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Dean hated rawheads with a special kind of hatred.
Obviously, he loathed all monsters.
But ones that preyed on children… that, even if the kids survived, put things in their heads they’d never get out, introduced them to a world where shadows and closets and scratches on doors really were to be feared… pedophilic freaks that, most incriminatingly of all, had almost killed his baby brother… he hoped there was a special place in hell reserved for those ones.
He could feel Caleb’s gaze on him as they closed the Jeep’s back hatch, tasers in hand.
“Deep breath, Deuce,” the older hunter said quietly. “We’re gonna get them out.”
Dean didn’t answer, didn’t look his way, just nodded a little and started to turn towards the shambled building in front of them.
“Hey.” A hand on his arm turned him back towards its owner. “Seriously. You good?”
“Yes, Reaves, I’m good!” the seventeen-year-old snapped. “Not gonna lose my head. Just wanna see this thing fried.”
The psychic sighed, but nodded and let him go. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s do it.”
He always turned into a total mother hen during hunts, even more so on occasions like this… when it was just the two of them and he really was in charge. And even more so since that last ill fated rawhead hunt. But it was more than that this time… he’d been hovering and prying since he picked Dean up the day before.
He knew something was up.
No, he thought something was up.
Nothing was.
He was fine.
He shook his head a little, setting his sights on the building and hunt ahead of them. This was exactly what Caleb was worried about… him being in his mind and making a stupid mistake.
Kids were counting on them.
On the rotting porch, he locked gazes with the hunter beside him, they mutually nodded, and Caleb stepped just ahead, pushing what was left of the door aside with his foot, taser trained ahead of him.
The dark, musty house appeared to be empty. They made a quick check around them, but it was unlikely the thing was anywhere but the basement.
It was impossible to be subtle on the stairs, and with each creek they could only hope they didn’t collapse entirely. As much as they could try to get the jump on it, rawhead hunts were seldom stealth missions thanks to their preferred living conditions.
On the lower level, they quickly swept the area with the lights attached to their tasers. Dean’s found the corner closet first. He looked at Caleb and, once again, they each nodded slightly.
Teen advanced quickly as older friend covered his back. He practically ripped the closet door off the second he reached it. Despite knowing exactly what to expect, the two young boys huddled in the far corner still made his stomach drop.
Two shaggy heads of brown hair instantly reminded him far too much of Sam.
“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” he whispered in response to their fearful gazes, dropping down to their level. “We’re here to help. We’re gonna get you out of here.”
“It’ll come back!” the older of the brothers choked out, utter terror in his voice.
“I know,” he confirmed steadily. “It’s okay. We’re not gonna let it hurt you. Just stick with me, alright?”
Hesitantly, the boy nodded, met his younger brother’s eyes, and mouthed, It’s okay .
Once again, Dean’s heart clenched with a special kind of pain.
But he swallowed down the feeling and forced a smile their direction. “Yeah? Okay.” He held out his free hand. “Let’s do it.”
The older brother took the offered hand, allowing Dean to help him to his feet as he did the same for his sibling.
“Get them to the Jeep,” Caleb ordered as he emerged, herding the boys in front of him. “I’ll be there as soon as I’ve cooked fugly.”
Dean nodded, continuing to shield as much of the kids as he could as he ushered them towards the stairs.
The younger’s foot had just found the first step when a screech cut through the silence of the night. Dean turned just in time to see the rawhead lunging at him over a pile of rotted wood. He stepped back, but he was just a second too late. As the creature tripped forward, its teeth latched deep into his shoulder, digging a trench in his arm on its journey to the floor.
Dean heard a strangled cry of pain being torn from his lips as he desperately shoved the older brother further up the stairs. “Go! Get your brother outside!”
Fraternal instinct broke through shock and fear as he knew it would, and the boy began to run, pushing the younger one in front of him.
“Get back, Deuce!” The teen reeled backwards just in time to avoid another lunging attack of the rawhead.
He brought his taser up and pulled the trigger, but the single-handed shot, required thanks to the bleeding, trembling state of his left arm, went wide, and he was left to continue to trip back, a single step ahead of his quarry.
Then, Caleb was between them, a kick to the monster’s chest putting several feet between them so he could level and fire his own taser with infallible steadiness.
Dean barely had time to process the monster’s last screech before he was being herded up the stairs in a very similar picture to the one the children they were there to save had painted moments before.
They didn’t stop until they’d burst out into the night.
In stark contrast to the steady, perfect hunter he’d been downstairs, Caleb’s voice was trembling as he turned Dean to face him.
“You… you okay, Deuce? Did he…” His eyes found his arm, and he blanched. “Oh my… let me see.”
“No.” Dean pulled away from hands pulling at his layers a little too frantically and he knew it, but he recovered quickly. “It’s fine. I’ll patch it up later. Let’s get them home.”
He walked away, to where the boys were huddled next to the Jeep, before the older man could argue, depositing his taser before loading the boys onto the backseat and climbing into the passenger’s himself.
He didn’t look over as his friend got in a moment later, but the psychic didn’t start the car.
“Deuce, are you…”
“I’m sure,” he said before the question had even been fully voiced. Forced his eyes up to Caleb’s for just a second. “Seriously. Them first.”
Caleb sighed heavily, but gave in at long last, nodding a little and finally starting the engine.
The teen turned his own gaze back through the window and focused on not panicking. He had approximately thirty minutes to figure out a way out of the mess he was in.
