Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters.

Set: Pre-series (Non-canon compliant)

Main characters: Sam and Dean

Ships: N/A

Ages: Sam is sixteen, Dean is twenty

WARNING! Fairly gorey in the first chapter and Sam does die in it, but he doesn't stay dead don't worry!


Chapter One: Do I Still Deserve to Go to Heaven?


Sam Winchester was eight years old when he shot his first gun.

And ten when he killed someone for the first time.

He remembers, vaguely, sobbing into Dean's shirt after the shapeshifter went down in a pathetic slump. The young boy had never wanted to hurt someone that badly again. Never wanted to kill again. Not after the nightmares and cold sweats and panic attacks that had followed.

The guilt had been the worst.

Now, nearly six years later… Sam really only felt guilty about not feeling guilty. He used to keep all his kills notched onto a notebook with shaky pen ink. Not to gloat but to haunt himself. He used to be terrified about the moment he grew numb to the killing. But then, Dean had been… right. It hadn't been a slow process -losing his humanity, that was- it was quick. As smooth and brief as his kills had become.

Leveling the barrel forward, Sam pulled the trigger without a moment of hesitation. The charging form of the skinwalker stopped dead, literally. And instead of crying about it, he turned and shoved the stock of his gun into another skinwalker's wolfish jaw moments before it snipped at his face.

It let out a snarl of pain, and Sam filled the animal's head with silver.

Once Sam and his kin had wiped out the entire pack -and only then- did he allow his head to spin for a second. His ears rang with the howls of battle, and he searched for his guilt. His hands were clean, but hypothetical blood still coated them. Shouldn't he feel… something? He waited, and the feeling never came.

He wiped his hands on his pants and headed over to his brother. Dean's hair was slicked across his forehead with sweat, looking more shaggy at that moment than ever before. His eyes were haunted with a sick pride as he surveyed the field, and Sam wondered, briefly, how long it had taken his brother to mask that. "Did any bite ya?"

Sam shook his head.

And then they both headed back to the Impala where John was waiting, letting the unsaid -Are you okay?- lay dead with their kills.

Getting into the vehicle, Sam let himself relax in the backseat. His eyes closed briefly, and the darkness that succumbed to his vision was quickly overtaken by the flashing faces of his victims. Dean hated that Sam called their kills victims because the things they killed were the predators, not the other way around. But in the end, hadn't Sam been the one with the rifle? The blade? Nothing stood a chance against a Winchester.

Nothing except their own mind. And the violence carved into their brains.

Sam thought about that violence a lot. Sometimes, he tried distancing himself from it. Tried to pretend that when the young man was sitting in class taking his math test, he hadn't spent the day before blowing bullets into skulls. And when Trevor and Billie pounded their family problems into him, Sam tried to ignore the fact that he could shoot them and get away with it.

His life had become a painful routine. Kill, school, bullies, get stabbed- wait.

That wasn't right.

The young man looked down. Blood was spouting from his chest, and already he couldn't even focus on what he even needed to do. His ears felt stuffed full of cotton, and he could faintly hear someone shouting. When Sam's legs gave out, and his head slammed into the cold school tile, he wanted to laugh.

If he died, would it be Trevor or Billie who got to start his own notebook?

He'd find out later that it would've been both of them. They'd kill him together. He wouldn't remember it, but it was Billie who grabbed his feet, Trevor his hands, and the alleyway just outside the school that would lay final claim to his body. And when Sam woke up, because miraculously he did, he would find that he was still bleeding in that same alleyway.

Rocks were shoved into his wound, and the stench of blood and trash coiled in his nose. Sam tried to push himself into a sitting position, but his abdomen erupted in agony, and he only slipped lower to the ground. Throwing his vision upward, he guessed it was around four in the afternoon. Sam didn't know exactly when he'd been stabbed... but judging by the bath of blood he was laying in, he knew he didn't have much time left.

And so he did the one thing he knew he could actually count on.

He called Dean.

The phone didn't even get to ring once before his brother picked up, and Sam gasped in relief. His hands were pale, shaking worse than the time in December when he'd gotten frostbite deep in the Appalachian forest. "What's up?" His brother inquired casually, and his voice was enough to comfort Sam into silence. He was saved.

When he didn't get a response, Dean's voice grew taut, "Sam?"

And the young man knew he should tell Dean where he was, but truthfully, he didn't even know. His lips mouthed silent, unintelligible words, and his phone slipped from his hands and landed not so neatly into his puddle of blood. Panic overtaking him, Sam could only blurt out, "School," before darkness lay claim to him one last time.

If he stopped fighting, like he was doing now, he wondered if Dean could ever forgive him.

And if he died, did he even deserve to go to Heaven?


When Sam was ten, he killed his first monster.

It was a shapeshifter, disguised to look like a middle-aged man. Dean remembered it like he remembered any of his hunts, excruciatingly vivid. But it wasn't one of Dean's hunts... it was worse. It was Sam's. And when the smoke cleared, it wasn't the fourteen-year-old or his father standing there victorious, but instead, a little boy who never should've been there in the first place.

