Honestly, Dean thought he was exerting some extreme self control. There he sat on a motel bed, in a nowhere town right outside of Centralia, Pennsylvania, where their latest case had brought them. Something about an unpopulated town that suddenly had a population. Yeah, totally not a red flag there. They'd done their suit-and-tie dance that day in the town next door they were staying in, and now, around eight that night, they were back in the motel. Sam had gone out about five minutes ago to go pick up something to bring back for dinner, Dean was methodically cleaning, sharpening, oiling, and reloading whatever required it.

Of course, should emergency arise, and it wouldn't be the first time their motel door was broken down, he kept at least one loaded and right next to him. Currently in his hand was his baby- well, aside from the Impala. Colt 1911, given to him by John on his 18th. The thing was beautiful, despite its age, the ivory and engraved detail still shined like new. Dean made sure to keep it that way.

About that self control.

His thumb was on the small lever-type mechanism to release the magazine, which he had yet to unload, and the safety was still off. Careless, sure, but he was who he was- he'd been raised around guns, shooting since he was single digits. Standard rules were to be ignored, he told himself. Cleaning supplies spread around him on the bed and the nightstand, he had the intention of starting on the task.

Why not stall for a moment? He gave the gun a good hard look. His father's gun. Now his. He took better care of this gun than he did of himself. Hell, he took better care of everything and everyone better than he took care of himself. He pressed the end of the barrel to his temple, the cool metal against flushed skin almost... soothing. He was testing himself. Finger moving to the trigger, he made feather-light movements, not an ounce of pressure applied. He was already pushing his limitations.

What would happen if he pulled the trigger? He would get sent back down to hell. Would Castiel pull him out a second time? He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure about the angels at all, or how much they really needed him. He would see Alastair again. Where would he end up? Torturing or tortured? Would he make the same choice he did before?

He loved torturing. More than he would admit to Sam, himself, or anyone. He loved being tortured. Not entirely because he had masochistic tendencies, but because he had to. This was his punishment, for all his crimes. He deserved it. Drilled into his head for twenty years; protect Sammy. Not that he argued; he loved his little brother with all his heart and soul. But why? Why was his life so invaluable? There has to be a reason. Protect Sam, to hell with yourself.

The Dream Root had been right. So what if he was tripping in someone else's dreamworld domain. He'd been faced with himself and he was right.

"I know how you look in the mirror and hate what you see. I know how dead you feel inside."

"Shut up!" he had growled

"Your own father didn't care if you lived or died, why should you?!"

It had angered him at the time. But he couldn't deny it. He deserved hell. He deserved everything.

He deserved to pull this trigger. So what was stopping him?

Sam. His Sammy. His brother. His lover. His best and only friend. The last fucking family he had left. His anything, his everything, his whole goddamn world. He couldn't leave his brother alone in this world. It wasn't that he thought his brother to be incapable. It was that he felt the need to protect him. It didn't have a damn thing to do with John's orders, it never really did.

He was born to protect his brother.

He, with shaking hands, moved the gun barrel from his temple and stared at it for what felt like forever. Staring down the seemingly endless dark tunnel of the barrel, wondering what it would be like to watch a round coming at you, before it blew your brains to the wall behind you.

Before his thoughts could take him any farther, the door opened. Sam was back. In one quick motion, he clicked the safety and dropped the gun on the bed. Sam wasn't fooled, and Dean wasn't fast enough.

"What're you doing?" Sam asked, arching an eyebrow as he set the Styrofoam containers with burgers on the small, worn table in the room.

Dean shrugged and walked over, opening one up and taking a fry, "Maintenance. Can't have my gun jamming when I need it." he said, pouring himself a drink, back to Sam.

"You okay?"

Lie. Lie, you son of a bitch. Lie!

"No, I'm Dean." he smirked, taking a drink of the freshly-poured whiskey in his hand as he turned back to face his brother. He couldn't lie. He couldn't do that to his Sammy. He could lie to his own father quicker than he could lie to Sam. He refused to lie to his brother. So he used sarcasm instead and hoped the question would drop.

Sam didn't buy his shit. But he dropped it for now. Oh, he'd ask again later, but he was dropping it for now.

Dean could stare at that gun all he wanted. He could put it to his temple, to his forehead, stick it to the roof of his mouth or under his chin. But at the end of the day he couldn't pull the trigger.

All because he loved Sam more than he hated himself.