A/N:
Hey guys, I'm back! I've been working on this chapter whenever I can, and I'm gonna try and keep writing amidst my busy schedule. Without further ado, I present chapter 25. Enjoy!

-Wren

***

Samuel

we need to talk, sammy. wanna go for a drive when you get home?

Sam stares at the text he just received from his brother. Trepidation and uneasiness churns in his stomach as he tries to imagine what they would need to talk about. His primary fear is that Dean had found out he was cutting again, and he clutches the sleeves of his hoodie reactively. There were fresh cuts, maybe three days old, crisscrossing his upper arms at the moment. He had been clean for years, until that happened with his ex...he couldn't even speak his name or what happened aloud. Just thinking about It made his stomach turn over with anxiety, feeling like his ex would be waiting for him outside the classroom door, just waiting to do It all over again.

yeah sure. everything good?

Sam inhales, and exhales, trying to fit the pattern his therapist gave him. In for 4 counts, hold for 7 counts, out for 8 counts. The smallest things aggravated his anxiety now, always hyper-vigilant for the next threat, the next mention of his ex. He grips his sleeves again, pushing a thumb into one of the deeper cuts through his hoodie, the pain grounding him and reminding him of what's real.

He sees the text bubble dots moving for a good minute, before pausing and delivering the text.

we'll talk after school

Dean's reply does nothing to ease his anxiety, but he supposes he'll find out soon enough.

After what felt like hours, Sam could feel the pressure in his chest easing up, and slowly, each breath felt less like a battle. He knew he would end up having an anxiety or panic attack later; these coping skills just postponed the inevitable. But for now, he needs to concentrate on pre-cal. His impending freak-out can wait.

Class passes agonizingly slowly, but Sam can't tell if he wants to talk to Dean as soon as possible to get it over with, or if he wants his class to never end and never talk to his brother about whatever it was.

As the final bell rings and Sam walks out of the building, he sees his brother's Impala waiting for him out front. Uneasiness twists in his gut again, but he swallows it down and forces himself to move forward and get in the car.

The car door shuts, and silence falls. The sound of people talking and cars starting up are muffled, but the pounding of Sam's heart throbs loudly in his head. God, he was way too anxious already; he didn't even know what they're going to talk about and he's already panicking.

Dean shifts the car into drive and cruises out of the parking lot, slowing to a crawl to avoid a potential casualty in the crowded high school lot.

"So..." Sam starts, his voice rough and cottony. "What did you want to talk about?"

Dean's hand grips and twists on the steering wheel, and he takes a deep breath. He appears just as nervous as Sam.

"It's...it's a lot. And I don't know if you'll ever believe me, or forgive me for it." his older brother says, his eyes still fixed on the road ahead. Sam is somewhat relieved that the issue doesn't concern him, but he still doesn't like what Dean is saying.

"Whatever you've done, whatever happened, I'll still love you for it," Sam says quietly, popping a few of his knuckles anxiously.

Dean inhales shakily, before letting out his breath in a sharp puff. "I guess I'll just, you know, start at the beginning and hopefully...hopefully I'll be able to say it right."

"Take your time," Sam reassures him, still in a muted tone. He's shifted into the role Dean usually takes on--the protecter, the anchor. Whatever was happening wasn't about him; he needed to be there for Dean.

His brother emits a short, humorless laugh. "I don't really have the time, but thanks."

He takes another breath before beginning.

"Okay, Sammy, I just want you to know I love you, and I'm sorry. But here goes...

"Ten months ago, you remember when Cas and I got into that wreck, right? He almost died, and I broke my arms. Yeah? Alright, well...it got kinda weird. I woke up in the hospital, and I didn't know if Cas was even still alive. Then this man appeared in my room. I thought he was some kind of fever dream, at first, but I knew I was awake and aware. He said his name was Crowley, and he told me...he told me that Cas was dying, and that he could stop it. I didn't believe him, of course, nobody would. But when I told him that, he walked over to me and touched my forehead, and all of a sudden we were in Cas' room. And Sammy...it was so bad."

