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When they found that ghost girl Molly that thought that her husband was dead, but in reality, it was really her – it was all kind of a spiral of emotions. Dean had his six hundred and ninety-five calories each day without another sound, and when his muscle felt raw from pain, he did not complain. Then on that last day, he ate enough for him and Sam and weighed in at 151.2 failing pounds so he decided he just should never have tried to give up purging. Not like he really considered giving up purging anyway. Sam looked so sympathetic towards her that it sparked up that kind of envy again and Dean realised how much of an envious, disgusting bastard he was. Just for a moment’s time. Then he was alone and that kind of hurt.

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When Sam had to kill Madison, it was like a spiral of emotions hitting him. Dean wanted her dead from the first time he saw her, knew Sam banged her, knew Sam had her, because he just wanted Sam but it was so wrong. Not real Sammy was kind of staring at him, telling him to shove the toothbrush just a little deeper so he can choke. He can pretend it’s Sammy he was choking on if he wanted, but that was kind of sick. What did it matter? He was full of sickness, full of insanity. This shouldn’t matter. And it didn’t. Just most of the time—and Sammy, I’ve been so bad lately.

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When they were on the Hollywood case in that movie thing, Dean couldn’t stop eating. Free fucking food all of the time. He finished a gallon of strawberry ice cream in less than an hour, but that was okay, because he was so good at throwing up his food that the food he’d consume in half an hour he’d throw up in no more than ten minutes. He purged ten times a day, and weighed at around 147.8 on one of those mornings. When he had sex with that girl, to kind of prove to himself that he really didn’t need Sammy, not-real Sammy was staring at him, mumbling into his ear, telling him that he was really pretty but needed to lose just a little bit more. Dean pressed a finger across his cheek, his defined collarbones were really pretty all of a sudden – and where the hell are you, Sammy? Are you really going to eat all that strawberry ice cream, Dean? Sam, I haven’t been listening to a damn word you’ve said in the last couple of hundred days, I was too busy vomiting out my words down a porcelain bowl. Hope you don’t mind.

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When they got into prison on purpose – dammit, did the prison food taste like absolute shit, going down and coming up – but that was okay, because even good food tasted like ash coming up. Ash and memories and burning wood and broken promises and Sammy, help me. And he wanted to run, run so far away that he didn’t know what he was, who he was, and wasn’t a fucking monster. He was such a hypocrite, thinking that Sam was turning into one of them when he was already one of them. A shadow in the night, a broken lullaby in the morning and everything in between. Slice it all up, butter it with smiles, and pretend it was all just okay. You’re so good at slicing and buttering bread, Dean. The next time he got near a scale, it was two weeks later, and he weighed at 146.2lbs, but he felt like he gained ten—and not-real Sammy loved touching his skin and telling him it looked so good. Dean knew his skin was as gray as ash, as tight as rubber, but thin against his bones and that was all that really mattered.

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The Djinn attacked him and he was imagining a life with his Mother and a Father that died of a heart-attack. Dean should be careful. He was more sustainable for heart-attacks and broken hearts. It was so normal, then why did he still feel like eating everything in sight and throwing it all up? The food tasted like shattered glass, scratching his throat from inside out when it slid out of his lips and he felt like he was choking. He really took a risk by plunging the knife in him but that didn’t matter – he didn’t want to live in a world where everything was normal but him Why did he have to save all of those damn people when he couldn’t save himself? It would just drive him insane. Oh wait. Too fucking late.

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Dean told Sam to not forget the pie and now he was standing near the restaurant and everything was so bloody and messy. Dean said he wouldn’t eat until he found Sam. 146.2, 145.8, 145.2, 144.7—dammit, where are you, Sammy? And when he got that vision, it was all of his world hit against the ash pale snow. And the minute he held Sam, it was like all of the poison in his body decided to act because Sam was fucking dead. He didn’t know if he could handle it anymore. He wanted to tear himself into pieces, cut himself into cubes and bury himself inside of Sam for good measures—Sammy, you whore…wake up…please…please, wake up, Sammy…I need you to stay sane.

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He instead sold his soul because that was the smartest thing to do, Dean. You’ve got a year to live. That didn’t matter. One year, ten, or twenty – he’d spend it all throwing up the food he shouldn’t have eaten, so really – it was okay. Sometimes. And he was in so much pain over Sammy…but Dean, beauty is pain, not real Sammy would say. And that kind of made him feel just a little bit, and then it was like a truck hit him and he felt the pain spiral him deeper into his disorder. Just fucking great.

And then Sam would breathe and then it wouldn’t matter anymore again.

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144.5lbs. Ruby was a whore. He wanted to drown himself in alcohol, so he did. And it kind of made him feel just a little bit better that he was going to die in a year. And oh, Sam got him pie to purge. Welcome to the life of a broken heart. Everything hurts, so will you be there to hold me when it rains, Sammy? Not-real Sammy rolled his eyes, grabbed his wrists and told him he wasn’t thin enough – and that just made him feel just a lot better. So much better that he purged out the Macadamia nut cookies he’d been eating as meals for the past ten days.

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He liked Lisa, really, but she was no Sam. Plus, she was so much thinner than he was. His plaid shirt felt loose so he wore a thicker jacket on top. It didn’t matter if his pants were too big a long time ago as long as he still made notches on his belt. Buying new pants meant that he wanted to show off his ugly body, which he didn’t. Sam made a movement to hold him today, but Dean resisted, and that night, Sammy mumbled to him it was because Sam knew he was. That night he didn’t fall asleep but that didn’t matter. He went to the bathroom and purged out anything he could, two pieces of candy, half a cookie, and three cups of milk and it hurt his throat so bad. He ended up purging the bread of the dinner he ate five hours ago too and the needle hit 143.0lbs. The memory of Ben’s smile made him feel like throwing up some more, so he did, because dammit, he wasn’t Father material. Really. Look at how fucked up Sammy is because of you, Dean. And Dean turned to look at the sleeping Sam and he swore not a single force in the world could stop the hot tears from streaming down his face.

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Sammy started having good luck. That was okay, because the kid needed break but there was something wrong about it. Had to be. Then his good luck turned bad and Dean had to do something, like he promised Dad he’d do something when Sammy was in danger. Dean ate a lot of food, enough to make him burst and couldn’t, didn’t, shouldn’t have purged. So he didn’t. And now, it was consuming him. He was disgusting. Too disgusting. Apparently, Dean was having bad luck too. Wait. He never had good luck to begin with. Then everything was normal, except for the numbers on the scale—‘His heart was broken, he was depressed and joyless.’ 145.8lbs.

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The Colt was fixed. Hoo-fucking-ray. And he still weighed more than the damn gun.

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Sam went to the fucking crossroads demon to reverse the deal after the case of that insane comatose girl and what was Dean doing? Eating his heart out in pie, ice cream and fries, just to disappear off to purge it, but he couldn’t purge most of it, then he said it was fine because it was the only thing he’d eaten in two days. 143.5lbs that morning and the same weight even after his little food binge, so that should made him feel fine, right? No, Sammy went off to protect him and Dean was damn well powerless. What the hell was he supposed to feel? Dammit, Sammy. Let me dig my own grave, so I can bury my-fucking-self. Don’t you get it? …I want to die, Sammy. I want to die so bad.

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Bela was a whore for the entire ghost-ship case. Ruby too. 142.6lbs. Not-real Sammy told him he looked fat in those pants today, so he didn’t really eat as much as he wanted to. And dear, Dean, dear dear Dean, I can hear your voice, not-real Sammy says. I just choose to ignore it.

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When Dean had to teach Sam how to repair the car, Dean felt his heart hurt—he really meant to tell Sam, this is how you can fix me: tell me I look okay. Tell me I’m perfect. Tell me you love me, Sammy, dammit. But none of that was said because frankly, it was kind of stupid. I can run, Sammy, but I can’t hide and I can’t escape from my fucking self. Sammy. Sammy. Sammy. But as the wrench hit the car, none of that escaped his lips. “Lights will guide me home, and ignite my bones and you can’t try to fix me.” [1]

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It was Christmas again. The scent of Sam’s sweater was kind of like home, and Dean wore it and it was huge and hugged him and the closest thing he ever felt like to happiness in the past few years. He wished Sam would hold him instead of him hugging him late at night inside of that knitted brown sweater that Dean wouldn’t be caught wearing any other day. Presents and gifts were pretty, but Dean just wanted Sammy now. Keep me asleep, Sammy. Keep me beautiful. Keep me numb…please…

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Ruby was still a whore that knew too much and she was in Hell and she told him. And those words rung into his head as he found himself against the porcelain bowl, but he didn’t purge. He stood up, pressed his head against the wall, told himself he would not purge then two minutes later, vomit filled the sink, his watch scratched against the whiteness and not-real Sammy was glaring at him because he purged, like he promised he wouldn’t. Fuckfuckfuck. And hey, I think I saw you in my sleep, Sammy, you were the one laughing at a broken promise of Dean Winchester put together through the shattered seams and broken bones.

