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This isn’t an act of selfishness, what he’s doing—this is purely out of the need to calm down, bring himself back down to reality.
‘Bad hunt’ were his first words to you when he returned to the bunker at three in the morning. He didn't say much in a way of acknowledgement after that, simply disappearing behind his bedroom door and locking it. Sam looks a hollow shell of what he once was, skin pale, heartbeat a shallow thing in his chest; you heal him once he’s in bed, shoes kicked off his feet, head shoved in the pillow. The exhaustion bleeds off the younger brother in waves when you cover his forehead with your hand, the wounds in his wrists stitching together with a touch. You can’t recover the blood he lost, but at least he can rest easy and heal in his own way, one of the things beyond your capabilities.
Sam’s asleep when you hear Dean’s door open down the hall, muffled footsteps padding past. Another door shuts, this one in closer proximity; the familiar click of a latch doesn't sound. He’s alone. Whether he wants you with him or not, you don't know.
You find Dean standing before the sink in the bathroom, both hands clutching the porcelain, knuckles white with strain. He doesn't look to you, doesn't address you by name, just stares at his reflection for a long, silent moment. His chest doesn't rise or fall when he finally turns in your direction, something about him setting your hair on edge. “’M plannin’ on doin’ something, Cas,” he starts, words slurred with fatigue. “I want—can you—.”
“Of course.” You don't know quite what he’s asking, but the box cutter he takes from the sink top gives you some sort of idea. He finds a spot beyond the row of sinks in the corner and you follow him, sitting at his side. He’s made himself comfortable, dressed in the softest pajamas he owns, feet clad in downy socks; it does nothing to ease the anxiety radiating off him, bleeding into your skin where your knees brush together.
He starts off slow, baring his forearm and tracing the blade—freshly sharpened, you notice—across the width of his wrist, deep enough to draw a thin trickle of blood, spilling over onto the aged white tiles. He hisses during the interval, flexing his hand into a fist, then flat, and starts another line above the first. You watch him continue, building up a ladder to five lines, all flowing freely, the oldest struggling to clot. Oddly, you trust him through it; he knows what he’s doing, knows how to regulate his breathing, to fake the confidence you see in his eyes.
He’s scared. He won’t admit it, but he’s terrified. “Thought I was in Purgatory again,” he starts after a long second, setting the blade to the side. You take his wrist in your hand, running your thumb over the thin lines and gathering blood on the digit; he hasn't given you permission yet. “Benny wanted—said there was a reason I went back there, that I couldn't stay but didn’t wanna leave… Said I shoulda just put myself outta the picture.” He looks to you with glassy eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, the once-vibrant green fading. “Do you think…”
“What would have made it wrong is if you had listened.” Dean turns his eyes back to his wrist, thick drops dripping off his skin into your shared space, silent. You lift the wound to your mouth and kiss along the freshest line, swallowing down the stray drops. His breath hitches; you pay it no mind. “You’re strong, Dean. Stronger than any man I’ve ever known. And the thought of you not being here… The thought of losing you is too much.”
He doesn't say much to that, scoffs at the most, just lets his head fall onto your shoulder as you stroke over the cuts, willing the blood to slow, to let his body do most of the work. He wants to feel the sting of it, to know he’s still alive. That he’s still breathing, bleeding. “Hey, you remember that night we got attacked by that kitsune, ‘n we couldn't find Benny for three days?” You nod, lean your head against his. He shivers from the chill in the air and curls closer to you, a sigh escaping his lips. “We were walkin’ forever, ‘n then we found this cave, and—.”
“You complained the entire night when we slept together.”
Dean flushes bright red against his will; he pulls back and stares at you like you’ve grown a second head, like he isn’t sitting in the middle of a bathroom with his wrist slashed to pieces with an Angel keeping him from bleeding out on the floor. It would be comical if it weren’t so real. “You’re just makin’ that up,” he says, finally, voice muffled in your shoulder when he lays his head back down.
