Archive of Our Own

Dean has had a long day. When the bunker was in sight, he couldn’t help himself but sigh in relief. His brain had been so overworked, just knowing that soon he wouldn’t have to worry about a thing anymore for the day, was enough for Dean to subconsciously soften his grip on the steering wheel and calm down by a bit inside the car.

The loud music covered for him. Sam didn’t even glance at Dean. He was sitting right next to him, and he didn’t hear—didn’t notice anything. Dean swallows down guilt and as he slows down the car, he bit down on his tongue. Sam was staring outside the window at the on-passing scenery. He was in his own mind—Dean didn’t dare disturb him.

There was an unspoken rule between the two brothers that once the hunt was finally done, and they finally had the opportunity for solitary after all the times, that like the rule, they’d allow the other exactly that, by keeping quiet; solitaire time. After so many years of being locked up in the same stinky motel room as the other after exhausting hunts, Sam loved finally having some alone-time again in a room private to himself. Dean didn’t want to take that away from him. He knows he can be a pain in the ass older brother and tends to smother Sam. He totally understands that having an older brother like Dean would annoy Sam.

Sam who always loves his independence, who went to college despite or maybe to spite their father. Sam who left behind his entire family a decade ago, because he had hopes and aspirations and knew he could achieve them alone. Dean, in secret, looks up to Sam for his braveness and how daring he can be.

So, if Sam wanted silence and to be alone, Dean wanted to give that Sam in this safe setting, where he didn’t need to worry about him too much. Here, in this bunker he was currently driving into, he knew that Sam was somewhat safe in. Dean wouldn’t have to be scared that if anyone walked into their room, they could take Sammy and simply leave. The sole reason why Dean has always been sleeping the closest to the doors, instead of allowing Sam to back in motels.

The bunker was hidden away, it was warded against many evil things and it had its own security system. It’s halls are entangled, complicated and long. It’s rooms are filled up with weapons everywhere for self-defence. If Sam wanted to distance himself from Dean, this place was the best one to do that for.

Of course, Dean was still always on edge. He always wanted to chat with Sam after hunts—wants to get his mind off of what just happened by joking around and mindlessly talk about nonsense. If Sam wasn’t having him, which again, Dean totally gets, he would simply walk to the refrigerator and get drunk to move on. Dean doesn’t need to rely on his younger brother for comfort. The cold alcohol in a bottle could keep him company as well.

His mouth waters up at the thought of beer. Dean removes the car key from the ignition and opens the door. Sam had already left. Sam was already on his way down into the corridors to disappear until the mornings.
And bitterly, Dean watches the long brown hair vanish with a single thought; good for him.

Locking up everything after him, Dean drags his tired body into the kitchen first and then, in each hand a beer, to his bedroom. On the way there, he looks over to where Sam’s bedroom was located at. With an empty expression, he stares in the direction without moving—lost in thought.

For a second, Dean considers breaking their treasured rule. Barge into his little brother’s room like older siblings typically do and annoy him until he would get kicked out. The two beer feel heavy in his hands. They threaten to slip out due to warming up in his hands and getting slippery. Dean could offer Sam one as soon as he comes in as a sign that he was coming in peace. He would reduce his outrageous alcohol intake, save his liver a little bit and have a fun family moment. The theoretical dream.

Through his left arm, a stinging pain shoots through his entire, usually resilient body. He winces upon registering it. Nearly he drops the glass bottles on the stone ground. Hurriedly, he moves back into his room to hide away.

Dean pops open the beer by the ring and closes the door behind him with a loud thud that Sam wouldn’t hear from his room at the other end of the long hallway. Fast, he places the closed can on his nightstand while putting his lips to the overflowing liquid to sip it. When it wasn’t nearly spilling again, he places it next to the other one and smacks his lips.

Removing his shirt hurriedly, he reveals an upper body full of scars, bruises and fresh cuts. Dean shakes out his hurting arm in hopes it would help. The cuts on his arm, that were causing the uncomfortable sensation in the first place, were linear. Messy, but linear anyway. Dean put every single bloody line on his body there himself. They were too many to count. It had started too long ago, to tell the time it started.

Dean only knows that it had been a stupid, light-headed idea. He wanted to test if it actually would help against the constant numbness he was experiencing on end. He hoped that by cutting himself open, he could finally take a peek at that empty pit inside him and maybe manage to fill it up one day. Digging after the black hole day for day, like it was hard and honest work, gave Dean something to hang onto in his otherwise chaotic daily routine.

Besides hunting monsters and having to take care of his little brother, life was entirely out of his own control. Hurting himself was the only valve that he had to use to regulate how troubled he was feeling. Matters were finally back in Dean’s hands. Somewhat, at least. The illusion of it, anyway.

Just staring at his own artful tapestry called skin dipped in crimson made his lips form a twisted smile on his face. He had no control over that, either.

Rubbing over the part that was giving him the most pain to ease it, he bothered huffs.

