Cas was tired of it.

He was tired of living- well, tired of half-living. He wasn't alive, he was trapped, but he wasn't dead either. He was caged.

He was tired of fighting. Fighting with Heaven. Fighting with himself. [fighting with Dean].

He was tired of never feeling. He wasn't human enough for that. He was like a robot, or a time bomb. [he wasn't sure if he was about to go off, or if maybe he already had].

He looked at the knife in his hands, debating what he was doing.

It'll hurt. He thought, putting it down.

But you'll feel it. he thought again, picking it up.

The positives outweighed the negatives. He would do it.

He thought about all the times he'd been hurt. All the times he'd hurt others. [all the times he'd hurt Dean]. He was walking, breathing pain.

He thought about all the people he'd killed. All the people he'd taken over for vessels. All the people whose lives he'd ruined. [all the times he'd ruined Dean's.]

He thought about all the times that everyone, dean included, had been hurt because of him. He was worse than death. He was destruction.

With that thought taking over, He closed his eyes and dragged the angel blade over his wrist, feeling the unbearable pain slice through him.

He felt it.

He smiled.

It burned, like having fire poured onto your skin. Like acid forced down his throat. It felt deadly, but he could feel it. He liked feeling things.

He did the same again, lower on his wrist. He felt the sharp screaming pain as he did so, deeper yet.

"Cas?"

He had been so focused on the consistent stream on blood rushing in layers on his wrist that he hadn't even heard the door open.

When he looked up, he noticed him standing there. He looked terrified.

"Hello, Dean." Cas said, his voice quieter than usual. [he was terrified Dean would be angry with him.]

"Cas." Dean said again, finally running from the doorway over to the bed where Cas lay. the white motel sheets were stained red. It looked like a murder scene.

Dean sat next to him, looking at the deep gashes lining Castiel's arm. "Cas, c'mon, we need to get you to the hospital." Dean said, trying to help him up.

"No thank you Dean, I feel fine." Cas replied. [he wanted to say, "Let me die here, please", but he didn't.]

"Cas, what the hell? We need to help you. You'll die!" Dean said, his eyes filled with fear.

["That's what I want", Cas wanted to say. He didn't.]

Dean had blood on him, too. It was Castiel's. The entire front of his army-green coat was stained with it as he tried to think of what to do.

"Cas, why would you do this?" Dean asked, looking at it.

["for you." Cas wanted to say. He still didn't.]

Dean climbed onto the bed and lay next to Cas. "You won't come with me," he said, lifting Cas' arm to his lips and kissing each wound carefully, then laying next to Cas, letting his arm drape over Dean's stomach lazily, "So I'll stay with you."

After a few minutes, Dean looked over at Cas, his eyes focused intently on Castiel's.

"Cas?" he whispered, his voice quiet.

"Yes? Dean?" he asked, looking over at him.

"Please tell me you'll never do this again."

["Dean, I can't predict the future" he wanted to say. He didn't. He realized, it was the kind of promise you fought to keep, not the kind that came easily.]

"I promise." he whispered back.

Dean leaned in and kissed Cas- the sweet little soft, innocent kiss that Cas would never expect from Dean. When he pulled away, Dean took off his gray tee-shirt and ripped off a long strip, tying it around Cas' wrist, then curling up next to him, his arms wrapped around Castiel protectively.

"I love you." he wanted to say. This time, he did.