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He had to face that disgusting demon of himself. Which was himself. Oh damn great. Now, he can’t sleep anymore at all. But that didn’t matter because the scale flashed 142.1lbs, the needle kind and merciful and maybe it was his imagination but little not-real Sammy was holding him. Dean couldn’t relax though. It must be the damn demon nightmares.

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The Trickster had something for Dean dying over and over again. When Sam explained it to him, it was like his world was upside down inside out and the meat-filled dish he had kind of made him sick but hey, he’d purge it later. That man that had maple syrup for the hundred Tuesdays seemed to look at him, and stared at him with liquid brown eyes, and Dean just knew he knew. Then that man was the Trickster. And the Trickster fucking knew…but that wouldn’t matter, because it was their little trick, right? If it was a trick, then dammit, Dean tricked his body so much, his mind, which was screaming YOU’RE ALONE AND YOU’RE AFRAID AND YOU FEEL EMPTY INSIDE but he shoved that away because really, he had to focus on Sammy first, then other insignificant crap.

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Damn Bella. Damn Lilith. Damn all of this crap happening to him and he can’t damn handle it. And this motel room bed was so quiet and lonely and I promise to share this bed with my lonely broken soul but hey, Dean broke promises all the time. He kept this one. He was always still broken, always still lonely. And he just wanted to fall asleep and never wake up unless it was next to a grinning Sammy telling him that everything would be alright, holding him, telling him he was pretty. That never happened. Even at 141.8lbs, it never happened. Stop breaking my heart, Sammy. I swear I can’t take it anymore.

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Damn Ghostfacers. Damn 141.8 that didn’t move in two fucking weeks but he should really be happy that he didn’t gain from eating burgers every night and ‘forgetting’ to purge. You’re not normal. Don’t try to pretend like you don’t care about what you ate at night. Damn his inside screaming and I used to love, Sammy, I used to love so much and now, I can’t look at the world without seeing gray and the pictures and when did this become my life? When did I lose the fucking will to live…?

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Crocotta case. Come to me, she’d whisper. Come to me. Dean was on the brick of breaking. Come to me, Dean. Come to me. Come to little ole’ Sammy, let me feel you… and that was the first time Dean purged in two weeks, up against a public stall, against his baggy jeans, his too-loose belt, one of Sam’s shirts, spew all around the white porcelain and the taste of the unforgivable on his lips. I want to bleed so bad, Sammy, show the world that I’m fucking alive. Show you that I’m alive…

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Buy me a fucking teddy bear, Sammy. It’s the closest thing I’ll have to touching you. It’s killing me, can you see? Doctor Benton dammit wanted to live alive forever. Who the hell wanted to live alive forever? Then he laughed, because not everyone weighed 140.5lbs of fat and didn’t want to live, Dean. Not everyone. Sam embraced him, real tight, and all Dean could do was feel like he just wasn’t enough around Sam’s arms – he waited for Sam to scream at him, tell him he was too thin, needed to eat something – but that didn’t come.  Your fingerprints on my skin won’t rub away, Sammy, and it leaves a mark of failure for me to see every time I look at the broken mirror.

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30 hours. 20 hours. 10 hours. 1 hour…and Hell was waiting for him. I’m sorry you can’t save me, Sammy. I can’t save me either if it helps. Sammy, I’ll still be waiting. I promise.

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10 years. Sammy…I…

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20 years. Dammit. Sammy…I can’t…

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30 years. I’m not waiting anymore like he promised he would.

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The first thing that Dean did when he stepped out of Hell was eat –three bowls of mac n’ cheese 1,170 fucking calories two bowls of chowder, topped with salty crackers and cheese 760 calories and creamy bacon, cheese and potato casserole 1,136 calories and-and-and a 490-calorie cream cheese pumpkin muffin from Starbucks and 701-calories of pumpkin pie. By the time he was done, he was so full that throwing it up was a five minute job. And in the thirty minutes he took off to find Sammy, he felt hungry again and took it as a good sign and ate four hundred calories for the next five days. The next time he weighed himself, he saw 140.1lbs snap back at him. Castiel was the angel that fucking pulled him out of Hell. He wanted to salt his bones and burn them but he didn’t. Sammy was busy shagging Ruby when Dean was in Hell and he wished he was back in Hell because reality was messy and broken and disjointed and love was so hard, and it all get blurred and Dean didn’t know why…

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It all downed onto him when he had a conversation with Sam about Ruby the other day. He thought Ruby was too thin. Dean raised an eyebrow and snorted back a laugh, “chubby chaser?” Sam laughed, and then said, “just a bit. I like girls that are a bit big but comfortable in their own skin, alright? Jess honestly even tried to gain weight for me when she figured that one out!” he laughed and Dean wanted to slap him so hard, and cry and laugh at the same time, because the 140.1lbs snapping back at him suddenly felt like too little but he didn’t say anything and just waited. Castiel found him somewhere after the Rising of the Witnesses incident and asked him are you mad about your brother relying on Ruby to this extent? No. I’m not mad. Castiel closed his eyes, and nodded. You are not mad. You are simply hurt.

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When Castiel took him back to the past, Dean didn’t know what to do other than go along with it all. His head still filled with Sam’s words, and the fact that he couldn’t change fate was like a knife to his bleeding heart. At the end of the night, all he had was himself, and that made him feel like the most loneliest person in the entire world, between those empty sheets, Sam sleeping in what felt like miles away from him—and the sound of silence jabbing through him like a knife.

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The fact that Sam was exorcising bastards behind his back didn’t make him happy. The Rugaru was trying to fight who he was and that didn’t make him feel happy when he turned and he had to shoot the fuck of him, like he might have to do with little Sammy. The seven hundred calories he ate and didn’t purge everyday didn’t make him happy. And when Sam shouted at him for Dean making him feel like a freak—all Dean wanted to really say was I’m the one that’s throwing up my food I’m the one that can’t eat above seven hundred calories per day I’m the one that’s so fucked up on the inside that I’m a freak and I’m the one that’s stuck in another moment in time with monsters eating up every bit of me but apparently, that seemed to be stuck in his throat like the bread he tried to purge out that morning.

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139.8lbs. Humans need to eat, right, Dean? Castiel would say and Dean would probably hit him with a knife. Castiel had the perfect body, never eating, never poisoning it. Why do you want to die by not eating, Dean? Castiel would whisper to him softly into his ear. He knew. He knew. He knew. He fucking knew. Angelic eyes saw all. Dean would stare back at him and whisper in the smallest voice possible, I don’t want to die, Cas. I want to be free.

--

Another shape-shifter. Tell me you can see this right now, Sammy because I can’t keep holding on forever—hiding behind the plaid shirt that didn’t fit Sam because it was too small, it was horribly big on Dean. Maybe because Sammy was taller than him. He didn’t really know. I need love, Sammy. A slice of bread folded, two apples, a can of soup and a bowl of cereal later, he found himself transcended down into darkness. I need lots of lots of [unbroken] love.

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Of infinite sadness, broken realms and rubber-made bones, Dean got sick. Really sick and Lilith was waiting, perched, reminding him and Hell was so, so bad and memories all hit so fast and hard and he was sick he wasn’t really purging on purpose most of the time and his head against the porcelain toilet bowl, forgiving him for being so utterly shattered. The huge pot of yoghurt and honey made him feel really full really fast, and it tasted like sin on his lips, and it was really easy to purge too. Coffee and anxiety didn’t mix so well. He drowned down six cups and then waited for Sam to kill the ghost before his heart fucking exploded— If only coffee can wake up the dead.

