Summary: Season Seven – Suicidal, Angsty Sam / Big Brother Dean / Snarky Lucifer – Sam lifted the gun, pointing it directly under his chin. "Ah, yes..." Lucifer praised, nodding his approval. "Now we're talkin'..."

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Warnings: Language, suicidal actions (but NO character death), and overall spoilers for Lucifer's presence and Sam's hallucinations throughout Season Seven

A/N: I definitely blame this on my ADD. And if you're familiar with the song from which the lyric below is quoted, then you'll understand the truthful irony.

Maybe I should cry for help. Maybe I should kill myself. ~ AWOLNATION

"Ah, yes..." Lucifer praised, nodding his approval as he perched on top of the small table in the motel room's corner. "Now we're talkin'..."

Sam said nothing; staring at what he held.

Lucifer frowned. "Sam-my..." he called, drawing out the name; his tone fond and yet chastising. "It's not nice to ignore people."

"You're not people," Sam informed coolly; not even looking over his shoulder as he stood between the two beds and wondered what the hell he was doing holding this, especially thinking what he was thinking.

"Then what am I?" Lucifer baited and smiled; because he loved hearing people's descriptions of him.

"You're not real," Sam snapped; wishing he could convince himself of that. "Stop talking to me."

Lucifer arched an eyebrow. "If I'm not real..." he challenged "...then you stop talking to me."

Sam swallowed at that logic – because it made always made sense – and cut his eyes at the devil.

Lucifer smiled. "I just blew your mind, huh?" he guessed and nodded. "Well..." he corrected and shrugged. "What there's left to blow anyway..."

Sam glared; his grip tightening around what he held. "Shut up."

"Why?" Lucifer taunted. "You gonna shoot at me again?"

Sam clenched his jaw as the devil laughed; remembering all too well how he had indeed fired at Lucifer in that warehouse several months ago...which was stupid and reckless and had almost gotten himself and Dean hurt.

"I got a better idea," Lucifer announced, leaning back against the wall as he continued to sit on the small table. "Shoot yourself."

Sam swallowed.

Because that's exactly what he was thinking about doing...which meant either Lucifer could read his thoughts – or Lucifer had given him those thoughts.

Either was disturbing.

And either way, Sam was seriously fucked.

Lucifer laughed again. "Yep. You are," he agreed as if Sam had spoken aloud. "But if it's any consolation, you've always been fucked. I mean...think about it."

Sam shook his head.

Because he didn't want to think about it; didn't want to think about any of it. He just wanted this over...

"Do it," Lucifer whispered and nodded at the gun in Sam's hand. "You know you wanna."

Sam shook his head again.

Because he didn't "wanna"...not really.

But there seemed to be no other choice.

Because Lucifer never shut up...and probably never would. And Dean would never understand...and Sam couldn't make him. And...

"Do it," Lucifer repeated and leaned forward; his hands splayed on his knees as he stared straight at Sam. "Do. It."

"Shut. Up," Sam growled – surprising himself by how much he sounded like Dean – and turned to face Lucifer.

"Oooo..." Lucifer gasped dramatically; his eyes wide as he lightly touched his chest. "You're scaring me." He paused and smiled knowingly. "Are you scaring yourself?"

Sam did not respond but released a shaky breath.

Because yes...he was scaring himself.

In fact, he was scaring the fucking shit out of himself.

And yet there he stood between the two beds – still holding the gun...and still thinking about what he had been thinking about all day.

Sam swallowed; remembering how he had developed the plan earlier that morning...even though – or maybe because – the day had started like it always did.

He had awoken to Lucifer's off-key singing – Sam couldn't even remember what song now – and had laid there on the lumpy mattress; his head resting on the flat pillow as he had gripped the sheet that covered him...and had figured today was as good as any day to finally end it.

Because after six months, he couldn't take it anymore.

He just couldn't.

Sam remembered how he had gotten out of bed; had smiled at Dean like everything was fine when his brother had finished in the bathroom; and then had retreated to the shower with the devil in tow.

Lucifer had sung "Splish, Splash" – Sam could remember that one...because the devil had sung it over and over – while Sam had stood under the scalding water and had decided a gun was the way to go.

It was quick and easy...whereas pills took too long...and a knife was...messy.

Not that a gunshot to the head would be neat and clean...but whatever.

Sam had shrugged at his decision – wondering if Lucifer was adding his own lyrics to that stupid song – and then had grabbed the shampoo bottle; had pushed it under his chin so that the top was digging into his neck as he had tried to decide placement for the gun's muzzle.

