Sam thought about it… Thought about it more than once. Had it all planned out, too. He was gonna do it with Dean's .45 in their motel room when John and Dean were out on a hunt. He made sure that even if he did miss that there'd be no one to save him from bleeding out if he couldn't get off a second shot. But then Dean just had stay home and buy him a pizza and have an awesome big brother moment and remind him why it was a good thing to be alive.
Dammit. Of course, Dean didn't know he'd saved Sam's life. Hell, Sam was still pretty sure that Dean would lock him in the Bobby's panic room if he ever found out Sam was thinking these types of things. Sam was thirty-one now. Dean was thirty-five. They were older, figuring out that they couldn't retire- couldn't have That Life anymore. Ever.
Sam was just so tired. Tired of it all. He could barely find it in himself to care about the people getting slaughtered by monsters, about the worried glances Dean gave him, all he could feel was the swirling mass of navy blue that had invaded his body and made his movements sluggish.
He wished he could just grow a pair of balls and pull that fucking trigger. Sam knew it was only a matter of time until he did. He figured it would be less than a week before he was six feet under. Sam began making preparations.
First, he would try to fix that gap between he and Dean. Sam started asking Dean to teach him things he didn't really care about. He even convinced himself that he was doing a good job of pretending to be enthusiastic and interested.
"I love you." Sam had blurted out, desperately wanting Dean to know that he really, really did love his brother. Sam wasn't going to die because he didn't want to be Dean's family anymore. Dean frowned and pursed his lips.
"Yeah, I know, Sammy. You okay?" He asked, resting a hand on Sam's broad shoulders. Sam just nodded and smiled up at his brother. Dean knew, so it would be okay. It would all be okay. When Dean felt reassured he clapped Sam on the back and grinned, "Love you too, little brother." Dean said as he left Sam's room.
Bobby had given them the house when he died in a hunt for a werewolf. Sam knew Dean still mourned their surrogate father's death but Sam… didn't. He was just too sad about everything to only mourn Bobby's passing.
Sam decided Dean understand that Sam loved him wasn't good enough. He wanted to explain why he had to do this. Why he had to leave. So Sam bought a black leather bound journal and began to write. He started from the beginning. Started from the first time he wondered how fast he could bleed out through slashes in his wrists.
Sam didn't want to scare Dean. No, he never wanted to scare Dean, so he kept that journal hidden. Made sure that Dean wouldn't find it unless Sam wanted him to. Three days left, Sam kept thinking as he wrote in that journal.
Sam sharpened his knife. He wasn't going to use it but it seemed like a good back-up plan. He knew how bad it hurt to have your wrists slashed. When the Ghouls had done it to him he felt angry. He was furious that they were trying to take him out in the way he'd originally chosen.
Now that out was tainted and he couldn't use it. That didn't mean he couldn't let the blade bite into his flesh on occasion- it just meant that he was going to die by a bullet to the brain. Sam struggled to ground himself. It wasn't working.
Sam thought it was the ocean of roaring, blinding, beautiful white that constantly changes to the solid, too-thick to breathe, navy blue was what sent him over the edge. He really didn't know, but, what he did know was that he'd prefer the silky white or the sugarless sorbet-blue to the mute, emotionless grey that's called 'normal'.
He was waiting for midnight. It only seemed right. If he was going to Hell for suicide he was gonna go at the right time. He'd made a deal with himself a long time ago and now he had to hold up the last part of it.
The clock was ticking. Less than an hour now. Dean was sleeping in his bed twenty feet away in his own room. It was good that he wasn't there because he'd probably stop Sam again. Sam grabbed the black journal and opened it to the last page. He'd filled it up almost entirely- except for that last page.
He held his jell pen close the paper, not quite letting the metal touch the paper but close enough that if he moved a millimeter he would. How do you say the final goodbye? How do you tell someone that's died for you and that you've died for goodbye?
Sam just shook his head and put the journal and pen down while he thought. How do I say goodbye? To Dean? To everyone? Sam felt his eyes get hot and sting with the promise of tears. It'll be over soon, said the voice in his head. Sam blinked and saw the little mutant cat thing lounging on his bed frame.
"Ready, Sam?" It purred, rubbing its body against his legs. Sam pet the creature and nodded, just as the clock struck midnight. He scrawled a quick note on the last page on the journal and grabbed his gun, "Twice, remember that Sam." It purred, eyes flashing green.
"I remember." Sam whispered, loading each bullet into the clip carefully. He slumped against the side of his bed. He snapped the clip into place and pressed the barrel against his temple. Sam winced at the ice cold metal and squeezed his eyes shut. A smile spread across his lips.
Sam pulled the trigger, sending the bullet out of the barrel and into the soft tissue of his brain. Blood spattered against the bed and the white wall. Red smeared over everything as Sam's body slumped forward with a dull 'thump'.
The gunshot echoing throughout the old house was the last thing Sam ever heard.