Five Times Sam Tried to Kill Himself, and One Time He Didn't
The first time Sam tried to kill himself was after he woke up from possession by Meg. It wasn't even hard; he just waited for Dean to fall asleep before sneaking out with his gun and going round the back of the motel room.
He had just loaded the gun and cocked it, positioning the barrel under his chin, when he heard Dean shout, "NO!"
He nearly shot himself due to being startled out of his wits – this was most unexpected. He'd double-checked that Dean was fast asleep. Maybe one of his movements had woken Dean up.
Dean wrenched the gun out of Sam's hands and just stared at him, chest heaving with a mixture of shock and relief. Sam stared at the tips of his shoes, avoiding his brother's gaze. Finally, Dean asked, his voice rough, "What. The hell. Was that, Sammy?"
Sam didn't answer.
"Answer me!" It was an order.
Sam swallowed, before muttering, "It's better this way."
"What the hell do you mean?" demanded Dean.
Sam finally looked his brother in the eye. "I killed a person, Dean! I shot you! Hell, I nearly killed you and Jo too! If this is what happens when I'm possessed, I don't even want to think about what's going to happen if I go truly darkside!"
"You will not go darkside!" Dean yelled. He was furious, but underneath it all, he was scared. Seeing Sam with the gun poised to blow his brains out had shaken Dean from the inside-out – he still wasn't entirely convinced this wasn't a nightmare.
"How do you know that?" argued Sam, and Dean almost hit him. He'd just tried to kill himself, and he had the audacity to argue with Dean.
"I don't," Dean told him. "But I know you, Sammy, and I know no matter what happens, you're always going to do what's right."
"Dean," began Sam, sounding helpless, but Dean cut him off.
"No. I don't want to hear it."
"Dean, what if you can't save me?" Sam said desperately, ignoring Dean's protests. "Then what? Then you'll have to kill me, and I know it won't be easy, so it's just better if I do it myself and save you the trouble–"
"And how do you know," Dean interjected, "that you will go darkside? How do you know that I won't be able to save you?"
Sam was silent.
"Exactly," said Dean. "You don't. And you know what, neither do I. But I damn well am going to try, no matter what happens. You're only going darkside over my dead body."
Sam remained silent for another minute, before looking at Dean with glistening eyes and murmuring a thick, watery, "Thank you, Dean."
"Don't be an ass," Dean answered, raising an eyebrow. "Now get inside, I'm sleepy and it's cold out here." He waited until Sam began walking in the direction of the motel, before following his brother, ignoring his own tears prickling at the back of his eyeballs.
The second time happened a lot of time after the first – right after Dean's burial.
He'd just buried his big brother with his bare hands.
Dean was dead.
Because of him.
He couldn't save Dean.
He couldn't bring him back.
No matter what he did, that cold hard fact remained. His big brother was dead. He wasn't coming back. And he, Sam, had failed with a big fat bright red F.
Sam shoved the bottle he'd been drinking from aside and got to his feet, staggering a little. No matter how much he drank, he couldn't get Dean's last moments out of his head, couldn't get the image of Dean being ripped apart, broken, torn and bloody, out of his head. God, what wouldn't he give to forget.
What wouldn't he give to never have been born.
What wouldn't he give to die.
He made his way unsteadily to his bed, where his bag lay. Rummaging through it, he found what he was looking for.
Soon, he'd be joining Dean in hell. They didn't have to be apart.
The blade of the knife glinted in the moonlight streaming in through the thin curtains. Deadly. Sharp. Beautiful. Just like Dean.
Sam couldn't help but smiling. I'm coming, Dean.
And then, I'm sorry, Dean.
He knew this wasn't what Dean would want for him, not in a million years. He knew he'd promised Dean he'd get on with his life. But he couldn't, he just couldn't. When Dean had died, Sam had died too. All he had to do now was complete the deed, for without Dean he couldn't function.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and without hesitation carved a long gash in his left forearm. It hurt, but he relished in the pain. It was only the means to an end, his ticket to where Dean was. And yeah, so Hell wasn't exactly the bright light at the end of the tunnel, but Sam figured as long as Dean was there with it'd be okay, regardless of where they were.
He watched the blood gush up as though through a veil, and before his arm got too weak he switched hands and inflicted the same treatment upon his right forearm. The sharp onslaught of pain made him drop the knife, but it didn't matter; his job was done.
Gasping from the agony, he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. I'm coming, Dean. Just a little longer.
Despite the pain it felt so good. He was punishing himself, washing his sins clean. He'd failed, he'd been unable to save Dean, and this was how he was going to pay for it. By joining Dean in Hell.
The feeling from his body was fading, and he was glad. It lessened the pain, and it meant that he was one step closer to his brother. He was dimly aware of the blood soaking into his clothes and the bedsheet, and then, of the door opening and a female voice screaming.
The third time he tried was after his phone call with Dean, right after finding out he was destined to be Lucifer's prom dress. He could lie to himself and pretend Dean's words hadn't cut him deep to his core, but there was no point. Dean was right. They were better off apart. Even if it hurt. At least it meant that Dean would be safe.
He knew Satan said he would bring him back, but he tried his hardest to push that fact out of his mind. He could try, there was certainly no harm in trying. If he succeeded, well, it'd mean Satan wouldn't have a meatsuit any more, plus Dean would be spared the pain of having to do it himself.
And if he failed – he'd keep saying no to the day he died. If he died.
