Seven Days

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. The song lyrics belong to Simple Plan and Evanessence.

A/N: I know I messed up the ages and the timeline a little, but try to ignore it, would you?

Warnings: Some self harm and abuse, though I tried to write those as PG-13 as possible. Now, you have your tissues ready? Good, you'll need 'em. Enjoy and review!

Now I'm sick of this waiting,
So come on and take your shot!
You can spit all your insults,
But nothing you say is gonna change us.
You can sit there and judge me,
Say what you want to,
We'll never let you in.

I'm a nightmare, a disaster,
That's what they always said.
I'm a lost cause, not a hero,
But I'll make it on my own.
I've got to prove them wrong,
They'll never bring us down,

We'll never fall in line,
I'll make it on my own,
Me against the world.

Simple Plan – Me Against the World

Chapter Two – Me Against the World

Dean got off the bus at the bus terminal. He had four bucks and some change left, not that he cared all too much. Every muscle in his body ached, his head was pounding with the remains of the concussion and the new abuse, and his side felt like it was on fire. But none of that was nearly as painful as the feeling of betrayal. His own family abandoned him when he needed them most, left him to fend for himself against the Raw when he was already weak and tired. They never even came looking for him. Hell, they didn't even realize he was gone. They didn't need him. So fine. See how well they managed without him to take the slack. Without him to buy the groceries his dad kept forgetting to buy, and cooking all the meals and making sure Sammy had everything he needed and all the help he needed with his homework. See how well they do without him. He could take care of himself just fine. Hell, he's been doing just that for the better part of his life.

The bus terminal was emptying quickly due to the lateness of the hour. Dean pulled the collar of his jacket higher to protect himself against the wind. He spent the night squatting in an abandoned building downtown, with a few other junkies and homeless people. It wasn't the first time he's done it. Hell, this place was better than the place he had spent last night in. At least here he was pretty sure he won't drown to death or get eaten. He wasn't stupid enough to leave his knife behind. John Winchester didn't raise a fool for a son. Come to think about it, John Winchester didn't raise anyone. Even injured and messed up, Dean could still give anyone looking for trouble a run for their money.

Dean figured he'd just weather the storm and then go back out to the streets. He needed to keep going. He wasn't sure why, but he just needed to keep going. But his body wouldn't listen to him, and he was quickly asleep.

He woke up with a start the next morning, when a dog started barking like a maniac, its barks resonating in the small, filthy space. Dean winced as he got to his feet, sore, stiff, cold and still very tired. At least the rain stopped. Shouldering the duffle he used as a pillow, he got out in search for breakfast. He needed something warm to eat. A smile and some flirting earned him a free cup of coffee in a small and busy diner. He ordered bacon, eggs and hash browns and left without paying the check. It wasn't the first time he had done that, either. He had to pick someone's pocket to get the money to pay for his lunch and some much needed pain killers. By noon it was painfully clear he had to take care of his injuries, and quick. Some of them required stitching, and some were beyond his reach. He did what he could, dry-swallowing three pain killers and fighting the need to sleep, praying that his body didn't betray him the way his family did. By that evening, he couldn't stand on his feet anymore. He crashed near a school and just stared blankly at the people going by. They all ignored him, pretended he wasn't there. He was used to that, too. His dad did that whenever he didn't need anything taken care of.

"Hey," someone poked his shoulder and Dean hissed in pain. He berated himself for falling asleep. "Hey, there's a free clinic three blocks from here, you know." The young girl told him. By the looks of her, she was no stranger to the streets. Dean tried to focus on her face, but seeing as there were three of those, he found it a little difficult.

"Why'd you think I need a clinic?" he slurred. She crouched next to him.

"Um, I dunno. Maybe 'cause you're bleeding?" she suggested, pointing at his side. Dean looked down and cursed at the sight of blood staining his shirt. One of his cuts must have opened, and now the shirt was stuck to the wound. That was going to be a bitch to clean, not to mention painful. The girl grabbed his arm, pulling him to his feet. "Come on, I'll show you." She said, and Dean started to protest. "Don't worry, they're pretty cool. They don't ask too many questions." She said knowingly. Too weak to argue, Dean accepted her help.

