They Could Never Know

TRIGGER WARNING. EXTREME TRIGGER WARNING. DESCRIPTIONS OF SELF HARM, SUICIDE ATTEMPTS, DRUG USE, ALCOHOL ABUSE, SELF HATE/LOATHING, DEPRESSION, ANXIETY. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

They could never know.

None of them.

Not Dean, not Cas, and certainly not Sam.

The hunter's life was hard; you never denied that. You fought hard, fell hard, and got back up again. You were born into the life. You tried not to think about the tragedy that befell yours. It didn't matter anymore, anyway. At least, that's what you told yourself. You just weren't sure if you believed it.

What mattered now is that you hunted full-time. You lived in a once-abandoned Men of Letters bunker. With your two older brothers, and on occasion; a socially confused angel.

But not even that seemed important at the moment. You were trapped on the bathroom floor, your mind holding you hostage. Knife in one hand, whiskey in the other. You'd already done your worst. Your right arm sopping wet with your blood, repeated gashes leading you up to the bottle. It too bore your blood. You'd had a few shots worth. Enough to relax you, but nothing more. They couldn't know you'd been drinking. Your brothers had no idea you'd developed the tendency to drink your pain.

Your back was to the sink, facing the locked bathroom door. You reached up and tossed the knife into the sink as you forced yourself to stand. The whiskey sloshed around, causing some to spill into your wounds. You inhaled sharply as it burned in your wounds. You gently placed the bottle on the sink and made eye contact with yourself in the mirror.  

You breathed angrily. Blood was dripping into the sink and floor. It was pooling into the grout surrounding the tiles. It would be a bitch to clean, but it was well deserved. You took the knife in hand once more, losing yourself in the serrated edges now glistening in red.  

You'd been hunting wendigo in Wyoming. Five people had already gone missing in the woods. The local police thought they had a bear attack epidemic on their hands, or possibly a serial killer. You thought it was a vamp, maybe a werewolf. You'd been so convinced until you got separated from your brothers. You were in the middle of the Wyoming woods, alone. Completely unprepared for what was to come. You came face to face with a wendigo without so much as a lighter to hurt it. It was inches from your face, fangs drooling blood. You managed to fire two rounds into its chest before Sam pulled you to the ground. Dean doused the thing with gasoline and threw a match.

The twelve-hour car ride had been spent wallowing in self-hatred after Dean yelled at you, telling you that you knew it was a wendigo, they had told you. That you had to keep on top of things. Sam was angry too, but didn't fly off the handle like Dean. He was relieved that you were safe, but shouted as he told you that you could have died.

And now, staring at the mess you had made- you wish you had.

The bleeding had stopped. For the most part. A couple drops here and there but nothing you couldn't handle. You'd used the whiskey to clean your wounds, and once they were, you could see that at least three of them needed stitches. You could see the fat deep under your skin and winced. It was becoming easier to slip deeper.  You didn't have the access to the medical kit Sam kept. Not without tipping him and Dean off. 

It always came back to them. Every time it came to this, it went to them. It only hurt more. You brought the knife down once more. 

You'd be damned before either of them discovered this.

You reached into your back pocket and pulled out a tube of superglue. It was nearly empty. Because it was used frequently. You rolled the end up and squeezed. You wiped a glob on your injured arm and replaced the tube to your pocket. You took your other hand and held your gaping skin together. It was a tricky process, one you could really could have used a third hand for; but you managed to get it done. It hurt. Your arm still hurt.