Losing my sight, losing my mind

Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine

"Dean! Dean! Dean…?" A young voice; a thin voice – Dean can't place the speaker but he knows he should be able to. But his mind his is so damn foggy. He just wants to go back to sleep, back to the black dreamless place of rest.

"Shh, quiet now. Dean needs to sleep." The unknown woman's voice; the voice that sounds like Mom.

"Is he all right?" Dean knows that gruff voice; the voice of his father.

"Yes," the woman says.

"Well then he should be awake," John retorts.

Dean thinks he should try and struggle now, try and wake back up, but he doesn't want to. He likes being able to just lie down and relax instead of having to fight all of the time, be aware all of the time. He likes lying down and knowing that he's being taken care of instead of anticipating every moment as one of danger.

"He needs time to recover," the woman chastises, "Especially after such a vicious attack. I've never heard of a bear attacking campers, but it's the only thing congruent with his injuries."

"An unfortunate twist of fate," John agrees.

Dean feels a slight pressure on the left side of the mattress, his body dipping toward it. He lets himself slide a little. He feels a hand – smaller than his – coming to wrap around his own.

"Dean," Sammy whispers, low underneath the conversation of his father and the woman, "I really want you to wake up now. Please?"

Dean can hear the tears in Sam's voice, threatening to spill over. Maybe it is time to open his eyes, to return to the world, but even though he knows what's going on, he doesn't know if he can fully find his way back. His head is aching, his body is aching, and he doesn't know how to regain control over his own limbs.

"Dean," Sam pushes, more insistent now than he was before, "please, show me you're fine. I mean, I know you're fine. I just … I want to be sure, okay?"

Dean doesn't even think about it. Sammy wants him awake and all right. He can do that. He can do that for his little brother. His eyes begin to flutter. At first he only sees darkness and he begins to worry – what exactly happened to him? Why can't he see? But then his vision begins to clear. The light pierces his eyes and it makes him tear up.

"Dean!" Sam yelps, making his brother wince. "Can you hear me?"

"S-s-sh," Dean manages, not even able to force out an appropriate 'shut up' for his pesky sibling.

"Dean," Sam repeats his brother's name.

Dean tries to summon a smile for his relieved brother, but Sam is being pushed out of the way. He's replaced but a tall, brunette woman who leans over Dean, mouth kind but face all business.

"Hello, Dean. I'm Dr. Metlow. How do you feel?" She asks. "Any aches, pains?"

"Everything," Dean forces out, his mouth completely dry.

"Uh-huh." She says. "Well, you don't appear to have lost any brain functions. Your wounds look as though they are healing nicely. I was worried when you came in unconscious," she admits. "I'm going to schedule a few tests, to be run later this afternoon, just to make sure everything is in working order."

She finishes her assessment of Dean's body, smoothing the blankets back over his bandaged chest.

"Mr. Dolfrey," she says, turning to face John. "May I speak to you outside?"

The two adults exit the room, and Sam bounces back to his brother's side.

"How do you feel?" He asks the doctor's earlier question.

Dean is quick to shush him. He wants to hear what the doctor is saying to Dad. He's fourteen and Sam is ten – there are probably some things the doctor didn't want said in front of them.

He can hear her now, "Mr. Dolfrey, I've noticed several injuries on Dean."

Dean's heart seizes up. His wrist; his dirty secret. He looks down at his arm but, even though his clothing has been stripped away, his bracelets have remained securely in place. He breathes a sigh of relief, but only for a moment – what else could the doctor being talking about if she isn't referencing his self-inflicted injuries?

"He was attacked," John points out.

"Previous injuries." The doctor hesitates, "ones that imply a lifetime of abuse."

"Abuse!" John roars. "Never, in my life have I –"

"Regardless," Dr. Metlow says calmly, "I have to report it."

Sam looks down at Dean fearfully. "Are they going to take us away?"

"No," Dean assures him. "Don't worry, Sammy."

And because Dean says it, Sam doesn't worry.

"Will you tell me what happened?" Dean distracts his brother. "I don't remember getting hurt."

