tw: depression, self harm, suicidal ideation, panic attack, anxiety, mentioned abuse

word count: 2,604

notes: Half of this (and most other things I write) is fully made up of Trekkiehood's ideas and help, so I'd just like to put it on record that I wouldn't last a day without her.

Dean was going to be alright. He had to be alright. He had to be alright.

It was a mantra he repeated to himself every day.

At first, he told himself Dad needed him to look after Sam, and Sam just needed him.

But as day after day of hearing, You have one job, Dean. Don't screw it up again, every single morning, not even being looked at by the man saying it, stretched into a month, then another one, he tossed the first one out. His dad couldn't stand the sight of him. Literally. If he'd thought John hated him back in October, he didn't even know what to call this. Disdain. Disgust. Something that somehow felt worse than disappointment and distaste.

And as for Sam? Sam really hated the sight of him.

Sam literally hated the sight of him.

Who could blame him? He certainly saw enough of him.

He hardly saw anything else.

And Dean heard more stinging one-liners... about how he had no backbone, about how next time he'd go wherever Dean wouldn't be caught dead, about Dad's Little Honor Guard, than he ever thought he could take.

So out went that reason too.

And he was left with one.

No list of things he'd miss... he couldn't find it in himself to look forward to anything.

No attempt to believe the promised better times or sworn inherent worth.

All of that just felt like lemon juice in the cut.

But he couldn't do that to Caleb.

Not that Caleb would be losing much... if anything. It'd be a blessing for Caleb to not have to deal with him anymore, not have to worry about him.

But Caleb would blame himself.

Caleb would never forgive himself.

Caleb would hate himself.

And he might literally kill Johnny.

"I love you, Kiddo. You're my kid brother and my best friend, and losing you would kill me."

He'd spent most of their nights at the farm sleeping on the living room chair because Dean didn't think he could fight his demons alone in his room.

He'd started packing his bag to book it across the country at a single word from Dean... "No," in answer to his own simple question of, "You good?"

He'd spent over fifteen years protecting him from anything and everything that he could.

And Dean knew it didn't matter how far away he was when he put a bullet in his mouth... he'd see it. Probably over and over again. Probably for the rest of his life.

He couldn't do that to him.

So he was alright, because he had to be alright.

There was no shoulder to cry on, no big brother to collapse onto. He had to grow up and tough it out like he always should have.

So, he did what he had to, to be alright.

Which started with rebuilding his brain barricade.

If a dream about his poor mental state brought Caleb to their door before his term of exile had ended, nothing but bad things would happen.

So he put in the draining and rather miserable effort to make sure that didn't happen.

And then, one night, in the dark, knowing Sam was asleep and he could follow suit, but afraid to nonetheless, he stared at his gun and then locked it away and found himself staring at his knife instead.

And reasoned that if Caleb wasn't allowed around til September, scars would fade by September.

He cut deeper than he meant to.

When he finally got the bleeding stopped, he found his phone littered with a dozen missed calls and half as many texts from his best friend. Three panicked voicemails bore the same message as the texts... he knew he was hurt, and call him now.

He slipped outside to obey, the further away from his father's room the better. Not to mention Sam. If the kid caught him talking to Caleb, Dean had no doubt he'd gleefully throw him under the bus to get himself out of the hot seat.

Lucky for him, his walls had kept the specifics out of the vision. Caleb really did only know that he was hurt. He told him a hunt had gone bad, he was fine now, get off his phone before he got their punishment extended.

He learned his lesson to be more careful the next time.

He'd told himself there wouldn't be a next time, but he'd known that was a lie even as he did.

He had to be alright, and if being alright took a little blood, it took a little blood.

That worked for another month and a half.

And then, Sam got the edge on him.

Dad had been out of town for four days. He was coming back in less than twenty-four hours. It was the longest he'd left them since Flag Staff, and Dean was almost in the clear.

