[Warnings; use of drugs, underage drinking, date rape, swearing, violence, neglect, mentions of pills, and mention of razors]

(Word Count; 2767)

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I put my hand on the freezing cold counter, stabilizing myself as my legs threatened to crumple. I could feel the top half of my body swaying. I guessed I looked as bad as I felt because the bartender put his hand on mine. His calloused, worn skin was rough against the smooth-textured skin of the back of my own hand. "Kid? You okay there? You need a ride home? Are you sick? Do you want me to get the girl you came with?" He sounded concerned, but it was hard to tell. My head was pounding and spinning causing my hearing to be shot, along with my vision.

"N-No.....fine. I got it." My tongue felt thick and heavy like something was on top of it. I struggled to force out the words and to push my head up to look at the bartender. His name tag, Booby, Bobby, Billie? He gave me a doubtful look but then shrugged.

"Whatever you want, kid." The bartender turned, grabbing a greasy-looking rag, and polishing a tall beer glass. "Not my job to get underage drunks back home anyways."

I pushed myself away from the wooden bar. I stumbled blindly before hearing the sickly, sweet sound of my name being called by someone. "Dean!" I whipped towards the sound. I saw the fuzzy outline of Jo standing there and I smiled weakly. "Oh! Babe, are you feeling sick? You don't look so good. I'll take you home." She didn't let me answer, just grabbed my arm and tugged me out the door. I glanced over at the bar as she pulled me towards the exit. The same bartender, I think, was watching us, shaking his head in a low manner.

There was sudden fear in the pits of my stomach but I was too weak and too dizzy to protest Jo's action and go back to the bartender. We charged through the midnight black night, across the sea of pavement, to the vehicle that was about to bring about my doom. Jo threw open the second door of her black 200 Volo Station Wagon and practically threw me into the back seat, not bothering to buckle the seat belt. She herself climbed into the car and started the engine.

After that it was a bit hazy, I wasn't sure if I blacked out or if I just couldn't remember. But when the fog cleared, we were pulled over in a reclusive spot. Jo was climbing over the divide between the front and back seat, towards me. She had a malicious smile on her face. She looked hungry. She looked lustful.

"Drugged...d-drink," I said as I realized what she had done. Her smile shifted from malicious to nefarious. This bitch, this fucking bitch, had drugged my beer. I raised my arm up, or rather tried to, but it felt like a hundred bricks were tied to my wrist, keeping me from defending myself. She crawled towards me and I realized she had already discarded her dress. I cursed internally. I cursed her out, I cursed the bartender out, I cursed out whoever sold her those drugs, but most of all I cursed out myself for being so stupid. I wanted to cry, but I was too scared. The fear raced around inside of me like runners on a track.

The most I could do to fight her as she unbuttoned my shirt was mumble the word stop, but my muttering was nearly inaudible. Jo still shushed me. "Hush Dean, it'll go easier." She yanked my shirt down my arms and off of me, throwing it over her shoulder to the front seat without a care in the world.

I felt a sudden burst of strength. I didn't want it to go easy. I didn't want it to happen at all. "No!" The word was clear and sharp. I reared back my head and plowed it into hers. She grunted but didn't let the violent act stop her, she grabbed my head and bashed it against the seat's headrest. It was enough to disable me, but not knock me out. I almost wish she had knocked me out. I decided I didn't want my last word to be no if she killed me after she finished. I figured pleading for mercy was better. "Plea-"

I woke up screaming, beads of sweat running from my hair to my forehead mixing with the salty tears dripping from my eyes. Again. The nightmare again. It was hell. Utter and complete hell. It had been three months, why the fuck wasn't I over it yet? This wasn't me. I sat myself up and rocked back and forth. My sobs were heavy and had a rhythm. One, gasp for air, wait for a second, two, sniff to clear my nose, three. And then over and over again. My mouth was open for the process, so the salty solution of sweat and tears slipped over my lips and into my mouth. The salt burned the open wounds in my mouth from the constant nervous cheek biting and the pain only cause me to cry harder.

"Dean?" His voice was soft and quiet and fearful. I wrenched my eyes open and looked towards the open door. Sam stood there with fear poised on his face. He had one hand on the door handle, his other one holding a glass of water. He was haloed in the soft light of the hallway which made him look angelic. I swear to god, he was like a guardian angel. Watching over me when I was supposed to be watching over him. That thought killed me. I felt like my dad. A failure, an awful dad, a horrible person. The evil thoughts bombarded me before I was snapped out of it by Sam repeating my name.

