He can't remember it, but Dean assumes he had a fairly normal childhood up until he was four years old. A mother, a father, and a baby brother. Life was going as it was supposed to. Then, when he was four, his mother burned to death on the ceiling of his brother's nursery. After that, Dean's life went from normal to seriously fucked up. Which, when thinking back, might be how he went from normal to fucked up. But before he can contemplate this fact further, his father comes through the door, cursing worse than a sailor.
"Dean, grab the bandages and don't forget the fucking hydrogen peroxide this time. And make it quick. Last hunt I almost died waiting for you." Dean scurried around the motel room collecting supplies, hoping this new excitement wouldn't wake Sammy. The kid was only six, he needed his sleep. He always dreaded this part of their life. Not knowing what condition their father would come from a hunt in, or even if he would come home.
Sam didn't help, always asking, "When's Dad coming back? He was supposed to be back two days ago. Do you think something happened?" It became Dean's job to slap a smile on his face and assure Sammy that, "Of course he's coming back, he's just running a little late, he'll be here tomorrow."
"God damn it Dean, hurry up!" "Yes sir." he replied, bringing the supplies to his father. "So, did you get it?" he asked as his father began to patch himself up. "Of course I did boy, what do you take me for, an amateur?" his father said a sneer on his face. Dean remained silent at this, having learned long ago, that when his father was in one of "those" moods it was best to stay quiet and leave his vicinity as soon as possible.
"You need anything else?" he asked, and John just grunted in response. Just as he was turning to make his exit, he herd his father say, "Wait." Stopping, Dean slowly turned around to face him.
"What were you doing when I walked in?" John inquired, a hard look in his eye. "Nothing, just thinking." Dean replied, his stomach dropping.
He should have known this was going to happen. "Sitting and thinking huh?" his father said, his voice sounding harder with each syllable.
"You ever think what could have happened if it wasn't me barging through the door, but a demon? You wouldn't have stood a chance. You'd be dead within seconds, and Sammy not far behind. God fucking damn it Dean, what have I told you a thousand times? Watch after your brother. That's your job. Take care of him. And I come back to see you sitting, staring out the window, daydreaming about who knows what. Stop being so fucking lazy and do your damn job. Really Dean, if you can't do your fucking job, what good are you?"
Dean didn't even try to defend himself. His father was right, he shouldn't have been sitting there aimlessly gazing out the window. He should have been sitting alert, ready for anything. How could he have been so fucking stupid! His father was right, he was a good for nothing son, couldn't even do his one job right. Dropping his gaze, he mumbled "Sorry." and walked away, praying to God his father wouldn't call him back. Hearing nothing from behind him, he made a beeline for the bathroom.
Shutting the door, he sagged to the floor, the weight of his self-loathing and guilt making it physically difficult to stand. Closing his eyes, he fights back the tears trying desperately to escape. He can't fucking cry. His father will see if he comes out the bathroom with red puffy eyes. He can't be weak. Not now. Not after he already let down his father and Sammy. His father can't know how fucking useless Dean really is. But he can't stop it, the tears start streaming down his face no matter how hard he fights them. He bites down on his hand, trying to muffle the sobs, feeling the sharp pain, and the accompanying metallic taste flooding his mouth. The pain momentarily stops his sobs, but as soon as that ceases, the tears start again.
Rising, he blindly walks towards the shower and turns it on, discarding his clothes; he steps into it, turning the water on as hot as he can stand it. Standing under the hot spray, he hears his father's voice in his head, reverberating louder and louder. "Stop being so fucking lazy and do your damn job. Really Dean, if you can't do your fucking job, what good are you?" Resting his hands on the edge of the shower, he feels something sharp and metal under his fingertips. Through his tears, he sees his father's box of razor blades. He must have forgotten to take them out of the shower, after changing his razor this morning. Opening the box, he takes out a razor and holds it against his skin. Then, hesitating barely a second, he presses down. The razor makes a crimson line across his skin, burning white hot. And then all is quiet in his mind, save for a hazy form of peace, no tears, and really no pain. He makes another cut, this one intersecting the first, and watches as the water at his feet turns from clear to crimson.
He stands there for who knows how long, until the water is again clear and his fingers are more akin to prunes then appendages. Then slowly he steps out of the shower, grabbing his towel to wrap around his arm. Poking his head out of the bathroom door, he surveys the room. His father is no doubt passed out in his bed, a whisky bottle within arm's reach, and Sammy's sound asleep as well. Silently, he makes his way to the table, and grabs the bandages his father had left strewn on the table, along with two empty beer bottles. Creeping back to the bathroom he bandages up his arm, flushing the bandage wrappers down the toilet for good measure. After that one moment of peace, now all he feels is shame. Can't let Dad and Sammy know he did this. Just prove to them how weak and useless he is. Instead, as he crawls into bed, he promises himself he will never do it again. Of course that's a lie. Over the ensuing years, Dean began to rely on his razor more and more, and if Dad and Sammy suddenly wonder about his new found love of long sleeved shirts, they don't voice it.
