Falling Shadow: Dean's Battle (Supernatural Fanfiction Book 3)

Shadows Reclaimed

The hospital room had felt like a prison, and now that I was finally out, the motel room felt almost as confining. The walls seemed to close in on me, heavy with the silence I had created. It was better this way, though. I didn't want them to see how badly I was falling apart inside. They worried about me enough as it was, with the constant rotation of who went on the hunt and who stayed behind to keep an eye on me. I couldn't stand it.

The mental fog I'd been living in ever since I got back was getting harder to navigate. The voices, those damned voices, had never truly quieted. They were always there, whispering their poison, their taunts. I was exhausted, both physically and mentally, but I forced myself to stay silent. Talking felt too much like admitting how bad things were, how I was slipping back into that darkness again.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I stared at the nightstand between Sam's and my bed. There, gleaming under the muted light of the room, was something I hadn't seen in what felt like forever—Sammy's knife. The sight of it stirred a dangerous pull inside me. The voices began their insidious chorus, urging me to take it, to use it. They told me I deserved the pain, that I was better off not having been rescued.

I fought to keep my hands from reaching out, but the internal battle was exhausting. The knife called to me, its blade promising an escape from the relentless torment in my head. My heart raced as the voices grew louder, more insistent. It was like being trapped in a storm with no way out.

The muffled sounds of Castiel's research next door did nothing to ease the pressure. He was so close, but there was no way he could hear the internal struggle I was facing. I wanted to call out, to ask for help, but the thought of them seeing me like this was unbearable. So, I remained silent.

The darkness, it had a way of seeping through every crack, every chink in my armor. I could feel it wrapping around me again, dragging me back to the place I had fought so hard to escape. The knife was an anchor, a tangible piece of my own despair, and the more I looked at it, the more I felt myself slipping.

My hand moved of its own accord, reaching out toward the knife. I felt like I was outside my own body, watching as my fingers curled around the cold metal. The voices erupted in a cacophony of satisfaction, urging me on. I was past the point of rational thought, past the point of caring. I needed the release, the silence that the knife promised.

I pressed the blade lightly against my skin, feeling the sting, the sharp bite. It was a fleeting moment of control, a brief escape from the chaos in my head. Tears streamed down my face as I let out a strangled sob. I hated myself for what I was doing, for not being stronger, for falling back into the darkness.

I knew I was alone in this. I hadn't told anyone how bad it was; I hadn't admitted it even to myself fully. And so, I kept silent, letting the darkness consume me. It felt like the only thing left that I could control.

The darkness was a relentless storm, and the knife was my anchor to the chaos that threatened to pull me under. With trembling hands, I let the blade slice through my skin again and again, each cut a desperate cry for help, even though I was too far gone to admit it.

The pain was a temporary relief, a distraction from the voices that never seemed to stop. It was a brutal cycle of self-inflicted torment, and every cut I made seemed to deepen the chasm inside me. I needed it—needed the control, the release. Each time the blade bit into my flesh, I felt a twisted sense of satisfaction, a brief respite from the torment that was my mind.

Just as the room seemed to be closing in on me, I heard footsteps approaching. Panic surged through me, and I quickly grabbed the knife, shoving it under the pillow. With frantic movements, I hid my arms under the covers, hoping the evidence of my self-destruction would remain hidden.