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138.7lbs this morning. Not-real Sammy was looking at him with horror and telling him to stop, stop, stop this because I can’t love the dead, Dean and he wasn’t perfect. Castiel was watching him with sad eyes, unable to expose shadows in the light. Sammy, you just don’t understand. Death is perfection.  I wish I can hide my broken heart in a fairytale and drown in pure bone-white snow forever more.

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The rising of Samhain. He was nearly sick of this seal business, but he can handle it as long as he can still purge out his frustrations. He was done trying to be good little Dean and purging as minimal as possible. The numbers he’d been eating for the past few days were not counted and anything that passed through his lips ended up into a mush of saliva, tears and broken-up pieces against water. I’m falling I’m falling I’m falling Sammy save me SAMMY PLEASE LISTEN TO ME I CAN’T FUCKING TAKE THIS— 138.2lbs. Not-real Sammy was crying. Wails entering Dean’s mind. I want to stop dreaming. Because dreams are better than reality and I have to face reality every fucking day and I can’t…

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Anna was a target for demons. They must go save her. He watched as Sam blindly batted his eye against Dean’s 138.0lb self. He was so self-centered sometimes. Anna looked small and petite in her hospital gown and Dean wanted his lunch out of him right then when he’d first seen her. Then Anna was an angel. Anna was a fallen angel. And Dean was the demon.

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Feral children, incestuous abused children—that made Dean feel as if his broken bones were not really important. He felt like he could somehow understand them, with his burning love for Sam and his self-abuse—they were just as sane as he was. That night, his dreams were made of snow, Castiel stood in the middle of the field and whispered “one day, this snow will all fade away, and a warm and beautiful spring will rise from its remains. The coldness will be a memory of the warmth, the love and the compassion and I will be here waiting”. When he woke up, he cried, and cried until he could not cry anymore and until he felt warm wings surround his broken soul.

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High-school was like a broken memory. 137.5lbs that morning, and not-really Sammy couldn’t stop sobbing and holding onto Dean and telling him Dean, you’re going to disappear please. He lost all of his control and he can’t make up for how much he purged that week or day. It could be ten times that day or ten times that week but he really didn’t know. It all seemed like nothing really sat in his stomach for long. Spirits haunt the school, haunt his heart, haunt his mind and the dead raised up in his memories until he relapsed into his own horrific insanity. Castiel still in his dreams, near that water, that fishing pole cupped in Dean’s small hands as Castiel crouched beside him, and told him if he wanted to burn the entire world with him. “And make it our own?” Dean laughed. Castiel did not laugh, look at him with soft eyes and said, “Always.”

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Dean and Sam under that Siren’s spell, so in love, so over their head, and Dean really just wanted to be thrown on the bed by Sammy and kissed to death by him but his heart said “yes” and his mind said “you’re too broken to be loved, baby”.

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When people couldn’t die because the Reapers were being trapped—shall I get the gun I wanted so badly and shoot myself to death just to say I did it once? Just so I can’t think about it anymore? Castiel held his wrist, looked at his eyes and his tight line opened up and words of beauty spilled out. I’ll still be here to take you back home.

--

Castiel enclosed his fingers across Dean’s wrist again. Death is free, Castiel would whisper into Dean’s ear when he opened up his eyes, after trying to torture Alastair, after breaking, after being through far too fucking much and his throat hurt from purging up the hospital food that tasted like shit. But you are valuable to me.

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That broken reality that Dean was in this high-position and Sammy was a tech manager. And the salads were bland and his world seemed unwanted. He didn’t binge most of the time, “and live on burgers and fast food, Sammy?” because he’d just purge that out, he’d tell himself. Dean can hop from one reality to the next but his disordered mind still collapsed the same broken way.

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“Binging? Purging? Really, Dean?” Chuck would mumble, press his fingers across towards Dean’s cheek. “You’re better than that.” But words were senseless and meant nothing because the pain in his heart echoed so loudly that it drowned out every word, every sound, the human world made. The world has fucked me over so many times that I can’t really tell whether or not I exist anymore.

--

Salt and bones and blood and Adam existed, burning underneath him. He led a normal life and Dean was insanely jealous but that didn’t matter. Sam embraced him again, tightly, too tightly, he weighed 136.6lbs when Sam was holding him and he said nothing at all – it broke Dean all the more, drove him insane somehow. Dean ate six-hundred calories and purged it all up. The purging, scratching, paining—the only word to describe it would be: a broken, silent suicide.

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Dean can’t imagine the disappointment in him when Sam drank demon blood like it was pineapple juice and had that insane look in his eyes. He can’t—and now, he locked him up and he can’t bear to look at him anymore. When Dean felt weak, unwanted and afraid and screamed out into the air “I FUCKING LOVE SAM WINCHESTER, ALRIGHT? More than a damn brother…I’ve…I’m so fucked—“and before his screaming even continued, he felt two arms wrap around him so tightly he felt like his bones might break and his heart might finally bleed out and give up. Castiel’s breath near Dean’s ear as he whispered, you’re just as fucked as I am. I’ll promise you another life in Heaven when you’re happy and you and Sam can’t ever say goodbye. Dean could swear he could hear Castiel’s heart break, like a bleeding melody coming into one, Cas and Dean.

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Sammy, you left us hanging by a [thin] thread. It’ll snap any moment now.

--

The apocalypse was a flower blossoming and the wintery days of the world would end too soon. Dean, Castiel muttered into his dreams but he can’t say anything else, because if he did, he was afraid both of their worlds would crash down into crying, screaming, whispering horrors. Not like it mattered anymore. Dean’s world was so broken from so long ago and Castiel was the glue that was trying to put it all together. Castiel was his nothing, [but he was his everything, too sometimes].

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All he wanted was love, to be loved – how could he be Michael’s vessel when he was so corrupted? How could he be anything when he was so ruptured the birds didn’t know how to sing for him? How could everything just fall apart in a blink of an eye when Cas promised…? And Cas…where was he? – and he did love…he loved in loneliness.

--

Castiel breathed into Dean’s ear – it all meant nothing without you. He looked more human, more distorted, more surreal and Dean could feel thin skin at the brick when he touched and entwined Castiel’s fingers with his own. War could make them all get into war, destroy each other, break each other but the wars inside of them all were far more superior, far bigger and more destructive than anything any horseman can ever dream of.

--

They were trying to find Raphael. Dean wanted to give Castiel women and beer but all Castiel wanted was Dean—and it was so clear right now, they were two halves of a whole, two of them split splattered glass shattering into submerged silence and dammit, “so, I took that little butterfly of a dream and put in a jar on the shelf.” [2] And he kind of missed Sammy too, somehow, somewhere and the air was cold and unforgiving and the flowers in his heart was broken and dying.

--

Zachariah showed him the end and all he could really think about was through all of those years he still weighed 136.0lbs throughout those damn years? and Lucifer was there, dressed in Sam and white, watching the world destroy itself and it was like he was seeing Dean’s world in destruction – except faster, harder and much more obsolete. Can angels grow up? Dean muttered when he was back onto the normal world. Castiel nodded, not physically but in years, of course they do, just like you do. Dean stared at him. And what do you think about the future? What do you even hope for it? Castiel moved slightly, and Dean expected him to say that he wanted the apocalypse to have ended, to have his brothers all in line, but Castiel stared back at Dean, wrapping his hands across towards his wrists; I hope I am never alone.

--

The first case in so long and it had to involve some insane God that took in the form of Paris fucking Hilton. Sam and him were like two different strangers embarking on the same dark road, but heading to different directions and they didn’t know when the road would just split in half, but just hope it was a long distance in time and space. The distance between them was like a constant reminder to Dean—a constant spell of pain and desolation. The cinnamon rolls he ate every morning and lived on for the rest of the day was a sugary reminder clinging to the walls of his body like fat and carbohydrates and Sam everything’s gonna be fine just have a slice of fucking toast and don’t ever leave me alone.

--

The Antichrist just disappeared off the face of the world. Castiel was there again, physically there, and looking like the damn angel he was and Dean still weighed 136.0lbs because of all of the sugar rush he’d been getting in the morning – must be and fate probably didn’t want to see him so happy so it made him crush into pieces and break up senselessly.

