A/N: I originally posted this on AO3 and it was received well so I thought I would also post it on here. I want to throw out warnings now because this story (The first three chapters especially) are centered around self-harm as a coping method. I will put in warnings per chapter so there are no surprises. I don't want to trigger anyone, your safety is very important to me. So without further ado I give you this; there will be eventual Destiel. But like I said, first three chapters are mostly showing Castiel and his methods. Also this chapter is extremely short because I used it as a gauge to see how people would take to it!

I don't own anything

Triggers: Cutting/Self-Mutilation

Heave the silver, hollow silver, piercing through another victim. Turn and tremble, be judgmental

Ignorant to all the symbols.

-x-

Red

black

Trickling

oozing

Pain. The one thing Castiel could not fully grasp the meaning of until he fell. Wings burning. Eyes stinging. Throat constricting. The pain had enveloped him; dotted his vision with black and shook all the way to his bones. Grinding. Tearing. Screaming. Hands grasped at him through the dark, squeezing his throat, grasping his wrists and dragging him down. Down. Down. It was excruciating at first, unbearable, leaving him to thrash about in the Winchesters arms, biting down on his tongue till the blood ran warm down his chin. Those times had merely been a shock, angel bodies had not been made to sustain such torment, but now he envied the humans who had been able to experience the sweet satisfaction before he. Pain. He began to crave it, after the times in the bunker, eyes flickering over every sharp, jagged surface with an urge so strong it almost made his mouth water. Times like these, sitting on the edge of the bed holding out his milky white arm, gripping his razor, were divine. Sacred. Castiel's piece of control, after his wings, after falling; he had the power to drain himself of the tainted blood that coursed through his system.

Of course hiding it from the Winchesters had been another story, they doted on him, especially Dean, and Castiel just didn't have the heart to tell the man of his new obsession. No, he reveled in hiding it, being in control over his little secret; the idea of having to hide his bloody blades, wear long sleeves in the hottest of weather, it all excited Castiel. As an angel his secrets tended to be just the opposite, but now it was his, his, and no one else could take that away from him.

His razor had come from Dean, personally, making it more special. As the hunter handed him the small stick claiming, you're getting rugged so shave, Castiel had been confused, copying as he watched the man do it as well, nicking himself on the throat. A small cut, nothing to fret over, but Dean had quickly placed a cloth over it and stopped the small flow; not catching the blown pupils of his fallen angel, the ideas that began to swim through his head.

-x-

Castiel slowly opens the door, gazing around the dark hallway, hearing a television on but other than that no commotion, so he quickly shuts the door, huddling on the bed, cross-legged. He pulls out the sharp object from the small box he'd managed kept hidden, gripping it in his hand so tight it gouges his palm. The room enclosing him is a nice one, the walls a dark blue, practically black. Black. Like your wings. Before you fell. Befor-

"No!" Castiel muttered, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head, as if to rattle his thoughts clear. Opening his palm he stares wide eyed at the blood; he'd never really paid attention to it as an angel, it never spilled from him long enough, so he'd desynthesized himself to it, turned away from it before, but now he savored it, craved the spill of it. With a wrist stretched out taut in front of him he places the small object to the flesh there, already littered with old and fresh wounds. Although being rather askew about his arm they all seemed to fit a neat little pattern, some long and jagged and others short but deep; each of them wiped clean of blood and left with puffed skin and an angry red signature. They were beautiful. Castiel had seen a lot of things as an angel, the most extravagant of gardens, gorgeous nations constructed by the hands of workers, the home of God himself, but nothing compared to the beauty he found in the wounds, in the blood; as if his body were a blank canvas waiting to be painted and prodded.

Finding a spot was as meticulous as trying to find a seat on the bus, eyes scanning over alabaster flesh in an attempt to catch the perfect vein. As he places the razor to his wrist, sure to add the right amount of pressure, too little and you'll have nothing but a little nick, so he waited, letting gravity push the weapon down until - RIP - he slides it across with shaky finger tips. For a moment nothing happens but the appearance of a long red line across his radial and ulnar artery, but then the crimson liquid peeks out and spills over each side. This is the moment Castiel feels the adrenaline pump through his veins, he needed more, more. So each cut after that is longer or deeper, it doesn't matter what, just that it's erratic, splitting his skin open at the seams and hissing in delight. His eyes staring with the utmost concentration as the flesh opened up, crimson tears leaking out, silently making their way down. He slashed greedily, as if each cut just wasn't enough, not enough to satiate his hunger for repentance. Castiel slowly felt the throb overtake his senses, blowing through his head like a drug would.

The way humans felt pain was like nothing he'd ever dreamt of, nothing he could have fathomed before, and now it was all his.

Song used: Wasteland by 10 Years