"Oh," Sam sniffs, face going dark. "Uh, we were sleeping in the backseat and Dad got a call from someone sayin' that there was a job nearby. An' we went. Dad parked and gave us both guns and even though I practiced with them before I've never been hunting with him before, not like you have and I was so scared. We stayed close to Dad but the thing came from behind us instead of in front of us and it was gonna grab me but you jumped in the way and it got you instead. I'm so sorry, Dean!"

Dean tries not to wince as Sam throws his body down, clinging to his older brother and begging for forgiveness.

"No, buddy, it's all right. Are you okay?"

Sam looks up at him with huge eyes. "Yes. I'm okay."

"Good," Dean lets out a breath and holds his brother closer.

They're only able to lie there together for a moment before John bursts back in the room.

"Dean, get dressed. We've got to go." He throws a pile of clothes onto the bottom of the hospital bed.

"The doctor called child protective services," Dean guesses.

"Yes. We've got to get out of here." John turns his back as Dean slowly begins to crawl for his clothes, trying to cater to his harsh injuries.

"Dean belongs in a hospital," Sam protests. He knows they have to go to keep their family together but he can't stand the thought of dragging an injured Dean around.

Dean answers before his father does. "I belong with you. And nothing is going to keep me from that."

"I have the meds Dean needs," John adds. "We can take care of him just as well as they can."

Sam nods. He watches Dean cringe as he leans down to pull on jeans. He can't take his eyes off his brother's vulnerability – it is a rare thing to see from Dean, who is always strong for Sam. Dean spreads out the t-shirt John has tugged into the hospital, but comes to a realization: he can't lift his arms up high enough to pull the shirt on.

Sam quickly steps in, unable to take the despair on Dean's face. He picks up the hoodie John has brought – a zip-up. "Here," he murmurs as he pulls the garment up over Dean's arms to his shoulders.

Dean doesn't reply. He just takes Sammy's hand in his own and they follow their father to the Impala.

I never realized I was spread too thin

Dean is laid up for the next three weeks. All this means is that he stays in the hotel room with Sam while his father goes on a hunting trip on his own.

"Why are you studying?" Dean growls at his little brother. His wounds itch and he's tired of being cooped up. "It's July."

"I like to learn, Dean." Sam puts the book down on the tiny table and comes to sit next to his brother, staring at him expectantly.

"What?" Deans asks, returning his gaze.

"Will you tell me a story?"

Dean smirks. It's amazing how much younger than ten Sam can sound, especially considering the life they've had. "Don't you have enough stories in your books over there?" Dean inclines his head toward the stack. "'Sides, I'm not story teller."

"Tell me a story about me," Sam insists, "when I was little."

"Goodness you like hearing about yourself," Dean teases. "I can't count the number of times you've asked."

"Are you going to tell me or not?"

"What story would you like to hear?" Dean gives in, knowing that Sam will probably pick the time he drank all of Dad's holy water and then replaced it with grape juice because he felt so bad.

"Uhm," Sam thinks. "A new one!"

"A new one!" Dean blanches. He's told every funny story from Sam's childhood. He looks at the boy; maybe he doesn't want a funny story. "Well, have I ever told you about your first steps?"

Sam shakes his head.

"Okay, well, coincidentally, it was also the day of your first word. It was just you and me in the room. Dad wasn't on a hunt or anything – he was just going to the store and you were sleeping when he went to leave. He didn't want to wake you and he was only going to be gone for a few minutes.

"I was sitting on the floor at the end of the bed – you were sleeping and I didn't want to disturb you. So, anyway, I was sitting there watching TV when I heard this thud. I look over and you've slid down the side of the bed, clinging to the blankets to keep yourself standing. No big deal, you did this all the time – slid off the bed and then crawled around getting into stuff and keeping me busy. So I say 'come here, Sammy', hoping you'll crawl over and watch cartoons and I won't have to chase you around.

"You stare at me for a second, let go of the blanket and start wobbling toward me. I was so scared you were going to fall on your face, even though you were only two steps away. But you made it to me without breaking your face. You fell into my lap, giggled at me and then you pulled my hair and said 'Dean'."

As he spoke, Dean was taken back to that day. Though he's been in thousands of dingy motel rooms since, he can remember that dingy motel room perfectly. He can remember his own small voice when his father returned, proudly announcing what his little brother could do now – the same little brother who was sucking his thumb and chanting Dean's name.

