word count: 3,670

tw: suicidal ideation, depression, nightmares, trauma

notes: I go off on Wattpad and its uniform trashy bad boy romances til I'm blue in the face, but you could say the same thing about me and my uniform 10-56aing and so on an so forth. Thank you guys for reading a hundred different versions of the same premise (which is everyone wants to die) and crying every time because every once in a while I think about my stories and am like dang sometime I should expand my horizons people must be sick of my depressing niche. Anyway. Onto the chapter.

Dean had put Sammy to bed shortly after he'd returned from church with Jim and Mackland. He readied himself as well and settled in for the night, but he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. He couldn't stop thinking about Caleb and the way he'd been staring at that gun when Dean walked into the kitchen.

Was there a monster around that the adults weren't telling him about? If there was, he should know, so that he would be able to keep an extra close watch over Sammy. He would've gone to church if he'd known there was danger... simply because he wouldn't be letting the four-year-old out of his sight if that was the case.

But Dean was almost more afraid that a monster wasn't the reason for the gun. Afterall, he'd seen no salt rings or demon traps. If there was danger, surely Caleb would have taken those precautions, not just gotten out a gun. Dean couldn't quite grasp what it was he feared if that was the case, but he knew it was very, very not good.

He wasn't used to worrying about Damien. He was so big and strong, and he was always there when Dean was afraid or sad. He worried about Dean, not the other way around.

But he'd seemed... sad for the entire visit. Like he was trying not to be, but he couldn't help it. Dean knew how that felt. He always tried to be strong and happy for Sammy and Dad, even when he was sad or lonely or scared. But Caleb was always there to make everything feel okay for a little while. Who was there to do that for Caleb?

The eight-year-old had been lying in bed for well over an hour, and he suddenly couldn't take it anymore. Careful to be quiet so he didn't wake Sammy, the boy stood up and crept over to the door, easing it open and shut behind him before softly descending the stairs.

The living room was dark except for the lamp next to the couch where Mac was sitting, reading a thick, heavy book. The doctor was the only one present, something Dean had been hoping for.

He looked up as the boy entered the room, offering up a small smile though his brow creased a little in uncertainty.

"Hey, Dean. What're you doing out of bed?"

"I couldn't sleep," he replied softly, his gaze timid as he hoped not to get scolded.

Mac nodded a little before using his head to invite him to the empty spot next to him. "Everything okay?"

Dean bit his lip, not answering as he crossed the room and crawled up onto the couch, staring ahead and debating whether or not to tell the doctor. He didn't want Damien to be angry with him.

Curiosity had turned to a little worry on Mac's face. He set aside the book he'd been reading and looked down at the boy beside him with his full attention.

"What is it, Dean? You can tell me."

The young hunter chewed on his lip for another long moment, but he couldn't get rid of the sick feeling in his stomach whenever he thought about what he'd seen in the kitchen earlier that evening.

"I'm worried about Caleb."

Mac's brow knit further at the confession. "Why? Did something happen while we were gone?"

"Not exactly," Dean mumbled, his eyes dropping to the couch beneath him.

"Not exactly?"

Dean shrugged a little, not looking up.

"Dean," Mac said after a moment, his voice gentle. "If there's something you think I should know, you can tell me. Caleb is my son and I love him. You can trust me."

"I don't want him to be mad at me," the boy admitted quietly, chewing on his lip once more in an attempt to fight back the tears which were suddenly threatening him.

Mackland nodded a little. "I understand that. But sometimes when you care about someone, the best thing for them might make them angry at first." He hesitated before adding, "And Caleb's pretty fond of you, Kiddo. It'd be hard for you to make him angry."

Another long moment of quiet stretched between them.

"He had a gun." The words came out suddenly, so softly it would have been easy to miss them, surprising Dean even as he was the one to utter them.

Mac's eyes widened, worry now turning to more blatant fear. "What?"

"He... he wasn't doing anything with it." A tear escaped his defenses and slid down his face. "But it was on the counter and he was just... looking at it. He didn't know I was in the room. Then I asked him what he was doing, and he said he was cleaning it and got distracted. But he didn't have any cleaning supplies. And when I asked him again while we were watching the hockey game, he just said not to worry about it. That he wouldn't have had it out if he'd known I was home."

The boy wiped angrily at the water that he was mortified to realize was now freely flowing down his face.

