A few warnings for this chapter: Mental health issues, self harm, self-worth issues, violence, underage drinking, suicidal ideation, flashbacks, dissociation. If anything that's been listed may upset you, give this one a miss. Look after yourselves!

I hope you like this (extra long) chapter.

Sam still has his dad's number saved on his phone. In the first few months following the accident, he would call it daily, and each time he would be met with the sound of his father's voicemail.

Sorry, I can't come to the phone right now. If this is a business inquiry, please leave a message. If this is one of my sons, my answer is probably no. I'm kidding, send me a text.

John used to think he was so goddamn hilarious. As did Dean, actually. Sam's never had much of a sense of humour, according to his brother, and Sam thinks maybe that's true. He's never been the fun one or the outgoing one or the flirty one, those are all Dean's jobs. Supposed to be, anyway.

But that was a year ago, and this is now.

Now, Dean doesn't go out with friends or flirt with people or crack jokes. Sam spends every second he can out of the apartment with Ruby, he's done way more than flirt, he's discovered he can actually be pretty funny if you get enough drinks in him. It's like some kind of Freaky Friday remake. Ever since the accident, Sam and Dean have swapped places.

Sam wakes up four hours earlier than he's supposed to, after tossing and turning all night long. The sky is a deep, dark blue and the moon is just a dull thumbprint behind grey clouds. Frost is webbing its way across the glass of his bedroom window, and Sam's fingers feel frozen where they clutch at his blanket. He blinks in the darkness as vague, shadowy shapes take form. The looming weight of his closet, the spidery shape of a jacket left on the floor, the hunched shoulders and dipped head of someone sitting at his desk.

Sam jolts upright, hand whipping out and scrambling to find the bedside light switch. He squints when the room lights up. There's no one sitting at his desk. The chair is empty, except for a mound of unwashed clothes. Sam lifts a hand to his chest where his heart is pounding fitfully, like it's just about ready to leap out from under his skin.

"Breathe, breathe, breathe," he reminds himself, but he can't. The four walls of his bedroom feel like they're closing in on him, like the door and window might vanish and he'll be trapped and the air will run out. But it's better in here than out there where anything could happen. Where people could get into a freak car accident. Where people die.

"Fuck," he mutters, tugging fistfuls of his hair. He reaches out and finds his phone where it's charging on the floor beside his bed. Two messages from Ruby.

My party has been moved to 2morrow. I'll tell you about it school.

Don't forget you said I could copy your bio hw xx

Sam groans and drops back into his pillows. He hasn't done his biology homework. He hasn't done any of his homework. Dean's going to be pissed, even more pissed than he already is.

His sweatshirt is clinging to his sweaty skin and he peels it off and tosses it onto the floor with the rest of his worn clothes. Sam absently itches at his arms, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think.

Because that's the problem, isn't it? Things might be easier if Sam could get his brain to shut up for one damn second. If he isn't thinking about the crash, he's thinking about the cuts on his arms, and if he's not thinking about them, he's worrying about Dean, and if he's not doing that, he's asking why. Why? Why why why why?

Why do I push everyone away? Why can't I be who I was before? Why can't I be happy? Why did my dad have to die? Why was I born?

He runs these questions over in his mind. He can't stop himself. He wants to shut it off. How can he shut it off? Even sleep, when he can get it, doesn't save him from his thoughts. Even his dreams are dark and suffocating and littered with the shards of smashed headlights. The piece of glass he pulled from the leftovers of the wreckage sits in his bedside drawer. He takes it out and holds in both hands, fingers running along the smooth surface, gently stroking the sharp edges.

His arms are a mess. They're red and irritated and scratched to hell. They're never going to fade, not even once they've healed – if he'll ever let them heal. He finds a scab at the centre of his forearm, on the soft white skin, and he digs his nail under it until it comes loose. It hurts, but he can breathe.

Sam thinks of Mr Novak and his stupid, worried face. He wants to help, that's what he'd said. Sam wishes he could say yes please I'm scared and I don't know what to do, but it's like someone has their hand clamped over his mouth. What would it do to Dean if he knew? He's already lost his mom and dad, Sam can't let him know the truth. It would kill him.

Just bite your teeth together and ride through it. Don't cause more problems for people than you already have.

"I want my dad," Sam whispers to the ceiling. He picks up his phone and scrolls through his contacts, he calls his father.

"I'm sorry, the number you have called is no longer in service – "

It's like a reflex when Sam hurls the phone across the room, where it cracks against the wall and lands in pieces on the ground. The movement from Dean's room next door is almost instant, and Sam quickly switches off the light and tucks himself back under his covers, trying to flatten himself down to the mattress. He squeezes his eyes shut.

