Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural in any way, shape, or form
Author's Note: Ever have a story that just kind of tumbled out without warning, like rocks falling from a mountain top? This is one of those stories
Warnings: Dark. Croatoan spoilers, and my take on "The Secret". Also, the 'i' key on my computer is being extremely uncooperative unless I give it a good punch. I tried to be sure that I got all necessary 'i's in there, but I may have missed a few...apologies.
In a sick way, he was glad as he sat in the small doctor's office, fingers pressed up against the bridge of his nose.
This meant it was over. It was finally over.
It was funny, really. His father must have thought it was the right thing, giving up his life to let his son live. But in a sick way, he would have rather died than to live with this…this burden pressing on his chest that he just couldn't escape. It must be what drowning felt like – arms, legs, and other limbs helplessly floating, your brain screaming, choking for air… He wondered if this is how his father had felt once he Knew...
Dean, it's going to take them all, it's going to make an army…
He had tried to end it before, you know. Two days after they got at Bobby's he climbed out of bed at three am, giving his sleeping brother one last look as he picked up the gun and slipped into the bathroom. He locked the door behind him and stared at himself in the mirror – shirtless, clad in only the boxers that Sam, shopper extraordinaire, had given him for Christmas a few years back. A cold sweat was starting to trickle down him, dark circles under his eyes from the lack of sleep he'd gotten since Dad had…
Well…
We can't stop Him, Dean, there's nothing that we can do
He'd pushed the gun, the old revolver, into his mouth, closing his lips around it. His stomach was twisting and shrieking, and he felt as if he was going to be sick. He stared at himself in the mirror, eyes pricking with tears as his fingers squeezed at the trigger…
The Demon, his army…your brother…they're going to destroy everything…
His knees were shaking, they were going to give out any second as his fingers tightened and he squeezed his eyes shut, random tears leaking out from somewhere, he didn't know where…
Everyone…
Vomit was making its way up his throat, with the sour feeling he despised. He pulled the gun out quickly, just in time to throw up in the sink. He groaned and pushed his head against the coolness of the mirror, and let his head slide down slowly towards the countertop…
Innocent people will die, Dean…
He turned on the water and let it wash out the sink before he forced his head into the sink, letting the cold water soak his hair and his face…
You, the Hunters, you are the only hope, Dean…
He stared at Sam who stared back at him, angry tears in his brother's eyes. He could practically see a sixteen-year-old hormonal Sammy sitting before him, raging how, it's not fair, Dean!
It's not fair, Sammy.
I know you'll do the right thing, Dean. Kill that Demon and its army, son.
Sam sighed, taking a shaky breath. "Give me the gun," he said, "I'll do it myself."
I believe in you, Dean.
Dean shook his head. He wasn't going to shoot Sam; not now, not ever.
Besides, this way it'll all be over. If he couldn't shoot himself, Sammy could always do the shooting for him.