Keep Holding On

His stomach hurt. And his head. It felt like it was going to explode.

Sam stumbled from the bathroom stall and leaned his hands against the cold porcelain of the sink. The boy in the mirror looking back at him wasn't him. It couldn't be. His face was red, drying tear tracks went from eye to chin, bloodshot eyes.

Nope. Wasn't him. Why would he be crying? Nothing happened.

Sam turned from the blurring image in the mirror, picked his books from the shelf on the wall, and walked into the hallway. It was empty. Apparently classes had already started. How long had he been in there?

After the incident Sam had sat there, staring at the pool of blood under him getting bigger and bigger. It had eventually stopped, but he just continued staring. Of course, he wasn't really looking at it. He wasn't really looking at anything. His mind was blank, except for one thing. Dean.

His brother would never forgive him for not fighting back. He was small, but he could have tried. But Everett had a knife, right? That was enough that Dean wouldn't get mad? Sam wasn't so sure and could already hear Dean's disappointment.

But Dean was his brother. Maybe he would stand up for him. Maybe he would hold him and make it all go away.

Sam had realized he was worrying over nothing. Everett had told him not to say anything, so why would Dean be mad or sympathetic? Dean would never know.

Sam looked at a clock over the lockers, informing him that it was already second period and he was going to be pretty late to art. Which was fine by him. That was the class he and Everett shared. A shiver went through him and he finally felt it. The pain, the feeling, in his ass. He wasn't bleeding anymore, but he could still feel it. And that just made him want to fall to the floor and cry.

But that wasn't going to happen. He was going to go to the front office and tell them he needed to go home; that he was sick. They would let him because his attendance record was flawless and they would believe him when he said he needed to go home. He was a good kid with eyes that could make a professional wrestler cry. They would let him go home.

Pain shot into his stomach each step he took down the hall. It was almost debilitating. It was sharp and his brain kept trying to get him to stop and drop to the floor. But he had to keep going. He had to get home and... He had no clue what he was going to do, but punching a wall or a door sounded good.

After what felt like miles of walking and, God, the pain, he opened the front office door and met the secretary's eyes as he told her he wasn't feeling well and would like to go home. Apparently he didn't look well because she didn't even wait to tell him that, of course he could go home. He just needed to sign out and have someone pick him up.

Shit. Dean would have to take him home. There was no way he could walk all the way home like this. But he couldn't face Dean now.

Sam sat in a very unoriginal plaid armchair by the door and shook as he heard them call for Dean over the intercom. The shaking worsened as the minutes ticked past. He knew Dean would know. Or he would at least know something was wrong. And he wouldn't give up until his little brother told him what was up. Sam just hoped that Dean would feel bad that Sam was sick and not say anything at all.

+++++

The door opened and a smirking Dean walked through, expecting to be chastised for making trouble in class or something equally immature. Instead, he saw was a worried looking secretary and a sick looking Sam. He ignored the woman's explanation and immediately went to Sam's side.

Something was wrong with his Sammy. He would tell Dean he didn't feel good in the morning so he didn't have to go to school, but once Dean got him up and moving, Sam never said another word about. He must have been coming down with something the day before.

Dean placed his hand on his little brother's knee, only to have the knee pulled out from under his touch. Sam's eyes were wide, scared. He was pale and shaky. Dean inched closer but didn't touch his brother.

"Hey, buddy. What's wrong?" He longed for Sam to look at him and tell him what was wrong, but his little bro was a stubborn one and he knew a lie or nothing was the only thing coming out of that mouth.

Sam just sat, staring at the tacky linoleum floor of the office. "I don't feel good. I just want to go home." He looked up, straight into Dean's eyes and Dean chased away the fear that that wasn't his brother. His eyes were blank, vacant. "Will you take me home?" Sam cast his gaze to the floor again and Dean stood, walking to the front desk.

"I'm gonna take him home and stay home with him. Our dad's away on a business trip and I don't want him home alone and sick." Dean pulled the sign out clipboard toward him and signed both his and Sam's names as he refrained from looking at the secretary. She had never really liked Dean and could probably sniff out a lie and make Sam and Dean stay if they didn't leave in a hurry.

