Rating: M (to be on the safe side-rating will probably go down in future chapters)

Main Character: Sam

Pairing: none

Genre: angst

Warnings: This story deals with the issue of self harm. Some of this stuff could be quite graphic and may upset some readers. This is a warning to all people who do not want to read about this topic. And to those who want to flame me by saying that I don't know what I am talking about, I do, so leave me alone.

Concrit and reviews welcome.

Title: Emptiness and Razor Blades

Sam glanced at the clock; it was over two hour since Dean left, enough time to be certain that he wasn't going to come back from the usual hustle of pool early. He couldn't stand it any more; the way his fists clenched with stress while his brother was around, the way his thoughts wandered back to the same old thing when he wasn't. The way he wanted to do what was sick and disgusting and oh so wrong.

He got up off the bed and paced around the room, trying to distract himself, but at the same time knowing that he was just to damn addicted. And he didn't really want to stop. Sure there were days where it caused him more harm than good, but those days were few and far between, and he knew he could hide what he was doing so that he could keep indulging in his shameful secret.

He reached for his bag and dug down near the bottom. His thumb caught on a sharp edge and he cursed; the pain sharp and unexpected. What he was doing was so many different shades of wrong, but it made him feel… feel real, good even. No, scratch that, it was ecstasy. Hands shaking with need, he pulled the knife from his bag. It was sharp, the blade glinting in the dim light of their crappy apartment.

Something banged against a trash can outside the window and Sam almost dropped the knife. He heard a distinct meow and drew a sigh of relief. He crossed the room quickly and grabbed the first aid kit off the table. He locked the bathroom door behind him and sank onto the cold tile floor, pressing his back up against the wall. He swiftly rolled his long jacket sleeves up to the elbow and grasped the knife. Glancing at the door and listening to make sure Dean hadn't come home since the last time he'd checked, he pressed the knife to his bare skin.

He drew the knife across his arm quickly, reviling in the sensation it caused, the pain, the realness and it felt… to him, his version of heaven. The placed the knife to skin over and over again, blood running down his arm and onto the floor. Sam reached across for a towel and spread it in front of him, soaking up the scarlet liquid and letting more fall onto it. He glanced at the bathroom door again, not wanting his brother to catch him. He worked quickly, hoping Dean wouldn't come home any time soon. He threw the knife into the basin and placed pressure on his arm with the towel. His hands shook as he reached for the gaze. He knew it was bad, he knew it was wrong, but somehow, it kept him sane. He removed the towel and looked down at the angry red marks on his arm. Long shallow cuts from wrist to elbow tracing a path well away from veins; he wasn't going to kill himself, at least, not yet.

The door of their shabby motel room slammed shut the Sam dropped the bandages he was holding. His heart started pounding as he heard Dean rustling around in the main room.

"Sam?" Dean called out as he dropped the newspapers and coffee onto the small table.

He willed his hands into motion, throwing the towel into the hamper and bandaging his arm quickly. He shoved everything into the first aid kit and pulled his jacket sleeves down over his arms before unlocking the door as Dean prepared to call out for his brother again.

"Dude, what took you so long in there?" Dean said as he shoved a cup of coffee into his brothers hands.

Sam willed them not to shake as he accepted it, the adrenalin still pumping through his system. "Ahh, not feeling so crash hot. Something I ate yesterday." He lied smoothly.

Dean raised an eyebrow, "You didn't eat anything yesterday, unless you count the five cups of coffee you drank." He glanced at his hands. "Looks like all that caffeine is kicking in too, your hands are shaking like mad there Sam. Man, you're so not carrying a gun today."

"I'm fine, I'll be fine in a couple of minutes."

Dean turned and looked into the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower, won't be too long." He dropped his jacket on one of the double beds and dug a fresh shirt out of his bag.

