Dean drained the remaining Canadian Club from the bottle in one long pull. The whiskey burned his throat on the way down, hitting his empty stomach and spreading a tingling, false warmth through his blood. He tossed the bottle to the asphalt and watched it shatter into hundreds of pieces. His lips twitched into a sarcastic smile. Wasn't he just a living cliché for daddy issues right now? Sitting on the hood of the Impala, drunk out of his wits, in the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse. Talk about being a poster child for familial problems.
His familial problems were far the being the norm, however. His younger brother, the boy he had raised and protected for his entire life, had deserted his family. Not to go off to LA and become an actor, not because he was a male prostitute addicted to drugs. No, Sam had left because he didn't want to hunt down monsters with his father and brother anymore. He'd had enough of exorcising demons and chopping off the heads of vamps. Sam was running towards a normal life, clinging to the one thing he should have known he couldn't have.
It's not like Dean blamed him. Hell, he was proud of Sam for getting out if he could. He was just so fucking sick of John leaving him behind. God be damned if John checked in on Dean while he was hunting down a family of flesh eating ghouls, but he always had time to drop by the Stanford campus to make sure Sammy was getting through classes alright. The world had to be burning to the ground in order for John to answer Dean's phone calls, but one bad feeling that Sam might be in trouble and John went running. If parents were supposed to hide the fact that they have favorites, John was doing a pretty piss poor job of it.
The only person who could possibly understand how Dean was feeling was Sam, and Sam refused to talk to him right now. He was so paranoid that Dean would try and pull him back into the hunting life that he wouldn't take his phone calls. Apparently he was really committed to this who "normal life" thing.
Dean opened up a new bottle of whiskey and took a swig. He figured if he drank enough of it he'd either drown the hot anger and hate clawing at his insides, or he'd drown himself. Either way, problem solved, right? But lately, it hadn't been doing the trick. Dean had already drank an entire bottle and his thoughts were still spinning and his eyes were still burning. He just wanted it all to stop. He didn't want to feel a damn thing. He would give anything for his mind to just shut the fuck up for five seconds and give him a break.
Dean took out his hunting knife, twirling the blade's handle in his right hand while he brought the bottle to his mouth with his left. He didn't know why he was still drinking. This shit wasn't nearly as good as the Canadian Club and it wasn't doing a damn thing for him besides making his head swim. He set it down on the hood of the Impala, watching the blade glint when the light hit it just right. He continued to twirl it absently, thoughts roaring in his head. If only they would quiet down for one fucking moment…
A horrible idea dawned upon him. Perhaps a little rush of adrenaline would do the trick? Oh, and he knew how to bring that about. He held the blade up in the light, studying it's sharp edge carefully. He'd been cut so many times before, always in the heat of a fight, and it always brought a rush of chemicals to his head. It made him calm, made him focus. If it helped then, why wouldn't it help now?
Dean let out a sadistic laugh, realizing how crazy this thought really was. Who would consider hurting themselves on purpose? He'd always assumed it was bipolar, suicidal people who did this type of shit, yet here he was with a blade in hand and an insane thought in his head. Maybe he was a little more messed up that he originally thought.
He put the blade to his wrist, all of his nerves standing at attention to the sensation of the cool metal threatening to bite into his skin. He was nearly shaking with anxiety and anticipation. If this didn't work, if it didn't make him feel better, he knew he wouldn't stop until the blade dug too deep. He knew the rush of blood would either numb him or make him even hungrier for self-destruction. This would either be his new medicine, or it would be his demise. He wasn't very sure he cared which it turned out to be.
Just as Dean was about to drag the knife across his skin, he heard a flutter of wings. He expected to see a bird taking off into flight, but instead a strange man was standing before him. The man was clad in a cheap suit and a dirty trench coat. He looked like a fucking accountant.
"Dean, this is a mistake," the man said, his voice low and slow. "Put the knife down."
"And who the fuck are you?" Dean asked, pointing the knife in the man's direction. The man held up his palms in peace.
"I am here to help. This may sound strange, but Dean, I know you. And I know things are hard right now, but you cannot turn to self-mutilation as a solution. Your family will be put back together one day, I promise."
"What the hell do you know about my family?!" Dean shouted, hopping swiftly off the hood of the car. He came to stand before the man, glowering down at him.
"I know that Sam has left and that your father has been absent. But it won't stay like that forever. You and Sam are going to come together again, and things will be better between you two than ever before. You're stronger than this, Dean Winchester. I know you are," the man reasoned. "Just please, don't do this."
"Why should I listen to a damn thing that your hobo-accountant ass has to say?" Dean growled.
"Because at one point, we are friends. And friends do not allow their friends to do something like this."
"Some friend you are, considering I've never seen you before in my life."
"Oh, Dean, you've seen me. Just not always in this form. I've been watching over you since the day you were born. I'm your guardian, but more than that, I am your friend. I particularly care if you believe me right now, because one day you will thank me for this. Just put the knife down."
"And if I don't?" Dean questioned.
"I won't leave until you promise not to hurt yourself," the man stated. Dean's glare turned toxic.
"You know what? Fine! Fuck it, I won't cut myself open. But I swear to fucking God, if I ever see you again, and you're wrong about me and Sam and my dad, I'll kick your ass! And that's a promise!"
"I know it is, Dean. I would advise cutting back on the alcohol as well. Your liver needs to make it through a few more years until I can renew you," the man said, gesturing to the bottle. Dean looked back at the bottle only to see it was gone.
"You son of a bitch, did you jack my—" Dean began to shout. But the man was gone. Dean let out an angry, frustrated growl before kicking the glass shards of the Canadian Club across the parking lot.
"What a fucking cocky bastard. I hope I never see his smug face again. He probably thinks he was doing me a favor by doing that. Like he really knows what's going on."
Little did Dean know that this would not be the last time that the trench coated man would save his life. No, that man would save him in a thousand different ways. That man was his guardian angel.