Dean sits himself down at the edge of the bed. He curls into himself, holding his knees to stay low. He wasn't ready to face himself again.

As beautiful and satisfying the sight can be, it sometimes creeps him out. What it means, what it implicates about him, that he’s willingly slicing himself up with almost ecstatic pleasure only to fight for his life the next morning at the side of his unknowing and unsuspecting brother. Does Dean actually want to die? Why does he feel so numb then? Why does he keep fighting?

Without daring to look down, he reaches for the opened beer can. His eyes were up at the ceiling. It felt almost comedic, how much he was trying to not look. Something to laugh at in a different setting.

He swallows down the liquid one gulp after another. The can was empty before he had really started getting into it. He sighs, crushes the can with his strength—the left hand didn't help a single bit, it was too weak to even hold the can on its own—and then throws it to the ground without caring to look where it landed. The messy state of his room just went to show how messy it was in Dean’s cluttered head. It felt therapeutic to see it visually unfold before his eyes like this.

Alcohol serving to build up his confidence, he opens the drawer next to his soft bed. In it, was perhaps the most powerful item Dean owned. Something that he allowed hurting him.

He doesn't let anything with the potential of that, stay too close to him for too long. With the rusty and unkempt blade, he slept like a baby. In case someone barged into his room, would try to kidnap him or what-not, he could end it himself before anything happened. He always had the option of giving up. Dean had might through this blade. Might that he was taking out on himself to keep himself in check every night like a goodnight story or a blanket wrapped around him—simple, habitual comfort he gotten used to like a drug.

Dean picks up the sharp razor blade. It holds a special places not only in the nightstand but also in Dean’s heart to the point where it felt like he was cheating on Castiel with it.

Before he was able to indulge himself in stupid, whiny feelings for the only real friend he ever made and that stayed until so far, he cuts into his own skin with relief. He forgets everything that once busied his mind. He forgets himself even, loses himself and ends up drowning in the liquid vermilion pouring hauntingly beautiful out of his forearm. With each shaky breath, he feels dizzier—high, almost.

Dean gasps at the true awe-infusing scenery unravelling that was his skin parting from his bone and bleeding. The cuts were deep, were meant to check if deep down, he was as hollow as he felt. Each cut was an act of curiosity.

Seeing the blood escape, he felt fulfilled. He had the reassurance that not yet, he was dead and empty all along. Something kept pouring out. Something inside Dean still had reason to live and to fight on. Something in his body was still functioning as it should—it was only a matter of time when his body would fail.

The single, first cut of the evening, quite too long to sustain it’s depth, smiles at Dean seductively. Dean wanted to plunge into it. Disappear in himself, from head to toe. Trickling blood threatens to soak his trousers and ruin them forevermore. He lazily moves his legs apart from each other and then uses his thumb to wipe away the excess.

His entire arm turned red at that. Dean didn’t care. He’d take a shower later and with that, all the new skin colour would slowly fade away again. He cuts into his flesh once again. Holding his breath as he drags the tired blade through his forearm makes him shudder. Something cold runs down his spine, caressing him.

Another slice, this time fast, mean and shallow. It was just to keep himself sharp and awake. Falling asleep with the razor in his arm stuck and getting woken up by Sam in the morning wouldn’t exactly be a wonderful thing. It’d ruin his entire mood, for sure. It would ruin their brotherhood as well.

He doesn’t want to think of the possible consequences resulting from his actions. Another cut, and another. Yet again, he holds his breath. He chokes when he tries to intake air again. It was embarrassing.

For that, he gives himself another cut.

Dean was so used to doing this, he didn’t even question it any longer. If he were approached on the street and prompted to speak about it, he would act as if it was a typical question. His head had already rationalised the self-destruction, had normalised it and clung onto it desperately. The last amount of control, his final outlet—something that makes him stay human.

Soon, the space on his arm would run out. He initially wanted to cut himself everyday once so it would be enough time to heal itself when he restarted from the top. It didn’t work out. Already on his third or fourth night—he can’t remember, all the days blur into each other, a mess of memories he had no use for—he gave up on limits.

Hurting himself over and over was a fun hobby. He didn’t take it too serious—like nothing in his life.

Losing more and more blood, his head feels hazy. Well, maybe it was also the level of alcohol in his body. Maybe it was the lack. He puts pause on the self-harm and opens the second beer can. Dean didn’t want it to warm up.

Warm beer is worse self-harm than whatever he was doing to himself with that damn blade. It now lays lonely on his pillow. He watches it dampen it and he slightly regrets placing it there without thinking about what it would do. He feels slightly inconvenienced at best, at the end of the day, because nothing in his life ever would be that serious that he would crash out because of it.

Leaning back on his bed he sips the golden liquid. This time, he takes his time. He knew that his night would end soon. If he lacked too much sleep, he’d feel too drowsy in the morning to act as if everything was fine. He didn’t try to hide his secret hobby by a lot, he’s doing this in his own room, without even locking his doors. But neither should he shove it in Sam’s face.

