Spoiler: 4x19 – Jump the Shark
Warning: Suicidal thoughts, darkness
Feedback: No flames, flying objects or flaming flying objects please
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I'm just playing with them, don't sue me, you'll get absolutely nothing.
Notes: This is my first attempt at a episode tag.
Sam looked down at his bloody wrists as Dean went to check on ghoul!Adam. He knew he'd lost a lot of blood and that he needed to keep the pressure on to keep from dying.
But, it would be so easy to just let himself bleed out. Dean was busy and the ghouls had definitely hit the main arteries in his wrists so he could probably bleed to death before Dean realized it. It would make things easier, Dean wouldn't have to worry about him becoming the Anti-Christ/Boy King of Hell that everyone seemed to think he was going to become. He could have the life he deserved before Sam and their mother's deal with Azazel had torn their lives apart.
Whoa, since when did mausoleums spin like carousels, he really should do something about it, but he didn't want to. He looked blankly at his bleeding arms, wondering how they got that way.
He wavered on the stone slab, his eyes becoming more reluctant to stay open. God, he was getting sleepy, he really wanted to lay down but there was something he was supposed to do but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what it was. Something to do with his arms, he wondered if Dean would know, but he couldn't see Dean so he just sat there and watched the blood ooze out of his arms.
Suddenly, Dean was there, gripping his wrists, making the blood disappear, saying something that didn't sound very happy. Sam frowned; why was he doing that? Didn't he know that his life would be easier and happier if Sam was dead. Dean would've never gone to hell and broke the first seal if Sam was dead.
"Don't," he whispered, trying to pull away.
Dean frowned at him and said something but Sam couldn't hear him, which was kinda scary but Dean didn't let go of his wrists, in fact he just gripped him tighter.
"Dean, don't. It'll be better this way." Okay, this was scary, he couldn't hear himself talk and boy was this place getting darker.
Dean's frown deepened but he didn't say anything else, just stood in front of him, gripping both wrists for what seemed like forever before helping Sam to his feet and leading Sam out of the mausoleum and out to the car.
After that, Sam just drifted, barely aware of what was happening around him. He remembered Dean pulling up to their motel and lugging him inside and depositing him on the bed but that was it.
The next morning, Sam woke up to find himself tucked in bed with his wrists neatly stitched and bandaged. He stared at them, feeling vaguely cheated; why was he still alive? Dean could've just let him bleed and been better off for it. He looked over to the other bed and found Dean sitting there, an unreadable expression on his face.
"Why?" It said something about the bond they still shared, torn and tattered though it was, that Dean knew what he was asking.
"Because you're my brother, Sam. No matter what happens, you're still my brother. You're not going to die while I'm around."
Sam wants to argue, wants to tell Dean how much better off he'd be if he'd let Sam bleed to death but it's too much effort. He lays back and closes his eyes, too exhausted from blood loss to stay awake. Sleep tugged insistently and he didn't fight it; he'd try to convince Dean that he was wrong to let his worthless, demon-blood-infected hide live later.