#2 The more I learn, the more I ignore.

Murphy’s Law, it sucks right? Like when you just get round to buying an ice-cream and the moment you grip the cone it starts to rain. Or when you’re looking forward to a party for days or months and someone in your family dies on the same night and you can’t make it. Yes Murphy’s Law really, really sucks.

Dean was feeling a little bit like Murphy really hated him. He’s nineteen and closed in a smelly, small motel room, instead of going through for the plans he had made for that evening. They were with a girl that he didn’t find overly attractive, and her personality matched that of satins. But word was she was a great lay. Instead he was watching Sam and worse still he was forced to watch cheap shitty movies that Sam actually liked! What’s more is that Sam always watched his brother like a hawk, like he was going to attack at any moment. 

Sam and Dean had never had much to talk about. Dean was all hunting, cars, boobs and Sam was all books, studying, and school. But even if Sam was remotely like Dean in any way, Dean just didn’t talk. Simple answers like; yes, no, maybe were all that ever came out of his mouth. Sam tried to talk to his brother, to have a conversation but nothing ever came of it. Sam wasn’t stupid. He knew Dean was bothered, screwed up; he knew his father knew these things too. He also knew the worst thing of all. The fact that Dean, his brother, was far beyond fixing; he was broken. He only ate when told to and spoke when spoke when spoken to. He was always disappearing places without any warning, he stayed out all night and came home either stoned or dunk.

Sam had noticed the scars too, the burns, the open flesh wounds, he had seen them all. When he was thirteen he made the mistake of asking about them, which made Dean defensive and aggressive. Sam knew never to ask again. But even he was a little to daring sometimes. He kept an eye on Dean and every day a few more wounds would appear, some days he could hear his brother throwing up what was in his stomach, which was very little;Sam sometimes wondered what even came up.

John hadn’t seemed to notice anything. But then John was very good at withdrawing his emotions. He didn’t get on with his father, John didn’t agree with what Sam wanted in life so they fell out regularly. Sometimes he thought John didn’t care about Dean. But the truth was when John had gotten to his son on the other side of that door he found Dean sitting in a pool of his own blood, with glass around him, his hand and wrists bleeding badly. John got medical attention and got the answer he most feared. He had to give Dean anti-depression pills. He had taken them fine for a month or two but he stopped.
Never started again.

No one had really questioned Dean on why he felt like this. It wasn’t something they wanted to understand and it probably wasn’t something Dean could talk about. John had tried a therapist, but he was met with a large bill and no ground gained. 

It was late, about twelve. Dean had finally gotten the remote and was watching an old horror film. Sam sighed.

“Can we watch something else?” he asked

“No.” Dean replied

“Fine.”

There was silence between the brothers for almost several moments until Sam looked towards Dean’s forearm. More deep wounds had appeared still oozing with blood. One or two of them looked green with infection and there were puncture holes where he had tried to stitch them himself. 

“Dean.” Sam asked.

His brother nodded.

“Why do you do that to yourself?”

There it was out before Sam could stop himself. Dean flinched.

“Do what?” Dean’s tone stale.

“That. You cut yourself. Why?”

Dean didn’t reply. As usual.

Sam sighed.

“Dean talk to me!”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Dean...”

“Shut up!” he snapped.

“What did you say to me?!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Dean thumped the chair in that long lost rhythm,” Just shut up.”

“No Dean! No I won’t. Not this time. There’s something disturbing you, hurting you so much and it hurts me to see you like this. You’re forcing us to watch. Talk to someone, take you god damn pills or...or something!!!!”Sam shouted, surprising himself.

Dean stared at his brother, perplexed, hurt. It was all there, all reality, thrown in his face, ringing in his ears. It made Dean want to curl into a ball and die, but most of all he craved the hurt, the pain more and more. The reality was he was sick, broken, gone so far he might never find his way back. And it was true it was he who had to find his way back not someone else. It was his doing, no one else’s, and he loved the guilt; the pain that made him feel. It was interesting. Interesting that he was a lost cause and yet they tried, interesting that he didn’t care and even more interesting that he wanted to chase after it even more.