One sip after another, his stomach finally feels satiated. He hoped that maybe if he stuffed himself with burgers and beer to the brim, he’d fill that hole. It would never happen. He starts giving up, slowly.

Each slide with the blade makes Dean lose his motivation for life just a little bit more. So slowly and subtly, that Dean didn’t even remember what it felt like before. He feels used to this—it feels intoxicating. The promise of forgetting, of feeling alive was enough to keep going and risk losing his life.

When the second beer was empty, he audibly sighs. He crushes that can as well. He throws it away, and the loud noise it made when hitting the ground didn’t seem to worry his little brother too much. Dean was curious what sound he’d have to make, what level of volume he would have to reach to gain Sam’s attention—for him to start caring about his older brother again. Dean didn’t want to force that onto Sam. He was happy for him, that Sam was able to distance himself from this entire family thing. That Sam can, if he wanted to, have a life outside of this.

Dean looks at the blade. He presses his lips together and picks it up. Careful to not hurt himself, because cuts on fingertips are literally the worst—especially if in your line of work, you use a lot of salt. He lays it back into his nightstand.

Before he would accidentally cut off his arm, he should probably take a shower. He was reeking, for sure.

Showering itself hurt Dean so much, that it was almost the same worth to Dean than cuts. He always showers with the hottest water available. It burns his skin, kills him slowly. It feels nice to know that in practice, he was cooking himself alive. He wondered if he’d taste good, at least, or if he would fail as a delicious meal as well.

Water in opens wounds made his toes curl in agony. He grits his teeth as the water trickles down onto him and attempts to cleanse him off of all the disgusting, horrible things that had touched and interacted with him today. Dean knew that he would never be entirely clean and pure again. He lost that privilege somewhere on the way down to Hell. B

Being beyond repairment felt strangely good. Dean didn’t even have to try to fix himself, because he knew that it was helpless and to no avail. It was lost energy he could instead put into something meaningful like helping people with promising futures.

In the end, he simply flips his pillow around, to not need to lay in his own blood, feeling pathetic. He’s too tired to switch the case or whatever else one could do. He just wants to sleep—just wants it all to stop. Tired from the entire day, he closes his eyes, the darkness in the room mirroring pretty good how he feels inside, eased him into dreamless sleep, hugged by the wounds on his body trying to close themselves.

The morning after, was exhaustingly embarrassing to Dean. It feels worse than waking up first in a different place, not even able to remember the night spent with the one night stand laying next to you, still asleep.

Full of shame and disgust, with weakened and frail bones, he wants to bury himself into his pillow and stay gone where he had spent the entire night. That way, he wouldn't bother anyone any longer—he wouldn’t even bother himself anymore.

Instead, he wants to lose himself in a new case. He reads online for something that would spark enough interest in him to make him forget his numbness and he could get Sam on board with as well.

At lunch, Sam was wondering how he would bring up, what he had to say organically. Since they weren't talking before as they were eating, Sam doesn't bother wrecking his brain, “By the way, I called Cas over.”, Sam says between bites of food—a boring, green salad, the one he always has for lunch.

Dean chokes on his burger, “What? Why?”, he hits himself to not die, choke from the food stuck in his windpipe. He sips from his beer to help get the food down into his stomach, and spirals at the same time internally.

Hiding things from Sam was one thing—it was painful but easy, in the end. He’s experienced at it, he’d argue even a pro at it. Sam, too, understands that secrets are a good thing to have from time to time. Sam himself has many secrets that he doesn’t share with Dean. After so many decades of draining codependency, Sam and Dean finally had his own secrets again—or were able to have them, anyway. Sam flourished in that, looks like he can deal with his own shit. Dean still had the urge to share every little thing with his little brother, but refused to engage with it oftentimes. He wants to tell Sam so much—he restraints himself. Sam should be allowed to be who he wants to be, without Dean. Sam shouldn’t need to concern himself with what Dean was doing in his own time. Sam should live a life without needing to worry about Dean.

If Sam could live his life like this, could move on from all the cruel things in their past, Dean, the older one, naturally should be able to do that as well. He was less experienced at being alone—he wouldn’t let Sam triumph over him. A petty sibling rivalry he kept to himself. The curse of comparing himself with others, while having a brother like Sam, who can never do wrong, is truly awful. Like watching a flying bird while himself being stuck in a birdcage.

On the other hand, Castiel didn't have anything better to do, than wholly take care of the Winchesters. He rebelled for the two of them in the beginning, left behind everything he once knew because of them and joined them in many battles. Dean feels like it was unfair to keep anything from him after all that. Dean feels like he owes Castiel honesty. Castiel is family—though, in all honesty, Dean wished he’d be more than a brother to Castiel. An angel who only knows siblings perceives everyone as that, though—sometimes Dean wondered if Castiel even realised that love was an option he had.