"I didn't think he was going to hurt me or anything, but I thought maybe there was a monster around, or... or I don't know. He just seems sad, and I... he always makes me feel better, and I tried to make him feel better, but I'm not as good at it as he is."

Even if he was crying now and couldn't stop, admitting everything lifted a heavy weight off the boy's chest. Mac would know what to do.

"Dean." The doctor laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed a little, bringing his gaze up again. "You were right to tell me, and I'm very proud of you. Okay? You're really young to have to make a decision like that, but you made the right one."

Dean swallowed hard, still struggling to stop crying. "Is he gonna be mad at me?"

Mackland hesitated. "He might be, at first," he admitted at last. "But I don't think he will. Not really. I just think he's a little scared right now. And even if he is, you did the right thing, and he'll see that given a little time."

"I didn't think Damien was scared of anything," the boy replied, his voice small.

Mac managed a small, sad smile. "Everyone's scared of something. People are just good at hiding it around people they want to protect. Like you hide it from Sammy when you're scared."

The eight-year-old nodded, mumbling, "I guess that makes sense." He hesitated before asking with a final sniffle, "Is he gonna be okay, Mac?"

"He is," the man confirmed, seemingly as much to reassure himself as the child he was speaking to. "I'm gonna make sure. You think you'll be able to sleep now that that's off your chest?"

The boy nodded a little. Suddenly, he was incredibly tired. "I think so."

"Good." Mac patted him on the shoulder one more time before releasing him. "Then I'm gonna let you get back to bed, and if Caleb is still up, I'm gonna go talk to him. Okay?"

Dean nodded again, getting to his feet and making it to the foot of the stairs before turning back to say quietly, "Thanks, Mac."

"Thank you, Dean," the doctor countered. "I mean it... I'm very proud of you. Sleep well."

Dean swallowed hard, trying to make himself believe The Scholar was right and he'd done the right thing, and continued up the stairs.

Mac watched the boy go, feeling his chest tighten a little as he realized the weight of what he'd just told him all over again.

He'd known Caleb was struggling... that was the whole reason they were here. But he'd hoped it wasn't this bad. Of course, he couldn't be sure of the reasoning behind his teenage son having a gun out, but deep down, he thought he knew.

He inwardly berated himself for being so careless in Caleb's easy access to weapons. Of course, in their life, a level of it was necessary. But he'd known the boy was struggling and hadn't thought to even subtly restrict the ease with which he could get his hands on something to hurt himself with. That was a mistake that could have cost him everything if Dean hadn't walked into the kitchen at the right moment.

The doctor felt sick at the fully-formed thought. If he was right about what was going on, he could have lost his son that evening.

He pushed down the panic that threatened to rise inside of him with an effort. He hadn't. He had another chance, and he wasn't going to waste it. He'd been trying to be patient, let Caleb come to him. But if it was really this bad, he had to push a little harder.

So he took a deep breath, breathed a silent prayer for help with the coming conversation, rose to his feet, and ascended the same stairs Dean had disappeared up a few minutes before.

As he'd expected, light was still visible beneath Caleb's door. The teen didn't sleep much these days. He might think he could disappear into his room and Mac wouldn't notice, but even when he did shut off the main light, Mac could usually tell psychically whether he was actually asleep.

The doctor inhaled one last time, let it out slowly, and tapped lightly on the door in front of him. There was a hesitation, a bit of movement somewhere in the room, before Caleb's uncertain voice carried to him.

"Yeah?"

Mac eased the door open and offered his son a small smile. "Just me."

The boy, who was sitting cross-legged on his bed, a book open in front of him, swallowed a little, obviously still confused... and nervous... as to the reason for the visit. "Oh. Hey."

"You have a minute to talk?" Mackland asked, and he saw the anxiety increase on the teenager's face. Regardless, he nodded slightly.

"Sure."

Mac returned the gesture, closing the door behind him and crossing the room to sit down on the end of the bed.

He glanced at the open book and offered up another smile. "Good one."

"Oh. Uh... yeah. Yeah, it's very good."

Mac got the distinct feeling that the teen had grabbed it from his nightstand and opened it to a random page in order to look busy, but he didn't comment further.

Instead, he made a failed attempt to meet his son's eyes before pressing forward anyway. "I was just talking to Dean."