He didn’t know if it was going to be enough.
Caleb’s back-and-forth with the utterly grateful parents of the boys they’d rescued, arguing over whether or not he’d accept the payment they were shoving at him, gave him an extra ten minutes to consider his problem. It did little good.
As they finally climbed back into their vehicle, for what might have been the first time in his life, he was almost tempted to accept the older man’s offer of a hospital.
If he could get his babysitter out of the room while they treated the wound, he might have to talk to a shrink, but he could handle that. Wouldn’t be the first time. He was pretty sure he was too old for them to tell anyone without his consent.
But his conditioning kicked in before he could take the possible olive branch. This wound wasn’t one that could be easily explained. Could it be explained at all?
Maybe a wild animal. But that would still be utterly suspicious.
Dad would have both of their heads.
So he said no.
And as they pulled into their hotel parking lot, he still had absolutely nothing.
Dean already had approximately four layers on, but Caleb stripped off his own jacket and handed it to him as they headed for the lobby doors. He pulled it on without comment. The problem with Ames-approved lodging in comparison to the Winchester standard was coming in and out bloody was significantly harder to be subtle about, and people were significantly more likely to actually take notice and concern.
They made it upstairs without eye-contact or issue. The door closed behind them, and Caleb pointed to the closer bed in a silent order for the boy to sit down and get the injury visible, already pulling his medical kit out of his duffle.
“I’m just gonna hit the shower,” Dean said without looking at him, already heading for the bathroom. “Clean it up while I’m at it. I’ll stitch it if I need to.”
“ That …” It only took Caleb a few long strides to get in between him and his intended destination. “Is absolutely not going to happen.”
Dean tried and failed to brush past him, still pointedly avoiding his gaze. “Damien, come on, it’s barely worth looking at. Stop making a big deal out of nothing.”
“Nothing?” the psychic scoffed incredulously. “Deuce, that thing tore half your skin off! Sit down. Now .”
It wasn’t often the older man threw around such direct orders, and Dean knew he was in trouble now that he was.
But losing this was not an option.
“Oh my… you are such a girl, Reaves! Just let me handle it! I’m not a kid!”
“No.” He wasn’t even taking the bait and arguing. “Absolutely not.”
Caleb’s hands found his shoulders and turned him around, pushing him ahead of him, back into the main part of the room. At the bed, he was once again turned around and, with sustained firm gentleness, pushed him into a sitting position.
Caleb turned just enough to grab the chair from the desk behind him, pulling it over, grabbing the kit from the bed, where he’d dropped it on his trip across the room, and sitting down without allowing even a moment where Dean could possibly escape.
Then, he leaned forward so their gazes were level. “We’re not playing this game, Bud. Let me see.”
“Damien.” Suddenly, tears were biting at his eyes and all-too-obviously present in his voice. “Please. Please, just… just drop it.”
Worry which had been steadily increasing as the argument wore on broke through to desperate near-panic on his friend’s face. “Deuce, you… you’re okay. Why are you fighting me on this, Man? I’m not gonna hurt you.”
His hands came back up to Dean’s shoulders, squeezing a little before gently beginning to peel back the leather jacket he’d covered the injury with. Dean tried to push him away, but he was starting to shake, and the efforts were useless.
“I know,” he choked out as the water really began to run down his face. “I know, I just… I just can’t, okay?”
He allowed the jacket to be removed completely and set aside, but only because he had another three layers of protection under it. In its absence, he folded his arms in front of him and shuddered away from Caleb.
He would have felt guilty for the utter confusion and concern on his friend’s face if he wasn’t so thoroughly panicking himself.
“Dean…” the psychic’s voice was beginning to shake a little all over again. “Hey. Look at me, Kid.”
Against all of his own will, he obediently slid his stubbornly watering eyes up to the older man’s.
Caleb nodded a little, then carefully reached up and touched Dean’s own torn and bloodied jacket.
“You see this?” he asked quietly. “I know you feel it. I can’t just leave that. I don’t know why you want me to.”
“Because…” he choked and tried again. “Because I just… I just can’t , Damien.”
He sounded pitifully young and he knew it, but couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help anything… couldn’t do a single thing to just make this nightmare stop .
Caleb shook his head a little without releasing his gaze from Dean’s. “What can’t you do? Deuce, you… you’re scaring me, Kiddo.”
The teen allowed his chin to drop to his chest as his eyes snapped shut. He was crying too hard to answer.
There was a long moment of silence, and then he felt his friend carefully pushing at his mental blocks, specifically reinforced for this hunt. He shuddered away physically and mentally, and the older man immediately backed off.
“Hey, hey, I’m sorry, I’ll stop. But I need you to work with me here.”
Carefully, he started to peel back the jacket. Dean tried to pull away again, but his friend didn’t let go.
“You’re fine,” Caleb said softly. “ Hey . You’re fine. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
“Caleb. Caleb, please,” he hated himself for the way he was sobbing. “Please don’t.”
“Don’t what , Dean?” the older man asked desperately as he set the jacket aside.
He froze as a thought seemed to hit him.
“Does he hit you?” The question came out a horrified whisper.
Dean actually looked up, frozen as well. “What?”
“Is… is that what this is?” Caleb pressed, his voice trembling. “Your dad. Does he…” He swallowed hard, took a deep breath. “You hiding bruises, Kid?”
“Does he… no!” the boy furiously wiped at his face even as the tears kept on coming. “No, he… he wouldn’t, Damien! You know that!”
