My mind was racing after I hung up the call and tucked away my phone.

Dean was hurt again? What did Trey mean by in more ways than one?

"Everything alright?" I jump as the new voice intrudes my thoughts. My head snaps to the side to see Faye standing in the doorway of the dinning room I had walked into for privacy. Her brows raise at my reaction.

"Sorry."

"Who called? You seem upset."

Dean's hurt and....My mind blanked a moment.

No. No, he should be fine right? Isn't that like part of his job description?

I suddenly become aware of the awkward silence I've left lingering between Faye and I. One of my false make everything right smiles finds its way to my face as I meet her probing stare.

"Oh, that? Nah, I'm fine. Just a....a small family emergency, but it should be fine."

Though somewhat clumsy, I manage the lie with a shrug, without breaking our gaze. I'm doing this too often.

"Emergency? Something happen to Jack the Ripper?"

"Not him, an extended friend of the family...but it should be-"

"Fine?" She finishes my statement.

"Yeah."

Nauseating guilt churns in my gut...however this time I'm not sure which reason is the cause of it.

My phone vibrates in the back pocket of my jeans, feeling less like Trey sending me the address of their location and more like the device scolding me for my actions...or lack there of.

If he's hurt what am I supposed to do?!

The curiosity leaves my friend's demeanor and she leads me upstairs back to her room. Once there, she merrily goes to the corner where her Bluetooth speakers are and starts rifling through her phone's playlist.

I can't even comprehend the music.

I'm simply resting on her sheeted bed consumed by my own thoughts. Imagination takes over and soon the only things left are a variety of what if scenarios, all ending in something horrible happening to the infuriating boy I've somehow come to have a school girl crush on.

A crush I though I was done with.

They need help, my mind scolds. Dean's hurt and needs help.

The second I truely let that statement solidify, I finally reacted. I was excusing myself from the house, claiming that the seemingly small family emergency, was a bit more urgent than I had previously thought it was. I didn't miss the disappointment deep within Faye's eyes, but it was gone just as fast as I had noticed it. My guilt towards it actuallly had me leaving quicker. Her and her mother walked me out the door, each getting their hug in before I went off to my car.

It took me fifteen minutes to get to Kingston, when it usually takes twenty five.

My car cruised down the streets as I neared the address in my GPS, expecting to see Trey outside and dragging a bleeding and battered Dean down the sidewalk, ready for the emergency room. My mind raced when I saw no one. I abruptly got myself into a parking space and called Dean's number.

"Trey, where are you? I'm at the spot you sent to me."

"Woah, you're here already? You must have been tearing up the pavement."

"What does that matter?! You said you guys need help, hurry up so we can get to the hospital!" The urgency in my tone delayed Trey's response, almost as if how was suprised I was this worried. Why wouldn't I be?!

"Okay, I'm gonna need you to calm down a bit alright? We are --DEAN!" He abrupty swears as I hear the sound of glass breaking in the background.

"What's going on?" I yell into the phone, my anxiety just bubbling over the edge. When he returns, there's a hint of aggravation in his tone.

"Just get up here. We're in apartment 43D." With that he hangs up the phone.

Apartment? I came to someone's house?

I get out my car and look around at the numerous aged, red brick apartment blocks lining the street, all a carbon copy of each other. Iron barred windows on the bottom levels, and a black --or red for a few-- fire escape down the side of the building.

Without allowing myself a second thought I march into the one in front of me to it's main floor. It's spacious, with P.O boxes in a wall to the far left, and random bits of graffiti writing staining the cream colored tiles of an occasional wall or support column. I pass over a few male strangers who happen to be casually resting near the buildings elevator. The weight for the slow box has me nervously shuffling my feet. The room has a variety of defined smells, like echos of every person who's been through here. The most defined being weed, air freshener, and --this being the most confusing of all-- urine.

During my wait, I don't really make eye contact with the three men as I wait, which they soon notice.

