Burned - Destiel

II

        "Dean, get in the car."

        John Winchester's voice felt like an explosion to Dean's eardrums. He turned around, angrily facing his father with a disgusted look on his face.

        'A hospital visit, OK. But you can't force me to go to a shrink as well! I'm not worth that money, dad. We need food, no chick-flick moments.' Dean angrily signed towards his father, who watched his movements carefully. The older man sighed, scratching the back of his neck.

        "Dean. Don't worry about money. All that matters is that you're alright and not in pain," John replied, laying his hand on his son's shoulder. Dean shrugged it off and walked away from him - again.

        'Liar.' John's face - who had been marked with desperation before - now shifted to anger.

        "Get in the damn car," he said, now through gritted teeth. Dean clenched his jaw and walked towards the passenger seat, where he - not so carefully - sat down. He felt his father's stare on him, but he was too annoyed to look back.

        His father had, without the consent of his son, signed him up for therapy to help understand what he was going through. He had tried this method before, but Dean had always made sure that the therapists soon became sick of him and claimed him as unhelpable. He didn't want to talk about his nightmares, about his self-hatred or himself for that matter. Not to Sam, not to his father and definitely not to some therapist.

        He knew his father was short on money, he had seen the piling envelopes and knew that they couldn't afford him having a checkup, let alone medical treatment for his vocal chords. He knew better than that. His priorities meant Sam going to college and living well. It was having food on their dinner table every night, not medicine for an unfixable cause.

        He watched how they entered a new environment with houses looking way too expensive and luxurious. Dean rolled his eyes. Of course, they just had to go to a place that screamed 'waste of money'. The change of scenery had gotten him out of his trance. Only then, he noticed that his father was talking.

        "-but I truly believe that this will help. Doctor Edlund knows his way around sign language and is known to be the best therapist here in Pontiac. Please, give it a chance, Dean." Dean watched his father incredulously, shaking his head to let him know he dismissed his words and didn't give in to his pleas.

        They stopped in front of a huge, white house, the word mansion more fit as a description. Dean eyed the place suspiciously, reading the sign 'Edlund Enterprises'. Right. Of course, it was an enterprise. Dean hesitated before stepping out of the Impala and walking after his father.

        At first, he had managed to convince John that he could go towards sessions alone. Of course, he never went and just hung out in the neighborhood until the said session was supposed to be over. Unfortunately, they had called his father to notify him of his absence, so he always made sure that his son actually entered the room.

        Much to Dean's disappointment, that was.

        John had his hand wrapped around Dean's arm tightly as they walked since the boy struggled against his hold. It must've looked suspicious, but Dean really didn't want to go. They sat down on a fancy, white couch, which made Dean self-conscious about moving at all. He tried to sit as still as possible as he sat next to his in grease covered father.

        "Dean Winchester," a female voice spoke. Dean looked up to see a girl in her twenties, with bright red hair tied in a ponytail, standing on the top of the spotless stairs. He stubbornly stayed put, until his father sighed and pulled him up, again with that little too tight grip. The woman raised her eyebrows at the scene.