#You are aware that I found all this junk while restoring the library?

[hush-house-yard-sale]

Well why don't YOU come here and take care of me yourself if you're sooo concerned about my welfare! I bet you can't, because you are all uuuu I need to write a history to atone for my mistakes uuuu

I bet you don't even have a bedroom cleared up cause you're all so busy reading all those cryptic pages! Not to brag, but at least I have one, all painted white for totally aesthetic purposes and not because I want to cut my hair or injure myself to access the big m-word!

...it's spacious enough for two people though...

-Cultist (suggestive)

Hm. No. The Forge-of-Days can have you.

[shy-violet-soul]

The Edge of Okay

Characters: reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Rating: Teens+ Summary:  A weary warrior fights an unseen battle, trying to hold herself together and hide her pain from the brothers.  

***TRIGGER WARNINGS***: anxiety/panic attack, self-harm, graphic descriptions of injuries

A/N:  For all of us who struggle with an invisible mental illness.  For all of us who don’t want to hurt ourselves, but just want it to stop.  For all of us who have trouble seeing our own amazing courage.  For all of us who claw our way back from the scary edge.  This one is for us.

If you need help, please reach out!  You are precious.  Here’s a link of contacts.

A very big thank you to @thesassywallflower for being my beta once again.  I so admire your writing talent, my friend, so your feedback, suggestions, and praise always mean so much to me.  THANK YOU!

(image credit: Olga Zavgorodnya via www.fineartamerica.com)

“I’m okay.”

Of all the lies I’ve ever told, that one is the biggest.

My body is a relief map.  Rough and raised on the space where my left thumb meets my hand - machete callous.  Painted blue on my right rib cage - bruise from an upright player piano a vengeful spirit slammed into me.  Thready and crooked - new part in my hair beside my ear from a too-close-call with a wraith.  A fretwork of pink raised ridges, whitish blobs, and silvered indents - an atlas to past mileage.  

You’re okay, I tell myself, not even feeling the frenetic bounce of my knee anymore.  Fingers cold, I trace the newest mark on my skin, up and down, up and down.  Sam’s gotten pretty good at stitches - they don’t look as much like Frankenstein work anymore.  The still-tight scars lay pink and healing where they webbed up from the inner knob of my right collarbone to my ear.  My fingertips can still feel the tiny spots where the stitches laced me back together.  Stupid, lucky lacerations.  They’re easy.  I mean, getting filleted like a mackerel by a demon was a bitch.  But hey - stitches work.  Fluids and food restore.  A whiskey or three cures a lot.

Up and down, up and down, I trace the lines that tell me I’m okay.  That my skin is knitting back together, and my blood is staying inside where it belongs.  Physically, I’m well on the mend.  It’s just my brain that’s a mess.

It started when I was in high school.  I thought everyone got chest pains studying for calculus exams, or nausea over a required oral presentation on European folklore.  Eventually, after being found wedged between two sections of lockers hyperventilating about an essay I’d forgotten, my parents insisted on getting me help.  Enter Dr. Bass and an answer: General Anxiety Disorder.  I’d hated the idea of medication, but I’d hated the constant panic attacks more.  It took a while.  A long while.  But I finally figured out how to co-exist with the anxiety.  It took even longer to stop feeling ashamed of my invisible illness.  I succeeded, mostly.  The rest of the time, I trained my face to lie.  The official I’m okay robot, complete with appropriate facial expressions.

Then, you know - parents dying and monsters and real angels and crap.  Dean and Sam patched me up, showed me the ropes, and I never looked back.  Who has time for panic attacks when you’re busy torching wendigos?

You’re okay, as fatigue burns the back of my eyes, puffed and scratchy.  I haven’t slept more than a couple of hours at a time in days.  Sam remarked on the beautiful bags under my eyes the other morning.  

“Sleep is for the weak,” I’d winked at Dean, slapping a smile on.  I can’t let them know.

You’re okay, the refrain as I count the skipped heart beats and feel the chest pain tighten.  Black eyes and a cackling smile flash in my mind, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to shake the image away.  I can beat this.  

You’re okay, while I swallow sticky around the need to hyperventilate at the memory of my blood running warm down my neck, then cold and clammy.  I can’t do this.