The door creaks open and Dean's voice calls softly into the dark, "Sammy, are you awake?"

Sam doesn't move as Dean lingers for what must be a full five minutes. Finally, the door clicks shut again and Sam clamps his teeth around his pillow as the tears begin to fall. He muffles each sob and gasp that leaves him breathless and tired enough to eventually drift a little.

Sam's alarm doesn't go off. The alarm, which was on his phone, was hurled across the room and broken beyond repair. He's woken by Dean's insistent knocking.

"You up yet?" Dean calls through the door.

Sam rubs at his eyes and sits up, blinking drearily at the morning sunshine. "Um. Yeah," he lies, voice still raspy and rough with sleep.

There's a small pause from Dean, then, "Be in the kitchen in five minutes, okay?"

"Okay," Sam replies, then rolls out of bed. He manages to find his last pair of clean underwear, but has to turn yesterday's socks inside out. He slips a clean hoody over the plain grey t-shirt he slept in, and pulls on the same jeans he's been wearing all week. He needs a shower, like, three days ago. His hair is greasy and sticking in whichever direction it chooses, there's acne forming on his chin, there are bags under his eyes the size of Texas. In conclusion, he looks like crap.

He stumbles into the kitchen to find buttered toast and orange juice waiting for him at the table. Dean is dashing around the room, trying to get things into some semblance of order.

"You sleep alright?" he asks.

Sam shrugs. "Yeah. Like a baby."

Dean pauses by the sink and eyes him for a moment. "Something crashed last night and I'd swear it came from your room. You didn't hear that?"

"Nope."

"What time did you get to sleep last night?" Dean presses.

Probably around five am. "About midnight," Sam answers.

Dean looks like he wants to say something more, but he just turns back around and continues assembling Sam's lunch. Sam forces himself to swallow down his breakfast, counting his chews and trying to resist the urge to throw up. Things are getting worse, he can feel it. Some days you can stand on your own two feet, and other days you wake up under a heavy grey cloud.

He can feel himself slipping and he has nothing to hold onto.

Ruby, as expected, isn't pleased when Sam tells her he didn't do his biology homework. It's ten am and they're spending their morning break freezing their asses off on the bleachers. Ruby inhales her cigarette, not bothering to tap away the ashy end as she stares at Sam with an angry glint in her eye.

"You could have messaged me and told me you didn't do it," she huffs. "Now I have to do it during lunch."

"I'm sorry," Sam says honestly. He didn't want to upset her, he really didn't. He'd intended to do the homework last night, but he must have gotten distracted. "We can do it together," he offers. "I can help you. Or try, at least."

Ruby's face softens and she tubs out her cigarette under her boot, leaning against his shoulder. "You're way too sweet, Sam, it's almost sickening."

"Uh. Thanks." Sam decides to take it as a compliment. She twines her fingers with his and the two of them just sit there watching some seniors toss around a football on the field below. It's nice, to feel like a regular kid with a girlfriend and not much more to worry about than homework. With Ruby, he can almost forget.

"You're coming to my party tonight, right?" she says, and it's not a question.

"Uh. I'd have to ask Dean, and he'll probably say no – "

Ruby sits up straight and raises an eyebrow at him. "Since when did Dean become dictator?"

"I mean, he is legally my guardian, so."

"So?" Ruby repeats. "He's not the boss of you."

Sam sighs. "I never said – "

"I don't even want to have a party if you're not going to be there," Ruby says miserably, resting her chin in her hands. "Should I just cancel it?"

"No! No, don't cancel it. I'll be there, I promise."

Ruby smiles and pecks a kiss on his lips. "Maybe dress up a bit or something, though?" she says. "No offense, Sam, but the grunge look isn't so cute at a party."

Sam pulls his jacket tighter around himself, suddenly a little self-conscious. The bell rings, signally the start of their next class, and Ruby climbs to her feet, taking Sam's hand and pulling him along after her. She walks him all the way to his English class and gives him a kiss goodbye that's almost inappropriate for public viewing. Someone whistles at them as they walk by and Sam ducks his head, wishing he could disappear.

Once Ruby has gone, Sam finds a seat at the back of the room. Brady, a couple of seats in front, turns around and gives him a wink. Sam isn't sure how to respond, so he glues his eyes to his desk and pretends he didn't see.

He's tracing the cracks on his wooden desk with his fingertips, barely listening to what Mr Turner is saying at the front of the class, then Brady leans and twists around until he's facing Sam, grinning at him like a feral cat.

