The time had come. This is what his father had said, “If you can’t save Sammy you have to kill him.”

Killing him meant Dean would have screw up his whole life’s mission. He was taught from the moment he could hold Sam that he was Sam’s protector. He was to keep him safe from all the evils of the world. That was his life that sat in front of him in the wooden chair.

Sam was tied to the chair; head hung low his muscles loose. He had stopped fighting against the rope that bound him to the chair. His mouth was slack but moments before had been yelling at the top of his lungs. Dean couldn’t bring himself to gag him.

It was like Sam was a total different person. He didn’t react to the usual demon detoxify. The holy water didn’t burn, the Latin words were useless. Dean didn’t see a sigil burned on his skin. Sam was Sam. Sam wasn’t Sam he was something that wasn’t right.

Dean thought back on the days when Sam was overtly nice to all the victims. He would put his arms around them and give them the support that Dean never could. Dean didn’t know was support was.

Sam stirred and roused Dean from his thoughts. Dean braced himself for another torrent of yelling and struggling. Sam’s brown eyes pleadingly stared Dean down.

“You need to do it.” Sam said. That pitch was the real Sam.

Dean felt helpless. This was the first time in his life, no the second, “Run Dean and take your brother outside, go!”

Dean lifted the gun up then let it down again. He couldn’t do it. The weight of the gun felt like the weight of the world on his shoulders. It was heavy, dark and heavy.

Sam suddenly started to thrash. The ropes burned into his skin as he moved with abandon.

“Stop it Sammy.” Dean yelled at his brother.

Sam looked him up and down and thrashed again drawing blood on his tan shirt. Dean couldn’t take it anymore; the blood, the yelling, the tearing of skin on nylon rope, but his brother was his brother and he set the gun down on the bed while he untied the rope.

Sam came at him. He knocked Dean to the ground with a leg sweep. Dean put his hands on Sam’s shoulders as Sam dug his hands into Dean’s throat cutting off his air. Dean’s face went red then purple; he couldn’t find it in him to fight Sam off.

Instincts took over and Dean kicked Sam off. Those basic survival instincts gave Dean the extra energy needed to knock Sam off of him. It was brief. Sam was back on top of him grunting and yelling as he went for his throat again.

Dean was sick of fighting. This idea rolled into his head. It was three weeks away. The deal of his life would be up and he would be dead anyway. Sam was the Winchester hope and if he kept attacking him, Dean would be forced to kill him.

Sam’s expression went from an angry, mouth stern to a glimpse of the real Sam who suddenly pulled off of Dean. The reprieve was short for once again the evil in Sam surfaced and grabbed a knife.

With the blade millimeters from Dean’s throat Sam’s evil grin washed over his face with a chuckle. He was enjoying his torment of Dean.

“How about I take you out early?” Sam said.

“Go to hell.” Dean said freeing himself from the position and grabbing for the nearest weapon he could find.

“You first.” Sam lunged.

Time slowed. Dean could see and feel the blade Sam was wielding. It shined and reflected the evening sunset. The pain that shot through Dean wasn’t so much from the knife that found purchase in the meat of his neck it was from the surprise written across Sam’s face when the gun shot hit him in the heart.

Sam faltered and fell to the floor. Dean felt the blood gush from his wound to the floor below. His feet fell out from underneath him and he crashed to the carpeted floor.

The wound was fatal. His vision blurred but he found some strength inside of him and crawled to be by his brother’s side. Sam was dead when he got to him. Dean didn’t have the strength to tear up. His head fell forwards into the shoulder of Sam and he let go. What was there to hold on to anymore?

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