"I can't… pay you." Dean breathed as she led him on through the crowded streets. He had to bite his lips whenever someone ran into him, sending jabs of blinding pain through his body. But he just sucked it up, never crying out. Hey, he's been hurt worse before.

"Don't worry about it." the girl laughed, "You look like you're new." She said, and Dean nodded. "Runaway or kicked out?" she asked, but he didn't answer. She didn't push. She pointed at the small clinic down the street and left him there, saying she had to get back to her corner. Dean thanked her, and then she was gone. He hesitated a long time before he got in the clinic. Actually, he never would have come in if it weren't for one of the doctors who had just taken a cigarette break and rushed him inside.

The girl was right. They asked for his name, but more to make sure he was coherent than anything else. They cleaned and sutured his wounds, patched him up, gave him a couple of pain killers and some antibiotics and then shoved a handful of pamphlets in his hands and let him leave. Fastest he'd ever been out of a clinic before.

He slumped down on a nearby bench, exhausted and weary, mindlessly ruffling through the pamphlets one by one before tossing them to the garbage bin by his side. There were pamphlets about safe sex, AIDS, STD, homeless shelters, church groups and then, at the bottom, there was one about a runaway shelter. He tossed out every last one. When he felt a little bit stronger, he got to his feet with a grunt and started walking. He didn't have anywhere to go, but he never did. Just going, staying on the road, that was his entire life. What he could remember of it, at least. Someone called his name. Well, his alias, at least. Dean didn't even turn. After all, what good would that do? But the man chasing him didn't give up and Dean started to feel uncomfortable. If he wasn't so goddamn tired he would have bolted the second he heard his alias spoken out loud.

"Kid, wait please," the man was gasping, and Dean stopped, but only because he was tired and his duffle bag was heavy. The man seemed scrawny, and terribly out of shape for a thirty-year-old, or at least, that's what Dean had him pegged for. He was wearing a white collar, but Dean knew better than to trust someone's, or something's appearance, no matter how harmless they looked. "Thanks." The man breathed. Dean frowned.

"For what?" he asked.

"For not running." The man pressed his hand to his side, and then reached a hand out to Dean. "My name is Pastor Dan." Dean stared at the outstretched hand, but didn't shake it. The pastor didn't seem surprised or offended. He lowered his hand and smiled. "They didn't tell me you left. If I'd known you were going to leave so quickly I'd have come to talk to you sooner." He went on kindly. Dean studied him, his hand reaching for the knife. Never trust anyone. Shoot first, ask questions later.

"Why?" he demanded.

"I don't know if they gave you this," Pastor Dan said, reaching for an inner pocket and Dean tensed. The pastor reacted immediately, spreading his hands in the air, palms up. Obviously, he was used to people feeling threatened by that move. "I'm just going to reach in my pocket, take a pamphlet out. Is that okay?" he asked slowly, his hands still in the air. Dean wrinkled his brow.

"What kind?" he asked. He didn't mean to be rude, but he didn't know this person, and he had no one to watch his back. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

"It's for a shelter. For runaway kids." The pastor said and Dean rolled his eyes, turning away. "There are no strings attached," Pastor Dan said quickly, "you could stay there tonight, leave first thing if you want." He said as Dean started to leave. "Come on, what do you say? Free meal? A nice bed, away from the streets? Come on, you don't really want to stay out on the streets, do you?" he coaxed. Dean stopped, hesitating. He was starving, and the thought of a bed sounded so good, but he still didn't trust this person, if it even was a person.

"Pastor Dan?"

"Yes?"

"Cristo." Dean said, loud and clear. The man blinked, surprised.

"I'm sorry?" he asked. Dean studied him. A demon should have flinched at the word, but there were other things, not all of them were demons. "The name of God? Are you a believer, son?" Pastor Dan asked quickly.

"No." Dean said, shouldering his duffle again. He could have sworn the damn thing just kept getting heavier and heavier.

"Well, that doesn't matter. Listen, it's not too far from here, 1438 Washington Street. Just a few blocks that way," the pastor said, pointing the way. "You really should come. No questions asked if you don't want to answer any, that's not a problem. But we do close the doors at ten, and it's almost nine." Dean gave a small nod and a weary grin, and started going the opposite direction. "Hot meal and a warm bed. No strings. You think about that." The pastor called out after him.

