Author's Note: This was a request given by Dawn N, and I thought I would give it a shot. It is dedicated to Dawn, since after all, it is her idea. And many many many thanks to Vanessah (Square Flea) for being a marvelous beta.

Prompt: The scene back at the motel before Sam runs off to Duluth and Jo. I wanted the scene to go differently between Dean and possessed Sam.

You could tell Dean thought Sam was going to turn the gun on himself and commit suicide since Dean refused to shoot him. I wanted to see a scene where Sam does turn the gun on himself and see how it plays out with a desperate Dean.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own the stunning Winchester brothers. They belong to the ingenious Kripke as with all things Supernatural. The poem is an excerpt from the poem "I Am a Beggar Always" by E. E. Cummings.

i am a beggar always
who begs in your mind

(slightly smiling, patient, unspeaking
with a sign on his
chest
BLIND)yes i

am this person of whom somehow
you are never wholly rid(and who

does not ask for more than
just enough dreams to
live on)

- E. E. Cummings

Dreams to Live On

The weight of the world lay in Dean's hand.

Okay, actually it was the weight of a .45 Automatic Pistol.

Just a few seconds earlier the gun was placed in his hand by his little brother. But that didn't matter to Dean. What mattered was the way Sammy was looking at him, like he was expecting it to be used...on him.

Everything was spiraling out of control. Dean felt like he didn't even have time to breathe. Wasn't it just two weeks ago they were arguing over some tiny, little thing like whose turn it was to clean the guns? Hell, it wasn't even that long ago their dad was with them, and all three of them were fighting together.

It all seemed like an eternity ago...an eternity and a half.

Now, their father was gone, probably rotting in hell, after making some sick deal with the son of a bitch demon they were hunting. And Sam disappeared for over a week only to come back with blood stains on his shirt and no memory of how they got there.

A hunter's dead, and somehow that was enough to convince Sam that he did it. Well, that and a lovely video tape that recorded the whole thing.

Being crushed was too good for the cursed tape. Dean would have to remember to go back to salt and burn the thing.

And what was college boy's bright idea to fix this whole ordeal? Oh, that's right, hand big brother Dean a gun and stand there like something was supposed to happen.

The only thing Sam should have been prepared for was to be pistol whipped for getting such a stupid idea.

Dean glanced down at the gun, feeling the familiar texture beneath his fingertips. But his thoughts weren't on the pistol or even what Sam implied by handing him the gun. They were solely on the desperate look on Sam's face. The way he slightly shifted, preparing himself to face down the barrel of a gun. The way his eyes didn't hold fear or even regret, only acceptance.

His eyes locked on the gun, Dean said the only thing that came to mind. "You know, I've tried so hard to keep you safe."

There was barely even a pause before he heard Sam's answer. "I know."

Those two words held so much trust that it took Dean a moment to realize what he was about to do. He was about to kill Sam. His Sammy. The same Sammy he took care of from the age of six months to twenty-three. The same six-year-old Sammy he once caught playing with his first gun he received for his tenth birthday.

Dean about blew a gasket that day. He knew it was partially his fault for leaving the weapon lying on his nightstand, but that didn't stop him from ripping it out of young Sam's chubby fingers when he caught him playing with it.

After lecturing Sammy on gun safety and how he wasn't allowed to touch it or else he would get hurt, Sammy just vehemently shook his head and boldly stated that it couldn't hurt him.

Dean stood horrified, wondering if his brother had heard anything their father had drilled into their head about dangerous weapons over the past six years. He promptly asked Sammy why he thought the gun couldn't hurt him.

Sammy simply stood up, looked Dean straight in the eye, and said, "It's your gun, and you wouldn't have it if it could hurt me. You wouldn't do anything to hurt me." He said it with such honesty and trust, Dean could only watch, dumbfounded, as Sam picked up his teddy bear and left the room.

Seventeen years later, the same Sam stood before him with the same trust in his voice. Only this time Sam wanted something entirely different from Dean.

Sam wanted a way out. Dean could see it in his eyes. Sam was tired of fighting, and he wanted Dean to save him, just like he always did. Save him from hurting anyone else. Save him from being something he wasn't. Save him from being a malicious pawn in the demon's game. And for the first time, Dean didn't know if he could.

But he did know he what he couldn't do.

For the first time in what seemed to be forever, Dean looked Sam straight in the eye and prayed this situation never came up again. "I can't. I'd rather die," he stated, his voice conveying more sincerity than he ever thought possible. Without taking another look at the gun, he threw it on the bed and walked away from Sam, ready to forget this ever happened and move on.

Dean never thought about what Sam's reaction would be. He was so focused on his dilemma that he never realized what must have been coursing through Sam's head.

It was a mistake he would never make again.

