Disclaimer: I do not own anything below.

The young man was on his knees in a white shirt and dark boxers, sunk in mottled brown carpet in a lonely white room. An ancient ceiling fan made a faint whop whop as it turned slowly, pushing stale, warm air around. A hanging lamp beneath it swung gently in time, naked bulb washing the man in a quivering sickly yellow light and casting black shadows that grew and shrunk.

He was praying in front of the only bed, eyes squeezed closed, face screwed up like a child many years younger, and clasped hands pressed against his sweating forehead. His back was tense and hunched and he rested his elbows on the bed, creasing the neat white linen. Beside his right elbow was a knife with a grey handle, glinting, serrated and sharp. His cracking whispers permeated the silence, the words thin and hoarse in the thick air.

Our Father, which art in heaven
hallowed be thy name

At these words, the man slumped even further forward, almost curling into himself. His head sagged forward and his elbows sank deep, and the bed creaked in protest under his weight. Sweat glistened on the nape of his neck, just under where his short hair ended, and slow heavy droplets slid down his skin, disappearing into the collar of his thin shirt. He seemed to be trembling, a series of abrupt uncontrolled tremors rolling through his body.

thy kingdom come
thy will be done
in earth as it is in heaven

He opened his bloodshot eyes and picked up the knife. With his shaking right hand, he put the tip against his left forearm, just above the green-blue vein. He held it there for a second, staring at the little depression the knife made in his flesh, and his eyes were wide and gleaming and a little bit crazed. His lips were moving as he mouthed words silently and then repeated them out loud again in that strange breaking quiet voice.

give us this day our daily bread
And forgive us our sins
as we forgive them that sin against us

The man pulled the knife sharply. There was a little sound, like old, dry paper tearing, and immediately, the flesh of his arm parted and bared its white insides. The pale gaped for a second, and then the blood welled and overflowed.

And lead us not into temptation
but deliver us from evil

He thought of his tall little brother, with his mop of curling dark hair and warm white smile and repeated the wounding, on his right arm, and on both his thighs, and his chest; lifting his shirt and pressing with both shuddering hands until the knife sank in, sang against his skin and the last ran from his right shoulder down to his left hip. He dropped the knife and stared at his blood soaking the dark brown carpet around his knees, in a growing grasping red sea.

For thine is the kingdom
the power, and the glory
for ever and ever

His pink lips quivered for a second, a rush of breath escaping his tight chest as his eyes rolled upwards towards the water-stained ceiling, and he sat back on his heels.

Amen.

Dean Winchester was wearing a brightly-coloured shirt and dark wet boxers in a lonely red room, and no one came.