where do you think you're going (dean winchester)

2002

fandom: supernatural

tw: self harm, suicide attempt, physical/verbal abuse, blood/injury, depression

set: 2002

category: gen

word count: 9,318

summary: With Sam at Stanford and John no-contact, Dean spirals-and finds himself back on Bobby's front porch.

notes: When I tell you that I've been trying to write this final part for 2 years, I am not exaggerating. I kind of wrote myself into a corner and agonized over it for an absurd amount of time, but I genuinely just want it off my desk at this point, so it's not great, but it's here, and on the bright side, I don't think anyone's expecting it, so it's hard to be disappointed lol.

That said, I've been dealing with some intense writer's block in general, so any feedback you can give me is desperately needed. Love y'all. Sorry for disappearing. - Line

Dean really hadn't been trying to kill himself.

Not that it hadn't ever crossed his mind.

It had been crossing his mind for a decade now.

And not that he'd never tried to get himself killed.

As John had run off for longer and longer periods of time and sent him on more and more solo hunts over the past year since Sam had left, it would be safe to say that on the majority of those hunts, he'd had a moment where he'd moved a little too slow on purpose, given whatever he was hunting the chance to hunt him back. Then instinct and training took over and he walked away with another win and another scar.

But this time, he really wasn't trying to kill himself.

He beat a demon a few casualties too late. Poured whiskey down his throat, but it didn't help. So he'd locked himself in the bathroom and done what did help.

He knew doing it drunk wasn't a good idea, but that'd never stopped him before.

Apparently, this time had been once too many.

Trying to cut through a fog of alcohol to feel the pain, he'd sliced a little too deep... or maybe just in the wrong place. Or maybe both.

Honestly, he didn't remember.

He just remembered staring dully at the crimson liquid flowing much too fast from his wrist and thinking how ironic it was that he was going to kill himself without even trying.

Sure, he'd felt a weight be lifted from his shoulders, relief throb through the pain in his soul, but that didn't change the fact that he hadn't been trying to do it.

Spotty blackness had been interrupted by a voice he hadn't heard except in a pre-recorded voicemail in over two months.

He wondered now if his father had really been as broken and devastated as he remembered, or if that had been a fever dream and he'd been angry from the start.

Pounding on the motel room door.

"Dean?"

In his hurry to get to his whiskey and his knife, he'd failed to lock either of the doors that had stood between him and his father.

Darkness. Pounding on the bathroom door.

Anger jumping immediately into Dad's voice. When had Dad gotten there?

He'd sent his coordinates a few days ago, but that hadn't changed anything the past two months...

Darkness.

Hands on his shoulders, shaking him awake. A string of curses.

"No! No, no, no... Dean... son, my son... stay with me, Dean. Please, God, stay with me... why would you... You've gotta stay with me, son."

His words had been interspersed with more bouts of blackness, and then he'd come out of it in a different position than he'd gone in, draped over his father's back as he moved him, then being dragged out into the main room, then being laid back on the bed.

"Sorry. 'M sorry."

He wasn't sure if the words had ever really come out, but he'd tried to say them over, and over, and over again.

"Tell Sammy 'm sorry. Tried to stop. Tell 'im I tried to stop."

Eventually, he'd blacked out for real. At last, sweet relief from both physical and emotional pain.

Until he woke up on a motel bed now stained with blood. And John started to yell while Dean's mind grappled with reality, went over what happened, both laughed and cried at the irony of it all until it realized that he was alive after slitting his own wrist and almost bleeding to death, and his father knew about it. Then he just wished he'd done a better job at stumbling into his own demise.

"What did you think you were doing?" John screamed, his face red with anger. "You're a Winchester! Did I raise you to just give up? Did I?"

Dean opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

This was not a good time for his tongue to stop working.

"You stop talkin' and I swear, Boy."

Dean swallowed hard and worked a word and half out of a throat that felt like it had dried closed.

"'M sorry."

It was barely audible, but it was there.

"Is that all you have to say to me?" Spit flew from his dad's mouth as he leaned forward and his son flinched back. "Is that all you have?"

"Didn' mean to," Dean croaked.

The back of his father's hand connected with his jaw hard enough to slam his face into the wall he was propped against. He cursed the small whimper that escaped him.

"You didn't... You didn't mean to? And you think that makes this better?"

Dean couldn't find the words to answer, just staring at the carpet and wishing with utter desperation that he was dead.

He thought it might.

But nothing was going to make it better. Nothing except doing a better job of accidentally killing himself.

"Look at me!" More spit flew into his face, then hands were on his collar and he was being hauled up to eye-level with his father.

As his eyes met John's in utter terror, a strangled gasp slipped past his lips.

His vision was swimming, but he did his best to hold the older man's gaze, because he knew looking away again would only make everything worse.

"I told you to stop, Boy! What part of that didn't I make clear?"

"No part," Dean gasped, cursing the single tear he could feel running down his cheek.

Six weeks after dumping him and Sammy at the salvage yard, John had shown up in need of his hunting partner.

Bobby had stopped him on the porch, and the yelling match that ensued almost came to blows. Dad hadn't even really denied beating him... simply told the other man it was none of his business.

Meanwhile, Dean had quietly packed his and Sam's things before walking outside, one hand on his brother's shoulder to gently push him in front of him, the other holding onto that black duffel that held everything they owned.