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When Dean had to age, all he could think about was how useless he was. Everything he ate gave him heartburn and he really shouldn’t have purged because it damn well hurt—and the big bad wolf was circling around him like prey before he took a bite of his flesh, but that didn’t matter because that was what Dean was doing all along, consuming himself endlessly into a vicious cycle. When Sammy won the game, all he could do was smile and purge out his dinner expertly, with no heartburn—just a mess of blood and vomit. Home sweet fucking home, Dean.

--

Gabriel. The fucking Archangel. Was the Trickster and he thought putting them in repeated TV series to tell them to ‘play their roles’ was damn clever. Dean was playing the role of a psychopathic disgusting bulimic that ate six doughnuts in the morning, purged it in five minutes and then had cupcakes for dessert at lunchtime and the 135.4lbs that ticked at the scale this morning was somehow forgiving and he kind of didn’t know why he was hoping anymore. In that motel room that night, he felt himself curl next to Sam, wrap his arms around a sleeping Sam and cry, cry so hard it hurt but Sam didn’t move and had a smile plastered on his face. All he could do was be happy that Sam was dreaming of a better tomorrow when Dean was still in the broken mess of yesterday. And Castiel—Castiel was standing there somehow, torn between past, present and future and listen to me, Dean, please eat something for me…

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How the hell did they have fans anyway? Dean wondered, busted and broken and when the guy asked him for his real name and he said Dean—he laughed and said ‘yeah right’, because really, who was Dean Winchester? He sucked at playing himself and everything in between and the vomit hit the water so much faster and his body was so much emptier so quicker and he was kind of used to the warm feeling of hunger that destroyed his bones. And who the hell was Crowley? And so many different thoughts hitting him and Sammy, are you gonna eat that?

--

The needle ticked at 134.8lbs that morning. The usually silent not-real Sammy was wrapping his arms around Dean and telling him his wrists were too bony and his collarbones were too prominent on his grey skin and he looked corpse-like and dead. The grey oceans in Dean’s dreams were haunting. Castiel stood beside him, holding his arms out and hugging Dean tightly, head pressing against Dean’s shoulder as he whispered, I do not feel like I exist, Dean. My arms don’t exist until I can hold something. My mind doesn’t exist until I think. My lips don’t exist until I speak. My lungs don’t exist until I breathe and my heart never exists – because it can’t love and all it wants to love is you.

--

The picture of Jo and Ellen burned in the fire. 134.4lbs. I am the creature of darkness I’ve hunted, that I’ve created and accumulated.

--

Damn mental institution. Also known as Home. The stars whisper words of Castiel and cry tears of Gabriel’s sorrow, and the sun revolved around the world for just that one moment—

--

How could he not know that Sam was Gary and Gary was Sam and that Sam wasn’t Sam? He loved Sam. But he guessed he didn’t know what he really loved anymore sometimes. Castiel’s whispers were still thick in his heart, like dew and colours and fluttering wings and that kind of made him smile, if only for a moment, a smile that held the beauty of shadows.

--

The past was a silent memory. Anna was a whore, just like all Ruby, just like Bela. All of them. And Dean searched and searched for a way to reverse this all, to make it all okay, to fix the start, but only the broken eyes of Sammy stared back.

--

Castiel ate food, to the point of practically hurting his body maybe. Dean was too empty. He still binged and purged, but that wasn’t part of Famine’s effects. He expected to have sudden dove in with Cas when Famine had touched him but the emptiness was a silent friend residing in him, and he couldn’t hide her and fuck it – he was so tired of this, so tired it was wearing out his bones and leaving him silent and he didn’t want to eat nor did he want to think about food and it made him feel so fucking sick and he just wanted he just wanted he just wanted he just wanted oh God please help me.

--

Binge. Purge. Binge. Purge. Binge. Purge. Starve. Smile. Cry in Castiel’s arms. Watch him break on the inside. Shatter. Binge. Purge. Scream at Castiel. Binge. Purge. Look at Sam and cry self to sleep. Binge. Purge. Don’t look at the fucking mirror. Binge. Bobby, no, no, no—this was wrong. Your wife makes great pie and it’s really easy to purge by the way. Purge. Binge. Purge. Bobby, you’re just as broken as I am. Binge. Purge. Binge. Purge. Cry. Watch Castiel stare at him with those empty blue eyes. And die a little on the inside. And repeat.

--

Sam’s Heaven was everyone else. Dean’s Heaven was Sammy. I want to be the rain that falls against your cheek because maybe for a moment, people would think that I’m a tear, a part of you, as I die on your sacred lips.

--

Michael can take it all. He can take it all. He can take it all. Because it wouldn’t matter. Lisa knew. Sam knew. They all knew. And they can all go to Hell. He was done. He was fucking done this and if he had to be sick one more time, he might explode and I’m fucking sorry I gave up, Cas, and I’m fucking sorry I gave up, Sammy and I’m fucking sorry I gave up, Dad, and I’m fucking sorry I gave up on my own fucking self. Tear me apart, and make me whole again.

--

Not Adam not Adam not Adam not Adam and Sam can’t say a thing and Cas was angry, really angry and he had all the reason to be and it all broke up into a spiral and the glass hit and Castiel was fucking angry and his world was made up of nothing right now and

--

Violet delights have fucking violent ends and Gabriel was gone, dead, four rings and it can all be over. But hope was gone, a fucking bitch and all he that was left was this disgusting emptiness that consumed up until he couldn’t fucking breathe anymore oh God Sammy save me.

--

…

…

…

--

I met Death and he didn’t take me.

…

…

…

--

134.1lbs.

133.8lbs.

133.3lbs.

132.6lbs.

Castiel was on their side again, wrapping his arms around Dean mumbling little words of  I’m sorry and I was wrong about you because you didn’t say yes to Michael and Dean just wanted Sammy so bad right now and wanted to make sure that he didn’t die alone because one of Dean’s biggest, most disgusting fears is to die alone and I’m here Sammy somewhere inside of me I’m alive and Sammy Sammy please… Sam was gone, up into the abyss.

Nothing. Nothing was wrong and nothing was slowly driving Dean up a wall, tearing him into shreds and pieces and numbing him until he felt like he shouldn’t even be breathing—nothing.

132.2lbs.

132.0lbs.

131.4lbs.

Dean, boy, you look a lot thinner…something the—?

Bobby, you’re an idjit.

131.2lbs.

131.0lbs.

130.8lbs.

It was cold and it was night and Sam slid into the doorway to Bobby’s words. Dean was out cold, passed out, unconscious, third time that week and Sam picked up Dean into his arms and pressed him against himself, disgusted at himself for not noticing the sharpness of Dean’s hipbones as they pressed against him, the feeling of Dean’s ribcage – there was just nothing there and the nothing that consumed him, so clear, so vague, so grey, so horrifying. Sam waited for Dean to wake up, to stir oh God, Dean, please. And the world was sliced up into pieces and buttered no sorry battered in too much blood and pain for him to see straight I’m sorry.

Sam disappeared by the time that Dean stirred and Dean could swear he could smell Sam’s scent on his sweater but he must be dreaming. Those nights Sam was there, somewhere, watching as Dean curled up against himself, sweating, crying, hurting, sobbing, I love you Sammy I love you so much I want you I want you so bad and it’s killing me that you’re not around anymore and I kind of want to die too if it’ll bring you back. Sammy. Sammy. Sammy. Sammy I love you I love you with every fibre of my being, every breath of my soul, every star in the fucking sky.

We hold our sanity like mirrors. Sam would hold onto Dean so hard he was sure his bones would break when he’d finally fall asleep and cry, and cry for Dean like Dean cried for Sam every damn night. Eat for me Dean eat for me. Come on Dean have a slice of toast and it’ll be alright. Sam would finger Dean’s hollow cheekbone, shut his eyes so tightly the darkness consumed and angels lay awake listening with broken blue eyes, you’re beautiful, Dean. But he held the beauty of dead roses. And the broken mirror lies back in the prettiest way.

The scars turn into stars, and the broken bottle laid into his grasp, blue-eyed angels cried rain and shattered pain and he didn’t leave for that night, just like he promised.

--

“Do you want to burn the world?”

“And make it our own?”

“Always.”

--

[1] Coldplay – ‘Fix You’.

[2] American Horror Story, Episode 1, ‘Pilot’, quoting Constance.

