we can pay for this fucking shit hole room! And I'm going to do it without having to put up with your condescending little comments!"

"Well, excuse me for preferring honest money! And why're you really going, Dean?" Sam's eyes were dark with accusation. "Hoping to get your head pounded in, in some damn bar fight? After all, there's no spirit in the immediate vicinity for you to coerce into throwing through a damn wall!"

The elder took one step toward Sam, threat and fury a physical presence orbiting him, "I don't have to, Sam," he hissed venomously. "Not when I've got a little brother who'll try to kick my ass instead."

Sam couldn't reply, standing stricken as, once more, his brother walked out of their small room and into the night.

"Fuck!" he hollered at the top his voice, slamming his fist into the wood.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!

He'd tried to fix things! Tried to help! Where the hell had he gone so wrong? How the hell could he have screwed up so badly?

Sam now felt truly lost. They'd come so far and he'd destroyed it. He'd destroyed everything and no idea how to begin the mending.