Dean had banged on the bathroom door; had told Sam to quit primping like a girl and to move his ass; they had shit to do.

Sam had sighed; had exited the shower and had dried off while listening to Lucifer's commentary on his physique. He had then quickly shaved and brushed his teeth – using both the razor and the toothbrush to further practice correct placement for the gun's muzzle as he had gazed into the mirror.

Because if he was going to do this, he had to get it right.

Sam had been a failure at so much in his life.

But there was no fucking way he was going to fail at this – because he was; putting himself out of his misery like people did to animals.

Sam had swallowed at that image –inexplicably thinking about Old Yeller – and then had exited the bathroom; had listened to both Dean bitch about how long he had taken to get ready and to Lucifer bitch about how he really didn't like the color green...all while grabbing his laptop bag and following his brother out the door.

They had left the motel parking lot – Dean talking about...something...while Lucifer had sat between them on the Impala's bench seat; holding his finger within inches of Sam's face.

Sam had stared straight ahead, ignoring Lucifer and further planning his own demise; had nodded when he was supposed to nod at whatever Dean had been saying and had felt guilty that his brother would be talking to himself tomorrow.

They had eaten breakfast at some diner – with Lucifer finger painting on the table in hot sauce...saying it was blood.

And then they had researched at the library – with Lucifer making people strangle each other with their shoelaces.

And then they had eaten lunch at a different diner – with Lucifer deciding ketchup was a better artistic medium to portray the proper consistency of blood.

And then they had finally gone hunting – with Lucifer distracting Sam so badly that he had missed his shot and had almost gotten himself and Dean hurt...again.

...which had just been further proof that Sam had made the right decision; that his life ended tonight.

Because Sam would not be responsible for Dean getting hurt – or killed – and as melodramatic as it sounded, Sam would rather die than to have that happen.

And he was – staring at a gun gripped tightly in his hand.

Lucifer sighed, swinging his legs back and forth like a bored child as he continued to sit on the table in the motel room's corner. "What are you waiting on?"

Sam didn't answer; because he didn't know what he was waiting on – maybe the balls to actually do this?

"You know if you keep stalling..." Lucifer reminded, a like friend offering advice. "Dean will come back. Which might put a damper on your little plan there..." He nodded toward what Sam held. "I'm just sayin'..."

Sam remained quiet; realizing that maybe he wanted Dean to put a damper on his plan; maybe he wanted his brother to find him and ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing and then stop him from doing it.

Maybe that's what he wanted instead of...this.

Sam stared at the gun; the weight familiar but the intention foreign.

Because he had never wanted to kill himself; not really...not like this.

"Do it," Lucifer whispered, still leaning forward from where he sat on the table. "Do it. Do it. Do it. Do – "

"Shut up!" Sam yelled, whirling on the devil as if he could win this battle.

Lucifer chuckled; because wearing people down was always half the fun. "I'll shut up," he promised amiably and slid off the table – like the serpent he was. "But only if you do it..."

Sam sighed.

Because the proposition was one of the best he had heard in a long time – Lucifer's voice no longer ringing in his ears and literally following him wherever he went.

All he had to do was pull the trigger.

Which should be easy – because after all, he pulled triggers all the time.

Lucifer nodded; inside Sam's head and privy to his thoughts whether the kid liked it or not. "That's right," he urged; circling Sam like a stereotypical used car salesman. "You've been pulling triggers since you were 12-years old," he reminded, kicking the proverbial tires as he tried to close the sale. "So let's do this. Let's get this show on the road." He paused, leaning toward Sam; his lips mere inches from the kid's ear. "Do it."

Sam flinched but made no other response.

Seconds passed in silence.

Lucifer sighed, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest; clearly tiring of this game; wanting what he wanted – Sam's life – and wanting it now. "Do you hear me?"

Sam heard him – always heard him – but ignored him; staring instead at the gun he held; the one he had pulled from the weapons duffel.

"I'm sorry," he remembered telling Dean when they had arrived back to the motel; having ridden in tense, stony silence since they had left the graveyard.

"What happened out there?" Dean had demanded; had tossed the weapons duffel on his bed and had stared at Sam with an expression that was equal parts pissed, worried, and scared.

Because Dean had known it was unlike Sam to have screwed up like he had screwed up tonight; not unless his brother had a chatty copilot along for the hunt. And if that was the case, then...

Sam had swallowed; had not known what to say because there had been no excuse for allowing himself to be distracted by something that wasn't even there.