Dean stared at the heavy oak door and hesitated. He could barely keep his eyes open. The growling in his stomach he could handle, even the pain and the fatigue, but his mind was all fuzzy from the pain killers and antibiotics. A night out in the dark with no one to watch his back, or this place, where he could eat, and maybe shower and maybe, just maybe, get enough salt to make a protective circle and get a couple of hours' sleep. His hunter instincts told him to run. His head told him there was nowhere to go. But he just couldn't. He'd never asked anyone for help, he wasn't going to start now. Besides, it was after ten anyway. Dean started to turn away when the door opened.

"Hi, Clark," Dean turned and Pastor Dan smiled at him. "Clark Kent, right?" he winked, using the alias Dean had given at the clinic. "You want to come in?"

"It's after ten." Dean said. The pastor cocked his head to the side, waving his hand dismissively.

"I'll make an exception." He said, and then winked at Dean. "Hey, even Superman needed help sometime, right? Now come on, it's freezing outside. Let's get you out of the rain." He said, reaching out and leading Dean inside. There was another set of heavy doors, this one equipped with a security system, and beyond that… The first thing he noticed was the warmth. He didn't even realize how cold he had been until he felt that warmth. Pastor Dan, now wearing a simple flannel shirt and a pear of jeans, led Dean through the foyer and into the huge living room. There were at least five couches there, and a fire crackling in the hearth. There were kids all over the place, really young kids, five or six years old, and even older ones, his age. They all seemed old though, mature beyond their ages, just like him.

"Hey, we got fresh meat?" Dean jumped at the question, immediately dropping his duffle and tensing, taking a defensive stance and looking suspiciously around, but that only got him a round of laughter. He straightened, stifling a gasp of pain, and looked around sheepishly. "Yeah, fresh meat alright." The kid said. Dean measured him up. He seemed about eighteen, Latino, and with a wide smile on his face. He walked up to Dean, reaching his hand up to shake Dean's. "Yo, man, I'm Hector. Welcome home." He said. Dean hesitated a moment, but shook Hector's hand.

"Hector, why won't you show Clark around? Take him to the kitchen, show him where everything is and give him some linen for the bed?" Pastor Dan suggested.

"Yeah, sure, no problem man." Hector said, slapping Dean's shoulder. Dean couldn't stop the cry that escaped his lips. He winced, trying to breathe through the pain, gritting his teeth. "Yeah, you're fresh meat alright." Hector repeated, more quietly and seriously this time. "You okay, man?" he asked, and waited until Dean nodded. "Alright. So these are my peeps. This is Devon, Ashley, Toni and the little squirt there is Reuben." Hector said, pointing at a fifteen year old boy, a fourteen year old pregnant girl, and a nineteen year old guy holding a two year old in his arms. Dean nodded at them. "Come on, man, I'll show you the place. There'll be enough time to beat your ass at poker later." Hector said, leading Dean after him. That actually made Dean grin. It's been years since anyone beat him at poker unless he wanted them to win. Hector showed him to another lounge, with a small TV and a pool table, showed him the downstairs bathrooms and large kitchen. There were four huge refrigerators there, two large food preparing areas and one, very long, table.

"We all pitch in here. Those who can, cook. Those who can't, clean up." Hector said, opening one of the large refrigerators. "We eat dinner at eight, so I'm afraid there's just leftovers." He said, pulling things out as Dean just slumped on one of the two extremely long benches that were sat on each side of the long table. He folded his hands on the table, resting his head on his hands and closing his eyes. He jumped when a plate landed next to his head. He looked questioningly at Hector, but the other boy just shrugged. "Turkey." He said, as if it explained everything. Dean shook his head.

"I can't afford it." He said, his stomach growling, and Hector smiled.

"Looks to me like you've already paid enough." He said, sitting across from Dean and studying him carefully as Dean reached for the sandwich in front of him and devoured it in a matter of seconds. "So, you do drugs?" Hector asked all of a sudden, and Dean choked and started coughing. He shook his head, still coughing. Hector nodded slowly. "Good," he said, "'cause that will get you kicked out of here for good. No second chances." Hector said, getting up, taking Dean's empty plate and putting it in the sink. "Also, boys and girls sleep in separate rooms. You want to get busy with a female, you do it someplace else, you get it?" he said, and Dean nodded, quickly pocketing the salt shaker and hoping it would be enough. Hector studied him a moment longer. "Seriously, man. Not too many rules here, but you don't want to break 'em or you'll get tossed back out." he said.