Dean stops his story, and Sam hears him forcibly gulp down the lump in his throat. Even almost a year later, thinking about that night was unbearable for everyone, Sam included. He didn't like where this was going; in all honesty it sounded fucking crazy, and he didn't think he'd be able to believe it, even though it was coming from the person he trusted the most.

Dean clears his throat and takes another breath before continuing.

"He had tubes and wires everywhere, the dude was fucking intubated and IV'd and everything. He looked like...well, he looked like death. And in that moment, I believed that guy. I did. But when he offered to help, he said that in return I would need to give him my soul."

The last word dropped off into silence, and Sam feels horrifically surreal, and he doesn't believe Dean for a second. His mouth works silently before he finally gets out a sentence.

"What the ever-loving fuck are you talking about?!" he says, his voice coming out scared and angry. He doesn't believe the story at all, he's more worried about the mental condition of his brother; the Dean he knows would not fall for that.

"Sammy, I know, it's a lot, but he gave me a time limit and I--"

"No, fuck this!" Sam interrupts him. "You need to get help. Like, professional fucking help."

Dean's grip on the wheel tightens, and Sam can see the pain twisting up his face. He feels barely a sliver of pity; he wants to know what's really going on.

"I'm trying to talk to you, dammit! I have less than two weeks left and I'm trying to say goodbye." Dean chokes out the last few words, his voice breaking on "goodbye".

Sam just stares silently with his mouth slightly parted in shock at Dean, completely and totally speechless. He would rather have his brother find out about his cutting than whatever clusterfuck this was.

"You're saying goodbye?" Sam finally says. "No. I'm not accepting it. Whatever is going on with you, you need to tell me the truth, not some half-baked crackhead story. How stupid do you think I am?"

"I don't think you're stupid, Sam," Dean says quietly. "We both know who's the smarter one here."

All of a sudden, it's too much. The anxiety, the stress, the absolute shitshow of a conversation, everything was too much and he couldn't breathe.

"Dean, stop the car, stop the fucking car, stop!" Sam gasps out, the close quarters of the car setting off his claustrophobia and worsening his panic attack.

Without hesitating, Dean veers the car off the road and pulls up beside a bar ditch, where Sam opens the door and crashes to the ground in a fit of gasps and sobs as the panic attack consumes him.

He becomes aware of Dean slamming the door and crouching beside him, placing his fingertips on the back of his shoulder blade to ground him without overloading his senses. Just like old times, when his panic attacks were a daily occurrence.

Sam's mind is moving at light speed, but somehow clouded and murky at the same time. As gasps and sobs and embarrassingly high-pitched keening shook his body, all he can think about is the possibility that Dean was right, not necessarily in the whole "sacrifice my soul to Satan" way, but that maybe he was sort of telling the truth and really did have only a matter of days. And with Dean gone, there would be no one to protect him from his ex.

Soon, the tears and hyperventilation slowed and stalled as he gradually regained control of his body and mind, until he was laying on his side silently, completely and totally exhausted. His limbs felt far too heavy to move, so he stayed on the ground for a few minutes more. Dean's hand was flat against his back, rubbing in gentle circles now that the worst of it was past.

"You'll be okay, Sammy, everything is fine. You're safe. You're safe," Dean whispers softly, his voice even and steady. He knew the drill, this was hardly a new situation, but he so deeply appreciates how solid and warm Dean was when things got bad. Sometimes he could be an asshole, but Sam knew that Dean loved him unconditionally, even when he was reduced to a puddle of tears and anxiety on the side of the road.

"He's fine, this happens. He's okay," he hears Dean's voice, directed somewhere behind him. Someone had found them like this. This also happens occasionally, but Dean always manages to direct them away and help Sam save face.

Eventually, Sam's strength returns and he heaves his body off the ground, his head throbbing and his hands shaking. He pauses on his hands and knees, breathing deeply as he rocks back onto his heels and stands up. God, it had been awhile since he had an attack this bad, and he did not miss it whatsoever.

"I'm sorry, Sammy, I didn't mean to set you off. I--"

"Don't. Just...don't," Sam cuts him off, thoroughly done with whatever bullshit Dean was talking about. "Just take me home. Back to the dorm. Please."

