Dean had been hovering over Sam's corpse for well over 10 hours. Despite Bobby's persistent attempts to get him to eat or move, Dean never budged. The man planted himself on the ground beside his diseased brother, and didn't utter a single word ever since.
Bobby had taken off ages ago in hopes of locating Jake, but he hadn't called with an update on how things were going. But Dean couldn't have cared less where Jake was, more or less where Bobby was.
Dean had screwed up. Big time. And he was mentally killing himself for it.
Sammy was all he had, and his responsibility this whole time wasn't to find that damned demon, but to protect his little brother. And he couldn't even do that.
Millions of thoughts and ideas popped up in Dean's mind, such as summoning the crossroads demon and bargaining his soul for his brother, or just burying Sam and getting things over with. But neither seemed justifiable enough, not for Sammy. Despite the number of reasonable ideas that came to mind, Dean ignored all and hovered around one final solution to the whole issue. He wouldn't be able to cope with all of this weight and blood now resting on his shoulders, and at the same time he doubted greatly he'd get even a mere year to live if he were to swap his soul for Sam's life at the crossroads. It was a win-lose situation, and that one idea seemed to win over the others at that given point in time.
There was a hundred-percent chance that Dean was going to go to Hell after all of this either way. It didn't matter, because he would rather burn in the darkest pits of the damned place than suffer with the overwhelming guilt and stress that had begun to consume him ever since his father's death.
Dean craned his stiff neck and looked behind him. Bobby still hadn't shown up, giving him the perfect chance to follow through with his last plan. Something was tugging at his mind to go to the crossroads, but Dean didn't oblige and merely looked back down at Sam's pale face. His vision grew blurry with oncoming tears and he rested his head in his hands as the memory of his death of his brother's death began to etch its way back into his heart and mind. The memory of Sam falling down onto his knees, the life draining out of his eyes, and him finally slumping against his brother flashed before Dean's own eyes, and the hunter groaned and dug his fingers into his forehead in an attempt to make the emotions stop.
Blood began to trickle from the pierced flesh, yet Dean squeezed tighter, trying to get rid of the feeling of Sam's limp body leaning against his own. Sobs began to wrench their way out of Dean's throat, his tears and saliva intermingling with words he couldn't get himself to emit. Dean crouched beside Sam's stiff and cold body before grabbing his brother's rigid hand and squeezing it tightly. Another onset of tears came after Dean imagined the hand squeezing back.
"Come back, Sam," Dean choked out, the tears trailing down his face dripping down and staining's Sam's beige jacket. "Please come back."
Dean remained in that position for the next few minutes, not moving and trying to restrain himself. He finally recollected himself and slowly stood up, his body feeling heavy and uncoordinated. The hunter's eyes were rimmed in red from crying and his cheeks were hot with emotion.
Suddenly, something clicked inside the man. A finalizing feeling settled in his heart, and he knew that he had to do it now, if he was going to do it at all.
Dean walked across the room, his steps light yet slow. He reached into his bag and rummaged through the contents until he pulled out his silver handgun, the object very heavy in his hand. Dean shifted the gun from hand to hand, his eyes scanning every last detail. He didn't know why he was stalling, because he was sure that this was the path he wanted to take. Dean took in a shaky breath and walked back to the area where Sam's corpse rested. He sat beside his sibling once again and stared down at his lifeless body, wishing that his brother would flinch or breath. Wishing that this was all some sick practical joke.
Wishing that Sam wasn't dead.
"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean apologized, shifting the gun from hand to hand again cautiously. "I'm sorry for not being there when you needed me. Well, sure, I was, but I'm sorry for not being the brother I should have been. For not protected you well enough. I mean," Dean chuckled darkly, tears building in his eyes again, "look how much I fucked up this time. You're dead.
"Why it had to be you, I'll never know. Out of all people that deserved to die, it should have been me, Sammy," Dean murmured, looking down at his feet. The tears had subsided at this point. "I'm still keeping to what I said, little brother. What's dead should stay dead, because I'm not sure what I'll bring back will be one hundred percent you. I can't deal with you being gone, though. What good am I without you?" Dean continued, switching the safety off.
The hunter's tone grew grim and cold. "After all, it was my job, right? Look after my pain-in-the-ass little brother." Dean raised the gun and pressed it against his temple slowly, his movements automatic, his body numb. He sighed heavily, taking in the sight of Sam's lifeless face one last time.
"I love you, Sammy."
Dean brought his finger down on the trigger. A loud bang sounded, there was a quick sensation of white-hot pain, and then everything went black.