tw: self harm, suicide attempt, depression, abuse mention, depression, panic attack, talk of death

word count: 2,177

Caleb flew forward, off of the bed, his knees hitting the carpet hard. He only stopped screaming because he was out of breath, and he only didn't start again because that was when he started to sob.

"Dean!" he heard his own raw voice gasp. "Dean... God, no... Dean..."

He heard footsteps racing up the stairs and rushing down the hall as his hands came up to his head and he began to rock back and forth with each body-racking sob.

"Deuce... Deuce, please. Please. Oh my God. Oh my... Dean, Kiddo...you can't... you're not..."

He was barely aware of the words as they came out of his mouth. All he could see was his little brother limp in the driver's seat of a 1967 Chevy Impala, blood running down his face and a handgun fallen at his feet.

"No. Deuce, you can't... oh my... Dean, Dean, please. Please, no..."

"Caleb!" He realized that it definitely wasn't the first time his name had been said, opened his eyes and saw his father kneeling on the carpet in front of him, his eyes wide and worried.

"Caleb, Son, look at me," Mac was saying now, obviously struggling to keep his voice steady. "Deep breaths. You're okay. It was just a vision."

Caleb's eyes squeezed shut again as water continued to flow down his face. "No. No, it wasn't a... Deuce... oh my God, Deuce..."

"It was a vision about Dean," Mac pressed. "We can call him, make sure he's okay. Everyone's going to be okay. Just breathe, Caleb."

"He's... he's on the phone," the younger man gasped, eyes open again and desperately bearing into his father's. "Or he was... he was before... oh my..."

He barely turned away in time to miss the doctor as he emptied his stomach onto the carpet.

Carefully, determined not to startle him, Mac's hands found his back and one of his arms, gently guiding him to his feet and away from the pile of vomit. "Son, no one's on the phone. Your phone is right here, it's closed."

He picked up the device from the top of his dresser and pressed it into his hand. Indeed, it was closed.

He must have closed it by accident.

He'd hung up on Dean as he died.

The thought took every ounce of strength out of his legs and he fell, only kept off of the ground by Mac catching his entire weight as he lurched forward with another sob.

With gentle strength like only he could, Mac pushed him back onto his bed, supporting him in a sitting position so he didn't collapse forward onto his legs.

"Look, Caleb," he said steadily, opening the phone and navigating to his call history. "The last time you called Dean was two weeks ago."

Caleb stared at the screen dully. He was right. There wasn't a call since the one he'd made to Mac to let him know he was an hour out.

How was that possible?

Why had he flown off of the bed?

He'd been standing up, steadied against the wall, as he talked to Dean.

Maybe... maybe it was...

"Call him," he choked out. "Please."

Mac nodded quickly, queuing the call before once again pressing the phone into his hand as his own returned to their positions on his back and arm, the former rubbing gently.

"You're okay," he affirmed quietly. "We're all okay."

Caleb was shaking as he raised the phone to his ear.

Dean's phone was unavailable.

So he was using it.

So maybe...

He pressed call again.

It was ringing this time.

This seemed...

"I'm sorry."

Caleb gasped, lurching forward under the weight of utter relief, at the sound of the boy's voice, no matter how broken it was or how obvious it was that he'd been crying.

"Hey," he managed, his voice trembling. "Hey, there you are, Kiddo. What... what are you sorry for? Are you okay? Are you... are you hurt?"

"I'm bleeding."

The memory of a dark and blurry vision of the kid with a knife in hand and a fresh cut on his wrist burned in his mind.

"Yeah." He closed his eyes, his free hand coming up to his forehead. "Yeah, I saw that. How... how bad is it? You need to go to the hospital?"

"No."

Something felt very, very wrong.

"You sure?"

"No point."

His jumbled mind realized it like a ton of bricks on his chest.

"Why?" Words were coming out of his mouth without him even really thinking about them. "Dean, I need you to talk to me, Man. I need you to tell me what's going on."

Vision it had been, but now that terrible, terrible vision was coming true.

"I'm really sorry, Caleb." Shaking voice losing its battle against tears. "Really, really sorry."

"Deuce, listen to me." Water was still freely running down Caleb's own face. "I'm right here. We will find Sammy. I will not let your dad lay a finger on you, I swear I won't. But you can't do this."

"It's not your fault." Just like before, he went on like Caleb hadn't said anything. "Please don't blame yourself, Damien."

"Kiddo, please. Please." He swallowed down another wave of sickness. "You've gotta put the gun down. I'm here to help you. I'm right here, Deuce. You don't have to deal with this alone."

"I can't." The same desperately broken sob. "I can't do this again, Caleb! I... I... I'm sorry. I just... I can't. I can't."

Caleb understood the feeling.

"Dean." He found his feet and started to pace, eyes pressed closed, trying to see the boy, trying to get any clue, any olive branch, anything that would stop this film before the terrible, terrible ending. "Dean, everything is going to be okay. I promise you. I will make it okay, Kiddo. You just gotta put the gun down."

He saw his best friend, sobbing with his head on the Impala's steering wheel, blood running down his wrist, a handgun resting between wheel and chin, safety off, finger tight on trigger.

Forced himself to not break it by sobbing.

"Please find Sammy. Make sure he's okay."

He was in a parking lot. Cop cars. A police station.

"Dean, we are gonna find Sammy together, you hear me? He needs you, Man. I need you. Everything will be okay if you just hang on."

There was a piercing screech in his ears and his head felt like it had a knife in it, but he kept his eyes pressed shut, desperately searching for the last piece of the puzzle.

