In his sleep, Dean's body shuddered. His eyes were darting back and forth wildly beneath his eyelids. His mind was ensnared in a nightmare from hell. Images flashed in his subconscious, assaulting him with vivid snapshots of his time spent in the Pit.
With a jolt, he bolted awake, a scream permeating the empty motel room. Clouded jade eyes surveyed the room as his body quaked. Dean held his head in his hands, shaking as he tried to will away the ghostly images that were burned into his eyes.
He rubbed his face with tremulous hands and glided one through his glistening hair.
His entire body slick and sticky with sweat and the threadbare sheets clung to him.
Groggily, he climbed his way out of the bed; his movements were sluggish as an after-effect of the pain medication he took as a futile attempt to enter a dreamless oblivion the night before.
Absentmindedly, he noticed a note on the bedside table, no doubt from Sam, telling Dean where he had gone for the afternoon.
Without bothering to read it, he grabbed some clothes from his duffle and trudged his way to the bathroom to shower.
Switching the light on and closing the door behind him, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked haggard; his face gray and devoid of color besides the dark purple shadows under his eyes that were a testament to his many sleepless nights.
A tremor wracked his frail frame as a memory of Hell captured his mind. The slideshow of images barraged him again, sending him reeling; unrelenting.
Struggling, he tried to push them away from his conscious into the dark corner of his mind where he kept all of his unsavory thoughts and memories.
Giving up on forcing them away, he let them wash over him; a tidal wave of grotesque crimson and flashing lightning. His body ached in the places where Alistair had cut and sliced at him, and his hands shook in remembrance of the horrific acts they had performed on the unfortunate souls that had been presented before him and his blade.
Unable to restrain himself, a sob escaped his pale rose lips and tears began flow softly down his face.
The reflection of a weak and broken man peered at him through the dirty glass and he felt disgusted with himself.
Getting undressed, he turned on the shower.
Before stepping in, he hurriedly raided through his toiletry bag, searching for his only confidant, his only true escape: cold, unforgiving steel.
Finding the tiny razor, he sighed in relief and stepped under the spray of the shower.
Grinning, he held it up to eye-level, marveling at how the light glinted off of its shiny surface.
He brought it to his lips and gave it a whisper of a kiss against its pale, sterling expanse; in payment and thanks.
He tested the arrow-like corner of the blade on his left index finger; a bubble of blood appeared instantly. His twisted grin widened and there was an unsound gleam in his eye at the prospect of such a release; his insides were churning and his heart pounded faster in anticipation.
That's what it was, this whole corrupted mess - a release. A release of the pressure inside him that was slowly suffocating him, threatening to pull him under the crashing waves that he barely managed to wade.
It was also a chance for repentance. So much blood had been spilled by his mistakes, by his own hands, even. It seemed fair, almost poetic, that he should spill his own blood in return.
The blood: the ruby treasure that pulsed through his veins. Always what he sought. He didn't do it entirely for the sharp ache that made him feel alive; he did it to see that he was alive. It mesmerized him, caught his attention. Just seeing it was like a drug.
He raised his left arm and looked at the array of deep, angry red scars that decorated it from wrist to elbow. Some were faded pink; others were still raw and tender. A choice few were raised against his pale skin, while others were merely ghosts of the razor's travels. They were a beautiful masterpiece; a work of true art, done with an unhindered passion that only a truehearted artist could muster. Although, Dean thought with a dark chuckle, he doubted anyone else would see it in quite the same light.
He drew the blade up to his arm, about to add a few more strokes to the masterpiece, and his anticipation peaked; it had been so long, too long. Sammy had been hovering so much lately...
The thought made him stop for a moment. Sammy. What would he think of this, Dean wondered. He shook his head, it didn't matter; he was too far-gone already.
He set the razor along a patch of angry, raised slices. He pressed down and dragged it across slowly; shallow at first, but progressively getting deeper as he pressed down harder.
The blood swelled to the surface, quickly flowing down his arm. He leaned down and licked up the trail of rubies only for it to begin again.
Again and again, he dragged the hungry blade across until his arm was covered in fresh, wet kissed from his steel lover.
The blood covered his arm, flowing down from the slices in rivulets; pooling at the crease of his elbow.
Someplace far in his mind told him he needed to stop before he lost too much blood.
He held his arm under the now cold spray of water and rinsed off the blood and the blade.
Quickly stepping out of the shower, he dried off, careful not to leave telltale traces of blood on the towel. He grabbed some gauze from their First Aid kit under the sink and wrapped his arm up tightly. He looked intently to see if it had bled through; it didn't.
He hastily hid the razor back in its resting place, and moved to get dressed. He was glad to see that even in his groggy stupor earlier, he had picked out a long sleeve shirt. Pulling his clothes on, he winced in satisfaction when the movements pulled at his arm.
He sat out on the bed, staring blindly at the television while he waited for Sam to return.
Not long after, he heard a key being put in the lock and Sam opened the door, arms laden with notes.
"It's good to know that while I was out researching this case, you planted yourself in front of the television. Real nice," Sam griped, setting the notes on his bed.
Dean stood up with a cheeky grin in place upon his lips, "I try, Sammy. Now, let's go eat; I'm starving."
He gave Sam's shoulder a pat, and walked out the door; Sam trailed behind, exasperated.
With a smile, Dean inconspicuously applied pressure on his aching arm, rejoicing in the sharp stab it sent shooting up his arm.
Pain. Disappointment. Tragedy.
Release.