fandom: supernatural
tw: ptsd, self harm (ish), anxiety, panic attack, trauma, self-hatred, mild blood/injury
set: 1993
category: gen
summary: After a close call in their last hunt, Bobby is left to try to repair the damage done to fourteen-year-old Dean by the weight of more responsibility and blame than any person was meant to bear.
word count: 4819
notes: I high-key hate this, but i really wanted to write the part after 1996, and i knew if i didn't get this one done now, i probably never would. So here we are. It is what it is, but I apologize in advance.
Dean swore there wasn't any oxygen in the Impala.
It wasn't just because of the displeasure radiating from his father, the way he glared through the front windshield only because glaring at Dean wasn't practical for driving purposes. Sure, the tension in the car was deeply tangible, making the air feel thick and heavy.
But it was more than that.
He felt like he couldn't breathe.
He'd felt like that ever since their last hunt.
And he didn't even really know why.
In fact, he didn't even really remember what happened.
He knew he screwed up. He knew it almost got to Sammy.
He could see shadowy shapes, read blurry words.
He felt like he knew what had happened, yet he couldn't... he couldn't grasp it. Think about it.
Everytime he tried, it was like something short-circuited in his brain, sparks flew, and then he was thinking about how he didn't feel like he could breathe, how it was because of more than just his father's anger with him, how he'd felt like this ever since the last hunt, how he'd screwed up, but he couldn't grasp the memory, and then the explosion happened again, and the cycle was repeated.
He knew it was a self-destructive thought pattern. He knew he was drowning in water he could stand in, that if he would just put his feet down... pull himself out of it... everything would be fine. But he didn't. He couldn't. He was stuck, gasping for air and wishing everything would just stop.
His dad hadn't told them where they were going, but Dean knew and he was sure Sammy did too.
Hunts which ended in John screaming at his older son for ten minutes before ordering them into the car and saying nothing else the whole drive only led to one place.
As they passed through a familiar arch, that destination was confirmed.
Dean knew they were here because he'd screwed up and his father didn't want to have to look at him. He knew he should be ashamed, and he was. But deep down, he also felt a little relief. A little feeling of comfort that didn't exist in hotel rooms and bad diners.
They parked, and Dean and Sam climbed out. By the time they shut their respective doors, John was already storming around the car to pull their duffle from the trunk and throw it in Dean's direction.
The boy caught it deftly and turned in the direction of the house, his little brother close behind and his father stomping ahead.
They were just climbing the front steps as he pounded his arrival into the door and shoved his way inside. It swung back on its hinges, Dean catching it a second before it hit Sam, who had his face shoved in a kid's chapter book his brother had picked up for him at a gas station the week before.
The kitchen was empty, but John and Bobby's voices could be heard from the next room as the boys shuffled inside.
"John, you know the boys can always stay," Bobby was saying now, "but you've gotta quit bein so hard on Dean. He's fourteen and a better hunter than most I know. Better than I'd like him to be. Mistakes happen to the best of us, you and me included. And Dean is a kid."
Dean would never understand what compelled the man to be so soft on him. Didn't he understand Dean couldn't afford mistakes? Especially when Sammy was there. He just wished he remembered what, exactly, he'd done, so he could properly hate himself for it.
"He's not a kid, he's a hunter!" John snapped. "And you're not their father!"
Before Bobby could respond, the man was storming back into the kitchen and towards the door.
"Not sure when I'll be back, Sammy," he said, making a point of directing the words at the younger son. "Be good."
Sam barely glanced up, the quiet anger that was becoming more and more common when he was with his father clearly simmering. "Uh-huh."
The glare returned to his face as he looked at Dean.
"Look out for him, you hear?"
"Yes, Sir."
The door slammed behind him.
A sigh from the other side of the room, followed by a tired but fond, "Hey, Boys."
Sam did look up now. "Hi, Uncle Bobby."
"Hey, uh... hey, Uncle Bobby." Dean's gaze remained fixed on the floor, his voice came out barely audible.
