tw: self harm, referenced suicide attempt, neglect, parentification, depression

word count: 2,288

notes: I went to write the "first little scene" in the epilogue, and then twenty-two-hundred words later I was like, "Oops." So there's gonna be another part. At least. Who knows, this may turn into a long fic of nothing but Caleb and Dean angst and banter.

Dean didn't respond directly to the statement, just looking up at Caleb, then looking away with wet eyes. The older man exhaled sadly before closing the remaining distance between them and sitting down on the couch beside him.

"Alright, lemme see."

"I can deal with them," the boy returned without looking back his way, arm still tucked tight against chest.

"You could, but you're not gonna."

"Please, Damien." The words were choked and sounded so painfully young that it made Caleb want to gather him up like a scared toddler.

He settled for a soft touch of his knuckles to the boy's cheek. "Hey. Dude. I just took a freakin gun out of your hands hoping to God you wouldn't shoot yourself before I did. And I'm still here, aren't I? You really think a few little cuts are gonna change how I look at you?"

Dean's eyes squeezed shut against the tears that were beginning to crawl out. "It's messed up."

"Life is messed up," Caleb countered simply. "We're all just trying to deal with it. This? Not a good way to do that, and you better not do it before you come to me again. But it's not messed up. Just really, really hurt."

Dean didn't answer, but after a last, long moment, he let his arm fall into Caleb's lap.

The psychic felt his own eyes misting a little as he looked at them again, but nodded and offered his friend a quick, tight smile. "Thank you, Deuce."

Then, he gently picked it up with one hand, taking the wet rag in the other and beginning to carefully work at the blood caked over the lacerations and streaked over the skin around them. They weren't harmless, surface-skimming wounds. The boy had gone deep. It made Caleb wonder how long he'd sat there in the dark before his mental fortress had given way enough to wake him.

When he'd gotten the blood wiped away and the further bleeding which resulted somewhat slowed, he set the rag aside and hesitated before reaching for the alcohol. Gently, he lay his palm directly over the three injuries.

Immediately, he was transported to Dean's point of view earlier in the night, knife in hand, tears running down his cheeks, digging it deep into his skin before slowly dragging. The hopeless emotions of the moment hit him in a rush, and he came out of it with a small gasp.

Dean, who hadn't looked at him since handing the arm over, staring instead at the old Sox-Rockies game he'd found on the television, glanced at him for a split second before realizing what he'd just done and hurriedly averting his eyes once more.

Caleb for his part allowed his chin to drop as his own eyes filled against his will. Wordlessly, he laid a hand on the inside of Dean's shoulder and squeezed.

Then, he took a deep breath, blinked rapidly, and continued his task.

When he was finally done, he set the Band-aid box aside and offered the younger man a weak smile. "Good as new."

Dean reclaimed the arm quickly, tucking it against his chest as he had before, but met Caleb's gaze for just a moment. "Thanks."

"Anytime, Kiddo."

There was a moment of silence other than the soft sounds of the game, then Caleb finally settled back on the couch, wrapping an arm around Dean's shoulders and pulling him against his side like he used to when they were young. Dean flinched a little at the initial contact, but after a moment turned his head, burying his face in the older man's shoulder.

He didn't make a sound, but it wasn't long before Caleb could feel moisture soaking through his hoodie.

After a few minutes, a muffled voice spoke up without its owner moving. "This is embarrassing."

Caleb smiled a little. "Things can only be embarrassing if people are around to witness them. So let's just keep this little chick-flick between you and me, yeah?"

Dean nodded into his shoulder, taking a small, hicuppy breath as he did.

Reaves returned the gesture, his head turned in the boy's direction so that he was looking down at his hair. "And now that we've made that very clear, I'm gonna say something I probably don't say nearly enough."

He swallowed thickly, a wave of emotion from the past hour hitting him suddenly.

"I love you, Kiddo." The words came out quiet and choked. "You're my kid brother and my best friend, and losing you would break me. You know that, don't you?"

There was a hesitation, but after a moment, Dean nodded into his shoulder again, just slightly this time. He raised his head for a moment to look up at Caleb ashamedly. "I'm sorry."

The older hunter once again returned the gesture, accepting the apology. "It's okay, Deuce. So long as you know."

Both of them turned their attention back to the game, and they fell back into silence.

But an inning and several runs later, Dean spoke up again, that shame back in his voice.

"I've been a real jerk to you the past few days."

Caleb looked his way again, processing the statement for a moment as it had come out of nowhere.

But he couldn't disagree, confirming simply, "Yeah. You have."

The Winchester's eyes found the carpet. "I'm sorry."

"Ya know what, Deuce?" his best friend asked, squeezing his shoulders a little tighter for a moment. "If being a punk's the only way you know how to tell me something's wrong... never stop. I mean that. It actually means a lot that you trust me enough to do it instead of giving me the 'yes, sir,' act like you do with your dad."

The name drop snapped Dean's eyes back to the television like a magnet, and Caleb couldn't help the heavy sigh that escaped him.

"So I guess we're still not talking about your dad?"

Those green eyes stayed averted, but their owner did consider the question, gnawing on his lip for a moment. Finally, his voice came out soft and unsure.

"He really does love us, right? He... does he... me?"

The psychic heart broke all over again at the trembling uncertainty with which the question was asked, but pushed down the instinctual anger at John Winchester in response to it. "Deuce, listen to me," he said instead. "Your dad loves you and your brother... you and Sammy... more than anything in the world. You're all he has."

He let that stand for a long moment before going on.

"But. He's not always good at showing that." He scoffed a little. "Scratch that... he's downright awful at it most of the time. What he did... walking out on you like that... and what he said to you when he did... it was freaking messed up. And it's okay to admit that."