As the door clicked shut behind him Sam slipped his hand in his pocket to retrieve the knife and stash it at the bottom of his bag. The shower started and Sam realized that his pocket was empty. He spun around to face the bathroom door, heart racing again as the shower turned off, far too soon for Dean to have washed. He hear his brothers footsteps nearing the door and as the handle turned he fled; out the front door, across the parking lot, past the Impala and straight down the twisting, narrow road.

It was dark and muddy from the rain the pervious day. There were no streetlamps to guide him; they were on the edge of town, far away from houses, in a land of bleak country side and rundown motels. He ran, sobs ripped from his lips, fear keeping him on his feet; feet of hatred and scorn from his brother, of rejection and disgust.

Sam's foot hit a muddy patch and he fell, hard, into the dirt and grim on the side of the road. His arm hurt like fire as stagnant water soaked through the bandages, reminding him way he was running. He dragged himself back onto his feet and staggered on, not really caring where the road led him, only hoping that he could escape the wrath of his brother.

In the distance he heard the familiar roar of the Impala and instead of running faster, he simply collapsed, unable to outrun the on coming car. He sank to his knees as it came around the corner and as the headlights hit his back, he felt an over whelming wave of guilt and dread.

The car skidded to a stop and door was flung open. "Sammy! Jesus Christ Sam, why the hell did you run off like that?" Dean yelled angrily as he grabbed his brothers shoulders and slid down into the mud in front of him. "You scared the crap out of me! In the state you're in, you could have been hit by a car and in case you haven't noticed, it's a full moon tonight! Man, it's werewolf night! What the hell were you thinking?"

Sam closed his eyes, tears silently making their way down his face, leaving streaks through the half dried mud.

"Answer me Sam!"

The muscle in the side of his face started to twitch as he tried to keep him self from full on balling.

"Damn it Sam! Ans-"

"You hate me don't you…" The words hung in the air, caught up in the damp, overwhelming darkness.

Dean took one hand off his brothers shoulder and grasped his chin. Sam closed his eyes tightly as his head moved up so he was nose to nose with his brother. "Sammy…"

"The knife." Sam said simply. He pulled his face out of Deans hold and let his head hang again. Dean fell silent. Instead of saying anything more he pulled Sam to his feet and led him gently towards the car. Sam let himself fall onto the smooth leather upholstery and stared blankly out the window.

He'd never meant for this to happen, never wanted Dean to find out. He just wanted his brother to be blissfully ignorant and stay that way. He didn't want to stop, and that's what Dean was going to make him do.

Dean slid into the car and revved the engine, having not turned it off before tumbling out of the car and into the mud. He swung the car around and floored the accelerator wanting nothing more than to get back to the semi-warmth of the motel.

They sat in silence again; Sam through lack of wanting to talk and Dean from lack of knowing what to say. Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in an attempt to stay calm. His mind was spinning, tearing itself apart from confusion and worry. A bloodied knife in the basin, a first aid kit that was frequently missing bandages and a brother terrified that he hated him; it was really not a good equation. In fact, it was a downright scary one.

He pulled the car into the parking lot and cut off the engine. "Dude, is there something you want to tell me?"

"I thought you said you didn't do chick flicks?"

"Damn it Sammy, I don't fucking care what I said!" Dean yelled as he turned to face Sam. Sam cringed at the tone in his brothers voice. "And I'm sorry I said it because maybe then you would talk to me instead of hurting yourself." Dean regretted the words as soon as they spilled from his mouth.

Sam hung his head and stepped out of the car.

"Sam… dude, okay, that was the wrong thing to say man. I'm just a bit, I don't know, shocked to find out this." He slammed the door to the Impala and started towards the door of their room. "Come on Sam, you're soaked and covered in mud. You've got to get out of the cold.

Sam clenched his jaw and stepped awkwardly towards his brother. Dean opened the unlocked door and gently shoved him inside. Sam stopped in the middle of the room looking scared and dejected and Dean resisted the urge to slam that door too.

"Sam," he whispered, throat tight as his mind organized the words he was going to say. "Can I see them?"

Sam bit his lip and fiddled with his jacket zip, unwilling to take it off and bare his arms to his brother.