Sam blinks as the teacher's words finally filter into his brain, "Partner up with the person sitting next to you."

There's no one on Sam's right. He turns to his left and – oh, fuck.

Gordon Walker is glaring at him, mouth pressed into a thin line. He quickly turns away from Sam, trying to team up with Nancy who sits at his other side, but she's already huddled close and giggling with Tracy Bell.

A couple of seats in front of Sam, Brady is smothering his laughter in the crook of his elbow.

"Join your desk with your partner's," Mr Turner orders.

Gordon doesn't move. Of course, he doesn't. He's not even looking anywhere remotely near Sam's direction. Sam rolls his eyes. It's been months – months – since Sam… did what he did. The situation was resolved, everyone apologised, everyone forgave. Well, not everyone. Sam sighs and grips the edges of his desk, lifting and sliding until it's about an inch apart from Gordon's.

"Hey, um, Gordon," Sam whispers. "I just want to say again that I'm really – "

"Shut the fuck up," Gordon hisses, and Sam presses his lips together. The entire class passes agonisingly slowly. To Sam, it feels like they're all there for at least five hours. He watches the second hand on the clock tick by. Tick… tick… tick…

The whole time, Gordon won't even speak to Sam. When the bell finally rings, signally the end of the lesson, Gordon couldn't be out of his seat fast enough. Sam, he has to admit, actually feels really bad about it, and he really doesn't want Gordon to go on hating him. They used to be friends. He's got a lot of used to be friends in this school.

He catches up to Gordon at the end of the hall.

"Gordon, wait," he says. Surprisingly, Gordon stops and turns around.

"What?" he demands.

"Look, I really am sorry for what I did," Sam insists. "I just wanted you to know that."

Gordan snorts. "Right. Sure."

"I mean it," Sam says. "It was a while ago, and I was angry. It's no excuse, but I am sorry. My brother did fix your car after, so no harm, right?"

"No harm?" Gordon repeats. "You keyed my car. You're a freak."

Something coils up tight in Sam's chest and he goes rigid at the sound of that last word. Freak. He takes a breath.

"Don't act like I'm the only person who did something wrong," he says, calm as he can. "You fucked with me first. You never apologised for it."

"I've got nothing to apologise for!" Gordon snaps.

People are slowing and stopping on their way to class, shuffling a little closer to see what the fuss is about. Sam takes a step towards Gordon and says under his breath, "You have a lot to apologise for. What you said wasn't okay."

"You cost us the state cup," Gordon says, mouth curled in disgust.

Sam swallows hard. "My dad had just died. Why didn't you understand that I wasn't up for playing fucking soccer?"

"He died months before that game. It's a shitty thing to happen, I get it, but it's clear to everyone here that you're using what happened as an excuse to get attention."

Sam clenches his fist. After a deep breath he says, "That's bullshit. I'm not apologising for the soccer game, but I am apologising for what I did to your car. My brother fixed it up. Can we leave it at that?"

Gordon, like a shark smelling blood on the water, latches onto the mention of Dean. Sam can see it coming before Gordon even opens his sneered mouth.

"Tell your fag brother thanks, then."

Sam doesn't think. One second he's standing about half a meter from Gordon, the next he's got him slammed against a locker. A gasp rises from the crowd circled around them. Gordon may be shorter than Sam, but he's definitely stronger, and he shoves Sam away. Sam doesn't register the fist flying towards his face until he's sprawled out on the ground, his eye stinging so much it begins to water.

Sam kicks out a leg and Gordon is knocked onto his ass, then Sam leaps on top of him. Gordon grabs Sam's wrists and the two of them struggle there on the ground until Sam manages to shift his elbow into Gordon's nose. He lets out an almighty yelp, blood already gushing from his nostrils. He's on his feet quick, grabbing Sam by the front of his shirt and swinging him across the hall, head first into a locker.

Sam blinks frantically to clear the fuzziness from his eyes. He can see the shape of Gordon looming towards him, so he forces himself unsteadily onto his feet and launches himself at him. He lands on top of Gordon, and throws an uncoordinated punch at what he hopes is his face. Miraculously, his knuckles meet the hard bone of Gordon's jaw. Sam grins, bottom lip splitting, he tastes blood.

"Enough!" Someone's shouting. "Everyone get to class. Now!"

