Author's Note: Spoilers for the season ten finale! Do not read if you have not seen! Okay, everyone good? So, I'm not even going to try to deal with that huge cliffhanger. Honestly, I need a few days to process that one, but this idea immediately sprang into my head. Pretend like the boys got away from the darkness and made it back to the bunker. So, I guess this will be AU by the time season 11 comes on? Trigger warning for attempted suicide. Do not read if that bothers you in any way.
"Your eyes, they shine so bright
I want to save their light
I can't escape this now
Unless you show me how."
Jasmine Thompson, "Demons"
Sam Winchester is a fool.
The bunker is eerily silent now, save for the gentle tick tock of the grandfather clock that sits in the library. The noise doesn't reassure him though. If anything, it just highlights how quiet it is now. There's not one other living soul in this bunker, save for him. He's alone once more—like when Dean went to Hell, like when Dean went to Purgatory, like all those other horrible times—and Sam should've seen this coming.
Dean, this is good.
He's a completely idiotic, moronic fool. When has the universe ever given them a break? When have they ever been able to have things work out for the best? Sam should've seen this coming a mile away, should've known that things would be screwed up.
But, he'd been foolish and allowed himself to hope.
And now look at what had happened.
The Mark is off your arm.
The tables in the library are still covered with various books, scrolls and ancient texts all concerning information about the Mark. They are piled on top of each other, stacked high until it seems like they could nearly touch the ceiling. They're useless now. He'll have to put them away soon.
You get your baby back.
From the huge window in the library, he lets his gaze drift to the Impala, parked once more on the street. She's dented and dirty and he's pretty sure her back tire is flat after being caught in that ditch, but with a few days of repair, she'd be back to new soon. It's the least he can do; after all, she did save them once more.
Nothing crazy happened.
"Fuck." He whispers, running a hand through his hair. He hasn't slept in three days. His eyes are burning and bloodshot. His body feels disconnected from his brain and he doesn't know how much longer he can keep this up. Castiel is unresponsive. Crowley is missing. Rowena is out there, doing who the Hell knows what with her newfound powers and Dean—
Dean is gone too.
He just vanished, like the morning mist. One second he's in the driver's seat talking about the darkness and then the next . . . poof. He's just gone, like he'd never even been there in the first place.
You knew that this world would be better without us in it.
Sam supposes it's fitting after all. Maybe the universe doesn't take too kindly to the same two men causing problem after problem. Maybe it had heard Dean's words and taken him. After all, the youngest Winchester had tried searching everywhere else—Hell had no clue where Dean was, Purgatory seemed to be locked up shut and Heaven was unresponsive.
So, here Sam is once more, alone and desperate. He's got no leads on Dean, no way to save his brother. There's nothing he can do and he can't move on, like he did with Amelia.
He's so damn tired.
I know what I am, Sam. But who were you when you drove that man to sell his soul? Or when you bullied Charlie into getting killed? And to what end? A good end? A just end?
"Stop." He whispers, pressing his fingers into his temples.
He can't keep listening to these words. He can't keep hearing them echoing in the bunker, screaming in his mind. He's lost everything—again—and if he can't have Dean back, if he can't find a way to fix this with his brother, then . . .
Sam, how is that not evil?
Then, maybe it would be best if he did leave this world.
When Dean had been about to swing that scythe, a part of Sam had been a little bit relieved. True, most of him hadn't wanted to die—his selfish side, he concedes—and he knew that Dean would one day snap out of it and when that day came, his older brother would never forgive himself, but . . .
But part of Sam had been relieved that the fight was over.
There are only so many times that you can get knocked down before you decide to not get up anymore. Perhaps, he's reached his limit. Perhaps, he should just end it all. There's no one else left for him to protect, no else to mourn for him. Castiel would carry on, somehow. Crowley would probably throw a party. And Dean?
Well, Dean would get what he wanted, right?
It's for the greater good. Once you consider that, this makes all the sense in the world.
The weight of the gun is familiar and as he turns it over, he smiles fondly. This gun has been with him for so many years—his father had given it to him—and though Sam never thought he would treasure those memories of cross country drives and early morning hunts. But, now, looking back on it all, those memories are all he has left. And once he left this world, no one would know of them.
No one would know that there used to be a happy family. In this family was A mother, who loved her children more than life herself but it was her secrets that would start their troubles. There was a father, who adored her and dedicated himself to avenging her, eventually dying in the process. There had been two boys in that family too—two brothers, who loved each other because they were all they had.
And then that family was destroyed, broken beyond repair, shattered like glass into a thousand pieces.
Sam is all that is left.
"I just can't." He sighs, voice cracking.
Close your eyes.
He presses the gun to his temple, relishing the cool metal touching his skin. He shuts his eyes, breathes his last breath.
Close your eyes, Sammy.
He pulls the trigger as a gust of wind blows through his hair.
His first thought as he comes to is that dying hurts.
It burns actually, more so than he anticipated and that in itself should offer some sort of clue, but he's tired and his body is heavy and he wants nothing more than to drift away.
