Chapter Text
Dean wipes the blade on his jeans, breathing heavy. The man tied to the chair squirms against the rope, whimpering in pain. Blood covers almost every inch of his skin. Dean smiles, putting the knife to the man’s skin again. “You’re pretty when you cry.” Dean whispers, the knife dragging along the path of the tears. The man shudders and Dean smiles again.
“Does that hurt?” The man closes his eyes, more tears spilling over. He takes the knife and digs in into the man’s gut. His scream is muffled by the rag stuffed in his mouth. Dean’s laugh overpowers it easily. The man’s whole body is shaking and vomit soaks the rag. “I would let you go, but you see- I’m Dean Winchester, the FBI’s most wanted serial killer. Emphasis on killer. So that’s not really going to happen.”
He wiggles the knife, making the hole in his gut larger. The man screams again and Dean gives him a large smile. “I have to admit. You’re a tough little guy. Usually people pass out by now.” As if on cue, the man’s eyelids flutter shut and his head slumps against his shoulder. Dean sighs, the fun now over. He pulls the guys hair, exposing his neck. He slaps him across the face. “Wake up!” He yells.
The guy jumps, his eyes wide open. Dean smiles. “I’m going to slit your throat now.” The guy screams, shaking his head no. Dean laughs, tightening his grip on the man’s hair. He slices quickly, ending the pathetic life before him. He stands there, letting the blood spray his face and shirt. His red smile is bright as he stares down at his latest victim. After a few seconds of heavy breathing he steps away, wiping the knife once again on his jeans. He walks over to the bedside table, leaving bloody shoe prints on the dingy carpet of the hotel. He picks up his thick leather journal and a pen.
Victim #97: I only used a knife this time, avoiding vital organs and arteries. Lasted nine hours and thirteen minutes before passing out; a new personal best for me : time of death, 10:38 pm.
Castiel hates going to therapy every Friday morning. He hates it with every fiber of his being, but the only way his parents will pay for college is if he goes to therapy and swallows the pointless blue pills the doctors prescribed. So here he is on a Friday morning, walking across the freezing cold campus to the office across the river. It’s usually only a fifteen minute walk, but Castiel is dragging more than usual this morning due to the long night of lying awake staring at the blank ceiling.
Castiel feels like college is just as much of a waste of time as therapy, but at least when he’s at college his parents aren’t hovering constantly. Not that he can breathe any better, because honestly his depression and anxiety suffocates him no matter where he is. When he arrives at the brick building of his doctor’s office he sighs heavily. He pulls his jacket tighter around himself as he walks through the door. The receptionist smiles warmly at him, making his skin crawl. He nods in acknowledgment and sits in his favorite chair in the corner.
There’s two other people sitting in the waiting room. One is a teenage girl with braces and slouched shoulders. The seconds is an older man in a snazzy business suit, checking his watch every thirty seconds. Castiel wonders what they’re here for. Five different psychiatrists work in the office building, Castiel has already seen three of them. The first one specializes in juvenile psychiatry, but pushed Castiel off when he realized his issues were far from juvenile. The second one specialized in anxiety and depression, but wasn’t prepared for Castiel’s self-harm issues- which is why Castiel now sees doctor number three, who is apparently an expert in all sorts of things.
“Castiel Novak.” The receptionist calls cheerfully. Castiel inwardly groans. Like it isn’t bad enough he has to deal with bright lights and boring waiting room music, but now he has to deal with little miss sunshine. He stands up slowly, making his way to the door. The receptionist tells him what room to go to, like he hasn’t been here a dozen times to see Dr. Lucas. The door is slightly ajar so he pushes through quickly, the dulled lighting making him instantly relax.
“Castiel.” The man says quietly, offering him a small smile. Castiel has to admit that out of the many shrinks he has been forced to see throughout the years, Dr. Lucas is pretty okay. He dims the lights for Castiel, lets him stand if his anxiety doesn’t want him to sit, and has yet to ask him the dreaded question, ‘how do you feel about that?’
Castiel is actually having a somewhat okay day, so he chooses to sit in the comfortable seat across the desk from Dr. Lucas. “How are you doing today, Castiel?” He already knows, with the fact that Castiel sat in the chair instead of instantly pacing or shrinking into the corner.
“I am well.” Castiel says quietly, fiddling with his hands.