Why was talking so hard?
"Sounds like it was a rough hunt," Bobby said, crossing the room to look them up and down. "You boys alright?"
Both heads bobbed quickly, two kids trained to always tell adults that weren't John (John would tell them for them) that they were fine... they were always fine.
"Did Dad tell you what happened?" Dean asked quietly.
Maybe Bobby would repeat it, fill in his spotty memory. He just needed to know.
"Briefly." He opened his mouth to go on, but Sam cut him off.
"It wasn't Dean's fault!" he blurted frantically, clearly anticipating another scolding or lecture for his older brother. "Dad spilled beer on the duffle. The matches were wet. Dean got the fire started eventually, I just had to throw some salt on it! He... he didn't..."
"Slow down there, Sam," Bobby cut him off. "I know it wasn't Dean's fault. I ain't angry with him."
"Oh." The boy breathed a visible sigh of relief. "Okay. Good."
There was a moment of silence before Sam looked down at his book again. "Can I... is it okay if I keep..."
Bobby didn't have to be told to know that asking for permission to read was a very valid thing to do in the Winchester house. He nodded quickly, waving the boy towards the next room.
"Course, Sam. Pick a couch. Or your bedroom upstairs. Changed the sheets last week."
"Thanks, Uncle Bobby."
And he hurried to the living room to curl up on one of the worn out couches and lose himself in the story.
In his absence, Bobby bent a little to look at Dean.
"What happened to your head there?" he asked gently, indicating the bloody, bruised area of his forehead that continued under his hair.
Dean still didn't meet his gaze. "Ghost," he murmured. "Ceiling beam." A vague gesture of his hands.
It was close enough to screwing up, angry father, being jerked not quite through a doorway, straight into a wall instead.
"You sure about that?"
He nodded. He knew he should look up, say something to convince him, but he just... didn't have it in him.
Bobby sighed, but he didn't press the issue, just patting the boy on the shoulder a little as he straightened.
"Got a '69 Nova with a bad engine that I was just gonna get a start on. You wanna help?"
Dean really just wanted to go to sleep and not wake up, but he agreed anyway with a small movement of his head.
"I'll let your brother know where we'll be."
Outside, the first twenty minutes saw them speaking only about their project, and saw Bobby doing ninety-nine percent of that, Dean responding mostly with nods or by shaking his head, sometimes murmuring single or two-word answers.
Finally, though, as they identified the problem and fell into the rhythm of fixing it, Bobby's gaze lifted up to the teen's serious face.
"Are you okay, Son?" he asked gently.
Dean felt his chest throb a little at the genuine concern in the man's voice, felt a part of him scream for him to tell the truth, but nodded anyway.
"Told ya, Bobby. We're fine."
"I didn't mean physically."
His chest throbbed harder, that part of him begged louder. "Oh." He shifted uncomfortably, keeping his eyes fixed on the engine in front of him. "Then yeah. I... uh... always."
"'Always' is a lie for anybody, Dean." Bobby had started working again, but his attention was still clearly on their conversation. "Makes me think 'yeah' was too."
At the same time as half of his brain continued to implore him to just say it, admit it, no he wasn't okay, he didn't remember the last time he had been, the other half convinced him there was nothing to admit, no lie had been uttered, because what was okay? He was breathing, wasn't he? Just because he felt like crap, felt like he couldn't breathe and he just wanted to stop for real, didn't mean he needed help. What was feeling, anyway? It wasn't even real. He was fine.
By the time he realized he'd been quiet for a little too long, he didn't know how to rescue it, so he just let it continue, head still down, eyes still fixed on the car in front of him.
"Well, I guess quiet's better than lyin' again," Bobby sighed. "But I'd prefer you tell me what's up."
"Sounds kinda like a chick-flick to me," Dean returned, attempting to shrug it off.
"Sounds like bein' human to me." The hunter hesitated before continuing, "There's no shame in not always bein' alright."
