Family Don't End With Blood /Destiel//Sabriel//Michifer

Please, Not Cas

*tw: self-harm*

Hunched over his History desk, Dean was making rapid movements with his pen, inking blackened words across the contrasting surface of the page. Every so often, he'd pause to stare at what he'd written or to push back one of the advancing highlighters that guarded the edge of his desk.

It was Friday afternoon and the lunch bell suddenly started crying out.

Dean shoved his possessions inside his bag and joined the hustle of people causing chaos in the crowded corridors. Chatter and shouts filled the air, mixing with the squeaking of shoes and the banging of flimsy locker doors as students attempted to organise themselves. Remembering a short cut he'd been shown, Dean turned off the main corridor and into a smaller one, that almost seemed abandoned in comparison.

That's when a new sound came to his attention: someone was crying.

It it wasn't for his natural alertness, Dean doubted he'd have heard the noise at all. As he followed the course of the corridor, he was aware of the noise getting louder and, as he found himself outside the boys' bathrooms, the crying had risen to a volume just about audible to a normal passer by. Yet there was no one else there.

Dean pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The place looked deserted. The mirrors were so grubby it was hard to believe they were capable of showing an untainted reflection, several taps looked welded in place — save one that was steadily dripping water into the sink — and not a soul was in sight. Except, Dean noticed, that one cubicle had been pulled shut, but not actually locked.

"Hello?"  Dean called. 

The crying seemed to stop momentarily, but started up again just as quickly.  It wasn't a soft sound either, it was loud, as though the person was in real distress: almost struggling to breathe. 

"I'm coming in, okay?"

No response.

Dropping his bag, Dean hurriedly moved over to the cubicle door and slowly pushed it open.  He stared in shock.

Cas was curled up on the floor of the stall, sobbing uncontrollably.  The sleeves of his trench coat were pulled up past his elbow, revealing gut-wrenching scars in neat succession along the length of his arms.  Four of the scars on his left arm, marked by beads of fresh blood, were obviously recent.  In his right hand, Cas held a small shard of broken glass, its jagged edge wet with his own blood.

Dean tried to suppress his panic. "Cas?" 

There was no response.  The Novak's eyes were tightly closed and refusing to open. 

"Hey, it's me, it's Dean.  I want to help you, okay buddy?  But first, I'm going to need that piece of glass." 

Instinctively, Cas tightened his grip on the object, new beads of blood beginning to well up in his palm.

"I want to help," Dean coaxed, "I promise. But you have to let me have the glass." 

The sobbing suddenly heightened and became even worse. 

"Cas, I'm not going to hurt you.  I would never hurt you.  But you have to let me help.  Please let me help."  Dean was on the verge of tears now too, becoming positively terrified. This was not the type of situation he was used to dealing with. This was new and strange and horrible.

Slowly, Cas loosened his grip on the glass and let it fall to the floor, allowing Dean to scoop up the sharp object, deposit it in the bin, and return to his side with an obvious sense of urgency.