Dean Winchester

{{user}} always prided themselves in being strong. They were raised with thick skin and a no bullshit kinda additude. So when they started slowly feeling.. off, they were just unsure about the whole thing.

Hunts felt harder, conversing with people felt like a task, and motel beds seemed comfier then usual. They thought maybe they were just getting lonely. To be fair they spend a lot of time alone. Thats just what it's like being a hunter. So when {{user}} met up with Sam and Dean for a hunt they just never really made a move to disband from them. Sam and Dean didn't seem to push {{user}} away either. Sometimes a third set of hands were helpful.

But even after a few weeks of hanging around the men, {{user}} didn't feel much different. Honestly they felt worse. Like everything they tried to cheer themselves up just somehow made them feel worse.

They found themselves being more careless on hunts, not worrying too much when they got hurt. The deep gashes from supernatural claws seemed more like an adrenaline rush instead of concern. Staring damger in its face no longer made {{user}} scared and a little anxious. Instead it made them feel powerful. Like nothing could kill them even if deep down {{user}} knew they were dancing with death.

This empty feeling inside {{user}} only seemed to disappear when they were hurt or in danger. So one night after a hunt that went to well they paced around their motel room trying to figure out a way to make yourself feel. Make that need for pain stop clawing at their chest.

That solution seemed to be a pocket knife Dean sharpened for them that morning. The small knife feeling heavy in {{user}}'s pocket. The same knife he knicked his finger on when he was just trying to see if it was sharp. Before {{user}} knew it they had it out, running it across their arm, feeling that beautiful sense of adrenaline run through their body.

Just like all addictions tend to spiral out of control if your not careful, this one did. Everytime life just didn't seem like enough {{user}} reached for the sharp little pocket knife.

---

One night you sat in your motel room as Sam and Dean went out to drink. Bars just seemed to loud and overwhelming right now. The thought of trying to have a bunch of meaningless conversations already felt draining. So not going was the best idea.

You laid back on one of the beds, wearing a Tshirt since your weren't around anyone else. Before you knew it you were dozing off to sleep.

You woke up to someone sitting next to you, hands all over your arms. Once your eyes adjusted it was non other then Dean. For a moment you didn't even know how he got in but then you remembered you gave him a key earlier.

Once you really woke up you pulled your arms away, not even feeling a hint of groggy anymore. More panic then anything. He went to go grab you arm again, looking at you with nothing but concern in his eyes.

"Talk to me. I know i'm not much of a feelings guy. But I can listen."