The Colt 1911 pistol laid solely on the ornate pomegranate bedspread conspicuously posed on one of the comforter's giant orchids. Its metal, recently polished, with its curvy engravings on the side glistened tauntingly in the motel's dim light.
Dean sat across from the colt on the other bed eying his favorite weapon intensely, his legs bouncing erratically whilst he bit and chewed the tips of his thumbs.
Sometime ago—he wasn't sure if it was before the dawning sun made its grand introduction to the day, or sometime after—his mind toyed with a choice. The several pints of alcohol residing in his system weren't strong enough to influence his decision as he had hoped. Outweighing the pros and cons had little effect as his whole body shook with neuroticism, in anticipation as though he was about to take on the World's Heavyweight Boxing Champion.
This choice he toyed with was a dismal one in fact. A choice any normal, mentally stable person would immediately say nay to. It was a choice he clearly hadn't wanted to make. But he had to make one soon—his brother's life depended on it.
He stole a glance at the white envelope with the name Sam scribbled boldly on the front leaning prominently on the flower-decorated pillow. Somehow maybe, his mind already had made the choice. It was just a matter of summoning up the guts to do it.
Fear fused with anger, mixed with a little grief, was a powerful combo overcoming any and all logic. The ramifications of this act he intended would be astronomical, but at least Sam would be alive. Never before in his life had he willingly contemplated something so unimaginable, so pathetic…so desperate. But when it came to his baby brother's well-being, it didn't matter how high the costs were or how deep the abyss was to take a plunge…as long as Sam got to live…
Time was of the essence.
He knew that. The doctors had made that pretty clear that the sands of time were against them, almost like there was a hole punched in the hourglass and the tiny white particles were flowing in one heavy stream.
Sam didn't have long. Weeks. Days. Hell, minutes, maybe seconds. There was no telling. Only that with each second that went by in pondering about chances, the more his sibling's life dwindled away—further decreasing the chance of ever opening his bright green eyes again.
And what was equally terrifying was that Sam's life solely depended on a sacrifice. A sacrifice no one in his or her right mind would willingly give—unless he or she weren't given a choice in an untimely demise. However morose it would seem to pray for such an event to occur, none of which would produce. The very fine cable he felt suspended on over a deep ravine thinned and wilted, edging him closer to falling into the pit of despair.
Already he had taken an unlikely fall into the dark place, falling fast after his father's death and the heavy burden of the man's last message. Already it had taken everything he owned, all the spit he had left to pull himself back from the horrible pit. And now he felt back on the brink with no support stand, no wire or rope to pull him back.
Last time he had help in overcoming the compilation of guilt and anger that accumulated at a steadfast rate after John's funeral pyre. Sam was the one to bring him back. Sam was the one and only to keep his head together, to keep him grounded. But now? His brother, the one and only connection to his beloved mother, the spitting personality of his missed father, his friend and loyal companion—the very glue that kept him adhered together—was dying.
And if Sam died, it wouldn't be long until his time came too.
Technically speaking, he should currently have made his peace and be resting six feet under, hopefully either after a hunter's funeral pyre, or some heroic stand-off. But as such, life had a very sick habit of keeping him around. Because he still had family, he had managed (just barely) to grit his teeth and move on. Continuing on with the life they led, alone, was too much to hear; too unbearable to even contemplate.
It wasn't his brother's choice they both were in this predicament. It wasn't Sam's fault that he was considering suicide. However much he would love to place the blame on someone…anyone! It was frustrating in that there was no one to blame, other than nature itself.
Giving one final look around the crummy third-rate room, he glanced past the bed and did a double take at the figure sitting next to the Colt. It was Sam. Plain as day, wholesome and healthy. His brother sat with his hands on his knees giving him the patented Sammy huff and headshake of disapproval.
"Don't look at me like that," Dean whispered to the imagined figure—what he was sure was imagined. "You know I have to. I can't do it Sammy. I can't. Dad said I had to take care of you. It's my job."
"Then how do you think I'm gonna feel," the voice of his brother's strong tone pronounced.
Dean flinched at how real it sounded, like the manifestation of his sibling was actually sitting across from him. He closed his eyes shaking his head. "I don't care. You've got to live. That's all I care about. You have a chance of a new life. You take that opportunity and you use it. There's nothing left for me here and you know it."
Sam shook his head donning a solemn look. "Don't do it Dean. It's the coward's route out, and you know Dad would be so disappointed in you if he knew what you were doing."
"Shut up!" Dean rasped harshly, glaring. "What that man put you through. Put me through…what he is still putting me through…" he licked his lips as another tear fell. "I don't care Sammy. I'm done. This is the only way, and I'm sorry."
He turned his gaze away attempting to conceal the heavy emotion, not wanting Sam to see his crippling stature. When he looked back, his brother was gone. A heavy sigh escaped past his cracked and bleeding lips.
However much he hated the figure adding more of the unwarranted burden on his shoulders, talking about their father, his cracked heart splintered some more in that he wanted to see Sam again. His brother was here, talking to him. He was awake, drilling more unneeded nonsense into him. Though peppy or not, the apparition was corporeal enough that he felt rather lonely since it disappeared.
And it was in that moment his decision became clear. Screw destiny. Screw life. If he had the chance of giving his brother life, then so be it. That was his destiny all along, one that he proudly accepted.
Immediately taking up the gun, he quickly put the metal end into his mouth. The device shook tremendously in his palms, his heart aching. The fear intensified the more his mouth closed around the cold steel and a strained tear fell down his cheek.
The lightning bolt of doubt struck him then, and his finger on the trigger let up. His mind screamed at him to stop, but his will overcame the protests. Life without his family was no life at all. The thought of spending the rest of his life alone gave him the willpower. It was now or never.
Without another thought, he concentrated angling the gun up further.
This is for you Sammy. I love you little brother, he thought. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pulled the trigger.
Now before all you Dean Fans give me hell, I strongly urge you to keep reading to find out what happens. This is just an excerpt from later on in the story.
There is a reason behind Dean's questionable hopelessness. Obviously since this is a sick Sam fic, you can pretty much guess from the aforementioned suspense of this chapter that the situation does become rather dire. IMO, based off of Dean's behavior following his father's death, and based on his action after Sam's death in Season Two, it wouldn't surprise me if he had taken this route. But that is based solely on my opinion…and opinions vary, obviously.
I do not intend to offend anyone by any means, this is a story of overcoming odds – dealing with all facets of life, which includes death. So with that said, I do hope that this makes you eager for the next part as we get to go back in time and see a familiar face in chapter two and the start of a whole host of problems for our youngest Winchester.