Author's Note: This part of the story takes place in Season 2, right after Sam asks Dean to "watch out for him". This is a continuation of "Saving Sammy, the Boy King." This story makes reference to the previous chapter and to canon.

Triggers for sensitive themes and for attempted suicide.

Somewhere in the middle of Dean trying to convince Sam to go out with him, go to the bar right down the street, it dons on him that Sammy hasn't even bothered arguing, hasn't even acknowledged the invitation. He's quiet, sitting on his bed. Sam's been quiet a lot lately, more introspective (although Dean wouldn't have thought it possible).

Dean's getting a little tired of the whole emo-Sam act and, yeah, Sammy's still reeling from the secret of his father's last words to Dean, and he'd be lying if he said that the fiasco from a few months ago, the Boy King taunts, the nearly losing his brother to those demons and the following Dean, you may have to kill your brother from his dad didn't tie in just a little too well together. He knows it must be on Sam's mind, too.

Dean himself is still raw from Sam's drunken request less than a week ago; his brother doesn't drink often, but Dean had come home that night to find his brother drunkenly asking him to Watch out for me, to kill him if he had to.

Seemingly reading Dean's thoughts, Sam speaks for the first time all night.

"I need to know that you can do it, Dean, or I will." His voice is quiet and controlled, and Dean can tell Sammy's been trying to work up the nerve to say this for a while, maybe all night.

Best to play dumb, or even better, ignore it.

"The bar is right across the street; it'll be good. We can hustle some extra money, meet some chicks. Or just have fun."

Sam shakes his head sadly.

"I was always hanging around you like a lost puppy, Dean. And now Dad's left you with a brother that you may have to put me down like a rabid dog." Sam's voice breaks as if he's choking on the words.

Dean isn't in the mood for this, wants to go out and get drunk, maybe get laid. Wants to have fun with his brother, wants to be brothers and not worry about the future, not even think about the weight of the world that seems to always land right on his shoulders.

"Shut up, Sam."

Dean pours both he and Sam a drink, offers one to Sam. The kid doesn't even hesitate, takes it and downs it in once sip.

Shit.

Dean follows his lead, downs his, and is already pouring himself another. He holds up the bottle to Sam, but Sam isn't looking at him anymore, is just looking at the carpet in front of him.

"No, Dean. You never had a chance, did you? Mom died… because of me. Jess died," Sam deflates at her name, "because of me." His voice is thick, and Dean can see the effort this speech is costing his brother. "And Dad is dead, and his last words…" He risks a look to Dean, a pure ache in his eyes that makes Dean's bones chill, makes Dean take a sip of his drink.

"He said- he said you might have to kill me, Dean. Not lock me up.. not stop me, kill me. Dad burdened you with me from the night I killed Mom."

Dean knows how to deal with emo-bitch Sammy, but this is something different, something entirely raw and beyond his grasp because it is just so wrong. Because this is Sammy- fucking Sammy—and he's no monster, no mutt that needs putting down, and it just doesn't make any sense to him how Sammy can put this guilt on himself, carry this around, makes even less sense that Sam would see himself as Dean's burden. This is Sammy. He takes a drink and, fuck it's empty, pours himself some more.

"You never got to do what you wanted- it was always 'take care of Sam, take care of your brother'. You never had a childhood, Dean, never got to…" Sam stops to breathe.

"You can't tell me you would've chosen this. You have to resent me; I took Mom away, took away any chance of normal."

Sammy's picking at his fingernails, something Dean hasn't seen his brother do since the night he told them he was leaving for Stanford.

Dean feels his tenuous grip on his temper slipping, guzzles another sip of his drink to keep from saying something he's gonna regret, something Sam won't want to hear. Because if he's honest with himself, he's thought about all of this before, and while he doesn't for a second blame Sammy, he's getting sick of having the world on his shoulders and he's sick of Sam going off on their dad. And he's about two sips away from putting Sammy in his place.

"Dad burdened me with you, his son, because he couldn't-"

Dean comes unglued.

"What the fuck do you want, Sam!?" Dean slams his drink onto the table- it's whiskey, Sam notices, Dad's favorite. Dean's never been one for whiskey, but ever since Dad died, Dean's been drinking it more and more.

"Don't you fucking dare," he growls, and yeah, yelling at Sammy isn't the best thing, isn't what his brother needs, but Dean's seeing red now. He's angry at his dad, angry at the world, this yellow-eyed son of a bitch, and angry at Sammy for bringing this up, for always bringing it up.

