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Dean didn’t really know what triggered it this time.
Or… okay, maybe that was a slight lie.
But the truth was, he was surprised if also confused over the whole ordeal. He thought he’d been doing okay, to the point that he forgot ever having experienced a point in his life like that, vague, muted disbelief all he could feel when he tried to think about it. Sure, he had his ups and downs, but honestly, who didn’t in this life? So when he snapped at Sam, not for the first time, and most likely not for the last, over some tiny insignificant thing that later escalated, he thought he’d be fine. It would tide over, things would smooth out.
Except, he wasn’t bouncing back.
It was like there was something holding him down. Retreating to his room in the bunker, he barely emerged, except to get food or to use the restroom. Hell, even showering became an afterthought. But walking into a Sam who was still a little cold with him, and blowing up again? Dean started being a little more careful with when he dared to venture outside his room.
He kept the lights off. There was enough light coming through from under the door, the hallways perpetually lit, and whatever it failed to illuminate, his eyes adjusted enough to make up for it.
For the most part, he stayed in bed. Four hours and he was usually good to go, hell, itching for the next hunt. But barely two days in, and Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept this much.
But that was also a slight lie. He just didn’t remember that time too clearly, couldn’t at this point.
Dean swallowed, shifting. He was still currently lying in bed, and he was appalled to realize the weird sensation on his face was because of the tears sliding down, past his ears before dropping onto his pillowcase. It tickled, but the sensation was nothing compared to the wild urge within his chest, whispering, and prodding at him to go and do something. The idea of getting up, however, was too daunting of a task. Fresh tears started anew when he stayed in bed and resorted to something he didn’t think he’d gotten weak enough to go back to.
Curling up on his side, Dean let the lull of unconsciousness drag him back under.
oOo
He wasn’t sure how he got here. The days were starting to get a little muggy in his head, but he knew that more than a couple had passed and he was starting to get a little ripe. So he’d dragged himself up and pushed himself into the shower — and then lost track of time. He now had no idea how long he’d been in here, and what with the bunker’s continuous supply of hot water, it wasn’t like he had any time frame to go on.
At some point though, he had fallen to the floor and was now listlessly sitting cross-legged, letting the water beat down on him as he stared at his hands.
There were dried blood and skin under his nails. He absently cleaned them out, and when that was gone, he let his hands wander back to the source of the wound, and dug them in.
Colors exploded, overwhelming his vision. Eventually, he was left blinded by whiteness, and for a moment, he could pretend the water slipping down his face was solely from the shower alone. His chest didn’t stop aching, but he tried to focus on the sting of the cut instead — tried, and failed.
Dean buried his face in his hands as the dams broke open again.
oOo
His thigh was sore, a delicious ache that grounded those thoughts ever-present in the background.
He didn’t know what was going on, hated himself for being this way, even as his chest felt light — not completely free of burden, but just… lightened with the lack of it. Stirring a bowl of pancake mixture, adding just a touch of extra cinnamon and letting the smell comfort him, for a second, he could forget something was wrong with him. And then he’d turn, unwittingly colliding with the edge of a counter and of course, hitting just that spot, and he’d freeze, breath stuttering as his brain rebooted. It was like all the emotions he’d been rotating through for the past few days had hit him all at once, and he was left reeling, throat dry and eyes unseeing as he tried to figure out what was going on, right now.
Dean swallowed.
The pancake mixture was pushed to the back of the fridge, abandoned in favor of beer as Dean retreated to his room again.
oOo
He had been avoiding the hard liquor. He knew once he touched it, he wouldn’t be able to stop. It helped that he still had trouble getting out of bed most of the time though. The idea of getting up and grabbing the bottles from wherever he’d stashed them seemed too daunting of a task for him to bother. So he stayed in bed, scratching into his skin as tears continued to slip down his face and onto his pillow without permission.
The annoying thing was, Dean didn’t even know why he was crying. But there were times when he just wished to be held. As soon as he would face the thought, though, he’d remember Sam’s look of anger and distaste all directed at Dean, and Dean would shut down again.
His body didn’t care what memories his brain provided nonetheless. It was only on the brink of sleep multiple times would his muscles plead for his brother to hold him, before he gave into blissful unconsciousness. Returning to the land of living meant yet another few hours spent blatantly ignoring his body’s deplorable desires. Trying to appease his weary muscles by surrounding himself in bed with all the pillows he could scrounge up in the bunker only went so far, before Dean broke down in the middle of his room, uncaring whether or not Sam found him at that point.
It seemed fitting, then, that Sam never did happen upon his moment of vulnerability. Not when he had been on his knees with his soul bare.
