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Sam really did hate lying to his brother, just like he hated how badly his hands were shaking as he used them to grip the only railing separating him from a long, long drop down.
So, yeah, maybe he had hyped their current case up to be more than it was really worth. And, sure, maybe he'd specifically directed Dean here for a reason other than a suspicious dog-like creature roaming around some shops at night—he had already figured out while Dean was at the library that it was just some local kids playing a prank on a retired teacher. It was pretty easy to convince Dean that something strange was going on as long as he found a superstitious town and dramatized things a little more than necessary. Besides, his older brother hardly paid attention to online research. He took everything from Sam's mouth about cases as the honest truth, even though that logic hardly applied anywhere outside of a salt and burn or de-vamping. Dean preferred to charm his way into a situation and then begin his research over a cup of coffee in some elderly woman's living room or at the desk of the local sheriff.
Thanks to Dean's hurry to get to a case (likely to avoid Sam at all costs), the younger Winchester had managed to set this one up perfectly. A nice, spectacularly lengthy vacation that he sure as hell deserved after all these years was awaiting him in this lonesome town.
The bridge he was precariously standing on was the ticket booth; it was his plane ride outta here, bye, bye, fuckers. He was balancing on concrete that felt like hot coals and gripping tight to a rail that threatened to melt between his fingers and run like water. He did have a strange, chilly feeling over his whole body as though he were indeed a rippled pond, and the world was finally smoothing him out, clearing away the dust…making things the tiniest bit clearer.
At any rate, his feet were burning and his head ached and the snipping wind was bringing a flush to his cheeks that reminded him of the aftermath of a hard slap. Dean would definitely give him more than a whack on the face if he figured out what Sam was doing, thinking, hoping for. Sam would get his ass kicked if he stepped back now but his feet were grounded and he couldn't slip backwards if he wanted to. Dean was probably still talking to that one man--Mr. Brown? Brown, clown, clouds above his head. Down, down, down, below. Sam didn't care where his brother was, as long as it meant that he had an hour for himself and the space beneath his feet, and Dean wouldn't be there to see him fall. He left a note in the room just in case Dean wondered where he was: "Bridge. Don’t come for me," it said. Simple and almost nothing, but he could barely write anyways; his hands had been too unsteady. He knew it was a hell of a thing to leave a note, and he could imagine Dean scoffing at it, but in all honesty he was at a point where facing his brother every day felt like killing himself over and over anyways (he’d tried, back when Lucifer had first been coming for him. God, he’d tried. Over and over and it never fucking stuck). He’d rather not continue that and have to face his brother’s disappointment again.
Sam could've done it with a bullet, sure as hell could've knocked back a bottle of pills. They had some pretty heavy duty pain killers and some nice sleeping capsules Dean had gotten so Sam wouldn't wake up screaming every night. They sometimes worked, but hey, if he had enough of them, maybe he'd never scream again. But, no. He couldn't let Dean find his body like that. His brother had gone and given up enough his whole life to not have to be bothered with something like cleaning up fucking vomit if Sam messed up or blood stains if he didn't.
He always wondered why Dean never killed him like he promised to, years and years ago when things were hard but still so easy. Maybe he just never wanted to deal with the mess. Stab wounds are bloody, suffocation is lengthy, gunshots are...brain-y?
Wow, Sam, Lucifer says, you can’t even think straight. Are you sure you should be doing this? Wait, scratch that. But, he’s not here. The devil has somehow wormed his way into being Sam’s own conscience like an intercom in his mind and it makes him want to jump that much faster.
This is so fucking personal that it has Sam reeling, but he still wonders if there's a part of Dean that would be killed by his choice as well. He's not so selfish that he doesn't realize how this will affect his brother, even though it is obviously the best thing for him. Sam's always been logical, you see. Lucifer tells him that every morning when he's considering how far up his motel room is, how long it would take Dean to find him, dead, in the woods, what the quickest and least messy way is to off himself.
Yeah, Dean's gonna be upset. Hell, probably more than just upset, but who knows how long that will last. Sam sure as hell knows the weight he puts on Dean's shoulders and that's a hundred times more painful than anything Dean's ever done to him. He's sure of it. Sam's the problem; all Dean has ever done is tell the truth.
You're a monster, Sam, he said.
Where will a monster like me go? Sam muses.
Dean will go stay with Bobby. They’ll figure out the whole Leviathan business without dragging along a barely-functioning body who stares at his gun like he hasn’t eaten in years, and it’ll be fine.
Just dandy, Sammy, Lucifer says, and, it’s time.