That might change if he found out about what was there.
The frown on his friend’s face persisted. “No? So what are you hiding?”
“Nothing! Just drop it!”
“Deuce, you know I can’t do that,” the psychic sighed painfully. “If that thing gets infected, it could kill you, Man. And… whatever you’re hiding… if you’re this persistent about hiding it…” He spread his hands a little. “I think that probably means I need to know.”
“No!” A fresh wave of utter panic washed over him at the mere thought, and he jerked away again. “You… you can’t!” It was getting hard to breathe or think or speak. “Please… please, Caleb, just… just…”
“Hey.” Hands refound his shoulders, firm and gentle and grounding. “Listen to me, Kid. Whatever it is, whatever… whatever it ever is. I’m right here, and that’s not gonna change.”
The teenager shook his head desperately. “You don’t get it, Damien! You don’t know!”
“Try me,” he countered gently, hands closing around the fabric of his flannel and carefully beginning to strip it off as well. “Just try me.”
Dean was trembling and panicking too thoroughly to even really fight him. All he could do was continue to cry and softly beg, “Stop. Please. Please stop.”
“I’m sorry,” was the equally soft response, rich with remorse and secondhand pain. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Flannel was set aside as well. All he had left was his hoodie and the situationally useless t-shirt underneath.
One hand refound its place on Dean’s shoulder, squeezing softly. “Look at me.”
Once again, Dean obeyed against all of his own will, his terrified gaze pouring into his friend’s. Caleb couldn’t hide the tears which welled in his own eyes as he looked at them.
“We’re gonna do this,” he said quietly. “And we’re gonna do it together. That’s what I’m here for, Man. I’m right here.”
“Please,” Dean tried one last hopeless time.
Caleb didn’t respond directly, asking instead, steady and quiet. “Can you lift your arms?”
Miserably, he nodded, eyes closing against the water still pouring out of them.
“Okay.” One last squeeze before he released his shoulder. “Then lift your arms.”
He did it. He knew he’d lost, and he was tired of fighting.
But as he felt his friend carefully working the hoodie up and over his head, it sank in all over again exactly what was about to happen, and he thought he might empty his stomach into the older hunter’s lap.
He didn’t.
Hoodie came up over his head and, finally, was gently slid off his arms. He opened his eyes with the same sentiment as someone staring at a car accident.
He hated himself for every part of the look on Caleb’s face, but the fact that though utterly heartbroken, it was hardly surprised, may have been the worst part of it.
The older hunter swallowed hard, his knuckles nearly white as they gripped Dean’s hoodie. He blinked rapidly, obviously desperately fighting his need to break down for the teen’s sake.
He cleared his throat. Set the hoodie aside. A miserable attempt at a smile. “That wasn’t so hard, huh?”
Dean’s chin dropped all over again.
Wake up. He had to wake up. This had to be a nightmare, and he had to wake up.
Caleb reached up and folded back his t-shirt sleeve, then chose a rag from the medical kit and moved to the sink to saturate it with water. Seated again, he gently began to dab and wipe at the ugly gash running down the younger hunter’s arm.
After a long moment of tense silence, he swore softly. “I hate those things.”
“Yeah,” Dean agreed without moving. “Me too.”
His friend hummed a little. “You wanna talk about that?”
Now, the younger man did shift, instantly uncomfortable. “About what?”
“You know what, Deuce,” Caleb sighed heavily. “Everything that happened with that last one… that’s traumatic stuff, Man. And I hope you know I didn’t wanna make you… get back on the horse … anymore than you wanted to. I fought Johnny on this one hard. But he wasn’t budging, and I thought at least I’d take you instead of sending you with him.”
“He was right, Damien,” the boy replied defeatedly. “I was just being a wimp. Shouldn’t of fought him on it.”
In reality, he barely had.
Repeating back, “A rawhead?” in an undeniably apprehensive tone after his father had told him about his upcoming hunt with Caleb, then immediately agreeing when reprimanded for that, might count as showing reluctance to follow orders, but not really as fighting them.
Caleb was shaking his head. “Just because military-style love is all you know doesn’t mean it’s best, Kiddo.”
Dean shrugged, winced and regretted it, and looked even further away. “But he was right, wasn’t he? We took care of it. Next time’ll be easier.”
“Yeah,” the older man sighed in a tone that said the opposite. “Said like a true Winchester.”
“I barely even remember any of that crap.”
“Mhmm,” Caleb hummed softly. “And I barely believe you.”
Dean let out a huff, but didn’t answer. It was mostly true. He only remembered the really bad stuff, mostly the emotions around it. Remembered the thing on top of him, the feeling of his tongue on his face. Remembered desperately drawing it away from the kids. Mostly remembered crippling fear when his baby brother got involved. Bits and pieces from the hospital, worrying about Sammy, going on ice. But the majority really was fuzzy at best and blacked out more often than not.
They fell back into silence as Caleb continued his work in the gash. When he’d gotten the caked blood taken care of and was left only with what was continuing to leak and flow out at different points, he turned back to the kit. His hand hovered over the bottle of rubbing alcohol for a moment, but as his eyes flicked back up to his patient’s face for a moment, he exhaled a little and drew back.
Another trip across the room found a bottle of whiskey in his hand instead. He uncapped it and held it out to Dean first. “Don’t tell the Triad.”
“Thanks,” the boy muttered with persisting tears behind his voice, taking the bottle gratefully and putting back several eager gulps.
