A/N: Hey everyone! It's been such a long time since I've written anything. Anyway, the following is very important. I need to warn everyone now, this is not a happy story. This is nothing like the kind of writing I usually do. This is dark and depressing, so I shocked myself when I wrote this. This was at first a challenge my friend asked me to do. She asked me to write something depressing because she had seen all of my other writing and wanted to know if I could. So I wrote this and wanted some feedback. If anyone wants me to continue this, just tell me and I'll see what I can do. Otherwise, it's a one-shot. Please review!
Story Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. I am simply borrowing them in order to write.
Summary: Dean's felt lost ever since Sam left, like his life's purpose has been taken away. When things start to become too much for him he looks for a way out and comes to a conclusion most people would find impossible to try.
Do I matter?
'You weren't supposed to leave. You weren't. You were supposed to stay here, with me, with dad. Why did you leave? What happened? You always used to whine and complain, but you had never really told us you were leaving. When you told us…I was shocked. Why did you want to leave? Was it really the hunting? Did Dad do something? Did I? I tried. I tried so damn hard to get you to stay, but you just got angry. You yelled at looked at me like I was dirt. Was it me? Did I do something wrong? I've always tried to be what everyone needs. I tried to be your big brother, dad's perfect soldier, the perfect hunter; I've worked so hard on being what everyone needed me to be that…I forgot what I used to be. Maybe I was nothing before any of you. I just thought that…if I was what everyone needed me to be, then none of you would ever have to leave, like mom did. Did I ever tell you I'm afraid of being alone? I never did, did I? Whenever you tried to get me to talk, I would just wave you away, telling you I hate 'chick flick' shit, but thinking back I should have told you. There're a lot of things I should have told you. But I guess it's too late now, isn't it? I didn't need to be…whoever I was before while you were here. But now that you're gone…I don't see what I was. I guess it doesn't matter. But you shouldn't have left. I could have fixed it. Whatever it was that was bugging you, I could have fixed it. You should have let me. You should have fucking let me.'
"You should have let me try!" Dean yelled as he brought his fist down onto his Impala. The dinging noise startled him, knocking him forcefully back into reality. He looked around. He was in their driveway, their house looming over him. Shaking his head he looked at his car a little wistfully.
'Shouldn't have done that. I'll have to get that fixed soon. Sorry girl.'
Dean blinked, confused for a moment, 'What was I doing a minute ago?' He looked on the ground. There was a bucket filled with soapy water and some rags beside it. Then he remembered. He had been washing his car when suddenly his thought had begun to stray. Before he had realized it, he had completely forgotten what his original task had been.
'I guess I should finish up,' he thought, but as he looked at the car, soapy water half drying on the hood and windows, suddenly he felt so drained. He shrugged and picked up the rags and the water and placed them in the garage. He could finish later. He walked back inside and sat down on the living room couch. He sat in silence for a moment, until he realized how uncomfortable he felt inside his own body. Not wanting to let his thoughts go down that same path, instead Dean felt around on the table beside him, trying to find the TV remote. Instead his hand went around a frame. He looked in surprise. There had never been a picture there. He looked at it and he froze. It was a picture of Sam. They had taken it just after a hunt last year. Sam looked so happy in the picture and Dean couldn't believe he was really gone.
'What happened between then and now,' he wondered silently. Dean stood up, unaware of his actions, simply gazing at Sam's picture with longing. He began to trace one finger over his vivid, glossy cheeks in a gentle caress, as if the glass actually held the same softness and warmth of a person's skin. When Dean realized what he was doing he pulled that hand away and instead just stared at the picture, trying to conjure up some semblance of hate…something to place against the person who had hurt him so much…trying to fill the hole Sam had left in his wake so that he could be…well Dean really didn't know what he wanted. All he felt was anger and resignation, an unhealthy combination at best, particularly if you were a hunter. His hands began to clench around the picture frame, angry more at himself for his lack of hatred toward his little brother.
'I'm pathetic. Can you see this? I can't even get mad at you anymore.' His fingers began to clench the picture almost painfully, but Dean could not feel this small level of pain; it was not enough to hurt him. Suddenly, the glass broke, causing Dean to jump in surprise, the sharp crunch snapping him out of his reverie, his usually hunter ready nerves not reacting, simply causing him to drop the picture and the cracked glass which shattered on impact.
"Fuck" Dean said as he bent down to pick it all up. Quickly sweeping up the glass and the frame, he dumped the ruined frame into the trash can in the kitchen, removing the picture in the process. Dean noticed a jagged piece he had missed and sloppily picked it up. A second later he hissed in pain as the shard of glass sliced into his hand. The pain coursed through his veins, something he could feel unlike the when he had hit his car. However, to his surprise, he found the pain sickeningly pleasing, and for the first time since his baby brother had left, Dean truly felt alive. He unconsciously began to squeeze his hand tighter so he could feel even more of that sickening, desired pain. The pain cleared the haze which had clouded his mind for so long. All of a sudden, as if realizing what he was doing, he dropped the piece of glass as if he had been burned. He stared at his hand, the blood running down his forearm, claiming all of his attention as it stained his skin red. He paid no heed to the outside world as all of his being was focused on the red, his entire world narrowed down to the throbbing pain in his arm. He began to walk, almost as if in a trance toward his room. Picking up his hunting knife, he then headed to the restroom, closing the door, but not locking it. He sat down on the toilet, not really focusing on anything.
He stared at the blade in his hand.