He takes one baby step forward, curses himself. A coward until the end. He challenges himself spitefully and takes a bigger step, over the railing now slippery with his sweat, onto the edge. He's so close, it's practically tugging him forward, begging him to look at our advertisement, sir, it has the best vacation plan around.
And then something else is pulling him but it's in the wrong direction, and no, he was so fucking close but he loses his train of thought as his head snaps back from a punch straight to the face.
He's clutching at his bleeding nose and gagging on the liquid running down his throat when Dean practically teleports over to him. Cas rubbed off on you, he thinks, before there are fists yanking him forward by his jacket under the stare of burning green eyes.
"What the fuck was that?" He's yelling and Sam's trying to look anywhere but Dean's face. His efforts are weak and worthless, though, as Dean's gripping him too tightly to really move anything.
"A fucking note? No. You don't get that. Not now, not ever, you understand me?" Dean barks. "You sure as hell don't get to—to fucking jump off a bridge and leave me here. Okay?" His voice cracks and Sam's barely registering the fear in his voice over the ringing in his ears.
"I know it's been hard but you can't. Okay? I can't do this without you here and—fuck, Sammy, please." He seems to be losing some of that initial anger but there's panic in his voice and Sam meets his eyes for the first time. It's painful and he has to look away immediately because there's so much hurt and dread there that it makes his stomach roll.
"Dean--" He says softly and Dean's face hardens.
"I'm not finished--"
"Dean," he says again, louder, and time leaves him for a moment until he returns to himself, crouching on the pavement with puke and blood on the concrete and a renewed pounding in his skull. Dean's holding onto his shoulders with both hands, still tightly grasping his coat as if he thinks Sam might be faking it so he can try to hurl himself off the bridge again.
For at least a few minutes, all Sam can hear is the faint whistle of cars off in the distance and the low voice of his brother nearby: Jesus Christ, Jesus motherfucking Christ you were so close and I—I, well, I didn’t know if I’d get there in time, and God, Sammy, if I hadn’t gotten back to the motel so early—
As Sam comes back to reality, he feels Dean's hands trembling against his back furiously and he feels ten times worse than before.
He stands up, and before he knows it he's being wrapped—somewhat aggressively—in his brother's arms. Sam slumps into the embrace and God, he's so, so tired. Suddenly the bridge seems to fade and it's just Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam, with the older man clutching his brother to him like the world is melting around them. Like he’s six years old again and Dad’s drunk and Dean’s holding him tight just because he can, with that warm flannel smell that he’s missed so goddamn much even though it’s been here, beside him, for years. He has a sudden but dull realization of how distant he’s gotten from himself, how disassociated he’s become, and he faintly registers a phantom burning feeling on his palms. It’s almost as real as the scalding sensation under his eyes as he buries his face in his brother’s smell. He can feel that one of the hands wrapped around his shaking back is covering Dean’s mouth, and he wonders what his brother would be saying if his words weren’t restrained.
"You can't check out on me, okay, Sammy?" Dean whispers after a moment, and his voice shakes enough that Sam's breath hitches and he feels as though he might break down right there. "I can't--You know I'm one step behind you, right? Always. Always have been, always will be."
"I'm not worth it. This," Sam says softly into Dean's newly bloodied jacket, and Dean stiffens.
"Like hell you aren't," he growls, and pulls away, albeit somewhat reluctantly. "If you're not, then how am I? We're in this together, no matter what."
"It's--I just, I've got Lucifer knocking around in my head and I could get you—us, both of us, killed. I don’t know what’s actually in front of me most of the time and—and even releasing Lucifer in the first place—that was me, Dean," Sam responds, and Dean's face is screwed up in that way that Sam's only seen a few times before.
"That's in the past. Hell, I had just as big of a part to play in his release as you did,” Dean says with a sharp edge to his voice. “And, this—this stuff with Lucifer and the cage and everything...we'll deal with it. We always work this kinda shit out, remember?" Dean adds, softer this time, with a wary smile, contrasting the tremor in the corner of his mouth and the way he keeps eyeing that edge out of the corner of his vision like he's prepared to lunge out and block it at any time. "You and me, Sammy."
Sam's mouth twists up, then, and he lets out a breath that sounds almost like a watery laugh. "Yeah. You and me."
Dean has to maneuver the Impala around a bit to get it off the bridge safely (I saw you and I just...God, Sam. I swerved over and I couldn't run fast enough) but soon they're on their way out of town with their bags and weapons in the back. Nothing back there in that town worth anything anyways, Dean says, and Sam almost winces. Let's go somewhere warm and take a break, Dean adds, and Sam's smile almost reaches his eyes. He's found a better vacation after all.