So Dean was back from hell. Sam had stopped doing the weird demon mind exorcisms. Well, at least as far as Dean knew.

What was wrong then? Why was Dean so angry with himself? Why did he want to start doing what he had stopped doing around the time he made the deal to bring Sam back? Why was he in the bathroom in the dark, Sam snoring just outside of it, with a blade pressed to his hip?

Dean didn't know. Not really. He couldn't pinpoint the exact reason. I mean he had a lot to choose from. What he did in the pit for starters. That was a big part of it. I dedicated my entire life to saving people and hunting things, the things I was hurting people for. How could I just turn on everything I ever stood for? Stupid, worthless, piece of shit . . .

And then there was his father's voice. Still there, ringing in the back of his mind, clear as day. I told you protect Sammy, Dean! What you want doesn't matter. Protect Sammy. And he had. Hadn't he? He gave his life for Sam's. But right before John sacrificed himself for Dean, he told him to kill his brother if he had to. And Dean didn't. But which order was he supposed to listen too. Dean was a good little soldier. But he couldn't listen to both. Had he done the right thing? Did I even deserve to be back? Probably not. Did I deserve to die in the first place? Hell yeah. So why the fuck am I here?

And with that thought, he pressed the blade down. The sweet, cool metal kissed his skin. Blood flowered underneath it. He let out a breath and relaxed, letting the blood drip down his leg. He made a couple of more right next to it. Every negative thought vanquished for that split second. The distraction when everything became too much. When he wasn't enough. After a minute, he cleaned the wound and the knife, and he dressed again.

Dean sat on the bed, fully clothed, drinking whiskey until he fell asleep. It took ages, but he finally did, only to face the nightmares once again. His dreams weren't his imagination at all, just memories - the kind you try to bury. Every morning Dean would awake with a start, and immediately drink copious amounts of alcohol just to get through the day. He repeated this process for weeks. The cutting, the drinking, and every once and awhile he made it interesting and threw in some coke or oxy. But only on the bad days. The really bad days.

Nothing changed for almost a month. He acted like a functioning alcoholic that wasn't trying too hard to hide it, and Sam pretended not to notice his brother's drinking. They hunted some evil sons-of-bitches and kept trying to make progress on the whole Lilith/Apocalypse front. They had found a routine.

One day, though, after a basic ghost job, when they were celebrating at a bar, Cas appeared.

"Holy shit, Cas. Don't just appear," Dean practically yelled when the angel appeared in the booth beside Sam. Sam, the graceful moose he is, spilled his drink. Not that it mattered. Cas fixed it by snapping his fingers.

"Sorry Dean. Its how angels get around. It's much quicker than walking or riding in a 'car'." Cas did air quotes around car for reasons Sam and Dean didn't even try to figure out.

"Cas," Dean said frustratedly, "Why are you here?"

"I wanted to talk to you Dean."

"About what?"

"I'm worried."

"Yeah. The end is nigh. We can't stop it. Lucifer will rise and take over the world. We're all worried."

"No. Dean. You misunderstand. I'm worried about you."

"Why the hell are you worried about me?"

Sam chooses this moment to interject, "The drinking?"

Cas nods, "Yes, and the nightmares."

"Wait you know what I'm dreaming about?"

"Not exactly, but I know you haven't been sleeping."

"How?"
"I watch over you sometimes."

Dean just looked at Cas. A look that said What the hell is wrong with you?

Cas didn't notice.

"Not to mention the cuts."

Dean felt the wind get knocked out of him. Why would that feathered dick say that in front of Sam? He looked down at his beer. He couldn't look at Sam. Not now.

"Dean," Sam's voice was tiny, "Are you cutting again? I thought you stopped after high school."

Dean was silent.

"Anything else Cas. I need to speak with my brother alone."

"Well there are the drugs."

Dean could feel Sam staring holes into his skull. He closed his eyes. Then he grabbed his beer and downed it, and got up to run out the door. But he stopped, and growled, "Fuck you both. I don't owe you anything."

After that he ran out the door of the bar, hopped in the Impala, and drove away. As fast as he possibly could, leaving a angel with ruffled feathers and a very pissed off Sam.