Dean could still feel the way his chest had throbbed as he looked at Bobby, turning his way with You're not going with him, Dean, ready on his lips, and forced a trembling smile before saying softly, "It's okay."

He hadn't seen Bobby since.

Down the steps and in the Impala, he'd also never forget the shame that engulfed him as his father looked at him and growled, "I ever catch you doing that again..."

Dean had been a week clean, the longest he'd lasted since he'd started, when he left Bobby's. He did it again that night after his family was asleep. That week remained his record, unchallenged in the six years since.

John had checked his arms often, beaten him senseless each time. Sammy hated that. So Dean had switched to his legs and torso, John didn't check there, and life had gone on. But eventually, the older man had stopped checking at all, and started leaving for weeks and then months at a time, and Dean had gone right back to his arms. They were just... easier.

And when John did see, Sam wasn't around to cry or yell about Dean's half-conscious remains. Sam didn't care anymore anyway. And Dean deserved it. He hated it and feared it, but he'd almost come to... crave it. Need it.

So it was fine.

Until now.

"No part!" Dad repeated now, shaking him hard. "And what do you do? You almost kill yourself in a God-forsaken motel room because you just can't stop! What kind of an idiot doesn't mean to almost kill himself?"

"'M sorry," Dean whimpered again, but he knew it was no use.

And maybe he didn't want it to be. Once again, maybe he knew he deserved this and craved it in the same sick way he craved seeing the blood run off of his own arm.

John shoved him back down onto the bed, pushing his head into the wall with a loud thump before his knuckles found Dean's face.

He'd almost missed the abuse in the months his father had been gone.

"What is wrong with you?"

Dean wanted to yell back that he didn't know, that it was no picnic to live inside his screwed up head, but there were so many levels on which he couldn't do that, so he just shook his head as more tears fought their way out, croaking, "I don't know."

"This is the last thing I need right now, Dean!" John growled, pacing away from the bed. "I thought I could trust you on your own!"

"You can, Dad," Dean tried weakly.

His father was back across the room in two furious steps, his hand locking around Dean's bandaged wrist and shaking it in his face. "Does this look like I can trust you?" he screamed. "Does it?"

"I..."

He was cut off by another hard knuckle blow across his face. "This is so screwed up, Dean! How did you get so screwed up?"

"Look, Dad, I don't know!" Despite his best efforts, the tears really began to stream down his face. "I... everything just... it just hurts! And ever since Sammy left..."

John's hand snapped to the side of his head, grabbing a mixture of hair and ear and shaking. "You've been doing this for half a decade, Dean! Don't you try to blame your brother!"

"I'm not blaming him, Dad, I just..." Once again, the older hunter shoved his head back against the wall with yet another resounding crack.

"Shut up! Just shut up!"

Dean dropped his chin to his chest, partially out of pain and partially out of shame, as he continued to helplessly sob. It was like he was seventeen all over again, cursing his carelessness and everything else about him that had gotten him into this position.

John paced across the room again, rubbing his temple like he had a headache... except Dean knew he was the headache. Finally, he turned back towards Dean and pointed to the bathroom.

"Go get the knife."

Dean stared at him for a long moment, desperately trying to read his face and figure out what was about to happen.

"I said go, Boy!"

And the younger hunter snapped back to being his father's soldier who never hesitated on an order, sharply dropping his legs over the side of the bed and standing up. A hand on the nightstand was the only thing that kept him there as his vision blacked out and his knees threatened to give.

He heard his father scoff at his weakness and blinked desperately as he took a single, unsteady step toward the bathroom. His throbbing head and uneasy stomach now reminded him that on top of almost bleeding out, he was hungover.

Step by staggering, painful step, he made it to the bathroom. He had to drop to his knees to retrieve the blood-covered knife he'd been cutting himself with, much too unsteady to bend to retrieve it and expect not to fall on his head.

He pressed his eyes shut as he knelt there, hand fumbling with the hilt of the knife, trying to make himself stop crying.

Maybe he could just stab it through this throat now.

A hand closed around the back of his shirt and hauled him upright, sending his head spinning and his stomach turning all over again. Obviously, John was taking no chances that he decide to do just that.

After being hauled back into the main room and practically thrown onto the bed, the older man glowered down at him, arms crossed.

"Do it."

"Wha?" The word was more breath than anything, Dean desperately searching his father's face for a sign that he wasn't saying what he thought he was.

"Do it." The man repeated coldly, and it became clear he, in fact, was saying it.

"Dad..." Dean looked from his father to his arm, which had a bandage made of a bedsheet scrap tied around the roughly-stitched cut that had gotten him here, but other cuts and scars were still very much exposed on either side of it. He looked back at his father. "I... I can't."

John scoffed a little, clearly unsurprised. "You can't," he repeated, his voice calmer but dripping with disappointment. "You can't do it in front of me... why? Maybe because you know it's screwed up, Dean!"

"I do," the younger man choked out, his head dropping and his eyes fixing on the ugly, stained comforter he was sitting on. "I just... I don't know, Dad. I just can't stop."

"You did stop!" John snapped, his voice rising again. "I thought we'd been through this! I thought we were done with it!"

Dean just shook his head. It was hard for this to get much worse. Might as well be fully honest.

"No... no what, Dean?" John turned, slamming his fist into the wall behind him. The neighbors were not going to be pleased, but honestly, Dean was impressed to see him punching something that wasn't him. "Use words! You're not a toddler!"