One holding a cigarette between his fingers opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off by the buzz of the elevator and it's opening doors. To my surprise, Trey steps out and the second he notices the men, he nods in acknowledgement and throws an arm over my shoulder pulling me in the elevator. As soon as the doors close, he removes his arm and leans back against a wall, closing his eyes with an exhausted sigh.

Is Dean okay?" I immediately ask. He opens his both eyes to look at me completely, taking in the expressions on my face.

"Kinda."

"What does kinda mean?"

"You'll see when we get up there."

"Okay....well then what was the crash I heard?"

He sighs and shakes his head as if the thought irritated him. "Stupidity."

My brows sow together, trying to understand the vague his replies. I found myself fidgeting with my fingers in the awkward silence. Another question gets thrown his way. "Who's apartment are we going to?"

That earns a more invested response from him....sort of. He briefly studies my expression as he responds saying, "Dean's".

Pause.

Did he say Dean's?

"You mean his family's right?" I nervously laugh. In all seriousness the boy shakes his head. If I wasn't confused before, I am now.

"He's an emancipated minor. Or, at least he used to be." A what? He takes note of thee puzzled look over my features. "It means a minor who's parents don't legally have control over them."

I silently allow this new information to mew over mentally.

Emancipated minor...

When the doors open, he leads me down the hall past the doors of other residents, all the way to the last door on the end, facing the elevator unlike the others. Like the lobby, this floor also has secondhand smells, though here it is much more muted, with me only being able clearly identify the fading scent of cigarette.

I guess in a building of 200 plus people, something is always going to smell somewhere.

Trey pulls a set of keys out his pocket, easily unlocking the door and swinging it open. I cautiously step inside and take in my surroundings.

The place is suprisingly neat and orderly, not pristine, but clean. A black leather sofa is sandwiched between two side tables, with a matching ottoman laying in front and a tv against the far wall. A simple open living area. To the side is a doorway to the kitchen.

Trey looks around as if he's lost something. "Dean? Bro, where you at?" He shouts into the space. When there is no response he yells for the missing person again. Suddenly there's a large thud from somewhere.

"Shut up! Loud for no friggin reason," comes a groogy yet deeper voice from a hallway directly to our right. My eyes widen as I peek around Trey's shoulder only to see a shirtless Dean emerge from another room. His defined and sculpted chest exposed for the world to admire. However to my horror, I catch sight of an angry red monster of a burn etched into the skin over the right side of his ribcage. His knuckles are raw, and while one is dried, the other is much more red with fresh blood streaming down his fingers, as if another injury occurred on top of everything else. Clutched tightly in the bloody hand is a decorative glass bottle.

My heart falters in my chest.

How much pain must he be in right now?

"Answer next time, idiot." Trey bites back at him. "You were in the bathroom and didn't even bother to gauze up that hand? The heck were you doing?"

I observe silently as Dean ambles his way to the sofa, seemingly ignoring Trey's interrogation and not at all registering my presence yet.

"Pissing," he grunts before taking a large swig of the amber liquid within the bottle. Nausea quells in my stomach as my mind finally registers exactly what it is.

Liquor.

Alcohol.

Dean is drunk.

I suddenly feel significatly less safe in my current environment, and scold myself for being foolish enough to even come here. Trey looks down at his phone and swears to himself before turning to me. "Listen, I have to go."

"What?! Your leaving me here?"

An apologetic expression covers his face. "That was kinda the point. I would stay if I could, but there's somewhere really important I have to be. I'm actually late already."

I look between him and Dean, who is strangely silent on the sofa, I realize he must be asleep.

"I don't understand what's happening here. He needs medical attention! He's your friend, why are you leaving?"

"I know what he needs, but Dean isn't going to do something if he doesn't want to. I can't get him to go to the hospital. And as you can see, he's not exactly in a very reasonable state of mind at the moment."

"Then try harder! Look at him!" I ferociously whisper, still feeling shock. "He's-", Trey cuts me off.

"Look at me. I am his friend which means I've seen him roughed up like this a dime a dozen times before. Sure it hurts, but it won't kill him. When you see me worry, then you should be worried."

