*Two days later*
Dean was shaking.
Two days. Two damn days. That's all he could take without it...pathetic.
They'd left Bobby's house the day before, having caught wind of another possible case a couple towns over. Dean was doing a little better. He was no longer actively suicidal. Meaning that he wasn't gonna kill himself, but if something deadly came his way, he wasn't exactly gonna try to stop it.
He knew people cared about him. But that didn't change the fact that he was miserable. Nothing could make him forget the things he saw...the things he did in Hell. The nightmares wouldn't stop.
So here he was, in a shady motel bathroom, trying not to cut himself.
Sam wasn't stupid; he wouldn't leave Dean alone with a sharp object. He'd baby-proofed the motel room and only given his brother a weapon when they were hunting.
But Dean wasn't stupid either. He knew how to slip things past Sam. He felt guilty as hell; hiding things from each other was something they did too often. But he needed this.
Dean had managed to pick up a couple pieces of broken glass from the street this morning. He held a small shard in his hand, and just stared at it. He turned his gaze to the mirror.
What are you doing? He thought as he looked at his reflection. God, he hated himself.
He lifted his shirt, and pressed the glass to the skin just above his hip. He sighed with relief when he felt the familiar pain. His heart started beating faster as he watched the beautiful scarlet blood start dripping. The crimson against the pale skin of his stomach was magnificent...
He wanted more.
No, he promised Sam he would try to stop.
Dean angrily threw the blade into the trash. He was disgusted with himself. He couldn't even control himself after two fucking days.
His hands were shaking again. He needed help. He opened the bathroom door, and sat on the edge of the bed, putting his head in his hands.
"Dean...?" Sam shut his laptop and sat next to his brother. His eyes widened in alarm as he realized that Dean was trembling.
"I can't stop, Sammy."
He didn't even have to explain what he couldn't stop. Blood was seeping through his shirt, creating a small stain.
"How bad is it?" Sam swallowed hard.
"Not bad, just a scratch." Dean straightened up, wincing slightly.
"Not what I meant. How bad is the...urge to cut?" Sam hesitated. He knew this was a touchy subject. Getting Dean to talk about his feelings was like trying to nail water to a tree.
"Don't worry about it."
Typical. "Come on, man. I'm just trying to help."
"Thanks. I'm fine."
"Dude, you're shaking like a drug addict going through withdrawals."
"Maybe I am. You're only letting me have two beers a day." Dean glared at him.
Sam chuckled. "Most people are 60% water. When we checked you into that hospital, I'm pretty sure you were 60% alcohol. You're killing your liver."
Dean groaned. "Does it look like I care?"
It was Sam's turn to glare. "Well I care." He tried to lift Dean's shirt to take a look at the wound.
"It's nothing." Dean pulled away.
"Just humor me."
"Dude, I'm fine. I just freaked out for a minute. I'll take care of it."
Sam pressed his lips into a thin line. Dean was a horrible patient.