A/N: I've had this plot idea running around my head for weeks and it's been driving me nuts, but I haven't had the time to write because of AP tests and finals coming up.

I have the whole story planned out in my head and I know how it's going to end, so rest assured that this story will be completed, though my updates are often sporadic.

Please, please, don't read this chapter if descriptions of self-harm could be triggering for you.

It's Okay; I Deserve it

Dean had fucked up again. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Well, his whole life actually.

The hunt was a simple one. Dad was going to salt-and-burn the bones, and all Dean had to do was cover him. It was supposed to be easy.

The stupid ghost had snuck up behind him and knocked him out, and before he could do anything had started throwing his father around.

By the time Dean had managed to get up and pump the fucker full of rock salt John already had a sprained wrist and some serious gashes.

John got up and took care of the bones without even acknowledging Dean's presence.

The worst part was the drive back. His head was still pounding and his father was angry with him, and deservedly so. The lecture would start any minute.

"Dean."

Dean gulped and looked away, ashamed. Nothing his father could say could compare to what he was feeling.

"What the fuck were you doing?" he snapped, venom in his voice "You had one job. Cover me. How can you take care of Sam if you can't even keep a ghost away?"

A small "I'm sorry" was whimpered from the passenger seat as Dean tried not to cry.

His father continued. "I'm disappointed in you. I thought you were better than this by now. I trust... trusted... you to take care of your little brother. What if it had been him?"

Dean said nothing and stared out the window the rest of the drive home, his father's disappointment making the air in the car heavy, weighing down on his shoulders, smothering him. What was there to say?

That had been hours ago. Sammy and John had gone to bed and were getting well-deserved sleep.

Dean slumped against the bathroom wall of yet another nondescript hotel room. How many times had he been here before?

They'd have to be up early in the morning because his father wanted them to go to the local school while he hunted a nest of vamps. It was a waste of time in Dean's opinion. What was the point in going to school for a few weeks, only to move again? Besides, hunters don't need to know how to analyze Shakespeare.

He felt its weight in his pocket. He already knew how the rest of the night would play out. He could take his time. There was no rush.

He slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor and held his head in his hands. He could cry now. Everyone else in the world was asleep. He was alone.

The sobs choked their way out of his body and tears fought their way out of his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. His body began to shake, wracked with the sobs that he could no longer suppress.

He was alone in so many ways. Every other 17 year old had friends that they could talk to, people that would understand. They could talk about the things that were eating away at their hearts without being locked away in a looney bin, but even if he was in a town long enough to make friends you can't exactly tell a civilian that your day was shit because you failed to protect your father from a ghost. What other kid could understand the pressure and pain of being responsible for your little brother's life on a daily basis, and worse, failing to protect him sometimes?

He was alone with his family. Only they could understand the solitude of hunting, but this wasn't something he could talk to either of them about. His father already knew he was a useless failure, and would just tell him to man up. Poor Sammy would look at him like he was a puppy that had just been kicked, and then blame their father. And telling Sammy sure as hell wouldn't be protecting him.

So that was why he was the only one that could know.
He was the only one that could know the way he cataloged his failures.

Sometimes when people fuck up royally they berate themselves. Sometimes they swear they'll do better next time. Other people even punish themselves by giving up something they like. Most people don't though.

Dean had a special way of punishing himself. He hoped in vain that maybe if he did it enough times he would stop fucking up. Maybe he could finally be good enough for his father, good enough to take care of his brother. Maybe it just made him feel better.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, sobs beginning to wane, and felt the cool stone of his pocket knife. He pulled it out and felt its weight in his hand. It was comforting, safe, known.

Taking his time, he rotated it around in his hands. Had his failure earlier that night not been so bad this might have sufficed. He might have just put it back in his pocket and gone to bed, not had to bother with the clean up. He was tired. But he had fucked up tonight. This had to happen.

He grunted as he pulled his sore body off the floor and stripped his clothes off before climbing into the bathtub. The cold and hard porcelain was not pleasant to sit on, but he had learned that this made clean-up the easiest. Besides, he didn't exactly deserve comfort anyway.

Without further ado he opened the knife and examined the blade. It was one of the sharpest knives he had ever used, sharper than any kitchen knife by far, and he sharpened it often. The blade was sturdy but cut like a razor. It was perfect.

His breathing sped up as he held the blade to his left bicep, just high enough that any T-shirt would cover it. Deep breaths, he reminded himself. He was always tense before the first cut.

After a few seconds he took a deep breath and pulled the blade across his arm in one quick swipe. The first cut was always the shallowest. He felt his heart rate slow down a bit as the first few drops of blood made their way out of his newest cut and rolled down his arm.

That one wouldn't scar too badly, he knew. In a few months it would just be a thin line on his arm, a little indent in his skin, just like a lot of the others. Of course, there were the deeper scars too, the ones that turned pink and were raised and wider. He had plenty of those. He'd be making a few tonight.

When he'd first started, what seemed like a lifetime ago, he'd worried about his father seeing these scars. Now, with their close living quarters, he was sure his father had noticed them many times. It was just one of those things they didn't talk about.

His father probably considered it adequate punishment for his failures. Maybe his father would punish him more if he didn't know that Dean was already punishing himself.

It didn't matter. As long as Sammy didn't know. Sammy could never see this.

The thought of Sammy steeling him, Dean pushed the blade harder this time as he pulled it across his arm, all the initial hesitation and nerves gone.

He tilted his head back and screwed his eyes shut as the sharp pain ran through him. Seconds later the pain was reduced to an ache. He deserved this. He was a disappointment to his father. He couldn't do anything right. He pulled the blade across his skin again.

And again.

And again.

With every cut he focused all his self-hatred on the blade. Every time he pushed slightly harder on the blade.

These weren't his deepest, those he saved for when Sammy actually got hurt, when he got Sammy hurt, but they weren't the shallow ones either.

He watched, completely rapt, as the edges of his skin separated and he could see white beneath the surface. Then, just as quickly, the cut would fill with blood until there was too much and the cut was brimming with it and the blood would well over the edges, running down his arm in a trickle of red warmth.

Then he would do it again.

Eventually the blood would run together until he couldn't really tell which cut it was coming from. Eventually he wouldn't be able to tell where his previous cuts were and he'd end up cutting those back open. Eventually he wouldn't care any more as his careful and precise cuts became more and more manic.

It was hard to keep track of time during these things. He supposed an hour or so usually passed during his evening cutting sessions. Maybe more. It didn't matter.

When he decided that he had cut enough he slumped back in the tub. He was tired and his body ached and it was probably past 2am. He still had to clean up.

When he finally mustered the energy he turned the shower on, gasping as the water hit his new cuts, carrying the congealed blood away, washing the evidence of his failures down the drain.

When he got out of the shower he would carefully bandage them shut and conceal them, at least until the next time he fucked up. For now he was content to stand under the scalding hot water and focus on the burn, the real world miles away.

A/N: So, I promise the rest of the chapters won't be as graphic, I'm just trying to set up the story. It will probably end up being 3 or 4 chapters total, but I'm bad at guessing.

Thanks for reading! I hope you like it thus far.

Feedback is really appreciated.