Disclaimer: Don't own them, because if I did, they would have died several times and no one would be any the wiser. I seem to have this thing about killing them off…
Warning: Okay, so, Character Death. A bit of violence. But no swearing in this one, I swear. Well, it depends on what you call swearing. So, might be if you look hard. Oh, and the speed at the end is in kilometres, cause miles is just confusing. Hey, I am Australian
Author's Note: I'm finally back! I know, it's been ages since I last posted, with the end of A Psychic's Touch. But I swear, it's not my fault. It's kinda hard to have the net when you don't have a phone line… So this one is a 'What if'… and it's what I think could have happened if Sam hadn't found Roy in the episode Faithless. It's meant to be… a little sad, but not in a really teary way, kind of more, I dunno, depressing. Well, not depressing. I don't know how to describe it. You can decide for yourself, I suppose. Have fun!
Faithless
Dean didn't die easy or quick. Sam, not wanting to be surrounded by people in a crap motel in the middle of nowhere, took his big brother out to the nearest forest. He thought Dean would have liked that, even though he constantly professed to hate the forest. But to be near the world, touching it as he heaved his last harsh gasp… yeah, Dean would have liked that.
But Dean was barely conscious as the car trudged out to the empty parking lot late that night. He wasn't rational as Sam carried him to the middle of a clearing far away from a civilisation that would never truly accept them. Dean would have liked that. Not the irrational bit. But the being away from ignorant people thing, definitely.
Dean heaved, and coughed, and gasped with pain. And finally, Sam couldn't take it any longer. He couldn't stand the pain his big brother was feeling. He couldn't stand the gasps for air, the heaving, the feeble attempts to clutch at a heart beating its last beats, pumping its last blood. So he fulfilled Dean's final wish. He took the gun John had given him on his birthday six years ago. He placed it at Dean's forehead. A look of peace passed over his dying brother's face the instant before he pulled the trigger.
He didn't hear the shot. At least, not physically. But it wracked his body, making him tremble violently as he dropped the cold weapon. It had been Dean's final wish.
"Don't let me suffer, Sammy."
He almost pulled the trigger a second time, right there and then. Placed it at his temple. He didn't have purpose here anymore. His last hold on normality had fled with the soul of his now dead brother. He had nothing left. His dad had abandoned him. He had abandoned college and friends. He couldn't go back. And now evil had taken the only thing left to him. So he almost pulled the trigger, anything to disperse the fiery emotions tearing through him. The hatred, the anger, the fear, the grief. He almost pulled it.
But the body is a tool of survival. It didn't want to die, whatever Sammy's mind screamed for, whatever his soul cried as it fled to hide somewhere inside of him. His body wouldn't follow. It took that strong mind of Sam's and turned it to the one thing that he could understand now, the one thing that would keep it alive.
Hatred seeped through him, making him shake. He suddenly lusted for revenge. He needed to find who had killed Dean. He needed to destroy them, just as they had destroyed his strong brother, made him a shadow. He needed to… he would ravage those who had failed to save his big brother. The new purpose lit a deadly fire inside. But Sam didn't feel it. All he had now was hatred.
Sam lovingly pulled the shotgun from the Impala's trunk. He caressed it, felt thrills when he loaded it with real ammo, not that rock salt crap someone else had used to rid the world of evil. He shut the boot.
The hospital loomed in the night sky, and the thought of what was inside made him boil with hatred. The people inside that building had failed to save Dean. All they had done was make him weak. All rationality was gone from him. Just the hatred remained. They would pay. They would feel the pain they hadn't saved Dean from…
… People screaming brought him out of the berserk rage the sliding doors of the hospital had brought on. But it didn't stop him. Instead, it made him feel… excited. He chose his shots with care, not firing blankly at everyone who crossed his path. His mind, having deserted the mindless grief and having latched onto the hatred like a drowning man's last hope, picked out the white coats, pulled the shotgun up and…
… He went out the hospital the back way, going back to the Impala and leaving town as quickly as he could. The hatred remained, as strong as ever. His frenzy at the hospital had done nothing and he still had those emotions ripping him apart. Only now the grief was keen, his anger high… and there was a new emotion. Remorse. Why?
He sat in the Impala, crying, weeping, sobbing silently. He sat in the passenger seat.
What had he become? He had killed so many innocent people. He had read about it the paper, had been hit by a force so powerful it had knocked him out. He had killed twenty-seven people in his frenzy. That had been wrong. And he had finally figured it out. It wasn't those people who had killed Dean. He knew who now. But how to get at a man he didn't know how to find? He smiled as the thought sprung in his head. It would stop his pain as well…
The night was dark, the rain heavy, the roads icy and slick. Sam had the accelerator pushed down as far as it would go, and he wished it would go faster. One-twenty and climbing. Slowly. Too slowly. But it would get there soon. And when it did… Sam smiled with anticipating relief. He would take the Impala with him. He thought Dean would like that. Take the last vestige of the Winchester brothers with him. Yeah, Dean would like that. One-thirty.
He got out the cell phone and dialled the number he knew off by heart. It rang three times before going to message bank. The message played, the message Sam knew off by heart. It clicked.
"Dad, it's Sam," he shouted, unable to contain his rage. His voice shook and he screamed though, despite the rain, the car was largely silent. Or maybe his mind was. One-forty. "Dammit Dad, you caused all this. Now Dean's dead. It's all your fault!"
His hand gripped the phone until he thought it should break. His knuckles around the steering wheel were white. "He died trying to find you, you selfish bastard, and you had to go off and run. I hate you. I had to sit there with him while he gasped for breath, while he screamed in pain. I had to end it for him. Do you know what it's like to pull the trigger on your own brother? Do you!" It was a loud, screeching scream, matching the sound of his tires. One-fifty. "I hate you! I hope you get this soon, so you can know the pain I felt when you failed us. When you failed Dean! And now you've killed both of us. Goodbye Dad!"
He didn't hang up but tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. Let his dad hear the crash, the impact. He grinned in ecstasy. Finally, it would be all over. He picked his target with the same clarity of mind he had picked his victims with. One-sixty.
The tree came easy and quick, and then there was nothingness.
Like it? Hate it? Overdramatic? Slightly psychotic? Do I have problems? Abso-fricking-lutely. Thanks for reading.