He'd considered a variety of methods, ranging from hanging to poisoning himself. Finally he settled on shooting himself in the head – it was the quickest, least painful way. Sure, there would be a lot more mess, but not if Sam didn't do it in the motel room.
He waited until midnight before sneaking out with his gun, ignoring the feeling of deja vu. He didn't bother to drive, opting instead to trek deep inside the forest bordering the town of the week. The dark didn't scare him – he was going to be a part of it, very soon.
He walked until he was quite sure the sound of a gunshot wouldn't alert anybody, and where his body wouldn't be found until it had long decayed. It wasn't hunting season either, so there wasn't much chance of a bunch of people tripping over him while trying to shoot some deer.
He found a nice little clearing with the perfect tree stump, and he sat down on it. The moon shone down through cracks in the foliage, painting everything blue. It was almost beautiful. Not a bad place to die.
His heartbeat sped up as he loaded the gun and cocked it. It was a small handgun that wasn't much good long-range but would do perfectly for Sam's purpose.
He could feel his stomach doing flip-flops, and his hands trembled slightly as he raised the gun to his forehead. One. Two. Three. I'm sorry, Dean. I love you.
And he pulled the trigger without a moment's hesitation.
He woke up to the sound of birds chirping, the sun almost blinding him with its brightness. Immediately he knew he'd failed. He sat up and rested against the stump, and let the tears flow. He sobbed until he was spent, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms tightly wound around them. He cried until he had no more breath left to cry any more.
"I told you so, Sammy-boy."
"Still not going to say yes?"
Dean was gone.
And Sam didn't know where.
Sam was all alone.
Everything, everyone was gone. Dean, Bobby, Cas... he had no one left. In defeating Dick Roman, he'd defeated himself too. Crowley had gotten himself a double victory. Two birds with one stone.
Sam slumped on the floor of the motel bathroom, his back against the door. A day ago Dean had been alive. And so had Cas. They'd been making plans to kick some Leviathan ass.
And now? Now he was all alone. No one left. No one at all.
He let out a heartbroken sob. There was nothing left for him to do. His life had halted, tilted on its axis and then refused to go on. It was over, it was all over, and Dean was gone.
And he didn't know where.
The bulb overhead flickered, trying to decide whether to die out or remain on for a little bit longer. It was still undecided, but Sam wasn't.
He looked at the bottle of pills in his hand. Trying to kill himself had become a sort of routine now – he'd even begun experimenting. Slitting wrists, check. Shooting yourself in the noggin, check. Time to try out the OD way.
He got to his feet unsteadily and filled his plastic cup with water from the sink. To his dull astonishment it was clear and probably clean, not rusty or murky brown at all. For that Sam was grateful. He didn't want to die with a horrible aftertaste in his mouth.
He sat down on the edge of the tub and stared at his reflection in the mirror ahead of him. Pale, translucent skin, dark shadows, grim lines... he'd aged a thousand years in a few hours. This was the one hunt he'd thought they might make it out of in one piece, happy and most definitely alive. And then the universe decided to cut him a new one, an uppercut coming from left wing.
He considered sending an apologetic message to someone, or an explanation, but stopped when he remembered there was no one to send it to. No one would care, because there was no one left to care.
He downed the pills a few at a time, washing them down with mouthfuls of water. It wasn't long before he started to feel groggy. His head began hurting, and his vision was swimming. His limbs felt like lead.
He clumsily set the cup and the empty bottle aside, and slid down so that his back was against the tub. It was all going to be over very soon. No more pain, no more suffering. And maybe, just maybe, he was going to go where Dean was. Where Mom and Dad and Bobby were.
He closed his eyes and sighed contentedly. It was all right. He was going to be okay in a little bit.
What he hadn't counted on was being found by a maid – again – and waking up in the hospital.
But that was the last of it. The urges never really left, but he never again attempted killing himself. Things worked out, in their own strange way.
Sam rested his head against the window and closed his eyes, letting his exhaustion overcome him. Next to him, Dean was softly singing along to AC/DC, careful not to disturb Sam. Sam smiled to himself – they were okay. Soon they'd be back at the Batcave and he could go sleep in his own bed, but for now he'd settle for sleeping in the car, his real home. Prometheus and his dying had worn Sam out, and he'd had enough of death to last him a million lifetimes. He had no plans of doing some dying of his own, any time soon.
Dimly he registered a heavy weight being placed on himself, and recognized the scent as that of a blanket. Dean had stopped the car to cover Sam up, ensuring he was comfortable.
Dean knew Sam was awake, and Sam knew that Dean knew. It came as a pleasant surprise when Dean brushed Sam's hair off his face and whispered, "Sleep tight, Sammy."
Dean drove the rest of the journey with his free hand resting on Sam's shoulder, and for the first time in a long time Sam felt whole instead of alone.
He felt truly alive.
This was another plot bunny. I'm rewatching Season 5, and the first few episodes, and the way Sam looked in them... it just got to me so bad. My feels ran wayward, and that's where this angsty piece of angst came from.
Reviews ensure the boys stay happy with each other.
P.S.: if the entire story appears bold, then it's the site's fault. I've tried billions of times to fix that right now, and it's messing with the formatting ._. So yeah, don't mind the extra boldness thingy because this site -.- *pokes suspiciously with stick* Cristo. CRISTO. CRISTO.
*performs exorcism on site*