A/N: Just curious, did I ever put a trigger warning on this book? I know I did for Strings Attached, so I don't have to for this, right?

A/N Pt. 2 from before proofreading this chapter: I did, right? I think I said it in an earlier chapter. I could be wrong. Idk. Just throwing this out there for future reference.

~ One week later ~

"Oh my gawd," Castiel groans, smacking his forehead on the floor in frustration. It's past two in the morning. Why the hell is he still doing this?

Misha gets out of his bed and walks over to his owner, who ignores him. He lies down in front of him and nuzzles his nose in his hair. Castiel chuckles and looks up at his dog, petting the top of his head because it's as much of the puppy he can reach.

"Hey, Mish," he coos.

Misha lets out a contented sigh.

"One more week, buddy," he tells his dog. "One more week 'til I'll have to have this done and sent off, and then we can just chill. 'Kay, Mishi baby?"

Misha walks over and lies down next to his owner with another satisfied sigh.  Castiel puts an arm around the dog he's already grown to love and continues working. He's planned out the entirety of his show, and most of the special show he puts on in Sioux Falls has been mapped out as well. He has everything done but the three different songs for each show he needs to choose for his annual tradition of playing unheard, unreleased songs at his hometown's concert. Unfortunately, that involves flipping through his many five subject notebooks until he finds songs that aren't too personal, but are still good enough to perform. So far, one subject into his newest notebook, he's yet to find any that fit the criteria.

"I'm 100 percent done with this tour and it hasn't even started," he mutters to himself. Can he just, like, skip it? Obviously not, but he'd like to.

As if sensing his frustration, Misha nuzzles him comfortingly. Castiel places his head on top of the dog's gently.

"You're so lucky you don't have to work," he tells his dog because he's tired, and tired Castiel talks to dogs, among other slightly strange things. "This is not fun."

He sighs. Maybe he can figure something out tonight, and he won't even have to worry about only having one week left until he needs to have the entire concert planned out and sent in to Jim.

It's a few minutes later that his phone dings, alerting him that he received a text. Castiel rolls away from his dog, who, unsatisfied with his lack of love, walks over of the room. Castiel rolls his eyes. He knows Misha will be back soon, probably within fifteen minutes but definitely within an hour. He always is. He seems to have separation anxiety, and Castiel is afraid to leave him home alone for even just five minutes. When Misha misses him, he starts barking, which is both adorable and kind of annoying.

Castiel picks up his phone from where it sits next to his bed, plugged into his charger as always. It's a text from Jim. Great. Because that always turns out so well.

Jim: Change of plans. Need concert layout in two days. Send soon.

Castiel groans in frustration and drops his phone carelessly on his bedside table. He lies down with all his notebooks and continues skimming through songs. Unfortunately, his most recent ones all seem to be about the same thing, and he's not bringing Dean up at his concert.

It's almost twenty minutes later when he slams his notebook shut and chucks it across the room, watching as it slams into the wall with a satisfying thud.

"I'm done," Castiel decides finally. "I'm just — I'm fucking done."

Why does he even bother? No one really cares. No one is going to his concert because it's a Castiel Novak concert; they're going because it's a concert. The performance itself doesn't matter. Nothing he does actually matters, because they don't actually care about him.

He doesn't want to do this concert. He doesn't want to have to put up with people recognizing him everywhere he goes. He doesn't want to deal with the hate he gets every time he opens up any type of social media. He doesn't want this life.

He just wants it to be over.

Maybe it can be. He has knives in the kitchen. They're really only used for cutting apples and cheese, but flesh can't be too much harder. It's no razor, but it would do.

It won't be like last time. Gabriel isn't around to swoop in and save him. No one is supposed to come by; he rarely has visitors here. No one would even notice he's not around at all until Jim gets mad that he missed the deadline, but he'd be long gone by then. He's probably got a good week or so until someone would come check on him, possibly longer. This is a golden opportunity. It's his way out of the life he's grown to despise.

Castiel walks out to the kitchen slowly, feeling like a ghost that doesn't belong in this body. He picks up a steak knife and runs it across his finger, feeling it slice his skin open. That should work. He picks up a pad of post it notes and a pen, but the moment he decides to write something, anything, all words leave him. He puts them down. No one cares enough for a note to matter, anyway.

He walks into his bathroom and locks the door behind him, because if he's going to do this, he's going to do it right. He turns the knob on the bathtub, watching as warm water begins to fill it. While he waits for it to finish, he slips off his clothes silently. As soon as the tub seems full enough, he turns the water off and slides in. It's a little too cool, but it will warm up with time, he's sure. The cold never bothered him anyway.

