A/N: Part one of two. This was in response to my friend rei17's prompt, who gave the prompt so I would write the sequel. How could I refuse that?

The only thing he could see was the gun in Sam's hand.

The worst part of it was, Dean knew it wasn't for him. No, he knew exactly what Sam intended to do with it. The hand that had already been curled around the gun before Dean had entered was a pretty good indicator of that.

That, and the red-rimmed eyes and the utter look of desolation and emptiness on Sam's face had Dean immediately knowing who Sam would ultimately turn the gun on.

He didn't even turn it on Dean to keep him back. He flinched as Sam whispered about Dean being afraid of him, about lines being crossed, and it suddenly hit Dean as to why the gun wasn't trained on him. Sam thought Dean was either too afraid of Sam to move or that Dean wanted Sam to shoot himself, and Dean desperately tried to intervene, terrified for an entirely different reason than Sam thought. "Sam, no-"

"I'd have done this sooner." And the gun was up at Sam's temple before Dean could move, the trigger pulled, and blood shot and covered the opposite wall. Dean could hear someone screaming distantly as Sam fell to the floor, tears still streaming from his eyes wide in death. The despair was still locked there for the world to see, Dean's condemnation leading to this, and someone that sounded a lot like Dean was still screaming.

Then he gasped and shot up straight in bed, trying to pull in breaths. Oh god. Oh god. OhgodohgodohgodSammy.

Dean's eyes darted to the other bed anxiously, only to find Sam blinking sleep from his eyes. "D'n?" he whispered groggily. "Y'kay?"

Dean swallowed hard and shut his eyes tight. Yeah, I'm great, I'm dreaming about the other night when you almost killed yourself. Except this time, you really do.

"I'm fine," he managed, laying back down. The sheets felt too heavy, and he pushed them down a little. Room was too hot anyways. "Go back to sleep, Sammy."

He could feel Sam's eyes on him, and closed his eyes, pretending he was falling asleep. After a few moments, Sam finally gave a small sigh, and Dean could hear the covers rustling. He waited a few more minutes until Sam's breathing evened out, and he finally opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling.

This was nightmare number three, and Dean knew it wasn't going to be the last. Not when he was only a few days out from the event. Not when Sam still didn't look stable enough for Dean (or Sam) to feel comfortable with Sam out of his eyesight.

Not when this entire thing was Dean's fault.

He'd just been so damn anxious, so worried and waiting for Lilith to burst in at any minute, and the fear had come out as anger, and Dean had said the first thing he could to make Sam pissed off, too. He'd said yes to Sam going darkside. Seen it coming with the past year. Sure.

Except he hadn't. And Sam hadn't gotten angry back.

He'd gotten suicidal.

Dean shut his eyes tight. They'd talked a little afterwards, and Sam had said that Dean was his last line, his last support. Demons and angels both gossiping and plotting against him, and Dean was it. If Dean thought he'd gone too far, he was past the point of salvation. If Dean wouldn't stand by him, then Sam had no one to help him. No one left.

And Sam, who so desperately didn't want to fall down the slope into darkness, decided to finish it the only way he knew how: by taking himself out. Because there was no one left on his side.

Dean's stomach twisted, and he turned over towards Sam, trying to find a comfortable place to sleep. Guilt felt heavy in his stomach, and he pushed the blankets down farther. It didn't matter what he did: nothing was going to make him feel any better.

With his eyes on Sam, though, he felt himself drift off. Sam was alive, breathing softly, deep asleep.

That was the only thing that was going to let him feel better.