Here's how you can help sam:
PM Me a name you want to go by ( elise, amber, whatever) and something you would say to him to cheer him up. include one detail about yourself: descriptive of your apperance (blonde) or personality (bubbly).

But only of course if you want to play a cruical role in the end.

TODAY'S UPDATE IS DEDICATED TOO: everyone out there that insits on writing deathfics.

Disclaimer:Use this story as the reason why Erik Kripke won't let me own them. Although, I still don't get...they're in one piece....*pouts*

Remember how I said this story was to involve EVERY type of fan fiction? WARNING: SUPER ANGSTY CHAPTER- DEATH FIC!!!

Chapter Seven: Kill Dean Vol. 1. (or is it volume 20? Does anyone keep track of how often he dies on the show?)

Dean had learned early in life that one thing that would stayed permanent was Sam, his Sammy that he had risked everything to save time and time again. Now that he had Sam back there was no way he would let some wannabe poet ghost take him.

He surveyed his choices again. He remembered buying waffles before for Sammy, when they were younger. It makes him smile to recall Sam waking up Saturdays with the biggest grin. Dean never liked motel life, but that was one of the moments that grounds him and defines his concept of home.

When he hears the first scream, he assumes there needs to be clean up on aisle 3. But more people are screaming, and there is one loud, defiant voice among them. Hunter instincts kick in and he runs down aisle 3, nearly slipping on the wet mess of blood. At the row of neat and orderly cashier stands is chaos.

"Everybody get down!" Screams the man with the gun. He's flanked on either side by like-wise dressed companions, each toting their own lethal weapon. They separate as each goes up to the victims to collect wallets. Dean doesn't think they've noticed him, and he slinks back into the shadows of aisle 3. Among the spilled and broken cereal, is a dead security guard. If he wasn't sure before, he is now. These idiots are deadly serious. Well, Dean thought, two can play that game.

Dean withdraws his gun; glad to see he's reloaded. The first one walks by him. He taps hid shoulder and as he turns to face him, he slams a box of waffles into his face. "How do you like them waffles, eh?"

Gingerly, he takes the gun from the unconscious criminal. Now to add to his displeasure, he'd have to go get another box of waffles. As Dean moves through the grocery store, he sees two kids shuddering next to a display. Brothers from the looks of it, and the eldest is wrapping his arms around the other. Dean crouches down in front of them. "It will be okay," he promises, hoping that works.

The younger, sandy haired one nods, then starts muttering, "it will…it will be okay..."

The older one hugs him tighter, "That's right Seth. It will be okay…"

Dean walks away from the pair. He hates this store with every step for reminding him of what family used to mean to him and Sam. It wasn't always about duty and endless orders first, it was about family first. They were both hurting inside, but they wouldn't acknowledge it with the all the apocalypse drama being more important.

He promises himself he's going to beat these robbers to a pulp and then he's going to go home and help Sam. And not just with this angst business, but with everything.

Dean knows his thoughts are losing their focus as he approaches the next robber. But he doesn't see the third appear behind him. "A hero, eh?" the leader booms.

As Dean turns, the gun is fired.

Doesn't matter.

Got to get home.

Got to help Sam.

Got to end this.

He's sure the bullet missed, because his legs are pumping and he moves forward. In one fluid motion he pulls out his gun, aims, and pulls the trigger. Dean fires and watches as the leader's look of puzzlement dies with him. Dean smiles only to collapse on a display of tomatoes.

His clothes stain a deep red and he's still trying to figure out if blueberry waffles were the right choice. As a crowd gathers around him, people gasp in horror. He looks down at his chest and the seeping blood. Dean reasons that all he needs is some stitches and he'll be fine. An EMT is touching him now, shaking his sadly. Dean wants to yell at them, but his voice dies in his throat. The pain is so bad, but the heartache is worse. Even as he screams at his muscles to regain control, he slips into a permanent state of unconsciousness.

Alistair's voice fills his ear with a dry chuckle that Dean knows so well. It's not the hooks in his skin that make him panic, but seeing Alistair, toying with another knife, really sends him over the edge. Because if he's here... if he's really… Dean drops his head in frustration.

He's failed Sam again.

To Be Continued....

....sorry....