Chapter Text
"I know this is hard, Dean, after what happened with your father. But you have to understand, people want to help." Dean scoffed, the most sound he would make, and continued to stare at his sketch book, looking at the faint outline of an angel he drew. Why did he have to come here every week? He was fine, his father... his father was in the past, he wasn't even alive. "Dean, please, you haven't spoken a word since last year..." Dean shrugged as a response, making the angel's wings torn and bloody, his halo broken. What was there to say? Dean hadn't been there, it was his fault. He should have been there. "Sam's death was not your fault, you should know that," Death. Dean hated the word. That word could not describe Sam. Sam was everything, he was above cliques and labels. He took everything in stride and, most importantly, was Dean's brother. That was probably the only label anyone could put on the kid. The little brother of Dean Winchester. If you messed with him, you were basically signing a death warrant. So how could you limit him to such a dark, simple word as 'dead'? He was never actually dead, not even when he would see Dean dripping blood everywhere with a black eye, not when he was pushed into the TV stand by his own father, and not when he saw their father slowly killing himself with alcohol. He was always smiling, always happy, he hung out with friends. 'Dead' could not define him, he always had life shining in him. Until the day Dean came home and saw his father sitting on the couch, a gun pressed to his own head, looking as though he really wanted to pull the trigger. It freaked Dean out, it really did. He didn't know what had caused it. But then he saw Sam's pale body, his eyes blank, and he wasn't moving. He didn't move when Dean shook him, or when Dean pleaded for him to open his eyes. Dean heard the gun shot behind him, but he was just trying to get Sam to wake up, god damn it!
But, after all that, after Dean raising Sam... Their drunk father had to ruin it all. He already ruined Dean's life, why did he have to mess with Sam's. What gave him the right to take Sam's life away? What gave him that power? Why wasn't Dean there? What force of evil wanted his father to get just a little too rough with Sammy? Yes, Dean was used to the beatings and whippings and the knives, but he kept Sam away from that. He didn't deserve that, he deserved more than the dingy apartment they lived in and PB&J sandwiches made from Dean's meagre salary. But, John had to ruin that, he couldn't let Sammy see the good things in life, could he? He couldn't let Sam get married, he couldn't let him grow up. He couldn't let him live. Dean transferred his anger onto the paper, putting a face on the angel, making him look angry. Angry at God, was what Dean was shooting for. For letting all these terrible things happen. Murders, rape, abuse, and Sam...
Dean wishes it was him, oh god, how much he wished it. Sam would get over it, eventually, get a proper education, be the one living with their surrogate uncle, and be free of their father. "Dean? Dean, are you okay?" Dean got brought back by the sound of his therapist's voice, but still was looking at the sketch. He nodded and noticed his breath was coming out shallowly, the memories plaguing his mind controlling his breathing. He evened it out and glanced at the clock, 5 more minutes and he would be out of this hell. He'd go back to Bobby's and lock himself in his room, mentally preparing himself for the coming week, continuing to draw. He'd be going to a new school in a new state. One without Sam or Lucifer or any of his old friends... The first time he'd go to school without Sam by his side. The first time he wouldn't get into pointless fights just because someone had the audacity to pick on his brother.
"Dean... I think that wraps this up. I think I want to start seeing you twice a week, would that be okay?" No, no it wouldn't. Dean didn't need help, getting help was admitting weakness, Dean couldn't do that. But he had to acquiesce, or she would think something more was going on. Truthfully, something else was going on. Dean's thinning, withering frame and dead eyes screamed that. But he wouldn't tell anyone, that was a weakness, he was trained not to show weaknesses. He didn't need help. So he shrugged and nodded, standing up and watched as she followed. He closed his sketchbook, making sure not to let her see it, as it would probably make her more worried. He opened the door and started to walk down the long hallway, pulling his black sweater sleeves over his hands, knowing that his therapist was getting suspicious of his long sleeves, as he had worn them all summer. He wasn't self-harming, of course, he would never admit to being that messed up. He just didn't like people staring at him, and wearing sweaters that covered him and hung off him felt safe. He felt like everyone was looking at him, and could read the abuse and insecurity, and his whole list of problems just from glancing at him. Logically, he knew it was impossible, but it was still a thought. He hugged the sketchbook close to his chest, gripping it tightly, as though it was a life line.
He opened the door at the end of the hallway, nodding at his uncle and leaned against the wall by the exit. He laid his head against the wall, knowing Bobby and Hannah, his shrink, would be talking for a while. About if Dean was making progress and if he was talking and appointment times, along with his long sleeves. Bobby had been very worried about them, but, as expected, Dean didn't say anything, just showed him his arms. But, that probably made him more worried as he now didn't have any theory on why Dean was wearing the sleeves. He sighed and rubbed his hand over his face, the many sleepless nights catching up to him. He was almost 17, most kids his age would wish for more sleep. Truth be told, Dean did too, but the nightmares burned into his eyelids wouldn't go away. He mostly just stayed awake until exhaustion took over, and then his dreams were mostly dark abysses. He was thankful for that.
Bobby walked over to him about 20 minutes later and gestured that it was time to leave. Dean nodded and kicked off the wall, following his uncle to his old pickup truck, the chipping paint looking like it was done forever ago. Which, Dean guessed, it was. He climbed in, flinching at the loud closing of the doors. It reminded him of leaving motels at 3 in the morning, of the Impala's doors slamming shut, of Sammy sleeping in the backseat, and trying to get his dad to pull over because he was drunk. God, why did everything have to revolve around that point in his life?! Dean knew it wasn't as simple as telling yourself you don't want to think about that stuff, and it magically happens. But, why did everything have to remind him of the abuse, or of Sam? He was getting very tired of it, and he put his head against the window, letting the coolness ground him in the present. He couldn't let this break him, Sam wouldn't want that. But, truth be told? It already had. And he was not dealing with it well. When his father broke him, when he whipped and carved, Dean always picked up his broken pieces and put himself back together. If not to keep himself sane, for Sam.