"You think this is what I wanted? Growing up with you and Dad always goin' at it? Always having to play mediator, doing what Dad wanted, being the good son!? Taking care of you when you were too damn stubborn to do what needed to be done? You think I enjoyed all those years you fought with him? You never listened, you never fucking listened to the man, and now that he's dead, you're gonna crucify him some more? I gave up everything for this family. What have you given it?"

Okay, and maybe that last part came out a little harsh, but his anger and the whiskey are brewing together.

Sam looks even more shaken, but he starts again.

"You were always the son he wanted, and I was the son who took his wife away from him, took your chance of normal away… and now he's burdened you again with my death," Sammy says, his face completely white.

Dean picks up his glass, knocks back another two sips, and speaks, a bit surprised at how cold his voice comes out.

"You really that surprised?"

Sammy looks up, meets his eyes now.

"All you ever did was question his orders, bitch to him about everything he'd done wrong, bitch to me about following him. The demon killed our mom, damn near killed you, and you bitched about us trying to fight it. And what, now you're having this little hissy fit because, what, Daddy didn't love you? Dad did everything for this family. He and I gave up everything for you!"

Dean knows he's going too far, but his mouth just keeps on going, his liquid courage propelling him forward. He drains the remainder of his glass.

"It all has to be about you. Always bitching to us about our life. Fuck Sam, the last time you saw the man, you were fightin' with him. And now that he's-" damn, it still hurts to say –" gone, what, now you're moving on to me? And don't even get me started on all this freaky 'Shining' shit, this Boy King shit. Can you blame us for having doubts about you?"

Dean huffs, goes to pour himself another glass.
"Dean, I don't think—"

"Fuck you, Sam. Or why don't you use your 'powers' to take the drink away, Boy King." He says, because the last thing he needs right now is his pain-in-the-ass brother getting onto him about his drinking. His brain processes, sluggishly, though, and he realizes that he's just crossed the line, just validated everything Sammy feared in himself.

"Sam, I didn't mean—"
"Do you even love me?" Sammy interrupts, his voice quiet and small.

And that certainly isn't what Dean was expecting.

"What the fuck kind of question is that?! Who fucking took care of you? Who read you stories before bed? Who tucked you in every goddamn night?" His voice is louder than he'd meant for it to be, but he can't stop now. "Who made you dinner, who fucking raised you?!"

Sam seems oblivious to the effect he's having on his brother, his face a picture of sadness, the sort of open sadness that Dean hasn't seen since Jess died.

There's a beat before Sam quickly wipes wetness from his face, takes a shuttering breath.

"I guess.. that answers my question," Sam says, not meeting Dean's eyes. He pushes himself off the bed and crosses the room to the door.

"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean can't recall ever being this angry… and he knows he hasn't been this drunk in a while.

"That's not love, Dean," he says, his voice small and sad.
"That's obligation."

Dean flinches and looks to Sam with angry amazement. He goes to stand, wavering a bit on his feet.
"What the hell do you want from me, Sam? I'm doing the best I can."

Sammy smiles at him, a sad smile. He looks Dean in the eyes, tears spilling over. Sam blinks them away.

"I know, Dean." He's very quiet.
"I'll never be… I'll never be that. I'll never…" he swallows. "I'm not…" Sammy's shaking.
"I'm not… and will never be the 'Boy Ki-'." He can't even finish, instead, shoots his eyes to the ground.
"I love you, Dean."

The door closes behind Sam and, stunned, Dean sinks back to the bed.

It's ten minutes before Dean realizes that the gun is gone.

The gun goes off with a bang as Dean knocks it out of his brother's hands.

Sammy had been gone for maybe ten minutes before Dean had realized that, shit, shit shit shit, the gun, his gun was gone, his gun was gone. But Sammy wouldn't do that, right? Sammy wouldn't kill himself.

"Why did you do that!" Sam cries, his voice angry and raw.

Dean's chest is heaving, he's trying to catch his breath, and he's pretty sure he's seeing spots from running so fast. He knows he's gonna have nightmares tonight, maybe from now on. He feels like he's gonna throw up.

Watching Sammy calmly place the gun under his chin, his hands not even shaking, and Dean screaming for his brother, screaming NO, afraid he wasn't gonna reach him in time, but this can't be right, this can't be.