The spectators in the hall scatter and someone grabs Sam around the middle and peels him off Gordon. Mr Turner shakes his head at Sam and pulls Gordon to his feet. Then, Sam is pushed gently until his back is touching a row of lockers, the entire width of the hallway separating him from Gordon. Someone's hand is pressed to his chest, like Sam might just try for another round. There's a sly smile on Gordon's face, and Sam just might

Still blinking away the water running from his eye, Sam manages to glance up to find Mr Novak in front of him, looking far less than pleased.

"Either one of you want to explain what's going on?" he asks, voice harder than Sam's ever heard it.

"The psycho jusd wend f'me," Gordon says, hand cupped over his bleeding nose. "He's a fugging animal."

"Alright, enough," Mr Turner snaps. He takes Gordon by the elbow and steers him towards the nearest bathroom, presumably to rinse all the blood off his face.

Once they're alone, Mr Novak turns to Sam, releasing his grip. "What happened?" he asks.

Sam shrugs. He doesn't feel much like talking, because everything that comes out his mouth only seems to make things worse. Everything he touches falls apart. What's the point of him if he just makes everything worse than before?

"I don't believe this was entirely your fault," Mr Novak says, voice returning to its usual softness. "You need to tell me what happened."

Sam ducks his head and stares at the ground. His left eye is blurry and he can already feel it swelling, the eyelids inching closer together. "It doesn't matter what happened," he mutters at his feet. "I'm getting kicked out of here either way."

Mr Novak sighs, but he doesn't bother denying it. After a moment, he says, "Did he say something that upset you?"

Sam huffs and lifts his head until it's resting against the lockers behind him. He's so tired, he doesn't care about any of this anymore, he just wants to sleep. After a moment of trying to dab the wetness from his swelling eye with the sleeve of his hoodie, he looks at Mr Novak and says, "All of them are always saying something. They're always talking about me, and I can ignore it. But – "

He cuts off. The words catch in his throat.

"But?" Mr Novak prompts.

Sam grits his teeth together and locks his eyes on a spot of Gordon's blood splashed on the shiny linoleum floor. "But I can't ignore it if they say something about my family," he admits.

Mr Novak doesn't try to push him any further about it, but instead he escorts Sam to the nurse's office. She orders him to sit on the bed as she shines a light in both eyes and gently fumbles along his scalp. He winces as her fingers probe at the back.

"Yeah," she mutters to herself. "A little bump, but no concussion." She fishes out an ice pack from a small fridge under her desk and holds it gently against the sore spot on his head. "Just alternate this between here and your eye. I'm afraid I'm not authorised to give you painkillers, so you'll have to ask a parent or guardian about it once you leave school."

Leave school. Well, Sam's about to do that forever. It's only just dawning on him now. What will he do? Can he go to another school? Will he have to get a job? Jesus. Dean's going to kill him, so long as Gordon Walker doesn't get there first. Sam imagines his dad, the look on his face if he knew that Sam just got himself permanently expelled from school. It would probably be the same frustrated expression he wore just moments before the crash.

"Sam, please. I don't want to fight with you, kiddo."

Sam closes his eyes and listens. He can almost hear him, like a whisper coming from the other room. Dad's still here, Sam knows it. He's seen him in the dark at night, heard his voice. Sam opens his eyes and hopes his dad might be standing there in front of him, but Mr Novak is there in his place.

"Sam?" he says, clearly not for the first time. "Did you hear me?"

Sam shakes his head, regretting the movement instantly as a headache wells up behind his eyes.

"I said I was going to take you to see Principal Harvelle now," he says slowly, then frowns. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Sam lies, because what kind of question is are you alright? He's sitting here with a black eye, clearly the answer is no.

The route to the principal's office is no less terrifying the hundredth time you take it. Gordon is already sitting outside, so Sam takes the seat at the farthest end of the bench and hopes he won't get mad enough to give him another fist to his face. Judging by Gordon's expression, he's in exactly the same boat.

Mr Novak disappears into the principal's office. Sam can hear talking on the other side of the door, but no matter how hard he strains his ears, he can't make out much more than mumbling.

"Sam, would you stop ignoring me?"

He closes his eyes. He can feel him. Dad. It's like he's right here.

"Look, bud. I'd rather not argue with you. Sam, are you listening?"

He can see him. Dean always looked more like Dad, and Mom, judging by the photos they have of her. Sam doesn't know what he might have inherited from his mother, but he definitely shared his father's stubbornness. The two of them in a fight was like knocking down a brick wall with only your fists.

"You let Dean go to parties when he was my age!"

"I know. I just don't want you out at night when the weather's like this."

"Snow's not gonna kill me, Dad."

"I worry, Sam. That's all. Humour an old man and stay in tonight? We can watch a movie."