But that doesn't matter. What matter is, that he hates lying to Castiel in any form. It was harder to, as well. Through Dean, Castiel learned what it meant to be human in the first place—how to be human. When Dean lied, Castiel knew without needing to try, because he lied the same way as him. He analysed Dean down to the last inches to make sure he always has the blueprint of the, in his eyes, perfect human to copy off of, in case of need.

Dean hated acknowledging this bond between them. No matter how much he would love Castiel, he knows that the angel should have higher standards for perfection. He would never dare to dirty the most pure soul God has created. In his humble opinion, Castiel was perfection. Not the perfect angel, not a perfectly good friend—Castiel was everything everyone lacked. Niceness, thoughtfulness, hesitance and determination, good-looks certainly as well, humour and grace—everything. Castiel was perfect.

“We haven't seen him in a bit. What, you two fought?”, Sam itches his nose, as he’s talking. He feels comfortable here, Dean thinks to himself, happy.

He had been scared that Sam would never accept the bunker as a home. He didn't seem like he ever wanted to settle here. But to Dean, this was more than a mere a safe haven. It was home—again.

Dean shrugs, “No, we’re fine. He’s just busy, I bet.”, he mumbles. The last time he had seen Castiel was over a few months ago. Dean hadn't been able to properly look Castiel in the eyes after having hurt himself for the first times back then. The body that Castiel had gently re-crafted and fixed the moment he touched Dean’s soul in Hell and rose him from perdition. That body reconstructed by skilled hands was horribly damaged and bloodied all throughout by Dean himself. He received a gift and spit at it.

“Great. Cause he’s coming over, no fuss. I’m not reading through all those files on my own.”, Sam frowns, “Remind me, why’d we take this hunt again from the get go? We just came from one.”, he complains like a little kid, his fork plunged into the bowl.

Dean happily chuckles at him, “Ghosts don't wait, Sammy.”, he grins and keeps eating again, ignoring the impending doom within himself.

“Pack it up, Peter Venkman.”, Sam jokes, referencing to the Ghostbusters character, earning himself an amused laugh from his older brother. He smiles with relief, he had thought that something was bothering Dean the last weeks. He sort of seemed out of it—almost blue. Sam was afraid that eventually Dean would grow tired of him. Sam still, after everything they went through, was just his little and annoying brother. And who likes to spend his entire adulthood with his little brother, having to take care of him twenty four-seven? Sam was proud that he was still able to humour Dean for now.

One day, Dean would wake alone in his bed fed up and decide that the bunker and his little brother weren't satisfying enough for him. He’d find a woman and live with her, forgetting about what he’s leaving behind. He’d rather find the strength to confess to Castiel, instead of being stuck with his freak brother any longer in solitude trapped in this underground building out of stone. Sam can't give Dean what he needs and craves, indefinitely.

Until then, he can use the time and make memories. He can make Dean laugh, show him what he’ll miss—what he’ll forget sooner than later, because if Dean doesn't want to think about something, he simply doesn’t think of it ever again. And all that Sam could think of that, was; good for him.

The conversation drifted and Sam tried to make himself move on from the worries that were painfully knotting his intestines. He managed, somewhat.

Eventually, they reached the moment were both had said everything they had wanted to get off their chests without overstepping the bounds they had implemented over the years, unspoken bounds that were caused by insecurities on both sides and kept alive by their awkwardness and the failure of properly talking about things.

Neither Sam nor Dean are able to deal good with silence.

Sam decided to stand up, “I’m getting all the reading material. Castiel’s here soon, I bet.”, he smiles awkwardly.
Dean nods at him, “Good thinking.”, he compliments his little brother and watches him leave. When would it be the last time he sees his brother leave through a door? When would he never come back? It wasn’t a question of if, to Dean anymore.

Before he could lose himself in the negativity of his own mind, he feels a presence behind him appear.

A soft smile makes itself shown on Dean’s face, “Castiel.”, he turns around and stands up to properly greet the angel.

“Something’s off about you.”, Castiel notices right away. He reads Dean like a book. It's stupidly funny, because Castiel can't understand any human but Dean. It was embarrassing.

“I’m all good, Cas.”, Dean lays his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, he wanted to give it a firm squeeze that’d reassure any human in the world of his well-being but managed to unsettle the angel. It was nearly a masochistic edging to exhibitionistic cruelty comparable to playing with an open fire. Using the same arm to reach out which he had cut himself into his own flesh just a single night ago, “But thanks for worrying, eh?”, he chuckles happily.

Dean felt sick pleasure and rewarding anxiety, thinking he was slick, thinking he wouldn’t be caught. He got overconfident.

Or, maybe, he had hoped that his sleeve would roll up just about enough to reveal oozing blood that would make Castiel actually notice how bad he was doing.

Dean knew he wouldn’t like that to happen in reality at all, he despises all these emotion talks and confrontations with his entire being.