But Lucifer was there – was always there – and had been perched on the table even then as the brothers had argued.

Sam had seen him; had heard the devil's commentary.

The brothers' heated conversation had gone 'round and 'round – Dean aggressively demanding what the hell was going on while Sam had passively assured his brother everything was fine...even as he had repeatedly pressed his scarred left palm.

Eventually, Dean had finally given up; had said he was going to get dinner and for Sam to make himself useful while he was gone and start cleaning the weapons.

Sam had nodded; had unzipped the duffel even before Dean had left the room and had realized he had the perfect opportunity to carry out his plan; that everything would be better when Dean returned...although Dean probably wouldn't see it that way.

"I'm sorry," Sam had said again before Dean had left; meaning something entirely different than when he had said it earlier.

Dean had paused in the motel room's doorway; glancing over his shoulder at Sam and looking like maybe he was reconsidering leaving his brother alone.

Sam had shifted nervously under Dean's gaze; had felt a brief moment of panic that maybe Dean knew what he was going to do...and then had felt another moment of panic when it seemed his brother had no clue.

Dean had looked suspicious – and concerned...and uneasy – but had only nodded at the weapons duffel. "Get busy," he had told Sam. "I'll be back..."

Sam had nodded in return and had removed one of their many guns. "I'm sorry," he had said once more – wanting Dean to know how much he meant that – and had watched his brother leave.

That had been at least ten minutes ago.

And now here Sam stood – still between the two beds and still holding that gun, trying to convince himself this was the right thing to do.

"I'm wait-ing," Lucifer sing-songed; his arms still crossed over his chest as he stood beside Sam; his fingers impatiently thrumming his clasped elbows.

Sam glanced at the devil standing within inches of him.

Lucifer smiled. "Let's do this, cowboy. Before big brother gets back..."

Sam nodded shakily and inhaled an equally shaky breath.

Because this was what he wanted; this was what was best.

To exist in peaceful silence...he could hardly wait.

"Okay," Sam breathed, verbally encouraging himself while trying to soothe his frazzled nerves.

Lucifer suddenly clapped his hands like an excited schoolgirl. "This is the best day of my life!" he dramatically proclaimed. "I love you, Sammy!"

Sam felt physically sick; trying to ignore how much his hand shook as he finally lifted the gun, pointing it directly under his chin as he leaned his head slightly back...just like he had practiced earlier that morning.

Only this wasn't a shampoo bottle or a razor or a toothbrush...this was a fucking gun.

"Shit's about to get real...huh, Sammy?" Lucifer asked and smiled. "I like."

Sam said nothing; feeling his heart hammer in his chest and vaguely wondering if he would pass out before he could pull the trigger.

Seconds ticked by.

Lucifer sighed, narrowing his eyes. "Sammy. Are you really gonna do it this time?" he asked, sounding like a bratty kid excited by the prospect of witnessing a neat trick. "Or are you just playing with my emotions?" he further questioned; now sounding like a petulant woman...pouty lips and all.

Sam swallowed.

Because he honestly didn't know what he was going to do.

He could feel the cold, hard, hallow muzzle of the gun digging into his neck; could feel the weight of the gun in his hand; could feel the muzzle move as he nervously swallowed; could feel his finger hovering over the trigger.


Sam swallowed again; glancing at Lucifer...even though he didn't want to.

Lucifer smiled. "Night-night," he told Sam and nodded at the bed.

Sam's bed...the one Sam would fall back on if he fired the shot...when he fired the shot...after he fired the shot.

There was more silence.

"Do you want me to sing?" Lucifer politely asked, sitting on the edge of Dean's bed and staring up at Sam. "Maybe like those folks on the to die by...very classy."

Sam shook his head.

Because he didn't want music...or words...or anything else the devil had to offer.

All he wanted was silence and peace...peaceful silence.

It was going to be fucking great.

Sam nodded; believing that was true.

He just had to get to the other side.

"How 'bout a countdown?" Lucifer suggested. "That helps some people..."

And Sam was sure the devil would know; was sure Lucifer had been present – front row and center – for many other suicides besides his.

"No countdown," Sam replied, strangely reminded of how the time had ticked down when they were waiting for Dean's deal to come due. "I can do this..."

Lucifer's expression instantly turned wicked; his eyes flashing and his voice unnervingly deep and hissy. "Then do it."

Sam nodded; feeling an indescribable sensation wash over him as he closed his eyes and finally pulled the trigger.

