Hi Readers. I've been working on a couple different stories, but yesterday a very good friend lost his battle with depression and I needed to get some feelings out. No better way than with a SPN fanfiction right? Contains lots of angst, and suicidal triggers. Much love all. #AlwaysKeepFighting
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Dean sat on the bed in a dingy motel room, on a threadbare duvet. One arm hung limp between his legs, the other rested on his knee, hand holding the ivory handle of
his favorite gun. He stared at the gun, eyes brimming with tears that he refused to let fall. Dean ran his thumb softly over some of the engraving, then cocked the gun.
Everything had become too real for him. He was alone. John Winchester had been gone without a trace for days. Sam—Suddenly, the pain of Sam leaving washed over
him, causing Dean to suck in a shaky breath. The pain doubled as he realized his father was gone, too. The pain only grew and Dean's shoulders fell and he doubled with
the overwhelming feeling. He brought the gun to his head, and his hand shook uncontrollably.
Sam sat in his Administrative Law course, listening to Professor Golden lecture about the separation of powers and jotting down notes for the quiz they would have in
the next class session. The class would last for another hour, and this professor loved to lecture. A firm knock on the classroom door halted the steady voice. The door
opened and two male police officers stepped in, followed by another man in a gray business suit. The class watched as the police officers stayed by the door and the other
man rushed forward to talk with the professor. A minute passed.
"Samuel Winchester," the professor turned to the students, peering among them.
"Yessir," Sam said, an uneasy feeling pooling into his gut.
"You'll go with Mr. Wincott, please," Professor Golden said.
Sam's stomach twisted slightly as he shoved his notebook into his bag and swung it over his shoulder. He made his way to the front of the room and turned to the man
in the gray suit, presumably Mr. Wincott. Professor Golden gave him a sympathetic look, but Mr. Wincott walked towards the door, and Sam followed. Fear began tugging
at the sides of his heart. Mr. Wincott opened the door and walked through, Sam following and the two police officers bringing up the rear. Sam's stomach was firmly in
knots by the time Mr. Wincott opened another door to an empty classroom. Once inside, the two police officers took up post on either side of the door and Sam turned to
face Mr. Wincott.
"What is this about?" Sam asked, evenly, as he set his bag on the floor.
"Mister Winchester, would you please have a seat?" Mr. Wincott asked, gesturing toward the nearest student desk.
"No, thank you, sir" Sam said. "Please, what is this?"
"Is this your brother, Mister Winchester?" He asked, holding out a picture, and pointing.
Sam took the picture from the man. He hadn't ever gotten to see this particular picture get developed, but he remembered taking it with Dean. It was just the two of
them, Sam's last birthday before he left for college. Sam's eyes were closed, mouth open laughing. His brother was next to him, smiling, eyes shining green. Dean had
taken the picture, Sam recalled, but he couldn't remember what had happened to make them so happy.
"Mister Winchester?" Mr. Wincott prodded, snapping Sam back to the present day.
"Uh—Yes. That's my brother Dean," Sam left it at that. He still held the picture, but shifted his gaze to Mr. Wincott.
The look on Mr. Wincott's face rattled Sam to his core. Pity. Sorrow. Sympathy.
"Mister Winchester, do you have anyone we can call?" Mr. Wincott asked.
"What's going on with Dean?" Sam asked, firmly. He was fairly sure his heart had fallen through the floor at the question posed.
"If you could—"
"Just tell me. Now," Sam's stubbornness reared its head.
"Your brother, Dean, has taken his own life."
Dean's entire body was shaking uncontrollably as he realized he couldn't imagine how his brother would react to the news. Would he react in anger? Would he fall to his
knees in shock? Would he be unfazed? Dean slowly brought the gun away from his temple. Two tears escaped and raced each other down his face. He safetied the gun
and got up from the bed. Grabbing his duffel bag and keys, Dean tucked the gun into the small of his back. The shiny black impala waited for him in the dusty parking
lot. Dean hoped that maybe he could get his brother back, maybe Sam could help him find their father, dead or alive.
The Impala roared to life and Dean raced west, toward Palo Alto, the familiar gun digging into his back as a constant reminder.
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There you are. The title is taken from an Avantasia song, which is a group my friend introduced me to. I don't own anything. I love your reviews. Much love all, please keep fighting.