I blame this on Jules. My very good friend has convinced me to go even further with this, and has given me some awesome ideas to steal.

I have even more than this part planned, but I wanted to get some sort of update up before I left for the holidays.

Thank you Jules, from here on out this is dedicated to you.

I also apologize, one of the boards I post at requires code for italics, and I had forgotten to take them out of this post. Fixed.


Then...

No injury I've ever witnessed has had Dean in such a state of pain. I have seen him take almost everything, but not once has he ever cried. From being stitched to having his broken arm set by our own father, all he's ever done was to sit and suffer silently, his eyes fixed on me, not once offering a vocal admittance to the amount of pain he was in.

The yellowed-eye son of a bitch doesn't count. His torture on Dean was inhumane. Or maybe my view of my life is now compromised by my death. All I can see now is this larger than life older brother, who could do no wrong and showed no weakness. At this point he could have stepped into a phone booth, ripped at his clothing, and stepped out in blue and red spandex, and I wouldn't have been surprised. Dean was my superhero.

But maybe, when I wasn't there for him to fix his gaze on, he was unable to stay silent. He could finally unleash his tight hold on the facade.

He's leaning on the door frame, his gaze fixed on me, and once again he's silently plowing through his pain.

Bobby returns, his arms loaded with food. Dean refuses the help, but turns and grabs the bottle once more.

Now...

I cross my arms and lean on the aged wooden counter, this isn't going to end well. Dean has a deadened look in his eyes, and he's gripping the bottle like he's ready to start swinging. The only one in his path right now is Bobby.

Especially since Bobby just approached the subject of putting me to rest. I want nothing more than for Dean to build a pyre, start the mourning. The longer he stays with me in that cabin, the closer he is to no return.

I can see what's about to happen, its something I have feared since I was old enough to understand. I knew that if I was the first to go, Dean would push everyone away and try to bear through the pain alone. Maybe I wasn't so selfish to want to go together, or for him to go first. I'm worried my quick, unexpected death will destroy him.

It also saddens me that our last unknowing conversation was about pie.

"Somethin' big is going down. End of the world big." I have to give Bobby props for trying, but I know he is approaching Dean the wrong way. I run my hands through my hair in frustration, and give an angry growl.

"Well then let it end!"

"You don't mean that," Bobby argues.

"You don't think so? Huh? You don't think I've given enough? You don't think I've paid enough? I'm done with it…all of it."

The fury in Dean's voice is startling, and I'm glad I'm leaning on the counter. The sharp cold edge digs into my hip as I rest my full weight; at this point I do not trust my own legs.

Then it happens, Dean pushes Bobby away, literally. Bobby was the last remaining hunter we could really count on, the battle last year with Meg had ensured that. We had always kept a place for Ellen, but since we truly didn't know her, she was a last resort. Or at least that's what Dean had said, though I knew he was wary of why Dad had kept her world a secret from us.

Recognizing a futile attempt, Bobby turns to leave. In an instant I'm off of the counter and chasing after the older hunter. "Bobby, please, stay, you can't leave him alone, come on Bobby," I'm repeating, rambling over and over again.

Bobby can't hear me, the desperation and fear in my voice echoes around me, myself, and I. The door slams, and we're alone.

At this point I'm not sure who is worse off.

Dean takes another long swig from the bottle, and slowly spins the cap back on. He turns his back to me, and for the first time I notice how pronounced the slump in his shoulders has become.

He slowly spins, and begins to walk towards me. His eyes are downcast, but I know where he's headed. He passes right by, but his shoulder brushes mine. He stops, his head perks up.

"Sammy?" he says quietly, then shakes his head. "Get a hold of yourself Winchester." He sounds angry with himself, bitter.

"Hey Sammy," he says carefully while he drags a chair from the corner over to the bed.

This is the first time I've looked at my body in the past few hours. If possible, I've become even worse for wear, my skin has taken on an ashy tone, my cheeks and eyes have sunken. My vision blurs, and though I don't feel the burn, I know my eyes have filled with tears. How the hell is this fair? I have never truly known fairness in my life, but this one takes the cake. To be taken out from behind by a punk ass weasel was not the way I had imagined my imminent death.

I shared, though I never would have admitted to it, Dean's vision of going out in glory, of taking as many evil bastards out with me as I could. Maybe cause a few explosions, make the ten o'clock news.

"You know when we were little, I mean you couldn't have been more than five, you just started asking questions. How come we didn't have a mom, why do we always have to move around, where'd Dad go…when he'd take off for days at a time. I remember, I begged you 'quit asking Sammy, man you don't want to know'."

I remember that time in our lives vividly, he protected me from more than I ever knew. Part of me will always resent this, I suppose. I was sheltered my whole life, protected under the shadows of two great heros. Maybe if I hadn't been so pampered and hidden, I would have done what needed to be done. Jake should have died, I should have killed him. I blame my own weakness for this costly mistake. Because I wasn't strong enough, Dean is now paying the cost.

"I just wanted you to be a kid, just for a little while longer. I always tried to protect you, keep you safe."

"You did man."

"Dad didn't even have to tell me, it was just always my responsibility, ya know? It was like I had one job…I had one job, and I screwed it up." The last line came out in a broken sob, as Dean begins to do something I hadn't seen in a long time.

My own chest begins to tighten, and I think it was only the sheer amount of guilt and anger that was enabling me to feel at all. It is the first emotion I'm feeling since the son of a bitch stabbed me in the back, and I don't want it to stop. I want to feel as much pain as Dean is, I want to share his grief and his heart break.

"I blew it…and for that I'm sorry." Dean wipes at the first fall of tears, and I gently lower myself to sit opposite him. I have my back turned to my own body as I move myself into Dean's line of sight.

"Don't apologize Dean. You have nothing to be sorry for." Oh God don't apologize.

"I guess that's what I do. I let down the people I love. I let Dad down…and now I guess I'm just supposed to let you down too?"

"No Dean! You didn't let me down, you didn't let Dad down! Oh God Dean, this one is all my fault! Don't you dare place the blame on yourself! Blame me for once damnit!!"

"How can I? Am I supposed to live with that?"

His voice is nearly monotone, devoid of the any emotion. At this point he's making statements rather than asking questions.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Live! Burn my body, set me free, and move on!" I've jumped off of the bed and am now pacing around the room, waving my arms as I fight to be heard. Dean is not going to let this go, he's not going to let me go. I can see that his grief is tearing him apart, and I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to save him.

"Sammy…" he pleads, his façade falling apart. "Oh God…"

"Dean, come on man, don't do this. You know what has to be done. Put me to rest and go find Bobby. He needs you! You need him!" I damn Bobby for leaving him alone; I damn myself for killing him.

"What am I supposed to do?" His anger is growing, and I know he's about to put his plans into action. For the past few hours, he's been putting together a plan, I could see it. Now, he's about to execute, and I am suddenly cold all over.

His inhale is sharp and quick, and he slowly rises. Kicking the bottom of the metal bed frame, he yells out: "What am I supposed to do?!"

"Live Dean," I whisper quietly, my failure crushing me under its weight. "Live for me...live for you...live for us..."


More probably after the holidays.

Hope you all have a pleasantly wonderful holiday season.

Kris