"I still don't...", I begin another protest. However, I freeze as I'm suddenly pulled by the elbow out of the apartment with the door closing behind us, leaving just the two of us in the hall.

"Okay, look. You know why I called you?" He levels an expectant gaze directly at me. I give a small nod. "I called you because Dean has twelve contacts saved in his phone. One is his parole officer, and nine others are no-good creeps he has to keep up with for the sake of his fighting. You know who the last two are?"

I shrug, clearly not knowing what else to say.

"Me and you. Now I don't know what you two are, and what he trains you to do ain't my business. All I know is the other day when he was hulking out in the halls you didn't judge him or run away scared like others would, you actually tried to help. And the angriest, most stubborn dude I've ever met actually let you. That means something."

Heat begins to creep into my cheeks as a dormant, yet familiar tickle emerges in my stomach. Several moments of heavy silence lay between us before I find myself letting out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Just be a friend, despite how much he may snap at you. Maybe you'd do better for him tonight than I would."

My mind goes back to the last time I'd seen him in such bad shape. This guy gets more physical trauma to his body than I do. I finally ask the question who's answer has alluded me since I took that call at Faye's. "What...happened?"

This time Trey clams up.

I can tell there is something he wants to say but must restrain himself from doing so. "Let's just say, there was an accident on the job. By the time I found him he was already stumbling around town in bad shape with a bottle of Jack Daniel's," he rubs a hand over his face. "He doesn't drink often, that's why I know somethings bad." The last part was more to himself than to me.

His explanation leaves me with more questions than answers.

Trey peeks at the time on his phone again before quickly opening the apartment door for me a second time. Just before he walks off he pauses. "Something's wrong with him tonight, okay? I think he just....needs someone. Please, just stay until I can get back, and if you can, bandage up that hand. He punched the glass mirror in his bathroom."

So that's what the ruckus on the phone earlier was. Again I nod silently.

"I really do owe you one." He nods back, his voice soft and full of sincerity. The friend then smirks, gesturing to Dean inside. "And the headcase in there owes you two. Literally."

With that and a bit of extra info, Trey left, leaving me alone with whatever awaited me on the other side of this door. I entered once again, taking slow steps up to the battered form resting on the sofa. Even sleeping, he looked tense.

His lightly tanned skin glistened with a thin layer of sweat, a small indication that he indeed was in pain. I fished a variety of first aid ware out of the bathroom as Trey had instructed. Looking at the stash in the cabinet made me see just how harsh this life must be on Dean's body. He had everything.

Gauze and medical bandages, a variety of band-aids in sizes and shapes I hadn't even seen before, surgical tape, two bottles of rubbing alcohol, two more bottles of peroxide, iodine, hydrocortisone cream, icy-hot packets, bruise creams, pain relievers....

Instead of feeling awe at the huge selection, it only pulled out a deep feeling of sorrow and confusion for this boy.

Why would someone willingly put themself through this?

I shake my head and gather my finds together and get to work on the sleeping patient. I disinfected the area surrounding his burn first, but the second I touched the actual injury with iodine a clammy yet firm hand gripped my wrist. My eyes shot up to meet searing blue ones. The color just as intense as ever.

But, something was off.

It wasn't the typical liquor induced haze that unsettled me, it was the vacantness behind it. Dean's eyes looked....dead.

The smallest gradurle of fear began to emerge within me.

"I'm...I'm helping you." I said, tensing under his gaze. His eyes remained still, as if my words didn't fully register. Or maybe he didn't care? I subtly tried to pull my hand out the grasp as I continued my work, but it wasn't slackening. I looked back into eyes as dead as the cold. "We're just going to patch this up," I tried to explain soothingly as I covered his burn with gauze and surgical tape. It was an odd shape, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out what could have possibly happened to him in a fight for such an accident to occur.

He was still holding my wrist. He was holding my wrist with the very same bleeding hand I needed to tend to next. What does he want? He hasn't said a word. He won't let go. He won't look away.