Dean shuts his mouth reluctantly, but obliges anyway.

The drive home was long and silent, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken words.

***

~much later~

Sam

He didn't believe him.

Plain and simple.

He did not believe one word Dean Winchester said. The phantom man, the deal, his supposed expiration date, none of it. He refused to. How could such a thing be true? Giving up your soul to a demon, what the fuck was that about? What was so bad that his brother felt the need to make up such a huge lie?

It didn't matter, Sam decided. If Dean wasn't going to tell him the truth, then it was obviously of no consequence. Whatever is supposedly going to happen in two weeks would happen whether Sam believed him or not.

The water is hot on his back, the bathroom filled with steam and his senses numbed by the hiss of water and the darkness of the room. He had started showering in the dark at maybe 13 years old; he found it relaxing and comforting to not have information constantly assaulting his senses all the time. He's sitting on the floor of the tub, his legs tucked close to his chest and his head resting on his knees. All he wants to do is dissolve in this moment, come apart and forget about everything and get washed down the drain with the rest of the dirt.

So what if Dean was lying to him. So what if he didn't believe a word he said. What does it matter to have one more thing weighing him down, after everything that has happened in the past few months. It doesn't matter. He doesn't matter. Right now he can't feel anything except the steady stream of water bearing down on his slowly numbing back.

After a while--hours, minutes, who knows--the water starts to cool and turns to ice shortly after, but Sam doesn't move. His body shakes and shivers, but he doesn't feel it. He doesn't feel anything.

"Sammy?"

Dean's voice is heard outside the bathroom door, slightly startling Sam and bringing his mind back to reality. He doesn't answer. He knows he should, he's been in there a while and Dean starts to worry about him when he takes too long in the shower. Suicide wasn't really on the menu these days, but he knows his brother is going to worry about him even when he's 70, so he usually keeps his showers under 20 minutes, maybe 30 if he's really not feeling good.

"Hey, Sammy, you okay? Answer me. Please."

His brother's voice is tight, as if he's holding back tears, or afraid. Guilt finds its way into Sam's heart, and he clears his throat before answering.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just...taking awhile."

Dean is silent for a second. "Okay. Just...hurry up, please? Cas made dinner."

"Okay," Sam responds, barely loud enough to be heard over the running water. The cold was starting to get to him, and his teeth chattered in sync with the tremors wracking his body. He turns off the water and turns on the lights, squinting in pain for a second from the bright lights.

He is rather hungry, and Cas is a good cook, so he quickly towels himself dry and slips into the boxers, sweatpants, and t-shirt he brought into the bathroom to change into. His fingers and toes were starting to regain feeling, and the shower did a good job of cleansing his mental state as well.

As he enters the kitchen, the heavenly aroma of food envelops him. He doesn't know what it it, but it smells good enough to kick start his appetite. Maybe this is what he needs to feel better, a good meal and a solid night's rest.

"Hello, Sam," Cas says warmly, offering a genuine smile. Sam smiles back despite himself; Cas's smiles tended to have that effect on people.

"Hey, Cas. What did you make?" Sam replies, poking around the pots on the stovetop. They rarely ate real food like this, usually it was either fast food or something frozen.

"I'm trying my hand at Mexican food. It's carne guisada," he explains. "I'm not sure if I'm any good at it yet, but I guess we'll find out."

"Sounds good to me," Sam agrees.

They pile beans, rice, and some sort of meat and sauce onto their plastic plates, and take a seat around the small dining room table. Everything seems so surreally normal, as if his panic attack and Dean's whacked-out story had happened weeks ago. Sam is grateful for the sense of normalcy, but it feels misplaced for some reason.

They eat in amicable chatter, complimenting Cas on his food, exchanging stories about their day, and just generally being normal people. Sam finds it relieving, but he still can't look at his brother without thinking of what was said on the car ride home. So he doesn't.

"Hey, Sammy, did Cas tell you he's changing his major to psychology?" Dean asks around a mouthful of rice.