Finally, Caleb laid a hand on the bottle and gently reclaimed it from the younger man. “Okay,” he said with the ghost of a smile. “Don’t want you too drunk for a chick flick, Kid.”
Dean looked away once more, closing his eyes and waiting for the alcohol to go to his head.
Caleb’s attention was turned back to the gash on his arm. “This is gonna sting like hell,” he warned, but his patient just shrugged again… and once again regretted it.
Reluctantly, the older man nodded a little before carefully allowing a stream of the whiskey to run down Dean’s arm, mixing with the blood still steadily leaking from the injury.
The teenager’s face tightened in obvious pain, his closed eyes squeezing a little tighter, but he made sure not to make a sound.
That almost seemed to bother Caleb more than the alternative would have based on the sigh which escaped his lips.
But he didn’t say anything, instead pulling something else out of the medical kit.
“I should’ve given you this thirty minutes ago,” he sighed, and Dean finally opened his eyes to see that he was holding out a bottle of ibuprofen.
“‘s fine,” he muttered, but took the bottle and washed down a few pills with another swallow of whiskey.
Once he had, Caleb set the alcohol aside and readied a suture needle and thread. Sewing up the wound was a fairly miserable process for both of them. It was long and uneven and gash, and the pain on Dean’s side of things was intense. As for the older hunter, seeing Dean and Sam injured might not affect him to the point of fainting anymore, but it would never be easy for him, especially when it happened on his watch.
Especially when there was the other matter of the night to weigh on his mind.
A long several minutes later, he was finally tying off the final stitch.
“Alright,” Caleb sighed as he set aside the needle and thread. “”You buzzed enough to talk to me?”
Dean bit his lip hard. The alcohol was indeed doing its job, dulling the feelings of panic and resistance he knew he should still be in the trenches of. Most of him just wanted to curl up and die… or better yet, stop existing at all. If he really played it up, he knew he could probably get Caleb to let him just go to bed. But then they’d just have to do this in the morning, with no whiskey in his system. And that would give Caleb the chance to make calls before he begged him not to.
It was the second factor that truly motivated him away from the temptation to give the older man tired puppy eyes and enter into the nothingness of an alcohol-aided sleep.
“Look, Damien,” he said softly, eyes fixed on the floor. “It’s nothing. Just…”
He’d been trying to think of an excuse, a story, for close to an hour now. Not to mention that he’d spent what felt like a hundred late nights trying to make a safety plan, a way to brush it off if anyone ever saw. If it was one or two… heck, even if it was ten… maybe then he could have effectively lied. But as it was, especially after the fit he’d thrown about Caleb seeing them at all, there was nothing, and he knew that.
So he went for the weakest words that he knew would be utterly useless, because they were the only things he knew to say.
“Just forget about it.”
The sigh which escaped Caleb’s list was long and exhausted and sad.
He was quiet for a moment, his gaze heavy on Dean’s face even as he refused to meet it.
“You really think that’s gonna work?” he asked finally, his voice quiet.
“Everyone picks their poison, Man,” he replied, trying to keep his voice light, trying to brush it off even if he knew he couldn’t lie. “And it takes me getting my arm half-eaten by a psycho monster for you people to give me alcohol.”
“Hmm.” The single, quiet syllable made Dean’s chest throb.
Because it was calm and level and thoughtful … his friend was hearing him out. Actually listening to him instead of immediately writing him off as an unstable, broken freak.
His dad would have been screaming thirty minutes ago.
After another long pause, two words that were mostly sigh. “That’s fair.”
Dean processed them and then had to do it again. He felt his forehead crease, felt that pain in his chest increase and his stomach turn. Something about the older man’s… calmness almost felt worse than the yelling he’d been expecting since the birth of the habit. From the moment his sleeves were gone and the charade was finished… Caleb hadn’t even let himself cry. It was foreign and uncomfortable and felt so completely undeserved that he found himself resisting it and almost craving anger and punishment in its place.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He didn’t know what to do with this.
“But,” the other hunter went on instead. “That, uh…” He glanced at one of Dean’s exposed arms and winched, eyes immediately darting back to the boy’s face instead. “That’s a lot of poison, Kiddo.”
The younger man bit down on the inside of his cheek and didn’t answer.
“If it was alcohol, I’d be staging an intervention.”
The words were an attempt at lightening the mood, a joke albeit a forced one, but they brought the teen’s eyes up in instant apprehension.
His friend’s hands came up placatingly. “I’m not gonna stage an intervention.”
With the panic-inducing concept gone, Dean looked at the floor again.
“I’m just saying,” Caleb continued gently. “You’re coping, and that’s fair. You’re right… everyone does. But that’s… a lot of coping, Man.”
Dean swallowed hard, counting the squares on the hideous hotel carpet.
“Makes me think maybe the coping’s not coping so well.”
The boy blinked hard. His eyes filled anyway. “Works eventually.”
“Yeah? What’s eventually?”
“Three?”
“How often?”
He clenched his fists tight enough so he could feel his nails driving into his palms and focused on that grounding feeling.
“Every day. Maybe every couple.”
Caleb nodded a little. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw the older man’s reluctantly travel back to his arm, studying it more carefully this time.
“And you’re progressively going deeper.”
Fresh nausea rose inside of him, but he pushed it down with an effort. “I guess.”