Dean exhaled heavily. "I am alright, Bobby. I swear. Don't worry about me."
Bobby's own sigh said that definitely wasn't going to happen. He faltered for a moment before saying, "I won't push. But if ya change your mind..."
"Yeah," Dean confirmed quickly. "Thanks."
Another few minutes of silence established themselves before the boey heard himself asking a question he hadn't planned to let out.
"What did Dad tell you happened?"
"On the hunt?" Bobby's forehead was knit as he tried to figure out where the question had come from.
"Yeah."
"It doesn't matter what he told me, Dean," the hunter tried to assure him. "I don't blame you."
"No, I know." The boy bit his lip. "I mean, you should, but I... I just wanna... I don't..." His fist tightened around the wrench in his hand as he tried to get the words out. "I... I don't remember."
The last part came out a whisper.
"You don't... you mean what happened?"
He nodded, feeling his cheeks burn with shame, not daring to look up at him.
"Well," Bobby said carefully, "he said you were hunting a ghost. Nasty thing. It was buried out back of the house. He sent you and Sam to burn the bones. Came at Sam while you were trying to start the fire."
Dean nodded slowly, piecing that with what Sammy had said earlier. Wet matches. He'd dug up the grave himself. Dad was fighting the ghost inside, but it'd come out. Frantically striking the match. Barely getting sparks. Sammy desperately hurling salt at the bloody figure coming at him. Flames. Yelling.
He gasped and lurched forward as his mind cascaded further into madness, his head slamming against the edge of the popped hood. The pain didn't bring him back to earth.
"Dean?!"
He vaguely registered the feeling of hot blood running down his forehead, the result of a new edge finding an old wound.
Bobby's hands frantically pushed back his hair and the hunter swore softly. "Alright. Let's get you inside."
Cognitively, he knew where he was, but all he could see was fire and Sammy in danger and John's angry face...
"'s fine," he tried, but his vision swam as he said it.
"No, it's not." A firm hand found its place on his back, another on his shoulder, guiding him towards the house. "But we'll get it taken care of."
Dean pressed his eyes shut, partially to make the world stop spinning and partially to fight a sudden rush of utterly ashamed tears.
"'m sorry," he whimpered, hating how weak he sounded. "'m so..."
Bobby hushed him quickly. "You're not in trouble, Dean."
He heard the words, but couldn't register them, repeating desperately, "I'm sorry! Please... I..."
"Son, listen to me, I'm not mad." The man squeezed the shoulder he was holding in an attempt to get his attention. "You've got nothin' to be sorry for."
But the panic was coming full-force, and there was nothing either of them could say or do to stop it. Dean silently cursed himself in a last conscious thought before it took over completely.
"I didn't mean to." He choked on a sob. "I... I dunno what... I just..."
Bobby guided him up the porch steps and into the house, still desperately trying to pull him back to earth. "Dean... hey, Dean, you gotta breathe. Take a deep breath."
The kid just kept gasping and muttering intelligible apologies.
Bobby got him into the living room, where Sam looked up from his book casually, only for horror to wash across his young face. "Dean?!" he gasped.
"Hit his head on the hood, made that old wound bleed again," Bobby explained hurriedly. "I'll take care of it and it'll be fine, but I need you to see if you can calm him down while I get my supplies."
He knew if anyone had a shot of reaching Dean when he was like this, it was his baby brother.
He gently pushed the teen down onto the couch beside his brother, who nodded his understanding of his task.
"I'll be right back." And the hunter disappeared back the way he'd just come.
Dean was just short of hyperventilating, his breath coming in ragged gasps that he tried to choke out words in between. Sam looked at his big brother, usually so strong and unafraid, and felt a wave of anxiety wash over him as well.
"Dean?" he asked quietly, timidly reaching out and taking one of the older boy's hands. "Dean, you... you're okay, alright? You're fine."
Dean didn't open his eyes. "Sammy, 'm sorry. 'm so... I didn't mean for it to..."