"I just..." The boy faltered and tried again. "I don't want Sammy to... I don't know."

"Sammy doesn't need you to pretend like everything's okay when it's not," Caleb told him gently. "That may have worked when he was a little kid, but the runt's not gonna be duped that easily anymore anyway. He needs you to be there. Which isn't fair. You shouldn't have to be the only constant parent in that kid's life, but you are, and you really shouldn't have to pretend like the real parent's not doing anything wrong."

"I guess." Dean's turn to hesitate. "I don't mind, you know. Taking care of him."

"I know you don't," Caleb sighed. "Because you love him. But that doesn't mean you can't admit that it's hard."

He considered that for a moment. Then, softly, "It's hard."

The older man dropped his chin a little closer to the boy's head, his chest aching for his young friend. "I know, Kiddo. I know it is."

They fell back into silence, and eventually, Dean fell asleep on his shoulder. Caleb wasn't planning on doing the same, but one minute, he was watching the game, and the next, he was drifting back into consciousness to the light of the sunrise on his face.

He blinked once, then again, disoriented for a moment. Then, the events of the night before came back to him, and he carefully looked over at the boy beside him. Still sound asleep. Caleb felt a slight, sad smile touch his face.

Then, he registered the feeling of eyes on him. Still moving carefully to avoid waking Dean, he looked the other direction.

"Good morning, Caleb."

His eyes met Pastor Jim's as the quiet greeting was offered. He swore softly before he could help himself, coughed a little and corrected, "Uh... morning, Jim."

The minister smiled a little from his place at the doorway to the kitchen, a cup of coffee in his hand, but the expression was more concerned than happy. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah," Caleb returned with another glance in Dean's direction. "Yeah, we're okay now."

"Now?"

"We'll tell you the story later." He swallowed hard. "I promised we'd do it together. And anyway," he added with a slight, half smile. "I don't wanna wake the baby."

Jim accepted that with a small nod and a more relaxed smile of his own. "Can I get you some coffee?"

"Yeah, would you? I... don't think I'm moving for a while."

The pastor nodded again with a look of utter fondness on his face, turning and disappearing back into the next room.

With him gone, Caleb exhaled slowly, glancing once at the old Cardinals-Yankees game that was now playing on the television, then out the window, at the party responsible for waking him up.

His eyes stung a little as he took in the sunrise and called to remembrance the prediction on the news. It was, indeed, a beautiful morning.

He sipped his coffee while Jim headed outside to do the morning choors, flipping to the news for any possibly supernatural stories before returning to the baseball game. Twenty minutes later, his father descended the stairs.

The doctor raised both eyebrows as he took in the scene on the couch, his expression like Jim's... fond but also concerned.

Caleb didn't wait for him to ask. "We'll tell you later. Don't wake him up."

Mac nodded, a smile creeping onto his own face. "Sounds like a good plan to me. And happy Christmas Eve, Son."

Only then did Caleb remember what day it was other than not one for a hunter's funeral.

After fetching his own coffee, Mac sat and watched the game with Caleb for a little while, refilled his son's mug, and followed Jim outside.

Halfway through that round of coffee, Dean finally stirred beside him.

The kid opened his eyes with a soft groan, blinking in obvious confusion. He sat up, looked at Caleb, and it seemed to hit him.

"Morning, Sunshine."

Dean looked away, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "My neck hurts."

"You mean I'm not the most comfortable pillow you've ever had? Ouch, Deuce. Ouch."

"Is anyone up yet?"

"Jim and Dad. You only beat the runt."

The younger man swore softly, and Caleb smirked a little.

"That's what I said." Smirk changed to grin. "But hey, Bobby's due in sometime today. At least he didn't show up early and witness our little chick flick in action."

Dean gave him a long, tired look. "If he had, I'd be pulling the trigger this time."

"You and me both, Kiddo," Caleb replied easily as he finally pushed himself to his feet. "But speaking of that, sit tight for a minute, would ya?"

He darted up the stairs before the younger man could ask questions, heading to John's room and flicking on the light.

His stomach turned a little at the sight of the handgun, still in the corner where he'd desperately shoved it, but he didn't let himself dwell on what could have happened, picking it up and sliding the magazine out before setting it down to check the rest of the room. The knife Dean had obviously used to slice his arm up was located on the floor next to where he'd been sitting. He collected several more from under the mattress, the nightstand drawer, and just about every pocket on Dean's duffle.

When all of the weapons had been transported to his own room and locked away, he went back downstairs and dropped back into his spot on the couch.

"Done babyproofing my living space?" Dean asked, glaring at him over the coffee he'd fetched in his absence.

"You can still have them any time you want," Caleb told him plainly. "You just have to get them from me."

The boy scoffed. "Yeah, that'll do me a lot of good in the event of an unfriendly intruder. 'I'm sorry, Sir, but if you could hang tight while I ask my brother for my emergency weapons?' I'm sure he'll understand... what with me being a suicidal freak and all."

"Hey." Caleb knocked the boy lightly on the side of the head with the back of his hand, his tone casual, but serious. "Don't call my little brother a freak. He's in a rough place right now, but he's still the best freakin' person I know."

Dean rolled his eyes and looked away, and Caleb picked up his coffee again. Only after he'd taken a long drink did he realize something was off. The overwhelming taste of sodium triggered his gag reflex, and he found himself coughing back into his mug.

"What the..."

Dean was snickering.

He shoved the teen less gently this time. "You're a brat."

"I thought I was the best person you knew."

"And you're still a freaking brat."

This fic is currently my only semi-healthy outlet for a burning wish to die, so hopefully the next part will be out soon. That said, your feedback will do wonders for my inspiration (and will to live), so please drop a comment. Love ya.

- Line