Disclaimer: I don't own or make a profit from Supernatural.

A/N: This is my response to the prompt given to me by Kaly for the SFTCOL(AR)S summer fic exchange round four. Pimp the Limp! Thanks to Starliteyes for whipping this into shape for me.

Prompt: (Cause really, it won't spoil the story, I pretty much lay it out on the first page. LOL) In Devil's Trap Sam listened to John - not Dean - and shot to kill. What would have come of the boy's lives and - more importantly - their relationships with one another?

WARNING: Deathfic! Not just daddy.

Broken

Prologue

We're stronger as a family, Dad. We just are. You know it. Dean Winchester

I guess we are stronger as a family. John Winchester

We should stick together. Sam Winchester

THEN:

"Kill me and you kill daddy."

Even with the Colt drawn down on him the demon was a smirking, cocky son of a bitch. Sam didn't think hate could actually become a living, breathing thing writhing in your stomach, but he could feel it, squirming down around in his guts like a slimy ball of eels. He looked at the bastard wearing the face of his father and all he felt was loathing.

"I know," Sam replied, boiling with all that hate and pulled the trigger, shooting the demon in the thigh. He watched impassively as Not-John toppled over like a hundred-year old oak in a raging wind storm.

Behind Sam, Dean fell to the floor, blood gushing from his mouth, drawing in pained gasps of air. Sam scrambled over him, the hate in his stomach churning sickly. He had never seen so much blood before. So much of Dean's blood.

His first instinct was to drop the gun so he could haul Dean out to the car as quickly as he could. His brother needed a hospital immediately, but all Dean could think about was their father. He wouldn't allow Sam to help him until he was certain that their dad was still breathing.

Sam padded over to his fallen father tentatively, the Colt loosely clasped in his hand. The demon should be gone, should be dead. It wasn't possible for it to survive a shot from the magically crafted gun, but approach with caution was the Winchester family's foremost rule.

"Sammy! It's still alive. It's inside me. I can feel it." John's head jerked up, his brown eyes glistening with tears and determination. Sam stepped back, tightening his grip on the gun. His father's words lacerated him through the heart, and set the hate roiling in his stomach. The bastard was still alive; was still inside his father; was still tormenting his family.

"You shoot me. You shoot me. You shoot me in the heart, Son." The order was so implicit in his father's voice that Sam was cocking the gun and aiming before he could even think about it. The look of pride that his father threw his way almost made him squeeze the trigger. This is what his father wanted him to do. What they had been working for. The death of the yellow-eyed bastard that had destroyed them all. "Do it now. Sam."

"Sam, don't you do it. Don't you do it!" Dean's voice was weak and wet with blood. A shudder slid down Sam' spine and his finger loosened. Dean. Dean would never forgive him if he did this. And Sam wouldn't blame him for that. Sam and John may have their differences, but they were still family. John was still Sam's father. Sam would never be able to forgive himself, how could he expect Dean to?

"Sam, you got to hurry. I can't hold onto it much longer. You shoot me, son. Shoot me. Son, I'm begging you. We got to end this here and now. Sammy!"

We got to end this here and now. No truer words had ever been spoken. The demon-bastard had ruined so many lives. Not just theirs, but families just like them across the nation, maybe even the world. It would be wrong to let it escape now, to let it loose back onto the universe. Who knew how long it would be before they got another chance to kill it. If ever. It was a sly, tricky bastard and Sam could die of old age and never see the sonovabitch again.

"Sam, no." Dean could read the thoughts in his little brother head without even looking at him. Injured and bleeding, he still begged for his family. He begged to keep them together as a unit. With only one piece missing, the ship was still kept afloat, but two missing pieces would be too much to bear. They would sink and drown. Dean would drown.

Sam didn't look at Dean. He knew if he did that his resolve would be lost. He kept his eyes locked onto his father. John could see the decision in Sam's eyes, and his lips curved up just the tiniest bit. It was a smile of relief and gratitude that his tribulations were finally coming to an end.

"You do this. Sammy."

It wasn't an order as so much as it was a pledge of forgiveness. His father was already absolving his youngest son of any responsibility he might feel. For all his father's seemingly endless strength, this was something that was not in his power to grant. The only person that could forgive Sam was Sam, and that was never going to happen. It wouldn't happen, because Dean would never allow it.

The retort of the Colt ricocheted through the barren cabin, the sound echoed by Dean's cries of denial.

