Disclaimer: All characters are the property of their respective owners. How they were put together, well, that idea is all mine.

AN: Fair warning. This has been unbetaed. All mistakes are my own and a healthy critic is always welcomed

Dean Winchester doesn't remember ever feeling so...numb. He was adrift in a life where the choices he made he didn't really consider choices at all. The people who mattered the most to him were dead and gone. Except for Sam. Sam wasn't gone, but as far as Dean was concerned, with several states between them, he might as well be. It wasn't like he could talk to him and tell Sam what he was going through. Even if he felt he could there was no way he was telling an 11 year old how he was tortured at the hands of the vindictive daughter of a dead drug lord.

He still remembers the feel of the knife. Hard, cold, sharp against his skin. The terrible anticipation of the cut he knew was coming. The contradictory white hot of the cold blade finally piercing smooth flesh, drawing an excruciating line through skin, across muscle and lasting an eternity in his dreams... No, not something he could talk to Sam about and not something he was willing to talk about to one Leroy Jethro Gibbs, biological father and current guardian. Not for a lack of trying on Gibbs' part.

It's not that he didn't appreciate what Gibbs was trying to do, but Dean couldn't help but feel like Gibbs was doing it out of guilt. Dean was no one's charity case and whatever guilt Gibbs felt...well, Dean had no one to blame for what happened but himself. The thought that Gibbs would shoulder the blame and feel guilty about it was nonsense to Dean. Though, if Gibbs had killed Paloma Renosa's father like she said he had then Dean guessed he wouldn't have been targeted to begin with, but whatever. Gibbs wasn't the one who blabbed about Dean's parentage. All Gibbs did was get Dean out of a bad situation. Admittedly a situation that may have been created by Gibbs, but the old Marine didn't do anything that John Winchester hadn't done and now guilt had him taking Dean in and trying to fix a kid he never knew he had.

Dean didn't think he deserved fixing. All the effort that Gibbs was putting forth was wasted. Though he had to admit there was something relaxing about helping Gibbs work on his boat. At first, it was awkward and uncomfortable, for both of them, Dean thinks, though Gibbs didn't appear to show anything but patience and calm. But when Dean would glance at him from the corner of his eye he could see it. The slight tightness around Gibbs' own eyes hidden in the light reflecting off of safety glasses. The tightness he was sure said 'It's my fault and now I need to deal with him.'

Dean stopped looking out the corner of his eye.

That was how the first week went after the hospital between the occasional visits from Gibbs' coworkers. There was the goofy one that never stopped talking about movies and his partner who would try to get him to stop and then there was the old guy, named after Donald Duck and always had a story to tell. There was also Goth chick Abby who chattered on about nuns and bowling. He didn't mind her so much because she didn't always expect a response. Her voice was soothing in its own raspy way and when she started talking science he could almost forget. He had to admit, he kind of wanted to say yes when she invited him to see her lab but he had shook his head no. Of them all, though, the person that seemed to have the most impact – positive or negative, he just wasn't sure – was Ziva David.

Past saying Dean's name in greeting Ziva didn't really say anything at all. She'd come over a couple times when Gibbs had to go out to the store – because he didn't seem to think that Dean could stay at home by himself – sit at the kitchen table, clean her gun and listen to the news on the old TV. The first time she came over Dean had sat on the couch and just listened to the sound of metal sliding against metal as she took her gun apart. He'd breath in the smell of gun oil and imagine that it was his Uncle John. A small bit of weight would lift from his shoulders and for a while he felt okay. But then he would open his eyes and the illusion would shatter.

He stayed in his room when anyone came over after that.

Truth is nothing he did could make him forget what had happened and the harder he tried the worst off he was. Distractions were only as good for as long as they lasted and woodwork could only go so far until he was too tired to shave wood or sand it. And when that happened, the nightmares came. Almost every night he's woken up drenched in sweat and and aching. Panting like he'd been running for miles. He's fairly sure he hadn't screamed that first night though his throat was sore and he woke alone, but after the second night Gibbs was there sitting on the bed beside him hand out but Dean won't let him close. Flinches away at the first sign of contact and Gibbs doesn't try again.

He does however, try to get Dean to talk and when that doesn't work suggests they watch old westerns on TV or asks for help with the boat. Most of the time Dean waves it off, but sometimes...sometimes he takes Gibbs up on his offers when he makes it sound like he simply wants the company. Dean won't acknowledge what they really are; suggestions to distract the mind. Unfortunately the dreams only seem to get worst and Dean isn't sleeping enough or eating enough and his steady decline in communication, pass the occasional 'yes sir' and 'no sir,' seem to have made the tightness around Gibbs eyes grow.

So now he finds himself here. Sitting in the waiting room of The Arlington Youth Counseling Center waiting for Gibbs to finish with some paperwork before his appointment with one of the youth intake counselors. He's pretty sure that this is Donald Duck's fault. He's noticed that Gibbs listens to him and of all his friends Duck – he will not call him Ducky – has been around the most.

"Hey."

Dean looks up from his non-observation of his shoes to see Gibbs step up and return to the seat to his left sans the clipboard the receptionist had given him to fill out some paperwork. He must have really been lost in his thoughts to not have noticed that Gibbs had left to begin with. His Uncle John will be - would have been - pissed at such a lack of inattention. Of course, he's no longer alive to care.

Dean sighs and slumps down a little in his seat. Picking at the cuticle of one thumb.

Gibbs tells him that they won't be waiting much longer and that someone will be out in a few minutes.

Dean nods his head and thinks about what's ahead of him. Sit in silence or talk? He doesn't want to be disrespectful, because despite the reasons Dean thinks he is doing this Gibbs seems to be doing his best. Dean just doesn't know what Gibbs wants from him. He doesn't see what the point of counseling is. He knows what's wrong, what's happened and he just doesn't see how talking it out will solve anything because it won't change anything. What's done is done and can't be undone. Dean talked and John's dead, end of story. There was nothing left to say. There is nothing more to discuss and sharing his feelings about it won't change any of it.

Yet apparently no one else thinks so. So they wait and Dean wonders, not for the first time, if the afterlife is real.

**So there you go folks. Part 3 in My Dean Gibbs saga. I'm not sure if I'll write more but I had to get this one out of my system. I hope you enjoyed it and you're not too upset with the ending. I'm hoping that by writing this I can get over that hill I seem to be figuratively climbing and move forward with this. I don't know what I was thinking when I wrote that first story because the aftermath of any trauma is hard and I just can't move past that to more stories until I have addressed it in some manner. It just didn't feel right to do so. But I've got the ball rolling and hopefully the future will provide more inspiration soon.