A/N: Shout out to my beta for being the fastest beta in the west.

It was all too tempting for Dean to sit in his kitchen, jaw clenched, and another beer before him to drink while he ignored the world. But that was the problem, wasn't it? All Dean had wanted to do since Sammy got back from rehab was to make him feel okay again and get back to his life, which was stressful enough as it was. He was dodging bullets here—checking in on Sam to see if something happened to upset him, counting pills in the medicine cabinet, checking that Sam wasn't terrified at a loud noise.

And the younger man was doing well. It wasn't much of a surprise when Sam could do anything he put his mind to, including that full ride scholarship to Stanford. And he did ask for rehab himself, which Dean had to remind himself of constantly. Sam wanted to change, Sam won't throw his hard work away.

It was so tiring to keep an eye out for Sam when he was still building that trust back. It wasn't in Dean's nature to be talkative about problems or to be mindful of his wording, but Castiel told him several times that he needed to try for his brother's sake.

It was always easiest to wind down and relax at home once he got situated and had a few beers in him. Every beer he uncapped, however, gave him this guilty silent stare. All Dean could think of, this twisting feeling in his gut unending was of the way Sam stopped drinking. The way Sam tried to subtly turn away when he saw a beer taken from the fridge. The way Sam admitted to alcohol being a negative thing for him while he recovered.

It reminded Dean of how he used to get scared as a kid when his father got too rowdy with his buddies while they watched the game. What was worse was when his father had an argument, hammered, and began to get violent. John was always a violent drunk and Dean knew he inherited a good fraction of that.

The guilt bubbled up in his gut and Dean nudged his beer away with the back of his hand. Sam used to drink, but did it scare him when Dean did?

Was Dean making Sam feel just as scared and defenseless as Ruby had?

Sam had moved in with Charlie until he was back on his feet. She was overjoyed at the prospect of a roommate, as her girlfriend had moved out months ago and at the least Sam could make dinner.

There were bi-weekly therapy visits with Castiel that Sam continued. He'd been alternating which loved one he brought with him when he didn't want to go all alone. Bobby had gone and was surprisingly comforting to sit with while discussing progress with Castiel. The pride in the older man's voice made Sam's heart flutter, like he'd finally made up for some of the damage he'd done.

Charlie went with him occasionally if it worked out with her ever-changing schedule. She was his ride until Sam could get himself a car or a bus pass.

Today was a free day for the two-month clean man. He had already cleaned the bathroom, gagging while he removed all the hair from the drain (maybe Dean was right about shearing it all off). The sink was spotless with all the bits of dried toothpaste removed. The floors had been bleached and scrubbed. All shampoos had been re-organized with excess soap wiped off.

The kitchen was spotless. The floors were vacuumed. His personal area, which was the fold-out couch with an empty few drawers in the side tables, had been immaculate since he woke.

Every vinyl figurine was dusted, every Star Wars poster was given new tape where the old had peeled, every movie re-alphabetized.

"Well," Sam sighed, taking a seat on the couch and staring at the small Captain Kirk figurine on the coffee table. "What now? I'm out of ideas here, Kirk."

There was no reply.

"You're not very helpful."

The giant of a man stood up and shook the dust from his hair. Hair that was far too long—it was already to his shoulders! That was the cut-off limit.

"I'll go get my hair cut!"

There was a childlike excitement about leaving the apartment and still being productive. It would take Sam a little more time before he could just laze around without anxiety, but Castiel believed he was more than capable of overcoming his irrational fear of something bad happening if he did something purely for fun. It was hard for Sam to separate being relaxed from being on drugs, as well as doing nothing (like watching TV) without being berated for it.

Ruby wanted him to be productive. He was too close to his last "task" of testing drugs because she didn't trust Crowley.

Sam shoved his phone in his pocket, shaking away the bad memories sneaking up on him, and went to tighten his shoelaces. He was going to go outside, get his hair trimmed, and reintegrate with society. It was like college orientation day, his nerves getting to him when he knew better than to be anxious.

Before leaving the small apartment, Sam paused by the door. He whispered his mantra to himself. "You can do this, you can do this, you can do this."

Sam chose to walk to the small strip mall that held the aging salon he used to get his hair trimmed before he fell into drugs and cutting his hair on his own in fear of wasting money. The storefront was plain and sandwiched between a cupcake shop and one of those stores that seemed to be everywhere that catered to fancy soaps and car air fresheners.

It wasn't too crowded inside the shop, when Sam peaked in through the large windows by the doors. There didn't seem to be much of a wait, which alleviated some of his nerves about being in public and clean.

He had to stop a few times on his walk there, reminding himself that he was okay now and no one knew he was impure and tainted. He felt as though every stray eye to land on him saw some dark aura or a neon sign that screamed OXY ADDICT!