“Yeah.” The psychic took a deep, shaky breath as his gaze lifted off of the arm once more. “So. If… if one, pretty shallow, once or twice a week, just to… ground yourself, ride the pain, is like drinking a beer to take the edge off as often… then you’re taking three shots of…” Another quick glance at the subject of conversation. “One-twenty-proof. Just about every day.”
Dean’s own analogy was coming back to bite him hard.
“And,” Caleb added gently, “you’re sipping on something light just to get through this conversation.”
The boy looked up enough to follow his gaze, which was pointedly fixed on his clenched fists, and guiltily released them, making sure not to turn the trenches in his palms for his friend to see.
“So do you think I have the right to be worried?” the older man pressed after another pause.
Dean continued to chew on his cheek, hoping that was less visible than his hands had been. “I don’t know, Damien,” he whispered at last. “Would it matter?”
“Would what matter?”
“If I was just doing it once or twice a week, not too deep. You saying you wouldn’t still freak out?”
“Hey, Man, I’m putting in a whole lot of effort to not freak out right now,” Caleb countered with the ghost of a smile. “Give me credit.”
“Yeah, okay,” the teenager sighed. “But you know what I mean. You wouldn’t like it either way.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” the psychic agreed heavily. “Cuz if there’s one thing I hate, it’s seeing you hurt, Kiddo.” Despite his best efforts, his eyes did finally mist slightly. “And if you were drinking or something, I’d know you were hurting in there…” A small point toward Dean’s chest. “But at least it wouldn’t be doing any real damage except the long game on your liver. When you get hurt hunting, there’s the physical damage, but it’s not happening cuz of what you’re feeling. This kinda hits me in both my weak spots.”
Dean’s shoulders sank even lower. “I’m sorry.” The words were barely audible.
“I’m not looking for an apology, Deuce,” the older man replied softly. “This isn’t about me or how that makes me feel. My point is if this was any other coping method, it’d be time to get some help. So same goes here.”
“What do you mean help ?” Dean snapped, panic ruling as his eyes jerked upwards again. “You can’t…” His stomach turned more violently. “I’m not crazy! I don’t need locked up!”
“Hey.” The word was strong and decisive, accompanied by a likewise hand on Dean’s uninjured shoulder. “That is not what I meant. You really think I’d do that to you?”
The boy deflated. “No.”
It was simply the reaction that he’d been anticipating since he made the first slit in his wrist. The first threat that would have come out of his father’s mouth, the more gentle suggestion Mac would have quickly made.
“Good.” Caleb squeezed a little before releasing him. “Because I wouldn’t. I’m not talking professionals. I’m talking loosening up on the fortress in that head of yours and letting someone who cares about you a whole lot help you like family’s supposed to.”
The boy could feel his cheeks burning, could hear his father’s voice in his head. “Look, Dude, I… I’m fine, okay? Really. I don’t need help.”
“Yeah,” came the quiet, firm response. “You do.”
Dean stared at the carpet through the water welling in his eyes. “What are you even supposed to do? You… you can’t fix this one, Damien.”
Caleb swallowed hard, blinking back his own tears as his gaze continued to pour into the younger man. “It’d help if you’d tell me what exactly it is that I can’t fix,” he offered gently. “I knew you weren’t as peachy as you want us all to think, but…” He shook his head a little, swearing softly as his eyes flicked back to one of Dean’s arms. “I had no idea it was this bad, Kiddo.”
There was a long moment of silence before Caleb turned back to the medical kit, drawing out yet another clean rag and moving to the sink once more to saturate it with warm water.
“Look,” he sighed as he sat down again. “I’m honestly surprised Doctor Spider Senses hasn’t picked up on all the infection here from New York. So I’m gonna clean you up, and we can sit here in awkward silence, or you can talk to me. Your choice.”
Dean bit his lip, instinctually flinching away as his friend leaned forward and gently began work on the fresh red slits and yellow-tinged scabs covering his arms.
Caleb squeezed his forearm a little, a silent reminder that he wasn’t going to hurt him, but stayed silent, expectant of a response.
“What are you gonna do if I pick the first option?” the younger man asked at last.
“I’m gonna stay right here,” his friend told him steadily. “Like I said… clean you up. Worry myself grey, probably.” But he clearly knew what was foremost in Dean’s mind, and he added after a moment, his tone gentle and expectant of the boy not liking what he was about to say, “Call my dad cuz I’ll know I’m way out of my depth.”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut again. “And what if I talk?”
“Will I make any calls?”
A silent, hapless nod.
The older hunter considered that a moment before offering regretfully, “I guess that depends on what you tell me.”
A rock and a hard place it was.
“Let’s start out easy,” Caleb offered after another pause. “When did this start?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yeah you do.”
“No, I mean…” He swallowed hard. “Depends on what you mean.”
“I mean hurting yourself, Kiddo.”
The teenager was quiet for a long moment before finally admitting, his voice barely audible, “I was twelve.”
His best friend froze. “ What ?”
“Not like this,” he clarified quickly. “That’s why I said… I’d just…” He hated this so much. “Scrape my nail on my wrist to calm myself down. When Dad was mad or Sammy was crying and I couldn’t get him to stop or when I was scared on hunts… it just helped.”
“You told me that was a rash.”
He’d been hoping he wouldn’t remember that conversation. He loathed himself for the guilt all over Caleb’s face, the heavy realization in his eyes.
“Yeah, because I knew you’d flip, and I…” He raked his free hand through his hair hard. “I was fine, Man.”
