The sharp, pungent smell of cordite hung in the air when Dean burst through Sam's bedroom door.
Looking wildly around, he saw Sam crouched in a corner of the dark room, a revolver hanging from his slack hand. Dark, shaggy hair hung down over his face, obscuring his features. Dean could hear him crying.
Barely able to breathe, he knelt beside his brother, and took the revolver.
At his touch, Sam looked up, eyes red-rimmed. The side of his face was dark with gunpowder. There was no wound in sight.
"Dean." His whisper was forlorn. "He won't let me die."