He can remember the utter feeling of innocence that took over the entire image now.

He wonders when it ended. He wonders when he stopped being the five-year-old boy in the hotel room, bursting with pride and awe at something as simple as walking and started being the fourteen-year-old boy who gazed at everything with weary and cynical eyes.

He wishes he could go back to that boy, but he knows he can't. Everything about that moment is gone.

And then he looks down at Sam, and thinks that not everything is gone. He is still filled with pride and wonder when it comes to Sam – the only thing that keeps Dean from throwing himself off the deep end, the only thing that keeps his father from finding him slumped over in the bathroom, covered in blood, with metal buried in his wounded wrist.

'Til it was too late and I was empty within

Hungry, feeding on chaos and living in sin

"Can I talk to you?" Sam asks.

"I've got to get ready for the hunt," Dean says, checking the time. "Dad will be here in fifteen to get me."

"That means you have fifteen minutes to talk," Sam points out.

"Okay, talk." Dean agrees.

"Why have you been so …" Sam searches for an appropriate word, "excited for hunting lately?"

"I'm going to need a little more than that," Dean prompts.

"Well, you were always more involved with hunting than I was; you liked it more. I know that. But lately, you just seem to want to be out there more." Sam glances down. "Like Dad; it seems like that's all you want to do."

Dean doesn't know what to say. He doesn't want to tell Sam of the promise Dean made to himself – the one to be the better hunter so that Dad would, hopefully, be more willing to let Sam out. He also doesn't want to tell Sam that he's throwing himself into hunting more because it lets him siphon his emotions out in a more productive way than curling in the bathroom and making himself bleed. That is one secret he will take to his damn grave.

"I enjoy hunting," Dean settles for the easiest answer. He doesn't add that hunting gives him purpose. He's helping people, ridding the world of evil, and that's more than most other people are doing. And because he doesn't say this, he also doesn't say how dirty the killing makes him feeling sometimes (creature or not, life is life) but he's trying to become hard to it; he's trying not to care.

"I thought you were more like me. I thought you wanted something else for yourself."

"Sammy," Dean breathes sadly, knowing that he's about to speak more truth now than he ever has in his life, "there's more out there for you. I'll never be able to have anything else."

He gives his brother a hug and leaves the room – his fifteen minutes are up.

Downward spiral, where do I begin?

It all started when I lost my mother

It's a late night in the Impala. John is driving, quietly singing along to the radio, and Sam is asleep, his head rolling around in Dean's lap. Dean keeps a hand on his brother's head, keeping him steady. Dean knows he should drift off (he hates being tired during the day) but he can't. He leans his head against the back window of the Impala, staring up at the rush of night sky.

He lets his mind drift to the should-have-been life. He hardly ever lets himself think about what his life might have been if his mother hadn't died; if the supernatural hadn't come in and destroyed his father. Yet, sometimes, this overwhelming feeling of sorrow and nostalgia takes over, and he lets himself think about where he would be, right now, if he'd been allowed to be a fourteen-year-old boy instead of a fourteen-year-old soldier.

He would certainly be in bed, he thinks. It's nearly three a.m. and his mother would probably have a priority on bedtimes. Unless he was at a friend's house … if he'd been allowed to be a normal boy, he would almost certainly have friends, more than just his little brother. Though he loves Sammy, sometimes it gets tiring not having anyone his own age that he can truly connect to.

He wonders if his mother would still tuck him in. He wonders if his father would have taught him about cars. He wonders if he and Sam would have the same bond, were Sam raised by a mother and a father instead of a half-absent father and an older brother.

Dean brushes his fingers through Sam's hair.

If Dean were allowed to be a normal boy, if he hadn't lost his mother, then he could have had it all. He could have had all of the things he had toyed with only in dreams – friends, university, career, love – rather than the reality he knew he would never escape – roads, salt rounds, guns, ghosts.

No love for myself and no love for another

Searching to find a love upon a higher level

When Sam had been born and brought home, Dean had rejected the tiny bundle. Mary had done all she could – telling him the joys of a little brother, telling him how much Sam already loved him – but Dean wasn't having any of it. John had tried to tell Dean all that the baby could do someday – the games they could play and all Dean could teach Sam – but Dean didn't want to talk about someday. Dean talked about now.