Up and down, up and down, my fingers rub the crooked lines a little too hard.  A raw pinch, a reminder from the tender skin that it’s still healing.  The sensation washes up into my head, and for a moment, I don’t feel the awful suck.  For a moment, my knee stills and the fatigue ebbs.  For a moment, I get a breather from the silent suffocation.  Temptation brings a tremble to my hands, wet to my eyes, and I yank my hand away, tucking both fists under my legs.  Exhaustion sags my edges hard, and I can’t hold up my head anymore.  My kneecaps dig into my cheekbones, my lungs shudder as I remind myself that’s not the answer.  You’re okay.  Frantically, I try to grasp at past coping techniques, and flail away the lies.  

I’m not weak.  I’m not a failure. I’m not broken.

But the ‘nots’ feel heavy in my head, and everything’s too hot and too cold.  I want to run five miles and lay down and never move again.  My clothes are too loose and too tight. I want pizza but I feel like throwing up.  It’s all too loud in here, and too quiet, and I would give a lot - almost anything - to make it all stop.

A sob croaks its way past the dryness, wheezing around a weak gag into the blaring silence of the library.  My fingers reach up, up to the table’s edge and press forward till I feel them.  The feel of the plastic containers both relieves and terrifies me.  I’m clinging to a new and scary edge I’ve never seen.

“Hey.”  The deep rasp squeezes my throat shut as I sense Dean’s warmth beside me.  I can sense him crouch down, one hand resting on my arm.  “Hey, are you okay?”

The weight within me presses, hard, and I feel something crack.  Oxygen is hard, all of a sudden, and the panic spikes, black dots in my vision.  One hand fumbles towards him, skittering one of the plastics a bit.  But I’m too tired to hold him, and oh, God, I need to hold on to someone.  As if from under deep water, I drag my head up to look at him, but my face is too tired to lie.  I’m too tired to lie.

“No.”  I try to swallow, cotton all the way down till my stomach hurts.  “No, I’m not okay.”

***************************************************************************************

She thinks she’s hiding it well.  Maybe from someone else, but not me.  You don’t have to be a Sherlock to see she’s not sleeping.  Her face is washed out, and we could go shopping with those bags under her eyes.  Always alert, she’s gone from awake and aware to outright jumpy.  I’ve teased her for her diet in the past, which she affectionately dubbed ‘the Winchester hybrid’ - a steady mix of my junk and Sam’s rabbit food.  You couldn’t keep a mouse alive on what she’s tried to fool us with.  

I get it.  She damn near died.  I took a great deal of pleasure in ganking that demon.  Blood was freakin’ everywhere.  Thanked whatever deity for Sammy’s dinner plate hands holding her neck together till we could get her sewn up.  Damn.  I’ve seen blood before.  I’ve seen my little brother slashed to shreds, held his broken bones in my hands.  You never get over that.  Doesn’t matter how many times.  It keeps me up at night sometimes.  That cold, quivery awfulness that hits your gut and won’t let go.  Makes you feel like you’re licking a battery or some shit. Sam thinks I got my awesome headphones to drown him out.  Sometimes, but mostly I just need to get out of my head.  Try to block out that crap with some classic electric guitar.  And beer.  You just...figure out how to live around it.

Seeing her blood all over - I don’t know why, but it was so much worse.  Felt like I swallowed the damn battery, I was so juiced up.  My gut felt cold for days.  But she got better.  Stitches work.  Fluids and food restore.  And a whiskey or six helped me catch a little shut eye without the memory of holding her neck together while Sammy sewed.

Cuts?  Those are easy, though.  Gimme a dislocated shoulder or a gash, I can fix that five ways from Sunday.  It’s the dying I see happening in her eyes that kills me.  I can’t fix it.  Not with dental floss and boosted painkillers or ice packs.  What the hell can a chewed up hunter do to help her?  I just wish she’d quit tryin’ to hide it.  Jody throws around the word ‘PTSD’ like it’s something new, but it’s not.  This fear?  The panic?  All hunters live with it.  If they don’t, they’re either liars or sadists.  She’s gotta know she’s not alone.  Time for me to sack up and tell her.

She looks so damn small.  Pajama pants with Bambi and Thumper printed all over and a Captain America hoodie are swallowing her.  The blanket from her bed is flopped around her, and she’s stuffed herself so small into one of the leather chairs, it makes my back hurt to look at her.  Hair’s a mess, lips all chapped, and salt stains on her face.  But her eyes...goddamn, my chest hurts just looking at her pain.