Yet, he hasn't pushed me off even once.

I took in those empty crystaline eyes again. My heart rate increased dramatically with as a slow realization enveloped me. Trey's words came to mind.

I think he just....needs someone.

My sight drifted down to our hands. The heart enclosed within my chest tthreatened to pound its way out. Despite my fear, I did something I never thought I'd do for this boy.

Holding my gaze with his, I took my free hand and affectionately enveloped his injured one.

The intensity remained there, but something deep within those blue depths suddenly changed. Something....calmed. My thumb rubbed slow soothing circles on the back of his palm. "Can I still help you?"

There was no verbal response, but to my surprise the battered hand slacked, willingly allowing me to remove it from my restricted wrist. I offered him a warm smile then began work on the rest of his wounds.

It wasn't as bad as it had originally looked, most of the blood had clotted already. It was still an unnecessary injury, though.

"Why did you punch the mirror? You hurt yourself more."

It was a question I secretly hoped he would respond to, and to my surprise a second time, he actually did. His thick brows furrowed together in thought, almost looking lost, until something silently clicked and he slowly shook his head.

"Don't...didn't...like what I saw."

"What did you see?" A part of me wanted so badly to know what's been going through a mind as illusive as his. A completely unexpected, dry, humorless chuckle fell from the boy's lips before dead silence fell between us again.

And ruefully, he answered my question.

"Everything."

His lips turned up in an almost nonexistent, hollow smile, but the smile reflected something that struck me to the core. Something I suddenly witnessed in the deadened eyes inches above that smile that I'd never seen there before.

Hopelessness.

Just another word to a fortunate some. To other's, a sad way of life. But for me, it was a continuous fight. A word barely put together correctly on behalf of the liquor surging through the veins of the one who said it, but that last word held an emotion so strong in this room I well and truely couldn't manage a word. My heart hurt too much.

My overwhelmed mind had almost forgotten about the bottle clutched in Dean's other hand hanging over the chairs arm, until he went for another precious sip. I didn't think twice before quickly snatching it away before anymore poison could reached his lips, in contrast with his steel grip on my wrist before, it wasn't hard to pry this bottle away.

"Don't ever use this to deal with your problems. You're strong enough to fight without it." I doubt he would remember any of this tommorow, but I still hoped he would head my words tonight.

No response. Just an empty stare.

After I did everything I could for him, I figured it would be best if he could sleep in his own bed. I threw one arm of the uncharacteristically silent boy over my shoulder and put my all into lifting his weight off the sofa. For a brief second, I was reminded of the first time I did this as well. The night, everything started.

When it registered to him what I was doing, he stood up and moved slowly on his own, but between the liquor and whatever was clearly going on in his head, I felt a strong need to remained rooted to his side.

There were no complaints this time around.

No fighting against the help offered to him, like he had that night. Here, he just quietly accepted it.

When we get to his bedroom, I curiously take it in. Simple, like the rest of the apartment. But also like the rest, something was missing. There's not really anything personal anywhere, nothing sentimental. No pictures of family, friends, or even himself. If a complete stranger walked in, you wouldn't be able to tell anything about the resident except that they knew how to box, and got hurt alot.

That can't be all his life revolves around, right? Just....street fighting? Did nothing else matter?

Dean removes himself from me and instead of getting in his bed, he walks over to a punching bag hanging from the ceiling in a corner of the room. He doesn't interact with it, just stares blankly, as if trying to understand what the item meant to the world.

"Ever feel trapped, Snips", he tilts his head, shaking it slowly as his gaze remains locked on the leather sandbag. My chest tightens. My mouth opens the slightest bit in response, but it feels dry as I realize again....I don't know what to say. He doesn't notice the lack of response, instead sighing before rolling his shoulders and turning to finally get into his bed. Or onto it, considering he simply lays splayed out on his back atop the covers.

I remain rooted in the center of the room.

I feel like a spectator. Like some distant