"Yeah Sammy," I forced the tears to halt, a glassy film of wetness forming over my eyes as I held in the waterworks. He approached the bed slowly. My screams must have woken my little brother up. I felt awful. This happened almost every night, every time I closed my eyes if I was being truthful. He passed me the glass, handing me a pill. I didn't question him. I just popped it and downed the water swiftly. I swiped at my eyes and pulled off my shirt which was almost glued to my body. I must have been overheating if I was sweating so hard when I woke up.

When I looked up, Sam was staring at me. I coughed, putting on something similar to a smile. "Stop staring at me like that Samantha, someone's bound to think you're gay." I joked, but the joke was bad, my tone was sour, and Sam just looked defeated. I sighed, took my head in my hands, and turned my head from side to side in disapproval.

"Goodnight Dean. I love you." I listened to Sam pad out of my room and into his room across the hall.

"Love you too," I muttered, dragging my hands down my tired face, wiping the last of the moisture away. I flopped back down. I then flipped over, burying my face into the soft cover on my pillow. I began to weep again. I let myself continue crying until the pill took effect calming my nerves and soothing me to sleep, pulling me into the darkness.

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I was woken up by the loud rapping of knuckles on the front door. I sat up, glancing at the clock on my 'nightstand' which was really just a lopsided stool I had fixed with an old journal from when I was younger. It was 3:00. I was confused for a second, then realized it was afternoon and sprung to my feet. I didn't bother to throw on a shirt, figuring it was nothing at all. But boy, I was wrong. As I passed through the small kitchen/living room, I noticed the answering machine flashing the number eight at me. Over and over again. Had I really slept through the whole day, and through eight phone calls. I shook my head, continuing my path to the door. I undid the lock and yanked the entry open. Two men in suits stood in the door.

"Hello, Dean Winchester, correct?" The man in front, tall, black, a little shorter than me, asked. I nodded. "We're here to discuss the custody of your younger brother, Sam Winchester. I'm Gerald Jones and this is my partner Crowley Ferguson." My stomach dropped to the tips of my toes and I rubbed at the stubble turned slight beard on my face.

"Wh-"

"Sam's English teacher called the careline. She noticed Sam had gotten noticeably thinner in the past few months, that he has worn the same outfit twelve times in the past two weeks, and that Sam hasn't been getting to school on time. Plus she said Sam is struggling in school, which seems unusual because his records are perfect. May we please come in to discuss this more?" The second man, Crowley, stated, he had an accent. He was shorter than the other man and he had unruly black hair. I nodded slowly, pulling the door open fully and backing out of the way.

I cursed in my head. I hadn't shaved in two months. The last time I had cut my hair was three months ago. I couldn't remember the last time I had showered. I wasn't wearing a shirt. I was just in a dirty, stained, pair of white sweats. I probably looked like a bad guardian. And I felt like one. I walked into the kitchenette. "Want anything?" I grunted, hoping they wouldn't notice the obvious bottles of vodka and rum scattered around the counter.

"No, thank you." It was Gerald's voice and he sounded disgusted. The apartment wasn't clean but it wasn't nasty. He was overreacting. The man put his hand on the back of the two old chairs that were settled around our table, he winced and lifted his hand, wiping it on his shirt. "She said this started around September, late September." It happened in late September, I thought to myself. "How old are you Dean?"

Crap. "I'm 18." The man raised his eyebrows and pointed his finger to Crowley's notepad, who added another note to the many he had been taking down.

"And how long has Sam been under your care?"

"A little while before I turned 15, sir." Another note scribbled down on the notepad in blood red ink.

"May we look around?"

"Of course, sir." The two men began poking around my apartment. They looked around the living room which had some random things laying around, what may have been a slice of apple pie from the diner two weeks ago, and then traveled to the kitchen. They both start taking notes as they examined the stack of dirty plates in the sink, the rotting fruit on the counter, the fridge which contained two full bottles of vodka, a carton of eggs, and some microwaveable TV dinners.

"What are the names of Sam's dentist and pediatrician?"

