Work Text:
Dean withers had always hid his habits. Whether it was his anxiety pen he hid on streams, l puffing away at just to get by, or the dirty magazines he had kept hidden in his drawers as a pent-up teen.
But things always slip through.
It was a normal Saturday live stream for Dean. he saat, tired, at the chair in his bedroom, starting up a live stream. Viewers slid in, slowly, one by one, until he had enough to start the live. It started the same as any other live stream. He was debating maga trumpies, right wing extremists, abortion deniers, all that kind of thing. Now he had gotten into a heated discussion with an old man who had a thick texan accent.
“What would have happened if mary aborted Jesus?" The man asked.
Dean sighed.
what the fuck is he talking about? he thought to himself. holy retard.
He ran his hand through his hair, then looked at the chat.
To his surprise, there wasn't a word about the idiotic phrase the man had just said.
Barabarafoyd:whats that on his arm?
goobehquire:4-4r3 th0z3 b-b4nd4g3z?
mikeywike:i didnt know he was depressed
tomP:uhh is he a cutter???
But his fans noticed something else. When he was debating the maga, the comments weren't about the killer points he was making. They were about the fact his sleeve had slipped down, revealing the messy, disheveled bandages he’d had on since last night. He pulled his sleeve down as fast as possible.
fuck, fuck, fuck!he knew the damage was already done, though. The stream had seen the hastily applied bandage, spotted with blood.
“i-I gotta go!” dean said, shutting off the stream.
uhhh. Shit. they saw… they alll saw… dean said to himself.my career. My fans..
He heard his phone buzz once. Then again. Then again. He reached over to grab it, then…
Oh.
Oh no.
No, no, no.
Twitter was already full of screenshots of the live show. All of them tagging him. He had dms and comments asking if he was okay. The tag #savedeanwithers was already trending. He felt sick to his stomach. He threw the phone down, then got up, stepping to the window. Fresh air, he needed fresh air. His head was spinning. Ever since Charlie had died, he had fallen into a deep depression. The only person he’d ever been able to really, truly, love, and the only one who'd loved him back. He had finally found his equal. Then he was cruelly ripped out of his hands. Dean would always remember the nights they'd spent together. Slick bodies pressed together. Legs intertwined, panting breathes, clothing on the floor. Oh how he missed him he would do anything to get back to him. Anything… wait. He had already lost everything. His career was probably fucked. So logically, the next thing to do was join Charlie.
Dean leaned out the window, letting gravity do its job.