"Alright, not a good question to ask. Do any of them need stitches? Did any of them get infected? Do you need to go to a doctor or anything, 'cause I know a damn good one in this area."


"Yeah, man, what?"

"Shut up."

Dean licked his lips and nodded his head slowly. "Sammy, I just want to help you."

Sam unzipped his jacket and let it fall to the floor. He closed his eyes as he pulled the long sleeved shirt over his head. He pulled off his arms and turned towards his brother. Deans struggled to find words. The white bandage covered most of the scars, but it had shifted and poking out from underneath it were fading white lines. They crisscrossed at irregular intervals, a mass of reminders of what he had done.

Dean took a step forward so he was almost toe to toe with his younger, but somewhat taller brother. He reached out and touched the bandage with his fingertips. Sam jerked away from the motion, but not before Dean could feel that they were wet.

"Dude, they may not be infected now, but they will be if you leave that bandage on. We got to get it off you." He grabbed his brothers wrist Be found th edge of the bandage and un-taped it, pullining it away from his brothers cooling skin. He willed himself to have no reaction as the cuts came into view, but there were so many of them. They weren't too deep, but they were enough to leave a scar that would take some time to fade.

He shoved Sam down onto one of the beds in the crapped space. "Stay here." Sam kept his eyes on the ground as his brother hurried into the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit. He sat it on the bed next to him and pulled out the antiseptic. Sam winced as the liquid touched his skin and his arm involuntarily flinched. Dean looked up at him and caught his eye.

"What made you do it?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders and Dean continued cleaning the cuts. "I guess, oh man this is going to sound twisted, it feels good."

Dean looked up again. He threw the cotton ball at the small trash can in the corner of the room. It bounced off the wall and fell perfectly into the can. "So basically, you're addicted."

Sam pulled away and glared at Dean. He held his hands up in surrender. "Dude, I'm not the best when it comes to counseling, just give me a chance here."

"I never wanted you to find out. I just, I just wanted-"


Sam's look softened and he frowned putting his head on one side, a signal for Dean to expand his answer.

"I know you bottle things up. Everyone has there own way of letting it out. But this Sam, it's-"

"Wrong, sick and disgusting." Sam muttered. "I know."

"I wasn't going to say that." Dean took hold of his arm again and reached across for a fresh bandage. "I was going to say damaging, but even that's not right."

"But it is Dean. What I do, it's-"

"It's your way of coping. It's not a very good way and man, it's currently scaring the shit out of me, but it'd your own way of dealing with whatever shit gets thrown at you on a regular basis. What we do, this whole hunting fucking demons, it's got to be the most stressful job in history because hundreds of lives rest in the palms of our hands. Now talk to me Sammy!"

Sam drew in a shaky breath as Dean tapped off the edge of the bandage. "What do you want to know?"

"For starters, how long?"

"Six years."

"Shit Sam! And no one ever knew?"

"No one."

Dean swallowed. "Okay do you just cut your arms, or are there other laces as well, 'cause I'm sure I can remember you wearing short sleeves at one point."

"My arms when I can get away with it, but my legs too."

"I've seen you in shorts in the last six months."

"Think higher up."

Dean nodded his head. "Have you got any scars."

Sam paused and chewed on his lip. "I don, but their fading pretty fast."

"Even the ones on you arms?" Dean started to pack up the first aid kit, stowing the antiseptic back in the box. As he click the lid shut he looked over at his brother. "Sammy, you going to answer me over there?"

"Their fading."

"Are you just going to keep giving me bare bones answers?" Sam's jaw clenched. "Okay, bare bones is good.' He stood up and place the kit on the table. He walked back into the bathroom and Sam could hear water running in the sink for a few minutes. Dean returned, newly cleaned knife in his hand. He looked at Sam and then back at the knife.

"Please tell me you Cleaned all the demon goop off this before you started using it."

Sam nodded and his lips twitched into a ghost of a smile.