Sam wonders what they might have watched. Die Hard if Dean had been given the choice, an old Western if Dad had picked. But the wheels had caught on ice, and the car had skidded off the road, it had lost balance and flipped, straight into a tree trunk.

He can still feel the jolt through his entire body, the bruising tug of his seatbelt of his chest, the smack of his arm against the inside of the door, the crack of his bone, the blood rushing to his head. The silence.

"Dad, I'm stuck. I – I think my arm's broken."

Sam's knees are shaking. His hands are shaking, everything is a shuddering mess. He feels nauseous, is actually tempted to throw up all over the carpet beneath his feet. He catches Gordon staring at him out of the corner of his eye. He's staring at Sam like he's a bomb ticking down to zero and he wedges himself further into the opposite end of the bench.

Sam tugs his hood over his head, only to have it tugged back off in the next second. He glances up to Dean's hard eyes. Dean shakes his head and drops down into the seat beside him. He doesn't say a word to Sam, won't even look at him.

I'm sorry doesn't seem quite good enough, besides, Sam can't seem to get his mouth to open. All he can do is sit there and dig his nails into the palms of his hands. It calms him a little, but not enough. Sam lets himself drift into a daze. Nothing feels quite real, like he might blink awake any moment. He's sitting across from Principle Harvelle in her office, Dean at his side, with not much memory of getting there in the first place.

"You've had more second chances than any other student, given your circumstances," she says. "My hands are tied after today's incident. I have no choice but to permanently suspend you."

Sam locks his eyes downwards, watching the tips of his fingers fiddle with the drawstring of his hood. He knots it once, then unties it, nails tugging at the frayed ends.

"Do you understand?" Miss Harvelle asks.

"Yes," Sam answers, but his voice barely rises above a whisper.

"What are we supposed to do now?" Dean asks, and Sam tries not to wince. He sounds so frantic. "Sam has to go to school."

"He can try to enrol at another school," Harvelle suggests, and that's the point that Sam stops listening. He hears phrases like home schooling and try contacting the department for education and try for an appeal. It's all pointless. He wants to tell them to stop wasting their energy on him. He's not worth it. No matter what they do, he's going to mess it up.

Dean must hate him. Dean, who gave up everything to look after to Sam. Sam has just thrown everything back in his face. He might as well spit on his feet as well. And Dad. Dad's going to be so pissed at Sam when he finds out, he's probably going to ground him for the rest of his natural life –

Wait. No. Dad would have been pissed at Sam. If he were still alive. Because Dad's dead. Sam saw it happen.

He blinks and he's on his feet, trailing down the hall behind Mr Novak. Sam's heartbeat picks up in his chest. He feels dizzy and the shiny linoleum floors are too bright for his eyes. Something's wrong with him, something strange is happening, like he's slipped out of his own skin, like he's watching himself from a distance.

Mr Novak stops and Sam nearly walks straight into him. They're standing in front of his locker and Mr Novak's telling him to open it, so Sam does, and he's staring at all his books and his gym sneakers and a photo of him and Mom and Dean from years ago that's blue-tacked at the back.

"If anything belongs to the school, just leave it in there," Mr Novak says. He sounds like a stranger, like he's never spoken to Sam before, like he's never seen him break down each week. Sam takes the photo first and tucks it safely into a pocket in his backpack. Then, he wedges his sneakers and notebooks and his copy of To Kill a Mockingbird inside before zipping it up and hanging it from his shoulder.

Sam isn't sure what he's supposed to be doing now, if he should be doing anything at all. He shuts the locker door and turns away. He should find Dean, let him yell at him until his throat gets sore.

Mr Novak pauses him with a hand on his shoulder.

"If you ever need help, or to talk to someone, I'm still here," he says.

Sam shrugs out of his grip and answers, "No thanks."

He almost feels bad for the hurt look that puts on Mr Novak's face. He walks Sam to the front office where Dean is pacing. Sam waits while the two of them speak not-so-privately on the other side of the room. He doesn't miss the way Mr Novak places his hand on Dean's arm, the way Dean leans into it, the way Novak's thumb brushes over the leather sleeve of his jacket.

Dean still hasn't said a word to him. They're in the car and pulling out of the school parking lot. Sam can feel the tension building, like Dean's bubbling under the surface, ready to boil over, and Sam has nowhere to take cover.

"You got nothing to say for yourself?" Dean finally asks, forced calm. The car comes to a stop at a red light and he turns his head towards Sam, eyebrow raised.

"I'm sorry," Sam manages.