Dean held himself back from saying that when he was a toddler, that hadn't seemed to be a good enough excuse not to use words.

"I never stopped," he managed softly, his sobs still for the moment but ashamed water still leaking from his eyes. "I just did it where you didn't check."

John stared down at him for a long moment, disgusted disbelief on his face. "You never... course you didn't. I should have known."

That disgust and disappointment dripping off of him made Dean want to try for that stab to the throat, in front of him or not. He really didn't think it would be possible to lower his opinion of him anymore.

Once again, John stepped in before he could decide if he was serious about the temptation, jerking the knife from Dean's hand and crossing the room to shove it, as well as the suture kit and whiskey he'd used to treat Dean's wound, into his duffle. Dean hadn't unpacked except to fetch the weapon from his own, so it was easy for the older hunter to zip it as well before throwing it, more at Dean than to him, and snatching the Impala keys from the nightstand.

"We're leaving."

Dean looked around the room as he slowly strengthened his grip on the duffle. That was probably for the best. There was blood everywhere... staining the bed, the carpet, and all over the bathroom. The sheet had a long strip missing thanks to John needing a bandage. On the bottom sheet, a large brown stain joined the blood, most likely the whiskey. Another bottle of the same kind of alcohol would have leaked out whatever Dean didn't finish off to make a cocktail with the blood pooled on the bathroom floor. It went without saying that he was not getting his deposit back, but at this point, he should probably be out of town before someone saw it, because the cops were definitely going to be called.

So he dropped his key on the nightstand and stumbled after his father because there really wasn't much else he could do.

He looked around for the truck John had been driving for the past several months, but it was nowhere in the rundown little lot.

"Where's your ride?" he asked as they both dropped their bags into the trunk of the Impala.

"Got totaled by a ghost in Grand Island," the older hunter growled. "Hitchhiked here to meet up with you til I could find a new one."

Dean nodded a little, turning away so his father wouldn't see the increased hurt in his eyes. Grand Island to Johnston was only about a four-hour drive... not too far to hitchhike. But he'd been wondering what had made John break the trend of the past two months... coordinate texts being his only communication in that time period, never mind meeting up. Should have known it had absolutely nothing to do with actually wanting to see him. He didn't know why he hadn't called for a ride, even if the trip wasn't a long one. Unlike everyone else in his family, Dean would have picked up the phone.

They both stepped into the car... Dean unfamiliar with the right side he found himself in now... and he chanced a look over at the driver's side.

"You got a hunt for us?" The question came out quiet and hopeful. If all he got out of this was a few months of babysitting, he'd be lucky. He'd almost be relieved. He was really getting sick of being alone.

But his father's bitter bark of laughter crushed that hope in an instant. "Yeah, cuz a psych case like you's exactly what I need tagging along when I'm getting close to the demon that killed your mother."

Dean couldn't help the wounded noise that escaped him. But John had known it was a low blow... that Dean would prefer freak or pretty much any other name he could think of... and he offered no apology as he continued.

"Apparently, you need a babysitter, and I don't have time to do it."

The younger man looked up sharply as he realized what he was getting at and a sick feeling rose in his stomach.

"I don't need to be babysat, Dad!" he protested desperately. "I'm twenty-two, you can't just dump me off at Bobby's anymore! I haven't seen him in like five years. And I want to hunt!"

"You shoulda thought of that before you decided to let your little habit get out of control," John snapped. "You want to get treated like an adult? Start acting like one!"

"Dad..."

"Enough, Dean!" His father looked over at him sharply, a dangerous fire in his eyes. "I've made up my mind!"

The young man's fist came down hard on the seat next to him, his jaw set with frustration, but he knew better than continue to argue. He could dump him there, but he couldn't keep him there. Not unless he planned to handcuff him to a bedpost.

"Guess you need a new car anyway."

The statement was the closest thing to further rebellion he dared to make. It was masked, but the message was clear... the Impala was Dean's, and if Dean wasn't coming along, neither was it.

"Wouldn't have given you this one if I'd known I couldn't trust you not to run it off a cliff."

Dean looked away, his jaw working on itself as he struggled not to begin to cry all over again. As biting as the statement was, at least it only regretted giving the car to him... it didn't challenge that it was, in fact, his.

It wasn't a long drive to Sioux Falls, but the tense environment in the car made it seem ten times longer than it was. It had been around three in the morning when Dean stumbled into the motel, that cursed hunt finally completed, probably close to four by the time he made that stupid, stupid mistake. He wasn't sure of the exact timeline of him bleeding and his father finding him and him being unconscious afterward, but he knew it was about eight when they hit the road, and it was nearing one in the afternoon as they drove under that still-familiar arch that he hadn't seen in over five years.

He could remember countless times rumbling up the driveway when guilt and shame had been joined by undeniable comfort and security. Now, all he felt was sick. Well, hungover and like he'd just almost bled out, but also sick in an unrelated way.

At least it wasn't the middle of the night or some wee hour of the morning this time. But he knew the length of time since their last visit made this one even more unexpected than those ill-timed ones had been.

His leg started to bounce, his foot tapping softly against the floor of the Impala. He actually thought he was going to be sick.

John glanced over at him and rolled his eyes, obviously recognizing the anxiety on his son's face.

"You'd think I was sending you to military school," he scoffed quietly. A hesitation. "You're lucky I'm not sending you to a psych ward."

