Author's Note: Thank you so much to SendintheClowns for such an awesome beta job. This one of my darker pieces with slight references to non-con and self-harm (not graphic). It is slightly AU at the end.

Dean found Sam at the kitchen table. His head was bent over one of Pastor Jim's old texts, like nothing was wrong.

If it wasn't for the slight tremble in Sam's hands, Dean could almost convince himself it was two weeks ago, and the biggest problem in their life was one hidden Stanford letter.

It was amazing (terrifying) what could happen in two weeks. Sam had been kicked out of the house, taken by something, used, and somehow freed himself. Worst of all, it even included the five days it had taken Dean to figure it out.

Dean was done being the oblivious brother. Sam obviously needed help (who the fuck wouldn't?). Dean was going to provide it, even if he would rather rip his own ears off than know what horrors Sam faced while he was getting drunk at a bar.

Dean pulled out the chair next to his brother and sat down. Sam pretended not to notice, even though Dean knew the book was impossible to read with the way it was shaking in Sam's hands.

"So…what was it?" Dean asked, trying to sound relaxed and calm. A task damn near impossible when all he wanted to do was tear the room apart.

Dean stared at the table and swallowed the boulder lodged in his throat. "Was it an 'it'? Or was it a…he?" He glanced over at Sam only to find his hair covering any type of facial features.

Dean hated Sam's hair right then.

Hated every single overgrown strand on his head. Hated everything it represented. Hated that Sam could hide so much of his pain by dipping his head forward (for five fucking days). Most of all, hated t hat something…someone touch his little brother's hair and Dean did nothing to stop it.

Feeling his fingernails dig into his palm, Dean took a deep breath.

"Sam." Dean looked away when Sam flinched in response.

"Sammy, please talk to me."

A thought he had been ignoring for days hit him.

"Is it a curse?" Dean looked for some type of reaction, but Sam stayed impossibly still.

In that moment, Dean knew this wasn't helping Sam, he wasn't helping Sam.

His eyes never leaving his brother's still form, Dean gently placed his palm down on the open book. "Look, Sam, if you don't want to talk right now, that's okay. But you gotta somehow let me know what's going on here. I want to help…I need to help, but I don't know what I'm dealing with."

Dean paused for a moment to think over his next course of action. "I'm going to go watch T.V., but if you need me I'll be right there," he titled his head towards the couch less than five feet from where he was sitting. "Okay?"

Sam slowly nodded in response.

Dean stood and ruffled Sam's hair with his hand.

A smile lit his face when he realized Sam didn't flinch when he touched him.

Dean wasn't sure when he fell asleep or for how long. All he knew was when he woke up the sun had set, the T.V. was still on, and Sammy was gone.

Well not gone gone (not don't you ever come back gone). He had presumably (hopefully) left the kitchen table to go to sleep in a bed like a normal human being.

Sitting up, Dean twisted his back from his own inadequate slumber on the lumpy couch. He stood up, about to greet his lonely mattress when something caught his eye.

A note.

More importantly, a note written in Sam's squiggly, slightly girly handwriting.

Dean hastily grabbed the note, realizing this is the most Sam's communicated since he tried to leave for Stanford.

At first glance, the note didn't quite make sense. It just left an ominous feeling of dread in Dean's stomach.

His hands started shaking with anger before he completely understood what the words meant.

Dean felt something strangely warm sliding down his face without even realizing their source. The scribble blurring before him, he quickly tore up the note and threw it on the floor.

But when he closed his eyes the damn words stared back at him.

I'm okay. It's just…He liked it when I screamed.

Dean decided not to tell John.

He wasn't sure when he made that decision, but when John asked, Dean simply replied, "Sam's going through some shit right now."

John just made a grunt that could be seen as either consent or disapproval. Dean hoped it was the first, but was pretty sure it was the latter.

Dean lay awake at night wondering what happened to the man who broke his brother and tore his family apart.

But then he remembered the dried blood on Sam's shirt when he found him.

After that he wondered how much Sam made him suffer.

Dean reconsidered whether not telling John was the best idea when he heard yelling through the front door. It seemed strange that his father and brother could still fight even though Sam wasn't talking.

Dean opened the door to a scene he'd seen countless times before: John and Sam standing face to face. John's face was red while Sam simply jutted his jaw out in defiance.