"We can't really um afford those. But I have a friend, Ellen, she's a pediatrician and she examines Sam for free. I make sure the kid brushes his teeth and flosses every day." The men both made noises and I winced. God, I was digging us a deeper grave.

They moved on, looking through my bedroom. My room was a mess, empty liquor bottles, dirty dishes, old food, unwashed clothes strewn across the floor. Then Sam's room, which was orderly but smelled of serious BO. Finally, our bathroom, medicine everywhere, razors laying on the counter.

It was taking all my willpower not to break down. I wanted to tell them why. Why the apartment was a mess, why I hadn't bothered to shave or cut my hair. But I couldn't. I couldn't.

"We'll be in touch," I followed them to the door, locking it behind them. I listened to them step down the hallway, then fell to my knees clawing at my face and crying. So god damn weak, I thought to myself, I'm so god damn weak.

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Three days later Gerald and Crowley were back, but with two more men. "Dean, I'm very very sorry but we've decided you're an unfit guardian and we have to remove Sam from your home. We are going to place him in a foster home in the next town. You'll be able to visit him though. You are also going to be fined 500 dollars for underage possession of alcohol. Please let us in, so we can get Sam."

I was silent, even though I wanted to scream and tell him that he didn't sound sorry, as I slipped the door open and walked to Sam's room. I pushed the door open with a hand. I stared at my little brother and I felt my heart break. Not that my heart wasn't broken already. I watched him chew on the end of his pen as he thought and then write down a few sentences. God, I loved that kid. I traveled over to the bed, taking Sam's work from him and slipping it into his backpack. He jumped with surprise, as I did so. "Dean, what're you doing?" I didn't answer, I just took his reading glasses, his favorite book, it was Charlotte's Web at the time, and a few other things and stuffed them into the backpack. I took Sam by the wrist and pulled him to his feet. I forced the backpack onto him. He looked so confused and I wanted to hug him. I wanted to grab him and run. But I knew that this was best. When you love someone, you should let them go. I took his wrist again, brought him to the men and let go. "Dean, what's going on?" He looked between me and the men.

"I'm so sorry, Sammy. Your teacher called child services, they're gonna take you and put you in a better home. It's best for you." I whispered, too upset to say it any louder. Sam looked so frightened, so young. It hurt me. It hurt me so god damn much.

"No." Sam tensed. "No. No, no, no, no!" He shied away from the men, towards me. Although I wanted to pull him into my embrace and tell him he was safe, I moved away from him.

"Just go with them Sammy, don't make this harder for us, please," I begged him, my voice breaking.

"Sam, we need you to come with us. We really don't want to use force." It was Crowley, he sounded sincere but looked eager, as did the other men, for a fight to break out.

"No! Dean please, please don't make me leave, Dean!" Sam ran the rest of the way over to me, which wasn't far. He wrapped his arms around my torso and I stiffened.

"Sam." I growled. "Get off." I pried his arms from my body and held him at arm's length.

"Dean." He managed to make me feel so guilty with a single word. It felt like someone was reaching into my chest and crushing my heart slowly, but surely. One of the men stepped forwards to grab his shoulders, but Sam ducked and spun around to face the man. Sam curled his fingers into a fist and swung a punch at the man. Sam nailed him in the nose. The man grunted and grabbed Sam's fist. He twisted my little brother's arm behind his back and pulled Sam against him. I was frozen as I watched Sam. "Dean! Help me please!"

"I can't." I could hear my voice quiver as I pulled my eyes off my brother and to the ground. I heard a deep cry of pain and my head jolted up to attention. The man who had grabbed Sam was cupping his crotch and his face was twisted into a look of pain.

"Sammy just go with them." I turned, walked to my room. I listened to the scuffle, Sam shouting my name and pleading with them. I sat on my bed, put my head in my hands and spoke softly. "I'm so sorry, Sammy, I'm so fucking sorry kid."

Eventually, they left, the noise stopped. It was just me. Alone. I screamed in anger. I threw myself up off the bed. I lunged at my stand-in-nightstand, grabbed it by the legs and smashed it against the wall. I rampaged around the room, knocking things over, throwing things, smashing picture frames. It wasn't long till I was laying on the ground in a pile of broken glass and items. 

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AN: Warning, this is gonna be some depressing shit 

Love, your favorite god damn person who parks in the fire lane every god damn time,

Laurel  ❤