Chapter Text
There's a lot of small things he doesn't like about himself, and a few things that he does, and a handful of things that encompass his entire existence that makes him scream, silently and sometimes aloud, into a pillow damp with his sweat at four in the morning. But really it's the small things that add up.
He doesn't like the slope of his neck, the sharp and abrupt angle that it touches his shoulder, in the least romantic of fashions, a hard-edged and inherently masculine degree; he doesn't like how he makes them keep all the mirrors covered, how he can never see himself in this state, hates the dozens of piles of shattered glass he's left in his wake; he doesn't like his voice, doesn't like how throaty it is, how every word etches its way through him, jagged, splintering against his tongue as syllable comes out wrong, wrong, completely wrong, and he hates that as well, he hates his inability to speak coherently, he hates the small noises that form as responses in his head but never translate to English. He feels as if he speaks a different language from those around him, a language that stems from frustration, a form of communication created in direct opposition to silence, a desperate and rancorous series of cries and guttural whispers that force others to notice, to pay attention, to ensure that he does, in fact, have a place in this world, and that he does, in fact, exist. And he hates that he's always caught between this world and the next, that he exists on the subtle precipice of Humanity and The Absolute, the former he knows and the latter he's soon to meet. And perhaps that's a big thing instead, his delicate balance between 'life and death'—that's how he phrases it, when anyone asks, if anyone asks, and that's not completely what he means but he can't say it any better—that he also hates himself for, but by some measure draws comfort in. Because there must be some fucking law somewhere, some sort of Newton shit, that says that for everything that exists, the opposite must exist as well. That says that however foreign this current state of being is, then the Next must be that much more familiar.
And he banks on this theory, has and will put his entire life on it, puts his entire life on a ledge that could finally bring him into the Next, with wind slicing at his skin like crushed diamond fluttering in a breeze that whips around him, minuscule yet destructive, tearing him apart as steadily as he does to himself. And each time he's up there, each time he's so close, each time tears stream down his face in an always-icy gust, and he feels the thrum of his 'true form', of his most primal state (of his wings unfurled, quivering in the wind) steadily coursing through him, each time the world almost comes to an end, each time he almost ends it himself with a imperceptible movement off the edge, he steps down.
'Dean?' The jolt of contact is sudden, his blood screams in his head as an intruder taps his shoulder, every atom of his being revolts against the touch.
He blinks.
Seth registers in his head, as if he's sight reading a sheet of music, in the instant before he recognises the note. He slowly becomes aware of his surroundings, as well, of the corner he's huddled himself into, of a room he barely remembers, of another large but warm figure standing against the door frame, Roman. He opens his mouth, closes it, and licks his lips with his dry tongue, and it doesn't help but he likes the motion, likes the movement. He begins to become aware of his own body once more; first his face, then his shoulders, his arms, and finally his legs which have been jammed beneath him as he sits, back pressed against the wall, ringing his hands and murmuring to himself. He's bashful, suddenly aware of what a mess he's made of himself, a small dog realising his owners know that he's shredded their shoes. He glances up at Seth furtively, awaiting his disdain, but the man holds a worried expression. A glance to Roman to his right produces the same.
He licks his lips again. 'I'm sorry.'
'It's fine, it's fine,' Seth murmurs, crouching so that he's at eye level. He looks Dean over, softly, his brow furrowed and his mouth in a thin line. He looks into Dean's eyes, but of course he doesn't meet them; for as long as Seth has known him, Dean's never looked directly into his partner's eyes. That isn't to say that Dean doesn't afford both of them something to the same effect—he looks squarely at the bridge of their noses, at the space between their eyebrows—a simulation of a connection, but a luxury he only affords the two of them. 'Do you want some water?'
Dean nods, inhaling sharply through his nose and closing his eyes once more as he begins to hum a steady note. Seth looks over to Roman, Roman who always keeps his distance in times like these. Roman, stone-faced, arms crossed. Seth gives him an exasperated look; this is their brother, this is their partner, and yet he remains as unaffected as ever. There's only so far that 'upbringing' can go: at some point, Roman will have to admit that his aversion to Dean in this state is his own personal bias. Seth tilts his chin towards the mini-fridge, and Roman moves with a soft grunt, slamming the door shut after he retrieves a water bottle. Seth glares at him, but takes the water graciously, and returns his attentions to Dean.
By now, he's rocking slightly again, still humming the same note, still with his eyes shut tightly. He looks small, he always looks small when this happens. Seth nudges his shoulder softly, and Dean opens a single eye, staring at the offering before taking it. He tosses it back and forth in his hands, then shakes it softly, finally twisting the cap and smelling it. Seth feels a twinge in his heart, still, after two years, and even if its gotten better (Dean doesn't still make them test every food article before he'll even touch it) it still hurts every time. Dean drinks greedily, smiling weakly at Seth after he finishes. He looks over at Roman, who continues to avert his gaze.
'I'm fine,' Dean assures, and nobody is quite sure who he's trying to convince, because all of them know he's lying. He staggers shakily to his feet, and Seth gives him his shoulder, and Roman remains as distant as possible, and this is all a dance routine that they find themselves in, a constant rhythm they move to. Seth helps Dean into the shower, where he sits in the tub with water streaming onto him until he's stable enough to turn it off himself.
Seth closes the door behind him, and moves to sit in the cushioned chair. He sighs as he collapses into it, staring wistfully at the popcorned ceiling, tracing patterns into the texture.
Roman clears his throat. 'They're getting more frequent.'
Seth breathes out, slowly, his entirety riding along his breath. 'I know.'
'They're getting stronger.'
'I know.'
(Dean sleeps with only Seth that night, pressing himself hard into his back and holding on as if he'll lose himself if he doesn't; he sleeps fitfully but still sleeps, somehow, and that's what matters. Roman in the nearby chair, sprawling every which way from its confines and doesn't complain the next morning when he has a twinge in his back. They spend the next day as if nothing has happened.)