"Why the fuck did you do that, Dean!?" His voice is scratchy and thick and he's huffing, trying not to cry, and he reaches for the gun that Dean's just knocked out of his hands.

He's aware of Sam scrambling to pick the gun back up, and so as much as he hates to do it, he clocks his baby brother a good one right on the side of the face. Sammy goes down, stunned, falls on his ass. He's not out, just dazed, but it gives Dean the time he needs to reach for the pistol, unload it, and shove it in his pocket. His hands are shaking. Sam pushes against him, tries to get away.

Sam is on his knees, hands fisted in his hair in a white-knuckled grip. Dean uses his hands to circle Sammy's wrists; he squeezes tightly to the point where Sam reflexively releases his locks, to the point where Sam's hands leave his hair and maybe even to the point where the contact frees Sam from the dark place.

"Let me go, let me fucking go!" he screams.

"Not gonna happen."

Sammy fights against him and then, as if a switch is hit, the fight leaves him. He buries a hand in Sammy's hair, takes a rattling breath.

"What the fuck, Sammy, what the fuck were you thinking?" He forces Sam to look at him.

"You selfish bastard," he chokes out, his words angry, but he's still too terrified to be angry. What if's are plaguing him already—what if he'd gotten there two minutes later, what if he'd gone out after all? Would he be looking for his brother in the morning only to find his corpse?

"Why'd you do this, Sammy?" he whispers, clutching his brother to him.

Sam doesn't say anything, and Dean just holds him close. He crushes Sam against him, crushes his hands and body against his chest.

Time passes, and Dean no longer feels like he's gonna throw up, so he gets to his feet, yanks Sam up with him. Sam still hasn't said anything.

He looks at his older brother; Dean's face is white, his eyes are big and shiny, and Sam hates himself for making Dean look that way.

He keeps a rough hand on Sammy's arm as he guides them back to the motel.
The two are quiet, and if Dean's grip on his brother is hurting him, Sam isn't letting on.

They walk back into the motel, Dean's breathing carefully controlled. He locks the door, checks the salt lines, and sets the gun on the table.

"Not even a fucking call?" Dean's voice cracks in the middle of the question, though it's not really a question.

"What, you just waltz out, decide to waste yourself, call it a day?"

Dean wipes his suddenly sweaty hands on his jeans, walks over to his baby brother, and eases them both the bed.

"Sammy," he says, and Sam looks up at him with big hazel eyes looking more broken than Sammy should ever look.

And there it is, Sam realizes. In every Sammy; of course Dean loves him. Which makes this even harder, because he's still Dean's burden, still might need to be killed, and he doesn't want to put that on Dean.. Dean's had it hard enough.

Sam reaches for the Jack Daniels on the endtable, takes a big swig, and says it before he even thinks about it.

"What if I can't be saved?" he asks.

"Not gonna happen," comes Dean's reply. And maybe it's a mixture of the alcohol, the words of honesty earlier, or maybe it's seeing his goddamned baby brother ready to blows his brains out so that Dean wouldn't have to, ready to end his life because he felt like he was unwanted, but Dean lets down his guard entirely, something he rarely ever does.

"Nothing bad's gonna happen to you, not while I'm around. You've never been an obligation to me. You were never my burden." He looks away, and it takes everything in him to continue.

"You're my best friend. You're my pain in the ass little brother, okay? God, Sam, don't you ever doubt that. Dad loved you, and I love you, and I would do anything for you. I'm sorry if I ever made you doubt that, Christ, but you can't- you can't do shit like this. You can't just fucking- you can't leave me alone like this. I need you, Sammy."

Dean can barely see his brother through his blurry vision, but next thing he knows, he's got an arm full of little brother. Dean doesn't even joke about the chick flick moment, doesn't say anything, just holds tight, because he almost lost Sammy tonight.

The unspoken words are thumping in his chest. I'm gonna save you, Sammy, I swear to God, I'm gonna save you.

Dean can feel his brother's sobs, can tell Sammy's crying. He holds him tight, and feels when Sammy tires, can tell his brother his falling asleep. He eases him on his back, pulls his muddied boots off, and tucks him into bed like when they were little kids.

Only when he's certain Sam is asleep does he sink to his own bed, eyes on his brother for a long moment. He scrubs a tired hand over his face.

This was too close. This was too fucking close.

He lays on his side; Dean knows he won't be getting any sleep tonight. And he and Sam have a lot to talk about in the morning.