**Disclaimer - I do not own Supernatural! Shockingly. Also, reader beware, this chapter is a little more intense than the others.

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How much should I tell him? I was dangerously close to spilling my guts.

When I sat next to you in Vegas writing in my journal I told you it was Rubaru research. It was actually a rough draft of a suicide note that I was writing, just to see what it felt like.

He wasn't blinking, was barely breathing as he waited for me to say something. To say anything.

Sometimes at night I wait till you're asleep, grab my favorite hunting knife, and trace it over my skin and my veins. It's the closest thing I can do to hurting myself without you noticing, and it's comforting in a sick way.

Dean was sitting uncomfortably close, invading my personal bubble, trying to make it pop so I told him all of the things I'd been hiding.

Every morning when I wake up I ask myself if you'd be better off without me.

He must have seen it. He must have seen my internal struggle, as I gaped like a fish out of water, trying to find the words for what I wanted and needed to say.

Oh, god. No. No, no no no.

My mouth went dry and my heart started to race as fast as my thoughts. I'd started to develop panic attacks over the last few months, and I had always managed to hide them – albeit barely, at times. But now, as I felt the adrenaline coursing through my veins, there was no hiding. Dean wouldn't let me out of his sight. I was trapped, and I was about to break.

Can't breathe. No air.

I vaguely felt Dean's hand on my shoulder. He could sense something was wrong. He could hear my breaths coming quicker and quicker.

"Sammy?"

But I couldn't reply. There wasn't air to breathe, let alone to reply with.

"Sammy, breathe for me."

His hands were on both shoulders now, and he was forcing me to meet his eyes.

If I don't say something now, I'm never going to manage to get it out.

"Drowning," I finally gasped. "I'm drowning."

Dean's face registered confusion for a second before he realized that I was talking about the depression. But that second was all that it took for him to shift into protective big brother mode.

"Sammy, I need you to breathe," he said immediately, more gently than I think I've ever heard him say anything. The panic had peaked by then, and I was starting to regain air. Thank god, my attacks were usually short. But Dean stayed by my side until he was assured I would be alright, murmuring reassurances for the entirety of the longest five minutes of my life.

"I'm sorry," I murmured as soon as I could, but before I got the words out Dean was stopping me.

"You let me in, Sammy," he interrupted, his tone grateful. "That's all I wanted. Even if it was rough."

"We don't do this, Dean, we don't talk about feelings, I shouldn't have said anything," I scoffed, my words tumbling out one after another. I carded my hands through my hair anxiously, trying to regain any semblance of control.

"We do if you need to, Sam," Dean continued. And before I could prepare myself, he gave me the simple assurance I had been craving, that I had been sure would never pass his lips.

"I'll always be right here, Sammy. No matter what. We'll get you through this."

He stopped short of the "I love you," but I had never been so sure of his love in my entire life. For once, I had some hope that I might make it through this.

With my big brother by my side.