The silence stretched. Skyler's fingers tightened around her pen as she composed herself. Dean sat across from her, eyes fixed on a crack in the wall, his worn jacket slouched over his shoulders. The weight of his last words—"I wasn't trying to die"—hung in the therapy room, the pale blue walls and faint lavender scent no longer calming.
"Dean," Skyler said, her voice steady but strained, "I need you to be honest with me. I haven't touched your file yet."
Dean's lips twitched, a faint smirk. "I certainly did not try to commit suicide," he said, voice flat, "and if I was going to, I would have picked a more painless method." His eyes drifted to the ceiling, shoulders hunching slightly.
Skyler's jaw tightened. "Okay, you didn't try to commit suicide, but you've thought about it. So let's start there—why even go to that thought?"
He shrugged, gaze still upward. "Everyone has had that thought pop into their head at least once. Of course I've had it before. Haven't you?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Yes, but for you—when did that thought first enter your mind? At what point in your life?"
As she spoke, she pulled his file closer, scanning it with care. Her brows furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. Dean's voice came quietly. "My first heartbreak."
Her breath caught. She was his first heartbreak. Six years ago, in Santa Monica, his confession of love, her retreat—it had left scars she hadn't seen until now.
Skyler's eyes widened briefly, then narrowed, her grip on the pen tightening until her knuckles whitened. She forced her voice to stay calm. "Dean, for as long as I've known you, you don't tend to lie—especially not to your friends."
He met her gaze, unflinching. "You said you rolled off the rooftop, but that's not possible," she pressed. "On a flat rooftop with railing, you wouldn't just 'roll off.'"
Dean's eyes held hers. "I did fall off a two-story building, so maybe I'm remembering it wrong," he said, his voice steady, almost defiant.
"Dean, from these pictures, it's obvious you've been hurting yourself." She slid the file forward, showing images of his hands—deep ligature marks, bruising, signs of possible nerve damage from tight straps. "There's no way you got these injuries by accident." Her voice softened, pleading. "Dean, you have to let me help you."
A flush crept up his neck. "The damage came from a… sexual fantasy where I got tied up," he said, his tone sharp.
Skyler cut him off, her voice firm. "You are telling me a story. A fabricated one. But you're lying." She tapped the medical report. "These injuries are too severe—too deep. They don't match consensual play."
Silence stretched, heavy and taut. Dean laughed—a hollow, bitter sound. "There she is," he said quietly, his eyes glinting with accusation.
Skyler's composure wavered. "Dean, this is serious. I'm trying to help you," she said, her voice trembling.
He tilted his head, studying her. "Then why are you angry? A professional would be concerned. Compassionate. You're furious."
"Because you're lying," she snapped, her voice cracking. "To the court, to yourself, and to me—your friend. I can't help you if you won't tell me the truth."
Dean's jaw clenched, his hands gripping the chair. Night terrors haunted him—sleepless nights, memories he couldn't share. Trust had only brought betrayal, leaving him guarded, even with her. "Well, you're not my friend," he said, voice hollow. "You're my therapist."