"Just make sure you sign yourselves out. And take good care of him." She sported a concerned look as she turned toward Sam who was slouching in the chair and just staring at the floor.

Dean smiled and mumbled a "will do" as he went back to his baby brother.

"Okay. I'm gonna take you home. Alright?" Dean went for Sam's arm to pull him from the chair, but it slipped from his grasp as Sam pulled away and stood up on his own.

"I can do it, Dean. Don't touch me." Sam's quiet voice was barely registering in Dean's ears and he watched, dumbfounded as Sam walked through the office door and toward the parking lot.

+++++

Sam clutched his books to his chest, hard corners digging into his muscles. This was great. Dean was going to take him home and he was going to stay there with him. Sam generally wouldn't mind the company, especially if he was sick. But he wasn't and he just needed some alone time (away from Dean time) to sift through some stuff.

He didn't quite know where to begin or how to begin, for that matter. All he knew was that he got hurt and he didn't want Dean to know about it.

Sam slid into the Impala and cringed as pain shot up his spine. He faced the window, begging the good Lord above that Dean hadn't seen that. He placed his forehead against the coolness of the Impala's window and closed his eyes, feigning sleep and sickness so he could avoid a conversation.

It apparently worked because Dean never said a word from the time he got in the car to the time Dean parked the car in the apartment's lot and got out.

Sam stepped out after him and grimaced as he stepped onto the curb heading toward their first floor apartment. Dean was looking at him like he was some invalid. Sam held back the temptation to yell something about staring problems at his brother, but he really just wanted to go inside and... He wasn't sure.

Dean unlocked the door and Sam stepped inside, his brother following.

"Can I getcha anyth-"

"No, Dean. I just want to go lay down." Sam cut Dean's words off with a harsh tone and headed down the hallway toward their shared room. He ignored the frustrated "fine then" as he shoved open the door and slammed it shut, making sure it was locked.

He couldn't breathe. Sam wasn't really sure what was happening right then, but he knew he was about to break down and Dean could not see that.

Sam was right. He broke down. Books were thrown on the bed in anger, tears welled in his eyes as his knees buckled and hit the floor with a loud thump. He didn't know what he felt, just that he felt and it hurt and he wanted it to go away. He could see dark spots on his jeans where his sadness was falling onto the fabric.

He stood, ready to throw something. There was something inside him and it needed to get the fuck out and it wasn't. As he picked a textbook from the pile on his bed, he realized throwing it would alert Dean that something was going down and he wasn't about to be found like this.

More tears flowed as he threw the book back on the bed, followed by himself. Sam sat on the edge of the bed, and what felt like the edge of the world. His head was in his hands, tears were sliding down his cheeks and he repeated like a mantra "fuck, fuck, fuck."

He knew he was probably having a panic attack, but at least he was feeling something.

Soon, Sam's tears had dried and he was empty again. Laying on his bed with his own thoughts, he finally realized why he felt so empty.

He had been raped; violated. Someone shoved him up against a bathroom stall and raped him. And you know what really killed him about that?

Dean wouldn't want him. He was unclean. And once Dean found out what had really happened, he would figure out that Sam hadn't fought back and he would think that his little brother was a freak who loved his brother and liked to be raped.

Sam sat up at the realization that he would never have Dean now. He couldn't have him because he was his older brother, but now there wasn't even a tiny glimmer of hope. It was over. Sam was over.

He leaned forward just enough to grab his wallet out of his back pocket. He was going to fix this. He knew how to fix this.

He picked at the supposedly empty card slot and pulled the blade from its depths. The wallet gets thrown on the floor, unimportant anymore. The blade, however, gets Sam's full attention and is pushed into the skin on his wrist until blood wells to the surface; it drags across his scarred skin perfectly. It's much deeper than any other that Sam has ever done, but it won't kill him. He sets aside the blade and crouches next to his bedside table.

The second drawer was where he kept his most important pictures. A small smile flutters on Sam's lips as he thinks of the day Everett found the portrait of his brother, which is conveniently sitting on top of the large pile. Most of the pictures are of Dean. A few are of John and there's one of Mary; a portrait of a picture sitting on their coffee table in the living room.

