Author's Notes
1. Don't own 'em.
2. I don't have a beta so all mistakes are mine. (But if you feel like telling me when & if you find mistakes you'll have my unwavering and undying gratitude.) :-)
3. WARNING: Depression and thoughts of suicide
Dean shuffles across the bunker, his bare feet dragging on the cold floor. He rubs one hand over his stubbled jaw, thinking he should probably shave at some point, and then deciding it's too damn much effort, he lowers his hand. He stops abruptly and swishes the remaining swallow of coffee around in his cup, mixing the few loose grounds in with the too thick liquid, then gulps it down before continuing on towards the kitchen.
He's tired. So damn tired he can't think strait. Of course that's been his problem for months now. He's exhausted and pulled to his limits. It's all starting to get to be too much for him, and he realizes his exhaustion is more avoidance than anything. He knows this, but can't do anything about it. As he steps into the kitchen, his desire for that eleventh cup of coffee fades away as he notices the coffee pot is empty and cold. Sam has cleaned the kitchen, and the pot along with it. Deciding it would take more energy and motivation than he has to make another pot, Dean sets the cup on the counter. He stares at the cup for moment, and then the coffee pot. He's overcome with anger, because Sam is always pulling this shit on him. He knows Dean wants coffee. This isn't new, he's been downing coffee lately like it was water and he's thirsting to death. So what the Hell was Sam thinking dumping out a half full pot of coffee. He never fucking thinks. He never thinks about what I need, or want, or how shit affects me. FUCK!
Dean grabs the coffee cup and throws it across the kitchen, shattering it on the wall. This time he screams his curse. "FUUUUUCK!" He reaches for the offending appliance and wrenching it from the wall hurls it to the floor. His anger keeps building and he doesn't know why, but it's there and it needs to get out.
Dean clutches to the edge of the counter, trying to control this frenzy. He knows it's irrational. He knows it's just a damn cup of coffee. But it's heavy. That's the only word he can find to describe it. Heavy. Deep down on a soul crushing level, it is heavy – and that pisses him off even more because now he's just being a pussy over some hurt feelings – and, damn, if that just doesn't make it hurt, too. And nobody cares. He's alone and in it on his own. He'd done nothing but fight. Fight for his family, fight for his friends, fight for humanity. Not even a God damned Thank You. Why? Because. No. Body. Cares. Period. And why should they? Honestly. Cas was right. He is a broken shell of a man.
Dean fists at his hair, tugging it by the roots and seethes through clenched teeth and rigid muscles. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid weak douchbag. He's crying now, and the weight of it all is becoming too much. "I just want a little peace." He hisses. "I just want somebody to give a damn. GUHHH!" The anger Dean has been fighting to keep in check bubbles to the surface and he slams his fists onto the counter and swipes them over the surface, sending Sam's stupid glass fruit bowel stuffed full of bananas and apples flying. It collides with a bottom cabinet and shatters, fruit and glass launching across the floor.
He begins grabbing cabinets, jerking them open and slamming them shut, over and over, until a few are pulled of the hinges. He yanks one such cabinet door down and throws it across the kitchen like a Frisbee. Completely unsatisfied with how it thumps into the wall and clatters to the floor, he picks it up and begins pummeling the wall until it breaks and shards, and a piece imbeds in his wrist. Dean swears again at the sharp pain, tossing the remains of the cabinet on the floor before examining his wrist.
And then it stops. As quickly as his temper had risen, it ebbs.
He's surprisingly fascinated by the large splinter, maybe three inches long and a quarter inch in circumference, it reminds him of a small pen knife. It burns, and is bleeding, and he watches it curiously, like he's trying to figure out why he likes it there. The burning, and bleeding; the sharp pinches on the nerves that sends radiating pain through his hand. Dean flexes his fist encouraging the pain to intensify and satisfy his need and curiosity. Blood continues to seep from the wound. Not a lot, but enough to draw Dean's attention. He feels the pain and sees the blood, but it's so foreign to him, like the memory of sensations instead of the present experience. He continues to watch and flex, enthralled by it all, and not willing to lose the experience yet. An experience, he is willing to admit to himself, that doesn't leave him feeling weighed down and burdened. With every drop of his blood and every pulse of pain the weight seems to lighten. For just a moment it all just stops, and Dean realizes, that's what he wants. He wants it to stop. All of it. Everything.
Sam silently watches from the doorway, afraid to approach because these fits have become so unpredictable that he fears so much as clearing his throat might send Dean into another rage. Each time he rages until he hurts himself, and then a calm comes over him for a while. A day or maybe two, then Dean slips into this depression again. He begins sleeping for sixteen hours a day, and yells for no reason, and stops showering and stops shaving, and takes risks on hunts deliberately so he can be injured and feel that calm again.
Sam knows all of this, but can't do anything about it. He's tried talking to Dean, but then Dean rages at him, and accuses him of "hounding" and "nagging", and says, "It wouldn't be a problem if people would just leave me the fuck alone." This strikes Sam as bizarre because Dean is always alone. No one wants to be near him anymore, even Sam keeps his distance. Dean needs professional help, but it's not like there's a rolodex of therapists specializing in "Hunter Trauma" that Sam has to pull from. He's stuck, and can do nothing but watch and try to redirect where he can. So when Dean's breathing finally steadies, and the storm passes, Sam approaches and directs Dean out of the kitchen and into the bathroom for first aide.
As Sam leads him towards the bathroom Dean is viscerally aware of his brother. Of all Sam's done for him and all Dean's tried to do, but has failed at. Even now when he has torn apart their kitchen, Sam is still taking care of him. And if that isn't a kick in the pants – because it's just another example of how Dean has let Sam down. Just another pound of disappointment and regret added to the all ready crippling weight. Sam thinks Dean can't see it, but he can. It's always there. Sam's ashamed of him. But to his credit, he stays. Sam puts up with it, and cleans Dean up and cares for him.
Dean makes a decision as he sits silently on the toilet, with Sam pulling the splinter out of his wrist. It has to stop. It just has to. For Sam's sake as well as my own. He can't handle it anymore. Knowing what a complete and useless failure he is and seeing it in Sam's eyes . . . that right there is the straw that broke Dean Winchesters back. Sohe decides to make it stop permanently.
With the decision made, Dean leans back against the toilet, and feels the stress and anxiety trickle from his body. That heavy weight leaves him because this is the right, best and only choice. Dean exhales heavily and looks down at Sam. "Thanks, Sam. You know… for everything." Sam looks up at him from where he is now tenderly pulling shards of glass from the bottom of Dean's foot. He hadn't realized he'd stepped on the glass. Another wave of guilt passes over him, but he holds onto his calm, because now there is a way out. "I think I'm going to be ok now, Sammy. I think I've figured this out now, and I'm going to fix it."
Sam hopes so, and says as much. "This has gotten out of hand, Dean. If you think you've found a way to cope, and make this better, to fix this and make it right again, then I'm on board."
Dean basks in Sam's approval, the only thing he needed to prove unequivocally that this is the right solution. He doesn't necessarily want to die. That's not it at all. He wants to live, but he wants it to stop more. So with Sam's blessing cementing his resolve, Dean leans back and imagines an end.