Sam sits with his back against the bathroom door, his hunting knife gripped tightly in his hand. Crimson streaks run down his arm horizontally, each aching line representing the pain that bleeds out with it.

The blade digs in again, slicing the skin open to reveal white, until red spills over. He watches, mesmerized.

Dean is gone for the night. Out at some bar, probably chatting up a girl right now. He's got till morning, at least, he thinks. Blood drips from his arm to the floor, making a mess that he'd have to clean up later.

Dean wouldn't understand. Nothing else helps. This is the only thing that can take the pain away, the only thing that pulls him through another day. Relief rushes through his mind, through his bones, and he slices again, and again.

He's pulled from his haze by the motel door opening. "Sam? I'm back."

Panic grabs at Sam. He tries to say something but the words get stuck in his throat.

"Sam?"

"I-In here, Dean," he says, hoping it doesn't sound as pathetic as it felt.

"You ok?"

"Fine." Too quick. Damnit.

Silence. "Sam, I'm coming in."

"No! No, Dean, wait, just wait... I'll be out in a minute, I'm just..." He searches his brain for something to say, but his scrambled thoughts are doing him no favors. The doorknob rattles, and Sam jumps.

"Get away from the door, man."

"No," Sam answers, meaning for it to come out defiant but it just sounds scared.

"I just wanna make sure you're ok."

The concern in Dean's voice makes Sam want to puke. He doesn't deserve that. "Well, I-I said I am," he replies.

Dean doesn't answer, instead just turns the doorknob and pushes the door open, moving Sam along with it.

"Dean- Dean stop!" he cries out, trying to push back against him but not in a very good position to do so.

He manages to get the door open enough to squeeze through. "Sam-" he starts, before stopping short when his eyes fall on his brother. "What the hell..."

Sam looks up at his brother, the concerned emerald green orbs blurred by the tears in his own eyes. "D-Dean..." he stutters, not sure what to say. This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't...

"Sammy... you... what the hell..." Dean's tone is soft, hurt, broken in the worst way. His Sammy, his baby brother... doing this?

A sob escapes Sam's lips, bringing Dean back to the moment. "Sam, what the hell are you doing?" he asks. His tone was still soft, just wanting to understand, wondering how he missed it. Scars litter his brother's arms, some months, maybe years old.

"I- you wouldn't understand," Sam whispers.

"Then help me. Tell me. Why?"

Sam takes a shaky breath. "It just... it helps. Nothing helps, Dean, but this does. I-It makes me feel ok. I need to feel- I'm not ok, Dean." He sobs, trying to curl in on himself but Dean's right there, wrapping him up, holding him. He grabs the knife from his brother's shaking hand, sliding it across the motel room.

He holds his shaking brother for several minutes before sitting him up carefully as the sobs subside. "You have to stop, ok?"

Another involuntary sob escapes Sam. "No, I can't… please, you can't make me. It's all I have." He whispers the last part.

Dean shakes his head. "No. You have me. You always have me, Sammy."

Sam's gaze fixes on the floor, on the pile of his own blood, still growing from one sluggishly bleeding deeper wound. "I'm sorry Dean."

"You got nothing to be sorry for," he replies. Thoughts fly through his head, so many thoughts, questions. What is he supposed to do about this? Sam doesn't want to quit.

He tries to push the thoughts out of his head, to focus on the moment. "Come on, Sammy, let's get you cleaned up."

"I-I can do it," Sam protests weakly.

"No," Dean replies, helping him get to his feet. He looks Sam in the eyes. "You're not doing this alone."

After a second, Sam nods and lets Dean lead him to one of the beds. He pours whiskey on the wounds and bandages them up well, complying for now with Sam's insistence that they didn't need stitches. And maybe covering more area than he needed to, as if the white cloth would keep his brother from opening any more skin.

When he's done, he looks back up at his brother. "You know we have to talk about this, right?" Sam's eyes go back to the floor. "Hey, look at me," Dean says gently, lifting his brother's face. "I'm not mad, ok? I'm not. I just need you to talk to me."

Sam sighs. "I don't know what there is to say, Dean. It helps. It's the only thing that helps, and I'm not quitting," he answers stubbornly.

"Then let me help you," Dean says. "I'll be there, Sammy. I can do whatever you need me to, just don't… not that. Ok? Not that."

"It isn't that easy," Sam groans. "I can't just quit, just like that. Cold turkey."

Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. "Alright. I get it."

"You do?" Sam's eyebrows raise in shock. He was definitely expecting more pushback on that.

"Yeah. I do. Look, I'm not asking you to quit. But when you feel like this, you come to me. You can cut, but I have to watch. Make sure it's not too bad, and I'll get you cleaned up after."

"What? No, Dean, I can't do that," Sam protests.

"Well, that's your only choice. Otherwise I'll be watching you twenty-four seven, and that could get annoying real quick."

Sam huffs a sort of laugh, but soon his face loses the small spark. "Come on, Dean, you don't wanna see that."

"Oh, I don't want it happening at all, but if it's going to I'm sure as hell not leaving it unsupervised." Before Sam can respond, Dean adds, quietly, "Sam… you weren't trying to… you know…"

A somber moment passes before understanding dawns on Sam's face, and his jaw drops open. "Oh. No. No, Dean, I swear. I wasn't, really I wasn't."

Dean nods quickly, trying to calm his brother's rambling. "Ok. I believe you, Sam."

Sam sighs in relief, nodding back.

Dean gets up from the chair and pulls his brother into a hug, tight and suffocating and terrified, like if he let go Sam might just disappear.

"I'm ok, Dean. I'm ok," Sam reassures him quietly, but sinks into the hug like a lifeline.

A moment longer, and Dean pulls back. "Nah, you're not, Sammy. But that's ok. You got me."