Fade

Sam wrestled Dean's limp body into the front seat of the impala. His jaw was clenched so tightly to keep from sobbing that he thought for sure that he was going to chip a molar. After he shot their dad, Dean had clawed his way over to John's still warm body, dragging his legs, swath of blood trailing behind him on the old, wood boards. He hunched over his father, pressing his face to his chest, his cheek against the smoking hole in his heart and cried. The harsh, broken rasping filled the small room until nothing else could be heard, not even Sam's small whimpers of remorse.

Dean wouldn't let Sam pry him away from their father's body. He wouldn't look at Sam either, just kept his face pressed into John's chest. Finally blood loss exhausted him, and he dropped into unconsciousness, giving Sam the opportunity to carry him away from the cabin and to the car. Sam wanted to bring their dad's body with, but he was afraid that if he waited too much longer that Dean would die. Dad would keep until Sam could come back to retrieve him. Dean might not.

He pulled Dean's legs up and placed them inside the Impala, slamming the door shut, before racing around to the driver's side. By the time he got there, Dean had slumped down the seat and his head was lying on Sam's side. Gently, Sam lifted his brother's head, sliding under him, and resting Dean's cheek on his thigh. As he drove he kept his hand wrapped around Dean's neck, his fingers on his brother's pulse, needing the reassurance that someone in his family was still alive.

When the semi hit them he wasn't looking at the road, but at his brother's face, coated with blood in his lap. He saw the twin beams of white light fill the cab, he felt his body tense seconds before the wheel was jerked from his hand. The Impala shuttered beneath him, and he slammed into the door panel, his entire body screaming in agony. Metal screeched as it was wrenched around like a pretzel and pushed down the blacktop.

For a moment he blacked out, but determinedly he pulled himself back from the abyss. He just lost his father, he couldn't lose Dean as well. He fumbled around in his coat pocket, his nearly numb fingers wrapping around the smooth, wooden grip of the Colt. He wasn't strong enough to lift it, but he could rest it along his belly, the barrel pointed at the door.

Seconds later the door was torn away, and a man stood on ground layered in beads of shattered glass. His face was gray with age, but his eyes were bright and beetle black. Sam wrapped his finger around the trigger, digging the rounded grip into his stomach to steady the barrel as he swung it out towards the demon.

The old man's mouth twisted beneath his mustache, yellow teeth glinting in the moonlight. His fingers were curled into fists, and Sam could see small white scars across his knuckles where he had been in one too many fights over the years. Sam's eyes flickered back up to the demon's chest, excluding everything else from his vision, even the man's face. Sam needed the demon to believe that there was another bullet left in the gun. All Sam had to do was sell it.

"You killed my father."

Sam laughed, a mirthless sound that pulled the taut muscles of his face, stretching skin over bone until he looked maniacal.

"I killed my own father to do it. Does that make us even?"

The demon cocked his head, consideration glittering in his oil-slick eyes.

"Maybe. Or maybe it just means that you'll be taking the express elevator down south sooner than you thought."

The demon chuckled, and Sam's smile became tighter, more feral.

"Probably." Sam lifted the Colt, hiding the strain in his muscles from the weight beneath a snarl of bloody teeth.

"You have no more bullets in that six-shooter, Winchester." The corner of the demon's mouth curved up, his mustache curling around his upper lip.

Sam's eyes hardened and he cocked the gun, sighting down the long barrel at the demon's heart.

"Willing to bet your worthless existence on it?" Sam's voice was so smooth that cold ice skaters could pirouette on it.

"Nah, it's going to be too much fun watching you two crash and burn."

The demon threw back his head and laughed like someone just told him the world's funniest joke. Sam felt a shiver of unease crawl down his spine. He wondered if he swung hard enough if he could knock the demon out with the gun butt. All he needed was a few seconds to get to the weapon's stash in the trunk. His plotting was quickly aborted when the brittle laughter was replaced with a wordless scream. Sam watched as the demon expelled itself from the truck driver in a streaming mass of black smoke. The man fell to his knees, choking, oblivious to the black cloud that hung over his head before it drifted away into the clear night sky.

Sam's eyes drooped and this time he couldn't stop himself from falling into the deep, dark abyss of unconsciousness.

Sam thought he had a dream, but he couldn't be sure. It wasn't a nightmare or a vision, but more of a memory of something that never happened.

He thought Dean was dying and hunting a Reaper.

Sometimes he had dreams like that. Dreams of his life that could have been. Sometimes he dreamed that mom never died and that dad never hunted. Dreams where he became a lawyer and Dean was a fireman. Dreams where Jess was alive and Dean was in love. Dreams of things that never were and never could be, but not once did he ever dream of a life without Dean.