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Headphones on. Jeans off. Blue denim discarded on the floor of his bedroom, one of his favourite songs blasting into his ears, and he can't help but cry.
His wrist hurt. He'd been clawing at it, trying to convince himself not to do it. He promised dammit.
He couldn't keep it. Everything hurt so bad
He rolled up the hem of his boxers and made the first cut. Gripping the knife tight and slicing into the already scarred and scarring flesh of his right thigh.
He winced. Tears slipping down and falling off his face as the blood bubbled between the broken skin.
The cut filled with blood slowly, some of it pushing back the narrow opening and sitting in a droplet on his skin.
He stared down at it. It didn't drop. It never dropped. Not unless he went deep enough, which he only did once.
His breath hitched, the song changed and he made another cut.
Under the first but skewed slightly to the side, a bit longer this time, and he pushed a little deeper.
He winced again. Tensing and pulling the blade away as the stinging rose up his leg and constricted his heart.
Dammit.
He opened his eyes and looked down at the wound as it filled with blood. The satisfying substance bubbled to the surface. The droplet grew in size and Dean thought it might actually fall. He watched closely, panting a little, feeling his heart quicken.
He poked the wound a little. The blood has started to dry out, no luck.
He sighed shakily and threw the knife onto the bedside table, reaching for a tissue.
He held the white materiel tightly against his two wounds. He felt the blood seep through the thin layer.
He winced, cursing under his breath. He wasn't exactly prepared.
He looked up at the small, half used bottle of hand sanitizer on the bedside table. He swallowed and remained staring for a while before he reached for it, it wasn't ideal, but it was probably better than nothing... probably.
He didn't glance at the back of the bottle before he grabbed another tissue, folded it and put just a little on the middle of it. He tensed as he rubbed it over both wounds once before he pressed it down tightly and left it there.
The back of the bottle he failed to read would have told him that the product was 'for external use only'.
He pressed the sanitizer soaked tissue harder against his wounds, wincing a little bit eventually just feeling numb.
He laid back, hand pressed to his thigh as he waited for the bleeding to stop.
He stared blankly at the ceiling. He couldn't even feel the pain anymore, and in a way that was worse.
He didn't feel anything. It sucked. This sucked. He didn't want to do this anymore.
Didn't what to do what?
I don't know
live?
Doesn't matter.
He'll go to bed after all of this.
He'll wake up.
He'll go outside and smile like nothing happened.
That's how it'll always be.
But he promised dammit, and he broke it.
He sat up and grabbed his phone, sliding his headphones down.
He found his number.
He placed the ringing phone to his ear, dread rising in his gut.
"Dean?" He sounded tired.
"Sammy...?" He choked out, his voice barely a whisper.
"I'm sorry. I fucked up".