Once again, it was a low blow and he knew it. He'd threatened it several times over before Dean had figured out how to hide the fresh cuts from him. Each time, Dean had literally begged him not to, and the last time, Sammy'd had to step it. John knew it was one of the boy's greatest fears.

Dean didn't say anything because he knew it would just get him another one-liner he'd never get out of his head. He just continued to stare out the window and try not to puke.

They reached the house and John shifted into park and turned the car off before climbing out, but Dean couldn't find it in him to move. This was not happening. This could not be happening.

He heard the trunk being opened and shut again, then his door was ajar as well, his father towering over him with his duffle in hand.

"Out."

Jaw still set both in anger and against tears, Dean slowly unbuckled and obeyed. He swayed on legs that were still weak from blood loss, steadying himself against the car. John let out a breath of disgust but waited until he seemed stable to shove the duffle into his hands.

If Dean was Sam, he would have reminded the older man of the many times he'd barely been able to get the Impala parked before John was throwing himself from the passenger's side to puke his hangover out on the gravel drive. But Dean wasn't Sam, and he didn't have the energy to speak anyway, so he kept his mouth shut as his father turned to the house and stormed up the porch steps.

It was so familiar. It made Dean feel every bit as small as he had as a kid, in trouble and exile until his father had need of him again.

John pounded his usual greeting onto the door. It opened to reveal Bobby, his body language clearly confused. A fresh wave of sickness rose in Dean's stomach. He swallowed it down with an effort. This could not be happening.

The two older hunters exchanged a minute's worth of quiet, clipped words. Dean stayed where he was, the car door open beside him, once again unable to make himself move until another order from his father forced him to.

"Dean!" John barked from his place at the door. "Get in here!"

Dean's head and shoulders both dropped, but he closed the Impala door and obediently made his painful way over to the house and up the steps, through the door which his dad and Bobby had disappeared through. He was barely inside before John was brushing past him with a freshly-acquired set of keys in hand, turning back towards him as he reached the stairs.

"You leave before I give the word, and I swear I'll track you down and put you in a hospital."

Then, he stormed away to whatever car Bobby had given him the use of. A long silence stretched between them. Dean swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the kitchen floor. He knew he needed to say something, but all of his words were choked in his throat. What could he say?

It was Bobby who broke the silence at last. Dean didn't expect the emotion in the hunter's voice.

"My God, Dean, it's good to see you."

Then, he closed the distance between them and wrapped him in a tight hug.

Dean froze for a moment, in shock, before he let the duffle fall to the floor and returned the embrace, managing softly, "Yeah." He'd been silent for most of the ride, and now talking was incredibly difficult. "It's–it's good ta–ta see you too, Bobby."

He inhaled deeply, not prepared for the rush of emotion that came with the familiar scent of oil and beer and coffee on Bobby's shirt. He allowed himself a long moment of comfort before stepping back and gathering the bag up again, taking a deep breath and setting his shoulders.

"But I–uh–" As if this wasn't humiliating enough as it was, now his throat was closing up and his tongue was beginning to feel thick in his mouth. "I'm real–real sorry about this. If you–uh..." He coughed in a desperate attempt to keep talking. "If you'll give me my keys and cane keep a secret, I'll..."

He swore violently, an easier word to get out than the rest were proving to be, staring at the ground for a long moment as he desperately tried to pull himself together.

"I'll get out of your hair."

He swallowed hard, blinking back humiliating tears of total frustration that he knew were not lost on the man in front of him, and neither was their source.

He knew what his father had said and couldn't be sure he didn't mean it, but if Bobby was willing to lie for him for a while, he should be able to pull off a hunt or two before coming back and pretending he'd been there all along.

Bobby sighed as he looked him up and down, his eyes spelled knowing care that made Dean want to run.

"Dean, you're a grown man" he sighed after a moment, "and I'm not gonna keep you here against your will. But I'd really prefer if you at least stayed for dinner."

Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek for a long moment before it was his turn to let out a long breath, then allowing the hint of a smile and a slight nod.

That brought the same expression to Bobby's face. "Is that a yes?"

Dean swallowed hard and repeated the affirming gesture. "Can I have a beer this time?" The question was barely audible, but it made Bobby chuckle nonetheless, reaching out and gently clapping the boy on the shoulder.

"Yeah, Dean. You can have a beer this time."

Since there were still several hours before dinnertime, Bobby recruited him to help fix up a Mustang that was giving him problems.

Despite the five years between now and when they'd done it last, they quickly fell into a familiar routine fixing the car, and Dean couldn't deny the comfort it... and Bobby's company... brought him. It was simple and routine, something Dean knew like the back of his hand, which required just enough thought to keep his mind occupied, but not so much it had to stay active enough to think about anything else. Best of all, something he'd appreciated before and appreciated even more now, fixing cars required very minimal talking.

He just did his best not to wonder how much his father had told the other hunter about why he'd been dumped here again.

They'd made good progress by the time they decided to pack it in for the night and went inside to fix whatever they could from the food in Bobby's cupboards... which was as sparse as it had always been when he wasn't taking care of Sam and Dean.

They ate in silence for several minutes before Bobby ventured, his tone careful, "Heard Sam went to college."

"Yeah..." Dean frowned a little, and not only because he was trying to speak and it hadn't gotten much easier since that afternoon. "How, though?"

Bobby smiled slightly. "I have my ways of keeping enough tabs on you boys to know you're at least still alive and kickin'."