But then, Sam had called him an hour and a half before he was supposed to be picked up from school, panic in his voice as he described how these guys had been running their mouths, and he knew he should just walk away, but he ran his back, and they jumped him, and the cops showed up, and he needed him to come to the police station to pick him up, and his head was bleeding, and please don't let Dad find out cuz he'll kill me...

Dean made the ten-minute drive to the station in three.

He scrambled from his car and sprinted for the main doors, bursting through breathless.

The officer behind the front desk looked up sharply, getting to her feet. "Sir, can I help you? Are you alright?"

He swallowed hard, trying to push down the protective fire that he knew could get him in trouble with cops.

"My brother called me. Said you guys brought him in and he needed to be picked up."

"Okay," she confirmed, holding up a steadying hand. "Calm down, if you're picking him up, he's probably not in any serious trouble. What's your brother's name?"

"Sam Winchester. He's sixteen."

The question made it easier for him to not shout in response to the order to just calm down.

She typed for a second on the keyboard in front of her, then frowned. "Hmm. I'm not seeing him. When did he call?"

"Like five minutes ago."

"His file might not have gone through the computer yet. I'm gonna go ahead and send you to holding... they should know what's going on. Down that hallway, fourth turn on your right."

Dean nodded and rushed that way without another word. He was greeted by another desk and another officer rising as he came in.

"Afternoon. Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I'm here for my brother. Sam Winchester. He's sixteen. He just called saying I needed to pick him up cuz he was fighting at school."

The man frowned just like the prior officer had, consulting a clipboard next to his computer before glancing back towards another door that most likely separated this office from the actual holding cells.

"I don't think I have any kids brought in for fighting. You're welcome to come back with me and take a look, though."

Dean nodded quickly, and the man strode around his desk and pulled the door open, waving him through ahead of him. Dean rushed down the aisle, looking desperately in every corner of all four cells. The only occupants were two young adults, passed out on the floor after obviously having far too much to drink.

Dean felt the panic clawing at his chest and making it hard to breathe. This wasn't possible. What... where...

"He said he was here!" he gasped, turning back towards the officer as one hand came up to drag through his hair hard.

"Alright," the guy replied evenly. "It's alright. I'm sure there's a good explanation. What school does your brother go to?"

"Uh... he..." Dean took a deep, shaky breath, trying to pull himself together. He knew this. "He..." He squeezed his eyes shut, still struggling to breathe. "I know what school he goes to. I know... I just..."

"Hey, I believe you," the officer replied, his voice steady. "I think you're having a panic attack. Is it okay if I put my hand on your arm? I just wanna help you get back to the office."

Dean nodded without really comprehending anything.

Sammy was... Dad would... why... where...

He felt the promised hand of support, just above his elbow, guiding him back in the direction they'd come.

"Let's get you sitting down, maybe get you some water," the officer was saying. "We'll find your brother. I just need you to breathe."

Dean kept gasping and grappling, still completely unable to grasp what was going on.

He had one job. One job, and he'd screwed it up again.

Dad was going to kill him.

Everything went hazy until he found himself back in the office, a cup of water he didn't remember drinking half-finished in his hand. The cop was kneeling in front of him, an encouraging smile on his face.

"There you go. Good job, you're doing great. You back with me?"

Dean nodded dully.

The officer returned the gesture.

"What's your name?"

"Dean." His voice was barely audible.

"Dean, I'm Officer Adams. We're looking for your brother... your younger brother, right?"

He nodded again.

"And your brother's name is Sam? And he's sixteen?"

"Yeah." He swallowed hard. "Or... Samuel, technically, I guess. And I sometimes call him Sammy. Doesn't like it much anymore."

He had no idea what he was saying.

"Okay, we're looking for Sammy," Adams confirmed with another small smile. "He called and said he was being held here for fighting?"

"Yeah. Yeah, and he... he said he was bleeding. Bleeding from his head. He... he sounded really scared."

"I'm sure that was hard for you to hear," the older man said, his face sober. "Can you tell me what school he goes to?"

"Uh... Paul Revere. Paul Revere High School."

Why had that been so hard two minutes before?

