Chapter Text
The first time it happened, it wasn't intentional.
Sam had been out on a job. Lately, whenever either of them needed alone time, they’d been taking turns on going out for minor cases. So Sam had taken off that Wednesday to go after a coven of witches. And Dean had hung back because, witches, man .
Sam had gotten himself in deep, and without the proper ingredients, he was unable to perform some spell that had... something to do with the witches. Dean didn’t exactly know what (Sam had explained it over the phone, but it sounded complicated, and Dean wasn’t really paying attention). The gist of it was clear, though. So Saturday night had found Dean at the bunker's kitchen table, a bowl, a box of matches, a blade, and several ingredients; some of which he'd rather not think about, in front of him. The spell was fairly easy, just the usual procedure: the ingredients in the bowl, an incantation, and a flame.
Everything had gone into the bowl. First the herbs, then the animal bones, and finally only the blood remained. So Dean had picked up the knife, pressing the cool metal to his forearm, his hand shaking slightly; Sam had called only a half an hour before to inform him of the situation, and urging him to hurry, so Dean hadn’t had much time to sober up from what could only be described as an alcoholic binge.
There had been an initial sting as he broke skin, but the sensation quickly became only a dull throb. He held his arm over the table, allowing the now beading blood to drip from his wrist into the bowl, then he spoke the incantation, and struck a match, before dropping it into the bowl as well.
He pulled his phone out and called Sam, who said it had worked and also informed Dean that he would be back the following afternoon before hanging up. Dean had then turned his attention to his wound, which to his surprise was still bleeding, dripping steadily onto his lap and down his arms to his shirt sleeve. In his drunken state, he must have underestimated the pressure he had exerted on the blade, cutting deeper than was necessary. Shrugging to himself, he grabbed a kitchen towel and mopped up the blood.
What really surprised him though, was the effect of the pain he felt when he pressed the cloth to his arm. Something happened to his thoughts. They seemed dull. Even more so than the alcohol had already depressed them. Intrigued, he reached for his blade again, only hesitating slightly before sliding it across his wrist again.
The effect was almost instantaneous. An unnatural sense of calm came over him. He felt free . Free from the hurt that had been plaguing him these past weeks, for the first time since...well, since that day. Something about watching the blood seep from the wound was almost therapeutic.
He was about to make another cut, when a sound jolted him from his trance-like state. The bowl. He must have knocked it over with his elbow when he lifted his arm.
Abruptly brought back to Earth again, he stared in horror at the blood soaking the kitchen towel and his clothes, and then at the shallow slits on his wrist.
He didn’t want to stop. It felt good. Like really good.
But no. No way was he gonna cut himself on purpose, ‘cause that was fucked up. So utterly fucked up.
Dean had known a girl in highschool who cut herself. Well, he hadn’t really known her, but it was a well-known fact throughout that school, that Liddy Tate was some attention seeking crazy that mutilated her arms and legs just so people would pay attention to her. Dean hadn’t thought much about it then, just that she was probably some messed up psychopath, but he dealt with things more insane than psychopaths. Sure, he’d thought it was a little extreme. But he hadn’t known it felt like this .
Dean shook his head, trying to clear it. Setting down the blade, he got up, and proceeded to clean up the bloody mess on the table, then scanned the room. Bottles littered the floor and the bowl and its contents were still scattered on the floor. He could do it now, but he’d have some time before Sam came back tomorrow. No, he would clear it up tomorrow. The exhaustion that follows a bender was starting to close in, and he figured he should get to his bed or he’d wake up the next morning very sore from passing out on the floor or his chair. Somehow, he managed to stagger to his room, and didn't even bother to take off his boots before sprawling out on his bed and losing consciousness.
· · ─────── ·ϕ· ─────── · ·
When he woke up, Dean felt like absolute crap. It wasn’t a new feeling; most of his days started like this these days. Still groggy, he sat up in bed, and looked around the room, trying to get his bearings. He reeked of alcohol, and there was blood on his clothes and bedsheets. Wait, why was there blood on his bedsheets? Oh. He remembered. The spell.