"I can't do it," he heard Dean sob on the other side of the ringing in his ears. "Not again. I can't, Damien."

Goshen Town Police.

Goshen was in New York. Population around five thousand, a college town, old and a hotbed of supernatural activity.

"You don't have to, Dean, not like this," he answered the boy desperately. "I'm gonna be right there, and I am not gonna leave, not again. God, Deuce, maybe not ever."

He came out of the vision at last, but it took the last of the strength out of his legs, and he found himself on his knees on the carpet once more, looking up desperately at his father, who had been watching and listening with growing anxiety on his face. "Call Goshen Town Police," he hissed, voice shaking. "Tell them there's a kid in their parking lot about to shoot himself in his... his '67 Impala."

Mac paled further, turning immediately to rush to the corner of the room, where Caleb's computer was turned on to the page of emails he hadn't had the energy to do anything more than stare at and then walk away. Keyboard clicked as he looked up the number, digging into his pocket for his own cell phone.

"I'm gonna hug you so tight, Kiddo," Caleb choked into the cell phone. "And I'm gonna be there in just a couple hours. I promise you everything is going to be okay. I've got you, Deuce. Please. Please, just hold on."

"Caleb..." His voice was so small and so utterly broken. "I can't. I... I'm sorry, but I can't."

Mac was speaking quickly into his own phone.

"Yes you can, Deuce. I know you can." He desperately wiped the water back from his eyes, his hand still trembling. "You're a fighter, Kiddo. The best I know. And I know you're sick of fighting, I know, but I just... I need you to do it one more time, Dean. I know it's not fair, but please, it's gonna get better. I'm gonna make it get better."

"I'm sorry, Damien." That voice, that voice that was exactly like the voice he'd heard for the first time when he finally got the broken little kid at Jim's farm to talk.

"Deuce!" He could not let him say the next, last thing. "You are not gonna pull that trigger! You hear me? You are worth a whole hell of a lot more than throwing your life away because your brother's a punk and your dad's a bastard! You're better than that, Kiddo. Than all of this!"

"Caleb, I have one job!" Dean sobbed. "One! Since I was four! And I screw it up over, and over, and over again, and I... I can't... I can't keep..."

"That's what I'm saying, Man. You're more than just a nanny and bodyguard for your little brother! I know you don't think you're worth anything past that, but you are, Deuce!"

"That's not..." Dean stopped short, swearing sharply.

Caleb's heart dropped in his chest. "Dean? Dean! Talk to me, Kid, tell me what's going on!"

He heard noise in the background, but he couldn't tell what it was.

"Caleb." He sounded so small. "Caleb, the cops, they're... they're here and I... I can't..."

Suddenly, Caleb had a moment of doubt for calling in the authorities. Dean had a gun, even if it was turned on himself. What if they shot him?

"Tell me what they're doing, Deuce. I'm here to help you, okay?"

"They want me to roll down the window."

"They have guns?"

"Not like... up."

"Do it. They're trying to help you, Kiddo."

"Damien, I can't..."

"Yeah, you can. One step at a time. Just roll down the window."

There was a long pause. He heard voices, but he couldn't distinguish words.

"Talk to me, Deuce."

"They want me to put the gun down."

"They sound pretty smart."

"But..."

"Dean." He took a deep, shaky breath. "Trust me. You trust me?"

A long hesitation. "I think you might be the only person I trust, Damien."

Caleb blinked back a fresh round of tears. "Yeah? Then you know I'm looking out for you, don't you?"

"Yeah, but..."

"I wouldn't steer you wrong, Deuce. I wouldn't."

"But..."

"Just put it down. Safety on, nice and slow, on the seat next to you."

"They'll lock me up, Damien. I can't... I can't..."

"No one's gonna lock you up, Dean, not so long as I'm around. I promise. Just put it down."

"But you're not here!" The words tore apart the deepest part of Caleb's heart.

How could he have left?

"I know," he choked out. "I know, and I am so, so sorry, Deuce. But I'm gonna be. I'm in New York just like you, and I will be there before you know it. I will be on my way the minute I know you're safe."

"But Dad..."

"Is not gonna hurt you. I swear to you, I will not let him hurt you. You're the only person I can't protect you from, Kiddo. So help me out. Please. Just put it down."

"Caleb..." It was all he could manage, the word ending in a particularly broken sob.

"I'm right here. I've got you. Trust me. Just trust me."

He heard a click and stopped breathing. A pause.

"Please get here."

"You put it down?"

"Yeah." He was crying harder than ever. "Just, please, Damien, please come..."

"I'm coming, Kiddo." He was sobbing too. "I will be there in two hours."

"I... I... I don't know what to do! I don't... I don't..."

"You don't have to. Just stay with the cops and wait for me to get there. Can you give one of them the phone?"

Dean didn't say anything, but after a moment, a different voice reached him from the other line.

"Officer Adams."

"Can I trust you with him?"

"Yes, Sir," the cop confirmed. "Thank you for talking him down. He's safe with us."

"He better be. I'm coming to get him, but I'm in the city, so I'm over an hour out."

"He'll be here when you get here."

"Will you put him back on?"

"Of course."

"Damien?"

"You like Officer Adams?"

A hesitation. "Yeah. He helped me look for Sam."

"That's great, Kiddo. Stay with him. I'll be there soon."

"Alright." A shuddering breath. "Just get here, Damien, please."

"I will, Deuce."

The line went dead. Caleb folded in on himself and sobbed.

Couldn't resist, but we also know I'm not hardcore enough to leave it that way. Thank you all for your amazing comments... please keep them coming. Love you.

- Line