"Great." The cop got to his feet and moved to Dean's other side, picking up a phone off the desk in front of them. "I'm gonna make a quick call to the school resource officer. If there was a fight and they got caught, he'd know about it."

Dean nodded once more. He still wasn't sure what just happened or what was going on. He felt numb and detached and it scared him except he couldn't really process that fear.

He reflected dully that it was a good thing he had those mental blocks up.

The officer stepped to the corner of the room to make the phone call, keeping his voice too low for Dean to make out anything he was saying. He came back a few minutes later, his brow knit in concern.

"Dean, your brother didn't get in a fight today," he said as he lowered himself into a chair a few feet away from the one the younger man was sitting in. "At least not one the school knows about. Certainly not one he got arrested for. Did he call you from his cell phone, or a different one?"

Dean thought back to taking the call. It had been Sam's name, not an unknown number, that appeared on the outside screen.

"His cell."

Adams nodded slowly. "If he was in custody, he would have been calling from an office phone. We never have them use their own."

"But... but that doesn't... he..." Dean shook his head in a slow attempt to clear it. How was this possible? Who had his brother? Why wasn't he panicking? Well, he was. But not like... something was wrong with him.

"Dean, how old are you?" Adams asked.

"I, uh... I'm twenty."

What did that have to do with anything?

"You and Sam got any parents around?"

He shrugged, averting his gaze.

"Kind of."

"What does kind of mean?"

"I mean, our dad is around sometimes, but right now he's out of town."

"And you're in charge of Sam?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm." The man hesitated for a long moment before pressing forward. "Dean, I hate to accuse your brother of lying to you, but I think maybe he was trying to distract you. His SRO saw on his attendance record that he didn't show up to his last class of the day, the one he should be in now. You probably got a call about that, but you've been preoccupied trying to find him here. Has he ever... given you the slip... like that before?"

Dean nodded a little.

He could feel reality sinking in and he didn't think he wanted it to finish the job.

Once again, Adams returned the gesture. "My instinct says that's what's going on right now. Now we can put out a report and help you find him if you want us to, but if you'd like to call him before we do that, you can."

And years of never go to the police finally kicked in. He shouldn't be here. If Dad knew he was here, he'd kill him.

"Yeah," he affirmed, pushing himself to his feet. "Yeah, I'm... I'm gonna go call him. I think... I think I left my phone in my car."

"You can use ours," the man started, but he shook his head.

"He won't pick up unless he knows the number. We... we'll be fine. Uh, thanks... I guess."

He somehow made it outside. Back in the Impala, he found his phone, left behind on the passenger's seat. A missed call from the school office. Sure enough, Sam hadn't showed up to his final class.

And he'd bought himself half an hour by using Dean's biggest weakness against him.

His call to the teen's cell phone was left unanswered as he'd known it would be. The next ten were as well, but he just kept pressing the boy's name and listening to it ring, trying to escape the reality he found himself in.

Sam was gone. Again.

He'd run again.

Dad was due back tomorrow and his only hope to find the boy before then was to call Mac, and Mac would tell his dad anyway.

He'd gotten no panicked call from Caleb, so even beyond the fact that he'd fooled him like a baby, he knew Sam wasn't hurt. And because of Mac, he knew they'd be able to find him. He knew that Sam knew they'd be able to find him. They were in New York state right now. It would be so easy.

This was pointless, and stupid, and he couldn't do it again.

The thought broke something deep inside of him, and before he knew what was happening, he was sobbing with his head on the Impala's steering wheel, one hand wrapping around it so tight his knuckles were white.

An actual ache was throbbing so hard in his chest he had a fleeting hope that he was about to have a heart attack and die. It was like there was an actual knife shoved into him, gushing blood, screaming the betrayal of the person he loved most in the world and foretelling of his father's wrath.

They were nearing the final stretch of their punishment.

Why would Sam pull this again now?

He knew he needed to calm down, needed to stop crying and start breathing, but he just couldn't.

He pressed Sam's name again. The sound of ringing taunted him.

He couldn't do this.

He couldn't do this.

He reached for his knife. 

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- Line