The younger man accepted that with a small nod. He couldn't say he was surprised. "Oh. Yeah. He uh..." Deep breath. He could do this. "he got into Stanford. Full ride."

Bobby whistled a little. "That's not easy."

"No," Dean agreed, hesitating before adding softly, "I'm real proud."

"Can't imagine John felt the same."

Dean scoffed a little as he took another swig of his beer, a painfully shaken head replacing the need to form more words.

"I'm sorry, Boy. Can't have been easy for you."

The young man shrugged a little. "Not about me."

A small breath asked when anything ever had been in that family, but Bobby didn't vocalize the thought. Instead, he took a sip of his own beer before commenting mildly, "You look like hell, you know."

Dean's eyes dropped to the floor. "Rough hunt."

"How many times have I heard that before?"

The younger man sighed. He really didn't have it in him to go to bat for his father at the moment.

"I–uh–" A cough, as if it could force words out alongside air. "should probably get going."

"You got somewhere to be?"

Dean hesitated. "Well, I..." He frowned, eyes glued to his plate. "Just outta your hair."

Bobby shook his head tiredly. "And how many times have I told you you're always welcome?"

"I was a kid." He blinked hard. "You–you don't have to babysit me anymore."

"And I ain't gonna babysit you," the older man replied. "Because like I said before, you're a grown man, and you can do what you want. But you're not a bother, and you're not a burden, and that's not gonna change no matter how old you get." He let that sink in for a moment before adding, "Your room's still there, and your bed's still made up, and they're not much, but they're still better than any hotel you Winchesters have ever graced the doorstep of, and they're yours for as long as you can use 'em"

Dean exhaled slowly before spearing another bite and forking it into his mouth. Bobby was right about all of that. And the grizzled hunter wasn't one to put on appearances. He said what he meant, so if he said he was welcome, Dean was inclined to believe him.

However, the minute of conversation between Bobby and John before Dean came inside had been weighing heavily on his mind all day.

Bobby had already known way more about Dean's screwed-up mind than he'd like him to. He'd already seen his at his worst and most traumatized moments of his childhood before having him dumped on his doorstep because John found out just how much of a freak he was. He'd already held him while he cried because Sam passed on the information he'd gathered from outside the motel room where Dean was being beaten and screamed at, walked in on Dean with a knife in his hand and blood on his wrist, reacted with only a twitch of pain and sadness across his face, and cleaned up the fresh cuts while Dean broke down all over again.

But Dean had been a kid then, and while that may not have made any of it feel better at the time, it helped him rationalize it now, cringe just a little less when he thought back on it.

Not knowing how much about why he was here this time Bobby even knew was effectively twisting together a thick knot of anxiety in his chest.

"What did Dad tell you?" His voice came out barely audible, but he still surprised himself when it did.

And cringed all over again. It was just like he was a kid in trouble all over again.

Bobby considered him from across the table, his gaze understanding. "Not much, Dean," he assured. "I won't repeat it exactly, but he said he needed me to watch you because your habits were out of control. Nothing more than that."

Since Bobby wasn't exactly pious to the language of the sailor, Dean could safely assume the things he wouldn't repeat were along the lines of freak and can't be trusted. But that wasn't bad. That... was salvageable.

"Oh." He forced a bit of a laugh. "Ya know, for the–the man who taught me how to drink, he..." Another lengthy pause to make his mouth keep working. "sure does react poorly to a... empty bottle of whiskey in my room."

Bobby just nodded a little. Something in his eyes said he was very sure that wasn't the whole story, but something else next to it said he wasn't going to push for answers Dean didn't want to give.

Dean's chest throbbed a little as he recognized it, so he snatched up his beer and took a long swig in an attempt to distract himself.

He'd almost forgotten just how different John Winchester and Bobby Singer were.

Bobby took a sip of his own beer before offering gently, "I appreciate you talkin' to me, Kid. But I won't make you do it anymore unless there's something you need to get off your chest."

Dean's eyes snapped shut against the emotion which the words brought to sting them. He kept them closed until he was sure he could open them without risking any moisture leaking out. When he finally did open them, his voice came out rough, raw, and quiet.

"Thanks, Bobby." He hesitated, then, not sure why, but knowing he had to say it, "For real. For everything."

The grizzled hunter's brow creased a little as he looked at him, his gaze careful and concerned.

"Is there anything you need to get off your chest, Dean?"

The younger man's eyes dropped as he finished off the rest of his beer, shaking his head a little after he did.

"No," he managed to choke out. "No, I'm good."

He pushed himself to his feet with a soft groan, clearing both their plates and taking them to the other side of the kitchen to rinse and load them into the dishwasher. Bobby followed, tossing their beer bottles into a trash can half full of more beer bottles. Dean felt the older hunter's gaze, heavy on his cuffs, soaked thanks to his unwillingness to push them back, but he didn't comment on it.

He made quick work of the dishes, and when he had, turned to where he'd left his bag when he came in. However, Bobby stopped him with an upraised hand.

"I'll get it, Boy," he said gently.

"Bobby..." He started tiredly, but he shook his head, cutting him off.

"Dean, you're half dead right now. You and your layers can't hide that from me. I know you ain't gonna let me clean you up, so the least you can do is let me carry your duffle upstairs."

Dean opened his mouth, but both his mind and his tongue abandoned him this time.