“Yeah,” the older man sighed heavily as he went back to work. “Fine.” A short pause. “Then what?”
“Then when I was like fourteen, it… stopped being enough.” He swallowed down a wave of nausea. Saying it outloud felt so wrong. “So I started using my knife. Stuck to the same little spot on my wrist that was always covered by my bracelets.” He bit his lip, hesitating before continuing, “And then… I don’t know. It just…” He shrugged. His cut-riddled arms said it for him.
“You lost control of it.”
He hated himself. “Yeah.”
“When?”
The boy bit his lip hard. “Couple months ago. Obviously after I was in the hospital.”
“But they took your bracelets off at the hospital.”
“A few cuts don’t get much attention when your brain is bleeding, Man.”
“Yeah,” Caleb echoed heavily. “Okay.”
A long pause.
“So… uh… you still just use it to ground yourself, or what? Like…” A deep breath. It was clear Caleb was indeed feeling dangerously out of his depth. “What makes you do it?”
Dean actually had to think about that one. He’d been doing it for so long that he didn’t give much thought as to why… all he knew was that he needed it, and he hated himself for that.
“It just… helps,” he said at last.
“Helps what?”
The teenager let out a heavy sigh. “Stupid, emotional, chick-flick stuff.”
“Ah,” his friend said with a half-hearted smile. “My speciality.”
Dean hummed agreement, managing the ghost of a smile himself.
“Seriously, though,” the older hunter pressed after a moment. “What’s going on, Kiddo?”
He was answered by another long several seconds of silence.
“There someone I need to knock up? Jerks at school? Johnny? A dead rawhead I could probably find a way to fry again?”
The jokes were undeniably forced, but Dean appreciated them and, even more, the sentiment behind them. Caleb knew this was just about his least favorite thing in the world, and he was doing whatever he could to make him feel a little less exposed.
“I mean, every school had some jerks,” the boy sighed. His alcohol-buzzed brain was telling him to shut up, but he ignored it for once. “But that’s not a problem anymore.”
Caleb stopped what he was doing and looked up at him, forehead creased in confusion. “Why not?”
That was why he should’ve shut up.
This was not how he’d wanted to tell him.
But lying just sounded so very exhausting.
“Deuce, why aren’t they a problem anymore?”
Whether it was psychic intuition or simply the older man knowing him too well, Dean could tell he was getting an idea. Maybe two not good secrets revealed in one night would lighten the weight of each.
“I dropped out.”
Saying it outloud was both a heavy weight off his chest and a load of cotton in his throat.
“ What ?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, furious with himself as he felt a fresh round of moisture accumulating under them.
“There was no point anyway.”
“There was… Deuce, there was every point.” Caleb’s voice was trembling, the composure he’d managed the whole night quickly slipping away. “You had scholarships! That’s free college, and you… you could make pros, Man!”
The teenager let out a painful laugh.
“I’m not kidding!” the psychic choked out. “Dean, you are good… you are really good. Tell me… tell me this isn’t set in stone. Tell me I can drive you back and… and take it back.”
Dean let out an utterly exhausted sigh and finally looked up again, reluctantly meeting his friend’s eyes.
“Honestly, Dude, I probably could take it back. They sure weren’t happy when I did it. But I’m not going to. There’s no freaking point.”
“Dean…”
“No, Caleb!” he snapped. “I don’t care what fantasies you believe about how good I am when I’ve been a glorified benchwarmer my whole career! Even if I was! That… it’s not for me.”
“What isn’t?” his friend pressed desperately. “A life? A future?”
“Yes!” He swallowed hard, realizing by the heartbroken look on Caleb’s face that it wasn’t his best move. “I mean… hunting is my future. Sammy and Dad and the brotherhood are my future. I’m gonna get a ring, and I’m gonna… save people, hunt things, look out for Sammy, until I die! That’s it!”
Caleb reached out, hand on his uninjured shoulder once more, squeezing hard. “You can do both, Dean! You don’t have to choose! I do, Mac does, Jim does!”
“My dad doesn’t!”
“So? You dad… he’s obsessed, Dean. I love him and you know I respect him like mad, but he’s… he’s not healthy, Kiddo. I don’t ever wanna see you become him.”
The boy looked away again, blinking back tears furiously. “Never could anyway.”
“ What are you talking about?”
“I can’t be him!” Dean choked out as the water won, beginning to slide down his face all over again. “Because I’m weak and… and messed up, and I… I just can’t! But I also can’t be you or Mac! I’m not smart enough, I’m not… I just can’t, Dude, okay?”
“Not…” Caleb looked genuinely confused. “Dean, you are one of the smartest people I know, and if someone told you otherwise, I swear…”
“He said it because it’s true!” the teen cut him off, swiping angrily at his tears. “I’m too stupid for college. Probably wouldn’t have graduated anyway.”
The older man’s hand moved from his shoulder to his chin, gently turning his face back towards him, somehow convincing his eyes to follow suit.
“Listen to me, Kid,” he said quietly. “ You are not stupid. You’re not weak, you’re not messed up. And if I find out who told you any of that, I swear they are gonna wake up in hell.”
Dean let out a long sigh, gaze dropping again after only a few seconds. “That’s gonna be one awkward hunter’s funeral, Man.”
He knew he shouldn’t have said it, but the alcohol was doing its thing and he was just so tired .
The confusion and vague frustration on Caleb’s face darkened to intense anger. “He didn’t.”
