word count: 1,515

tw: blood/injury, suicide reference

notes: final part to the first installment. dean and caleb are my everything.

Caleb woke up to sunlight on his face, streaming in from the window beside his bed. He opened his eyes slowly, a little confused. He wasn't used to waking up after sunrise. Usually, a dream had convinced him it wasn't worth it to go back to sleep long before now.

But then he thought back on the night and realized with a bit of wonder that he didn't remember waking up once. He remembered the conversation with Mac that made his chest ache just thinking about it. He remembered crying into him for a good long while, and then drinking the tonic he fixed before being lulled toward sleep like he was three-year-old Sammy, to the sound of his father's voice reading The Three Musketeers.

He didn't know if it was Mac's calming presence as he went to sleep or the tonic he'd given him or just some fluke, but this was the first nightmare-free night he'd had in several weeks.

The boy sat up slowly, his mind turning over that conversation once more. He still hated that his dad knew, he really did. But at the same time, it was a heavy relief. As ashamed as he still was, the weight on his back felt a little lighter, and the anxiety about this being the final straw had, no matter how unbelievably, been forcibly dispelled.

A thought hit him, and he rolled over and reached under his mattress. Just as he'd expected, the place where he usually kept his glock was empty. He'd bet the large hunting knives he kept tucked around the room were gone too. He didn't like it, but he couldn't argue with it. He'd been the idiot staring at a handgun in the kitchen and walking himself straight into all of this.

He wondered if he'd asked Dean not to tell anyone, if the kid would have listened. Probably. But he couldn't regret not putting him in an even tighter bind than he already had. Guilt for the decision he'd forced the boy to make... a kind many adults struggled with, much less eight-year-old children... was already eating at him hard.

He stumbled through the shower before heading downstairs. He found a plate of breakfast left in the oven to stay warm, but the kitchen and living room were empty of other people. When he poked his head out the back door, he could hear voices carrying on the breeze from the direction of the barn. He'd go see what they were all working on after he'd eaten.

He'd just about finished when he heard the door creak open again. He knew it was Dean before he came into sight, and could instantly feel that the boy was nervous.

When the kid did appear a moment later, Caleb gasped in a sharp breath, on his feet in an instant. There was dark blood flowing from one hand, clenched close to Dean's chest but not so close he'd bleed on his shirt.

"Deuce! What happened to you?"

Dean, who'd been looking down at the injury, jerked his head up with a little panic in his eyes. "Damien? I... uh... nothing. It's fine!"

Caleb scoffed a little as he crossed to where the boy was standing and pulled his hand out to inspect. "No. Good try though, Kiddo."

He hissed painfully as he took in the semi-circle gash on the heel of his palm.

"Ouch. How'd you manage this, huh? And where are Jim and Mac?"

He used one hand to guide Dean down the hall and into the bathroom as he asked the questions, the other maintaining its hold on the injured area.

"The latch on the tack stall sometimes sticks, and I was supposed to be getting something for Pastor Jim," Dean explained, his head down and his voice ashamed. "I yanked on it too hard and it came up into my hand. I didn't tell them because I didn't want to get in trouble."

"You wouldn't have been in trouble for getting hurt, Deuce," Caleb sighed as he lifted him up onto the counter and opened the medicine cabinet to dig for supplies. "You seem to forget you're just a kid. You've gotta grab an adult sometimes... profusely bleeding hands included."

"But I've cleaned myself up before," Dean argued, still not looking up at the older boy. "And I wasn't being careful enough."

Reaves knew he was just parroting his father there... repeating after a hundred, "You've got to be more careful!"s that came from a place of concern and love but just sounded to the kid they were directed at like yelling.

"Accidents happen," the teenager assured him as he wet a washcloth and pressed it over the injury. "I'd bet you just about anything that neither Jim or Mac woulda even thought about being mad at you about this. But they're probably gonna worry when they realize you're not out there anymore."

"Oh."

If Sammy disappeared, I'd freak out.

He deflated even more with the thought, which had come through crystal clear to Caleb without him even trying.

"I'm sorry."

The older boy exhaled a little, Dean's insistence on blaming himself tearing at his heart. "You don't have to be sorry, Deuce," he said quietly as he located the hydrogen peroxide and uncapped it. "But you don't have to do everything by yourself, you know?"

Dean didn't answer that one outloud, but Caleb once again picked up on his thoughts instead.

That's only while we're here. When we're not, and Dad's not around, I have to be strong. Like Dad and Damien. For Sammy.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek while he considered how to best get through to the boy. "This is gonna sting a bit," he warned in the meantime, moving Dean's hand to hover over the sink.

A splash of the clear liquid made the boy visibly cringe, but he didn't verbally comment or complain as Caleb picked up a clean towel and squeezed it around the still-bleeding hand, soaking up the excess.

"Dean," the teenager said finally, "It's good that you wanna take care of your family. But you've gotta stop putting so much pressure on yourself, Kiddo. You're eight. Sometimes it would be good for you to just... be eight."

Dean once again didn't answer, his eyes fixed on the counter he was sitting on. Caleb wouldn't have to be psychic to know he wasn't taking the words to heart.

He chose a large bandaid from an assorted box and carefully smoothed it over the cut. "I think you'll live."

Dean glanced at it. "Thanks." The word was soft and guilty.

Caleb frowned a little as he considered the boy. Something else was going on.

Dean was young and not too experienced at keeping his mental walls up yet, but he was trying now, like he'd caught on to the fact that Caleb was reading him earlier. All he could get without trying to push past them was that the kid was still very convinced he was angry with him.

"I'm not mad at you, Deuce," he said quietly. "Don't know why you think I am."

Dean huffed a little, eyes still down. "I hate it when you do that."

"I know," he sighed. "I'm sorry. But you're acting weird, Kiddo. I wouldn't have to do it if you'd just talk to me."

There was a long moment of silence before the younger boy finally broke.

"I'm sorry I told Mac about the gun." A single tear fought its way down his face. "I just... I was just scared."

He should have known that was what this was about. He'd been so distracted by the bleeding that he'd forgotten all about the incident the day before and the talk with his father which had resulted.

The teenager exhaled slowly. "Dean, listen. You better believe I'm mad about yesterday. But not at you. At me. I put you in a position no kid your age should ever have to be in. I made you make a really, really crappy choice." He hesitated, then added, "And you know what? You made the right one, Man."

Finally, Dean's eyes came up to his. "Really?"

"Really. I may not have liked the talk I had with my dad last night, but you made the decision that looked out for me. I've always thought you're an amazing big brother, but it turns out you're a pretty great younger one, too."

A timid smile found its way to Dean's lips. "Thanks, Damien."

"Hey, thank you, Deuce," he countered. "Really. It's good to know you have my back."

The boy hesitated for a moment before asking quietly, "Are you gonna be okay?"

"So long as I've got family like you, Kiddo," he told him seriously. "I'm gonna be just fine."

The smile on the younger boy's face grew a little as Caleb lifted him off of the counter before running a hand through his hair. "Now, I'm gonna go get you back by telling Jim you cut your hand open and didn't ask for help."