"No! No! No! No! No! Oh God!" Dean held Sam in his arms with tears streaming down his face. "Sam!"
Bobby left the motel room reluctantly, but Dean was glad that he did. Tears poured down his face with speed, and Dean didn't bother wiping them away. What was the point? They'd just come back. Dean reached for Sam and took his cold, limp hand in his own. He let out a choked sob. He couldn't believe that Sam, his baby brother, his Sammy, is dead. And it's all his fault. If I had only gotten there sooner, if I didn't have him go into the restaurant alone, I could have saved him. He was my responsibility, and now he's gone!
Dean stood up, and gently placed Sam's hand down. He walked over to the booze, and pulled the top off of a new bottle of whiskey. He drank straight from the bottle. When he brought the bottle away from his lips, he wiped his mouth with the thumb side of his left hand. His eyes downcast, and froze on his wrist. Smooth, soft, light skin that itched for a feeling. His whole body itched for a feeling that wasn't sorrow and grief. He took another mouthful of whiskey, enjoying the burn of it as it slid down his throat. It took one more glance at Sam's mangled body to know what to do to make his body feel something.
Taking the bottle with him, Dean stormed over to the small bathroom. He pulled out his weapon bag, and searched the contents until he found what he was looking for. He placed it on the table, and took another swig of alcohol. He put the bottle on the ground, rolled up his left sleeve, and began.
He used the pure silver knife, that was meant for fighting werewolves. He sliced over and over again, thirty times trying to stay only on his wrist, just in case Bobby saw him with fewer layers on. This is for not being able to save Sam. He cut five more times. For not being able to save Dad. He cut ten more times. For not being able to save anyone. Dean cut until he ran out of room on his left arm, then switched to his right. He did everything to make his emotional pain go away, and be replaced with physical pain. Physical pain is easier to control, easier to fix, but emotional pain isn't. Some pain never goes away, and can only be leveled with something else. Dean knows that all too well. So he cut to fill the void he had in his chest. He cut to keep his sanity. He cut because he didn't care about what happened to him. Why did Sam have to die?! Why couldn't it have been me?! Sam doesn't deserve this, ANY of this!
Dean finally put the blade down, and rinsed the blood off in the sink, then put it back in his bag. Then Dean examined his wrists. The soft, smooth skin that once was, is now rough and broken. He had to admit, seeing the crimson drip down was kind of beautiful. It signified control. He could control the amount he cut, and the amount of blood the leaked, unlike so many things in his life, he could control this, and it brought him a moment of bliss; until he remembered why he cut in the first place.
Dean picked up the whiskey bottle again, he took a sip, then poured some of the burning liquid on both of his wrists, to clean the wounds. He hissing in pain, as the alcohol disinfected his wound. He put a bandage on the many cuts he just made, and rummaged through his bag, and found some of his old bracelets, and put those on, tying his best to cover his bound wrists.
Dean left the bathroom, and took another sip of whiskey. He put the half empty bottle down on the counter and sat next to Sam's corpse.
"You know, when you were little, you couldn't have been more than five, you just started asking questions." Dean began to say. He spoke to Sam for a bit, before ending with, "What am I supposed to do?" That's when he immediately realized, he knew what he needed to do. He shot and and grabbed his car keys. He went out the door.
"I'll be right back, Sam."
That was the last thing Dean said before diving off to a cross-road. He knew what he had to do. He had to bring his brother back, even if it meant dying himself.
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