Nervousness turned to fear as Caleb's gaze did finally jerk up to his. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"He okay?"

The doctor managed a small smile at Caleb's relentless care for the boy. "He's fine. Just worried."

"Worried?" The confusion was utterly fake and it wouldn't take a psychic to know it. "About what?"

"About you."

Caleb sighed, obviously realizing he had to give up at least part of the charade. "Look, if he's still freaking out about me cleaning the gun earlier, I swear it was nothing. The poor kid's just a bit paranoid and who can blame him?"

"He said you didn't have anything out to clean it with."

"Yeah, cuz I'd already finished and put it all away," the teen replied, averting his gaze once more. "I just got lost in thought and left the gun sitting there. I didn't realize Dean hadn't gone with you guys or else I wouldn't have been so careless."

The older man exhaled slowly. "Caleb."

"Mac, I swear..."

"Caleb."

The younger hunter bit down hard on his cheek, blinking back tears Mac could see attempting to well in his eyes. It was clear he was frustrated, but contrary to Dean's fears, all of that frustration seemed to be directed at himself.

After a moment of silence, Mac pressed forward since it was clear his son wasn't going to. "I love you," he said quietly, seriously, "There's nothing you can do to change that. You know that, don't you?"

Caleb blinked harder, his face tightening. "Yeah. Of course I do."

"So why are you lying to me?" He made sure to ask the question gently, sad rather than accusatory, but his son's head and shoulders dropped in shame in response to it anyway.

A single tear fought its way past the boy's best defenses and snaked down his cheek. His eyes pressed closed in response to it, his jaw still tight.

Mac reached out, carefully laying a hand on one of the young man's shoulders and squeezing a little. "Son... just let me help you. Please."

The boy shuddered under the weight of the first sob, and Mac quickly closed the distance he'd left between them to wrap both arms around him. Caleb's head dropped into his shoulder, his hands balling around his shirt even as he obviously held himself back from returning the hug.

"I wasn't actually gonna do it."

The assurance was also a confession, admitting what Mac had known deep down, but still broke his heart all over again to hear out loud.

"I swear," the boy continued desperately. "I wasn't... I wouldn't. I just... I'm sorry!" He choked on another sob. "I'm so sorry!"

"You don't have to be sorry, Caleb," Mac told him quietly. "I'm not angry." He hesitated before adding, "If you say you weren't really going to do it, I believe you. I trust you, Son. But I need you to let me help you so it doesn't get any worse."

"But you already did that!" There was anger in the teen's voice, but once again, it was clearly directed at himself, not his father. "You shouldn't have to be dealing with this again!"

And Mac realized the root of the shame which had driven his son to push him away on this for so long.

Caleb saw this as a regression, as insulting to Mac because the last time he'd consistently felt like this, he'd been newly adopted. Fresh out of the trauma of his childhood.

"Caleb." The doctor pulled back, but kept his hands on the teenager's shoulders, squeezing a little to bring his eyes up. "This stuff doesn't work like that, alright? You've been through way more than you ever should have been, and that doesn't go away. And there's no requirements that determine whether or not you have the right to feel like this. Sometimes we just struggle. And I will never, ever be angry with you or disappointed in you because of that. Alright? You don't ever have to be afraid to come to me with this stuff. I'm your father, and I'm here to help you."

The teen's head dropped again, shame still very much present on his face. "But... I just... I don't wanna let you down."

Mackland was only fighting back his own tears to stay steady for his boy. One of his hands moved to the teen's hair, which had been due for a trim before they left and was now significantly longer than he usually wore it, combing through it gently.

"Caleb, I am so proud of you," he told him, a little moisture choking his voice. "You can't let me down, even when you try."

He did try sometimes... less now than when Mac first took him in, but he hadn't bucked the habit completely. Whether it was drinking or smoking or breaking curfew or anything else, he'd try something against the rules every so often, see what his father would do. Try to force his hand into giving up on him.

But when he was met with a hand out of the messes he got himself into and quiet disappointment that nevertheless affirmed Mac's love and pride for him instead, he never ceased to look at him like he couldn't believe he was still there before ashamedly apologizing and surrendering himself to the consequences.

That was the expression in his eyes now as they slowly came back up to Mac's, searching for any sign that the doctor was lying to him. Mac knew he was reading him as well, but he welcomed it. He had nothing to hide when it came to how he felt about the boy in front of him.