Sam takes a picture of Dean, a portrait of just his handsome face with eyes colored green. He takes a pen in his hand, wrist still bleeding, and writes a note to his older brother. It kind of makes Sam feel a little better about his next task. Makes him feel like at least Dean will know why and that will help him.

The picture is placed on the table in between their beds, Dean's bedside table. Sam glances up at his dresser. It holds the tools he needs to get this job done so he walks and sits in front of it. He slowly opens the bottom drawer and digs through pajamas and swimsuit trunks until he can close his fist around what he needs.

He pulls his hand from the drawer and opens his palm. A knife Dean gave him for his tenth birthday. He had never used it before. It just followed them wherever they went and sat in a drawer in whatever city they ended up in. But now it'll get used.

Sam relishes the shink of the blade popping from its sheath. And he can see that it's sharp. It's never been used and Dean gave it to him. Of course it would be sharp.

Sam can fix this. He would fix this.

Down the road, not across the street. Sam laughed at the phrase he once heard some kid with scars on his arms say at lunch one day. The blade was cold and he couldn't feel it. It was so sharp as it trailed down Sam's arm. Blood came to the surface almost immediately, telling Sam that he did right. Matching the line on his other arm, Sam turned and sat against the dresser, waiting for the black to take over.

+++++

God, he was hungry. He had taken Sam home before they had lunch and it was about that time. Dean's stomach growled in agreement as he rose from his comfortable spot on the couch, TV remote in hand. He set it down on the coffee table before going to ask Sam what he wanted on his pizza, if he wanted any at all.

The kid had looked bad. Dean had seen his brother sick, and it was a pitiful sight. But something was different this time. He looked sick, but he looked... scared? Dean had no clue what was up with his little bro, but pizza made everything better, right?

Dean knocked on their bedroom door. Yeah, it was his bedroom, too but Sam was 13 and had weird issues on privacy these days. Fighting was not on the agenda for Dean.

There wasn't an answer though, not even a peep from the other side. Dean reached for the knob. It was locked.

Panic shot through him. Sam never locked the door. It was a rule in the family. Locked doors did no good if someone needed to get to you quickly and Sam knew this.

"Sam! Open the fucking door!" Dean waited a mere heartbeat, heard nothing, and started running his shoulder into the door. Something was wrong with his Sammy. He knew it now.

Dean could feel his shoulder bruising as he splintered the wood with brute force. It was taking too long, so boot it was. His steel-toed opened the door right up and he cringed at the sight before him, ready to fall to the floor.

"Sam. Shit... Fuck!" Blood. That was all Dean could see. And it was coming from Sam's wrists. Sam was dead. Sam had killed himself.

Dean ran forward, scrambling to his little brother, checking for a pulse. He found one, but it was faint.

"Sammy. Come on. Talk to me." He placed his hand on his brother's cheek and it was cool. "Fuck, Sam. FUCK!" Dean looked around the room, panicky, looking for something to wrap Sam's arms in to stop the bleeding. God, there was so much. Dean had seen a lot of blood in his time, but this was making him sick.

His eyes landed on the bedsheets and he raced over and ripped them from the bed, stumbling back over to Sam. He gingerly picked Sam's arms up and placed a torn strip of sheet under each one, pulling up and tying them tight. The cuts were deep and Sam was barely hanging on. He didn't know if this would stop the bleeding, but he had to pray it would.

Dean's mind jumped to the future for a split second. Sam in a hospital, on all kinds of meds, sitting in a bright room with other kids his age with "problems". No. Nonononono.

Dean grabbed Sam's face in his hands and gripped him tightly. "I swear to God, Sammy, if you die, I will bring you the fuck back and beat the shit out of you." His threats soon turned to cries as he pulled his brother toward him and rocked him back and forth, willing warmth back into Sam's body.

A cry escaped from a mouth that wasn't Dean's and he stopped. Sam's eyes were slits in his head, but were open nonetheless. He pulled Sam away from him and placed his hands on his neck, lifting his head with his thumbs. "Sammy. You with me? C'mon. Let's get you to the bed. Jesus, Sammy. Please stay with me, okay?"

Another moan escaped from Sam's mouth, but his eyes were still open, thank God. Dean closed his eyes and pressed his cheek to his brother's head for two seconds before he carefully lifted his lanky Sam and moved him to the bed.

