Author's Note: Inspired by a lot of things, but mostly from re-watching the earlier seasons of the show. I know the show often pokes fun about Sam's success rate with keeping his loves alive, but I wanted to take a more serious look at it. Set after "Clip Show" but before "Sacrifice". So, spoilers for the end of season eight if you haven't reached there yet. Trigger for attempted suicide. Do not read if that bothers you in anyway. Please enjoy!

"Though lovers be lost, love shall not; and death shall have no dominion."

― Dylan Thomas

Losing Sarah is the breaking point.

In that small room with sigils plastered on every available space, the two brothers are almost stunned into silence. It's as if saying a word—any word—will break the carefully constructed grip they've got on their emotions. Though the realization is still there—

Sarah's dead.

Dean can see the sheer agony coloring his brother's eyes; can tell that Sam is on the verge of one colossal breakdown and if they do not get out of here soon, his little brother will fall into a shame spiral so deep that not even Dean will be able to pry him out of it.

"Sam?"

From the floor, Sarah's glassy eyes stare upward. Her crimson blood spreads out behind her, almost in a twisted parody of a snow angel. Her wedding ring catches in the light and Dean's heart twists in grief. She'd had a husband and a baby that they were supposed to return her to, and now another child would grow up without a mother.

"I could've saved her." Sam breathes, voice ragged. His hand hovers above hers, as if he wants to touch her, but is terrified that he might cause more damage.

"Sam," Dean sighs, kneeling beside his brother. "You can't blame yourself—"

"We should've checked the phone." The youngest Winchester's voice is devoid of any and all emotion and monotone, he adds, "That was the obvious hiding spot."

"Sam—"

A tear rolls down Sam's cheek, but the little brother makes no move to wipe it away. His gaze remains locked on Sarah's face, on the way the red color in her cheeks is slowly turning to chalk. Just moments ago, they'd been happy, so sure in their abilities to save her and now . . .

"We failed." Sam whispers. "I failed."

"It wasn't your fault." Dean protests, but he can tell his words aren't having any effect. Sam is too far-gone now and only time will loosen the hold that his guilt has on him. That doesn't mean that Dean can't try and he will, but right now, they have more pressing matters to deal with. Their fingerprints are all over the room and Sarah's body needs to be dealt with.

And Sam needs to somehow be pieced back together again.

"She has a family, Dean."

"I know." He replies, mournfully. He'd seen how proud she'd been to be a mother, how her eyes had lit up the moment the subject of her son and her husband came up. She'd been exposed to their world, but she hadn't let it consume her. She'd gotten out and made a life for herself.

That life . . . it was now over.

"She has a baby boy." Sam is nearly curled up in the fetal position. His arms are wrapped around his drawn up knees and his breathing comes out shaky. "She has a husband."

Softer, "I know, Sammy."

Dean can't promise to make things right; there is no way to salvage this situation. Sarah is dead and her family will be fractured. That baby boy will grow up, remembering nothing about his mother but the few pictures he has of her. He'll always wonder who his mother was and what she was like. There will be a hole in his heart; a void he'll try to fill but nothing will ever succeed.

There's nothing the Winchesters can do to fix it.

Not a damn thing.

"We need to—"

Sarah's phone begins to ring, a faint tinkling of bells breaking the silence. The screen, the caller I.D. labeling the caller as "home", illuminates a faint picture of a man smiling and holding a baby.

That's when Sam begins to sob.

The morning after Sarah's death, Sam shakily moves around the bunker like a man who's lost everything and sees no point in even breathing. The trials aren't helping his appearance much either—Sam's cheeks are flushed with fever, his hands are trembling with chills and his eyes are bloodshot—and Dean can't help but wince the moment his brother appears in the kitchen.

"Hey." Dean murmurs, flipping a piece of bacon over in the sizzling pan. "Want breakfast?"

Sam doesn't reply, but the eldest Winchester can see those giant wheels turning his brain. No doubt his baby brother is still blaming himself for Sarah's demise and Dean would bet the Impala on the fact that Sam's remembering Jessica and Madison as well.

"Sam?"

Sam blinks, snapping back into focus with the sound of the plate being placed down on the granite counter. His nose wrinkles in disgust, noticing all the food on the plate.

"You need to eat." Dean says with a sigh, placing a fork near the fluffy scrambled eggs.

". . . no." Sam mutters, pushing the plate away.

"Sam." He sighs, gearing up for a fight, but his little brother simply walks away. "Sam? Where are you—?"

The back bedroom door closes and Dean grimaces.

He has to find a way to get through to his brother. He couldn't allow Sam to wallow in self-loathing, not now, not when his immune system was all ready compromised. He knew from experience that an emotional blow could cause just as much damage as a physical wound and if Dean didn't snap his brother out of it, there's no telling what could happen to Sam's health.

