Rating: M

Main Character: Sam

Pairing: none

Genre: angst

Warnings: This story deals with the issue of self harm and Suicide. 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.

This is last chapter of this story. I've decided to run it straight into my new fic Rain-Splattered Windows which introduces a whole new cast of characters and a fair bit of what happened to Sam at Stanford. The new story is still going to be dealing with Sammy's cutting, but it focuses more on hunting and other characters. Bobby features, as well as Pastor Jim and a set of identical twins (male much to Deans disgust, if anyone caught that line 301). SO yeah, this aint going to be the longest chap in the books, but it sort of ties up things and slips it into the next story.

Title: Emptiness and Razor Blades

Dean stared up at the ceiling of the comfortably shabby he and Sam had rented for the week while hunting the black dog. The ceiling was horrifically caked, forming patterns in the stark white plaster. The wallpaper stamped with tacky flowers was pealing, straining to be free of the apricot coloured walls underneath. His eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, and he ached from the stress of hours in the impala.

Sam rolled over on the single bed across the room Dean glanced over to him, then reached for his jacket, extracting two pieces of crumpled paper. The first was worn from the constant opening, written additions, and refolding that it had received. The other was in slightly better condition. Dean lifted his eyes to his brother again; only seeing a lump covered by a too thin sheet in the almost total darkness. He sat up, swinging his feet onto the surprisingly clean carpet. Insomnia could be a bitch sometimes.

He had found the letter that Sam had been writing, the kind that had a les than pleasant ending. The kind that ended with, 'I'm dead'. It was not the note that scared him; it was the knowledge that Sammy would follow through with it if he had the chance. If he was capable of swallowing a bottle of pills, knowing what the consequences would be, when he was twelve, he could sure as hell slit his wrists now.

'Dean?' Sam sat up, framed by the open, but salt-lined, window. It was getting to be a hot summer in the central parts of America; enough to have the doors and windows wide open if it was a secure neighbourhood, and sweat sodden sheets clinging to hips and chests.

Air conditioned this place was not.

"When is a black dog not a black dog?"

"I hate you when you get philosophical Sam."

"This hunt just wasn't right."

"There are a lot of things that aren't right at the moment" Dean fiddled with the pieces of paper distractedly, "like you wanting to kill yourself."

"Self harm-"

"-isn't suicide, then why did I find the note you were drafting?"

Sam pushed off the sheet and walked over to Dean. "Give it to me."

"What, so you can give it back? No way man; I believed you when you said you didn't want to die."

"I was just thinking about it; I doubt I would have followed through. Now give me the damn note."

"Sit down Sam."


"Sit down!" Dean grabbed his wrists and roughly shoved him into a sitting position back on the bed. "I will make a deal with you. Any time you want to hurt yourself in any way, shape or form, you come to me first. You tell me. So you know that someone else knows what you're doing. So that if you slip up someone is there. Namely me. I want to help you, but I cant when you do this on your own. You don't have to suffer by yourself Sam."

Sam looked him dead in the eye. "I want to cut myself."


Sam nodded.

Dean turned and reached into his bag. "Use a sharp hunting knife, nothing blunt, serrated and dirty. First aid kit." He tossed the green box in his direction, turning, flopping onto his bed, cross legged. He looked over at Sam, trying to gage his reaction.

He stood there, looking back at his seemingly impassive brother, looking ridiculously awkward wearing only a pair of boxers holding a first aid kit. "You said this was going to stop."

"It's okay Sam."

"You said it was over, you made me swear."

"And I've been waiting for you to repeat that back to me cause now I know you're getting there." Dean sighed "You ready to stop?"

"Once more?"


"Here, now, in front of me. If you can do that you can. If you cant, you cant." Dean handed him a knife. Sam took it, his hand shaking slightly.

He turned slightly and unwrapped the bandage he had worn ever since Dean had caught him. He closed his eyes and Dean swore his heart stopped as Sam inhaled, then ran the blade across his already scared arm on the exhale. The cut was enough to make Dean shudder and for blood to start trickling down to his fingers almost instantly.

Sam leaned his head back, staring through closed lids at the ceiling, reveling the sensation of pain. He tilted his arm up so the blood wouldn't start soaking into the carpet and used tissues to mop up most of the crimson liquid and stem the flow.

"I'll end up asking for one more cut over and over again Dean, just waiting for you to give in."

"I know Sam."

"I'm so hooked."

"I know."

"I don't want to think anymore."

"I know."

Dean stood wrapped his arms around his brother. It wasn't one of those man hugs, that Sam detested, it was one of those 'I don't want you to hurt anymore' ones, the type that Dean hated to give because he was confirming that something was seriously wrong, and the type that Sam craved.