Dean silently followed the echos of what could have been a hammer. He wasn't sure what, specifically, the noise was. It was unfamiliar to him as he slowed his steps, on guard. His hand carefully reached for his gun, his fingers brushing against the handle.

At the grunt of frustration, he found a door that was slightly ajar. Glancing into the room, he found himself freezing on the spot. His blood ran cold, his joints stiffening, as he stared at the boy in the room before him. Dean flinched violently as the knife plunged through the boy's chest once more, slicing skin and muscle to pieces as it went.

Dean felt his teeth grind against each other painfully, his jaw clenched tight as he was thrown back in time to a similar situation involving the boy's self-proclaimed father.

It was even more shocking back then, when Dean gently pushed open the door to Castiel's temporary room. He had two beers in his hands, ready to pass one off to the angel. Instead, they crashed against the floor, breaking by his feet.

Castiel looked up slowly, his eyes wide. His movements were slightly delayed, as if he hadn't yet figured out what was happening. The knife resting at his neck stopped its vertical descent. There was so much blood; his hands, his bed, his stupid trenchcoat were stained.

Dean's gaze darted from one blood spot to the next, the cuts in Cas' shirt were still imprinted in his eyes when he blinked. He felt bile try to climb up his throat as he kept staring at the deep cut going down Cas' neck.

And sure, he's seen blood before. He's seen Cas hurt before. He's seen Cas' blood before. But this - this was something entirely different. Dean wanted to cry as his shaking fingers grabbed onto the door handle. He thought about pulling it closed and acting as if he hadn't seen anything. He thought about running away. But his feet wouldn't let him. Slowly, Dean stepped past the beer mess on the floor, and closed the door after him.

Cas didn't say a word as Dean walked up to him. THe angel flinched when Dean reached out, like he was expected to get hurt. Dean's heart broke a little more at the small action. Instead, Dean grabbed the knife from Cas' red hands and looked down at it.

With barely-held back emotion, Dean asked, "What is this?"

Cas hesitated, "Do not worry, Dean, I-"

"'Do not worry', how the fuck do I not worry about this, Cas?!" Dean threw the knife down in a fit of rage, just barely missing his foot.

Huffing in annoyance, the bloody angel gestured to his own throat. Dean glared at him as the wounds healed quickly, leaving nothing behind, not even a scar. A flick of Cas's wrist and all the blood was gone as well.

"It doesn't hurt me, Dean." Cas said, sounding more tired than anything. "I don't use an angel blade."

"That shouldn't make a difference!" Dean growled, "Pain or not, it's still bad, Cas!"

Cas had the nerve to look annoyed at Dean for interrupting him. He glared furiously at the wall in front of him, "What does it matter, anyway? You said it yourself." The angel turned his angry gaze to Dean's face, "Nobody cares if I'm broken."

Dean visibly flinched as his own words were thrown back at him. Guilt pulled at his chest as he saw the self-loathing in Castiel's eyes. He couldn't deal with this, he refuses to talk about this right now. Dean grit his teeth and jabbed a finger in Cas' face. "I don't care how butthurt you get. This" he picks up the knife off the floor, "is not allowed."

Cas opened his mouth to object. Probably to say something about how Dean doesn't get to decide what he's allowed to do, but Dean interrupted him, "No, Cas. If you stay in the bunker with us, you cannot do this."

He couldn't even say the words out loud. He couldn't force them out of his mouth.

You can't hurt yourself.

You can't cut yourself.

You can't slit your wrists; your neck.

You can't stab your chest.

You just can't…

… please don't.

No more words could come out of his mouth. Fear and concern muted him. The hunter cussed quietly and stormed out of the room, carrying the knife with him. He made note to tell Sam what happened, and let the bunker's therapist go and talk to Cas.

So, Dean kept a closer watch on Cas. Made extra sure that he wasn't doing anything stupid. Dean never thought he'd have to be on suicide watch for a fucking angel, but that was his life right now, apparently. Every time they fought with each other in battle, and Cas pulled out his angel blade, Dean flinched.

And then Cas fell. And his blood actually needed to be in his body. And Dean grew on edge once more. Every time Cas got a fucking paper cut, Dean's mouth ran dry and his hands would shake. He had to keep Cas safe. Even from himself.