By the time Mary died, Dean had tolerated the baby only because of a burning curiosity to understand the little human who was so different from himself. The night before Mary had died Dean could remember sneaking into Sam's room, John and Mary watching TV downstairs believing both of their boys were sleeping peacefully. He had crawled up the side of Sam's crib, watching the infant sleep. He had stayed there, not really thinking or doing anything, just watching, until he heard John and Mary switch the TV off and start coming upstairs to bed.

And then the fire.

Dean can remember the light weight of six-month-old Sam in his weak arms, running for their lives. He can remember that as the first night, cradling Sam close as if he would lose everything if he dared let go, and realizing for the very first time that he loved this baby.

And now Sam is the only thing Dean loves.

Dean is strutting around a small town library while he's pondering his past, waiting for Sam to finish copying notes out of a book that Dean is sure weighs more than his brother does. Dean picks up a book – a self-help book with the slogan 'Love Yourself!'. He wants to scoff at the corniness of the line, if only to distract himself from how deeply the words resonate because they are the opposite of the truth.

Dean doesn't like to think about himself. He doesn't like to consider who he is to other people; his self-worth; his self-image. This is mostly because he knows he doesn't have any, and it makes him feel empty inside; empty enough to slice his wrists in order to feel something. He doesn't look in the mirror and see Dean, a savior, a suave smile, a confident young man – he doesn't see anything that a boy should see in himself. Instead, he only sees a useless, weak echo of what his father thinks he should be.

"Dean," Sam whispers, tugging on the elbow of his jacket, "I'm ready to go."

Dean doesn't need to love himself. Sam loves him. And as long Sam is here, Dean will have all that he needs.

Finding nothing but questions and devils

Sam is whimpering in his sleep.

Dean's eyes pop open at the first noise his little brother makes – and it's not just because Sam's mouth is right next to his ear. Dean tenses, waiting to see if the dream will escalate into a nightmare. He hopes it doesn't but knows that it likely will. Sam always has horrible nightmares – ten years of being in the hunting business and Sam's had nightmares though every one of those years.

Sure enough, Sam's whimpers escalate until it sounds as though he may scream. Dean is quick to nudge Sam awake – John is sleeping in the other bed and he doesn't want to disturb their father. When Sam is having a nightmare, he only wants his brother; he reacts negatively to anyone else intruding during the time period.

"Sammy," Dean croons very softly, "wake up."

Sam's brow furrows, caught somewhere between the awful dream and his brother's voice, prodding him back to consciousness.

"C'mon now, open your eyes, princess."

The nickname, rolling sarcastically from Dean's lips, was enough to bring Sam's eyes dragging open. He glared sleepily at his older brother, but didn't say anything.

"What was the dream about?" Dean asks, knowing that it always helps Sam to talk about it.

"I saw …" Sam gulps. "It's dumb."

"Sam, tell me."

"You were hurt."

"You've seen me hurt before."

"No, not like this. The devil was in my dream too but it was like he was living inside of you, and he was making you hurt yourself, Dean." Sam's eyes grow wide, visible even in the dark. "Why would you hurt yourself?"

Dean swallows the guilt of his secret rising within him. "It was just a dream."

"I hate seeing you hurt."

"I'm fine. I'm not hurt." Dean's wrist throbs as he speaks, under the bracelet he wears even in sleep.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Dean curls Sam into him, playing with his hair until his little brother falls into a peaceful sleep.

As soon as Dean is sure Sam is out, he slips from the bed, padding into the bathroom. He closes and locks the door before sinking onto the cold tile floor. He reaches up under the sink, into the hiding place that has not yet failed him. He brings out his plastic bag and grabs one of the razors. He shoves his bracelets from his wrists, not even watching them clatter to the floor before he's slicing his wrists, watching his blood ooze from the wounds. He cuts himself until he forgets that he's lied to Sam.

Dean Winchester is not fine.

Dean Winchester is hurt.

I don't own anything recognizable. The song is Last Resort by Papa Roach. Thanks to my beta: ImagineYourself64.

~TLL~