Dean set his brother on his sheetless bed and sat down next to him. He knew tears were streaming down his face, but he didn't care. His baby brother just tried to off himself. Thank God he didn't achieve. Dean knew they weren't out of the park yet, but Sam was opening his eyes and, when Dean checked, his pulse was stronger.

Why the fuck would Sam try and kill himself was what Dean wanted to know. When he turned away from his brother to hold his head in his hands, a bloody piece of paper caught his eye. Dean let out a sob at the thought of Sam thinking about doing this long enough to write a suicide note.

Suicide. That word. It hurt Dean's head to think it. It was a harsh word and it didn't belong in anyone's vocabulary.

Dean reached forward, keeping a close ear on his recovering (physically) brother. The paper was thicker than regular paper and Dean could see a drawing on it, as well as the chicken scratch his brother called writing.

His eyes widened. It was a picture of him. And it was beautiful. Green eyes stared back at Dean as he wondered how he hadn't known of his brother's talent. Dean pulled his eyes away from his own portrait and read the almost last words of his little brother.

Dean. I love you. But I can't live like this anymore. I'm sorry. I guess I can tell you why since I won't be here to be embarrassed, so here goes. Everett King raped me in the bathroom this morning. Yeah, I know. Sucks. But now I'm not worthy enough to be here with you and I guess I'll see you later.

I do love you, Dean.

Dean crumpled up the bloody paper in his palm and laughed at the way his brother wrote his last words. It was just like him. Be a little funny, be a little serious.

And then it sunk in. It had taken awhile, but Dean could feel his blood boiling as soon as it hit him. Fucking Everett King hurt his brother enough that he thought he needed to die. Well, now Dean was going to return the favor and make Everett King pay.

Dean threw the trashed paper on the ground and turned toward Sam. His eyes were open now and staring right through Dean.


"Sammy?" Dean turned to sit toward his brother and stared back. "You okay now? Please nod or something. Please." Dean hadn't realized he was still crying through his anger, but it looked like he was going soft.

Sam's hazel eyes seemed to refocus on Dean and a single tear just made its merry way down Sam's cheek. But, by the grace of God, he nodded.

A nervous laugh blew out of Dean's mouth at the movement. He leaned forward and grabbed his broken Sammy in his arms. "I'm going to go kill this kid, okay? Don't worry. I don't hate you. I love you, Sam. And if you ever do something like this again, I swear to God I'm going to kill you."

Dean carefully set Sam back on the bed. "I'm going to go get some water for you. And then I'm going to leave for a few minutes. You have to promise me that you won't do anything stupid while I'm gone." Dean had a smile on his face the whole one-sided conversation. He couldn't wait to kill that Everett kid and he wanted to reassure his little brother that he wasn't pissed or disgusted, like Sam thought he would be.

"I love you, Sam. Okay? You got that?" Dean laid his hand on Sam's shoulder and bore his eyes into his little brothers. "You got that?"

He got a small nod from Sam and his smile widened. He patted his brother's shoulder and went to the kitchen, bringing back a glass of water.

"Drink. I'll be back." He could see that Sam's eyes were closing again, and a shot of panic raced through him. He pressed his fingers to Sam's neck and felt a strong heartbeat beneath them. His little bro was just sleeping off the drama. He knew Sam would be okay, especially after he seriously messed up this kid.

+++++

It was around 12:30 when the Impala rolled into the parking lot of the school. Dean felt like his baby couldn't have gone slower and the thought of Sam being alone back at the apartment kept itching at the back of his mind. But he had business to attend to.

Dean stormed through the halls after he checked back in. Luckily, it was in between classes and he didn't have to lurk in the hallways waiting for Everett.

Dean had seen the kid on occasion. Big, too big for a sophomore. Probably held back a year or two, football player type. As soon as he could clearly picture his face in his mind, Dean could see the top of Everett's head sticking up from the crowd. Anger coursed through him and he could see Sammy lying on the floor, dead, because of this dick.

He had it all planned out in his head. Hand in his jacket, wrapped around the butt of his gun, he walked up to the teen and pressed the barrel against his back in a way no one would notice. He had to lean up a bit to get to the guy's ear, but when he did, his threat to walk toward the bathroom and no telling was fierce and deep.