But then… then there was Gadreel. Gadreel who swore up and down that Dean had to choose between Cas and himself. Between Cas and Sam. Dean knew what he had to do. He approached the fallen angel, who was eating a burrito happily.

"Listen, buddy, um…" Dean sat down on the table, "You can't stay."

Cas stared at him for a long moment, the words cutting through his core. Dean had to look away from the man. This was already a difficult decision, he didn't need Cas' kicked puppy look making it any worse.

"...But…" Cas said quietly, he leaned forward in his seat, "But why?"

Dean sighed, wracking his brain for a reason, "Cas…"

"I've been good!" Cas said suddenly, a shaking hand landing on Dean's knee. His fingers dug into the skin desperately. "I- I have followed your rules!"

"My what?" Dean asked, confused now.

Cas removed his hand and pulled up his sleeves, presenting Dean with his clean, scarless wrists. "You said I could not stay if I harmed myself. You can check my entire vessel - body - I haven't, I've, I've been good."

Dean felt his heart squeeze in his chest. "Cas, that was forever ago…"

"I've kept by it." Cas reiterated, his eyes pleading and hurt. "I've followed your rules."

Dean looked over his shoulder at Gadreel, who was silently watching. The angel in his brother's body squinted at him, a silent warning. Dean's hands shook as he turned back to Cas, "This isn't about that… I'm sorry."

On Cas' lowest nights, when he was hungry and cold and everything an angel shouldn't be, the man would find a sharp peice of glass or scrap metal. He'd find a place out of the public eye and slowly drag the gagged liter across his skin. He never went as deep as he did when he was an angel. But he made sure there would be a scar.

If he followed Dean's warning and still got kicked out of the bunker, then what was the point of listening? What was the point of doing anything, if he meant nothing in Dean's eyes? It didn't matter that now this kind of activity hurt. It didn't matter that Cas couldn't heal himself. He couldn't stop.

As Cas stole the grace of another angel, his scars and wounds healed. His little past time would no longer bring harm to him. He was able to team up with Dean once more, and his life became too chaotic to waste time on harming himself. He had angels to lead, friends to help, a scribe of God to find.

When things started looking up for them, and they got a few wins under their belt; Dean was finally able to let his guard down. Cas was no long stuck on this habit. His body was scarless, and his mind was calm. Pleasantly, Dean sighed in relief when he realized he'd never have to deal with that again.

Dean blinked rapidly, his body had gone cold as he was brought out of his thoughts. He shook his head, trying to escape the memory that gripped him so tightly. Taking a deep breath, he stormed forward and snatched the knife from Jack.

"Okay, what the hell." Dean hissed, "give me that!"

Jack twisted to look at him, the same surprised, confused expression that Cas had given him so long ago. "It doesn't hurt me… What the hell am I?"

Deans fingers itched as he held the bloody knife in his hand. He wanted to throw it down, but his body wouldn't let him. He stared at the boy, unable to come up with an answer that didn't involve yelling at the suicidal child. And he wanted to yell. He really wanted to yell and knock some sense into the kid. But he wasn't sure if he could deal with this conversation again. So Dean just shook his head, backing out of the room. His feet rapidly carried him back to the kitchen, back to Sam.

His brother looked up in surprise, "...Hey."

Dean silently dropped the bloody knife onto the table next to him. He glanced down, unable to keep Sam's gaze. His brother's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and then shifted quickly to worry.

"What's this?" Sam asked, his eyes darting up and down Dean's body, in search of an injury.

Dean swallowed hard, running a hand across his face, "I need you to go talk to the hellspawn. It's his."

Sam got up jogged down out of the room, leaving Dean alone. The hunter leaned against the table, hanging his head. He let out a shuddering breath. When he opened his eyes - when had he closed them? - he saw blood on his hands. Blood from his words, his choices. Growling, Dean smacked the knife with all his might; sending it flying across the room. He flinched at the clattering noise that filled the empty kitchen.

As he stood there, a single thought kept circling in his mind. A thought that made his teeth grind together until he tasted dust. A thought that made his lungs burn, smoke filling his mouth. A thought that made him want to pick up that knife off the floor and add to the hunting scars on his body.

Like father, like son.

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