Just a quick one-shot based off of an imagine from the utterly amazing blog .com.
The boys were out on a hunt. You were left behind, as per usual. You helped with the leg work, and then they completed the fun part. You hated when they did that to you. Not only were you not there to protect them, but you were left alone in bunker, old and boring as always, and you were alone with your thoughts. And you hated what the thoughts told you.
They told you that you should hurt yourself, that you should just end everything. There was a rational part of you that could think out the consequences of such an action, and you could see that it would be irreversible, and it would hurt those closest to you. But there was the other part of you that craved the end. You would entertain these thoughts seriously, and you couldn't deny that they sounded intriguing. It had gotten worse over the past couple of months, moving from occasionally thinking about it to obsessing over it. You thought about being killed on purpose on a hunt, but every time you tried, the boys saved you. They didn't know that you wanted to do this to yourself, so naturally they were concerned with your inability to stay alive on a hunt. They didn't know that leaving you behind to save your ass was just as bad as bringing you along. Someone who wants to die will find a way.
It wasn't meant to be that night. You hadn't been as bad lately, and that rational part of your brain was hopeful that maybe it was all over. But on the way out of the bunker, you had heard Sam muttering "...better without her..." You didn't know how to take that. You didn't even know if you had just imagined it or if he really felt that way. To be honest, you were past the point of caring. It just pushed you over the edge.
You sat around for an hour, just in case the boys came back because they forgot something important, you wouldn't put it past them. You took the time to write a quick note. It wouldn't be fair anyway, what you were doing, but it would be worse if you didn't outline why. You told them simply that the thoughts had gotten the best of you, and now you wouldn't be in the way.
You grabbed your favorite gun, and wondered where to go. You were determined, there was no going back, so now the rational mind was trying to fix all the details so it would as painless as possible for all parties involved. The gun so it would be over fast for you. A random storeroom, so the guys wouldn't have to be in the same room you committed the act in every day, and face the memories. The note would be on the large middle room table, where they would be sure to find it, before finding you.
You sat down on a random box in the room. It was quiet. You could only hear your own steady breathing, and the voice inside your head telling you to do it already. You looked around you, looking for a sign that this was the way it was supposed to end. The gun in your scared hand held so many memories. The scars themselves represented various fights that you'd been a part of. All of the memories weighed on you. You were ready to be done.
You raised the gun to your head. You clicked the safety off, and took a deep breath.
Suddenly, all in a less than a second, you heard running footsteps down the hall outside the door. You heard other doors being open and closed, and your name being called. You gave a curse under your breath, and sat there in the silence, not sure how to react, if you should get it over with fast before they discovered your room, or hope that they skipped your door, or hope that they would find you. The split second you took thinking your options through was enough time, and Dean opened your door. His face was panicked when he saw you, registering only your body and not the necessary fact that you were still alive. You were still holding the gun near your head, and once Dean saw that there was no blood, his eyes fixated on it.
"Give me the gun," he said softly, as if you were a small child ready to throw a tantrum. And, like a small child, you gave a shake of your head. You weren't ready to let it go yet. You weren't ready to give up all the mental preparation that had gone into getting to this point. You weren't ready to give back into the memories, and remember and live with all the horrible things you'd done and seen. You weren't ready to still be hanging around where you weren't wanted. And that gun was your best chance.
You raised it a little, and something in your eye must have told Dean that you weren't going to give in that easy. "Alright, alright, lets just talk," he said slowly. "Why? Can you answer me that?"
You took a breath and said, "The memories. Of everything. All the time weighing on me...and the voice telling me to do it..."
Dean nodded, contemplating. You could tell it was hard for him, hearing that, knowing that you had felt this way and he knew nothing of it. You heard a larger set of footsteps running down the hall, slowing when the approached your door, as if afraid of the scene they would find there. Sam's face came into view, and the expression changed from one of fear to one of relief. He stepped into the room, ducking in order to not hit his head on the naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. His eyes scanned the situation before you, and like his brother fixated on the gun you had still slightly raised.
"Please," he said, the pain apparent in his voice. "Don't do this. We need you."
The thing inside of you that had been keeping you quiet snapped at that. "Well we know that's a lie," you said, venom seeping into the words. "I heard you on the way out. You said you'd be better without me."
Dean seemed to snap at that as well, and retorted with a loud, "He said we were better with you! WITH YOU! You are something for us to stay alive for. You are the world to us, and without you, we both might have given up. We've been strong for you. Why is it you don't get to be strong for us? Can you imagine what would happen to us if you did this? Can you see the aftermath? We've lost so many people already, we can't have another die for nothing."
You had approximately one second before Dean lurched from his seat on a box next to you. He tackled you, and the gun skittered out of your hand as you hit the floor hard. He pinned your arms next to your sides, and looked at you with his green eyes.
"You will not do this to yourself or us. We all deserve better, and we will work this out with you."
The tension seeped out of your body at that, and for the first time in years, you gave in to the memories, gave in to everything, and cried.