He holds the knife up with one hand, silently asking himself if he really wants to do this. But of course he does. He knows that. He hasn't had a moment of actual happiness in years, save what small fraction of that he's spent with Dean, and that's not happening again. He has nothing left.

He hold the knife to his wrist for a moment while he hesitates. He's heard it before. "It's a permanent solution to a temporary problem." Maybe it is. Maybe it's not so temporary. It doesn't matter. The only thing he cares about is that it's a solution. Right now, in his crazy, messed up world, a solution is all he needs.

He takes a deep breath and drags the blade across his wrist. He winces, biting his lip until he tastes blood to keep from making a sound. He watches as the blood flows from his arm, but not fast enough. It could never be fast enough.

He takes the knife in that hand and holds it to his other wrist. Just as he's about to finish the job, he hear a loud bark. He jumps, accidentally dragging the knife across his skin in the process and leaving a small scratch that doesn't break the skin.

Misha.

God, what is he doing? He can't do this. No one will come to his house in at least a week. Misha could be dead by then. He wouldn't have anyone to feed him or give him his medication. He'd be hungry, lonely, and confused without Castiel.

Tears in his eyes, Castiel climbs out of the tub. He wraps one towel around his waist and another around his wrist, hoping to stop the bleeding. There's the bark again. He opens the bathroom door to find Misha standing there, looking up at him with those beautiful blue eyes. Misha nuzzles him gently, but Castiel doesn't react. He doesn't know how to. What does he do now?

There's only one thing he can think to do. He takes a seat on his bed, and Misha lies down next to him, resting his head on his lap.

"Hey Siri," Castiel says, his voice sounding off too his own ears. He waits for the ding to know Siri is listening. "Call Satan."

"Calling Satan," Siri replies.

Castiel holds his wrist, trying to ignore the stinging pain the it causes. Come on, Lucifer! Where are you?

Finally, he hears his brother's agitated voice. "God, Castiel, it's three in the morning. What do you want?"

Oh. Maybe he shouldn't have called Lucifer.

"Sorry," Castiel says quietly, knowing that if he speaks any louder, is voice will break. "I'll — I'll call back later."

"Wait!" Lucifer says quickly. "No, hold on. Ignore that. That's tired Luci talking. This is big brother Luci now, and big brother Luci wants to know what's wrong."

"I, uh..." Castiel takes a deep breath. "I need help."

"Then Satan's the way to go," Lucifer replies, trying for lightness even though he can easily tell something is wrong. "What happened?"

"I..." he swallows hard before continuing, "I tried to kill myself and I don't know what to do."

"Oh my god..." Lucifer breathes, probably not meant for the phone to pick up. "Okay, um... well, first of all, don't kill yourself. Second, talk to me. When was this?"

"Like, four minutes ago?"

"Oh, so, like, just now. Okay. Do you need to go to a hospital?"

"No," Castiel says quickly. Even with the patient confidentiality agreement, he doesn't want anyone else knowing about this. "I just... I need someone, and you... you're always there and I just thought..."

"Don't worry," Lucifer assures him. "I'm here for you. Always. I don't care if you just want to talk about puppies or whatever."

"Can — can we just talk about puppies?" Castiel asks.

"'Course we can. Puppies are awesome. Hey, how's little Destiel doing?"

"His name is Misha now," Castiel tells him. "He's — he's doing fine. He's lying in my lap right now."

"And to think, a few weeks ago, you were afraid of the little puppers."

"I wasn't afraid of them," Castiel mumbles.

"Sure you weren't," Lucifer says sarcastically. "So, Misha — you said 'Misha,' right?"

"Mm hmm."

"Weird name."

"Weird dog."

"Touché," Lucifer replies. "So, Misha's healing fine? No complications, or...?"

"Yeah, he's fine."

He looks down at the dog, who looks up just to lick his face. He stretches out across his owner's lap and lays his head on Castiel's wrapped up arm. He hisses in pain and moves his arm away quickly, cradling it to his chest.

"Castiel? What's wrong?" Lucifer asks quickly.

"Just Misha," he replies. "It's — it's nothing."

"Are you sure?" Lucifer asks skeptically.

"Mm," Castiel replies.

"Alright, I'll take your word for it. So, um... How's life with a dog treating you?" he asks, doing exactly what he knows Castiel wanted him to — create the distraction he so desperately needs. And that is exactly why Lucifer is his go-to.