Imagine...

Word Count: 784

Trigger Warning (depression/cutting)

~

You can't describe it.

The pain you feel even when everything is okay.

You've faced demons, ghosts, and monsters of all sorts, but the enemy that you always lose to isn't like them. 

Your greatest enemy is your own mind. 

It convinces you that everything is your fault. That everything would be better if you were different. Maybe if you were skinnier, faster, stronger, or even just gone.

Your best friends, Sam and Dean don't know about this deep self hatred that haunts you. If you're good at anything, it's the ability to pretend. Pretend that everything is fine, that you are fine. 

Lying is a skillset that you happen to have. 

No one questions it, for the most part. 

You sometimes suspect Cas of knowing that something is off, but he never mentions it. In a way, you feel relieved beyond compare, but it makes your heart feel a bit heavier. Wouldn't it be better to tell someone?

But, no, you could never do that. They wouldn't understand, they would simply judge you. You can't take that risk. 

Cas makes you happy. You've realized that you never truly smile unless Cas is there. He makes butterflies flutter in your stomach when it usually feels like lead is weighing you down. His blue eyes and little head tilt when he doesn't understand something make you forget your worries for a bit. 

Then, you find yourself all alone in the bunker. And the horrible thoughts assault you, not holding back any punches.

You almost killed yourself, Sam, Dean, and Cas. Not to mention all the civilians. Useless! 

Pathetic.

Waste of space.

The tears fall unbidden and they don't stop. The sounds of shuddering breaths, sobbing, and fists hitting the table fills the space. 

No one is around to hear it besides you. 

You scream out in frustration, slamming your hands on the table again.

Why couldn't you be different?

Your hands shake uncontrollably as you run to the bathroom to prepare a bath. Sometimes the scalding water helps you calm down. 

You slowly submerge yourself. The soap suds cover your skin, and hide the scars that mar your body.

Some are from fights - your battle scars. 

Most of the ones along your arms and legs aren't though. They are self-inflicted, born out of rage and hate and pain.

In a sick sense, the physical pain distracts and relieves you of the mental agony that you put yourself through. You can't stop the loathe-full habit, but you try to keep it few and far between.

Right now, you're dying for a distraction. 

Your shaking hand slowly penetrates the water and slides through the air to find the handle of your pocket knife. The handle is familiar and comforting in your grasp. 

Stupid, why can't you be better. Why can't you be normal?

"I don't know," you whisper as the cold steel ghosts over your hot skin.

You shouldn't even be alive.

You sob, causing the water to overflow and splash onto the floor. "I know. . ."

The knife edge sinks into your skin as pressure is applied. As it drags along, small drops of blood form a line behind it. 

The tiny droplets gather together and soon are a tiny river flowing down your arm. Your tears have dried up and you are infected with a strange sense of haunting calm. It envelopes you. 

You barely register the familiar whoosh of angel wings until it is too late. 

Castiel stands in his trench coat, looking down at you. 

"Y/n, what-?" He asks, looking at you in confusion and concern. 

You can't form words as your tears return full-force. You shake your head and snatch the towel from the floor in order to cover your nakedness. Standing, you wrap the scratchy fabric around your body. 

"Cas, you shouldn't be here," you whisper, feeling the water dripping down your legs. 

He looks so sad, "Y/n, why would you do this?"

You just stand there, shivering and wishing that the earth would swallow you whole. Ashamed, you hang your head. 

"Leave, Cas. I'm not worth the time."

"No, Y/n," he says, coming to stand closer to you.

He carefully takes your injured arm in his soft hands and you feel a flash of pain before feeling no pain at all. You look down and see that your cut is healed without even leaving a scar. 

"Please, Y/n, when you feel like this, come to me. I'll be here for you, always."

You sob, as he wraps you in his arms, even though you're only in a towel. You stand there, ensuring that the towel won't fall and also just soaking in his affection.

"I don't deserve you, Cas."

"No, you deserve better."