Good Little Soldier- Chapter Twelve- Trust Fall

Oh, by the way- a lot of people liked when I had a FOB song at the end of a chapter. Would you want me to make a playlist? I've done it for a few other fics for author inspo.

Trigger warnings: feels. Awkward conversations. Flashbacks. This might be the most vanilla chapter I've written.

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There is no way in hell I am making it up these stairs.

They're Mount Everest. They're the Tokyo tower. They're… the tallest, steepest, most exhausting thing you can possibly think of. Especially if you were murdered/ killed yourself three weeks ago. So, instead, I collapse on the nearest couch and bury my face in a pillow. Bobby's house smells good; like books and whiskey and spray paint which seems like a horrible combination. It's really not. Maybe because it's the closest thing I've had to somewhere safe for the past ten years.

Sam doesn't even bother taking his shoes off. The kid's more exhausted than the time he snuck out to go to a midnight premiere for something. He came home at four am on a school night and literally passed out on the floor. Of course, this was all my fault. So was him getting sent to the principal's office for falling asleep in class the next day. Everything is my fault. A couple times a year, when Dad is drunk enough, even Mom's death is my fault.

"THIS. Is all your fault," he yells, fist connecting painfully with my stomach. "We wouldn't be here if it weren't for you. That spirit wouldn't have killed that librarian if you learned how to fire a goddamn gun. And she would still be here if you hadn't screwed up."

"What?" I ask, breathing heavily. "What did I do?"

He picks me up by my shirt collar and throws me onto the nearest bed. I start to scream, but he clamps a hand over my mouth. Then he leans in close, too close, with breath like melting copper. "You killed her, didn't you? You killed Mary. It's all your fault, you little bitch."

"Dean? Earth to Dean?"

I jerk my head off the pillow and look at the source of the voice. Bobby. Not Dad. Thank god. He looks at me quizzically and sits down in the chair across from me. "You're a deep sleeper when you want to be, kid. I've been calling your name for the past five minutes."

"You have? I wasn't… you have?"

"Yeah."

I'm going crazy. I broke a guy's nose at the hospital, I keep reliving things that haven't happened since I was nine, when I'm awake, I think everyone and everything is John coming for me and Sammy. I'm insane. Straightjacket insane. And the hours of awkward silence that keep happening between me and Bobby aren't helping.

"So…" he says after about ten weeks of me staring out the window pretending his eyes aren't boring into my soul. "You wanna talk about it?"

"About what?"

He glares at me. My heart skips a beat. I ask too many questions. Always have. "Well, Dean, when a boy and a girl really like each other-"

I laugh, relief washing through me. "I think I'm pretty clear on that, Singer."

"Okay, okay. It's just... you wouldn't talk to the therapist at the hospital, and I was wondering if now that you're out, maybe you could… talk."

You know it's him. That's dangerous enough. I've never had an angry Bobby Singer on my ass, personally, but I've been a bystander. Things break. Literal shots are fired. And that's when he's slightly pissed. "Nope," I say, trying to repair the cracks in my walls that he keeps making. I reach for my necklace. It's lying on the forest floor, or in an evidence bag at a police station. So that's everything from before, gone. Except Sam.

"Dean. Come on."

"You know what? Fine. Let's rent Pretty in Pink, braid Sam's hair, I'll bake some cookies."

Bobby makes an exasperated noise. "If you could just tell the truth."

"We can sit in a circle, play truth or dare, and I'll tell everyone how my own father tried to kill me. Sounds like a fun night."

"I just want to help."

"You had ten years to help," I hiss. I didn't know I was this close to crying. Am I always this close to crying? Have I turned into one of those people who just turns on the waterworks at the drop of a hat? I've cried more in the past three weeks than I have in the past three years. "You had ten years to help. And you said you thought something was happening, and you didn't do a damn thing to stop it. So no, I'm not going to talk to you, I'm not going to talk to anyone, and I would run out that door and leave if I could but I'm too tired. You want the truth? I don't trust you. I don't trust a single friggin' person on this planet except Sam. And maybe that's because the one person I thought could help me could have helped me a hell of a lot sooner, and he didn't. Would you care to tell me why that is?"