Finally, he looked away again, shaking his head a little. "You don't make any sense."

He'd stopped crying, but his voice was still choked with the moisture of the past few minutes.

Mac managed a bit of a smile. "Love rarely does, Son."

Caleb chewed on the inside of his cheek for a long moment before asking, "You're not gonna send me to a shrink, are you?" He tried to say it lightly, but his voice came out small and there was genuine fear in his eyes.

The older man sighed a little. "No. Of course not."

He was a strong believer in professional help done right, but it had been done so wrong for Caleb in the past that he knew the trauma there would still be too great and overwhelm any good it might do.

"So what are you gonna do?" Caleb asked, still undeniably fearful.

"Well," Mackland said carefully, "For starters, I'm gonna make sure you don't have guns to stare at while no one else is around."

His son took a breath, but he held up a hand to stop him, predicting what he was going to say.

"I know you weren't going to do it. But I don't want you to have such an accessible temptation anymore."

The boy's shoulders dropped in defeat, but he nodded a little, picking at the comforter he was sitting on.

"But mostly," the doctor continued gently, "I'm gonna hope you start talking to me, Caleb. When you feel like that, come to me. Even if you know you won't really do it. The urge is easier to overcome if you're not fighting it alone."

Caleb was chewing on his cheek again, his face tight with emotion.

There was a long moment of silence before Mac ventured, "Can you tell me what was going on this evening? Why you were thinking about it?"

There was another long pause before the teenager finally gave in. "I just... I keep having these dreams, Dad," he said softly. "Like... everytime I sleep. And what exactly happens or who it is varies, but it's always... someone talking about the... the demon blood and everything and I just... I feel like a monster." The last part came out a whisper which shattered every part of Mac's heart.

He maintained his outward composure with an effort, his eyes fixed on his son's face as he went on.

"And like... I know we have to kill werewolves and everything I... I've heard the speech a thousand times. But I... I can't get that lady's face out of my head, you know? So then I keep hearing that I'm a freak, that I'm no better than the stuff I kill, and then I remember that I... I killed a person. And I've helped kill a lot more than that. If she deserved to die, then maybe... maybe I'm just a demon spawn who deserves to die too. And everything hurts so much sometimes that... it doesn't sound so bad, anyway."

Mac had known that first human kill had weighed heavily on his son... he'd been none too pleased by the way it had all gone down... but he hadn't realized how heavy that burden still was all these months later. He and John and Jim and Bobby had all tried to ease his mind... like he'd said, he'd heard all the reasons why it was the right thing a hundred times by now... but they couldn't talk him out of the emotions that came with that.

So he spared him a rehashing of the same old explanation, saying instead, quietly, "I'm sorry, Son. I'd never want you to have to go through any of that."

Caleb shrugged a little, his eyes still attached to the bedspread. "'It's not your fault."

"Can I speak into it anyway?"

There was nothing he wanted to do more than counteract the lies his son was believing about himself, but if the boy just wanted to be heard, if he didn't want anyone's two cents on the hell in his mind, he would respect that.

However, Caleb just repeated the shrug, a silent permission for him to say whatever he wanted to.

"You're not a monster, Caleb," Mac began steadily. "You're not the same as the people we have to take. If someone had a little werewolf blood in their veins, but wasn't hurting anyone, we would never touch them. Your blood doesn't define you... your heart does. And your heart is good, Son. If it wasn't, we wouldn't be having this conversation. You wouldn't have given that woman a second thought. I hate that you have to feel like this, but the fact that it weighs on you should assure you you're not what those voices in your head are saying you are."

"So why won't they shut up?" the question came out choked with a fresh rush of tears.

"I don't know." Mac reached out once more, fingers combing through the boy's hair again before he settled his hand to cradle his head. "Sometimes our minds just..." He shook his head a little before offering, "But I think I know of some teas, some herbs, that you can drink before you sleep. They should help with the dreams. And if you ever need to hear a friendly voice, all you have to do is come to me or yell for me, and I will be there."

Caleb nodded a little, his eyes tightly shut against the water fighting its way out of them, unconsciously leaning into his father's hand.

Mac pulled him into himself in another hug. "We'll get through this, Son," he assured softly as the boy melted into him. "Together."