"No, you'll live," Sam softly replied as he picked up the gun.

Dean slowly turned, not ready for another confrontation. The last one left him emotionally drained for the next year. He watched silently as Sam turned around to face him, the gun lying casually in his hand.

"Sam-" he started as he took a step forward.

Immediately, Sam raised the gun and pointed it at Dean. "Don't," he stated much too shakily.

Dean blinked in surprise, unsure what to think. Repressed memories from Roosevelt Asylum came rushing back. "Or you'll what? Shoot me?" he asked incredulously. They weren't hunting a crazed doctor this time, and he was sure it was still Sam he was talking to. As far as he was concerned, he didn't have much to be afraid of.

"No," Sam replied as he raised the gun to his own temple.

Except for that. He was definitely afraid of that.

He expected Sam to be disappointed in him. He even expected him to get angry for not following through on his promise to kill him.

But he never expected Sam to point the gun at his own head.

Dean knew Sam wasn't one for empty threats. Without a second thought, Dean rushed forward, Sam's name on the tip of his tongue.

He only made it half way before the sound of the gun cocking stopped him in his tracks.

"Stay back!" Sam screamed, taking a large step backwards.

As much as the gun was scaring Dean, nothing terrified him more than the desperate glint in Sam's eyes. "Okay," Dean softly stated, as if trying to calm down a wild animal. "Let's just talk about this."

Sam slowly shook his head, the barrel of the gun still resting against his temple. "There's nothing to talk about," he whispered, as if he was too exhausted to use his voice.

Maintaining eye contact from across the room, Dean replied, "Sure there is. What do you think this will solve? Whether or not you're alive, the demon's still out there. This doesn't fix anything." The slight tremor in his voice revealed his fear.

Dean wanted nothing more than to rip the gun out of Sam's hand and leave this god forsaken place. But the gun was already cocked and Dean wouldn't make it halfway to Sam before his brother's brains would be splattered against the wall.

Sam looked down at the floor, as if he was ashamed of what he was about to admit. "It solves a lot. It protects you," he muttered, looking like he was six years old again.

Not this crap again. Dean swore if he heard Sam's guilt trip one more time, he would have his response tattooed to the kid's forehead. Just for a daily reminder of how nothing was his fault. "From who? You? Sam-"

"I killed someone, Dean!" Sam snapped, his eyes shinning with unshed tears. "I don't even know who I am anymore!"

God, how did their lives get so fucked up? Demon hunting was one thing. This...this was a whole new ballgame.

Dean closed his eyes and softly sighed, trying to maintain his temper. It seemed like his life was on freaking repeat half the time. "You wanna know who you are?" Dean asked in a matter of fact tone. He never waited for an answer. "You're Sam Winchester, my pain-in-the-ass little brother. You like ancient texts more than any twenty-three year old man should. But thank God for it, or else I'd have to read that boring crap. Your attention to detail drives me crazy but has saved my ass more times than I can count."

Dean ran a weary hand of his face. The next part would be a bit harder to admit. But, hey, Dean Winchester was going all out today, might as well throw in some touchy feely crap too. "Most of all, you're my brother, and as long as I'm standing here, nothing bad is going to happen to you."

"You can't promise that," Sam whispered as a single tear fell down his cheek.

Dean merely cocked his head to side and smirked. "Yeah? Well, I just did."

Sam's grip on the gun visibly relaxed, but he still didn't move it away from his temple. He remained silent for several moments, obviously trying to process what Dean just told him.

As the endless seconds ticked by, Dean suddenly became restless, and he became desperate to see Sam move the gun away from his head. "You wanna know the truth?" he asked, part of him praying the Sam's answer would be 'No'.

Sam simply looked up expectantly, obviously waiting for more.

"I don't know what's gonna happen any more than you do," Dean openly said as he slowly moved closer to Sam. "But I do know that there better be two bullets in that gun, because if you go, I'm going too."

He stopped just a couple feet away from Sam. It was still enough room to give the distressed man some space, but he was now close enough to grab the gun of Sam made a sudden move. The thought in itself brought Dean more relief than he ever thought possible. "What's gonna happen if we're both dead?" he honestly asked, hoping that the question would make Sam take the final step and move the gun away from his head.

For once, Sam seemed to be on the same page as him as he moved the gun down hand held it limply in his hand. "You'll live," Sam softly stated as he slowly shook his head.

Dean could barely express the relief he felt at Sam's action. They may still need to talk about this, but at least now it wasn't life threatening. Slightly smiling, Dean let his guard down and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck.

He never saw the Sam raise the gun above his head or the smirk quickly forming in his face.

He never saw the gun hit him bluntly on the side of his head.

Unconscious before he hit the ground, he never heard Sam's last words as he walked out of the motel.

"You'll live to regret this."