“No.  No, I’m not okay,” she croaks, her fingers knocking against something on the table before they’re shaking on my arm.  Everything in me wants to hold her tight, but I don’t.  Not yet.  I ease down on my knees beside her.  Squeeze her arm a bit while I prop my other hand on the chair beside her shoulder.  Close so she knows I’m here but not caging her in.  Hoping she’ll come to me when she’s ready.

It works.  She breathes like she’s been underwater, then her hands are tight fists in my sleeves. My throat squeezes shut when she looks up at me, like she’s begging me to understand.  Oh, honey...I raise my hand and brush some hair from her eyes.  Keep my movements slow and light, my gaze soft and open on hers.  

“I’m here,” I whisper, watching her eyes fall shut and tears dribble from the corners.  She leans toward me, resting her forehead against mine.  One hand on her head, the other still on her arm, I hold her.  We just breathe like that for a minute.  When she leans back and slides her eyes towards the table, I follow her gaze and my heart stops.

A line of prescription bottles are rowed up near the edge of the table, one tipped over where she must have hit earlier.  A couple with one of her aliases on them.  The other a high-powered painkiller that I know she stopped taking a week ago.  I have to swallow twice as I rub my thumb against her arm.  Do not sound judging.  Keep your cool.

Fresh tears are rolling down her face when I look back at her face.  I reach to hold her hands, a little shocked at how cold she is.

“What did you want those to do for you?” Kept my voice soft, so afraid I’d spook her.  

“I - I -” A sob cuts her off and she reaches for me.  My whole body loosens with relief as I pull her down on my lap, into my arms, and away from this edge it feels like she’s dangling from.  Her face dives for my shoulder and she just cries. 

****************************************************************************************

“I don’t want to die, I don’t!” My tongue feels stuck and heavy as I try to rush the words out.  My nerves feel like they’re on fire.  I can feel each heart beat in my temples as my blood pounds panic through my veins like a firehose.  I’m so terrified of seeing disgust in Dean’s face, but I’m more terrified of this edge I’ve ended up at.  I can’t stop the words from pouring out.  The nightmares of black eyes and horrid breath in my face.  Blunt nails scratching my skin when he squeezed my throat.  The scathing, sliding bite of his knife down my neck, and the certainty I was going to die.  It all comes gushing free like something cut loose inside of me.

As the black spots swirl around me sickeningly - comfort.  Slow, like a signal light from way off, I feel it first - hard arms holding me.  Big shoulders shielding me.  Warmth bleeding into me.  Soothing whispers start to piece-meal into my ears.  

“It’s alright.  I’m here.  I’ve got you, don’t worry.  I’ve got you.”

The words, the truth there actually hurts me for a second, and I squeeze his shirt tighter in my hands below his collarbones.  I scrunch myself smaller under his chin, and my lungs stutter as they try to suck in more air.

Minutes pass.  Maybe days, I don’t know.  Panic attacks will do that to you.  The lies are quiet for a moment, letting that bubble of truth float its way to my brain.  

“I don’t want to hurt myself.”  He needs to know that.  I need Dean to know that.

“What do you want?” His words rumble, soft but soothing, against my cheek.  I couldn’t stop the dribble of tears that leaked fresh from my eyes, and the weight of that water felt too heavy, so I closed my lids beneath it.

“I...I just...I’m tired, Dean.  I just want to sleep.”

“Do you want to go to my room and lay down?”

The thought of being in a small room makes my skin crawl.  “No,” the whisper forces its way out of my throat.  “I like it here.”

Dean didn’t say anything.  With the storm of panic passed, I feel wrung out, cold, and weak.  I barely track Dean moving an arm for a reach or two.  Then, he’s easing me back onto my butt.  It steadies me to focus on his face as he’s grabbing around me.  His eyelashes, the freckles on his cheekbones pull me in until I feel my blanket against my shoulders.  Numbly, I watch Dean’s hands as he cocoons the blanket around me.  His fingers feel warm and rough on my face as he cups my cheeks.  The sensations ground me, and I’m able to breathe a little deeper for a second.  When I open my eyes, Dean’s looking down at me.  He offers me a smile that’s crinkled eyes and soft reassurance.

“There.  Now you’re a burrito of tired.”