"I'm okay, Dean." Sam's voice was terribly small. "You didn't do anything."
"I didn't... I didn't... I just..."
The fear was just continuing to build in Sam's young chest as he watched his brother spiral. He tried squeezing the hand he was holding. "Dean." He didn't know what else to say. "Dean, please."
The teen pulled away from him, his hands coming up to his head like he was trying to physically hold his thoughts in place. He began to rock back and forth where he sat, no longer able to speak between frantic breaths.
Then, he stopped rocking back and forth. His breathing, while still panicked, began to slow just a little.
"Dean?" Sam asked carefully, his eyes searching his brother's face.
The blood seemed to be coming faster from the wound on his head. Sam had been trying not to look at it, but he did now. Horror rushed through him when he saw Dean's own nail digging into the wound and making it deeper.
"Dean!" He pulled on the teenager's arm, but it didn't budge. He still didn't seem to be hearing him. "Dean, stop!" Tears began running down Sam's face as he continued to fruitlessly yank on his brother.
The nail just dug in further.
In a moment of desperation and having absolutely no idea what to do, Sam tackled Dean in a hug.
Instinct took over even an absolutely panicked mind, the boy's hands dropping to catch his little brother as he threw himself at him and latched his arms around his chest.
"S... Sammy?"
Sam just held on tighter. He heard Bobby rushing back into the room behind him. Dean seemed to be calming down a little.
"Dean." Bobby knelt beside the couch where one brother was tackling the other. "You hearing me now, Son?"
The boy nodded just slightly, whispering in a state of utter uncertainty, "Th... think so."
"Good. Okay." Their current position wasn't the most convenient for medical care, but Dean was some version of present, so Bobby wasn't going to mess with them. "I need you to stay with me, alright?"
Another timid nod.
The hunter set down his armful of supplies on the floor before selecting a bottle of rum and a white cloth. He immediately pressed the cloth over the wound as he offered the rum to the boy. "Just a mouthful, you hear?"
Dean had been doing this since he was younger than Sam, and he accepted the alcohol with a certain desperation. He fit as much into the single mouthful as possible, but obediently returned it after only one.
"This is gonna hurt." And Bobby removed the cloth just in time to slosh some of the drink over the still-bleeding wound.
Dean hissed, but the gasp which followed was almost relieved, like the pain was doing something to complete his journey back to here and now.
He held out his hand with a pleading in his eyes, and Bobby relented, handing him the rum again so he could down another swallow. When he had, the hunter capped it and set it aside before pulling a large, square band aid from his supplies. He carefully smoothed it over the wound, hands moving in a way that would cause Dean the least amount of pain possible, before sitting back and looking his patient over with no small amount of concern in his eyes.
Dean's gaze attached itself to the floor as he gently pried his brother off of him and set him on the couch beside him. "'m sorry," he whispered in a voice heavy with shame.
Bobby sighed heavily. "Dean, listen to me. I'm not mad. You've got nothin' to apologize for." He hesitated before asking, "You remember what I told you when you were about Sam's age? After you stopped talkin'?"
Dean looked at the ground, his eyes filling at the memory, and silently nodded.
"No one's gonna get mad at you for hurtin' so long as you're here."
"It's still true," the hunter told him gently. "Always will be."
Dean just nodded again, because he knew he couldn't speak without giving his tears away.
Between the alcohol and the blood loss and the panic still draining away from his body, he was suddenly just so, so tired.
"I want you to try to get some sleep." It was like Bobby had read his mind. "Here or upstairs is up to you."
Upstairs was so far away, and once he was there, he'd be so far away from everyone else.
So he slid off his shoes and curled up where he was, head on the arm of the couch, knees tucked to his chest. He felt Bobby's hand on his shoulder, squeezing briefly before he heard him gathering his medical supplies. Sammy's presence at his feet shifted, most likely retrieving his book, then settled back, just a few inches away.