But first, he needs the kid to eat something. Then, he'd tackle the grief.

"Yeah," He mutters darkly. "It'll be just that easy."

It's going to be a long day.

When Jessica died, it had taken months to piece Sam back together again. Dean spent those first few weeks reminding his brother to eat and sleep and take care of himself. After they'd made it past that, making Sam laugh had become his number one priority. Saving his little brother from sacrificing himself to somehow atone for her death had been the other. At times, the eldest Winchester thought they were never going to make it through—that Sam would give up completely or Dean would screw up and lose his brother forever.

But they'd pulled through that somehow and Dean had thought they'd be scot-free after that.

With Madison's death, those feelings of grief came back sharper, for both of them. They had both gotten to know this girl together and allowed her into their lives, if only for a few days. In the short time Dean had gotten to know Madison, she'd seemed to be a very confident and kind woman. Judging from the small library she'd had in her bedroom, he knew she was good match for his baby brother and when he found out that Sam and Madison had actually slept together . . . needless to say, Dean had been proud.

And then everything went so terribly wrong and suddenly, there was one more dead girl laying at the feet of his little brother.

Madison's death fueled Sam's twisted logic about himself—everyone around me dies, Dean—and while there wasn't any of the depression, there was a crippling guilt that seemed to drive his brother's every action. Sam started throwing himself into danger, trying to save those he could instead of allowing himself to grieve those he had lost. Dean tried talking to him, only to meet stony silence, and after that, he did what he did best.

He looked after his little brother. He pulled Sam back from the frontlines, he controlled what hunts they went on and in a few rare cases, he forced the two to hole up at Bobby's and let Sam work out his frustrations on a few unlucky cars rusting in the backyard. Bobby wasn't around anymore though and with Sam already taking a beating physically from the trials, he wouldn't have easy hunts to distract them both.

With Sarah gone, without Bobby, with the trials already wreaking havoc on his brother's body he would just have to find a new way to get through to Sam.

Dean has to or this time, he might not be able to piece Sam back together again.

Sam doesn't sleep anymore.

Between the violent bouts of coughing, the devastating fevers that didn't break until dawn and the fact that his little brother refused to eat anything; Sam's body didn't seem to like the idea of allowing him a few blissful hours of repose.

Then, there's the fact that the grief is making things worse. The dark bags under Sam's eyes, the blank stare and the way he just shuffles down the hall—they're all there because his brother is too deep in his shame spiral to realize that Sarah's death is not his fault. Or if it is, that he's not alone in sharing the blame. Dean was, after all, there too.

But Sam being Sam, can't process that fact.

So, he wastes away before his big brother's eyes.

Granted, Dean tries to snap him out of it. He buys books on grief counseling and tries to use touchy-feely "I statements" as in, "I'm really worried when you don't eat Sam." He makes salads and buys those stupid Lifetime movies his baby brother secretly enjoys. He tries to break through to his little brother, tries to assure him that though things look bad, the two of them are going to make it through. After all, they'd beaten the fucking Apocalypse. They would beat this too.

"Sam—"

"Dean." Sam sighs raggedly, voice laced with exhaustion as he practically slumps over on the couch. "I should be dead right now."

Dean immediately shakes his head, rising from the counter, "Don't say that shit—"

"It's true though." Sam insists, voice rising. "If I had died at Cold Oak, none of this would've happened." He gestures to himself, eyes downcast. "All those people who died over the years, they died because I was alive."

"No, they didn't." Dean reaches for his brother's shoulder, only for Sam to jerk back. "Sam, you can't think like that—"

"Why not?" The youngest Winchester challenges, shouting now. "It's true!" He huffs out a breath, aggravated. "I mean, think about it, Dean! How many people would be alive if I wasn't? Sarah would be!"

"Sam, man, listen to me, you can't think like that—"

But Sam is too far-gone to listen to reason now. He's too wrapped up in his own twisted logic to be able to recognize the simple fact that none of this was his fault. The guilt coupled with the illness was warping his mind.

"I should be dead!" He screams. "What's dead should stay dead, right? Dad taught us that!"

"So, what?" Dean growls. "You telling me that you wished that I didn't make the deal?"

"Yeah!" Sam retorts. "If you hadn't made the deal, the world would be better off!"

"And you wanna know what I would be?" Dean retorts, trying to restrain his own flash of anger that's welling up within him. He has to stay calm, has to recognize that Sam doesn't really know what's he saying, not with a fever this high. "Sam, I would be dead."

"No—" Sam denies.