Yet, the simmering wish, a feeble desire that should be kept exactly just that, wanted Castiel to find out and love him either way. Wanted to see his widened and confused eyes to look at the mess Dean had made out of himself and help him.

Dean wanted finally to be seen as the broken man who he was beneath all these layers of protection he puts on everyday. Between all these joking and fighting, Dean was dying on the inside. Slowly at first, more rapidly and by his own hand now.

It was just a longing. Something that he wouldn’t want to force onto Castiel and knew he couldn't expect of him. Showing him would feel like guilting him or giving him responsibility that he wasn’t supposed to bear, because in the end, it is Dean’s sole concern how he treats himself.

In the end, Castiel didn't love him—Dean didn't even love himself. He doesn't deserve care. Dean’s old enough to be responsible for himself. He’s holding himself accountable for every mistake by harming himself.

Cathartic self-punishment as God intended, right?

His heart flutters alive when beneath his hand Castiel jerked away. “I don't believe you.”, he says almost annoyed. In the same motion he had moved away, his own cold hand held onto Dean’s to prevent him from pulling back.

Dean knew right then, that he massively fucked up. His knees feel weak and if he hadn't had years worth of experience to cover up his anxieties to come across as self-assured, he would exploded under Castiel’s stern gaze.

The large hand of the angel felt soft soft against his own. The tender moment was disturbed by another swift movement on Castiel’s side, pulling at the arm, flipping it so he would only have to manually remove the sleeve to see the under side of Dean’s fucked up arm.

Castiel’s eyes pierce through Dean’s protected façade and force themselves to reach Dean personally. He wanted to hear it from Dean—didn't want to see it for himself first.

When Dean kept grinning, laughing his name and hesitantly trying to pull away, Castiel had enough of this game.

“Cas—.”, Dean tried to turn away, didn't want to fight Castiel for his arm.

It was too late by then.

The scene unfolding before him was worse than he had pictured it.

“Don’t tell Sam.”, he begs immediately, knowing there was no lie that would hold up against Castiel. The angel wouldn't let anything slip past him, that wasn't the entire truth. “Please.”, he looks Castiel deep into his eyes.

Dean hadn't looked at his own arm a single moment during the interaction. He knew what was there. He didn't want to see what Castiel was seeing.

Shaky fingers wrapped around his wrist made it harder to himself to remain calm and sorted. Castiel never seemed afraid—never out of control.

The ocean blue eyes of Castiel finally became program; watery because they were tear-filled.

“Dean.”, Castiel shakily breathes, his head held up high to refuse to look at the wounds any longer, “…these cuts are straight. What happened?”, he inquires to know as if the answer wasn't obvious with the damming evidence right in his clutches.

Dean shakes his head, “Don't make me say it.”, he requests, voice devoid of the previous carefree energy—stripped off every emotion, in fact.

“It must've been an attack.”, Castiel nods to himself in awful denial, slurred because he couldn't get his mouth to open much.

Sam comes back, closing the door behind him, “Cas! Hi there.”, he smiles, the only one between the three who has no idea what just ruined the mood completely. He was still far enough away to not see that the angel was holding Dean by his wrist and what came with it.

Hurriedly and abusing the moment of Castiel’s frailness caused by shock, Dean frees himself and fast rolls down the sleeve. He clears his throat, furrows his eyebrows to pleadingly look at Castiel before Sam ultimately arrived, “What’s wrong?”, he wonders curiously.

The moment if truth. Showtime.

Dean held his breath, praying to Castiel in his head to forgive him—please, Cas. We’ll talk about it later. I promise. I do. Anything you want to know. Just don't tell Sam. I beg you. Castiel swallows.

“I should get going. Dean told me what we’re hunting. I’ve got an idea.”, the angel lies, his face pale.

Sam realises something is off, “Okay.”, he excused Castiel anyway and once he vanished, turns to Dean, “Hey, is he alright? Did you say something stupid to him again? Dude, you cannot keep flirting with the only angel on our side, he looked spooked!”, Sam scolds Dean.

The older brother snickers carefully, “I gotta shoot my shots, Sam. You wouldn't get it. You’re too young.”, he teases. as if nothing ever happened. His heart paces itself again.

“I guess, we’re gonna have to read alone then?”, Sam moves on, back to the topic at hand.

Dean needs a second to get back into his head space again, “Ah, right. Yeah.”, he nods hastily and takes a few books from Sam’s arms for himself. He makes sure that his sleeve stays put this time.

The chair beneath his ass was made out of wood, it hurt but forced him to sit upright for his own sake.

Skimming through the many articles Sam had dug up in the most dust-filled records room know to mankind, Dean soon grew tired of them. He can't help himself but think about what happened with Castiel a bit earlier. He lets his thoughts drift away, drag him off, eventually.

“Gotta hit the can. Be right back.”, Dean yawns. He stretches before standing up from the chair he had sat on for the past couple of hours.