Sam should never have been brought along. He should've been home at the cabin, safe. But John had said that he would never learn without experience and had sworn that the little boy would be away from any fighting if fighting should occur.

How could anybody have predicted that John would be wrong?

How could anybody have predicted that the shapeshifter would crash into the Impala, that Dean would lose his gun, that John wouldn't have a clear shot? Who could have guessed that if given another five seconds, the shapeshifter would've torn into Dean's skin?

Dean would've given everything he had to make things go differently. But it appeared God didn't want anything from Dean. Because little Sam would pick up his big brother's gun and fire a round of silver into the shapeshifter's body. Everything after happened painfully slowly. Sam had let out a scream of horror louder than Dean had ever heard before, and the teenager pulled his baby brother harshly into an embrace.

"Sammy, hey, Sammy, it's okay… you saved me. You saved us all," he whispered hurriedly.

John was staring at them from a distance, his eyes unreadable and his expression flat. His gun had lowered and was now resting by his side. Dean rubbed circles into Sam's back, unable to find the strength to look away from the cold comfort his dad offered him.

Sam had been too young. This kind of shit would never leave you. He was supposed to have been safe. Sam never should've even come on the hunt. He didn't even know how to do fractions in school yet... he shouldn't be killing! Shouldn't even be witnessing a killing. But John didn't make a move to help, and Dean refused to let his anger about the situation show through.

Sam needed him. "I'm proud of ya, Sammy… you saved me. Saved Dad… you did so, so good…" Dean's voice was shaking now, matching his brother's trembles. "We're safe now 'cause of you. All 'cause of you…"

The youngest Winchester stayed that way -silent and sobbing- for a long time before he finally looked Dean in the eyes. "I killed someone…" he whispered. And it was the way Sammy's voice sounded so goddamned broken that Dean remembered why he would never let his brother hurt like this again. Maybe he couldn't keep Sam from getting injured, but Sam would never have to do it alone. And no matter when he called for help, Dean would always answer.

"You saved me."


Dean didn't need another second of clarification before throwing himself into the Impala and speeding down to Sam's school.

His brain was haunted with raw fear and every sick possibility out there. Sam was dead, dying, kidnapped, being tortured. It could've been anyone who put his brother in a state close to death, a werewolf, wendigo, shapeshifter, kitsune. Something could be feeding off his brother at the very same moment Dean was speeding near seventy in a twenty-five zone.

Like hell did he care about some traffic violations when Sam was injured.

The young man barely remembered to turn off the car before he charged into the school. Classes had gotten out nearly an hour ago, leaving the hallways desolate and eerie. Dean cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed for his brother. It wasn't even like anyone else would call back. Even when school was in session, there were barely any faculty around.

Rounding a corner, Dean felt the oxygen getting sucked from his lungs.

Two teenagers were on their knees, scrubbing ferociously at crimson tiles. One of the boys was looking straight at him now, having been warned by his shouts... but the other was lost in the clean-up. Dean felt red hot rage, and before he knew it, he had the bigger of the two slammed up against the wall.

Dean felt inhumane as he held the teenager there, off the ground, by his neck. Didn't even recognize the words he was spitting at the young man. He could feel the other boy pulling desperately at his shoulder, but it didn't take long to realize he had the advantage. Whatever weapon that had caused the bloodshed was gone, discounted as evidence.

"I said 'where the fuck is my brother'?" The brother snarled in the terrified boy's face. When no reply was given, Dean pulled him back and slammed him against the wall once more. Harder this time. The young man couldn't feel a single bone in his body, just the heat, anger, and fear.

The boy behind him spoke, "The alleyway! He's, he's just outside those doors!"

Dean didn't delay his brother's rescue any longer and let the teenager in his grip slide to the ground. Faint splatters of blood now decorated the wall where he'd slammed the boy's head, but he couldn't stop to consider the health of the two mother-fuckers that could've killed Sammy. Once Sam was okay, a small head wound would be nothing compared to what Dean would do to his brother's attackers.

Throwing open the glass doors, Dean turned the corner and nearly got sick. Never before had blood bothered him, but Sam was laying cold and pale white in a pool of his own gore.

Pulling his brother close against his chest, Dean's hands skimmed across Sam's body in search of the wound that was causing all of this. When his fingers met the squish of ravaged skin, he let out a shaky exhale and pressed his palm tightly against the hole. "It's gonna be okay. Sammy, just listen. It's gonna be okay…"

Slipping off his flannel, Dean tied it tightly around his brother's stomach and gently lifted him into his arms. Dean's heart lept in fear when he found himself not struggling to lift his six-foot brother. Sam felt basically weightless now, and with his body not responding to the movement, Dean couldn't help but fear the worse.

And then Dean ran.

Because now Sam needed to be saved.


A/N: Hey! New book! Will have quite a few chapters. Be wary of maybe some slow updates but it will get updated. Again Sam, does die in this but he won't stay dead. (It's Supernatural, obviously he can't stay dead.)

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