Seventeen days after

Sam didn't come to school Monday, as expected. The teachers didn't know anything about where he was or how he was doing, and didn't even seem to care as Sam, no matter how bright he was, to them, just another student. That was one of the reason Jessica was so extra pissed at them. They really didn't give a shit about the nicest guy, hell person, she had ever had the pleasure to meet, yet alone kiss.

Sam wasn't just another student. He had gone through hell.

Jessica had spent most of her day, and her entire weekend, daydreaming. It was absurd things she dreamed of. She hoped for scenarios like accidentally bumping into him. She imagined the conversations they would have, what he'd tell her, what she'd tell him. She and him could talk about anything and never have an awkward pause. They could also sit in silence, which they did before Sam left, where Jess decided to sit beside him in the classroom. They had passed notes to each other and Jessica had seen how neat his handwriting was. It was so fragile and nice, like him.

Jessica couldn't do anything but worry about Sam. She knew why he broke up with her, but it still hurt like hell. She knew that there was a slim chance that they would ever see each other again, but she still hoped that he would stand around the next corner and give her that smile that made everything bad go away.

Please be around the corner, Jess hoped. That would be fucking awesome.

SPN-SPN-SPN

It was during the ads that Dean decided to get up and get another drink, thinking everything was fine. Bobby had gone out to get some groceries for them. He walked over to the kitchen when he noticed that Sam's antidepressants were on the counter. He grabbed the orange bottle labeled "WINCHESTER, Sam," and shook his head at the horrible experience with the other bottle. He hadn't forgotten that and couldn't ever. With the pills grasped tightly in his sweaty palm, he went upstairs to put them by Sam's bed.

Up the stairs, to the left, to the left again - Sam's bed was empty. Dean felt the sheets which were too cold for his likings. He thought that Sam's plan was to stay in bed all day, but apparently not. Feeling the cold bedsheets, Dean knew that he had been gone for a long time.

"Sam?" Dean called, stepping out of the room after placing the bottle on the nightstand.

No response.

"Sam?" Dean called again with a little more worry in his voice. Damn it Sam, where are you? Dean thought, knowing, more like hoping, that Sam would have told him if he had gone out.

Sam heard Dean call his name faintly but didn't react upon it.

Dean noticed the yellow light beneath the door to the bathroom. He walked closer to the door and knocked.

"Sam, you in there?" He asked concerned. Another heavy thump on the door. Sam flinched. He tried to say something but his throat was all dry and clammy at once. He tried to get the blade away, but his legs felt like twigs ready to break under him at any moment and his arms were too shaky to do anything.

"Sammy?" Dean asked once more, growing more anxious at the second.

Sam drew a shaking breath. He trembled in the corner of the bathroom, feeling claustrophobic. It was as though the blade filled the entire room. Sam tried to lift his eyes from it, but it was as though it had glued itself to his sight. The edges around his eyes became blurry.

"Sammy?" Dean asked. Sam sat in a trance. "Hey dude, answer me!" Dean demanded, his voice filled with fear.

Why can't I answer him? Sam thought. He continued staring at the spot on the floor were the shiny luring blade rested.

Without any warning, or maybe there was Sam just didn't hear, Dean knocked the door off it's hinges.

"SAMMY!" He exclaimed loudly. He fell by his brother's tense side, swept the blade away, and grabbed Sam's wrist.

White scars but no blood.

Relief rushed through him.

No blood.

No new cuts.

Dean looked at Sam with devastated eyes for having the blade out. Sam could tell he blamed himself, the last thing he wanted Dean to do.

This is so much worse than the last time, Sam thought, thinking back to the infamous moment in the motel room with the song playing softly on the radio. At least there he had been unconscious when Dean had found him, and didn't have to see his brother's heart wrenching face.

Sam sort of met Dean's eyes at last, but they drifted away unfocused. Dean hadn't said anything other than repeat his brother's name for the last minute, as he was speechless. Sam tried to say something, but couldn't get the right - any - words out.

