Pull Me Up (a destiel au fanfic)

chapter 25

1-30-16

I saw my parents today. They were having sex upstairs. It was less traumatizing than most of the shit I've seen them do. I came home to tell them that I wanted to move back home. The bunker was just getting a little too crowded for me. No one new had moved in, it was still just Charlie, Dean, David and I. And usually Cas, but he wasn't there all day long. For some reason lately it's been feeling packed to the brim. It's probably because of all the hormones wafting through the air, but I couldn't breathe when I was in that house. It was as though the air turned into a damp towel; I could get air through it, but it was hard and I could never fully fill my lungs. I still love Dean and Charlie and Cas, but I don't think I can stay in that environment anymore. It's not even only that the air was too thick for me to breathe, it was also all the emotions. At first when Dean and Charlie had showered me with care and affection, it was brand new. I had loved actually feeling loved and wanted by some sort of family, but now it was making me uncomfortable. I just wasn't used to it, and I'd been letting it happen for months now without any sense of discomfort, but now it's like it all hit me at once. Being in a place where you know how much people care just made me feel like a burden. To David, too. I wasn't as affectionate to him anymore because I was feeling so overwhelmed. I still cared for him deeply, maybe even loved him, but I didn't have the ability to express it because I got a sick feeling when I thought about commitment. I didn't know if I would ever be able to let our relationship progress farther to the point where we did actually admit our love to one another. I could maintain a physical relationship, but emotions just got messy. There was always a chance someone would fuck something up and ruin the entire thing, and I didn't want that. So there I was, summoning the courage to knock on their bedroom door, hearing the methodical squeaking of their mattress, pacing outside their door. I almost just walked back out and dealt with it myself, but I ended up knocking. Immediately the squeaking stopped and everything was silent for a minute. Then my mother opened the door, pulling a robe tight around her. She was cynical at first, and rude, mocking me for coming crawling back to her. My father has always been the more accepting one. But eventually after much persuasion, they came to an understanding, welcoming me right back home. I was so relieved I didn't know what to do, so I just gave them a thumbs up and walked back to my old room. I was happy to invite the feeling of emptiness that accompanied my parent's lack of care towards me. It's a sad thing to admit and look at on paper, but it's the truth. When you're raised without any love and affection, the minute you receive some, you want it to stop as soon as possible. And here I was, pretending like moving away from the problem and ignoring it would make it go away. Obviously leaving the bunker wouldn't stop any of the four of them from giving a shit about me, but it would stop me from constantly being under the pressure of their gazes and their words. I didn't know what to do then. They were my only friends. Then a thought occurred to me. If I didn't have to worry about their abundance of attachment and over protection, I had every opportunity to call Gabriel. Don't take it the wrong way, because it's not like I didn't know it was wrong. It's not like I didn't still care about them, it's just that I didn't want them caring about me. The guilt ate me up even entertaining the thought of calling Gabriel for a gram of that sweet substance, but I was itching to do it. Honestly, the long term effects of withdrawal were worse for me than the constant strokes and puking. It wasn't as much of the physical reaction now, it was more an emotional and mental one. I had depended on the heroin for that magical feeling of euphoria, for a release from all the pressure of my home life, even of the life I lived at the bunker. At the bunker I'd still been in bliss from the feeling of being loved that I was able to escape the need for it, but once the love became overbearing more than sweet and light, I seemed to crave it more and more. It's heavy for a 16 year old, trust me I know, but I couldn't help it. I wasn't exactly your average teen. I was neglected as a child, and most neglected children grow up seeking some sort of relentless attention and a clingy partner or group of friends, and I ended up in that five percent that wanted nothing more than to remain as introverted and ignored as possible. It was one of those situations where I enjoyed the time where Dean, Charlie and Cas treated me with exaltation only because I grew up thinking that's what I wanted. But once I got enough of a taste of it, I wanted anything but it.  So, despite my better judgement, I picked up my phone and dialed the number. He was surprised to hear from me to say the least, but I assumed glad to have my business back. I snuck downstairs and took two hundred dollar bills from my mother's wallet. She'd hardly miss them. Once I reached my car, all thoughts of remorse and skepticism were wiped from my mind. I was going to do it, I was gonna meet Gabriel in our usual spot and buy half a gram, maybe more. Whatever two hundred would get me. Prices probably fluctuated while I was clean. My body practically buzzed with anticipation, my mouth almost watering at the thought of shooting up again. I sped down the streets, taking curves and stop signs recklessly. I wanted it more than words could explain. Once I got there, to that back alley, I saw his familiar figure in the darkening haze of the sky. My breath fogged around my mouth, and I shivered. I hadn't taken a coat because I was too eager. He greeted me as if we were childhood friends, glad to have one of his valued customers back, but his eyes were sad and his face almost cracked and broke down a few times, especially when I handed him two crisp hundred dollar bills. "Are you sure you want to do this, Claire?" he'd whispered. When I looked up at him, his eyes were starting to glaze over. Was he going to cry? I only nodded, urging him to take my money. He sighed, and glanced around us before reaching into his pocket and sifting through a few small plastic bags he had, each marked in sharpie with something I couldn't read. Weights, I assumed. "I'll see you soon," I had assured, then went back to my car quickly. The moment I got back home, my parents were in the kitchen, both smiling softly at each other. I wondered where Alex was, but ignored them and sprinted back to my room, slamming and locking the door behind me. I was shaking in anticipation while I let my bedside table skid a few feet to the right. I lifted the floorboard that hid my stash of sterile needles and pixie dust, reaching in excitedly. I had to hide this stuff from my parents before I'd moved out. When I put the needle in, I winced at the pinch, ready to press the button at the top of the needle. There was a brief moment of forethought, where I debated whether I should put pressure on it, but my thumb moved it down before my mind could catch up. My initial feeling was foudroyant, the overwhelming sensation overtaking me, catching my breath in my throat. It was pure ecstasy. I plucked the empty needle out, tossing it back onto the floor. I was weak. I am weak. I know. But I'd rather be numb and weak willed than strong and in pain. I know I'm weak. I know.