"Doesn't matter," Dean said, forcing himself to his feet. "I'm out of here by tomorrow." Hector stared at him a moment, and then laughed.

"Oh, yeah? And then what? The streets?"

"I can take care of myself." Dean said indignantly.

"Sure you can, fresh meat." Hector said. Dean thought he was going to leave him alone, but then Hector suddenly lifted his shirt up. There were many scars there, on the front and back, but it would take a lot more than that to impress Dean. "See, that's what's out there. You think you're ready for that?" Hector demanded. "You have no idea what's out there in the dark." He added almost angrily. Dean grinned. There weren't many people who knew what was out there in the dark as well as he did. He was about to say so, too, but his knees buckled and he nearly fell face flat on the floor. Hector quickly reached in to steady him. "Let's get you to bed, fresh meat. Plenty of time to make fun of you tomorrow, when you're conscious enough to understand." He said, and practically carried Dean up the stairs. He left Dean sitting on a stripped bed for a moment, only to return a second later with Dean's duffle and some clean sheets. "Now you listen to me, fresh meat, my room's just three doors to the left. Anyone messes with you, any of your stuff going missing, whatever, you just come get me, okay?" Hector asked, but Dean was already too far gone to answer.

Dean woke up when he felt something cold and wet on his forehead. God, was he ever cold before? It was like a furnace in here. He called out for Sam to crack open a window, kicking his covers off, but they were quickly pulled back up to his neck. Man, he felt like crap. He tried to turn on his side, but the pain made him cry out. When did that happen? He didn't remember the poltergeist tossing any knives his way. Sam's way, yes, but he had managed to get him out of the way just before the damn thing tossed a couch at him. Oh, that would explain the ribs.

"Sammy, seriously, open a window, would you?" Dean grunted, and the wet thing on his forehead was replaced with something cooler. Someone was talking to him, trying to sooth him, but he didn't recognize the voice. "Sammy, go get dad, would you? I think something got me last night…" he muttered, but the only reply he got was 'shh, it's okay, you're safe now'. Of course he was safe. He was with his family. And then exhaustion claimed him.

When he woke up again he still felt warm, but there was no one there with him. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was, and why, and then he struggled off the bed. He grimaced, his hand going to his side, and waited for the pain to lessen. He found his way to the bathroom, but got a little confused finding his way back to the room he'd slept in.

"You're awake." Someone smiled at him. An older man, in his late fifties. Dean raised a brow. "How are you feeling?" the old man asked kindly. Dean shrugged. The old man offered a smile and his hand. "My name is Father Tomas. Pastor Dan mentioned your name was Clark, right?" Dean raised a brow, then shrugged again and shook the man's hand. Father Tomas reached his hand to Dean's forehead. "You're still warm. Are you hungry?" he asked. Dean nodded slightly. "Well, get back in bed, and I'll see what I can do about that. How does that sound?" Dean gave a slight nod, and the man smiled. "A man of few words, aren't you, Clark?" he ruffled Dean's hair fondly and then went back downstairs. Dean stared after him a moment longer and then finally made it back the room he slept in the previous night. There were five other beds there, he now noticed, and all but one were made. A quick glance at his watch told him it was already noon. Dean tensed at the sound of nearing footsteps. Father Tomas soon entered the room, a large tray in his hands. He smiled again. "Why won't you get back in bed, Clark? You were running a very high fever this morning. We were getting worried."

"I can take care of myself." Dean snapped, reaching for his duffle, but Father Tomas gently pushed him back.