Description

--

When they found that ghost girl Molly that thought that her husband was dead, but in reality, it was really her – it was all kind of a spiral of emotions. Dean had his six hundred and ninety-five calories each day without another sound, and when his muscle felt raw from pain, he did not complain. Then on that last day, he ate enough for him and Sam and weighed in at 151.2 failing pounds so he decided he just should never have tried to give up purging. Not like he really considered giving up purging anyway. Sam looked so sympathetic towards her that it sparked up that kind of envy again and Dean realised how much of an envious, disgusting bastard he was. Just for a moment’s time. Then he was alone and that kind of hurt.

--

When Sam had to kill Madison, it was like a spiral of emotions hitting him. Dean wanted her dead from the first time he saw her, knew Sam banged her, knew Sam had her, because he just wanted Sam but it was so wrong. Not real Sammy was kind of staring at him, telling him to shove the toothbrush just a little deeper so he can choke. He can pretend it’s Sammy he was choking on if he wanted, but that was kind of sick. What did it matter? He was full of sickness, full of insanity. This shouldn’t matter. And it didn’t. Just most of the time—and Sammy, I’ve been so bad lately.

--

When they were on the Hollywood case in that movie thing, Dean couldn’t stop eating. Free fucking food all of the time. He finished a gallon of strawberry ice cream in less than an hour, but that was okay, because he was so good at throwing up his food that the food he’d consume in half an hour he’d throw up in no more than ten minutes. He purged ten times a day, and weighed at around 147.8 on one of those mornings. When he had sex with that girl, to kind of prove to himself that he really didn’t need Sammy, not-real Sammy was staring at him, mumbling into his ear, telling him that he was really pretty but needed to lose just a little bit more. Dean pressed a finger across his cheek, his defined collarbones were really pretty all of a sudden – and where the hell are you, Sammy? Are you really going to eat all that strawberry ice cream, Dean? Sam, I haven’t been listening to a damn word you’ve said in the last couple of hundred days, I was too busy vomiting out my words down a porcelain bowl. Hope you don’t mind.

--

When they got into prison on purpose – dammit, did the prison food taste like absolute shit, going down and coming up – but that was okay, because even good food tasted like ash coming up. Ash and memories and burning wood and broken promises and Sammy, help me. And he wanted to run, run so far away that he didn’t know what he was, who he was, and wasn’t a fucking monster. He was such a hypocrite, thinking that Sam was turning into one of them when he was already one of them. A shadow in the night, a broken lullaby in the morning and everything in between. Slice it all up, butter it with smiles, and pretend it was all just okay. You’re so good at slicing and buttering bread, Dean. The next time he got near a scale, it was two weeks later, and he weighed at 146.2lbs, but he felt like he gained ten—and not-real Sammy loved touching his skin and telling him it looked so good. Dean knew his skin was as gray as ash, as tight as rubber, but thin against his bones and that was all that really mattered.

--

The Djinn attacked him and he was imagining a life with his Mother and a Father that died of a heart-attack. Dean should be careful. He was more sustainable for heart-attacks and broken hearts. It was so normal, then why did he still feel like eating everything in sight and throwing it all up? The food tasted like shattered glass, scratching his throat from inside out when it slid out of his lips and he felt like he was choking. He really took a risk by plunging the knife in him but that didn’t matter – he didn’t want to live in a world where everything was normal but him Why did he have to save all of those damn people when he couldn’t save himself? It would just drive him insane. Oh wait. Too fucking late.

--

Dean told Sam to not forget the pie and now he was standing near the restaurant and everything was so bloody and messy. Dean said he wouldn’t eat until he found Sam. 146.2, 145.8, 145.2, 144.7—dammit, where are you, Sammy? And when he got that vision, it was all of his world hit against the ash pale snow. And the minute he held Sam, it was like all of the poison in his body decided to act because Sam was fucking dead. He didn’t know if he could handle it anymore. He wanted to tear himself into pieces, cut himself into cubes and bury himself inside of Sam for good measures—Sammy, you whore…wake up…please…please, wake up, Sammy…I need you to stay sane.

--

He instead sold his soul because that was the smartest thing to do, Dean. You’ve got a year to live. That didn’t matter. One year, ten, or twenty – he’d spend it all throwing up the food he shouldn’t have eaten, so really – it was okay. Sometimes. And he was in so much pain over Sammy…but Dean, beauty is pain, not real Sammy would say. And that kind of made him feel just a little bit, and then it was like a truck hit him and he felt the pain spiral him deeper into his disorder. Just fucking great.

And then Sam would breathe and then it wouldn’t matter anymore again.

--

144.5lbs. Ruby was a whore. He wanted to drown himself in alcohol, so he did. And it kind of made him feel just a little bit better that he was going to die in a year. And oh, Sam got him pie to purge. Welcome to the life of a broken heart. Everything hurts, so will you be there to hold me when it rains, Sammy? Not-real Sammy rolled his eyes, grabbed his wrists and told him he wasn’t thin enough – and that just made him feel just a lot better. So much better that he purged out the Macadamia nut cookies he’d been eating as meals for the past ten days.

--

He liked Lisa, really, but she was no Sam. Plus, she was so much thinner than he was. His plaid shirt felt loose so he wore a thicker jacket on top. It didn’t matter if his pants were too big a long time ago as long as he still made notches on his belt. Buying new pants meant that he wanted to show off his ugly body, which he didn’t. Sam made a movement to hold him today, but Dean resisted, and that night, Sammy mumbled to him it was because Sam knew he was. That night he didn’t fall asleep but that didn’t matter. He went to the bathroom and purged out anything he could, two pieces of candy, half a cookie, and three cups of milk and it hurt his throat so bad. He ended up purging the bread of the dinner he ate five hours ago too and the needle hit 143.0lbs. The memory of Ben’s smile made him feel like throwing up some more, so he did, because dammit, he wasn’t Father material. Really. Look at how fucked up Sammy is because of you, Dean. And Dean turned to look at the sleeping Sam and he swore not a single force in the world could stop the hot tears from streaming down his face.

--

Sammy started having good luck. That was okay, because the kid needed break but there was something wrong about it. Had to be. Then his good luck turned bad and Dean had to do something, like he promised Dad he’d do something when Sammy was in danger. Dean ate a lot of food, enough to make him burst and couldn’t, didn’t, shouldn’t have purged. So he didn’t. And now, it was consuming him. He was disgusting. Too disgusting. Apparently, Dean was having bad luck too. Wait. He never had good luck to begin with. Then everything was normal, except for the numbers on the scale—‘His heart was broken, he was depressed and joyless.’ 145.8lbs.

--

The Colt was fixed. Hoo-fucking-ray. And he still weighed more than the damn gun.

--

Sam went to the fucking crossroads demon to reverse the deal after the case of that insane comatose girl and what was Dean doing? Eating his heart out in pie, ice cream and fries, just to disappear off to purge it, but he couldn’t purge most of it, then he said it was fine because it was the only thing he’d eaten in two days. 143.5lbs that morning and the same weight even after his little food binge, so that should made him feel fine, right? No, Sammy went off to protect him and Dean was damn well powerless. What the hell was he supposed to feel? Dammit, Sammy. Let me dig my own grave, so I can bury my-fucking-self. Don’t you get it? …I want to die, Sammy. I want to die so bad.

--

Bela was a whore for the entire ghost-ship case. Ruby too. 142.6lbs. Not-real Sammy told him he looked fat in those pants today, so he didn’t really eat as much as he wanted to. And dear, Dean, dear dear Dean, I can hear your voice, not-real Sammy says. I just choose to ignore it.

--

When Dean had to teach Sam how to repair the car, Dean felt his heart hurt—he really meant to tell Sam, this is how you can fix me: tell me I look okay. Tell me I’m perfect. Tell me you love me, Sammy, dammit. But none of that was said because frankly, it was kind of stupid. I can run, Sammy, but I can’t hide and I can’t escape from my fucking self. Sammy. Sammy. Sammy. But as the wrench hit the car, none of that escaped his lips. “Lights will guide me home, and ignite my bones and you can’t try to fix me.” [1]

--

It was Christmas again. The scent of Sam’s sweater was kind of like home, and Dean wore it and it was huge and hugged him and the closest thing he ever felt like to happiness in the past few years. He wished Sam would hold him instead of him hugging him late at night inside of that knitted brown sweater that Dean wouldn’t be caught wearing any other day. Presents and gifts were pretty, but Dean just wanted Sammy now. Keep me asleep, Sammy. Keep me beautiful. Keep me numb…please…

--

Ruby was still a whore that knew too much and she was in Hell and she told him. And those words rung into his head as he found himself against the porcelain bowl, but he didn’t purge. He stood up, pressed his head against the wall, told himself he would not purge then two minutes later, vomit filled the sink, his watch scratched against the whiteness and not-real Sammy was glaring at him because he purged, like he promised he wouldn’t. Fuckfuckfuck. And hey, I think I saw you in my sleep, Sammy, you were the one laughing at a broken promise of Dean Winchester put together through the shattered seams and broken bones.