You smile into his hair, close your eyes to the scent of him, laced with sweat and dust. “You said, and I quote, ‘stop hogging the fire, dude.’”
Dean smiles, such a soft thing, and the urge to kiss it off his face almost overwhelms you. “For an Angel’s been ‘round forever, y’sure do get caught up on the most insignificant things.”
You turn to him, tip his chin up to look you in the eye. “Nothing about you is insignificant, Dean.”
He doesn't answer you; he doesn't have to. He lays his head on your shoulder and stares across the room, his uninjured hand reaching for the box cutter again, blade still pushed out, reddened at the tip. “You…” He swallows, steadies himself. “You watched the fire for hours, then you fuckin’…held me, like that’d make it better. Like bein’ stuck there didn’t suck.”
He drags the blade of the cutter over his wrist again through one of the older cuts, red spilling over in a thick stream. He hisses; you wince, the sight of the wound, deeper now, almost too much. “…Why are you doing this?” you ask and take his wrist, prying the blade from his hand and dropping it in the sink nearest your head.
His breathing is sharp when he replies, pupils blown black, breath coming in short huffs until he calms himself, clutching your wrist with his wounded hand. You slip two fingers over the gash—it’s not a request. “Rather’d bleed myself than someone else, y’know?”
You don't mean to squeeze his wrist as hard as you do, nor the scowl you give him when he attempts to pry your hand away, red washing into the space between you, barely a trickle now, but enough. It seeps between your fingers the longer you hold him, the longer you feel his life in your hands, his heartbeat frantic, panicked. He thinks you’ll hurt him, take your blade and shove it through his chest like he thinks he deserves. There’s fear in his eyes, masked with solidity and determination.
You can see through him. “You’re scared,” you whisper, barely audible. Some sort of weight bleeds out of him at your words, and he slumps against your chest, nose buried in your neck. He won’t look at you.
“’M tired of losing everyone I… I love,” Dean answers, words faltering on his tongue. “Sammy almost… And you’re not dyin’ anymore, but—.”
“I’m not—.” You stop. He doesn't need to hear you lie to his face, how you think you’re going to survive what the world has in store for the both of you. How the scar on his arm is driving you both to the edge of your sanity, like his brother isn’t scheming behind his back to fix what’s impossible. He thinks his world will end with blood on his hands – you won’t rule out the possibility. As much as you hate to think about it, you fear the same.
You don't tell him any of this – instead, you wrap your arms around him and pull him close, until you can feel his heartbeat through your shirt, hammering in his chest, shivers running up his spine. He grips you back just as tight, mouthing incoherent syllables into the skin of your neck, the words “I don’t wanna die” breaking through, broken and jagged. A confession.
“I know,” you say, your words muffled in his hair. A sob rips free from him, wetness seeping through the fabric of your shirt; your pant leg is dyed red, lingering drops adding to the growing stain. You need to heal him, return the color to his skin, take the shiver from his bones. For now, you let him embrace the pain he’s brought on himself and hold him through it, whispering soundless prayers into his ear, until he quiets and lessens his grip on your shirt, struggling to settle his breathing.
He doesn't meet your eye when he finally pulls away, just sits there as you press your lips to the incisions on his wrist, lines stitching together with a touch. He breathes easier after that, sniffling every few seconds, eyes still to the floor. “’M tired,” he mumbles; you thumb the tear tracks away from his eyes, and he falls into your hand, for the first time looking at you. The despair is still there, the fear of himself and the world around him. The newfound sense of mortality, desires long since repressed, rushing to the surface.
Dean needs you now, more than ever. And this time, this time, you want to be there.
You help him to his feet and wash the blood from his skin under the sink, walking him to bed with empty halls as your audience. You join him under the sheets, and for the first time since Purgatory, you hold him the whole night through, stroking your hand through his hair until he falls asleep in your arms, never once making a sound.
For now, the nightmares stay at bay.