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Title: His Father's Son
Disclaimer: If anyone owns anything in this relationship, Supernatural owns my heart. And won't give it back. And won't pay me for it. (i.e. Don't own, don't profit)
Characters:
Sam, Dean, John, Yellow-Eyed Demon
Warnings: major character death, suicide 

Rating:
R
Word count:
364
Spoilers:
S1 finale, alternate ending
Summary:
AU of "Devil's Trap." Dean dies inside the cabin, and that changes everything.
Author notes:
So much in the Supernatural universe hangs on the delicate thread of true family linking the Winchester men. This fic explores the choices that might have been made when part of that web is de-anchored. [livejournal.com profile] lavinialavender  is my beta, though she didn't read it directly before I posted it, so there may be errors, and they are all mine.
Author note #2: I have fallen in love with parenthetical, italicized flashbacks. Absolute love. I may have written a story recently that didn't have them, but I don't remember it. And I fully admit that part of this love is they wouldn't have let me do that in undergrad. I'm pretty sure the profs would have given me the look, you know?

With Dean dead, bled out on the floor from coughing up his own lungs (that’s all of his family dead, right there. Mom he never knew, Dad he never trusted, and Dean), there’s really no family to preserve, no reason not to pull the trigger.

Sam shoots the yellow-eyed bastard in the head in the battered cabin in the middle of nowhere. Shoots him with the Colt, kills him as dead as man and God can make him, and doesn’t really give a damn that it’s John’s corpse lying there when the supernatural flicker of his death-throes ends.

He’s wanted to kill his dad a thousand times, but never thought he’d pull the trigger, never thought the man would beg him to. Never thought he would feel so hollow afterward, like his insides had been scooped out like a pumpkin, lit with the end of a black candle. Anything burning inside Sam that night flickers in the wind. 

Hollow and numb, he goes to Dean and pulls his brother’s body onto his lap. The wind blows the trees in the night, and the lights hold steady, and he knows (“Sam, lines of salt in front of every window, every door.” “I did it, Dad.” “Well, check it.”) no demon or ghost will touch him tonight, unless it’s Dean come to tell him what he did wrong, how he failed them this last time.

Sam would welcome even that, to see his brother moving again.

The Colt rests loosely in his hands across Dean’s chest, and Sam can’t stop staring at the barrel of the gun. Of all the things that ever mattered to Sam, all are gone now in one way or another. The nebulous dream of a normal life is gone. Jess is gone, and so is the bastard that killed her. Dad is gone, utterly dead with the rest. And Dean is dead in his arms because he couldn’t save him.

By midnight, Sam has decided not to use the Colt. Waste of a bullet.

He uses Dean’s semi-automatic instead, and wonders—if there is an afterlife, a heaven that he gets to go to—if he’ll see his brother there.
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