"I'm sure you can." He said softly, "But let's just say, for the sake of argument of course, that you may need some assistance. Just until you feel better, of course." He said quickly. Dean studied the man carefully. "You think you can handle some soup?" Father Tomas asked, "It's from a can, or I wouldn't be asking." He smiled apologetically. Dean wrinkled his brow. What other kind was there? Father Tomas handed him the tray and Dean pushed himself back against the wall, resting his back gingerly against it, and thanked Father Tomas. "See if it agrees with you," the old man said, "and then, maybe we could try something more… solid." He coaxed, sitting on a nearby bed and watching Dean. Oh, great, Dean thought to himself, an audience. "So, tell me, son, how did you get those nasty cuts of yours?" he asked, and Dean choked on the soup. What was that with these people and asking questions while he was trying to eat? Father Tomas gave him a glass of water, and Dean thanked him. "Son, I know it's scary, but you shouldn't protect whoever did those to you. That monster should be behind bars." Father Tomas said seriously. Dean gave a slight grin.

"He got what he deserved." He said, and went back to eating.

"Is that why you ran away?" at that, Dean put the tray aside. He wasn't hungry anymore.

"I thought you guys didn't ask questions." He noted. Father Tomas gave him a small smile.

"And how would that help?" he asked. Dean opened his mouth to answer, but couldn't think of anything to say. "How old are you, boy?" Father Tomas asked.

"Eighteen." Dean answered. Father Tomas gave a slight nod.

"And do you usually go to school, Clark?" at that, Dean got a little irritated.

"I can read, if that's what you're asking." He snapped. Actually, he could do much more than that. He always pretended to hate school, because that's what he thought his father wanted. School was a waste of time as far as his father was concerned. Actually, Dean rather liked school. He wasn't obsessed with it like Sam was, but he really enjoyed learning new things. He was pretty good at math, and he loved science. True, his favorite subject was lunch – but that was only because of the girls. What could he do? They threw themselves at him, and he loved every second of it. And contrary to what he had led everyone to believe, he only failed tests when they went hunting and he couldn't study. Even then, he sometimes asked for extra credit work to get his grades back up, but that was one of his deepest secrets. He'd tell everyone in the world he was a ghost hunter long before ever admitting to do extra credit stuff. It had paid off, though. The three college acceptance letters at the very bottom of his duffle were proof of that. One of them even offered a scholarship. It wasn't a full ride, but still, considering the amount of time he had actually spent on his schoolwork, he was rather proud.

"Good. Education is very important." Father Tomas said with a satisfied nod. "No matter how low people may drag you, if you're smart and educated, you can always pull yourself back up." He added, getting to his feet. He could tell Dean was done talking. He had had enough experience with runaways to know when to stop pushing. He reached in his pocket, taking something out and putting it in Dean's hand. "Lunch is in forty minutes." He said, turning to leave, "Bring the tray down with you, would you?" Dean opened his fist to see a dollar in four quarters, just in case he wanted to use the payphone…

The runaway shelter turned up to be quite a nice place. The kids there could relate to his feelings and experiences, even though their monsters tended to take on human form. Many of them were betrayed by their families, some have even been abused and/or tossed out to the street. As much as he tried to avoid it, it was somewhat easy to talk to them. On his third day there he volunteered to make dinner. He wasn't used to cooking for so many people, and burned the chicken a little bit. He turned completely red when they applauded him at the end of dinner. The best he had ever gotten from his family was 'good work, son, now why won't you clean up?'

Hector kept close, and after beating him at pool for the sixth time in a row, Reuben declared Dean to be the bestest player ever. Dean was rather surprised at the stab of longing that struck him at that. Sam used to think he was the bestest once, too. A long time ago. Now he was just annoying, or a jerk or a mindless toy soldier. On the best of days, he was the chauffeur and the cook and the cleaning lady.

Dean woke up with a start, wincing at the pain in his side. For a moment there, he thought he was having a nightmare, but then he noticed the other boys in his room were up. And then he heard it again. The scream.

