PART ONE
The first time the thought of suicide had crossed his mind happened way before Castiel even knew who Dean Winchester really was. Of course, being an angel he knew the name, knew his job, knew that one day he would have to rescue him from the pit. But, this was years before Castiel had even been asked to gather angels to save him. No, the first time Dean thought of suicide was when Sam had decided to leave for college.
"If you walk out that door don't ever come back!" John yelled at his son who had been thinking that he was doing the right thing. Saving people, hunting things; it wasn't what Sam had wanted to do. Now, Dean watched as his father yelled at his son for doing was normal parents wanted from their children. The moment the door was slammed the thought had crossed his mind- how was he supposed to go on without his snot nosed baby brother? He looked at his father who was red faced and heading straight for the liquor cabinet and knew things had just gotten even more complicated in their already damned-to-Hell lives. Dean had only seen his father cry once or twice and that was when the weight of Mom really being gone still rested on his shoulders. Back when he believed he was the one who had somehow ended up calling the Yellow-Eyed Demon to Sam's nursery. It was back when Sammy had first started asking questions that Dean couldn't quite answer. This time as a tear rolled down John's face Dean knew that it wasn't from anything near what he was feeling all those years ago- he was crying because his son, who Dean didn't know was the centre of it all, was going off on his own; choosing schooling over blood. Dean didn't understand his brother's decision, but he knew that now he would have to look after Dad the same way he had to look after Sammy.
"It'll be okay, Dad," a weak, cracked, broken voice spoke up. Initially Dean hadn't known it was his own voice. It sounded foreign, like that of a small child's. He couldn't keep Sam as part of the family and he couldn't assure John that things really would be okay due to the fact that Dean wasn't feeling so hot at the moment himself. Green eyes dashed down to meet the floor of their 'house'. They were always moving, always squatting at some abandoned house. Tonight wasn't any different. The house was breaking and the scent of mould blended in with every other unpleasant scent that Dean could name. Being a hunter, he knew a lot of scents that would make your nose fall off. "Too bad Voldemort hadn't lost his nose this way," Dean had said when they had first arrived. Now Dean was wondering if the ensemble of scents would be the last scent he would ever have the pleasure of smelling. Sam didn't need him any more and he had proved that by getting out on his own to go to college. Dad was a drunkard, but he was also a damn good hunter, and he didn't need Dean. He had carried his own and that of his son's when the brothers were too young to handle a gun. Where did Dean fit into all of this? A good son would have never let his brother leave. A good son would have never almost gotten his brother killed on countless occasions. A good son would never... For Dean the list went on and on.
By the time John had passed out (Vodka bottle still in hand) Dean had retreated to his segment of the building. The area he had been sleeping in for the past week on their job was one that he was sharing with Sam. The dingy house had at one point in time been a two bedroom and John had been happy to finally have his own room rather than a leather couch that probably invented herpes. Dean had picked the twin bed on the right side of the room, the one near the window. "Why do you always get to pick what bed we get?" Sam asked and his eyebrows knit together in a way Dean had grown to recognise as his 'I'm not a baby anymore' look. "Because, Sammy," Dean had replied and smirked, "I'm the oldest." Dean looked around at the broken glass littering the old wooden floors. It almost looked like a vampire nest, but maybe he was just thinking of the one he had run into as a kid. With a short huff Dean dropped to his knees his worn jeans bending easily with the curve of his legs. Thank God his sleeves were rolled up because as Dean reached down to grab his duffel bag he felt muck, "Ah- dammit!" he cursed under his breath pulling out his now almost black coloured arm. He shook his head and reached again this time grabbing the old bag and pulling it out with a quick yank.
The bag was his dad's and probably had been in the family even before that. It was made out of cloth, but it was heavy and sturdy, and it could hold a small arsenal. Basically, Dean loved it almost as much as he loved the Impala that was destined to be his. Dean had sat down cross legged and admired the bag for just a little while. The memories that came with it were almost overwhelming. He was going to give it to his little brother, but things had changed. Carefully engraved in the side above the sewn in word 'Winchester' Dean had carved John, Sam, and Dean. It had belonged to all of them at one point. Now it just held guns and knives, bibles and other texts, holy water, things that applied to the job. Everything had to do with the job, the job was their life. Every so often Dean would want to call it Job with a capital J just to prove his point that it was everything that really mattered. Family came first, but the near second was hunting. Dean smoothed out his open red-and-white flannel and looked down at his grey Led Zepplin shirt. These had belonged to his father as well. Everything he had was thanks to his father, but everything that mattered was gone. It was his favourite outfit; he even wore his biker boots. It was something he would want to die in and he was ready to die in it. No note though; notes were for pussies.
"Here we go," Dean muttered to himself as if anyone could possibly be listened. He secretly hoped that someone was. He hoped that maybe Sam was just waiting outside. Waiting for Dad to cool off and for everything that was going on to just stop. Dean grabbed the worn zipper and pulled slowly revealing the true items stowed away in the bag- Dean's life. It was almost like Dean's Pandora's Box. Once it was opened chaos was doomed to follow. Every time it had been opened something had been erased from existence. Tonight, since they had finished a job, maybe the odds would play out in the bag's favour. Dean slid his fingers worn and scarred from his line of work across his weaponry. "What kind of gun is this, Dean?" John asked looking down at his boy with a proud smile. Dean returned it- he knew this one, "It's a Winchester, Dad; just like us!" Poetry and sentiment had never followed Dean around like a lost puppy, but he did know of irony and how today was a day full of it. His eyes found the gun before his fingers did, but once the gun was in his hand everything was muscle memory. Dean pulled out the clip to examine it, slid it back in, safety on, safety off, cock, ready, aim. The steel tip pressed against his own forehead was almost surreal. Sure, he had a gun pulled on him before, but this was different. This time he wanted to die. This time he felt something. Tears had found their way out of his emerald eyes that now shone just like the gem. His jaw clenched bringing teeth together in a nasty crash. All he had to do was pull the trigger.
"Dean!" and with that mention of his name the gun was down, the bag was kicked under the bed, Dean was on his feet, and he had stopped crying. It was his father that called his name. He had dropped the bottle, Dean knew that as he slid out of the room and saw the glass scattered across the floor. Dean smiled weakly as to say 'hello'. That night was the first night- the first unsuccessful night and the first night Dean realised that the world didn't end with a single bullet. One night maybe, but tonight everyone needed him even if they didn't want to mention it.
"What's up, Dad?" Dean asked and ran his tongue across his teeth looking around the room looking for something that he knew he would never be able to see- hope. If that bag was Pandora's Box didn't hope have to come out last? Maybe a sliver had slid out, but gone to someone else already. Maybe she was stuck. Either way that night wasn't the night for Dean Winchester, but he was determined that one day would be.