Groaning, he rolled over, rubbing the heel of one of his hands over an eye. Glancing at the clock, he abruptly shot up from the bed. It was already 1 p.m. and Sam had said he would be home around that time. Dean threw himself out of bed and sprinted to the kitchen. He surveyed the mess before him: the clutter of empty bottles and the remains of the spell on the floor, in addition to several bloody cloths. Shoving everything into a plastic bag, he rushed back to his room. Not a moment too soon either. As he crossed the threshold of his room, he heard the squeak of the bunker’s door and Sam's voice calling out a greeting. He cursed. He’d hoped he’d have time to make himself look a little more presentable, but he would have to make do. He hastened to the bathroom and, dampening a washcloth, began to scrub at the dried blood on his arm. Then he brushed his teeth. It wouldn't do to have Sam notice the reek of alcohol on his breath. Back to his room, and changed into fresh clothes.
Flattening his hair, he shuffled into the kitchen, and was greeted by a cheery Sam standing over the stove, cooking an omelette.
"You look like shit," observed his brother.
"Yeah. Didn't sleep well." Dean managed to get out. His head was really pounding now.
Sam was looking at him curiously.
"What's with the blood?" Sam asked.
"Wh-what?" Dean looked up, alarmed. Did Sam know what he’d been thinking about last night?
Sam was still looking at him funnily.
"On the table," he said, rolling his eyes.
Dean looked. Sure enough, there were several streaks of blood on the otherwise clean surface, and Dean noticed with some horror that the smell of alcohol was faintly mingled with the coppery smell of blood.
"Oh," shrugged Dean, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. "I forgot to clean that up after the spell yesterday. I was pretty tired," he explained.
Wiping the blood up with a wet paper towel, he poured himself some coffee before retrieving some Advil from a drawer, then sat down, swallowing the tablets with the hot liquid.
"Omelette?" Sam asked.
Dean's stomachs turned over at the thought of food.
"I'm good.”
"All right." Sam said, turning away.
A few minutes later, Sam sat down across from Dean, plate in front of him, and hands curled around a coffee mug. Dean, who had since poured himself a second cup, sipped from his own offhandedly and, looking up, saw Sam eying him suspiciously.
"What?" he asked, annoyed.
Sam squinted at him.
"Dean, have you been drinking."
Dean mumbled a very unconvincing 'No,' refusing to meet his brother's eyes and Sam seemed to take that as confirmation of his hunch because he launched into a long tirade of admonishment, most of which Dean managed to tune out until one word caught his attention.
"You can't do this again Dean," Sam was saying. "You can't just drink your feelings away every time you get hurt. I know Cas is gone, but—"
Dean stood up suddenly, pushing his chair backwards, causing it to tip over. He felt a twinge of regret as the noise of the chair hitting the floor echoed through the kitchen, but it evaporated almost instantly.
"Don't, Sam!" he shouted. "Just don't!"
"You can't just keep ignoring this," Sam insisted vehemently. "When are we gonna talk about this, huh? It's been weeks, Dean. Weeks ."
Dean was breathing heavily, his hands curled into tight fists.
"I know you're torn up about it. Hell, I miss him just as much as you do. But—"
"No," Dean heard himself shout derisively. "No, you don't Sam. You don't fucking know how I feel about it!”
"Oh yeah? Then tell me!" Sam retorted, just as loudly and with no less heat.
Dean was seething with rage now.
"Just tell me what happened, Dean. The rest of our family’s gone now. Cas, Mom. Jack’s taken off. The least we can do is communicate.”
Dean took several breaths in an effort to compose himself and then picked up his chair and resumed his seat at the table.
"You know what happened," he said, barely maintaining his forced calm.
"No, I don't, Dean. All you said when you came back was that Cas summoned The Empty, and it took him and Billie."
"What else is there to know?"
"I don't know, Dean. But I get the feeling you're not telling me something." Sam's voice was softer now, placating. "Please, Dean."
Dean swallowed.
"He loved me," Dean choked out, staring at the floor. "He told me he loved me. And I didn't say it back, Sammy.” Dean raised his eyes to his brother's. "I didn't say it back," he whispered.
Sam's face was lined with sympathy, and Dean felt his anger rising again.