"You go on upstairs," Bobby urged. "Try to clean yourself up at least. I'll put your things in your room."

"Thanks, Bobby," he repeated softly, too tired and in too much pain to fight him any longer. He stooped to pull a clean t-shirt and pair of sweats out of the bag, but when he had, he continued on his slow and painful way upstairs without the duffle itself. "G'night."

"Goodnight, Dean," the older hunter replied with a heavy note of fondness in his voice.

Dean managed to turn his mind off as he finished the trek upstairs and stumbled through a half-asleep shower.

When he made his way back to the bedroom he and Sam had occupied for so much of their childhood, the duffle was waiting as promised, in its usual place at the foot of his old bed. He sat there next to it, staring at the wall and doing everything he could to keep his mind completely empty, for so long that he almost fell asleep sitting up.

However, he woke himself with a sudden moment of clarity that seemed terribly obvious now that it had come to him.

Why had it taken an accident for him to almost get out?

What was he even living for anymore?

He'd thought of it so many times for so long, but he'd always talked himself down for the sake of his brother and his father.

His brother wanted nothing to do with him, and his father couldn't stand the sight of him.

So he was suffering in a life he was sure couldn't possibly be worse than hell if it existed, for what?

Nothing.

There was nothing and no one in the world who would truly care if he ate a bullet.

Except maybe Bobby.

It would have been so much easier if he would have just done it right before his father had the chance to drag him back out here because before that day, he hadn't seen the older hunter in five years.

But he'd been fine for those five years, hadn't he?

Sure, he might momentarily grieve, but losing friends was a part of the hunter's life, and the only thing that would really change about Bobby's was that he wouldn't have to worry about Dean from afar anymore.

And as guilty as Dean did feel for doing that to him, he knew Bobby would give him a proper hunter's funeral. Not that he deserved it, but if there was one thing he did not want to do, it was to come back after he finally got away from this God-forsaken rock.

It was so simple.

He was nothing but a burden and such a freaking screw-up, and he had no idea why he hadn't done this a very, very long time ago. It wasn't as if it hadn't ever crossed his mind.

It had been practically all he thought about for more than half a decade now.

That meant that just because he hadn't actually done it, didn't mean he hadn't come very, very close, and he had everything he needed tucked into the bottom of his duffle bag.

A small handgun, a normal one he'd load with silver bullets if needed, but these days always held a single round of perfectly normal ammunition, not ideal for many hunts, but very ideal for putting a bullet into one's own mouth.

He'd left the door open out of habit–being able to see across the hall to Bobby's door had always brought him a pathetic kind of comfort as a kid–but he crossed to it now, closing it behind him before pulling his hunter's journal out of his duffle and tearing out a blank page.

It was bad enough that he was making Bobby clean up his carcass–the least he could do was give him some sort of explanation as to why.

Bobby,

I'm really sorry for making you deal with this–and me, for way longer than anyone ever should. I hope you don't waste too much time feeling bad about this, and you sure as hell don't get to blame yourself. This is my crap, my own fault, and nothing anybody should be feeling bad about, especially not you. It's the right answer for me, and everyone's gonna be better off once the dust settles. Make sure Dad knows I did this, you had nothing to do with it, and the only thing he can be pissed at is my ghost. Speaking of which, I know I don't deserve this, but could you make sure I don't actually have one? I may be a pathetic excuse for a hunter, but I'd still rather not become what I hunt.

I hope you know I mean it when I tell you thanks–for everything you've always done for me even though I never should've been your problem. Please keep on keeping an eye on Sammy. I don't think he should take this news too hard, but make sure he knows it's not his fault, and it's not Dad's fault, and it's for the best–and that I love him, as girly as that is. Seriously, Bobby. Thanks.

Dean

He set the note down on his nightstand, took a deep breath, and hauled his duffle up, onto his lap, reaching inside without having to look.

And finding only clothes and the feeling of his homemade emf reader–no gun.

Frowning, the young man did look now, parting the clothes and squinting into the bag.

No gun.

He rummaged for another moment and still found nothing.

He must have left it in the Impala.

He didn't remember ever taking it out, but that was the only explanation.

Unless his dad...

But he didn't know it was there–it wasn't where they usually kept them. And if he had found it, Dean had no doubt he would have brought it up. Quietly removing it simply wasn't John Winchester's style.

So it had to be in the Impala.

That was probably a better place to do this anyway–much preferable to bleeding all over Bobby's floor.

Nodding slightly to himself, the young man got to his feet and crept to the door, not liking the way it felt just like he was a little eight-year-old kid again, trying to sneak away so he stopped making his dad angry.

A quick check outside found Bobby's door closed, no light coming out from underneath it. Based on the darkness also present in the rest of the house, it seemed the older hunter had gone to bed for once.

So, quietly, wincing a little as the floorboards creaked, he made his way out into the hall and down the stairs. Luckily, he still remembered the meticulously memorized quietest places to step in the old house, so those creaks were kept to as much of a minimum as they possibly could be.

It was a welcome surprise–something he didn't like admitting was an active relief–to find both of his shoes waiting for him where he'd left them.

He picked up the keys from where Bobby had hung them and continued outside, his boots crunching on the gravel as he headed for the waiting Impala.

He knew it was frightening how calm he was about this–he was almost scaring himself, deep down. He'd never imagined going out this way–so deliberate and planned. Ideally, a hunt would finally take him out, and even if that didn't happen, he'd imagined finally giving into the temptation in a much more spur-of-the-moment fashion, such as the incident that had gotten him here in the first place, except the part where it hadn't even been on purpose.

