A faint glow from the TV illuminates the room. The video had stopped working years ago, but John, being that ever-so-handy dad he was, decided to fix it up so Dean could have a TV in his room. The images were still faded and tinted green, but Dean barely uses it anyway. Only on nights like tonight, when sleep feels like dying, and flying feels like falling, does he ever turn the old thing on. He keeps it muted, though, so he won't have to hear the overly cheery voices of the airheads trying to sell dragonfly broaches at five in the morning—and so he doesn't wake Sammy, who's only a stone's throw down the hall.

Dean's unseeing eyes stare up at the ceiling like they have been for the past hour. He absently turns a blade over in his hand, thoughts buzzing around in his mind like angry wasps. The sharp edge of the razor digs into his palm and snaps him back to reality. He'd gripped it too tight. Now he'd have a scar on his hand to match the on his arm. "Damn," he hisses as he rolls out of bed. He steps over the piles of clothes he needs to wash and makes his way to the bathroom.

He flicks on the bathroom's single fluorescent light and shuts the door behind him, locks it to be sure. Sam always sleeps with his door open and Dean doesn't want to wake him. Doesn't want to be asked questions he can't answer.

Dean runs cool water over the cut, hisses at the sting, but it feels good. It's calming. He wraps a wash cloth around his hand and leans against the door. He lets his body relax, lets his back slide down the wall. Heavy lids shut over burning eyes and Dean exhales slowly. He can't remember the last time he felt so relaxed, so at peace.. so free.

Sam knocks on the door again. "Dean, come on. At least tell me you're okay," he says. Dean groans and rolls his head to the side. He doesn't remember falling asleep last night, doesn't even remember why he came to the bathroom. But as soon as he sees the red patterns dripping and swirling down his arm, he gets a pretty good idea. "Dean?"

Sam. "Yeah, I'm fine, Sammy. Must've fallen asleep or something." Dean pulls himself up with his good hand and washes the blood off of his bad one.

"We're gonna be late. Hurry up, please."

"Of course."

Dean pulls his backpack out of his locker and heads out to the student parking lot. He's been skipping lunch for a week now, in favor of taking an hour-long nap in the impala. The old car always calms him, makes him feel at home. And it always keeps the darkness out, he's never sad when he's in the car, he's always happy. Happy, happy, happy as can be. Memories fill up his mind as he crawls into the backseat.

His mom making him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, his dad taking him to his first baseball game, the first time Sammy rode a bike. There are some things that make you happy no matter how sad you are, and Dean hangs on to them with everything he has. He can't lose the past because without it, he'll have no future. He lays down with his head on his backpack, letting the memories wash over him and fill him with hope. Hope for tomorrow; hope that he'll get better soon. Absently rubbing his left arm, still tender from the night before, he falls asleep.

Dean wakes up on his own accord at 12:48. The bell is going to ring at 1:10, so he has time to rub the sleep from his eyes before fifth period. Dean breathes in the leather of the impala, and a new flood of memories comes rushing in. Sammy's first day of school, the day dad gave Dean the impala, the day Dean and Sam skipped school and had milkshakes at Jim's Burgers just because.

Dean smiles to himself. Leaning back against the seats, the last of the winter's chill on his face, it's like he's reliving that day. He can hear ten-year-old Sammy asking over and over again if it was okay to not be at school. He remembers saying it's fine, Sam, now shut up, and doing his best not to look like a fourteen year old boy skipping school for the first time ever. Dean sighs. He remembers the darkness pulling him down into the pit. He remembers having to go home early and explain why him and Sam weren't in school. He remembers trying to convince Sam that he was fine. He remembers the look on Sam's face. He remembers crying that night, and the night after. Dean shakes away the memory and opens the door to the impala. "Pull yourself together, Dean," he tells himself, "Pull yourself together."