Sam shoots up, “Can you get me a coffee on your way back?”, he asks. His doe eyes making it sheer impossible to decline for Dean.

“Make it two.”, Dean tiredly mumbles, rubbing his face withe one hand, hoping to wipe away and remove the tiredness from his body—to no avail.

Dean trudges to the bathroom. As soon as he closes the door behind him shut, and he turns around, the body of his angel is pressed up against him.

Startled so much that Dean broke the door’s lock, snapping it in two, he jumps back. Castiel doesn't seem bothered about apologising for breaking the door. His face indicated that he had more important matters he’d like to discuss.

Dean realises right away. He had managed to convince himself that it hadn't been too bad, that Castiel wouldn't actually come back. Temporarily, he had been scared that Castiel wouldn't never come back. It would've been better than Sam ever knowing.

Here he was, anyway. Dean’s hand was holding his own chest, rapidly rising and falling.

“Ever heard of knocking?”, Dean attempts to joke to ease the tension that was built up by Castiel’s intense death glare.

He approaches Dean, “You promised.”, he argues, “Talk.”, he says. Now that he had enough time to think about this entire thing, he wouldn't be overwhelmed again by Dean’s wittiness.

“I’m tired. I need to take a leak and Sam’s waiting for me to come back and help him out with the case.”, Dean shrugs helplessly, like he wasn't able to talk to Castiel at all, because he’s so incredibly busy.

Castiel gives him a disapproving look, “This is more important.”, he sternly states.

Dean scoffs, “My stupid problem is more important than the case?”, he raises an eyebrow.

“Yes.”, Castiel answers instantaneously, not needing any time to think about it. That caught Dean off-guard for a change.

Bewildered and uncomfortable from the worry, Dean rolls his eyes at the angel, “Are you even hearing yourself?”, he sighs, “This is dumb.”

“I’m telling Sam, then.”, Castiel walks out of the toilet and brushes past Dean. When he touched the door’s handle, a hand was on his shoulder—this time, the other hand, the unharmed arm.

Embarrassed that he allowed it to come so far to being extorted, Dean pulls Castiel away from the door, “Fine.”, he mutters with his ears red.

“Thank you.”, he softly smiles and watches Dean struggle to think of how he should phrase his statement, because he knows it can and will be used against him in case of trial, when he’s tried for accidental suicide one day in the future by Castiel.

He wets his lips and the frowns, “Seriously, can you give me a second here? I’ll meet you in my room.”, Dean requests.

Castiel considers and agrees.

As soon as he was out of the room, Dean thinks about bolting. There was no way he’d manage without getting caught.

“Make it quick.”, Dean enters his own bedroom. He looks at Castiel who had been waiting ever so patiently for Dean. He looked abandoned on the edge of the bed. Like he doesn't belong.

Dean looks down to the ground, his arms slightly raised on both sides to show he wasn't armed or trying to fight—he’s seen too many movies.

Castiel pats the side of the bed right next to him for Dean to sit there. It feels ridiculous but Dean sat down as he was shown anyway, because he suspected it to be better than stand face to face in front of Castiel.

“You…hurt yourself, didn't you?”, Castiel stares up ahead, knowing that it would help Dean ease into the conversation. It wasn’t direct confrontation this way.

Dean snickers. It wasn't a question you ever think of hearing in real life. It was the sort of question you never pose, because you were too afraid of the answer you’d get.

“Yes.”, Dean numbly confirms, eyes strictly trained on Castiel’s fidgeting fingers.

The angel next to hin guides him through the questions with consideration, “Why?”, was the next one.

He shrugged in return, “To feel something, I guess. To have control?”, he answers as truthfully as he was able to, because he already had disappointed Castiel so much, he owes him this at least; a last shard of honesty.

“For how long?”, Castiel shoots the next question. He sounded prepared, cold and calculated like he was waiting for a specific answer.

Another vague answer followed, “A few months.”, he guesses rather. Thinking about his first time breaking this badly, filled him with too much shame. The man who was supposed to save the world, couldn't even save himself from himself. Dean’s ashamed of his weakness—can't pay attention to it, it would eat him whole otherwise.

Castiel nods and dares to look at Dean then again, deeming it appropriate, “Can I see…them…again?”, he isn't offended by Dean avoiding his stare.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, the lack of the distance between them suddenly stopped feeling reassuring but instead now was pressing and stiff, “Why?” The silence between their words was deafening.

Castiel keeps staring at Dean, “I want to heal them. I only glanced, but honestly, did you even once dress them properly?”, he wonders, talking sternly. He talks like he believes its in his responsibility to save Dean. He hates it.

“They’re fine. I don’t need–”, Dean wants to argue but gets broken off by Castiel.

“I need to. I can't sit around, knowing what you did, knowing why and not do anything.”, he explains, “I want to help you. Please, let me.”, Castiel reasons. He lost the cold tone of voice, he was a lot more hesitant and quiet now.