Everett seemed completely obliged to follow his attacker's rules and stepped through the halls, Dean at his heels, and into the bathroom. As soon as the door shut, Dean turned his brother's rapist around and shoved him against the closest wall, gun pointed at his chest.

"Fuck. What do you want? Who the fuck are you? What did I do to you? Please don't hurt me."

Dean laughed. He was begging like a little baby.

"Aww. What a big man. You have to go and rape a kid to get your rocks off and you ask me not to hurt you." He stepped closer and shoved the gun into Everett's chest. "I'm Dean Winchester, motherfucker, and you hurt my brother."

Dean could feel Everett's racing breath on his face and was shocked when it slowed and a smile crept across the fucker's face. "You mean the brother that wants to fuck you?"

Dean's anger faltered to confusion and he loosened his grip on his gun. What the fuck? He knew that Sam used to have feelings for him, but Dean knew that he would grow out of them. And he did. What was this fucker talking about?

At his pause, Everett took it upon himself to explain. "I saw the pictured he draws of you. He draws you naked." He was getting more confident as Dean moved the gun away from his chest in shock.

He couldn't believe it. That's what that note was about. Sam thought Dean wouldn't love him because of what this fucker did to him. Dean's emotions wheeled around in his brain until they finally landed on anger. Everett was wrong. He did love Sam. He just couldn't think about it because his little brother was 13. That wasn't right. Dean knew that one day, they would be together, he just couldn't think about it at the current time. Sam was just so young.

His anger surfaced and Dean gripped his pistol tight and dragged it across Everett's face. Blood flew and the kid dropped. Dean leaned over him and grabbed his collar, whispering in his ear.

"So what? Maybe I love him too. You gonna do anything about it? You almost killed my brother today and I will never forgive you for that. If I ever see your face again, I ain't just gonna pistol-whip the shit outta you. I will kill you." Dean pushed Everett against the floor, tucked his gun back into his jacket and left the bathroom, anger plastered on his face.

+++++

When Dean got home, there were no locked doors, the water glass was empty, and the bleeding had stopped.

Sam stayed asleep as Dean dressed his wounds better with gauze and ACE bandage. The cuts were deep and if Dean hadn't been hungry, Sam would've died. He quietly thanked his father for his appetite and grabbed the comforter from his bed. He threw it across Sam, who was now awake, just watching Dean.

The smile across Dean's face reassured Sam that nothing was wrong and nobody hated him, but he still felt so empty.

That emptiness was almost filled when Dean kicked off his boots, stripped to just his jeans and climbed in next to Sam. A hand brushed brown bangs out of his eyes and caressed his face, knuckles brushing against cheek.

"Dean. I'm sorry." Sam turned and stared at his brother, not understanding.

"Shut the fuck up, Sammy. You have nothing to be sorry about. Just don't do shit like that anymore. Tell me when something's going on. Don't try and..." Dean waffled his hand through the air. "That. Don't do that. I love you and I don't want to lose you." He placed his hand back on his brother's arm and smiled at him.

"But... How can you love me? He... Fuck, he..." Sam couldn't get it out of his mouth. Couldn't grow the pair to say it. A tear rolled down his cheek. "I wanted it to be you. You, Dean."

Dean smiled and brushed the tear from his brother's cheek. "I know, Sammy. And it won't be me. Not now, at least. But I promise you, I love you. You are perfect, and a damn good artist if I say so myself." He smiled when he was able to coax a laugh from Sam. "I don't want you to worry, okay? It won't ever change between us. I will always love you. No matter what." Dean rubbed small circled into Sam's shoulder with his thumb.

Sam looked uncertain as Dean continued his speech. "Promise, Dean. Promise me." He furrowed his eyebrows and raised a pained arm to lay on his brother's hip. "Please."

Dean smiled and placed a kiss on his brother's temple. "I promise." He scooted up on the bed until Sam's head was tucked under his chin and placed a hand in his hair. "Now go to sleep and stop worrying about it."

Dean felt fingers curl on his hipbone and he smiled into Sam's hair as his brother fell into a dreamless sleep.