Disclaimer: The characters of Supernatural do not belong to me.

A/N: I started writing this and just didn't stop. It's been edited, so it's not exactly stream of consciousness, but it's about the same idea. Warning, though-it is very, very dark. It's John's thoughts after the events of Love Kills. And it is an attempted suicide fic, so please, do not read if you might be triggered.

What Might Have Made All the Difference

John had gotten word the day before. He'd officially been cleared of all charges. Not that it took the guilt away from him. Not even close. John had spent the week downing Jim Beam and Jack Daniels, but it hadn't even come close to helping. The pain was still there, sharp and constant, reminding him every second of every day what he'd done.

Sam had been buried, not burned, despite it going against every instinct he possessed. Dean insisted on it. He'd agreed to let John and Bobby salt and burn the body, but Sam was laid in a coffin and buried.

"Sam never got to live normal. He'll be buried that way."

Normal. That one word had set the tone for Sam and John's rocky relationship. Sam always wanted a normal life, with friends, school, and a normal family. He'd always despised the hunting life. But, as John was beginning to find out, hindsight was crystal clear. As much as Sam hated hunting, when it came down to it, Sam was actually the most loyal member of their family. Because despite hating what they did, and even running away from it once, Sam always looked after his father and brother. He made sure they were safe, putting one hundred percent of himself into the research and making sure they knew what they were facing and the most effective way to kill it.

Of course, all Sam wanted in return for his loyalty was for his father and brother to be loyal right back. Physically, they were. John and Dean would watch Sam's back and keep him safe, even if it meant they had to die themselves. But it was emotional loyalty that Sam wanted. He wanted his hopes, his dreams, his fears and aspirations to mean as much to his father and brother as they did to him. Where John and Dean lived by their brains and strategy, Sam lived by the heart. He longed to be accepted by his father and brother without condition, to be told that he was "good enough".

Stop it, you stupid bastard, John thought to himself. He was thinking about his relationship with Sam as if it was still there. As if there was still a chance he could make things right between them. The fight that he'd had with Sam right before he'd died played through his head like a broken record.

"Please, Dad, just this once, let me do what I want on a Friday night!"

"I said no, Sam!"

"You always say no!"

"Dad, please, I will do twice the training tomorrow, just let me do this…"

"Damn it, Sam! NO!"

"I HATE YOU!"

And then John's personal favorite. The very definition of regretting what you say because you can't take it back.

"Well maybe I hate you too!"

That had been the last thing he'd ever said to Sam. All the fighting, all the trying to convince Sam that he cared, all the begging for some semblance of normality, it had all come down to those last few moments. The last words Sam had ever heard. That he was hated, not loved and cherished and appreciated. He died feeling that his worst doubts were confirmed.

John thought back to all the times Sam had been crying out for attention. And the times had been plentiful. A missed birthday at four, when he was too young to understand why Daddy hadn't been there and only understood that Daddy wasn't there. A missed first day of school, when Sam begged him over and over to come and drop him off. Punishing Sam at ten when he called Bobby and begged him to take a hunt so that John could keep his promise to be there for Sam to receive an award from his school. He'd grounded Sam for the last week of school, forbidden him from going to the ceremony, and, worst of all now that he looked back on it, told him that winning the award didn't matter because it meant he wasn't trying hard enough on training. The numerous times after that Sam had begged to go on a field trip, sleepover, date, or a thousand other things that John couldn't remember now. Begged to just be allowed to be what he was for a while. A child. And, under the guise of keeping him 'safe', John said no nearly every time.

In the fight that he and Sam had had before the one that killed Sam, Dean had pointed something out that was now crystal clear to John. John bragged on Sam to everyone. Bobby, pastor Jim, complete strangers who asked what his youngest son was like. He told them he was proud of him, how smart and gentle and amazing he was. How lucky he felt to have him as a kid.

If John could brag about Sam like that to strangers, then why couldn't he tell Sam that?

"Dad, he honestly thinks he means nothing to you sometimes. That's why he fights you so hard. If you really tell him how you feel, it might make all the difference."

At the time, John, stung by how much truth there was in Dean's statement, had shoved it aside. He didn't have time, he thought. Sam was going to have to learn how to deal with criticism. He'd be facing much worse out in the 'real world'. But all John had let Sam deal with was what he deemed the 'real world'. He hadn't let him have friends, have a good time with kids his own age, all the non-material things that Sam had always wanted and always deserved.

Never once, that John could remember, had he actually told Sam how much he loved him, how much he wanted to be happy, how much better his own life was with his baby boy in it.

But he'd sure been quick on the draw to tell him he hated him.

John looked around for the first time since starting his walk from Bobby's. How had he ended up here? He hadn't driven, because he knew that he wouldn't make it a mile in his current state. They'd buried Sam five miles from Bobby's house. But here he stood, in front of Sam's grave, bottle in his hand. But that wasn't all. John felt something in the pocket of his jeans. He fished it out and was unsurprised to find what it was.

His gun.

John looked at Sam's grave one last time. It was a simple inscription, his name, birthdate, and the day of his death. John thought about speaking to Sam, but decided it wouldn't do any good. He'd never really believed in long, drawn out goodbyes. They only caused more pain than necessary. So, with nothing more than an 'I'm sorry' to Sam, John lifted the gun to his head. A loud bang that John barely registered was the last sound to reach his ears before the world went black.