At least Sam seemed back to his old self.

"I don't know what's going on with you, and I don't care. Stop acting like a selfish brat and snap out of it!"

Before Dean could intervene, Sam deflated and turned away from their father, his face completely blank.

Dean wasn't sure if he should be relieved or worried that Sam did not react to the comment. He supposed it would be hard to respond without the use of words.

Sensing the fight was over, Dean relaxed and headed towards the couch, hoping to get a moment of peace and quiet – which he realized was ironic considering one member of their small family wasn't talking.

He was so focused on the couch, Dean barely noticed when John's hand reached out and touched Sam's shoulder. Dean would have made it to the cherished couch too, except for the fact that it was hard to ignore Sam punching his father in the face.

Evidently, it was possible to respond without using words.

To his father's credit, while the punch obviously surprised him (if it hadn't, it would have never landed), John recovered within moments.

Knowing how his father would react, Dean remembered his sparring match with Sam just three days earlier. He looked over extremely glad to see Sam was already in the process of slamming his bedroom door. Dean sprinted in front of the door before his father had a chance to rip it off its hinges.

"Dad, wait! Stop!" he yelled, his armed stretched out in front of him, mere millimeters away from his father's chest.

"Dean, get out of the way. Your brother –"

"- needs help! Just think about it, Dad. The flinching. The silence. This is ten times more fucked up than the Stanford letter."

Every muscle in John's body seemed to relax. "Dean, did something happen?"

Dean lowered his arms and looked away. "Yes, sir."

"Is it something I should know?"

He honestly didn't know the answer. He'd been battling over it for three days. It was an impossible question, and his only worry was if his father's knowledge would help or hurt Sam in the end.

Dean looked his father straight in the eye. "I think it would be best if I didn't tell you," he stated cautiously.

John nodded once in response. If Dean's answer hurt his father, his face didn't show it.

John ran his hand over his mouth and turned away. "I'm going to make some phone calls. Go talk to your brother."

Hand already on the doorknob, Dean knew a response wasn't necessary.

John left the next morning.

His face was grim like he had aged twenty years over night. Dean swallowed. He hadn't seen that face since November 3rd, 1983.

John left on the pretense of another hunt. Part of Dean wondered if the true reason was that he didn't want to know what was going on with Sam…or if he knew too much.

A sick feeling in Dean's gut told him it was the latter.

Denial had always been a warm place in John's heart.

Sam was spiraling out of control.

In the days after John left he hadn't eaten or slept (hell, he barely even moved).

He was transfixed with his own bed. But despite Dean's countless requests (pleas), he would never go in it. Never even go near it. He just sat in the arm chair in the far corner and stared at it.

The first day he held open a book, but he never once looked at it, didn't even bother turning a page.

On the second day, the book was gone but Sam remained.

It was as if he had gone catatonic.

Sam needed help. They both needed help.

By the end of the second day, Dean stared at Sam from his own bed. Sam never even acknowledged his presence anymore.

One thing became sickeningly clear. Dean didn't know how to help Sam.

He never knew how to help Sam. He couldn't help him find a balance between school and hunting. He couldn't help him accomplish his dream without deserting the family. He couldn't help Sam come to terms with whatever that sick bastard did to him.

Through the years Dean showed Sam how to survive life, but he never showed him how to enjoy it.

Watching Sam walk past him to the shower, Dean realized the greatest failure he had ever known.

Sam was hurting himself.

It didn't really surprise Dean when he found a bloody gauze at the bottom of the trash can. It didn't even disappoint him.

After the anger and despair that flowed though his veins at the thought of Sam hurting himself, Dean felt a strange sense of relief.

It meant that Sam was trying to deal. Sam hadn't resigned himself to spend the rest of his days sitting in the same uncomfortable chair in the same crappy motel room.

Suicide never entered Dean's mind. Sam knew enough about the major arteries and pain medication that if he was trying to kill himself he would already be dead.

It was clear that this was a type of release for Sam. Now, Dean just had to find a way for Sam to get the same type of release without mutilating himself.

Dean walked out of the bathroom with the used gauze in his hands. He stopped at the sight of Sam sitting at his usual place in the opposite corner of the room. Fingering the gauze, he slowly approached his brother.

"Sam."

Sam remained transfixed by his own empty bed.

Placing the gauze into his pocket, Dean placed a hand on Sam's arm. "Sammy."

