Disclaimer: I don't own anyone.
Rated: M
Warning(s): Slash, Threesome, Kidnapping, Threats, Self-Harm, etc.

"W-What?" Dean stuttered. His dark hazel eyes were wide with disbelief.

"You heard me the first time, Dean." Seth leveled him with a heated stare. "I was raped."

"Seth…" there was raw compassion in his voice, so honest that it sounded like his heart was bleeding in his chest. But then, his eyes turned hard, "If this is some sort of sick joke, I can tell you right now that I'm not laughing."

Seth's eyes widened. "Why the hell would I joke about something like this? This is too important to lie about! That's why I ran to you! I was scared and I thought you would understand – but when I walked in, I saw you were bleeding and drunk, and far past my reach."

"Yeah, because of you. Bleeding and drunk because of you. I don't think you understand what your leaving did to us, Seth. Roman… he's a mess. God only knows where he is. I didn't follow him because he made it very clear how much he wanted to see me." Dean spat out.

Seth's breath caught in his throat as he stared at the neat line of white stitches on Dean's arm. "You cut yourself… because of me?"

Dean narrowed his eyes at his younger lover, holding back the urge to snap. "Haven't I made that fucking clear already?"

Seth looked away. He drew his knees up into his chest, trying to make himself comfortable in the tiny chair. "If I'm not worth all of the trouble, why would you hurt yourself because of me? You should have just forgotten about me."

Dean stared down at his wounded arm, thinking about all the pain medication in his system. "Maybe I should have."

"But you didn't." Seth continued, knowing that he was treading in stormy waters. "Why?"

"You were always convinced that I was a crazy fuck." Dean ran his good hand through his hair, refusing to look at Seth.

"Or maybe it's because you still love me." Seth offered blandly.

The words hung between them uncomfortably, neither willing to speak on the matter. Seth knew that he had hit a nerve. He could tell, just by watching Dean's subtle movements, that he had hurt him. Love was not a word that Dean was overly fond of. Like Roman, Dean had his own monsters in the closet that he would eventually have to deal with. He had never come out and confessed his love for Seth, it was just a given. Until now, of course. Now, no matter how he answered Seth, he would have to vocalize it – one way or the other.

And then, in a sudden blur of movement, he slammed his fist down onto his stitched arm, grimacing as blood bubbled up through the stitches. It was a horrible, gruesome sight, and Seth could see the veins stand on his arms with stressed pointedness as each wave of pain wracked his body. To be frank, he looked awful. He looked as if he hadn't slept in ages and a dark, dirty crown of fingerprints stood hidden just beneath the messy tousle of his hair. A fight with Roman gone awry, most likely. Not that Dean would ever admit to that out loud.

After a few moments, the uncomfortable silence that hung between them morphed into something akin to comfort, or merely the acknowledgement that, for all it was worth (which wasn't much), Seth wasn't going anywhere. Finally, when Dean yanked his dirty, bloody fingers away from his wound and buried them in the blankets, he forced himself to look at Seth once more. For the first time, he realized that Seth didn't look as healthy as he had first imagined he would. Instead, he looked thin, frail, and above all, broken.

"I should call the nurse; you really mangled your stitches." Seth said absently. His eyes were dark and lost, caught between duty for his former master and hatred toward himself for not seeing how broken Dean was from the start.

"Don't bother. It's just a scratch. It'll stop bleeding eventually." Both of them knew that that was a lie. He'd die of blood loss before it stopped bleeding, but it was enough to stop Seth from calling the nurse.

Seth sniffled, not bothering to move from his curled-up position. "I should have told you all of this from the start, I know that. But I was scared. I was scared, and my fear cost us more than I could have ever imagined. I have to live with that forever. But you… you don't."

"You should have told us what, Seth?" Dean pushed, obviously not in the mood to play games.

Seth choked back a sob. "About the letters!"

"What letters?" Dean looked confused, but only until Seth started to throw folded-up pieces of paper at him.

Seth had tried as best he could to throw the letters away. But something deep inside of him, something altogether wicked and self-destructive, had forced him to fold them back up and stuff them into his pocket. Every one of them was there, from the letter he had received after the mess on New Year's Eve to the suicide note from Roman. He trembled as he unearthed them all, feeling as if it was an endless fountain of raw emotion that couldn't be quenched with water, no, it thirsted for blood. And the thirst was unquenchable.

Dean read them over carefully, letting the letter fall down to the blood splattered bed when he had no need for it anymore. Seth saw a little bit of himself in the brunette as he read the letters over, maybe once, maybe several times. He could see himself in that hotel bathroom, getting so worked up that he had to throw up several times. He could hear Dean and Roman on the other side of the door, worrying about him. Asking to come in. Why had he been so blind? Why wouldn't he let them inside? Couldn't he see that they loved him?

"Do you mean to tell me that the man that wrote these letters in the one that raped you?" Dean asked suddenly.

"To be honest, I really don't know. I never actually saw him write the letters. But whoever it was that wrote the letters had me convinced that the word there was undisputed law, and I was foolish enough to believe them. I'm sorry for that." Seth said honestly.

Dean stared at one of the letters silently, before he added, "How could you ever believe this… this creep over us?"

Seth's eyes started to water. "I really wanted to believe you! I did! But then there was the whole fight with Roman -,"

Seth cut himself off when he heard Dean crumple one of the letters into a ball. There was no doubt in his mind that that was Roman's suicide note. "We're not here to talk about Roman. We're here to talk about you and this…" he motioned to the letters.

"I never wanted to hurt you guys." Seth whispered hoarsely, honestly.

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, well, it's a little late for that."

Seth's eyes suddenly turned hard and steely. "Look, I know that you're hurt and I know that you blame me, but I'm putting my heart out on the line and asking that maybe, just maybe, you understand that I'm hurt too."

"All I wanted to do was help you, Seth. That's all either of us wanted to do. And you walked out on us." Dean said.

Seth swallowed hard, unable to meet Dean's eyes anymore. "I already told you that I was sorry for that."

"Yeah? Well, maybe sorry doesn't cut it anymore." Dean whispered.

The air was so thick it could be cut with a knife. Seth sucked in a harsh breath, amazed at how it seemed that much louder in the blunt silence of the room. He tried to shrink in on himself, tried to hide himself from Dean's imploring gaze. It didn't work. Instead, Dean only continued to stare at him harder, his dark hazel eyes burning holes into Seth's skin. Seth had never felt more exposed, more vulnerable. He didn't know whether to shake with fear or to narrow his eyes right back at the other man. He did neither.

"Sorry doesn't cut it anymore, Seth. It's not your fault that this man raped you, I'd never say that. But all we wanted to do was help you, and you turned your back on us. Now, you're sitting there, asking for help that two broken men can't even give themselves."

Seth blinked, confusion clear in his wide, dark brown eyes. He brushed the hair away from his face, his hand trembling. "What are you saying, Dean?"

"I'm asking you to leave, Seth." Dean averted his gaze down onto the bloody bedspread. "And shut the door behind you."

Seth's heart seemed to stop functioning in his chest. After he had told Dean that he had been raped and laid all his cards out on the table, Dean had still rejected him. That hurt. It took a minute for him to be able to collect himself enough to rise to his feet, but once he did, he started to run. It was just like running from street lamp to street lamp, afraid that the creep would still be out there, waiting for him. Only, this time, he wasn't running because he was afraid. He was running because he wasn't wanted anymore.