"Fuck." He moans as awareness slowly comes back to him. His shoulder is on fire and when he tries to move it, it stings like corrosive acid. "What the . . . ?" He opens his eyes and stares upward at the bunker's ceiling.
He's alive.
"Sammy?"
"Dean?" Sam wheezes, blinking a few times and suddenly, Dean comes into view. His brother is kneeling above him, eyes red-rimmed.
"Jesus Christ, Sammy." He swears, voice cracking as a lone tear rolls down his cheek. "What did you do?"
Sam blinks, trying to process what exactly is going on here. He should be dead. He aimed the gun at his head. His brain matter should be staining the cream walls a shade of pink right now. There is no way he should be alive. Yet, here he is and now, Dean is back.
"Sam, look at me!" Dean barks, voice so much like John's. Dean had always been good at giving orders like their father. Figures, the older brother had always idolized their father. It figured that he would've picked up on some of John's mannerisms.
"You need to get up!" Dean tries again, his hands hovering above Sam's gushing gun shot wound. "I can't help you anymore, Sam, I'm sorry."
"Help?" Sam echoes, voice slurring as his eyes slip shut. "What . . . ?"
"Sam, c'mon!" Dean growls and that elicits an automatic response from the younger brother.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Sam's eyes open once more.
"There you go," Dean grins, unabashed pride. "You're doing great, Sam." His
brother's praises are odd to say the least, but the youngest Winchester tries to focus on their positivity. It's been too long since he did something right for Dean.
"D'n." Sam slurs, trying to push himself up. His shoulder burns and he hisses in pain as he falls back. Panting, he turns his head and sees the moderate puddle of blood. "My blood . . ."
It's too much blood. He's going into shock. The oxygen around him is becoming scarce and he can feel his heart hammering out of sync in his chest.
"Listen to me," Dean urges, forcing a smile on his lips. "You can do this. You just need to get up, okay, Sammy?"
Getting up is something that he knows will hurt and as such, he isn't too inclined to agree to that option at the moment.
"D'n . . . y're here?" He meets the wide-eyed gaze of his older brother and grins. "Thought you were . . . lost?"
"I'm here, Sammy, okay?" Dean assures him and he reaches for Sam's hand, only for it to pass through.
Sam sucks in a breath, then begins to cough.
"Easy!" Dean coaches. "Look, it's going to be okay, Sammy."
"Y're dead?" Sam whispers, his head rolling to the side, seemingly of its own accord. "I can't—"
"I'm not dead." Dean interjects quickly. "But listen to me, the Reapers they're pretty pissed that I took out their boss and they've got me in this weird side dimension thing."
There are too many complicated words for Sam's distressed brain to even bother decoding, so he settles for a raised eyebrow instead.
"I can see you, but I can't help you." Then, darkly, he adds, "You can only hear me now because you're about to die."
Well, you sure as hell were ready to die for the greater good then.
Yeah, and Dean, you pulled me back.
And I was wrong.
"You said . . ." He exhales a shaky breath, the room spinning around him. "You said I should die."
"Sammy," Dean's voice is barely holding together from complete sobs now. His expression is pained, wanting to be able to help his baby brother, but being unable to do so. His hand wavers above Sam's bleeding shoulder and he grimaces. "Listen to me, you can't die now."
"You . . ." Sam struggles to summon the breath enough to say the words. "You wanted me dead."
Dean blanches at that and quickly adds, "Sammy, I didn't—"
"I can't, Dean." The younger brother whispers, surprised by his ability to even talk now. The burning is starting to fade and his eyelids are drooping.
"Sam, stay with me!" A tear hits Sam's cheek and Dean is now gripping Sam's wrist, though his skin is still translucent. "I saw you before. I saw you when you were going to blow your brains out." He spits those words out, like they are the worst words in existence. "If I wanted to, I could've let you do it." Dean's crying now, openly sobbing and some part of Sam recognizes the sincerity of this. "But I didn't want you to. What I said—I was wrong." Dean's pressure on his brother's wrist increases. "Don't die, Sammy."
The gust of wind that seemingly came from nowhere—that had been Dean?
It takes a small eternity, but Sam forces himself to a sitting position.
"There you go, Sammy." Dean praises. "Just get to the phone, okay?"
Getting himself to stand up might be the most challenging thing he's ever done but Sam does it and soon, he has 911 on the phone. An operator promises that an ambulance is on its way and Sam lays back down on the ground, Dean still hovering above him.
"How can you . . ." He swallows the taste of copper back—internal bleeding, he remembers. "How can you get out?"
Dean swears under his breath and then adds, "Don't worry about me, Sammy. Focus on you."
Sam decides at the moment, he can do that.
Then, he promptly faints.
Author's Note: This will be a two-shot. There is still so much I want to deal with. Next chapter will have Sam in the hospital and more worried Dean and definitely, the heart to heart we all wanted this season. I hope you enjoyed. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!