I also didn't know I could bring Bobby Singer this close to tears. Did I pick up a cursed object at the hospital? I look at the bracelet on my wrist. Was one of the nurses a witch? I'm going to burn everything I got from that place. Bobby's actually about to cry. Hunters across America will mark this day in their crappy journals. Maybe it'll become a national holiday. Maybe my being an asshole will get kids a day off school. Not that I go to school in the first place.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he says softly.

"Don't apologize," I reply gruffly. That sounds even worse. I don't deserve it, I add in my head, because if I said it out loud it would push him over the edge. "Just let me sleep."

"Yeah," he breathes.

I wait until I hear a door close somewhere upstairs before I start talking.

"Mom? I know you're up there. I made it, if you can hear me. So, thanks. And we're out of the woods. Sort of. Like, halfway." I let out a shaky breath. "Or not really. I told some people about Dad… and he's going to find out. I know it. So, if you can hear me… can you? That was a stupid question. You're not going to answer. Sorry. Jesus, you must feel terrible when I ask you to answer, and you can't. Sorry. But, if- when Dad finds out, he's going to try and kill Sammy. And if- when he does, I just… either save him or take me back. Because he's all I've got, and-" god, now I'm sobbing. Freaking cursed bracelet. I swear, that's what it is "- and if there's one question I never want answered it's what life would be like without him. So, when John finds us- just- don't let him die. Or kill me. I don't give a damn." I pull the blanket over my head and close my eyes, because saying amen is for church and I hate church and honestly, I'm too drained to say goodnight.

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Do you ever wake up, and it feels like someone filled your bones with lead overnight? Because that's the most accurate description for how I've felt every morning for the past month. Groaning, I drag myself into the kitchen and muster up enough energy to smile at Sam and Bobby. Somehow.

"Morning, sleeping beauty. You're just in time for lunch."

"What time is it?"

"Twelve-thirty," Sam says proudly. "We went shopping." He tosses a bag in my direction. "Those are clothes. Since all our other ones are with Dad."

I stare at the plastic bag in my hand. Dad used to do this, when I was really little. Bribe me into letting him push me around. Then we both realized there was no way an eight-year-old boy who never stayed in town longer than a month could do anything for himself, and the presents stopped coming. How was this any different? Hey, Dean. Sorry I let John treat you like dirt for your entire life. Here's a t-shirt to make up for it.

"Thanks," I mutter. Maybe he's just being nice. Maybe it's an apology.

"Why don't you go put them upstairs?" Bobby asks. "You're not going to sleep on the couch forever."

I look up at him with half-closed eyes. "Yeah. Sure. What's for…lunch?"

He holds up a greasy paper bag. "Burgers."

"Breakfast of champions," I mutter, turning towards the stairs.

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There's three bedrooms. But the one Sam stayed in last night (if I call it Sam's room then we're staying here for a long time. Which we're not) has two beds. So I throw my still-slightly-bloodstained jacket on the bed that isn't a complete mess and start 'unpacking'. Two flannels. Three tees. A pair of jeans. Nothing I wasn't already wearing. I dump it all into the next open drawer in the dresser and throw the bag in the trash.

It lands way more heavily than a plastic bag is supposed to. And I am Dean Winchester, the guy who doesn't even trust plastic bags, so I walk over and pick it up. There's something inside, under the receipt. I take it out, and spend the next ten minutes sitting by a trash can staring at a necklace.

Because it's my necklace.

The necklace that Sam gave to me right before his first fight with Dad. The one Dad almost killed me for having. I thought no one knew how much I actually cared about it. Bobby did, though. And if this is an apology gift, if this is the carrot dangling in front of me to keep me from leaving, then it just might work for a while. I smile a little and walk downstairs as I slip it over my head.

The burgers certainly don't hurt, either.

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Fingers crossed I did good on my test!