The teenager just shrugged at the floor, pulling away from the older man. “Didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”
Reaves fell silent, obviously trying to get a hold on his anger since the object of it wasn’t around anyway.
“You wanted to drop out your entire school career,” Dean tried at last. “Would have if Mac had let you. Well Dad told me to. Easy choice.”
“He told you to?”
A heavy sigh. “Knew I was wasting my time.”
“Tell me exactly what he said, Deuce.”
The boy held out for several long seconds before finally allowing the last of the put-on strength to drop out of his shoulders.
“I screwed up,” he admitted softly. “In pre-season workouts for baseball. I was in long sleeves, but I was on bench and just… stopped paying attention.”
Caleb’s eyes squeezed shut in secondhand pain as he obviously realized where this story was going.
“My coach saw,” Dean continued, swallowing hard and scrubbing the last of the tears from his face. “Took me to my counselor and then my counselor called my dad. But he didn’t pick up. So they sent me home with a stupid freaking note asking him to come in for a meeting. Said if he didn’t respond, they might have to involve CPS.”
“You dropped out so your dad wouldn’t find out about this?” the psychic asked. He didn’t sound angry anymore… just really, really sad.
“No!” He wished he had. He should have. But as much as he’d loathe to admit it now, losing that stupid diploma and that stupid last season and that stupid last hope for a different future had been the last thing he wanted to do. “I gave him the note! I knew I was screwed, but I didn’t think I had a choice! Not if they were gonna get the cops involved.”
“What did the note say exactly?”
The boy sighed heavily. “It said they were worried about me, and… and what was going on at home, how I was dealing with it and the stress of school, and they urgently needed to meet with him to make sure I was safe.” He could hear the self-loathing in his town and knew his best friend could too, but there was nothing he could do about it.
“But you gave it to him?”
“Yeah.”
“And then?”
“I caught him at a bad time. He…” He swallowed hard and forced himself to continue. “He asked what I did to set them off. I said he’d have to ask them. But then he… he said I had been acting depressed lately, and if I hated school so much I should just drop out. That I probably wasn’t gonna graduate anyway if they thought I was so… stupid and screwed up that he had to be doing something wrong.”
“And then?” Caleb repeated, his tone once again dark with anger.
“I asked if he could just meet with them to get them off my back. He said he didn’t have time for this and he meant it… I should just drop out. Stop wasting my time failing my classes and warming the bench and start focusing on what really matters. I knew if he didn’t go in and I kept… being their problem… they’d get authorities involved. And that could screw things up for Sammy, too. So I did it.”
The older hunter processed all of that for a long moment before swearing violently. “You really didn’t want to do this.”
“Damien…”
“No. You were gonna let your dad find out about this instead. I know you, Kid, I know… Why didn’t you call me?” Now it was Caleb’s turn to be angrily wiping water off his face. “I would have flashed my Winchester card and gone to that meeting and…” He swore again. “I’m gonna kill him.”
“He was right , Caleb,” Dean reinforced softly. “About everything. And it’s my own fault for being careless. For being screwed up in the first place.”
“No, Kiddo, no, you… this does not have to define you, alright?” the psychic asked desperately with a small wave at the boy’s scarred arms. “None of this does. I’ll take you back, we’ll undo all of it, I’ll deal with Johnny…”
The hope his friend was clinging to hurt something deep inside of him. “Stop,” he pleaded quietly. “Please, Damien, just… just stop.”
“Dean…”
“No. Even if you did. Even if I graduated. I’m not going to college! I’m not playing another inning of baseball! That’s not in the cards for me. It never was. And I… I’ve finally accepted that. Please…” He sounded pathetic and he knew it. “Don’t take that away from me, Man.”
Caleb stared at him for a long moment, his eyes searching his face desperately for any sign of hope, but Dean forced himself to meet them just to reinforce the fact that there was none.
The older man swore yet again, his head and shoulders dropping in utter defeat. “You’re better than this, Dean.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I’m not mad at you.”
“You’re disappointed.” He tried and failed to put a light note in his tone. “Everyone knows that’s worse.”
“Not in you, Kiddo,” the psychic sighed, looking back up at him with wet eyes. “Couldn’t be. Just… just for you.”
“It was my choice.”
“No, it wasn’t.” His tone was heavy and left no room for debate.
There was a long, depressing pause, before, slowly, Caleb picked up his rag again, walking back to the sink and rewetting it before returning to his work.
“Do you think you deserve this?” The question was soft, but it still startled Dean as it came out of nowhere.
“What?”
“This, Deuce,” the older man repeated quietly. “Bleeding and hurting and… do you do it because you think you deserve it?”
The teenager swallowed hard. “Damien, it’s… it’s not a punishment. I like it. I hate that I like it, I know that’s so freakin’ screwed up, but…”
“No, I know, Kid, not like…” A deep breath. “I knew you weren’t exactly the poster child for self-esteem. But… all that crap you just said about yourself…”
Dean cursed the whiskey, no matter how much relief it was giving him, for making him so thoroughly run his mouth.
“It just makes me think.” Caleb was clearly barely holding it together. “That maybe you do this… you like this… because it feels right. Because that’s… that’s really how you feel about yourself. And I just wanna know if that’s true.”
Dean was silent for a long moment. He hadn’t thought it out so thoroughly before, but the words resounded deep inside of him. That was exactly it. It felt right because it was bloody and painful and so, so messed up, because it treated his body as worthless and disposable. And on the inside, everything hurt, he felt like he was bleeding out, and he was messed up, worthless, and disposable.
