A/N: This chapters begins the plot. Please understand that while I will incorporate Destiel fluff (and their relationship will develop) Castiel won't automatically be cured because Dean holds his hand and says he loves him. I want Castiel's slow progression to be shown. Depression and self-hate is debilitating, not something you can automatically jump up from. With that being said I want you all to know if you suffer from anything like this you're not alone. And with that I will leave these because you're all important and you all matter and i love you. Suicide Hotline: 1 (800) 273-8255 Trans Lifeline: (877) 565-8860 LGBT Lifeline: 800-246-7743.
Warnings: Depictions of cutting, suicidal implications, Castiel just having bad self-loathing thoughts all around and horribly cheesy formatting
Will the faithful be rewarded, when we come to the end? Will I miss the final warning, from the lie that I have lived? I can see the soul within and
I am not worthy
-x-
No amount of pain could make up for the expression on Dean Winchester's face, the way he looked at Castiel made the ex-angel's stomach lurch violently. Castiel wanted to say something, give some kind of excuse for his behavior but he couldn't, what could he possibly say that would quell the look that Dean was giving him? A look that held nothing but remorse and worse, blame. Dean was blaming himself for what Castiel had done, and yet, he didn't even know the beginning. It felt like hours before the elder hunter actually spoke up, his voice escaping him for a moment, leaving his lips to move uselessly until he could call upon it, "C-Cas?" his emerald eyes move up and down, from Castiel's charred hands to his ocean eyes, "What-What the fuck?!"
Naturally, Castiel thought, that was the eldest Winchesters mode of operation, hide any kind of vulnerable emotion with anger; Castiel let his eyes fall upon Dean and then to Sam, whose look the ex-angel can't decipher. "I…" What could he say? What could he possibly say that would make whatever this situation looked like to the Winchester's okay? He couldn't fathom coming up with any kind of lie in the state he is in so he just swallows hard and pushes forward, "I-I need to use the bathroom!"
-x-
He doesn't allow himself the sanctity of falling apart until he knows for sure the Winchesters aren't going to follow him; he goes to press his hand to his mouth but is jolted with pain as the burns are rubbed the wrong way, so he resorts to just biting his lip and waiting. The room is spinning, just like his stomach, his mind, like a mantra repeating how stupid can you be? Now they know! They know what you do! You stupid, ignorant swine!
He crumbles to the tiled floor, unwillingly letting the tears that pooled his eyes fall. They stream down his face as if to take pleasure in his heightened humiliation. Oh how the mighty have fallen Castiel! He wishes he could just come right out and tell Dean, I'm hurting, but he knows he would get so lost in his emotions, losing the ability to even express why or how he was hurting, and, really, it just made more sense to slice himself open. Because it's what I deserve.
He doesn't allow himself the solace of wallowing any longer, picking himself up off the bathroom floor on shaky legs and taking deep, rehabilitating breaths. He feels a tinge of pain and looks down at his hands, they look revolting and he can't help but recoil and feel relief at the same time. He wishes his entire, ugly body looked the same way.
He feel's a small rise of fear clog his airway at the thought of Dean finding his razors, finding out all of the other things he'd grown so addicted to. He felt his cheeks burn hot with shame when he realized he just didn't want Dean to take it away from him; the pain was his, it was the only thing that truly, deeply was his, and he would not, could not, let that be taken away from him too.
Swiftly, agonizingly, he scours through the cabinet to find some gauze to wrap his charred hands in, finding any kind of touch excruciating, and not in the good way; little whispers in his head telling him what he did was wrong, he shouldn't have burnt his hands to that extreme, but that's drown out by the louder, abusive voice that screams in his eardrums till they're ringing, You deserved it, you worthless, powerless heap! Do it again! You deserve nothing but pain.
Castiel nodded, "I know. I know."
-x-
"Should I even ask?" The voice is gruff and laced with an indiscernible emotion that causes Castiel to whip around so quickly his neck hurts, thanking whatever that he'd shoved his box back under his pillow before Dean saw. Castiel felt his mouth go dry, of course he'd want an explanation, "I-I" he sighs because dammit he really didn't feel like talking, his body was shaking despite the high temperatures, and he felt fatigue literally coursing throughout his veins. He shook his head, holding up the gauze, "Help?" Dean eyes him suspiciously, nods slowly and kneels in front of the ex-angel, taking the medical wrap and fixing it snug against the burnt crisp of a hand in front of him; it's no secret Dean isn't good with words so he works in silence, quirking an eyebrow at the tremor in his friend's hands he hadn't noticed before. When he has the burns all patched up he stretches and then eyes Castiel, trying to throw on a casual tone, "So, uh, are you alright man?"
Castiel wants to laugh, no seriously, laugh his ass off and he actually does elicit a small huff of a chuckle, because, do I fucking look okay to you?"Yes Dean. I am fine. Now could you please vacate my room? I am feeling a bit fatigued and would like to lay down" He tries to find emotion to put into the statements but can't, he feels so… empty inside that he can't even fake being content. Dean swallows, surprising Castiel by taking his hand oh so gently, "Because you know if you need anything we're here right? Me, Sam?" He licks his dry lips, "So are you sure you're okay?" Castiel feels himself mentally groping around for composure, his insides raging like a tempest on the high sea, his brain screaming back and forth and everywhere and it's just too loud as he squeezes his eyes shut willing his inner turmoil aside and every fiber of his being reaching out and desperately trying to grasp for the hunter in front of him and scream at him
I am not okay! I have not been okay! For the love of god do something!