Dean practically ran to his room as they entered the rusty old house Bobby lived in. He did not want to have the conversation they always had after Dean saw his shrink. He didn't want Bobby to try and coax him to talk, or to show him his sketch book or the reason for his sleeves or any of his damn problems. Dean sighed in relief as he shut his door behind him, this was his safe space. The outside world didn't affect him here. But, then again, it did. The memories of Sam's dull eyes, and his blood spreading around his head like some sort of twisted halo. The memories of trying to get him to wake up, and turning around, and seeing his father's blood decorating the walls. He shook his head, scrunching his nose at the warmness on his cheeks, really hoping it wasn't tears. Of course, it was. He was just relieved that he hadn't cried in front of Hannah. He had never done that, and it would raise a bunch more questions from her. He sighed and opened to the angel, kind of proud of his sick creation. It looked good and might go into his portfolio for college. It was demented, but no artist could deny it was decently done.
Dean didn't have much confidence, but he did know he was a fairly good artist. A lot of people had called him extremely talented, but that felt too much like a stretch to him. He walked over and sat on the bed that Bobby had bought for him, but that he rarely used because it was too comfortable. He sat down on the edge, and opened to a new page, just starting to draw, not know necessarily what he was drawing. After about 20 minutes, it occurred to him. It was an outline of a body, the body marred with scars and bruises. Behind the body was pure darkness and wispy little hands reached out, scratching and pulling the body closer to the darkness. Dean immediately closed the book, knowing what he had drawn. He'd drawn himself. He'd drawn his demons and all the scars that he wouldn't allow anybody to see. He sighed and closed his eyes, getting up and sitting on the ground leaning against the bed frame. God, why couldn’t he be normal? Why was his life so royally screwed? Why did Sam's life get taken away from him so soon?
Dean sat there for a while until Bobby came into his room, not surprised to see that Dean was on the floor with a blank expression on his face. "Hey, buddy, I gotta go to work for a couple hours. You going to be okay?" The brunette didn't look away from the wall, but offered a nod to let the other man he had heard him, and that he would indeed, be okay. Or, at least as okay as he ever could be. After Sam and his father, Dean didn't think he would ever actually be okay again. But he could put on a mask, he could pretend. He didn't need Bobby worrying about him, the man already had his demanding job as the police chief. He had already explained to Dean that after school, Dean was to stop by there and do his homework and whatever else within Bobby's office. Dean thought that was absolutely ridiculous, but Bobby and his Shrink had apparently agreed that it was a good idea, and would be beneficial to Dean. He heard Bobby close the door as he walked out to go to his job, leaving Dean alone in the big, empty house. It was so silent, more silent than it had ever been with Dean. For some reason, he always had music playing when Bobby left, and now he wished that he had put it on before the man left. The silence was deafening, but Dean couldn't get himself to stand up. The depression and anxiety weighing down on him made it hard to do much of anything. He calculated in his head how long he could just sit there without breathing or anything of the sort. But then his brain reminded him of the damage that could do, and he decided to forego that.
He sat there for the next few hours, with only the silence that was also somehow pounding inside his head, and his own screaming thoughts. He could usually channel the thoughts out, all the you're not good enough's and you were a mistake's, but this time he couldn't. God, he hated the silence. He hated the phantom weight on his chest and legs that prevented him from getting up and putting on music or drawing or doing anything really. All he could do was stare blankly at the wall and listen to his damaging thoughts, the words beating him down and bringing him up again, just to repeat the process. He stayed like that until he heard the door open again, and he knew Bobby was home. He knew that the first thing Bobby would do is check on him. He would be worried if he saw Dean in the same position, not even moved an inch, but he'd found Dean in worse states, so Dean didn't make any effort to move. Though, he wasn't sure he would succeed if he did try. The ache and weight inside of him didn't go away. If anything, it grew. The door to his room opened slowly and quietly, probably as to not wake him if he was by some chance asleep. Bobby peaked into his room and sighed as he saw Dean. "Are you alright?" At that, Dean shrugged. What was the correct answer? Yes, he was alright. He wasn't physically hurt, there were no more beatings or protecting Sammy or anything like that.
But the weight was just so heavy and he couldn't control it and couldn't make it go away and all he could do was sit there, and was that anyone definition of okay? Feeling so numb and tired that you couldn't even move? But still being glad that you were unharmed in any physical way? Was it just Dean that felt like this, but still didn't feel inherently bad? Just numb and tired and like he just wanted to sit there until he died? The train of thought was cut off by Bobby laying his hand on Dean's shoulder, looking at him with a worried expression. "Dean, are you okay?" The weight holding his head down, and only looking at the wall lifted up, and Dean was left wondering if the weights on the rest of his body were going to go anywhere soon. He nodded stiffly, hoping Bobby would get the message and leave him alone. "Alright, son, I'm going to go to bed. Make sure to get some rest. Your first day of school is in four days, remember?" Dean nodded stiffly again, not moving any other places of his body. Bobby sighed and got out of the kneeling position he was in, walking out of Dean's door with a single worried backwards glance.
Dean took in a deep shaky breath, willing himself to not have a panic attack. You can do this, you can do this, you can do this, you can do this, you can do this...