The red turns to green and the car prowls forward, Dean taps his fingers along the wheel and turns around a block. They're taking the long way home.

"You're sorry," Dean repeats, shaking his head. "You were given more second chances than anyone else. How could you blow it? And for what? Because some dumb kid pissed you off."

"I – I tried," Sam insists. He shuts his mouth when his voice cracks and averts his gaze out the window.

"You tried? You should have tried harder, Sam. It doesn't take much restraint to keep yourself from punching someone in the face. What happened to you, huh? The little brother I know would never have done shit like this!"

Sam bites his lip. "Maybe I'm not the little brother you thought you had."

"Clearly," Dean says sharply. "You're better than this, Sam. You know you are."

"No, I'm not!"

Sam isn't sure who's surprised more by his raised voice, him or Dean. Dean doesn't say anything more until they're parked outside their apartment building. They head inside and up the stairs.

"I'm not gonna pretend I'm not pissed as hell," Dean says, his voice echoing around the stairwell, "because I am. But I'm worried more than mad. You're worrying me, Sammy."

Sam keeps walking, fists bunched up and shoved in his pockets.

"We need to talk about this," Dean says outside their apartment door. He jimmies the key in the lock and gives it a firm kick open, the hinges creaking. "You gonna explain all this to me?"

Sam lets his backpack drop to the floor with a heavy thud. He turns to Dean and asks, "What's there to explain?"

"Apparently, you're the one who started that fight," Dean says, arms folded over his chest. "What did that kid do to make you so mad?"

Sam shrugs. He doesn't feel much like talking about it. He wants to climb under his bedcovers and stay there forever.

"Sam, just explain it to me, please. I want to understand."

No one understands. He feels trapped and exposed at the same time. Like an animal caught in a wire trap, just dangling from a tree branch with no way of getting down. What is he? He's a lost cause. Even the fucking school handed him back to Dean like he's something broken to be returned to sender. Sorry, this one's damaged.

"I tried to apologise to him," Sam explains, kicking off his shoes roughly. "Gordon's still pissed at me about his car, so I tried to say sorry. He wasn't interested and he said I was using dad as a way of getting attention."

Dean sighs heavily, he scrubs his hand over his mouth. "Oh, Sammy."

"But that's not what made me so mad," Sam goes on. "People are always talking about me and Dad and the crash like it's their business. I'm used to it. You know what did it for me? Why I slammed him into a locker? It's because of what he said about you. He called you – he called you a horrible name and I couldn't take it."

"I don't want you fighting my battles for me," Dean says softly. Sam's about to protest, but Dean cuts him off. "We'll talk about this later, but I have to get back to work. Will you be okay on your own for a few more hours?"

"I'm not a kid."

Dean's lips press together. "I'll talk to you later. Don't go anywhere," he says, then he's patting Sam on the shoulder and heading out the door. The door falls shut heavily, a hard click filling the empty apartment. Sam glances at the clock hanging over the fridge. It's a few minutes past midday, which means everyone at school is having lunch, which means everyone will have heard by now that Sam Winchester got kicked out of school for good. Good riddance.

His left eye is barely even open at this point, so he rummages around the freezer for a bag of peas and wraps it in a towel before pressing it to his face. Today feels longer than it should, he's exhausted in every inch of his body, right down to his bones. With the pack still chilling his black eye, Sam trudges to his bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him.

The room's a mess. Unwashed clothes left all over the carpet, the smashed remains of his phone beside his chair, a piece of two-day-old toast on his desk. Sam stumbles over the chaos and drops down onto his unmade bed.

He's itchy all over. He feels ready to burst out of his skin. His eyes wander to his bedside drawer.

He falls asleep not long after, the bag of peas balanced on his face, fresh beads of blood on his arms.

The sound of the front door falling shut jolts Sam from an uneasy sleep. It's dark outside and the pillow under his cheek is soaked with the melted ice from the peas. He peels himself out of bed, mouth thick and sour with saliva.

Dean's probably going to burst in here any second to make good on his promise to talk later. There's nothing Dean can tell Sam that he doesn't already know. Sam knows he fucked up. He knows he's a failure. He knows he keeps making mistakes. Knowing isn't the problem, the problem is stopping. He can't, he's like a train hurtling down the tracks with broken brakes, about to tip over a canyon, taking everything in its path with it.

Sam gently turns the handle and eases the door open. He can hear Dean's voice in the kitchen.

"I think he's sleeping," he says. "Yeah, I just came back about ten minutes ago. I'm just standing here like an idiot. I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

There's a long pause.