Dean's tired mind replayed the last few minutes, and a fresh guilt washed over him for what he'd just but his brother through.
"'m sorry, Sammy," he murmured softly.
There was a hesitation from the younger boy. "'s okay, Dean," he said finally. "I'm not mad." Another pause. "Jus... please don't do that again."
"Do what, Sammy?"
Sleep was creeping closer with every passing second.
"Hurt yourself. On purpose, I mean."
When had he done that?
"I won't. Promise."
Anything to make his brother feel better.
He fell asleep.
time-skip sponsored by stark industries
Dean woke up to a dark room save only a lamp beside the other couch. It partially illuminated Bobby's sleeping form, a book still on his lap, obviously having drifted off mid-research. A glance towards his feet found Sam in much the same state, curled with his head on the opposite arm as Dean's was, his book lying closed in front of his face.
Dean couldn't help but smile a little at the sight.
He sat up carefully, silently. He knew they'd fallen asleep out here because of him... the least he could do was avoid waking them up in the middle of the night. His mind was still foggy, his head aching from the rum or the injury or both, but it slowly returned to him the events of the time immediately preceding his descent into sleep.
What was wrong with him? If Dad had been there instead of Bobby...
And he was the only reason it was Bobby instead of Dad. Him screwing up. It was the common theme through his entire life, it seemed. Everything, when traced far enough back, was his fault.
Heck, there was probably some way to draw his mother's death back to his shoulders.
All he did was cause people pain.
"Jus... please don't do that again." ... "Hurt yourself. On purpose, I mean."
The memory was still fuzzy, but he was now awake enough to grasp at its shadow, of driving his nail into the bleeding wound on his head just to feel like he was in control of something. Of a panicked little brother seeming to beg him to stop from another world.
He hated himself so much.
Bobby should have let him go four years ago. He probably would have gotten himself killed, and that would have been doing everyone a favor.
He could see the picture he'd drawn that night in his mind's eye, see himself being removed from the equation and the frowns on his family's faces changing to smiles.
How could he have let Bobby convince him he was wrong?
Sure, he'd been a kid, but still. He'd realized the truth just to be immediately convinced out of it.
He looked from Bobby, to Sam, and back again. Both were still sleeping soundly. He just had to make it to the kitchen and out the door.
It felt stupid, juvenial, but the more he thought about it, the more he didn't think he could look either of them in the face ever again.
And what if one of them told Dad?
He leaned forward to go, but hesitated as a thought struck him.
What about Sammy and Dad?
Would he just turn around and take out all his anger on Sam? Who would be there to stand in between them?
Bobby would. He wouldn't let him do that to Sam. Dean trusted Bobby. He was the only other person in the world who he really trusted to take care of his little brother, but he did.
He had to go.
He didn't know where he'd go or what he'd do... probably find the nearest hunt. If he was lucky, he'd get himself killed before too long. He just had to get away before he hurt his brother or anyone else anymore.
Dean looked at the carpet for his shoes, but they weren't where he'd left them. Bobby must have moved them to the kitchen. He carefully got to his feet and crept across the room without making a sound. He made it to the kitchen without either Sam or Bobby stirring, but he didn't relax his caution in the next room.
He wasn't going to waste time packing a duffel this time. That'd probably gotten him caught before. He'd find a way to get what he needed, and as he'd already established, he was in no way attached to making it too long out there.
He made it to the mud mat and quickly pulled on his first worn out sneaker, set there as he'd predicted. But where was the...
"Where do you think you're going?"
He whipped around sharply, dread and shame and surprise and anxiety all washing over him at once. A man who'd been asleep a minute before was standing in the doorway, Dean's left sneaker held up in his hand.
Just like last time.
Dean opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Bobby exhaled, a sound more marked by sadness than the anger Dean was expecting. The boy's hand was coming up to catch the shoe before he'd realized the hunter had tossed it to him.
"If you're going out, you mind if I tag along?"
Dean looked at the ground, his shoulders sagging, but shook his head a little. He leaned down to pull the sneaker onto his foot and turned back towards the door without lifting his gaze.
