A/N: personal, triggers of self harm, anxiety, dark thoughts, don’t read if you have or can be triggered
Characters: Reader, Winchester of your choice
The match struck with a quick flash, the wicks of the lavender scented candle, catching flame, the match itself, burning until the tips of her fingers are nearly blackened, but just…not. She inhaled deeply, in for eight counts, holding for four, exhaling for eight. Repeating for good measure.
Entering the bathroom, the ensuite of the bunker’s room, she turns on the shower, as hot as it can go, the steam opening her pores, but clouding the mirror. Good, she thinks, even I won’t see this happen. If it was only that simple. She searches for the orange case, barely two inches long, a centimeter high, the razor blades she pocketed from one of the guys. Sliding the wrapped, perfected steel through its casing, she unwraps it as if the paper itself was as delicate. She places it in the soap dish in the shower, removes the layers of a hunt gone right into a heap at her feet and she punts them into the corner. The Shifter, in bits and pieces of another form, hit the bathroom door with a splat; the flesh and what she can only assume intestinal guts, create a Pollock on her walls.
Her legs are pale, clad in jeans most of her life, the skin is almost perfect. Too perfect. Sans the scars from a werewolf claw on her lower calf she’s thinking it’s almost a pity to mar it more than it already is.
But rationale is out the window. Pain, anger, the thickness in her rib-cage as she inhales and pushes a breath outward, the lack of control, have all been building up into a massive weight, anchoring her down, deep into an anxiety laced abyss. He tried to offer her solace, a gentle trace of her cheek, a tight clasp of his calloused fingers to her shoulder, but she feigned a brave face, rapidly swatted at the lone tear, and curled into herself on the backseat of the Impala; her back turned to him.
It was easier to push him away than to deal with herself.
Until she stepped one foot into the steaming shower, the water so hot, it cascaded down her knee and she immersed herself fully under the splay of hot lava drops. She scrubbed at her skin until she was raw, but left a patch of clear skin on her left thigh. Massaging the gentle soap into her skin, she reached for the razor blade, held it firmly in her right hand, and made the first line. It pierced the skin, she waited for the escapism, the release, but she scoffed as she felt nothing. So she did it again and thrice more until she sank to her knees, the water running red, swirls of pink, into clarity.
She materialized out of the shower, attended to her freshly cut, thin, lines, a thick coat of antibacterial ointment, gauze, and medical tape. She was so engrossed in her task, that his presence was unknown, until he reached for her bandaged thigh and timidly traced the tape. She shuddered then, breaking down, attempted to reel herself away from his strong hold, but he silenced her with a curt nod of his head, scooped her into his arms, and carried her to the bed. He rummaged through her dresser for her favorite fuzzy socks, fleece lined leggings, and a loose fitting t-shirt.
She gave into his proffered offering of clothing, dressed in silence, and felt his fingers start to work her wet hair into a messy braid. She’d have to ask him later where he learned to do so. Once he fastened an elastic to the ends, he pulled her duvet down the bed, and together, they laid together, her back pressed into his chest, his chin resting on her head.
“Breathe with me,” his voice a mere whisper of hope and you inhaled, he tapped your arm eight times, you held your breath for four taps, and exhaled another eight.
“That’s right, breathe with me,” the tapping and synchronized inhales and exhales of breath became one until she succumbed to a sleep devoid of color, imagery, feeling.
He never left her side that night.
Who is to say she didn’t relapse nights later, who is to say she did. It was her battle and for once, she wasn’t alone.
Ellen's Bar and Tab 