Hours later, emotions locked away behind a numbed mask that was only a thin facade seconds away from shattering, Dean stood under the shower, staring at the knife in his hands. Minimal amounts of blood were no longer doing it for him, and the alcohol that he binged on and threw up before getting under the hot spray just made Dean feel shittier.
He turned the blade inwards and started to press.
It hurt. There was no denying the bite of the blade splitting apart skin and flesh were excruciating – but years of experience prevented Dean’s hand from wavering, and if anything, the pain only grounded him further. Letting his eyes close, Dean took another deep breath and pulled downwards.
Minutes later, the knife clattered to the ground, blood droplets staining the floor by his feet, under and on the knife’s hilt, before it was all rinsed away under the water. Dizzy, Dean took a few steps to the side, his unwounded arm stretched out to brace himself against the wall. Blinking, he slid down until he was cross-legged, head hung with the water beating relentlessly on his head, his torn arm cradled in his lap. It stung, the water hitting the bared and throbbing nerves, and he had white spots from where he was clutching at his arm with his free hand tightly from the pain. But he didn’t move to shield his arm away from the cleansing spray. As much as the water cleaned away the blood, it still rapidly pooled up as fast as it disappeared, replaced in time with his slowing pulse.
Dean sighed, letting go of the death grip on his own arm. His arm hurt like a mother, but he just rested his head on his fist, vision blurred from water and possible tears.
When Dean sniffed, he realized his eyes were definitely going blurry because of tears. He never heard Sam come in, and didn’t hear him approach until Sam was wrapping himself around Dean, guiding him out of the shower. It was when he turned off the water that Dean blinked himself back to awareness, letting his head fall back to rest on Sam’s shoulder as he tilted his head slightly to frown at his brother.
“Sammy?”
“I gotcha, Dean. I got you.” His brother was pale, eyes wide and frantic, red-rimmed with his own tears.
“Sammy… why’re you crying?” His words were ever so slightly slurred, his eyes not moving away from his brother, though he was distantly aware of Sam wrapping him up with a towel around his waist, another around his still bleeding arm – albeit sluggishly – even as he led them to his bedroom.
“You’re fine, De,” Sam whispered instead with a slight shake of his head. He had one of his own hands clutching at Dean’s arm around Dean’s other hand, holding them up to his chest. Using his free hand to push open his bedroom door, Sam gently guided Dean onto his bed, crouching in front of him. He dropped his head as his brother took a deep breath, but then got up and started to move around his room, clearly distraught. Dean stared at him with a muted sort of confusion, blinking as Sam returned with a first aid kit.
Sam efficiently stitched him up, and vaguely, Dean was appalled to realize he had started to cry again. At first, he sat there listlessly, letting the tears fall without acknowledging them. But by the time Sam was done and stared at him with hopeless eyes, Dean broke. Pressing his hands to his face, Dean sobbed freely, the gates shattered under the force of his emotions breaking free, unable to be repressed any longer.
Sam was making soft, shushing noises as he maneuvered Dean onto his bed. It was nice, comforting. And then he was wrapping himself around Dean from behind in a hug, surrounding his brother with his body, and Dean gasped. Clutching desperately onto his brother’s arm, Dean let the cries break free, guttural and coming deep from his throat. Sam held him tight the entire time, his face pressed between Dean’s shoulder blades. Still only donning a mere towel around his waist to maintain some form of modesty, he could feel it when Sam started crying too.
“Why?” Sam whispered when Dean’s cries had somewhat subsided. The crappy, heavy burden in his chest hadn’t crumbled completely yet, and if anything, he only had a severe headache. But being held by his brother… Dean wondered if maybe, just maybe, things could be a little more tolerable.
“Why, Dean?” Sam whispered again when Dean didn’t reply.
Slowly, he shrugged. “It just… it hurts so much, Sam.” Dean whispered back, his voice cracking. He closed his eyes as he could feel another wave of tears starting to crest. “Like I’ve got so much in me, and it won’t get out, but it hurts… it hurts and I want it out but I don’t know how.” He gasped again, almost bending in half as he cried.
Sam’s arms around him tightened to the point of being painful. It felt reassuring, grounding. “It’s okay, Dean.” Sam swallowed, loud. “Whatever it is, it’s gonna be alright, okay? We’ll deal with it, together. You just gotta let me know what’s going on, and you can’t – you can’t do this to me again, okay?” It was Sam whose voice broke this time, and hearing his brother sound so tormented adding yet another stone to the boulder suffocating his lungs, his ribs cracking.
He nodded, screwing his eyes shut tight. Because he knew, he knew he wouldn’t be able to tell his brother when he was going to break – if he could ever even get past this alive and well – not until it was almost too late again. Still, he nodded, a blatant lie, but right now, he would say anything to appease his brother. Whether he would do it… was another matter entirely.