"Don't look at me like that!" he barked accusingly at his brother. "And don’t you dare tell me it isn’t my fault!”
"I wasn't— Dean." Sam breathed. "I'm sorry, Dean, I am. I know how you feel, believe me. I lost Eileen too for a while. Twice," he added.
"But you don't, Sam, you don't!” Dean was yelling again.
“Eileen died knowing how you felt, but Cas? Cas' last words were that he knew I don't love him. Not in that way. And he was happy . He was happy, even thinking that. Do you know how horrible that makes me feel? How guilty? All the times I pushed him away, yelled at him, blamed him. Hell, I even kicked him out of this bunker. He thought I didn't care, Sam. He didn't know I care. He didn't know that I— That I love him too." Dean's voice broke on the last sentence. "All this time—" he choked, "All this time—"
He couldn't finish. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He couldn’t talk about this anymore. Striding to a cabinet, he pulled out the bottle of whiskey he’d stashed there a while ago, and returned to the table. Unscrewing the top, he brought it to his lips and took a swig. He didn't bother with glasses anymore.
"You're right, Dean.” Sam was looking at him sympathetically again. “Yeah, I guess I don't know how you feel. But Cas wouldn't have wanted this.” His voice was quiet.
"I don't give a damn what Cas wanted anymore!" Dean was trying for angry, but it came out sounding more like a sob. "He wanted one thing," Dean held up his finger. "One thing. And I couldn't fucking give it to him in time!"
And with that, Dean stalked out of the kitchen.
· · ─────── ·ϕ· ─────── · ·
In the following days, Sam went on a rampage, checking every possible hiding space, and confiscating every bottle and flask he could find. He refused to leave Dean alone at the bunker anymore (to Dean’s intense and Eileen’s slight annoyance) and waylaid Dean every time he came home, determined to prevent him bringing any more liquor into the place. Unfortunately, Sam’s new safety measures were very effective and entirely hindered any plans Dean had to keep drinking. This led to a withdrawal of sorts: tremors, sweating, nausea, and even worse nightmares than usual. The whole shebang.
It goes without saying, then, that the lack of a means to suppress his emotions naturally led to some very painful feelings and some very dark thoughts for the hunter. Dean had contemplated suicide more than enough times before, but each time he dismissed the idea. Yes, the thought of reliving his best memories, of seeing Cas again even if only in his past, was tempting, but he couldn't do that to his brother. They had never let death separate them before and Dean wouldn't be the one to break that streak when it was completely avoidable. Sam would never forgive him for it. So he would stay, even if he was already dead inside.
He couldn’t bear to think about Cas, but try as he might to put the Angel out of his mind, he always failed. After his and Sam’s shouting match, Dean had inarticulately banned the mention of Castiel’s name and Sam hadn’t brought the subject up again, something for which Dean was very grateful. It turned out, however, that it took much less than the name to set Dean off.
It was Saturday, and Dean was worn out after taking down a sizable nest of vamps right there in Smith County. Cedar to be specific, which was only a forty minute drive from Lebanon. They hadn’t gone down easy either. Nope, they fought annoyingly well, and one nearly tore Dean’s throat out. But by nine o’clock, Dean was lounging in one of the library’s chairs, feet up on the table, and a cool beer in hand (Sam let him have some of the lighter stuff on occasion, but only in small quantities). Sam had just informed him that he was heading out to meet Eileen a state over, and suggested that he scrounge up some food and make a dent in the infinite task of cataloguing the bunker’s inventory.
Dean nodded and bid him goodbye and, finishing his beer, stood up from the library table he’d been seated at to make his way to the kitchen.
He poked around the cupboards for a bit; the fridge was virtually empty and he made a mental note to do some grocery shopping the next day. But for now he’d have to make do with whatever he could find. There were a few things in the cupboard he was currently searching: potato chips, several cans of chickpeas (and one can of black beans), a jar of raspberry jam, and behind the large bottle of salted peanuts, a bag of pork rinds.
Dean stopped dead. Cas had liked pork rinds. Cas had liked lots of things: bees, his Continental, sunsets. Dean. Cas had liked Dean. Cas had loved Dean.