But he also knew this was what was best for everyone.

And, he thought back to the darkness of that hotel room, the shame of slicing his arm open yet again, the sick relief of realizing that this was it, and he knew he simply couldn't do this anymore.

He unlocked the car and leaned inside, checking the backseat and the floor beneath it, then the passenger's side, then the glove box. Nothing.

How had he lost a freaking gun?

He scrambled back out of the car and moved to its rear, opening the trunk and beginning to rummage. Maybe John had found it, and had simply put it away with the rest of the weapons, thinking it'd been out from a hunt.

Also not like John not to ream him for not putting it away, but if he hadn't realized it's purpose, maybe he'd just had better things to ream him for at the time.

However, while everything else was in its place, that single, normal handgun was still nowhere to be found.

The young hunter frowned, leaning back and looking over his small armory with a creased brow. He had a bad feeling about this.

It was very possible he'd left it back in the hotel.

While he didn't remember taking it out, he'd also been upset and then drunk and then bleeding out and then hungover and nauseous from almost bleeding out, so he wasn't exactly going to go to bat for his level of cognition.

But he just had that... feeling.

It didn't have to be a gun, though. He'd made that very clear the night before.

And as painful as it sounded to cut open his wrist all over again, at least this time he could do it right and make it quick.

If that was his only option, it was his only option.

So, he selected one of the larger knives in his personal collection before closing the trunk and settling himself back against the car.

This was definitely a braver way to go.

Pulling a trigger was so simple, so easy, and it was instantly rewarded.

He knew from the mistake that had landed him here that knife to wrist would be none of the above.

But it wasn't as if slicing his arm up was something that was foreign to him. He just had to do what he always did, but with a bigger knife, across an artery.

Not so hard.

He could do this.

He felt sick to his stomach now, the confident decisiveness he'd experienced before beginning to wear away, but he knew that was just a sign that he needed to do it now, before he wavered anymore.

He took a deep, shaky breath, set his shoulders, and settled against the Impala a little more securely before setting the knife to his wrist.

"Where do you think you're going?"

The young man's head jerked up, his brain ceasing to function for a moment as his eyes locked onto the owner of the mild, gentle question.

Bobby... with a clipless handgun held up in one hand.

Replacing the distributor cap which had replaced the tennis shoe.

Dean opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

A heavy, painful sigh passed Bobby's lips as he lowered the gun to his side. "Put it down, Dean."

"Bobby–"

"I'll save ya even if you do it. You know I will."

"Bobby," he gasped a second time, but this time, he didn't have to be cut off to stop there. That was simply all he had in him–a cry for help and a plea to stop helping him at the very same time.

The thing he hated most was the realization that his dad had been right. He'd been right to assume the worst, and he'd been right to dump his there so that Dean couldn't try again. He'd been right, and now Bobby was doing exactly the job he'd been given to do, and Dean hated that.

With the realization, his eyes dropped to the ground at last, and water began to stream down his face.

"Dean." Bobby's voice was low and graveling, thick with emotion like the grizzled hunter seldom expressed. "Listen to me, Son. This isn't the answer."

"Why not, Bobby?" even as he asked the question, he told himself not to, desperately begging himself not to break down like he always did. "Everyone will be better off."

"You mean this crap?" the older man held up the hand not holding the gun, and Dean recognized the crumpled paper that was clearly his suicide note. "That's all it is, Boy. You've been holding your whole family together since you were a kid, and as unfair as that is, they'll fall apart without you."

A raw scoff fell from Dean's lips. "What's there to fall apart? We already did." He hesitated before adding softly, "Eighteen years ago, we did."

"I know you're hurting, Dean–"

This time, it was the younger's turn to cut him off. "No, Bobby! I'm not hurting, okay? I'm done. I can't. I can't do this. Not anymore."

Bobby opened his mouth, but something caught in his eyes, and after a long moment, he closed it again. Then, his voice did come out, uncharacteristically soft.

"That's fair."

Dean's eyes snapped up to his, uncertainty and timid hope pouring out of them.

The older hunter spread his hands in clear, helpless frustration. "What am I supposed to say, Kid?" he asked.

His voice was rough and angry, though the boy knew better than to think that anger was directed at him.

"That it's really not that bad? I'd be lyin' to you. I know your life, but I also know I don't know the half of it–of what–" his voice caught, and he had to try again. "Of what he's done to you, what he does to you. What he's let happen to you. So I could tell you it gets better, but who am I to promise that? You're a hunter. It might never get better. Sure as hell sometimes seems like it never does."

Dean continued to watch the older man, holding his breath as he prayed he was finally seeing it for what he was, that they could do this painlessly, that he'd just let him go.

"There's nothin' I can say, Dean." Bobby's voice grew thicker with each word. "Except that I love ya, but I know he says that too, so why should it mean anything to you anymore?" He hesitated a long moment to take a deep breath, then finally said, his voice barely audible, "so you can do it if it's what you gotta do. If that's what you need to feel like you've got a shred of control, or if you really are just in that much pain, I'm not gonna stop ya cuz I can't really stop ya."

Dean opened his mouth to desperately thank him, disbelieving gratitude flooding through him.