His friend was waiting for a response. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say.
So, just slightly, he nodded. It wasn’t lost on Caleb.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The boy’s voice was barely audible. “I guess… something like that. And it grounds me.”
“And you really believe everything you said about yourself.”
That wasn’t a question. It was a heartbroken statement.
“You can’t argue with any of it,” Dean replied softly.
“Like hell I can’t.”
“Well, you shouldn’t.”
“No, you shouldn’t think you’re freaking worthless!” A few more tears snaked past the psychic's defenses as his composure started to crack all over again. “God, Deuce, I… I’m so freaking sorry! You… you’ve been hurting yourself for five years, cutting yourself for three, and I didn’t even notice! This stupid freaking family has praised you for being selfless for so long that you think your purpose is to be worth absolutely nothing and make everyone else happy!”
“Damien, it’s not… it doesn’t matter, okay?”
“Yes it does, Dean!” The tears were streaming down the older man’s face full-force now. “What… what would you do if it was Sammy in your place?”
The boy paled. “Sammy… Sammy’s different, Caleb…”
“No, he’s not!” The psychic took a deep breath, trying to steady himself before saying more quietly, “There is nothing wrong with you, Kiddo.”
Dean actually let out a bit of a laugh, humorless as it was. “Are you looking at me, Man?”
“Yeah, I am.”
He looked up to meet Dean’s gaze, the tears slower, but still welling in his dark eyes.
“I’m looking at my kickass, tough-as-nails little brother who always takes care of everyone but himself and refuses to ask for help even when he’s freaking dying inside. And he… he’s hurting, and he’s got a brain in desperate need of a rewire, but he is still who he is, and that is not gonna change no matter how…”
His voice caught and he had to try again.
“How many times he hurts himself.”
The younger hunter’s chin dropped to a chest that felt like it was about to explode.
“Dean,” Caleb added after a long pause. “You gotta understand. It… it is my job to look out for you. To take care of you. And not just on hunts. I… I’m supposed to be there for you, Kiddo. No matter where, no matter what. If anyone should understand that, it’s you. So I’m sorry I can’t just let this go, Man, I am… I know how hard this is for you. But it already took me five freaking years to even figure out what was going on here. I’m not just gonna stand back and… and let you keep on suffering alone.”
Dean stared at the carpet miserably. The problem was, he did understand. The older man really did consider him to be his brother. And he hated… hated … that he felt that way about him.
“I’m sorry I made you care about me,” he whispered. “That isn’t fair.”
“Don’t.” The psychic’s hand snapped up to the side of the boy’s head, holding on with gentle but utterly firm strength as Dean’s eyes reluctantly slid back up to his. “Don’t say that. You are the kid brother I always wanted… I always prayed for. And I…” His face broke, eyes squeezing shut. “I love you so much, Man. That’s why this… all of this… kills me, okay? Because I love you so freaking much .”
Before Dean knew what was happening, Caleb had wrapped both arms around him in what might have been the tightest, most desperate hug he’d ever been given. Slowly, he returned it, burying his face in the older man’s shoulder as those stubborn tears jumped straight back to his eyes. He heard Caleb choke on a sob and tightened his own hold a little. It was a strange event of the night to feel the overwhelming urge to be the one comforting his friend, but that was exactly what he felt the desperate need to do.
“I’m okay, Damien.” He hated how small his voice sounded. “Really. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I’m right here.”
Caleb just held him that much closer, one hand coming up to his head, pressing it further into his shoulder.
“You gotta let me help you, Kiddo,” he managed. “Please. No promises, you don’t even have to want to stop. But you gotta let me help.”
“Just please don’t tell my dad,” the boy countered desperately, his voice muffled by Caleb’s shirt. “I… I’ll try, Damien, I’ll try to let you. But please, if he finds out…”
“Deal,” the older man cut him off as he pulled back, hands on either side of Dean’s face. “Absolutely. Yes.”
They held each other’s gazes for another long moment before the strength dropped out of Caleb’s shoulders in a heavy sigh. One hand combed through Dean’s hair like he still needed convincing that he was really there before he finally released him. A deep breath, desperately trying to pull himself together.
Dean swallowed hard. It wasn’t exactly unheard of for Caleb to break his own rules about emotions and the click-flicks they created, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen him quite like that. If he had, it was a long time ago, during a time he did his very best to block out, when the older man had truly thought Dean was dead.
“I know,” the psychic sighed as he ran an exhausted hand over his face. “I’m a total girl.”
Dean managed a tiny, trembling smile. “You can tell me I imagined it tomorrow. I’ll probably believe you.”
“As much as I would love to,” Caleb said heavily. “I meant every word I said, Kiddo. And I want you to remember them.”
The teenager’s gaze refound its familiar place on the carpet. “I’ll try.”
“Good. Okay.” Another deep breath. He considered first Dean’s arm, then his face. “What do you say I go ahead and bandage fugly’s leftovers and we finish this up in the morning? You look beat.”
Dean nodded a little. “I’ve had a long day, Man,” he said with a slightly stronger smile. “I saved some kids, got half-eaten by a psycho, accidentally told you two of my biggest secrets, and witnessed a full-on Damien Reava breakdown. And I’m fighting off a whiskey coma.”
“And you’ve still got the energy to be a little punk.”
“Always.”
Despite himself, Caleb was smiling as he pulled the bandages out of his kit. “Yeah. I’m counting on it.”