But he internally beats those parts of himself down, his own worst bully, yelling at them that they don't fucking deserve help and, as he peels his eyes open to stare into the emerald ones in front of him, he feels the last pang of guilt at lying before his voice echoes through the silence,
"I am fine."
-x-
"You're nothing Castiel. Look at you. Look at yourself" lines and lines of angels. His brothers and sisters. Disgust etched over their faces, shaking their heads, turning away as he calls out, "P-please! Stay with me! Please don't" he chokes on the tears that seem to torrent down his face, "Please don't leave me!" But they're all turned, walking away, even Dean, Dean who is leading the line, shaking his head, looking at Castiel like he's the scum of the earth as he holds his arm out trying to reach for him, "P-Please, Dean. Please" But he can't cry out any longer, the darkness falls all over him, the air thinning, nothing to look at but the endless blackness inside his head, just the vague whispers of people he used to know. He looks around helplessly, nothing, there's nothing left for him. Nothing left at all.
Gasping
Nothingness
Choking
Darkness
Drowning
Emptiness
Castiel's eyes fly open, chest heaving up and down for oxygen frantically, mouth gaping open in unanswered cries. For a moment he's still in the darkness, feeling the crackle of electricity of absent bodies, floating entities, but his eyes adjust and fall on the moonlight pouring through his window, he's awake. It was a dream.
He feels unsolicited tears trail down his face because it was so real, and he can feel his skin humming with the horrible, vast abyss crawling beneath it as he fumbles for his razor to cut it open and let it spill out around him. Gripping it within his wrapped hands and flinging his shirt off to expose his flesh; dirty, blasphemous skin; how, he wonders, looking at his scars, had this skin ever been considered sacred before? Before the beautiful marks of self-hatred had littered it; how he loathe to think about it before it had been marred to perfection. Long and thin, small and deep, scattered hopelessly up and down each wrist from tip to shoulder. He places the sharp blade to his hip and lets out a sigh of adrenaline, because fuck he needs it so bad. Ripping it across quickly, hesitating, bringing it back down in one swift motion, each time adding pressure, mouth slightly agape as he watches the flesh split right open and ooze out the horrible substance that keeps his heart pumping; albeit, this, being what made him truly feel alive, like a junkie chasing his next high. He slices each hip until the pain in his hands cause his razor to slip right out of his grasp and land with a graceful thump to the floor.
And suddenly it's too much, because he can't even hold his razor right now and his muscles feel slippery, like someone injected him with a sedative. Memories flooding back after his high dissipates until he's left in a heap on the floor sobbing into the crook of his elbow, biting down as to keep himself quiet, only recoiling when he tastes blood on his tongue. The emotions inside of him are swirling around as the darkness oozes from his veins and rushes over him, suffocating him with an absolute void. He just wants it to stop and that emotion in itself is what startles his eyes back open, listening to the small whispers that skim over his earlobe and make him flinch, If you were dead...this would all be over. He shakily stands, feeling his chest restricted by the invisible weight and implications those words hold.
The pain had always been sufficient enough, had always felt like little slivers of chances at redemption, but the yearning for something more started to ease it's way inside and Castiel feared it had been borne from the void he dared cut from his body, feared what that meant. That deep down, he had already known; that's how he would gain redemption, through his own death, and dammit that became more and more clear as he shuffled to the side of his room, opening the ceiling to floor window that veiled the night, and eased his way up on the ledge, gripping each side of the wall for support as he looked down, choking on his own breath as he sees nothing. Nothing but darkness that held its arms out and offered comfort and happiness if he just jumped.
Castiel holds his arms out, feeling the wind whip against his face and ruffle his hair and God, It's the closest thing to flying he's felt in forever, and as he holds his arms out he swears he can feel his wings behind him, massive and graceful until
B
u
r
n
i
n
g
They're crashing around him as he's falling faster and faster to earth, chucked out from heaven like a child's plaything, the smell of his feathers burning and filling his lungs with a horrible smell he knows he'll never forget. They burn all the way down, the wind hitting his face too fast, stealing his breath as he closes his eyes and braces himself for impact, thinking about nothing but emerald eyes and leather jackets.
He doesn't let the memory continue as he opens his eyes in horror and sees the same blackness he had once before crashed into. Grinding. Tearing. Screaming. The way his body had felt like it shattered to a million pieces when he hit the ground and suddenly he's scrambling back in horror because he never wants to experience that again. He rushes to the other side of his room, shaking his head from the stupor he had been in, shoving his trembling hands in his hair as he realizes what he could have just done. If he was going to go, He agrees, he would have to some other way.
Collapsing on the bed, no longer able to stand on his shaking legs he lets out an undignified noise, swallowing a lump because every time he tries to imagine a proper way to go it always ends in emerald eyes and leather jackets.
Title Song: Ashes of Eden by Breaking Benjamin