'If I cry out…would anyone come? Would anyone even care? No one ever has…why should they start now? Would you? Would you even care?' He pressed the flat of the knife to his skin, shivering at the cool feel against his warm, moist skin. 'You wouldn't…would you? You left. Why would it matter to you? If I yell, if I cry, if I beg…would you care? I would have done anything to get you to stay. Hell I would have done anything to get you to smile. Moved mountains, stopped the world, get on my hands and knees; I lived to see you smile, to see you happy. When you were sad, I would do anything to stop it, to stop what the problem was. I would give my body, my soul, my entire self just to see that one moment, that one smile. But you don't care, do you? I don't matter to you, do I? You left, without a second glance. You left, mom left, everyone leaves. I don't matter…do I?'
Dean flipped the knife so the sharp edge was pressed against his skin. It felt good, to have the sharp edge there, pressed against his skin without any force behind it. Dean had always religiously kept his knifes sharp, and this one was no exception. Pressing with only the slightest amount of pressure, Dean was not surprised to see the red line left behind in its wake. He stared down at the vertical line he left on his arm, he made another, and another, and another, until his arm began to freely bleed. He welcomed it all, welcomed the pain with a sickening abandon, hating how alive he felt, and craving more of the feeling like a drug. He moved toward his other arm, making similar cuts to the one on his left. By the time he had finished with his right arm, his breath was shaky with pain, his arms throbbing, but he felt a sickeningly delicious feeling. Removing his shirt, he stared at his body in the mirror. Almost without thought, he moved the knife toward his stomach and placed shallow cuts in random places, scarring his once perfect skin. He felt the blood flowing down his stomach, but felt this wasn't enough. He moved the knife to his chest and left similar cuts there. He welcomed even more of the pain, even as a tear escaped his eye. It felt so perversely pleasing, a feeling he had never felt before. Unbuckling his belt, he undid his jeans and pushed those away as well. Moving his knife down to his thigh, he placed more and more cuts, reveling in the disgusting sensations which were coursing through his veins. Once his thighs began to flow as freely as the rest of him, he breathed in a deep, shaky breath. Slowly and without thought, he brought the knife to his neck and stopped.
'If I do this, there won't be any going back. It doesn't matter to anyone…I don't matter to anyone, so why can't I do it?'
He tried to press down, but all he could produce was a small thin line. His hand trembled as he tried to force the knife farther, deeper, but his body refused to respond, paralyzed by some unknown force. He stared again at the mirror, looking at his own reflection, disgusted by his weakness. Throwing the knife at the mirror, he was pleased to watch the mirror shatter, destroying all images of him. He was aware of some noise in the backdrop, but he ignored it instead facing what was once a mirror. His knees gave way as he fell to the floor, unable to understand what had come over him. Tears welled up in his eyes and before he knew it he was crying, completely and totally confused by what had just happened. Unexpectedly, the door flew open and John Winchester entered the restroom. He took one look at his oldest child and understanding filled his eyes.
"Dean…" He said as he knelt beside the bloody, weeping mess that was once his perfect soldier. Dean was vaguely aware of being pulled into his father's embrace, but all of his attention was placed on the cold reality of what he had been about to do. There Dean sat, in his father's arms, sobbing like a small child. Tears fell fast and hard as sobs wracked his body, unable to stop the flow.
"Dean, is this about Sam?" John asked. His son remained silent, but that was all the answer he needed.
"Dean, you don't need to do this. I know it was hard to lose Sam, but you can't do this to yourself. These kinds of things are never the answer. They might feel good now, but it won't help in the future. If you won't live for yourself, then live for the people you can save. You might not be able to live for Sam and me, but you can still help people out there."
Dean nodded silently, still sniffling, understanding what his Dad was saying. One final though broke through his mind.
'I can't be a good brother anymore. That option's not available to me anymore. I can't be a good son anymore. Sam's the only one Dad pays attention to and no matter what I do, it's never enough. He'll probably leave anyway. But I can be a good hunter. No, not a good hunter, I can be a perfect hunter.'
Dean thought about all he had lost. 'I'll give anything to be the perfect hunter. It's all I have left.'
"Dean" John said, his voice almost a question. Dean recognized the tone. This was the moment where his father would was watching, waiting to see whether his son, his 'soldier' could still be of use. Dean broke away from his father's embrace and stood up, resolve in his eyes.
"I understand. I won't try this again sir." He stood up straighter and looked his father dead on as if asking him to challenge him.
John watched his eldest son, as if looking for a flicker of uncertainty before nodding, seemingly pleased with the fortitude behind Dean's eyes. "I'll let you clean up then. Afterwards, get ready. We've got some leads."
"Yes sir." He watched as his father left before closing the door behind him. Turning to the mess in front of him he shook his head. Oh well, he could clean up later. Looking down at himself, the blood half-drying on his skin and the few cuts which still flowed slightly, he almost smiled at his stupidity.
'I can't kill myself. I have people who still need me. I can still save people. I can still help so I can't die. Look at me, I look like shit. I won't try this anymore. I won't try to kill myself anymore. The cutting…I…I don't know. It felt so good, I want that feeling again, but I won't try to kill myself again. If I only make a few cuts…I should be ok.'
As he removed his final article of clothing and turned on the shower, his mind strayed back to Sam for a moment. 'That's right. I never told you…I fell in love you. I only found out after you left, when I tried to figure out why it hurt so much. Why I felt like I had just been ripped in two. Too unimportant…and too late, right?' Dean looked at his knife almost wistfully and began to wonder. How long until he could feel alive again?