Warnings: suicide attempt (it doesn’t go in to detail at all)
White, sterile walls greeted Dean Winchester as he woke up. The sight was nothing new, he saw them everyday. Dean stood carefully, the aged twin size bed creaking beneath his weight. Deans gaze drifted to the wall opposite to him, filled to the ceiling with sketches and notes. Half drawn pictures of Wendigos and Djins, and god knows what had been scattered across the small wooden frame of the little brown desk which sat pressed against the wall to his left.
The wall to the right of his bed was bare with the exception of a small window. The doctors had found looking out on the town was good for him, it seemed to calm him somehow. They didn’t understand how the window harbored hope for for Dean. They didn’t understand how he waited everyday, a book or journal in his hands, as he sat carefully in a small metal chair behind the window, waiting for his brother Sam to walk up those front steps, to come and visit him.
That was the only thing Dean hoped for anymore, Sam walking up the steps and through the front door, coming in to visit him.
Dean remembered the fire well. Thirty two years ago it had happened, the raging flames devouring their small home with a vengeance. It had taken his mother and driven his father mad. Dean could still recall the heat, he could still feel his mother’s screams work their way in to his ears, and he could still hear his fathers voice shouting for him to run. Dean had passed Sam’s nursery on his way out, the fire billowing around the door, the metal handle scalding to the touch. Despite how hard he had tried he couldn’t get a grip on it, he couldn’t reach Sammy. His small four year old frame too small to break the door. He had yelled, oh how he had yelled, his cries doing nothing to retrieve his baby brother.
If only he’d known three hours earlier it was the last time he’s see Sam, he would’ve said something more, anything really. He was left with the words ‘Night Sammy’, they still haunted him.
Eventually he’d been knocked unconscious from smoke inhalation, his struggle to reach Sam successful. He had woken up in an ambulance about twenty minutes later, a man in a dark blue shirt stood above him, checking a large, beeping machine behind Dean’s head. His last memory of home was the view of his father’s 1967 Chevy Impala growing ever so smaller in the distance.
After that he didn’t talk much. Simple words and requests was all. The last time he saw his father was when he was seven. The view of his back walking out of Dean’s hospital room was about all he remembered of John. He’d watched him with wide eyes, looking on silently as the last member of his family just walked out of his life. He hadn’t seen him since then.
Dean had been shipped off to a few foster homes. He was always very quiet, the rare times he had conversations would be when he was playing with his toy car. A 67 Chevy Impala model, just as the one he’d rode in when he was young. He would make up great chase scenes, the monster of his choice following after himself and his sidekick, Sam, in their car. The monsters were never any match for the brothers’ combined forces.
Eventually, foster homes weren’t enough. Dean needed more than a part time family. He needed professional help. His third family had figured this out after his first suicide attempt. They had found him in the bathtub at age sixteen, blood running down his arms from the self-inflicted cuts. He still blamed what had happened so long ago on himself.
He never gave the doctors a straight answer about why he wanted to end his life. When they asked the first time, he had mumbled on about some sort of psychic, the second he’d said something about Lucifer. After a while the doctors stopped asking.
The last hospital he’d been placed in, where he sat now, was his favorite. The doctors were very kind there. They asked him about his drawings, they seemed interested in his stories. His favorite doctor was a very tall man, around 6’3 he guessed, his hair was about shoulder length, and his eyes were a light hazel color. He was a very kind man, he never judged Dean, never labled him as crazy or strange. He didn’t look at him like a sad story, like Dean was broken, broken though he may be.
Once in a while, when Dean had a particularly bad day he would drag one of the chairs to Dean’s bedside and read to him. And whenever his birthday came around he always, always, brought Dean a small slice of pecan pie. He asked Dean a lot of questions. Nothing incredibly personal or intruding, but about the monsters Dean drew, and the stories he’d written. He enjoyed talking to the doctor, Dean didn’t feel as alone when he was around.
Dean thought that maybe, just maybe, if Sam had gotten out of the fire, if Dean had managed to break in to his room and been able to pull him out, he’d be someone like the kind doctor. Although Dean would never be able to see Sam grow up, he imagined how good of a person he’d be. He would help Dean fight the Wendigos, and the Djin, and the many other monsters Dean had thought up over the years. They would help people, stand for the greater good, they’d be heroes.
Dean daydreamed about this a lot, it was just about all he did anymore. He was always thinking of him and Sam, their Impala racing down the road, their guns loaded, knives freshly sharpened and ready to take down the next nightmare that dared cross their path. He had managed to create a world in his own head where they could withstand anything so long as they worked together. Dean no longer thought of the Winchester name as a weak one, one lost to flames, he thought of it as a legendary one instead. He imagined that he had, in fact carried Sam out of their burning home in his arms that dreadful night so many years ago. He imagined that Sam Winchester lived on, fighting at his side.