When he was fifteen his father left him and Sammy on their own while he hunted a werewolf in the next town over. He'd already been gone a week longer than expected, and he and Sam were both on edge, and sorely in need of some food. Dean had been left with strict orders not to leave Sam on his own until their father returned. But when Sam got hungry, his bitch face became ever more prominent, not to mention the fact that Dean didn't like seeing Sammy hungry. So finally, ten days after their father said he'd be home Dean broke. "Now, just stay here. Don't move. Don't even breathe. I'll be gone 20 minutes tops." he told Sam. Sam nodded his head and promised to do as he said. Looking back on it, he realized it was way too easy. Normally, Sam would bitch and moan about being treated like a little girl, and not merely nodded his head complacently.
Dean practically raced to town, grabbed the first package of frozen food he saw, and was back to their motel room in seventeen minutes. Running in, he pictured the look on Sammy's face when he saw the food, instead, what he saw, was an empty room. The food fell from his hands and Dean literally felt his heart drop to somewhere around his ankles. It wasn't necessary, but he ran through the room, even looked under the bed, making his way to the bathroom, but still there was nothing. And as he had done so many times before, he collapsed on the bathroom floor, grabbing his razor and cutting those red lines into his wrist, deeper than ever before. And as always, his father's voice in his head, "Stop being so fucking lazy and do your damn job. Really Dean, if you can't do your fucking job, what good are you?"
Two days later his father returns, and still no Sam. Dean had looked everywhere, scouring the area, asking anyone he saw. "Have you seen an eleven year old kid? Brown hair, kinda gangly looking?" And always, the answer of no. When his father walks through the door, he's so scared he is sure his heart's going to beat out of his chest. And of course, the first words out of his father's mouth are, "Where's Sam?"
The following days are all a blur in Dean's mind. His father screaming at his face. How could he be so fucking stupid as to let Sam out of his sight? Didn't he listen to a single fucking thing he was told? How can he expect to be a member of his family if he can't even keep one family member safe? On and on the countless questions his father screams at him over and over again. The bite of the razor whenever he escapes his father's eyes. Deeper and deeper each time. And always, the voice in his head, sometimes his father's, sometimes his own, repeating over and over, "Worthless. Fuck up. Idiot. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless." And he can't even argue. It's all true. He can't watch over an eleven year old kid for a week without screwing something up. He doesn't deserve to be called a Winchester. His father should just leave him in this motel room until he rots away.
At one point when his father leaves, he even considers ending it. Ending it all, and putting his father out of the misery of having a fuck up for a son. He even has the razor out poised over his wrist, but Sammy's face flashes through his mind, his hand shakes, and the razor drops to the floor, under the sink. By the time Dean has it in his possession again, his father is back, Sam in tow, who looks fairly pleased with himself. Turns out Sam had been holed up in some abandoned cabin, even found a stray dog to keep him company, and was living on crackers and apples. Coming out of the bathroom he just looks at Sam, says "Hey" and continues through the room to his bed. He promptly lies down and pretends to fall asleep. In all actuality, he just lays there, listening to Sam breathing, as silent tears stream down his face.
Years passed, and slowly, life went back to the Winchester version of normal. It took a while, but John finally started to leave Dean and Sam and go on hunting trips alone again; although they better damn well better answer the phone within the first ring, or so help them God. But then, slowly but surely, John began leaving for trips with not so much as a note and would then come stumbling in drunk sometime later. And always the constant litany of, "Worthless. Fuck up. Idiot. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless." When given the chance, the bite of the razor turned the voices into whispers, but they always returned, stronger than ever. Still, he thought maybe, just maybe he would be able to do it. Keep going, keep pretending, keep moving forward, protect Sammy, and survive. And then, as it always seemed to do, all hell broke loose.
It started out as the most ordinary of days. They had just finished up a routine haunting trip, and were waiting at the Red Roof Motel to meet up with John before all going on a wendigo hunt together. In hindsight, Dean realized he should have realized something was up. Sam kept insisting he had to go into town for various items, yet always seemed to return empty-handed. So, when Sam said he had to run to town yet again, Dean thought nothing of it. And then came the words that started it all, "Dean I need to talk to you."
"What's up Sammy? Got some girl troubles?" The joke came of flat and he could tell by the look on Sam's face that whatever needed to be discussed was not going to be good. All he wanted was to hold onto those last few seconds of brotherly banter. "I've got to show you something Dean. And you cannot freak out okay? I just….don't know who else to tell, and well….I just…here." Then he pulled a folded envelope out of his back pocket. "Open it," he said handing the letter to Dean. With a growing feeling of trepidation Dean took it, and when he saw the return address he was sure his stomach dropped somewhere to the vicinity of his knees. Stanford University. "What is this Sammy? Don't tell me you applied to some school. Tell me you didn't." "Just open it Dean…please." Slowly, he slid his fingers under the seal and read all about how "please and excited" Stanford was to offer Samuel Winchester a full ride and how he would be joining one of the best programs in the country. "Well?" Sam asked his voice unreadable.