Sam's line of sight slid from the bed to Dean's hand.

Dean knelt down to meet Sam's eyes. "Something bad happened to you," he spoke softly.

Sam slowly looked back towards his bed and brought his knees up to his chest.

"There was nothing you could have done. Sam, look at me," Dean gently placed his hand on Sam's cheek and guided Sam's head towards him. "There was nothing you could have done."

His hazel eyes wide, Sam stared back at his brother and shook his head in one fluid motion.

After almost two weeks of talking to a wall, Dean finally had his brother's attention. "You think there was something you could have done? Do you think you did something wrong?"

Sam's leg shook – almost bounced against the seat cushion. He wrapped his arms around his knees, but it did nothing to stop his fidgeting. All the while, his eyes remained hooked on Dean's, as if he was gripping to his last lifeline.

"You got out of there, right?"

Sam barely moved.

Even if Sam wasn't talking, Dean needed to know he was listening. "Right?" Dean repeating, urging Sam to make some type of response.

Sam slowly nodded.

Dean put his hand on Sam's knee and lightly squeezed it. "Sam, you are the strongest person I know."

Sam looked away before Dean even finished the sentence. It was clear Sam didn't believe him. Dean knew he was failing – he wasn't helping Sam. He could talk until his was blue in the face, but if Sam didn't believe him then he might as well be talking to a brick wall.

Suddenly, it occurred to Dean that maybe Sam didn't need Dean to talk to him. Maybe Sam needed Dean to talk for him.

Maybe Sam needed Dean to be his voice.

"You had no control over what happened," Dean whispered. "He took you."

Sam closed his eyes as if to shut Dean out. Dean raised his voice in return.

"He had you for days. Made it so you couldn't move."

Sam buried his head in his arms. Dean wanted nothing more than to stop and console Sam. Each word spoken was like ripping his own heart out, and it was clearly having the same effect on Sam. But if he stopped Sam would just retreat back into himself and Dean would have to keep cleaning out the trashcan.

Swallowing, Dean continued, "He threatened you…hurt you."

Sam violently shook his head beneath his arms.

"He didn't care what you wanted. You were nothing to him. Just a toy that he used over and over and over-"

Sam's scream filled the room.

Before Dean had a chance to stand up, Sam barreled into him, his deep, unused voice loud in Dean's ear.

Dean quickly recovered and wrapped his arms around Sam. Feeling Sam struggle to get free, Dean placed his chin on Sam's shoulder and whispered, "It's okay. It's over."

Sam's struggles quickly turned into trembling.

"It wasn't your fault, Sammy. It wasn't your fault."

Dean never thought he would be so glad to hear Sam's loud, unrestrained sobs against his chest.

Twelve days after finding Sam in the middle of nowhere, Dean woke up to Sam sitting on the side of his bed.

At the sight of Sam opening his mouth, Dean quickly sat up, not wanting to miss a single second.

Sam closed his mouth and looked away. Dean silently waited for Sam. He'd wait all day if needed.

Sam unclenched his jaw and scooted closer to Dean.

"I…I'm ready to talk." His voice was rough and strained and music to Dean's ears.

Dean smiled. Leave to Sam for his first words to state the obvious.

Dean placed a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Thank Christ, 'cause I'm ready to listen."

Coda

Dean pulled the impala in front of the student union building.

"You know, I could have walked."

Dean looked over at the petulant face beside him. "What? And miss my baby brother's first day of school?"

Sam rolled his eyes and pushed the door open.

"Wait," Dean grabbed Sam's arm, but quickly let go when Sam flinched in response.

Dean pushed onward, "Did you put extra money in your shoe just in case bullies steal your lunch money?"

Sam looked over at Dean. "This is Stanford, not high school, Dean. I'm going to be late for my first class." He stepped out of the car and slammed the door.

"I'll be at the apartment if you need me! If Dad or I call, answer it!" Dean called out the window.

As Sam walked away, he waved to show that he heard him.

"Sam, wait!"

Sam quickly turned around, "What?!"

"Don't forget I'll be gone hunting tomorrow. I'll be back by Friday."

"Yeah. I know. You taped the memo to my forehead. Now, shut the hell up!"

Dean smiled. "Okay! Have fun!"

He revved his engine and zoomed off down the Palo Alto streets.