You'd said that you wouldn't do it the last time. That it really would be the last time. But you'd said that the time before, too. And the time before that, and ever time you'd ever done it since the age of 16. You couldn't sleep without it, you couldn't think without it, you mind addicted to the endorphins released as you brought the edge of the scissors across your shoulders. The wrist worked better, it bled more, and there was something about the blood that made it better, but that was too obvious. At least now you only had to hide it from one person, and short sleeves were fine for that.. Back before Sam and Dean had kicked you out. To be fair, letting Crowley out was something of a traitorous move, and you didn't blame them, they'd wondered why you never wore tank tops, even on the odd beach trip.

Now you and the former King of Hell were holed up in some random safe house of Sam and Dean's, sigyls carved everywhere to keep angels, demons, or anything else, from finding you. There were even marks to keep reapers from finding you, courtesy of Crowley's vast knowledge. He didn't take you to beaches, though. You were on the run, and fighting was the only thing that you did anymore. He didn't show it to anyone else, but he still had that humanity within him since Sam tried to "cure" him. He cared about people, and most notably you, the only person who had helped him not for a deal, or out of fear, but because you cared for him.

"How about pancakes, Love?" he asked from the kitchen, his voice carrying through the small bathroom where you were pressing a paper towel to your six small cuts. You always used something disposable, because even bleach never got the stains out completely, and he got worried if you were hurt.

"Sounds good, Babe!" you answered, hoping that he didn't decide to come in. When you heard more rusting in the kitchen, you sighed in relief. A few moments later you were throwing on one of his over-sized shirts, at least over sized for you, and heading out to the small living/dining/everything else basically room where your late-night dinner of pancakes with maple syrup awaited. Luckily, he could just make things like that appear, no store trips needed.

"Are you alright? You look a tad pale." he asked, a glass of brandy in his hand. You smiled and nodded, even though your head was buzzing. The last cut, the grand finale, had been slightly deeper than you intended, and it had taken far too long to stop the bleeding. Self harm and anemia never went well together, but there was no way you could stop.

"Just tired, I guess." you told him, stuffing a huge bite of food in your mouth to have an excuse not to talk anymore. He just turned the TV on, and scowled. He knew something was wrong, but he wasn't pressing you on it. That would be too emotional for the man who'd only had them for a few months.

He left on your favorite movie, a romantic comedy that was entirely too cheesy for him to enjoy. You knew that it was only for your benefit, but he just smiled at you with a wink. You laid your head on his shoulder, finding it warm and surprisingly soft for a demon. His cheeks tinged pink when you placed a single kiss on his nose, as if he hadn't done a thousand times dirtier a thousand times before. His arm, which was just kind of hanging in the air as he thought of what to do with it, moved to rest on your own with a much smaller, but happier grin.

You were nearly asleep when his hand began to move up and down your arm, fingers skillfully working out any and all knots in your muscles until you were loose as jelly and nearly purring. You didn't even think to stop him as he moved up to your shoulder, and then stopped, going rigid. He jerked you to face him and pulled the sleeve up, his expression going somewhere between anger and heartbreak. You had no idea which his eyes were, you couldn't meet them.

"Crowley, I-" you tried to start, but he put a finger to your lips.

"Why would you do this to yourself? Why didn't those damn Winchesters help you. They said they saw you as a little sister. I guess you got thrown in the same category as dear Adam." he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you.

"It's no big deal." you protested, not wanting him to go on a killing rampage and kill the men who were still your friends.

"It's a very big deal!" he shouted, his temper rising. He moved away from you, pacing back and forth, now furious. Without thinking about it, you started picking at the fresh scabs, only for him to roll his eyes.

"Stop that!" He ordered, his fists clenching as they began to bleed again.

"I can't! It's not something I want to do, dammit! It's the only thing that makes me feel happy. Even though I hate myself for it after a few hours, for that time I'm actually happy. I don't want to take the blade to a vein for once, and no one gets it. They think that it's just something I can stop. And you yelling doesn't help." you shouted, the blood now slowly trickling down your arm. His anger dissipated, and you were surprised when he snapped his fingers and the wounds disappeared.

"I'm sorry. I just…I'm used to being the one to hurt people. I don't know how to save you, but I'm scared to loose you. You're the only one who's ever seen anything good in me, and not tried to twist it." he admitted, looking down as you looked up in surprise.

"You just did." you told him, moving to kiss him, lips meeting for the briefest of moments. "I won't leave you as long as you don't want me to."

"I'll never want you gone. I…I love you. I mean that."

"I love you, too. Thank you."

"For what?"

"Saving me."

"You've saved me a thousand times, Love. It's only polite."

By ~ ludwigsgirl97 at Tumblr