"No, you didn't," Sam says, surprised. Cas had just been a General Education major for the majority of the school year; Sam kinda gleaned that he hadn't really planned on being alive long enough to get to where he was now. He understood that on a rather personal level.

"Yes, I thought going into therapy would be a good fit for me," Cas says, a soft smile on his lips. "I...I just want to make the most of what's happened to me. I'm sure you understand."

Sam lets out a dry laugh. "Yes, just a little. Well, I'm happy for you. I still don't know what I'm going to do, so you're better off than me at the moment."

"You've got time," Cas reassures him. "You're sixteen--almost seventeen, I know--and you've got all the time in the world. Just focus on your grades and mental health and you'll be golden."

"So you're already starting with the therapist-speak, huh?" Sam says, a half-smile finding his mouth.

Cas chuckles softly, scooping up another forkful of carne guisada. "Never hurts to be prepared."

Sam can sense Dean shift uncomfortably at that comment, but he pushes away the uneasiness. There was nothing to be said about the situation, he kept having to tell himself. If Dean wasn't going to be honest, there was nothing he could do about it.

Soon enough, the three finish eating, and Dean and Cas retreat to their shared bedroom to watch a movie on Dean's laptop. Sam was grateful that they stopped being idiots and finally started sharing a bed so that he could have Cas's bed instead of the mattress shoved between Dean's bed and the wall. He was grateful for a lot of things in that regard, actually. Seeing the way his brother was with Cas was so comforting. Growing up in the kind of household they had didn't leave a lot of room for peace and happiness. Whatever solace they did have was always in the shadow of their father. So seeing Dean so happy with that man did his heart good.

Left to his own devices, Sam often spends his time reading or writing. He doesn't consider his writing any kind of good, but it's cathartic. He really should call it "Journaling But With Extra Steps" since everything he writes about is just his life, but in a fictitious setting. Just plain journaling seemed a little drab, and redundant. Additionally, growing up with his father and a nosy older brother just begged for his privacy to be invaded. So no journaling for him.

Today, he makes his main character deal with the betrayal of his good friend, causing flashbacks and panic attacks galore, and he rather enjoys writing of the intense emotions and mental turmoil his character is facing. Sam knows he's just projecting his own feelings into his character, but it helps him feel a little less alone. He once let a past girlfriend, Jessica, read it, but she didn't really understand the motive behind it. She just thought Sam was being cruel. The relationship was short lived, as Sam figured out he was gay a few months in. Jess has figured that out in a matter of weeks, but thought it best to let him find out on his own. They remained friends, with no bad blood between them. He hasn't talked to her since he started dating his ex. His ex was controlling, even from the beginning, and Sam drifted away from most of his friends during their relationship. After the breakup, his friends welcomed him back with open arms. He didn't realize how lonely he had been until his friend Adam enveloped him in a crushing hug.

A knock at the door startles Sam out of his thoughts, and he snaps his journal shut reflexively.

"Come in," Sam says, shoving his journal between the frame of the bed and his mattress.

The door opens, and Sam is surprised to see Cas's face in the doorway, not Dean's.

"Hey, Sam," Cas says softly. "Can I talk to you?"

Sam nods, shuffling to one side of his bed to make room for Cas.

Cas settles on the edge of his bed, smiling at Sam warmly. There was something so comforting and calming about Cas's presence, even though Sam knew Cas was a ball of anxiety himself.

"Is everything okay?" Sam asks, a little uneasy despite the calmness Cas exuded.

"Yeah, everything is fine, don't worry. I just...wanted to say something to you."

Sam nods, prompting Cas to go on.

"I know you've been cutting again."

Sam's heart drops to his stomach, and he clutches his hoodie's cuffs reflexively, crossing his arms over his stomach. He doesn't say anything to defend himself, he knows he's not going to bullshit Cas as easily as he could his brother.

"I just wanted to let you know that I'm here, and I get it. You know I do. I know...I know Dean can be a little high-strung at times, and that he's not the easiest person to confide in, given how emotional he gets about you. So...if you ever feel like cutting, I want you to know you can come find me, and I'll do my best to help you. Even if you've already hurt yourself, you can still come get me. There's no judgement here."