************************************************************************************

The chuckle she gives is sorry and sad, but I’ll take it.  My hands look too big and rough against her face, but her eyes close and her shoulders try to let go when I stroke one cheekbone with my thumb.  Screw it.  I ease her against my chest and stand up, holding her tight.  The main lights of the library click off - Sam got my text.  I clock him hovering in the kitchen doorway, giving me a ‘two minutes’ sign.  His puppy dog eyes look worried as I plop us down in one of the leather armchairs.  It takes me a second to get her situated where we’re both comfortable.  As soon as I stop moving, I notice how she’s shaking.  But her skin isn’t as cold as it was, and I feel her ribs expand with the first deep breath since I found her.  Feels like I can breathe a little deeper now, too.  

Pretty sure Sam conjured up a kitchen spell or something, because there’s no way it’s been two minutes when he comes trotting back in.  I roll my eyes when I see that instead of the one piece of toast I asked for, he’s got a pile as deep as his stupid hair.  But, I smell her private stash of cinnamon-sugar in with the toasted goodness - good job, little brother.  The plate slides onto the table next to us, and a bottle of water plops down with it.  I feel her eyelashes tickle against my neck when she opens her eyes.

“Hi, Sam.” God, she sounds tired.  

“Hey.” Sam squats down on his heels, reaching to tug the blanket up a little higher around her shoulders, then strokes her head carefully.  

You good? he asks with a lift of his eyebrows.  Yeah, I tell him with a bob of my chin.  The breath she pulls in is slow, now, and it’s got more O2 behind it when it sighs out warm against me.  I rub my right hand against her back, up and down, up and down. My left hand slides up into her hair and I start to drag my fingertips against her scalp.  Her shaking slows down to almost nothing as she sags against me. Her fatigue is contagious, and I feel my eyes growing heavy as I let my gaze drift.  Those damn pill bottles are ready to remind me, though.  That edge that almost pulled her under.

This battle may be on hold, but the war ain’t over.

*****************************************************************************************

For the first time in days, I feel warm.  My elbows and knees still feel trembly, but I feel loose instead of wound tighter than a spring.  Dean’s slow breathing moves underneath me, letting me rest against the swell and fall of his chest.  Leather and laundry soap reach me, a comforting cloud above the tickle of cinnamon-sugar.  The chair beside us creaks, and I hear Sam’s boots against the floor as he gets comfortable.  Dean’s hand rubbing my back, up and down, up and down.  My stress-singed senses settle amid all this, grounded and grateful.

The memory of that scary edge, though…

“I didn’t want to hurt myself.”  I wanted them to know.

“What did you want?” the calm question.  

“Sleep.  I just...I’ve been fighting and fighting and I’m so tired.  I just didn’t feel like I could fight anymore.”  I’d be ashamed if I wasn’t so exhausted.  These two warriors had literally been to hell and back, and I was whining about being tired.  Dean’s arms tighten around me, and the sandpaper-y rub of his chin feels good.

“But you are fighting.  Look at you.  You didn’t do anything.  That’s fighting.”

I want to believe him.  But my gut is too quivery for hope yet.  

“It doesn’t feel like fighting.  Feels like failure.”  Bone-deep tired pulls heavy on every muscle, and I close my eyes as I snuggle in closer to the anchor Dean offers.

“Sure as hell ain’t failure, sweetheart.  Looks a lot like a tough as nails hunter kickin’ it in the ass and swingin’ for all she’s worth.”  The words sigh a deep breath from me.  I don’t know what to say anymore.  “I know you’re tired.  But you just gotta keep fighting.”

That same stupid flicker of anxiety that’s my own evil pilot light wavers in my gut, and I swallow around the desire to cry all over again.

“And what if I can’t?  Keep fighting?”  Dean sits quiet for a minute.  I knew it.  I am hopeless…

Then, he presses a kiss to my forehead, stirring warm against my hairline.  “Then, you come get us.  We’ll fight for you.  We’ll make sure you’re okay.”

My mind lies still - no nightmares to tear through me at the moment.  The arms around me like a buoy, letting me catch my breath as I back away.  I know that scary edge is still there.  But now...I feel like I see it from a different view, one where I can see the corners.  The other edge where I can learn how to coexist with this invisible monster again without my face telling lies.

It feels like the edge of okay.