"Sammy!" the name rolled off his lips without him even noticing it. He jumped out of bed, grabbing his knife and running towards the source of the screams. It came from the third floor, and Dean pushed through the curious kids that blocked his way, shouting at them to get out of his way and go back to their rooms where it was safer. The crowd of people told him exactly where to go, and he yelled at them to get out of the way, pushing mercilessly. He had to get to Sam, make sure Sam was safe. He knew it was ridicules, Sam wasn't even there, but the need was so deeply ingrained in his mind he knew he would never be rid of it. "Where is it?" he shouted at the pale girl that kept screaming. She ignored him, and he grabbed her on both shoulders. "Where is it?" he demanded, giving her a little shake. She pointed her shaky hand to the bathroom. Dean turned quickly, knife ready, and cursed. There was so much blood. "I need a tourniquet!" he said, rushing to the bathroom, "A sheet or something, quick, or she'll die!" he screamed at a nearby terrified thirteen year old and grabbed the seventeen year old lying on the floor, wrists slashed. Dean cursed, checking the girl's neck for pulse. She wasn't breathing, but he could still feel a faint pulse. Someone brought over a sheet and Dean used his knife to tear it into strips, making a tourniquet and stopping the rivulets of blood as much as he could. When there was nothing more he could do about the blood loss, Dean started CPR, and kept going until the paramedics arrived. They told him he saved the girl's life. All Dean could think of was not being there to save Sam's if he needed saving.

He couldn't go back to sleep after that. All the clapping and cheering around him didn't even register. All he could see was that poltergeist tossing knives at his little brother, the werewolf that nearly bit him, the spirit that almost strangled him to death… What would happen to Sammy now, when he wasn't there to watch over him? Who would protect him now?

It was after four in the morning, but Dean just had to hear Sammy's voice, he had to make sure that Sammy was safe. He used one of the quarters Father Tomas had given him and phoned the apartment they currently lived in. The phone rang three times. Dean was ready to hang up, in fact he almost did, when he heard someone talking.

"Hello?" the familiar voice sounded sleepy, and not at all injured. Or worried. Dean bit his lip, fighting the lump of tears that threatened to choke him. If it had been Sammy that walked out or went missing, he never would have let the phone ring twice before he answered. And he would have sounded worried. "Dean? Dean, is that you?" and then, just as he was about to answer, someone else was talking.

"Dean Mathew Winchester, where the hell are you?" and Dean hung up. Of course dad would be mad. He didn't expect anything else. With Dean being gone, he would have to hunt on his own, or take Sammy with him, even on school nights. And he would have to do some cooking and other things Dean would normally take care of. Like remembering parent-teacher night. It was tomorrow night; Dean was ready to bet a million bucks his dad didn't even know that. He shuffled back to the room he shared with four other strangers, ignoring everyone around him. They were calling him Superman now, some even called him Mr. Cool, or Doc, but he ignored them all. He saved someone's life tonight. Big deal. He saved someone's life on a semi-regular basis. Been doing it since he was eleven. It was the only part of the job he actually liked, and the part of the job his dad didn't really seem to care about, unless he was trying to blackmail either himself or Sam. Dean pushed his way back to the bedroom as Pastor Dan and Father Tomas and a few of the others tried to usher all the kids back to their beds. He turned the light off as he got in the room and crawled into bed. Sitting with his back against the wall, his knees drawn to his chest and his elbows resting on his knees, Dean cried more than he cried in the past eight years. No one around him told him to stop. No one around him told him to suck it up, be a man. One of the younger kids crawled in bed with him, putting his little hand on Dean's knee and offering whatever comfort he could. Hector sat on his other side, pulling him closer, rubbing his hand in small circles on Dean's back, and just held him there until he couldn't cry anymore.

"What are you going to do now?" Devon asked, watching Dean zip up his duffle. Dean shrugged.

"Clark, man, don't be stupid. There's nothing good out there on the streets." Hector said, "Besides, you're not even well yet. You still need to take care of those stitches." He added.

"I can take care of myself." Dean insisted.

"No one said you can't," Darla said, touching his arm. She wouldn't leave his side ever since he saved that girl, and kept bating her lashes at him. Dean might have found it appealing if she wasn't twelve. "But why would you want to go?" she asked, "Isn't this place better than where you live?" Dean bit his lip, not answering. He wasn't planning on going back there either.

"Life's hard enough, why make it harder? You have friends here," Lisa told him, squeezing his shoulder and stroking his cheek. She must have been a really pretty girl once, before her monster of a father cut her face out. "Don't go."

"Listen, I'm touched, really," Dean said, looking at all of them. There were more kids sticking their heads from out in the hall. They must really like his cooking, he thought. He couldn't understand why else they would want him here. "But I just… I can't stay."