Sam nods, genuinely grateful. There was just one thing....

"Please don't tell Dean," he says quietly, almost fearfully.

Cas presses his lips together in a thin line. "You know, I really should tell him. But I'm not going to. He's got a lot of stuff going on, and I know it's not good to cut, but I have faith that you'll get help before you do anything that could endanger your life. But if I don't tell him, you need to promise me you'll come get me if you feel like hurting yourself."

Sam's chest relaxes in a rush of relief, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Thank you, Cas. I promise I'll tell you. I'm not going to kill myself either, that's not really something I think about anymore. Just this...this whole thing with Gabr—my ex, it just really...it really fucking broke me."

Cas's face creases with pain, and Sam feels stupid for bringing it up. Of course he doesn't want to hear that his brother is the reason he's hurting himself. Why the fuck would he say that to him?

"I'm sorry, Cas, I know he's your brother, but—"

"Don't apologize, Sam, please. I don't care if he is my brother, he hurt you—hell, he fucking traumatized you, and you're allowed to be broken over that. You're allowed to have emotions."

Sam nods again, still feeling guilty for bringing up what happened.

"Can I...can I see your arms? Please?" Cas asks, his eyes on Sam's folded arms.

Sam grips his cuffs tighter, inhaling sharply, but he eventually relaxes and offers his arms. He hated showing Dean his cuts, and he knows that Dean stares at his scars sometimes, no doubt remembering that horrible night when he tried to kill himself. But Cas gets it. Cas is safe.

Cas gently takes his arms and turns them so his hand is facing upwards, and he pulls up the sleeves. His forearms were bare, except for the telltale suicide scars running lengthwise, with a dozen or so other scars mapping his both his wrists.

"They're a little higher up, gimme a second," Sam says, shrugging off his hoodie. He keeps it close, just in case Dean decides to come in.

The cuts had healed well, some had gotten to the stage where they itched like hell, with the deeper ones scabbed over enough to where they don't open by themselves and start bleeding.

Cas carefully touches one of the deeper ones, his fingers cold against the heated flesh. Sam looks away, ashamed of himself.

"Hey. It's okay," Cas says, gently hooking Sam's jaw and turning him to face him. "You know I'd never judge you over something like this. I'm just making sure you don't need stitches. It's too late for stitches, actually, but I just wanted to make sure you didn't go too deep."

Cas releases his hold on Sam's arm, allowing him to get back into his hoodie.

"Can I see yours? It's okay if you don't want me to," Sam adds quickly.

"It's fine, of course you can," Cas says. "There's nothing fresh, but if it would make you feel better then you can see the scars."

Cas takes off his trench coat and rolls up his sleeves.

His skin is almost like a textured map, with barely any room between scars. Sam sees his matching suicide scars, still slightly purple even after all these months. He runs a finger over them lightly, cringing over the obvious depth of the wounds.

"I've never actually met another guy with scars," Sam admits, withdrawing his hand. "It's always girls. People tell me I'm stupid for cutting, that it's only for girls with daddy issues, but they don't know what it's like. That's why I wear long sleeves, even when I'm clean."

Cas nods, rolling his sleeves down but keeping the trench coat off. "I understand that. I didn't meet another guy that cut until my senior year, but he only cut himself a couple times before he decided it wasn't for him. So I felt alone."

"Living like this is lonely," Sam says hollowly. "Everyone says they care and that they're here for me, but when it's 3am and I've cut myself so many times I can't see skin, nobody is there for me. It's just me. Alone."

"I understand that perfectly," Cas says. "Even with four other siblings and two parents in the house, I always felt so alone sitting on the edge of the bathtub with a razor in my hand. But now you're not alone. Anytime you need me, even if I'm not home, you can text me and I'll drop everything. I promise."

Sam smiles weakly, grateful despite the sad heaviness in his stomach.

"Thank you."

"Of course, Sam. Anything for you."

With that, Cas pats Sam's knee and rises, leaving Sam to continue writing.