Dean doesn't understand, “Why do you care so much?” He knows it’s rude to ask. He has to bow down to the urge anyway, in desperation.

Castiel wets his lips the same way Dean often did when awkward, “Because…”, he drifts off, as if scratching what he wanted to say initially, “Because you deserve someone that cares about you, Dean.”, he whispers.

Dean is dead silent. No joke in the world could loosen this moment to make it feel comfortable enough to Dean.

“I don't want them gone.”, Dean admits then, “I need them.”, he says hoarsely. “I know it’s all sorts of fucked up, but they’re important to me.”

Castiel nods, “Without magic then.”, he decides and stands up, “Stay here.”, he orders him.

Dean sits on the bed, watches Castiel disappear through the door and then groans. He can't believe this was happening. His heart was beating fast in his chest.

When Castiel enters the room again, it was with a bucket filled with cold water and a cloth hung over the side of the metallic edge.

Dean hadn't moved an inch.

Castiel places the bucket on the ground and kneels on it in the same swift motion. Dean shakes his head, “Dude. Get up.”, he whispers loudly, embarrassed.

Refusing to, Castiel reaches to hold Dean’s hand. He pulls it closer. Dean doesn't fight it, even though he verbally tried to, “This is stupid. Come on.”, he says.

Castiel caresses the hand with his thumb, “Can I?”, he softly asks, looking upwards to Dean, finally into his eyes again.

“…If you must.”, Dean mumbles ashamed, his face heating up, more than not used to this sort of affection dedicated to solely him.

Castiel carefully rolls up the sleeve. Dean winces at the friction.

“I’m sorry.”, Castiel apologises softly.

Dean waves it off, “You’re…more than fine.”, he excuses him, hating himself for stuttering.

“I’m glad.”, Castiel breathes out and then lowers the cloth into water. After making sure it's not dripping wet, he puts it against Dean’s hurt skin.

Dean bites onto his lower lip. All he can stare at, is Castiel’s careful, concentrated and concerned face.

Jerking away at the horrible sharp and drowning pain, Castiel reaches out to hold Dean’s hand with his own empty hand.

“Is that okay? You can squeeze, I don't mind. There's just a lot to … take care of.”, Castiel tells him, looking into Dean’s forest green eyes.

Dean looks at their hands intertwined. He possibly couldn't tell Castiel that this was not fine. It was all he could ever dream of—physical touch, soft and caring without needing to pay for it, without feeling dirty and used, without pain or reprimands.

He didn't allow himself to answer with words. A simple nod, whilst avoiding eye contact, would need to suffice. He couldn't hear his own voice all soft and pathetic for Castiel without feeling the urge to kill himself right afterwards.

Castiel rubs the cloth over the dried blood, the most recent wounds. If he were to guess, he’d estimate them to a not older than a day. Its blood was dark red, almost brown. They would hurt the most, Castiel assumes. He feels his own hand get squeezed as he works on cleaning up Dean with utmost attention.

Holding back a whimper, Dean holds Castiel’s hand tightly.

Soothing water against his mistreated skin hurts Dean with a lot but definitely not pleasure any longer.

“Thank you, Castiel.”, he grunts, his one leg nervously bouncing up and down, his heart filled to the brim with a mixture of love, shame and pain.

Castiel’s eyebrows were furrowed, “You shouldn’t need to thank me for this.”, he says, “Your standards are incredibly low, Dean.”, he loosely complains.

Dean chuckles, “You’re certainly building up expectations.”, then he can’t help himself but joke, “Is it your plan to ruin me for everyone else by pampering me this much? Do you secretly want me all for yourself?”, he teases. It was a stupid habit. Jokes to cover up insecurity—to make everything else disappear. A coping mechanism to deal with stress.

Castiel doesn’t look at Dean as he answers, “I’m not keeping it a secret.”, he says monotonously, still wiping Dean’s arm clean with care.

His heart skips a beat and momentarily his legs stop moving up and down. His hand loosens his grip of Castiel’s hand.

Castiel finally, after a whole minute of silence, looks up to him, “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”, he apologises himself. He nervously gulps down saliva as he eyes Dean.

Dean wasn’t sure what exactly he wanted to say, he only knew that he was supposed to talk, “You didn’t.”, he mumbles, “You’re great at making me feel safe.”, he admits. It was the greatest confession he could make. Dean barely ever feels safe—nothing ever really managed to make him feel at ease. That Castiel could gift him that temporary peace of mind, that Dean was able to shut his brain off and trust Castiel, was proof of his emotional fondness to him.

Castiel squeezes the hand he held, “I know that this is a hard moment for you, Dean, but I have to say it right now, anyway.”, he says, “I assumed you already knew this, but apparently, you don’t.”, he prefaces and makes Dean’s heart nearly beat out of his chest in anticipation.

Dean wets his lips, “…Tell me.”, he needs to hear what Castiel has to say.