Oh no.
Dean wasn’t aware of moving, or rather running, but the next thing he knew, he was lying curled on his bedroom floor, face pressed to the cold, hard concrete, gasping for breath that never seemed to reach his lungs. His head spun, the same thoughts churning in his mind over and over and over...
I didn’t tell him.
Coward. Coward. Coward. Coward.
It’s my fault. I deserve the pain. I deserve all of it.
He’s gone. I’ve lost him. I should be dead instead. I want to die. I want to die.
He’s gone. Forever. I didn’t deserve his love. I didn’t deserve his love. He’s gone.
It hurts too much. I need to be free. I want to die. Cas Cas Cas Cas.
The agony was palpable in his chest, somehow both sharp and aching at the same time. Every time a particular thought hit home, pain would spike through him; like a knife cutting into his chest. It was too much. So terribly excruciating.
As the hysteria climbed steadily inside him, it seemed harder and harder to get his emotions in check. He needed a drink. He needed relief . But there was no way to get it.
And then the urge that had been hounding him for weeks rose inside him, shouting rather than whispering for him to give into it. And he folded.
Rising from the floor, he rifled through his weapons. Picking up the silver knife; double edged, and razor sharp, he settled on the floor once again, back pressed against the bed frame. Taking a shaky breath, he pressed the blade to his skin. The pain shot through him. Pain, and in some twisted way, pleasure.
It cut through the dull throbbing in his chest, his racing thoughts, his panic. He was high, climbing up up up above the clouds, higher and higher before he plummeted back down, levelling out somewhere above the ground. Desperate to feel the euphoria once again, he dragged the blade across his wrist a second time, reveling in his new found control.
Again, and again, and again, he cut himself, until eight bloody red lines were etched into his forearm, maring the pale skin there. It felt better than alcohol. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, numbing his brain, shocking the grief out of his system. But he was starting to come down, and his energy was draining. Wiping the knife clean on his shirt, he set it on the bedside table before throwing himself into bed, not bothering to clean the wounds or change his clothes. And in a few short minutes, he nodded off.
The next morning was confusing, to say the least. When he opened his eyes, he was disoriented by the frankly alarming amount of blood on the sheet beside him. At first he began to panic, thinking that something or someone had broken into the bunker and attempted to kill him. He examined the deep gashes on his arm, absentmindedly pressing a finger to one and then recoiled. It stung. Badly. The slight disturbance had caused two of the cuts to start bleeding again, and he hastily yanked the blood-stained sheet off the corner of the mattress to press against the wounds. Straining his mind, he tried to remember what had happened. Finally, it came back to him. These were self-inflicted. The bunker was still impregnable.
· · ─────── ·ϕ· ─────── · ·
After that, Dean began to apply himself more readily to hunts, mostly to appease Sam, but he did find himself enjoying them more often than not. Usually they were joined by Eileen, and while he felt a slight twinge of jealousy whenever he saw Sam and her together, he pushed it down. He was glad Sam had gotten Eileen back. Nobody deserved that happiness more than Sam.
While on the road, it was hard to hide his self-harm dependency from Sam, but he managed it. After Sam had gone to sleep, Dean would slip into the bathroom, and stand with his arm poised over the counter, blood dripping into the sink.
Somewhere down the line, he had switched to using razor blades instead. They were easier to maneuver, and more convenient to slip past Sam’s notice when he had to sneak around. His bandaged arms were easy enough to hide, since he almost always wore long sleeves anyway, so, all in all, he had an easy time of it. It had been about two months since that first Saturday, and now both his arms were a mix of fresh and partially healed cuts. The new ones chaffed and stung a little, and the healing ones itched almost unbearably, but he didn’t really mind. He deserved the pain after all.
Sometimes, he didn’t even bother to clean or bandage the wounds. Once they stopped bleeding he just left them open. He knew it was irresponsible, but secretly he hoped that they would become infected and kill him, though he doubted if that was really possible with gashes this size. The deeper he cut, the better he felt, and the worse they scarred. Deep, wide, ugly, purple things that he knew he would probably regret later. He couldn’t stop though. He was addicted now.