Dean knew it was stupid but he felt like the mirror that sat across from his bed was mocking him
Or maybe it was the fact that he had 4 hours of interrupted, nightmare filled sleep in the last 5 days and he was itching to vent his frustrations out on anything. That would be enough to put a chip on anyone's shoulder. None of the usual methods were helping much, not the mindless, dirty sex with random girls not the bitter, burning taste as whiskey ran down his throat. Hell not even hunting was scratching the itch.
At times he felt like his skin was suffocating him. Choking the breath out of him until he'd finally die and be resurrected as a demon.
Other times he felt that if he didn't keep his focus he would catapult right out of his body. Watching himself in the 3rd person as he stabbed and gutted and murdered anything and everything.
It was a thin line that he trudged and every single thing pushed him closer one side or the other.
He hated what he had become. Hated that he snapped and snarled at Sammy some days and others he'd just want to put his head down and let Sammy do or say whatever he wanted, mindlessly agreeing along to whichever theory or plan concerning the mark he was presented with. At first he thought that would please his brother but after a few days Sam took the behaviour as giving up. That did not please the taller man and if Dean was in any other state but this, he would argue. Tell Sam that he wasn't giving up, that he desperately wanted to fight for this life. In a way he did. It was just that he was so damn tired of fighting. Especially when life seemed to get harder and harder.
The ever-persistent burning presence on his arm made him want to scrape and cut the mark off until there was nothing but a scared, bloody mess on his right forearm
He wasn't a stranger to thoughts like that...
He remembers cutting into his palm in that dirty, rotting bar. The way the blood flowed carelessly until the cut healed. He treasured the blood spill. The way the mark sang to him. The way it pushed him for more. The mark may not want him to die easy, but it wants as much blood and agony as it could get. No matter where it came from.
Absent mindlessly, he scratched at the mark as if he could tear off his skin, tear of his humanity until he was covered in blood and the whites in his eyes had gone as black as the night sky.
Finishing his drink, he looked back in the taunting mirror, the way is showed his face but that wasn't him, it is a distorted perception of him and it made him feel like he was being watched. As if his body had a mind of his own, the arm that was holding the now empty tumbler threw the glass against the hard wall as if to punctuate the thought. Dean felt hot and cold at the same time. Like his very being was an infection. Washing his face in the sink he took a closer look into the mirror and flinched as the figure staring back at him had dead, black eyes. No, that was impossible, he wasn't a demon yet. Yet...
Throwing a punch at the glass, Dean hissed out, his knuckles were bleeding badly and little pieces of glass were in-bedded into his hand. So caught up in thought, he didn't hear the footsteps running down the corridor until there was a few sharp knocks to his door.
"Dean?" It was Sam, undoubtedly worried and surprised at the noise.
Suddenly a laugh bubbled up in his throat, it sounded distorted and warped to his own ears. Had this what he had become? Trashing his own room and putting his fist through a mirror? Sure, it wasn't the first time he'd punched a wall and it won't be the last but this was different and unfamiliar
"Dean, please let us in" This time it was Cas' ruff voice calling through the door and he felt guilty. Guilty that he had messed up his brother and his best friend so badly that they can't see that Dean is poison. He has the ability to murder every single person on the planet and yet here they are trying to save him.
A piece of shattered glass glistened in the dim lamplight of and caught his eye. His brother and Cas where talking in quiet voices behind the door and Dean could only make out a few words
"It's gotten quieter in there..." One of them said though Dean was past caring. Bending down to retrieve the shard of glass from the porcelain sink, Dean felt the blood rushing in his ears fade away. Like only him and the glass piece were left in the world.
Taking the shard to his arm, the older Winchester hissed as he carved a long cut through the end of the mark. The way the warm blood ran smoothly down his arm and onto the floor was euphoric. Taking another swipe at his arm, he felt as if he was in his own fantasy world. Finally the need for blood had quietened down to a gentle throb. He no longer felt as if fire and ice where fighting inside his veins.
The breath rushed out of him as he collapsed against the foot of his bed. His arm burned but unlike the constant, aggressive burning that the mark did, this was pleasant and warm. Like an embrace from his mom.
"Cas, get the first aid kit!" Sam shouted, when had the door opened? Sam's over shirt is warm and smells faintly of his cologne and shampoo. Said over shirt was being wrapped around his forearm. It was soft. Closing his eyes, Dean whimpered as Sam pressed against the cuts tightly.
"Dean, oh God, why did you do this?" Sam whispered, his eyes full of shock and sadness.
"Cas, can you heal him?" Sam practically shouted. Cas must have shaken his head. No, Cas wasn't much of an angel anymore and by god it showed. Dark rings circled his eyes and his face looked wrinkled. Worse of all though was the way he wore a defeated expression thinly veiled behind smiles and 'I'm fine's'
"Fuck," Sam whispered with enough venom and force to make Dean wince. "Okay, okay," his brother muttered to himself as he took the shirt from around his arm. The bleeding hadn't stopped but it was a bit better than it had been before. As his brother and best friend helped him onto his bed. The last thing he remembered before he closed his eyes were the scraping sound of shards of glass being swept up off of the floor and hushed voices.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," Dean said, his eyes on the floor. Sam could see the white bandage uncovered by the sleeve of Dean's favourite plaid shirt. He was stood in the door way of the library.
"It's okay" Sam muttered, not looking at Dean
"No, Sammy, It's not." Dean said as he walked into the library and pulled up a chair besides his brother
"I just. I don't understand why, Dean?" Sam said as he put down the book in front of him with a heavy thud
"I dont... I can't explain it, Sammy" Dean said, pulling at the sleeve in a nervous gesture. Swallowing around the lump in his throat. God, why was this so hard?
"You don't have to explain it right now. But don't do it again?" Sam said. It sounded like a question to Dean's ears though he's not certain that it was intended to be one. His brother's eyes are big and begging. Dean wants to agree. He wants to reassure Sam that he won't do it again though it's not a promise he's sure he can keep. And right now they can't stand another loss.
"Dean?" He is brought out of his thoughts with Sam's insistent voice.
"I can't promise that this won't happen again." Dean says with a gesture, Sam's eyebrow's crease and it makes his heart hurt further. "But I'll try my hardest not to," And with that he shuffled out into the hall. Leaning against the wall, Dean let out a sigh. They really needed a cure.