--

He had to face that disgusting demon of himself. Which was himself. Oh damn great. Now, he can’t sleep anymore at all. But that didn’t matter because the scale flashed 142.1lbs, the needle kind and merciful and maybe it was his imagination but little not-real Sammy was holding him. Dean couldn’t relax though. It must be the damn demon nightmares.

--

The Trickster had something for Dean dying over and over again. When Sam explained it to him, it was like his world was upside down inside out and the meat-filled dish he had kind of made him sick but hey, he’d purge it later. That man that had maple syrup for the hundred Tuesdays seemed to look at him, and stared at him with liquid brown eyes, and Dean just knew he knew. Then that man was the Trickster. And the Trickster fucking knew…but that wouldn’t matter, because it was their little trick, right? If it was a trick, then dammit, Dean tricked his body so much, his mind, which was screaming YOU’RE ALONE AND YOU’RE AFRAID AND YOU FEEL EMPTY INSIDE but he shoved that away because really, he had to focus on Sammy first, then other insignificant crap.

--

Damn Bella. Damn Lilith. Damn all of this crap happening to him and he can’t damn handle it. And this motel room bed was so quiet and lonely and I promise to share this bed with my lonely broken soul but hey, Dean broke promises all the time. He kept this one. He was always still broken, always still lonely. And he just wanted to fall asleep and never wake up unless it was next to a grinning Sammy telling him that everything would be alright, holding him, telling him he was pretty. That never happened. Even at 141.8lbs, it never happened. Stop breaking my heart, Sammy. I swear I can’t take it anymore.

--

Damn Ghostfacers. Damn 141.8 that didn’t move in two fucking weeks but he should really be happy that he didn’t gain from eating burgers every night and ‘forgetting’ to purge. You’re not normal. Don’t try to pretend like you don’t care about what you ate at night. Damn his inside screaming and I used to love, Sammy, I used to love so much and now, I can’t look at the world without seeing gray and the pictures and when did this become my life? When did I lose the fucking will to live…?

--

Crocotta case. Come to me, she’d whisper. Come to me. Dean was on the brick of breaking. Come to me, Dean. Come to me. Come to little ole’ Sammy, let me feel you… and that was the first time Dean purged in two weeks, up against a public stall, against his baggy jeans, his too-loose belt, one of Sam’s shirts, spew all around the white porcelain and the taste of the unforgivable on his lips. I want to bleed so bad, Sammy, show the world that I’m fucking alive. Show you that I’m alive…

--

Buy me a fucking teddy bear, Sammy. It’s the closest thing I’ll have to touching you. It’s killing me, can you see? Doctor Benton dammit wanted to live alive forever. Who the hell wanted to live alive forever? Then he laughed, because not everyone weighed 140.5lbs of fat and didn’t want to live, Dean. Not everyone. Sam embraced him, real tight, and all Dean could do was feel like he just wasn’t enough around Sam’s arms – he waited for Sam to scream at him, tell him he was too thin, needed to eat something – but that didn’t come.  Your fingerprints on my skin won’t rub away, Sammy, and it leaves a mark of failure for me to see every time I look at the broken mirror.

--

30 hours. 20 hours. 10 hours. 1 hour…and Hell was waiting for him. I’m sorry you can’t save me, Sammy. I can’t save me either if it helps. Sammy, I’ll still be waiting. I promise.

--

10 years. Sammy…I…

--

20 years. Dammit. Sammy…I can’t…

--

30 years. I’m not waiting anymore like he promised he would.

--

The first thing that Dean did when he stepped out of Hell was eat –three bowls of mac n’ cheese 1,170 fucking calories two bowls of chowder, topped with salty crackers and cheese 760 calories and creamy bacon, cheese and potato casserole 1,136 calories and-and-and a 490-calorie cream cheese pumpkin muffin from Starbucks and 701-calories of pumpkin pie. By the time he was done, he was so full that throwing it up was a five minute job. And in the thirty minutes he took off to find Sammy, he felt hungry again and took it as a good sign and ate four hundred calories for the next five days. The next time he weighed himself, he saw 140.1lbs snap back at him. Castiel was the angel that fucking pulled him out of Hell. He wanted to salt his bones and burn them but he didn’t. Sammy was busy shagging Ruby when Dean was in Hell and he wished he was back in Hell because reality was messy and broken and disjointed and love was so hard, and it all get blurred and Dean didn’t know why…

--

It all downed onto him when he had a conversation with Sam about Ruby the other day. He thought Ruby was too thin. Dean raised an eyebrow and snorted back a laugh, “chubby chaser?” Sam laughed, and then said, “just a bit. I like girls that are a bit big but comfortable in their own skin, alright? Jess honestly even tried to gain weight for me when she figured that one out!” he laughed and Dean wanted to slap him so hard, and cry and laugh at the same time, because the 140.1lbs snapping back at him suddenly felt like too little but he didn’t say anything and just waited. Castiel found him somewhere after the Rising of the Witnesses incident and asked him are you mad about your brother relying on Ruby to this extent? No. I’m not mad. Castiel closed his eyes, and nodded. You are not mad. You are simply hurt.

--

When Castiel took him back to the past, Dean didn’t know what to do other than go along with it all. His head still filled with Sam’s words, and the fact that he couldn’t change fate was like a knife to his bleeding heart. At the end of the night, all he had was himself, and that made him feel like the most loneliest person in the entire world, between those empty sheets, Sam sleeping in what felt like miles away from him—and the sound of silence jabbing through him like a knife.

--

The fact that Sam was exorcising bastards behind his back didn’t make him happy. The Rugaru was trying to fight who he was and that didn’t make him feel happy when he turned and he had to shoot the fuck of him, like he might have to do with little Sammy. The seven hundred calories he ate and didn’t purge everyday didn’t make him happy. And when Sam shouted at him for Dean making him feel like a freak—all Dean wanted to really say was I’m the one that’s throwing up my food I’m the one that can’t eat above seven hundred calories per day I’m the one that’s so fucked up on the inside that I’m a freak and I’m the one that’s stuck in another moment in time with monsters eating up every bit of me but apparently, that seemed to be stuck in his throat like the bread he tried to purge out that morning.

--

139.8lbs. Humans need to eat, right, Dean? Castiel would say and Dean would probably hit him with a knife. Castiel had the perfect body, never eating, never poisoning it. Why do you want to die by not eating, Dean? Castiel would whisper to him softly into his ear. He knew. He knew. He knew. He fucking knew. Angelic eyes saw all. Dean would stare back at him and whisper in the smallest voice possible, I don’t want to die, Cas. I want to be free.

--

Another shape-shifter. Tell me you can see this right now, Sammy because I can’t keep holding on forever—hiding behind the plaid shirt that didn’t fit Sam because it was too small, it was horribly big on Dean. Maybe because Sammy was taller than him. He didn’t really know. I need love, Sammy. A slice of bread folded, two apples, a can of soup and a bowl of cereal later, he found himself transcended down into darkness. I need lots of lots of [unbroken] love.

--

Of infinite sadness, broken realms and rubber-made bones, Dean got sick. Really sick and Lilith was waiting, perched, reminding him and Hell was so, so bad and memories all hit so fast and hard and he was sick he wasn’t really purging on purpose most of the time and his head against the porcelain toilet bowl, forgiving him for being so utterly shattered. The huge pot of yoghurt and honey made him feel really full really fast, and it tasted like sin on his lips, and it was really easy to purge too. Coffee and anxiety didn’t mix so well. He drowned down six cups and then waited for Sam to kill the ghost before his heart fucking exploded— If only coffee can wake up the dead.