And Bobby's words from a previous session came back to him.

"Ain't no one knows what you did, son," the older man said gently, knowing to be careful with Sam while he was opening up. "And they ain't gonna know. You're just like everyone else out there. Can you see some kid on the street and tell me what they did that they regret? You can't, and they can't read you either."

Sam sighed, ran a hand through his messily long hair, and entered the shop. A warm-smiled younger woman at the counter took his name and put him on the list (first come, first serve style). He thanked her and congratulated himself on being human again.

It was taking longer than he anticipated for his turn. An older woman was the only person he had to wait on to finish, and this lady was one of those dye-and-perm types. He watched her when he was bored with the Men's Fitness magazine clutched in his sweaty hands. It took the stylist forever to get all the foil on the lady's hair and use all the weird little chemicals and tools every station had.

His attention quickly moved from the raisin of a woman to the young blonde sitting across from him. When did she enter the salon? He didn't hear the door! And now he wasn't alone in the waiting area, forced to either look down at his lap or stare uncomfortably at the woman.

The pretty woman.

Sam bit his lip and shut his eyes to silently scold himself. No, he told himself. We are not going to act like Dean! This is a business trip! Hair only, no flirting or—

"Sam Winchester?"

His eyes snapped open and he stared wide-eyed at the blonde beauty. "Uh, yes? I mean… yes?"

The girl chuckled. "Jessica, remember? We had a few classes together at Stanford. I haven't seen you since graduation!"

The light bulb flicked in his mind and he remembered her: Jessica, the cute blonde from a few of his gen ed classes he had a small crush on before he met Ruby. He was always smiling and willing to share her pencil when he forgot his at the dorm.

They were good pencils, too. With full erasers and unbroken lead!

"What have you been up to?" She broke him from his stupor.

He didn't know what to say—nothing good had happened; it was just a long series of pathetic turns into dark alleys where someone was waiting to fuck him over. His heart rate picked up and he was ready to give some obvious lie when he heard his named called.

Thank god it was his turn.

"Sorry, I gotta…" he trailed off, giving an awkward and forced smile.

But Jessica didn't seem to mind. "Why don't we catch up after? I have some time to kill before work."

That would be enough time to work out a plan. Sam genuinely smiled back. "I'd love to."

"He's been doing real good, even talked some about John while we were there."

Dean swallowed down some guilt and nodded at Bobby's words. "Has he, uh, you know…"

"Talked about you?"

Dean shrugged, afraid of the answer.

Work had ended and Dean was meeting Bobby for a bit at the older man's home. He needed some time to talk himself, now that he had this underlying guilt in everything he did. He needed to know if he fucked up Sam and Sam sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to tell him—not directly.

Bobby rolled his eyes and scoffed to himself at Dean's shyness. "Yeah, he has. Some good, some bad. It's mostly venting, Dean, and the boy needs it. Now what's got you acting like some scared teenage girl?"

Dean reddened at the comment and fiddled with the hem of his shirt. "It's nothing, Bobby."

The older man said nothing, only staring at the younger man.

Dean's eyes looked at Bobby, waiting to be asked further or pestered for answers. When all he received was the same patient stare, he grew frustrated. "Jesus, fine, Bobby! Stop staring at me like that and I'll—I'll—"

"Grow a pair and just tell me what's got you so quiet?"

Dean huffed and rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

Bobby leaned forward in his seat.

"I just… you know, I don't want Sam to be scared of me…"

This wasn't at all what Bobby had expected to hear. He was waiting for some kind of grievance or annoyed commentary about how exhausting it was to look out for Sam. He even thought he'd hear some kind of self-loathing yet spiteful anecdote involving Sam's addiction and Dean's own problems dealing with it.

"The signs were there, Bobby, and I didn't notice any of them! Sam showed up bruised up and what did I do? I yelled at him to stay away from her. That's what the bitch did—she yelled at Sam to stay away from me. He was already messed up when he came back to us and all I did was get mad at him and make him feel worse! Don't give me that look, Bobby! Sam said it himself when we made him dry out!"

The memory flashed through Dean's mind.

"How about when I go to him for help and he just screams at me until I have a panic attack? Yeah, Dean; you did that and you left before you could face it. So try to help all you want, just know I'll always respond with 'fuck you.'"

"We did our best," Bobby responded, tone heated.

"Our best wasn't good enough! Sammy is scared all the time, Bobby! Cas said he probably has situational depression, too, but I bet Sammy doesn't bring that up in your sessions." Dean paused and took a deep breath while running a shaking hand through his short hair. "Sammy came to me to get away from the shit Ruby did to him and I made him feel like a burden."

Bobby didn't know how to respond. When it came to emotional repression, it wasn't just the Winchesters who excelled at it.

A/N: Don't worry, I'm not quite done fucking with Sam yet.