"You were the one that I depended on the most... And you let me down in ways that I can't even..."

"I just don't ... I don't think that we can ever be what we were..."

"I just don't think I can trust you."

I sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees and my hands clasped together against my lips. It's been three hours since Dean left after dropping me off at Bobby's. He said he'd be in a bar somewhere, and that he'd be back soon. Soon. When is soon?

I groan and let my head fall into my hands. We wouldn't be here if I hadn't set Lucifer loose. God knows how many times I thought that. I wanted so bad to take it all back, to just go back in time and kill Ruby like I should have when I first met her. But I couldn't. Everything was my fault. I ruined everything.

As if taunting me, my mind came up with all the possibilities of what could have happened; Bobby wouldn't be in the hospital. Dean would still trust me. Lucifer would be stuck in his cage in hell. Lucifer wouldn't be running around Earth right now, looking for someone to be his bitch.

Self-anger and frustration filled me as each thought passed through my mind. Eager to suppress it, I look up and let my eyes wander around the room, forcing myself to calm. Dean doesn't need to come home to his own brother drowning in his own pool of regrets.

Taking a swig of the bottle of whiskey that was sitting on the ground, I look around aimlessly. Searching for any sort of distraction.

Chair, shelf, books, papers, desk, more books, gun.

Gun.

"What can I do?"

"Honestly? Nothing."

It's not like I haven't thought of suicide before. I've thought of it many times before, but I've never actually attempted it as I've always came to one conclusion; I couldn't leave Dean. He needed me.

I stare at the gun for a few more seconds before looking down at my hands. I can't do it. I'm a fool for even thinking it. Dean still needs me, and he can't deal with Lucifer, Micheal, the Angels, and the Demons alone. Not when Bobby's in the hospital healing from a stomach wound.

But now that I've done the complete opposite of help, does Dean still need me? When he said he couldn't trust me ... was that a way of saying that he no longer needs me? That he hates me?

Honestly, Sam. Who doesn't hate you? The Angels hate you for unleashing the Devil, and the Demons hate you for being a hunter. Even if Bobby said he wouldn't let you go, there's no way that he can't be mad at you. Maybe the Demon who possessed him was telling the truth, and Bobby just apologized so you wouldn't side with the Devil.

Tears fill my eyes and blur my vision as I take another sip of the dreaded alcohol.

Would I side with the Devil? I've turned against my brother and teamed up with Ruby, and I swore that it would never happen again, but who's to say? Maybe one day I'll choose to drink demon blood again, and Dean would have to kill me like Dad told him to.

I wipe my eyes before the tears could spill over and I find myself staring at the gun again. With each passing second I grow more and more anxious. Can I do it? Do I want to do it? What do I have to lose?

But I can't leave Dean alone.

He has Bobby and Castiel. He doesn't need you, Sam. All you've ever done was screw things up, and that's all you'll ever do.

Surprising me, a tiny sob bursts through my lips, and I let my head fall back down as the tears build up again. My conscience is right. I can't keep making excuses. In response, my fingers twitch, as if physically telling me that I should just grab the gun and shoot myself right here and now. But can I do it? Can I end my life just like that?

Nobody will do it for you. Here's your chance.

I down another few gulps of the scotch, ignoring the burning and smokey taste it left in my mouth, and I stare at the gun again.

It's tempting me.

I sniffle and realize that I'm crying. I quickly wipe the tears away, but it's no use. Traitor tears come pouring down, and my breathing's no longer under my control. Another sob emits from my mouth, and then another, and another.

I hear a loud crash and I look down to see that the bottle in my shaking hands has dropped onto the hardwood floor. Ignoring the mess I made, I stand up and stumble towards the desk on shaky knees.