“How was your week?” The doctor has a notebook and pen in front of him, the sheet blank. Castiel hasn’t screwed up, not yet.
“I had an economics test on Tuesday.” He mumbles, picking at the thread of his sweater. Lucas doesn’t say anything, waiting for Castiel to continue. “I think I passed. I studied for three nights straight so I should have passed.”
“Did it feel like you were doing well while taking the test?” He asks Castiel softly. Castiel thinks about it for a moment. The anxiety he felt while taking it was pretty much his normal anxiety. The questions would blur together every once in a while, but that was also normal when he feels overwhelmed.
“It felt alright, I think.”
“You seem tired this morning, Castiel. You have bags under your eyes.”
“Was there a question in there?” Castiel asks defensively. Every once in a while he gets enough energy to fight back. Every once in a while he actually has the energy to give a shit. This was one of those moments, but he’s sure it will pass quickly. His will to live doesn’t tend to last long.
“Did you sleep last night Castiel?”
“Not really. No.” First mistake. The notebook is picked up and he puts the pen to the paper, scratching away.
“What was going through your mind?”
“Nothing in particular.” Castiel shrugs.
“Have you been having your nightmares again?” The doctor asks cautiously, his pen ready to write down what Castiel says. Castiel shrugs gently, then nods. The doctor marks something down quickly, then looks at Castiel as if he’s waiting for him to say something more. When he realizes that he isn’t going to say anything, he prompts Castiel. “Are they the same as before? The attack replaying?”
Castiel clears his throat, slouching lower in his chair. “Sometimes.”
“Sometimes.” The doctor says. His eyebrows furrow. “What about the other times.”
“Every once in a while it’ll be the same situation, but different. It’ll happen at a different place or with a different person.” Castiel shrugs. “It’s only happened once or twice though. Usually it’s the same dream as normal.”
“Is that why you didn’t sleep last night? Are you avoiding the chance of having a nightmare?”
“I guess.” Castiel shrugs. Once again, he writes something down.
“How has your depression been? Has the medication been helping?” Anxiety infiltrates Castiel’s veins. His hands are instantly sweaty and his fingers shake. He stands up, moving to the other side of the room. He crosses his arms and takes a deep breath.
“Yes.” The doctor sighs, shifting in his seat.
“Would you like to know how I know that you’re lying to me?” Castiel huffs and moves again, this time to stand directly behind the chair.
“Because I’m standing up.”
“Because you’re standing up.” The doctor smiles softly. “Because you’re not sleeping.”
“The medication isn’t doing anything to help. I might as well be taking sugar pills.”
“I could switch the brand. Or possibly raise the dose.” Castiel shakes his head quickly, pulling at his sweater again.
“I’m sick of medication.”
“I know Castiel, but it’s part of the deal- remember?”
“I remember.” Castiel slumps in his seat.
“Let me know before you stop taking it.”
“I won’t stop taking it doc.”
“Every person who struggles with depression stops taking their medication at some point. It’s frustrating when it doesn’t help and they give up. I just need you to tell me before that happens.”
“Why does it matter? So you can tell my parents?”
“No. When people with depression are on medication and then quit it without being weaned off, the depression gets dramatically worse. The shock to the system can cause many patients to commit suicide.”
“I won’t stop out of the blue.” Castiel slouches lower in the seat, pulling at his sweater. The strings are starting to unravel but he doesn’t really care. “Not that it matters anyway.” He whispers.
“Why is that?”
“I’m going to kill myself soon anyway. This isn’t working.”
“Castiel.” The ding of the fifty minute bell goes off, causing both of the men to jump. Castiel stands up and shrugs.
“Well, session’s over doc.”
“I don’t have an appointment after you so you could stay a few extra minutes.”
“No thanks.” Castiel pulls his jacket tightly around him and goes to the door. “See ya Friday.” He walks out of the office, past the happy receptionist and back into the freezing cold air. He takes a deep breath and sighs, starting his walk to his morning class. Students rush by him as he walks down the sidewalk and he can’t stand the idea of so many people being so close. He fights the urge to skip class and crawl into bed, but his morning lecture takes attendance and passing grades are another requirement in the college deal. He thinks, not for the first time, that he should just skip anyway. If all goes well, he’ll be dead in a week.