"I'm worried, Bobby," Dean answers. "You were right this whole time and I wasn't listening… No, I should have been paying more attention… So, you think I should take him to a doctor?"

Sam freezes. No. No fucking way.

"I don't know how Sammy would feel about that, Bobby… Look, maybe I should call Cas. He knows about this stuff."

Cas. As in Mr Novak. Meaning Dean and Sam's school councillor – ex-school councillor – are on a first name basis. He saw the soft touches and the way their eyes latched onto each other. They're both huge fucking liars. They had promised. Sam doesn't give a shit anymore, he storms into the kitchen to meet Dean's surprised face.

"I'll call you back, Bobby," Dean says into the phone before hanging up. "You're awake," he says to Sam.

"You're dating Mr Novak?" Sam demands.

Dean sighs. "Not dating, but we like each other, okay?"

"You promised you wouldn't," Sam seeths. "You both promised."

"Sam, it's more complicated than that. Besides, I'm a full-grown adult and I can make my own decisions about who I do or don't date. I know he was your school councillor, and it makes you uncomfortable but – "

"So, you both talk about me, huh?" Sam guesses. It all makes so much sense now. "I bet he tells you all the juicy little details. You get together and talk about the psycho? Everyone else already does, so why the hell not!."

Dean's eyes widen. "Jesus, Sam. No one's talking about you, okay? Cas didn't tell me anything. It's private, I get that."

"Stop fucking lying!" Sam yells. Shit. He's tempted to tear his own hair out; his fingers are already knotted into tufts at the front.

"I'm not lying, kiddo," Dean says, using that soft, spooked animal tone. He steps forward and Sam quickly steps back.

"At school, everyone looked at me and talked about me and – fuck!" Sam says breathlessly. "I don't care anymore. I'm done caring about anything!"

Dean's quiet for a moment. He's staring at Sam like he's grown another head, mouth opening and closing at a loss for words.

"Sam – "

"No!" Sam snaps. His eyes are blurry, his face is hot, he can't get a breath in. "Stop. You don't understand. No one understands. I can't do this anymore. I don't want to be here!"

He finally takes in a gulping breath. Dean is still quiet, just standing across the room and watching Sam cry his eyes out. Sam wants to melt into the floor, he wants to just disappear.

"Stop staring," he manages, voice shaking with sobs. He wipes his wet cheeks with the back of his sleeve.

"I'm not staring," Dean says softly. "I'm just worried, alright? You gonna let me over there?"

He tries for a step forward, but Sam backs away, closer to the door. He wants to run. He needs to run. He can't breathe in here, with walls around him and Dean staring at him and the sound of headlights smashing in his ears.

So, he does. He runs.

It's freezing. He didn't think about that before bolting out the front door. Of course, Dean had been right on his tail, but Sam's legs are longer, he can move faster. He leaped down the stairs three at a time, out into the street, then he cut down a back alley and over a fence. After five minutes of non-stop running, he pauses to look back. There's no sign of Dean.

He leans against someone's fence and tries to breath, the hotness of his breath catching onto the chilled air and swirling away like smoke.

He could really use a cigarette right now.

The ground is frosty and he looks down to notice he'd forgotten to put shoes on. The bottoms of his socks are already wet, the soles of his feet are burning. He trudges onwards, slow and steady on the ice, arms out for balance. Ruby's house is only a few blocks away, but he gets there in twice the time he should. He hears the music at the end of the street, can see the small figures of people milling into the house in the distance.

The party will be in full swing by now, and Sam really isn't up for a hundred pairs of eyes on him. If he can just get inside, get to Ruby, they can go somewhere quiet. She'll listen to him.

The front door is wide open and Sam slips inside, weaving through the dancing bodies, neck craned over the crowd in search of Ruby. The music is way too loud, he can feel every beat of it vibrating from the soles of his feet and up to his head, it makes him shaky with panic.

"Ruby?" he shouts, but his voice gets lost in the noise.

He can feel sweat on his brow, hot on his skin, he wipes it with his sleeve. There are people pressed in on all sides, jerking and shaking to the music, he gets an elbow to the ribs before he manages to squeeze into the kitchen. It's not as crowded here, but the few people hanging around in the smoke-filled room catch sight of him. A couple of girls dip their heads together a whisper, a guy from his biology class says, "I heard you got kicked outta school today." He holds out a shot glass. "You look like you could use a drink."

Sam shrugs and takes it, downing the liquid, wincing as it burns his throat. "Well, yeah. Thanks. Um, have you seen Ruby?"

The guy points upwards. "Saw her go upstairs."