There was no escaping the conversation they were about to have, and he knew that. They might as well have it somewhere Sam was sure not to overhear.
Silence stretched between them as Bobby followed him out into the night and down the steps of the porch before finally falling into step beside him. Dean didn't really know where he was walking... just that he needed to keep moving if he was going to at all stay on top of the anxiety building inside of him.
"Had a feeling you might wake up and try to see yourself off," Bobby said at last. "But I was hoping I'd be wrong."
Dean didn't raise his eyes. "Bobby, they're better off without me."
"They'd both be dead without you, Dean," the hunter replied seriously. "I don't know what's got you so twisted in your head that you could possibly think otherwise."
"Because there's something wrong with my head!" He wanted himself to shut up, but he just couldn't. "With me! I... something about me is broken, Bobby, and I... I gotta leave before I break anyone else!"
"You're not broken, Son." It killed Dean how sad he sounded. "You're hurtin'. Your daddy might not think there's a difference, but there is. You don't need fixed... you need helped."
Dean cursed the tears as they began to well in his eyes and slip down his cheeks, but there was nothing he could do to stop them. "I'm not supposed to need help, Bobby! I... I'm supposed to... to be stronger, and better, and I just... I just can't. We're here because I can't, eating your food and getting in your way and... and it's all my fault! Cuz I can't light a stupid fire when I need to!"
"Dean..."
But Dean cut him off, the tears coming faster now. "I'm sorry, okay! I'm so freaking sorry that we keep invading your home and taking over your life, I just... I'm just not good enough."
"Dean."
Bobby stepped in front of him, placing both hands on his shoulders and squeezing in an attempt to get the boy to look at him. For some reason, through a stream of tears, he did.
"Listen to me, Son," he said with absolute sincerity in his eyes. "You do not, ever, need to apologize for bein' here. I would keep you and your brother here all the time if I could, if it meant you were safe and warm and fed. I don't tell ya you're always welcome for show. And you're not here because you ain't good enough. You're here because every once in a while, your daddy gets reminded that he has two sons he's supposed to be raisin', and he doesn't wanna deal with that. Usually, you raise Sammy, and you raise yourself, and your take care of him, and you hunt like no kid ever should hunt, and you do it all without a word a complaint, but sometimes, that's all too much, not because you're not enough, but because it's too much for a grown adult, much less a fourteen-year-old kid!"
"If I was just better, Bobby!" Dean sobbed desperately. "Stronger!"
"If you were any stronger, you'd be holding up the world. Sometimes it seems like ya are."
"But I just... I..." he faltered, struggling to find the words to make the man in front of him understand. "I just wanna make it better! For Sammy, for Dad, for... and I... I can't!"
There was moisture in Bobby's eyes as he looked down at the boy. "I know, Dean," he confirmed softly, and it was clear in the words that he really did, that he felt the exact same way whenever he looked at Dean and Sam and the life they lived. "I know."
And Dean finally gave up, because he knew he was never going to win this, he'd known that from the start, that there was no version of this where Bobby let him walk away and stop adding to the pain of everyone he loved. So he just cried, because it was all too much and everything hurt and he just hated himself, but for some stupid, stupid reason, the man in front of him still cared about him.
Bobby's arms wrapped around him, and though he knew he shouldn't, he hugged him back, buried his face in his shirt, and just continued to sob.
"I'm sorry." He'd said it a million times already that day, but all he knew to do was say it again. "I'm so freaking sorry."
He felt Bobby shake his head a little, hold him that much tighter in a non-verbal rebuff against the guilt and self-hatred in his voice.
Dean wasn't sure of much of anything, but one thing was abundantly clear by the strength with which Bobby was hugging him.
He wasn't going anywhere.
As always, please let me know what you think. comments really, truly do bring back my will to live. Thank you all so much for reading. God bless, and I'll hopefully see you very soon. Love ya.
- Line