“I love you.”, Castiel said it while looking him in the eyes but as soon as the three words had left his mouth, he lowers his gaze again and keeps doing the task he had given himself.

Dean snickers, “Love you too, buddy.”, he mumbles, feeling weird.

Castiel sighs, “Dean.”, he says lowly, catching his attention, “I love you.”, he repeats to signal more intricately what he meant. It wasn’t the love between two brothers he had confessed. It wasn’t admiration. It was love.

This time, Dean understood. He can’t say it back—doesn’t dare to. The words are stuck in his throat, choking him and clawing at his oesophagus, begging to be released. Dean forced them to stay put. His eyes were looking twitchy between Castiel’s fingers, his eyes and his lips.

“You always isolate yourself. You don’t think that you matter to anyone.”, he resumes, because Castiel knows that Dean as struggling, he didn’t take it personal, “But you’re important, too. To me, at least. And I know that’s not a lot. I’m not even a proper angel anymore—but someone loves you. Someone cares. You don’t have to be alone.”, he explicitly says, still scrubbing at Dean’s skin and not looking up, “I’m here, if you need me. Just a prayer away. In case…you should feel the urge to hurt yourself again.”, he adds quietly.

Dean squeezes the hand. Tears in his eyes were embarrassing him. Terrified of how good he feels in this macabre moment, he nods eagerly. “Thank you, Cas.”, he whispers with a broken voice, “Thank you.”, he confesses, instead of telling him that he loves him back. He feels like, that if he would tell Castiel that he does, he would tie him to him forevermore. While he would love to have Castiel by his side until the end, he didn’t want to put Castiel through that. If Castiel should ever want freedom, he was entitled to it. He wouldn’t take it, if he knew that Dean loved him.

Dean’s biggest act of love to Castiel, was allowing him to be free, despite his incredible large fear of being abandoned.

Castiel caressed Dean’s arm down thoroughly. By the end of it, Dean felt reborn. He felt alive again. Maybe for the first time ever. He had forgotten what it meant to be alive.

Castiel created something; an act of a god. The angel did, what no already existing god in the world had been able to. He gave Dean life motivation—energy. In Dean’s eyes, Castiel was the most perfect thing in the entire world. To Castiel, he would willingly pray on his knees all day long, dedicated. He was so thankful for his mere existence.

“Hey, where’s my coffee?”, Sam looks up at the two of them. He looks between Castiel and Dean and can take a good guess what must've happened—he’s not even surprised that Castiel appeared to Dean in private, after he had said that he wanted to do research in his own. He doesn’t even hold it over them.

Dean nods and runs off, “I…should better get to it. Sorry. Later.”, he was gone before Castiel could hold Dean's hand to prevent him from slipping away.

Castiel sighs and sits down with Sam. He stares at him, “Dean isn't doing well.”, he explains, starting off weak, “That’s why we were gone, sorry.”, he adds softly.

“How do you mean?”, Sam nervously swallows. He had waited for this day to come. When he wouldn't be there anymore for Dean but someone else. When Sam didn't catch Dean’s lies any longer, because everything was tinted by them already.

Castiel turns to look at the door where Dean had left the room from to make sure he wouldn't listen in.

“Dean has been cutting himself.” , Castiel slowly says. Each word pronounced hard, weighted Sam’s heart down until it was beating in his feet by the end.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, “No. I would’ve noticed.”, he insists. His eyes open again and Castiel’s face still serious, he frowns.

“I was in denial too. But…I cleaned him up. He…he’s doing okay now, I think.”, Castiel briefs him, “I’ll watch over him. You don't have to care for him anymore than you want to. I just wanted you to know, because Dean wouldn't ever dare confess this himself. He wants you to see him as brave and strong. Even now.”, Castiel lowly says. He knew everything about Dean, without needing to hear it from him before. He was able to read Dean’s mind without having the actual ability of that. Dean was a part of Castiel, it felt like. Sam used to know Dean that well once.

Now, Sam rubs his face with both of his hands, perplexed he sighs, “Yeah. Okay. Thank you for telling me.”, he mumbles.

That night, Sam couldn't sleep again. Like every night, he wanders through the hallways of the bunker. Like every night, he halts before Dean’s room and considers barging in to ask if they could once more share a room together like old times, because Sam couldn't live alone without Dean, even after all this time.

For the first time, he dares to push open the door.

Sam takes a peek inside. Castiel laid there, wrapped around Dean like a blanket, already. There was no room for Sam anymore in Dean’s life, nor in his heart. He was old news. Dean wants something new—deserves it.

Blinking away pathetic child tears, he leaves again. He doesn’t regret having checked up on Dean though. He should’ve checked up on him much earlier. He can’t image how much he had suffered through alone, because Sam didn’t bother to consider that his great, big brother could get hurt too. Dean was perfect in Sam’s eyes, despite all the imperfections.

Good for him.