What is happening to me?

Sam sat on the floor limply, before managing turning his eyes towards Dean. He couldn't bare to see his brother's face expression.

"What were you thinking?" Dean asked, not hiding his panicked voice.

I wasn't, Sam thought but couldn't say.

"Are you even there?" Dean asked, shaking his brother again.

"Didn't…" Sam finally managed to croak. Like the incident with John, he held his tears back. Dean let one slip.

"I know," Dean said. They had gone through so much already, he would have sold his soul to see Sam happy again, preferably radiating with joy.

"Dean," Sam said, his voice more steady than before. "I don't know what to do," his voice cracked into the most innocent tone Dean had heard in ages. Dean wanted to squeeze his brother tight against his chest, but didn't want to do anything that might scare him. Instead, his heart crushed.

"Hey, we'll figure it out, okay?"

Sam nodded.

Dean couldn't resist anymore and brought Sam into a tight hug. Sam winced first at the sudden movement, but brought his shaky arms lightly around his brother's back in return.

"Stay strong, Sammy," Dean whispered. He knew how close Sam had been to drawing the blade across his skin.

SPN-SPN-SPN

Dean was angry, but not at Sam. Never at Sam. He was livid at John and couldn't help blame himself.

Dean was pacing the kitchen and Sam was shakily sitting by the kitchen table. He still hadn't let a tear fall because he didn't see the point. He didn't want to feel sorry for himself either, which he shouldn't as he just resisted a tempting a sick form of relief. Sam looked up at Dean who continued pacing. Sam drew a breath.

Dean is mad at me, he thought wrongfully.

A minute later, Bobby came through the door brushing the snow off his coat.

"Who died?" He asked when he sensed the atmosphere of the room, but then stopped and regretted his words. Joking about that wasn't something to do in their line of business and in their situation.

He cleared his throat.

"What have you guys been up to?" Bobby asked, offering friendly conversation.

Seeing the look on the brothers' faces, he knew it was a bad question.

"I'm going out to the garage," Bobby said, avoiding further badly timed words and giving the boys space to discuss whatever was going on between them. "Car trouble," he added.

The door clicked and his footsteps became softer until they were gone.

"I'm sorry," Sam said. He had wanted to say the words a thousand times since they had come down the stairs, but couldn't form the words.

Dean looked up at Sam, his eyes wide.

"For what Sammy? None, none," he emphasized as strongly as possible, "of this shit is your fault Sam. None."

Sam smiled feebly. Dean was still curious about a few things.

"Sam, why did you to John that night?"

Tears were forming in Sam's eyes.

Thought I was talking to a wall, Dean thought, not that he enjoyed seeing his brother cry but it was better than having his emotions pent up.

His stomach crawled into itself when he realized that Sam only cried when John was brought up.

"I-I…"

His lip quivered.

Dean walked over to him. He put an arm around his shoulders.

"Hey, Sammy, if you don't want to answer, fine. Just promise you won't pull something like that again. Can you promise that?"

Sam nodded and stared at the ground.

I wanted to kill John. I wanted to die. He said mutely.

"Do you want to watch TV or some shit?" Dean asked with a smile.

"Sure," Sam said, standing up from the chair. He was starting to feel his legs again, even though they still trembled slightly beneath him.

From walking into the bathroom to sitting in the kitchen, had all seemed so surreal.

Dean and Sam sat down on the couch.

"Sam, did you call Jess?" Dean asked casually.

"Yes," Sam said, and hearing his tone, Dean dropped the conversation.

She was too good for me, Sam thought. She was the best - he looked at Dean - one of the best things in my life, even if I only knew her for a short amount of time. For all I know, she could be an axe murderer.

No.

She's like a light at the end of a tunnel.

A/N: Hi! This story is coming to an end soon, with only a few chapters to go or less, and I was wondering whether I had left any loose ends I've missed. Could you please tell me if I have? Thanks.