But there was no pain; no backward spray of blood and brain and skull.

There was only the sound of the shot; loud and piercing...and more than enough to make Sam sit straight up in bed.

"Holy shit," Sam murmured; his heart hammering in his chest; his bangs sweaty and his entire body shaking as he sat in the darkness of the motel room, clutching the bed's sheet to his chest and wondering what the fuck just happened.

Sam closed his eyes and swallowed; still sitting on the mattress as his mind buzzed with possibilities and his body hummed with adrenaline.

Because whatever had just happened had seemed so real...too real.

"Nightmare? Or vision?" a familiar voice asked thoughtfully...knowingly. "I have my ideas...but you first. Let's discuss."

Sam blinked, slowly turning his head to face Lucifer; the devil sitting at the end of Sam's bed with his legs crossed and tucked under him like a girl at a slumber party.

"Let's discuss," Lucifer repeated eagerly. "Want me to start?"

Sam glared and shook his head; realizing that he was still alive...and that he needed some serious fucking help; that he couldn't continue to handle this on his own.

Lucifer frowned at Sam's hard expression. "Sammy. Are we not friends anymore?"

Sam clenched his jaw; resisting the urge to respond...although he wanted to tell the devil to go fuck himself because they were never friends.

Lucifer smirked, still sitting at the end of Sam's bed. "You know you wanna talk to me..." he taunted.

Sam shook his head again and flung back the blankets; knowing he was about to freak Dean out by frantically waking his brother up in the middle of the night...but figuring Dean would prefer that to returning from a dinner-run one day to find Sam dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

Because that day wasn't far off.

Lucifer frowned again as Sam got out of bed. "Sammy..."

Sam ignored the devil; only wanting – needing – to hear one person's voice. "Dean..." he called in the moonlit darkness of the room; crouching beside his brother's bed and feeling like he was five-years old again.

Dean shifted on the mattress and blinked his eyes open; instantly awake at the sound of Sam's voice. "Sammy..." he responded, continuing to blink as the motel's neon sign shone through the thin curtain covering the window by his bed. "What's wrong?"

Sam said nothing; feeling too choked by emotions to speak; his eyes misting with tears.

Dean frowned, further sitting up and leaning over to turn on the lamp between the two beds. "Sammy..." he called again; his eyes sweeping the room for any obvious signs of trouble before returning his attention to his brother. "Sam..."

Sam inhaled shakily. "Dean..." he finally replied; hating how quiet and scared he sounded. "I need your help."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Okay, Sammy," he responded simply; his tone worried and surprisingly gentle, as if he knew how fragile his brother was in that moment...and what Sam was going to say even before he confessed it. "Just tell me."

Sam nodded, glancing over his shoulder at Lucifer as the devil once again whispered his name.

"Come here," Lucifer commanded, glaring at Sam from where he continued to sit on the end of Sam's bed. "We're not finished."

"Yes, we are," Sam responded confidently.

Because maybe the devil hadn't heard, but Sam had a pretty awesome big brother – and Dean could fix anything...including him.

Dean followed Sam's gaze to the neighboring bed and arched an eyebrow; dread clenching his stomach as he instantly realized what was going on.

"Oh hell no..." Dean swore and reached for Sam; attracting his brother's attention and pulling the kid onto the bed with him. "Sam..."

Sam sat at the end of Dean's bed, facing his brother; looking lost and vulnerable and so fragile it made Dean want to simultaneously hug the kid and kick the devil's ass.

Both of which he intended to do.

But first...

"Sammy..." Dean called, angling his body so that Sam was looking straight at him...and at nothing else. "I don't know what he's saying to you. But this is gonna stop," he promised his brother. "Tonight," he emphasized and rubbed his brother's shoulder as Sam sat across from him on the bed. "You hear me? We're gonna deal with this together."

Sam nodded and blinked as tears continued to threaten. "You and me against the world," he said quietly and tried to smile; his composure crumbling instead...because it had been a long, hard, lonely six months trying to battle the devil by himself.

Dean swallowed against his own emotion as it suddenly clogged his throat at seeing Sam so upset, so broken. "Damn right," he told his brother and reached to pull the kid toward him.

Sam easily came; tipping forward and pressing his forehead to Dean's chest as he silently cried.

Dean didn't move; patiently allowing Sam to cry against him while he soothingly rubbed his brother's back; glaring in the direction the devil was supposed to be and making his point nonverbally known – that Sam was his...and nobody...not even Lucifer...was taking his brother from him.