--

138.7lbs this morning. Not-real Sammy was looking at him with horror and telling him to stop, stop, stop this because I can’t love the dead, Dean and he wasn’t perfect. Castiel was watching him with sad eyes, unable to expose shadows in the light. Sammy, you just don’t understand. Death is perfection.  I wish I can hide my broken heart in a fairytale and drown in pure bone-white snow forever more.

--

The rising of Samhain. He was nearly sick of this seal business, but he can handle it as long as he can still purge out his frustrations. He was done trying to be good little Dean and purging as minimal as possible. The numbers he’d been eating for the past few days were not counted and anything that passed through his lips ended up into a mush of saliva, tears and broken-up pieces against water. I’m falling I’m falling I’m falling Sammy save me SAMMY PLEASE LISTEN TO ME I CAN’T FUCKING TAKE THIS— 138.2lbs. Not-real Sammy was crying. Wails entering Dean’s mind. I want to stop dreaming. Because dreams are better than reality and I have to face reality every fucking day and I can’t…

--

Anna was a target for demons. They must go save her. He watched as Sam blindly batted his eye against Dean’s 138.0lb self. He was so self-centered sometimes. Anna looked small and petite in her hospital gown and Dean wanted his lunch out of him right then when he’d first seen her. Then Anna was an angel. Anna was a fallen angel. And Dean was the demon.

--

Feral children, incestuous abused children—that made Dean feel as if his broken bones were not really important. He felt like he could somehow understand them, with his burning love for Sam and his self-abuse—they were just as sane as he was. That night, his dreams were made of snow, Castiel stood in the middle of the field and whispered “one day, this snow will all fade away, and a warm and beautiful spring will rise from its remains. The coldness will be a memory of the warmth, the love and the compassion and I will be here waiting”. When he woke up, he cried, and cried until he could not cry anymore and until he felt warm wings surround his broken soul.

--

High-school was like a broken memory. 137.5lbs that morning, and not-really Sammy couldn’t stop sobbing and holding onto Dean and telling him Dean, you’re going to disappear please. He lost all of his control and he can’t make up for how much he purged that week or day. It could be ten times that day or ten times that week but he really didn’t know. It all seemed like nothing really sat in his stomach for long. Spirits haunt the school, haunt his heart, haunt his mind and the dead raised up in his memories until he relapsed into his own horrific insanity. Castiel still in his dreams, near that water, that fishing pole cupped in Dean’s small hands as Castiel crouched beside him, and told him if he wanted to burn the entire world with him. “And make it our own?” Dean laughed. Castiel did not laugh, look at him with soft eyes and said, “Always.”

--

Dean and Sam under that Siren’s spell, so in love, so over their head, and Dean really just wanted to be thrown on the bed by Sammy and kissed to death by him but his heart said “yes” and his mind said “you’re too broken to be loved, baby”.

--

When people couldn’t die because the Reapers were being trapped—shall I get the gun I wanted so badly and shoot myself to death just to say I did it once? Just so I can’t think about it anymore? Castiel held his wrist, looked at his eyes and his tight line opened up and words of beauty spilled out. I’ll still be here to take you back home.

--

Castiel enclosed his fingers across Dean’s wrist again. Death is free, Castiel would whisper into Dean’s ear when he opened up his eyes, after trying to torture Alastair, after breaking, after being through far too fucking much and his throat hurt from purging up the hospital food that tasted like shit. But you are valuable to me.

--

That broken reality that Dean was in this high-position and Sammy was a tech manager. And the salads were bland and his world seemed unwanted. He didn’t binge most of the time, “and live on burgers and fast food, Sammy?” because he’d just purge that out, he’d tell himself. Dean can hop from one reality to the next but his disordered mind still collapsed the same broken way.

--

“Binging? Purging? Really, Dean?” Chuck would mumble, press his fingers across towards Dean’s cheek. “You’re better than that.” But words were senseless and meant nothing because the pain in his heart echoed so loudly that it drowned out every word, every sound, the human world made. The world has fucked me over so many times that I can’t really tell whether or not I exist anymore.

--

Salt and bones and blood and Adam existed, burning underneath him. He led a normal life and Dean was insanely jealous but that didn’t matter. Sam embraced him again, tightly, too tightly, he weighed 136.6lbs when Sam was holding him and he said nothing at all – it broke Dean all the more, drove him insane somehow. Dean ate six-hundred calories and purged it all up. The purging, scratching, paining—the only word to describe it would be: a broken, silent suicide.

--

Dean can’t imagine the disappointment in him when Sam drank demon blood like it was pineapple juice and had that insane look in his eyes. He can’t—and now, he locked him up and he can’t bear to look at him anymore. When Dean felt weak, unwanted and afraid and screamed out into the air “I FUCKING LOVE SAM WINCHESTER, ALRIGHT? More than a damn brother…I’ve…I’m so fucked—“and before his screaming even continued, he felt two arms wrap around him so tightly he felt like his bones might break and his heart might finally bleed out and give up. Castiel’s breath near Dean’s ear as he whispered, you’re just as fucked as I am. I’ll promise you another life in Heaven when you’re happy and you and Sam can’t ever say goodbye. Dean could swear he could hear Castiel’s heart break, like a bleeding melody coming into one, Cas and Dean.

--

Sammy, you left us hanging by a [thin] thread. It’ll snap any moment now.

--

The apocalypse was a flower blossoming and the wintery days of the world would end too soon. Dean, Castiel muttered into his dreams but he can’t say anything else, because if he did, he was afraid both of their worlds would crash down into crying, screaming, whispering horrors. Not like it mattered anymore. Dean’s world was so broken from so long ago and Castiel was the glue that was trying to put it all together. Castiel was his nothing, [but he was his everything, too sometimes].

--

All he wanted was love, to be loved – how could he be Michael’s vessel when he was so corrupted? How could he be anything when he was so ruptured the birds didn’t know how to sing for him? How could everything just fall apart in a blink of an eye when Cas promised…? And Cas…where was he? – and he did love…he loved in loneliness.

--

Castiel breathed into Dean’s ear – it all meant nothing without you. He looked more human, more distorted, more surreal and Dean could feel thin skin at the brick when he touched and entwined Castiel’s fingers with his own. War could make them all get into war, destroy each other, break each other but the wars inside of them all were far more superior, far bigger and more destructive than anything any horseman can ever dream of.

--

They were trying to find Raphael. Dean wanted to give Castiel women and beer but all Castiel wanted was Dean—and it was so clear right now, they were two halves of a whole, two of them split splattered glass shattering into submerged silence and dammit, “so, I took that little butterfly of a dream and put in a jar on the shelf.” [2] And he kind of missed Sammy too, somehow, somewhere and the air was cold and unforgiving and the flowers in his heart was broken and dying.

--

Zachariah showed him the end and all he could really think about was through all of those years he still weighed 136.0lbs throughout those damn years? and Lucifer was there, dressed in Sam and white, watching the world destroy itself and it was like he was seeing Dean’s world in destruction – except faster, harder and much more obsolete. Can angels grow up? Dean muttered when he was back onto the normal world. Castiel nodded, not physically but in years, of course they do, just like you do. Dean stared at him. And what do you think about the future? What do you even hope for it? Castiel moved slightly, and Dean expected him to say that he wanted the apocalypse to have ended, to have his brothers all in line, but Castiel stared back at Dean, wrapping his hands across towards his wrists; I hope I am never alone.

--

The first case in so long and it had to involve some insane God that took in the form of Paris fucking Hilton. Sam and him were like two different strangers embarking on the same dark road, but heading to different directions and they didn’t know when the road would just split in half, but just hope it was a long distance in time and space. The distance between them was like a constant reminder to Dean—a constant spell of pain and desolation. The cinnamon rolls he ate every morning and lived on for the rest of the day was a sugary reminder clinging to the walls of his body like fat and carbohydrates and Sam everything’s gonna be fine just have a slice of fucking toast and don’t ever leave me alone.

--

The Antichrist just disappeared off the face of the world. Castiel was there again, physically there, and looking like the damn angel he was and Dean still weighed 136.0lbs because of all of the sugar rush he’d been getting in the morning – must be and fate probably didn’t want to see him so happy so it made him crush into pieces and break up senselessly.