"I would've blown my brains out in Cold Oak or that cabin where we took you—"

"No, you wouldn't have—"

"Sammy, I can't do any of this without you." Dean confesses softly. "And yeah, maybe that's fucked up, but it's the truth." He manages a small grin. "I don't regret making the deal. I don't regret anything when it comes to you."

"You went to Hell for me—" A lone tear rolls down Sam's cheek.

"And I'd do it again in a heartbeat." He isn't too good at voicing his feelings, but if this is what Sam needs to get better, to snap out of his shame spiral, Dean will gladly tell it and more.

"You had a choice though." Sam replies bitterly. "Sarah didn't."

"Sarah would've died even if we hadn't gone to help her—"

"That's not what I meant!" His brother hisses, fury rolling off him in waves. "If I hadn't of met her, none of this would've happened."

"Sam, she cared for you—" He had seen the way that Sarah's eyes had lit up the moment she had opened the door. She had trusted in them to keep her safe. She'd been thrilled to see Sam again, Dean could tell by the way her eyes had lit up.

"And she's dead now, because of me." Sam concludes sharply. "Just like Jessica and Madison."

"Madison wasn't your fault! You know that! Sam, don't—"

But Sam chooses that moment to just walk out, apparently done with the conversation.

"Damn." Dean shakes his head, sighing.

Now what could he do?

He finds Sam a few days later sitting on the edge of his bed, an empty bottle of pills in his left hand and a gun pressed to his temple in his other.

"It's funny." Sam laughs, voice devoid of humor. It's the laugh of a man who's got nothing more to lose. "I took all of these an hour ago." He holds up the pills. "And my fever still isn't down. I don't even feel them. Guess that's a side effect of the Trials too."

"Sam." He stands in the doorway, hands up and open, placating. "What's going on?"

"I'm just so damn tired." Sam murmurs. "Tired of feeling like this. Tired of watching everyone around me die." He drops the pill bottle down on the floor. "I mean, aren't you sick of this? Taking care of me? Fighting for a world that doesn't even care?"

"So, what?" Dean can't stop the slight tremor of fear that enters her voice. "You're quitting now?"

"Why not?" Sam muses softly. "All I can seem to do is either doom the world or get someone I care about killed."

"That's not true, Sam—" Dean insists, stepping into the room.

"Prove it." His brother sighs.

"What?"

"Prove it." He repeats. "If that isn't true, then prove it."

"Sammy, you've saved me hundreds of times—" He answers.

"And because of me, you died and went to Hell." Sam completes tiredly. "Got something else?"

"This is the end of the road then?" Dean snaps. "You're just going to end it—?"

"Why not? Why shouldn't I?" Sam challenges, his trigger finger tightening on the gun. "I'm sick of this. I can't just wait around for you to die too!"

"If you do this, I will die."

There's a brief flicker of hesitation in Sam's eyes.

"You think I can do this anymore without you?" Dean laughs hollowly. "Sam, that big brain of yours isn't as smart as I thought then." He moves towards his brother, slowly, deliberately. "Sam, you and me, we're a team."

"Dean, don't—"

"If you're going to check out, then fine." He plasters a smile on his lips. "But let me go with you." He moves even closer still, meeting Sam's wide gaze. "You're my brother, yeah, but Sam you know you're more than that. Without you, I'm . . ." A tear rolls down his cheek. "I'm nothing, Sammy. I'm sure that's wrong and messed up of me to say, but it's the truth."

There's silence for a few moments.

"So, if you're going through with this," He sits next to Sam and reaches for the gun, pressing it to his own temple. "Take me with you."

More silence.

Then, what seems like an eternity later, the gun slips out Sam's grip and quickly, he unloads it.

"I'm sorry." Sam finally says softly, his eyes bloodshot and misty. "I just . . ."

"I know." Dean interjects quietly, pulling his brother to his side. He hasn't held Sam like this since he was a little kid, but it's funny how natural it is for him to offer comfort to his little brother. It's as natural as breathing.

Dean feels like he should be able to say something right now, something profound. Something that will convey to Sam that everything will be okay and that he will always has his back. But, holding Sam, listening to his breathing steadying, it occurs to the older brother that this is all he needs to say.

Whatever the days ahead hold, whatever obstacles come in their path, the two of them are a team and they will get through them together.

"Just close your eyes, Sammy." He whispers, running a hand through Sam's hair. "Get some rest."

And thankfully, Sam does.

Dean, on the other hand, just savors the brief respite. There will be challenges down the road, but it will be moments like this that will give him strength to power through.

Together, the Winchesters can overcome anything.

Author's Note: There may be a follow up to this piece in the future. I'm leaving the ending a bit open-ended just in case. Anyways, thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!