"What'd you do Sammy? You can't really think this is a good idea? Do you have any idea what Dad will say when he finds out? How could you be so fucking stupid? You're supposed to stay….stay with us, with me, the family business. Doesn't that mean a fucking thing to you? Please Sammy, don't do this."
"I have to Dean. I don't belong here. I was never meant to be a hunter, you know that. This life, it isn't for me. It's for you. And Dad. Not me."
Dean could feel his eyes filling with tears, yet didn't brush them away. Instead, he pushed down on his forearm, feeling through his thin shirt the raised scars crisscrossing the skin.
"Please Sammy, please. I can't do this alone. Not without you."
"Yes you can Dean. You were made for this, you belong here. I don't." He reached out as if to console Dean in some way, but Dean jumped back as if there was an electric current between them.
"No Sammy, no. You can't fucking do this. This is your life. We are your family. I am your family. Who's here for you when Dad leaves for God knows how long? Me. I am always here for you, and you do not get to just fucking go to California."
"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam said in a voice so quiet he almost missed it, "but I have to. I'm sorry." And with that he walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Dean counted to ten, listening for the tell-tale sound of the motel room door shutting, before half walking half stumbling to the bathroom. Fumbling in his bag stashed under the sink he unearthed a razor and with trembling fingers pressed it to his skin. Except…nothing happened. There was no relief, no silence of the voices, just a growing sense of panic. Sam was leaving. He had failed again. He was not enough in Sam's eyes to be worth staying around for. If he had been a better brother, a better something, Sam would never have even thought about applying to a Stanford, let alone actually gone through with it. He pressed down again and again, but no matter how hard he tried, the thoughts didn't stop. He didn't know how long he would have sat there, blood pooling onto the floor, if not for the yell that shattered the numbness slowly starting to pervade his body.
The next few hours were a constant stream of yells and curses between John and Sam, and a growing feeling of panic developing in Dean. No matter how much Sam tried to explain, or how reasonably he stated his argument John wouldn't listen. He alternated between staring daggers at Sam and yelling barely understandable obscenities. All Dean could do was sit there and attempt to keep his panic under control, cause he'd be damned if John saw him loose control like that. He didn't need another reason to show just how unworthy he was of this family. As Sam stormed out the door, John's words reverberated through the,
"You leave now don't you ever think about fucking coming back. You are dead to me! You hear me? Dead."
At these words Dean couldn't stop the tears, and his shoulders shook trying to suppress his sobs. Turning to make his escape, he had barely moved a foot when John turned, a look of pure malice on his face.
"This is your fault Dean. All your fault. I leave you two alone, and come back to Sam having decided to move to fucking California. How many times have I told you, TAKE CARE OF YOUR BROTHER!" These last words were accompanied by a swift punch to the jaw. And all Dean could do was stand there, yet again, unable and unwilling to defend himself. More punches accompanied by kicks soon followed, and when John finally stumbled away to pass out on the nearest bed all Dean could do was lay there. The voices louder than ever this time, "Worthless. Fuck up. Idiot. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless." He half stumbled, half walked to the bathroom collapsing on the cool tiled floor. Seemingly by itself, the razor appeared in his hand, poised over his wrist. There was nothing to stop him now, stop him from ending it all. No more Sammy to watch over. He had failed at that job, the one job that gave him a purpose in this family. He had already let everyone down, so why not take it this one step further. In all honesty everyone would undoubtedly be happier without him. John would no longer have a failure for a son, and wouldn't have to suffer the embarrassment of sharing a last name with such a fucking failure. And, well Sam….Sam would be fine. He had shown very clearly that he didn't need Dean the way Dean needed him. He was ready to die, he had been ready for a long while now, the only think keeping him here had been Sammy, and now that that was over, there really was no point.
He placed the razor against his skin, and pressed down, feeling his skin part as the blood started to flow. He had done it, he had finally done. Looking down he could tell there was no way he was getting up off this floor. His vision was already starting to go blurry and the pool of blood on the floor was growing alarmingly large. He supposed he should be worried about that. But he just didn't care, he was too fucking tired. He could tell he was close to the end, seeing as he was fairly certain there was not a random guy in a brown trench coat standing over him. Although, he had to admit, the guy looked fairly corporeal. His eyes were so heavy, and all he wanted to do was slip away, but for some reason he couldn't take his eyes of the trench coat man. He supposed there were worse hallucinations to have just prior to death, and a random guy staring at him in an oddly intense way wasn't one of them. Still, his eyes were so heavy, and this time he couldn't stop them closing. But, just before he did, he could've sworn the man bent down, and placed his hand on his still bleeding wrist. And then, finally, he slipped into unconsciousness.
7