"But," Bobby went on, and the boy's heart dropped. "I'll still save ya. I'll save ya, and I'll nurse ya, and I'll keep ya here and keep your bastard father as far away from here as a mortal man can. Cuz even if you've got every right to want a way out, I still love ya like my own son, and so I will save you every damn time until you stop trying."

"Bobby..." He tried to argue, but the older man cut him off.

"Would you let Sam die?"

The very idea made Dean's throat close up a little, and he faltered as he answered. "Well–I–" There was no lying about it. "No, but–"

But Bobby just nodded, saying silently that there was no but that could change his mind. "And I won't let you die. It's as simple as that, Kid."

Dean's eyes squeezed closed again as the last of his strength left his legs, and he sank down onto the ground, his back against his beloved car and his knife still tightly clenched in one hand.

"I don't want him to be right, Bobby."

The words came out without him meaning for them to, and it took him a moment to realize it had been his own voice that whispered them.

Carefully, the older man lowered himself down to Dean's level, crouching there in the moonlight as he considered him. "Johnny?"

The boy nodded silently, but went on after a moment, "He sent me here so you'd stop me from offing myself, and now that's exactly what you're doing."

"He didn't send you here to keep you from offing yourself, boy," Bobby countered levelly, finally bringing Dean's eyes sliding up to his. "He sent ya here cuz he thought I could make ya stop cutting your own wrists," he continued, saying it as if he was reading the morning paper. "Like I did last time."

Dean's jaw tightened. He felt like he should say something, but he wasn't sure what he could say.

"But," the grizzled hunter went on. "You were a kid last time. When you're a kid, I can tell ya not to drink with my third beer in my own hand, cuz that's how bein' a kid works. But you're not a kid anymore."

The younger man wanted to look back at the ground, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from his old friend's.

"I sure as hell don't like that you still find the need to cut yourself to pieces, but who am I to tell ya not to?" Bobby asked, spreading his hands helplessly before letting out a bark of hapless laughter. "Who's your dad to? It may not be healthy, but when has a hunter ever coped in a healthy way? You've been watchin' both of us drown our demons in the bottle since you were a little kid. You've been at the worst end of your dad's drunken fits for almost as long."

Dean swallowed hard, still not quite sure where Bobby was going with this.

"My point is," he wound down at last, "if you need to talk, you better believe I'm here to listen, and if I had my choice about it, you'd pick me over your knife or your whiskey every time. But you're not sixteen anymore, Dean. I'm not gonna take your blades unless you wanna give 'em to me. I'm not gonna keep you from leavin'. I may love ya like a son, but you grew up all by yourself, and I know that. Neither me or anyone else's got the right to tell ya you can't take care of yourself. And as for this?"

He nodded to the handgun still in his hand.

"John didn't say a word about this. You get a look in your eye when you're thinkin' about runnin'. Always have. You may have been half-dead when you walked through my door, but I've got no clue what was a ghost and what was your dad and what was you. I knew what was about to go down, cuz I know you, Dean. Your daddy doesn't, and your daddy had no idea."

Dean considered that carefully as a long minute of silence stretched between them. To be fair, it had been an accident, and he'd told his dad that, and he'd believed him–and thought that was even worse than the alternative. His dad hated the cutting, and they both knew Bobby had broken him of it once before, something John had been trying and failing to do for years since. It made sense for him to dump him back here after Dean's revelation that he'd never stopped a second time.

"You wanna prove your dad wrong, Dean?"

Bobby's quiet question broke back through the boy's thoughts, and he looked up once more, his gaze pouring into the older man's a clear yes.

"I've got a hunt for ya."

That wasn't what Dean had been expecting him to say, and it took him a moment to process.

"You take it," Bobby went on. "You kill it. Your daddy may have threatened you not to leave, but if you're out there savin' people and huntin' things, there's not a thing he can say against it."

There was another beat of quiet before he hammered in the final nail.

"You're a hunter, Son. That's what you do."

Dean pressed his eyes shut and heaven a deep, shaky breath.

Almost no part of him wanted to get up and keep going. But Bobby had put him between a rock and a hard place. If he had a gun, he'd have a shot of doing a good enough job to keep the older man from saving him. With a knife, and with Bobby sitting right in front of him, he had essentially no shot.

He might as well at least take the hunt and then go and drive off an overpass.

After he hunted whatever it was, of course.

He couldn't just leave the job undone.

He swore softly as he realized it.

There was always another job to do.

He was a hunter.

He was a Winchester.

The moment for quitting had passed, and until another presented itself, quitting was no longer an option, because he was a blasted Winchester.

He heard a small smile in Bobby's voice. "Is that a yes?"

Groaning, the young man hauled himself to his feet, swearing again, louder this time.

Bobby stood as well, one hand clapping Dean on the shoulder as a heavy sigh of relief passed his lips. "That's a yes."

"Screw you, Bobby," Dean muttered as they trudged together in the direction of the house.

Bobby chuckled a little. "I love you too, Boy."

Well, there you have it. Like I said, I wrote myself into a corner and didn't really know how to get out of it, but I'd come too far to just give up or start over. I didn't want John to be right, but I also know (personally lol) the worst thing about asshole parents is half the stuff they say to you is seventy-five-percent true... it's just their fault. So I know this isn't a super satisfying ending, but it's just what I've got for the time being. I'm not gonna say never on the fic, but like I said, for now, I just really needed it off my desk and out of my wips.

So yeah. Let me know what you think. Love ya.

- Line