Dean never did make it to that appointment.
Phil Coulson arrived at the house at six pm that night, telling Steve and Tony to get Sam and Dean and sit them down. He had news about their father.
"Your father was found last night. His body was positively identified this morning."
When his life was thrown so completely off balance, Dean expected the world to shift. To change in some way.
His dad was dead.
The sun was still shining, electricity still running, he could hear Clint's video game music from upstairs, and yet: his dad was dead.
Dean jumped when he felt something touch his arm.
Tony. He heard something about time, about extra therapy sessions, but everything was coming through a haze, distorted. It was hard to concentrate. He didn't want to concentrate.
God, why were they still talking? Dad is dead!
There was a crash.
Tony fell down.
No. That's not right.
Dean pushed him.
Tony had tried to touch him again and Dean pushed him off the couch, knocking over the lamp.
The room was silent.
Everyone was looking at him.
When did he stand up? He felt his chest heaving, hands curled into fists.
Sam.
Sam was trying to talk to him. God, Sam was crying. Sammy wasn't supposed to cry. That was his job, keep Sammy happy and keep Sammy safe.
Dean can't see Sam anymore, Steve's in the way, saying something. Talking to Sammy? No. Talking to Dean now. Through the haze he thinks he hears 'follow me' but he can't be sure. He can't leave, Sam is crying.
Blur.
Confusion.
Steve's punching bag in the garage.
Dean hits it. He hits it again. And again. And again. Fists are flying, technique out the window, he just wants to hit. He can't hit hard enough, the bag is too soft.
He thinks he's yelling. Metal banging. This is better. He has something in his hands. What is it? Doesn't matter. Just needs to keep hitting.
Steve watched as the boy destroyed the hood of one of Tony's cars with a crowbar from the toolbox. With every bang of metal on metal, the soldier flinched, somehow unprepared for the sound he knew was coming.
Dean had been hitting the punching bag beforehand with the force of a man possessed. Steve thought that might have been enough to tire him out but apparently not.
With every swing of the wrench came a yell. Not quite a scream, not quite a grunt. Just enough of both for Steve to know Dean was hurting. Badly.
Time passed and Dean kept banging. They would have to replace the hood of the car completely, maybe even replace the parts inside as the dents got deeper and deeper. Steve made sure to watch for any signs that the boy's stitches tore, but even if they did the man wasn't sure he had the heart to interrupt his mourning.
Finally, the boy started to slow down. Bangs coming further apart until the crowbar went flying across the garage, and where it came from, was Dean. Crouching in front of the car. Heaving. Crying. Screaming. Sobbing.
Knowing he might get attacked didn't stop Steve from slowly approaching the boy, his arms braced in front of him to defend.
As he reached Dean, Steve took a chance and placed a hand on the younger boys' shoulder. The man was surprised when Dean did nothing but collapse on the ground. He was still heaving, but the screaming stopped.
"Dean?"
Eyes focused on him.
"Dean, I can't imagine what you're going through right now. But I'd like to give you a hug. Is that alright?" The man hesitantly offered his support, not knowing what would happen next. Dean once again surprised Steve by nodding slightly, eyes falling shut. Steve wrapped his arms around his son and cradled him in his lap, holding him tightly and intent on never letting go.