Sam ducks out the room before anyone can ask more questions. The stairs are lines with people, one girl is crying on the bottom step, a few guys are chatting in the middle, the line for the bathroom ends at the top. He bows his head and presses on, ignoring any whisper he hears of his name.

"Shut up," he whispers, although no one will hear. He's so shaky, he's surprised he makes it all the way up to the second floor without falling back down again.

Ruby's bedroom door is closed, and that should be a giveaway, but Sam just pushes inside without knocking. The room isn't empty. There are two people on the bed, but they quickly part at the intrusion. Ruby. And Brady.

Brady has lipstick smeared all over his mouth and Ruby's sequined top is pushed up over her bra. Sam can't breathe for a second, he stumbles back into the door.

"You came!" Ruby blurts, tugging her top down. "I thought you weren't coming."

Sam glances between the two of them, at Ruby's bright grin and Brady's sly smile.

"I wasn't," Sam says numbly. "I mean. I don't know. I was looking for you."

Ruby frowns. "Jesus, Sam. You look like shit – where are you shoes? Are you okay?"

Sam squeezes his eyes closed. He can't think with the volume outside and the vibrations through his feet and the pair of them staring at him like that. Coming here was a mistake. He feels so stupid.

"I – I thought we were…" he says, but he can't finish the sentence. He isn't sure what they were.

Ruby, at least, looks a little guilty. She won't look him in the eye as she says, "Well, we were never official, you know? It's not cheating when we weren't together in the first place."

It's feels like someone just punched him in the gut and Sam can already feel tears welling up in his eyes. He turns for the door, but someone grabs his sleeve. Sam yanks, shrugging out of his hoodie. For a second, it feels good. He's hot, way too hot.

"Sam," Ruby gasps. "What happened to your arms?"

He glances down to where his bare skin is exposed, scabbed and scarred and itchy red. He curls his arms into himself.

"Jesus!" Brady exclaims, a smile stretching his face like he's just discovered the funniest thing in the world. Ruby throws a cold stare at him, before turning to Sam.

"You should go home," she says, eyes beseeching. "Okay?"

He doesn't need to be told twice. He's out the door, into the hall, down the stairs. He can hear Ruby calling after him, and he gets a few startled looks as he shoves his way through the dancing crowd. Once he's out the house, it's like he can finally breathe. He keeps going, trying to ignore the ache in his socked feet. He can feel a hole being pulled open around his heel, the skin underneath beginning to scrape.

The further he walks, the quieter it becomes.

He doesn't know where he's going, just that he needs to go. Away from Dean, away from Ruby, away from everyone. No one gets it, no one cares. Not really. It's all false smiles and eyes that look anywhere but at him. The temperamental dog that no one wants to admit out loud needs to be put down.

And he's back in the car, Dad at his side, a weary strain on his brow. They're talking – no, they're fighting. Sam's a distraction, and Dad's not paying attention to the road. They're slipping, skidding, hurtling, over and upside down.

Sam gasps. He's standing in the middle of a road, all alone, shivering his ass off.

He keeps walking.

The car hits the tree trunk hard, the bonnet caves in, the headlights smash and scatter.

Sam shakes his head to clear it. He's on the road, he's alone. He pauses and glances around in the dark. He can barely see a thing, but he knows. This is the road. The tree is right up ahead, a big strip missing from its bark. Sam keeps moving, then stops to spit at its roots.

"Fuck you," he says to the tree. He shuffles forward and skids down the bank, only to stumble and land on his ass. He glares at the rough, gnarled trunk. "I'm talking to a fucking tree," he whispers to the dark, then delivers a swift kick to the trunk, which is followed by a yelp as the scraped sole of his foot flares up with stinging pain.

He slumps back, feeling the squelch of mud under his back, the stickiness of it catching in his hair. He's tired, more tired than he'd ever think was possible. He's barely slept for a year, no wonder it decides to catch up with him now. He fumbles around his pocket for his phone for a minute, before remembering it's lying in pieces on his bedroom floor.

Soft clouds drift above and Sam feels the first fall of snow against his face as he closes his eyes. He's cold and sore, aching and shivering. He should get up, he knows he has to, but he can't get himself to move. He's not sure if he even cares enough to. Sam lies there, tears turning to ice on his cheeks, finally managing not to think. He curls up onto his side, wraps his shaking arms around his middle, snow drifting down to make his blanket.

One (possibly?) chapter left to go, although I do plan to write more fics set in this 'verse (hopefully that's okay with you guys!) Thanks for reading, take a moment to review if you can.