"Look, I get it." Hector said, "There's someone else, isn't there?" he asked, a knowing look in his eyes. "See, when I first got here, all I could do was think about my baby sister Marissa. I can't stand the thought of her out there with that scum my mother calls husband." He said, his voice a little gruff. He cleared his throat and went on. "But Father Tomas, he helped me get a job, man. He helped me open a bank account. Every penny I earn goes straight there, so that next month, when I turn eighteen, I could go back and take Marissa and we could go live someplace far from that sonofabitch." He finished, giving Dean a meaningful look. "Father Tomas can do that for you, too. Pastor O'Malley is really tight with the schools, he could get you in one of these trade schools or help you get your GED or something, and Father Tomas could help you get a job… Look, you split to get another chance of life, right? So take it. Man, someone like you can't afford to get cut up on the streets. Who else is going to look after all those kids when I'm out of here?" Dean bit his lip, sitting back down on the bed. He missed Sammy. He was still a little angry with him, but he knew he couldn't stay mad at him for a long time. He was his little brother, his best friend, Dean practically raised him. But that only made it hurt that much more. Because it was one-sided. Dean wasn't Sam's best friend. He wasn't someone Sam looked up to, not anymore. Sam didn't even come looking when the Raw took him. No, he was too busy fighting with dad. They kept using him against each other and they didn't even care that it was tearing him apart.

You always want what you cannot have. For John Winchester, it was closure, revenge. For his youngest son Sam, it has always been another life, a normal life. For Dean, it was a family. A real family. One that actually cared you were gone. One that actually stopped fighting long enough to notice you were gone. That you wanted back and was too scared and hurt to do it on your own.

All he wanted was for someone to hold him every once in a while, to tell him that it was okay for him to be scared sometimes, to be proud that he got into college. To even know he wanted to go to college. He wanted a mom and a dad, and not to try to be both for a brother that didn't even appreciate it.

He would follow his father anywhere, hunt anything, follow any order without question if it meant keeping his family safe. If it meant keeping his family together. If it meant he had a family.

Seven days. A week. That's as long as he could stand to be away. That's how long he could stand to be without them.

He left the acceptance letters behind, along with all his hopes and dreams. Save for one. His family. He locked the person he wanted to be, the person he knew he could become, somewhere deep in his mind, and pulled his mask back on. The mask of the superhero, of the person that couldn't get hurt, even when the words Sam tossed his way with such skill tore his heart apart. The mask he'll never again take off. He'd take a grumble as a 'thank you' and 'I love you', because that's all he was going to get, and he was okay with that. Well, he kept telling himself that, anyway. Maybe if he repeated it enough, he'd actually believe it someday. No more chick-flick moments. His dad hated them. They made him weak.

Dean thanked Pastor Dan for the ride, and stepped out of the car. His ribs still hurt a little. His shoulder was sore. The deep lacerations at his side still needed a lot of taking care of. The bruises on his face were fading now. He heaved his duffle over his shoulder and just stared at the house for a while. What if they've moved while he wasn't there? It wasn't unusual for his dad to just pack up and leave in the middle of the night once the job was done. And it was done. Dean had killed the Raw himself.

"You want me to go in with you?" Pastor Dan suggested. Dean shook his head. "You have my number, just in case, right?" Pastor Dan asked, making sure. Dean's hand slipped into his pocket, where the little piece of paper with Pastor Dan's number was tucked away carefully, and nodded absent mindedly. He had offered to give him some money, but Dean refused. He knew how to make money if he needed. He could take care of himself. Been doing it for the better part of his life. "Clark?" Dean turned to look at him questioningly, "You know I'll always be there for you, me and the shelter, right?" the pastor asked seriously. Dean gave him a grin.

"Thanks." He said in a small voice. He stared at the house for another ten minutes before he found the courage to go back.

He apologized to his father for hours. When Sam got back home from school, Dean spent the rest of the day apologizing to them both. Because he needed them. Much more than they ever needed him.

Dean knew he was never going to walk out on his family again. And he never did. They walked out on him. And they didn't come back willingly.

These wounds won't seem to heal,
This pain is just too real,
There's just too much that time cannot erase.
When you cried, I'd wipe away all of your tears.
When you screamed, I'd fight away all of your fears,
I held your hand through all of these years,
And you still have all of me…

Evanessence - My immortal.

The End