--

When Dean had to age, all he could think about was how useless he was. Everything he ate gave him heartburn and he really shouldn’t have purged because it damn well hurt—and the big bad wolf was circling around him like prey before he took a bite of his flesh, but that didn’t matter because that was what Dean was doing all along, consuming himself endlessly into a vicious cycle. When Sammy won the game, all he could do was smile and purge out his dinner expertly, with no heartburn—just a mess of blood and vomit. Home sweet fucking home, Dean.

--

Gabriel. The fucking Archangel. Was the Trickster and he thought putting them in repeated TV series to tell them to ‘play their roles’ was damn clever. Dean was playing the role of a psychopathic disgusting bulimic that ate six doughnuts in the morning, purged it in five minutes and then had cupcakes for dessert at lunchtime and the 135.4lbs that ticked at the scale this morning was somehow forgiving and he kind of didn’t know why he was hoping anymore. In that motel room that night, he felt himself curl next to Sam, wrap his arms around a sleeping Sam and cry, cry so hard it hurt but Sam didn’t move and had a smile plastered on his face. All he could do was be happy that Sam was dreaming of a better tomorrow when Dean was still in the broken mess of yesterday. And Castiel—Castiel was standing there somehow, torn between past, present and future and listen to me, Dean, please eat something for me…

--

How the hell did they have fans anyway? Dean wondered, busted and broken and when the guy asked him for his real name and he said Dean—he laughed and said ‘yeah right’, because really, who was Dean Winchester? He sucked at playing himself and everything in between and the vomit hit the water so much faster and his body was so much emptier so quicker and he was kind of used to the warm feeling of hunger that destroyed his bones. And who the hell was Crowley? And so many different thoughts hitting him and Sammy, are you gonna eat that?

--

The needle ticked at 134.8lbs that morning. The usually silent not-real Sammy was wrapping his arms around Dean and telling him his wrists were too bony and his collarbones were too prominent on his grey skin and he looked corpse-like and dead. The grey oceans in Dean’s dreams were haunting. Castiel stood beside him, holding his arms out and hugging Dean tightly, head pressing against Dean’s shoulder as he whispered, I do not feel like I exist, Dean. My arms don’t exist until I can hold something. My mind doesn’t exist until I think. My lips don’t exist until I speak. My lungs don’t exist until I breathe and my heart never exists – because it can’t love and all it wants to love is you.

--

The picture of Jo and Ellen burned in the fire. 134.4lbs. I am the creature of darkness I’ve hunted, that I’ve created and accumulated.

--

Damn mental institution. Also known as Home. The stars whisper words of Castiel and cry tears of Gabriel’s sorrow, and the sun revolved around the world for just that one moment—

--

How could he not know that Sam was Gary and Gary was Sam and that Sam wasn’t Sam? He loved Sam. But he guessed he didn’t know what he really loved anymore sometimes. Castiel’s whispers were still thick in his heart, like dew and colours and fluttering wings and that kind of made him smile, if only for a moment, a smile that held the beauty of shadows.

--

The past was a silent memory. Anna was a whore, just like all Ruby, just like Bela. All of them. And Dean searched and searched for a way to reverse this all, to make it all okay, to fix the start, but only the broken eyes of Sammy stared back.

--

Castiel ate food, to the point of practically hurting his body maybe. Dean was too empty. He still binged and purged, but that wasn’t part of Famine’s effects. He expected to have sudden dove in with Cas when Famine had touched him but the emptiness was a silent friend residing in him, and he couldn’t hide her and fuck it – he was so tired of this, so tired it was wearing out his bones and leaving him silent and he didn’t want to eat nor did he want to think about food and it made him feel so fucking sick and he just wanted he just wanted he just wanted he just wanted oh God please help me.

--

Binge. Purge. Binge. Purge. Binge. Purge. Starve. Smile. Cry in Castiel’s arms. Watch him break on the inside. Shatter. Binge. Purge. Scream at Castiel. Binge. Purge. Look at Sam and cry self to sleep. Binge. Purge. Don’t look at the fucking mirror. Binge. Bobby, no, no, no—this was wrong. Your wife makes great pie and it’s really easy to purge by the way. Purge. Binge. Purge. Bobby, you’re just as broken as I am. Binge. Purge. Binge. Purge. Cry. Watch Castiel stare at him with those empty blue eyes. And die a little on the inside. And repeat.

--

Sam’s Heaven was everyone else. Dean’s Heaven was Sammy. I want to be the rain that falls against your cheek because maybe for a moment, people would think that I’m a tear, a part of you, as I die on your sacred lips.

--

Michael can take it all. He can take it all. He can take it all. Because it wouldn’t matter. Lisa knew. Sam knew. They all knew. And they can all go to Hell. He was done. He was fucking done this and if he had to be sick one more time, he might explode and I’m fucking sorry I gave up, Cas, and I’m fucking sorry I gave up, Sammy and I’m fucking sorry I gave up, Dad, and I’m fucking sorry I gave up on my own fucking self. Tear me apart, and make me whole again.

--

Not Adam not Adam not Adam not Adam and Sam can’t say a thing and Cas was angry, really angry and he had all the reason to be and it all broke up into a spiral and the glass hit and Castiel was fucking angry and his world was made up of nothing right now and

--

Violet delights have fucking violent ends and Gabriel was gone, dead, four rings and it can all be over. But hope was gone, a fucking bitch and all he that was left was this disgusting emptiness that consumed up until he couldn’t fucking breathe anymore oh God Sammy save me.

--

…

…

…

--

I met Death and he didn’t take me.

…

…

…

--

134.1lbs.

133.8lbs.

133.3lbs.

132.6lbs.

Castiel was on their side again, wrapping his arms around Dean mumbling little words of  I’m sorry and I was wrong about you because you didn’t say yes to Michael and Dean just wanted Sammy so bad right now and wanted to make sure that he didn’t die alone because one of Dean’s biggest, most disgusting fears is to die alone and I’m here Sammy somewhere inside of me I’m alive and Sammy Sammy please… Sam was gone, up into the abyss.

Nothing. Nothing was wrong and nothing was slowly driving Dean up a wall, tearing him into shreds and pieces and numbing him until he felt like he shouldn’t even be breathing—nothing.

132.2lbs.

132.0lbs.

131.4lbs.

Dean, boy, you look a lot thinner…something the—?

Bobby, you’re an idjit.

131.2lbs.

131.0lbs.

130.8lbs.

It was cold and it was night and Sam slid into the doorway to Bobby’s words. Dean was out cold, passed out, unconscious, third time that week and Sam picked up Dean into his arms and pressed him against himself, disgusted at himself for not noticing the sharpness of Dean’s hipbones as they pressed against him, the feeling of Dean’s ribcage – there was just nothing there and the nothing that consumed him, so clear, so vague, so grey, so horrifying. Sam waited for Dean to wake up, to stir oh God, Dean, please. And the world was sliced up into pieces and buttered no sorry battered in too much blood and pain for him to see straight I’m sorry.

Sam disappeared by the time that Dean stirred and Dean could swear he could smell Sam’s scent on his sweater but he must be dreaming. Those nights Sam was there, somewhere, watching as Dean curled up against himself, sweating, crying, hurting, sobbing, I love you Sammy I love you so much I want you I want you so bad and it’s killing me that you’re not around anymore and I kind of want to die too if it’ll bring you back. Sammy. Sammy. Sammy. Sammy I love you I love you with every fibre of my being, every breath of my soul, every star in the fucking sky.

We hold our sanity like mirrors. Sam would hold onto Dean so hard he was sure his bones would break when he’d finally fall asleep and cry, and cry for Dean like Dean cried for Sam every damn night. Eat for me Dean eat for me. Come on Dean have a slice of toast and it’ll be alright. Sam would finger Dean’s hollow cheekbone, shut his eyes so tightly the darkness consumed and angels lay awake listening with broken blue eyes, you’re beautiful, Dean. But he held the beauty of dead roses. And the broken mirror lies back in the prettiest way.

The scars turn into stars, and the broken bottle laid into his grasp, blue-eyed angels cried rain and shattered pain and he didn’t leave for that night, just like he promised.

--

“Do you want to burn the world?”

“And make it our own?”

“Always.”

--

[1] Coldplay – ‘Fix You’.

[2] American Horror Story, Episode 1, ‘Pilot’, quoting Constance.