Blood On My Hands

Request for Miriam Thordottir Lazaro

A/N: Trigger warning. Cutting involved. Proceed with caution.

"Dean walks in on the reader cutting."

Dean let out a tired sigh as he and Sam returned to the bunker after a long hunt. They'd been tracking a werewolf that had learned how to hide very well, and it almost managed to scratch Sam. Dean was ready with a gun full of silver bullets, and they took the beast out before it could turn anyone.

They had been hunting well into the early hours of the morning, and now Dean was ready to sleep. He contemplated taking a shower first, but he was so tired. All he wanted to do was cuddle up to you and pass out.

You and Dean had been dating for a few months now. You lived with the boys in the bunker and hunted with them from time to time. Dean always wanted you to stay home so you wouldn't get hurt, which you obliged. You only really tagged along when they were hunting something you knew more about than they did, and even then, you were mostly a resource of information. You rarely got into the heat of the hunt.

"(y/n)?" Dean called, knocking on the door of your bedroom. When he didn't get an answer, he cracked the door open and peeked inside, wondering if you were asleep. He wouldn't be surprised, given that it was nearly five in the morning.

When he saw that your bed was empty and unmade, he frowned. He pushed the door open and looked around, noticing a light coming from the bathroom. He headed that way and was simply going to knock on the door and let you know that they were home, but the sight that met him stopped him in his tracks.

The door was wide open – your mistake. You hadn't bothered to close it, figuring the boys wouldn't be back until tomorrow and you'd have plenty of time to get rid of the evidence by then.

You were sat on the middle of the tile floor, blood dripping down your arms and a small razor blade held tightly in your dominant hand. Tears poured down your face as you looked up in horror at being caught.

Dean dropped to his knees before you and pulled you into his arms. You buried your face in his neck, your tears staining his collar. He picked you up so you sat on his lap and carded one hand through your hair.

"Baby, why?" he asked softly. This was a situation he was used to. He used to find you this way quite regularly, but after you finally broke down and told him why you did it, he helped you move past it. You hadn't been this way, at least to his knowledge, for months now. He wondered what had caused the relapse.

"I'm just so stressed," you sobbed into his chest. "I think about h-hunting a-and the monsters and what you and Sam go through e-every day and I just don't know what t-to do. I think about how you d-deserve someone better, someone who doesn't abuse herself, a-and you'd think that would make me stop b-but it just makes me want to hurt myself more."

His heart broke as he held you close. He didn't even mind the blood pooling on his shirt from where your arms were resting by his abdomen. He kissed your forehead and rested his head on yours, closing his eyes.

"What can I do?" he asked softly. "How can I help? I want to help, baby. I want to make you feel better."

You shook your head, signaling that you didn't know what he could do. He gently grabbed one of your forearms in his hand, his eyes traveling over the horizontal lines stained with blood. He raised it to his lips and gently kissed scars, trailing kisses down your arm to your palm.

"I love you," he murmured. He reached over to the bathtub and grabbed a washrag that was lying on the edge. He turned on the water and held the rag under it until it was completely soaked. He rang out the excess water before placing the rag on your arm, wiping away the blood.

"Hold that," he instructed you, and you complied, keeping the rag on your arm. He rummaged through the drawers under the sink until he found a handful of gauze and medicine and set them on the floor beside you. He used the rag to wipe away all of the dripping blood, dabbed medicine on your wounds, and tenderly wrapped your forearms in gauze.

With your arms bandaged, he cradled you to his chest again. He peeled off his bloody shirt and lifted you bridal style, carrying you out of the bathroom. He lied you on your bed and crawled in beside you, sliding one arm beneath your head as a pillow. You curled into his chest, tired and embarrassed. His arms wrapped securely around you, holding you to his chest like he would never let you go. You knew he wouldn't. You knew he loved you.

"I'm sorry," you murmured into his bare torso.

He shook his head. "Don't be sorry. Just… Come to me when you're upset, okay? Whenever you feel like doing that, come talk to me. Let me help."

You nodded wordlessly and buried your face in his neck. He rested his head on yours, one hand rubbing soft circles on your back while the other played with your hair. You soon fell asleep, feeling safe and loved in his arms. He knew it would take a while for you to stop completely, but he was ready to stay by your side and do whatever he needed to make you feel better.