Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural in any way, shape, or form.

Author's Note: Yet another one shot, this one dealing with death and survivor's guit.

Warning: No spoilers or anything, but the subject matter is about death and stuff...so if you aren't comfortable with that, I don't suggest reading. Also a few words here or there, but nothing heavy-duty.

"Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever." Mahatma Gandhi


It took Dean a while before he realized how many things he needed to say. Actually, it took a death – not one in his own family, but another.

They had been in their motel room when John's phone rang. "Hello?" he said. He listened for a moment before his brow creased in worry. Dean watched as his father's eyes suddenly were painted in sadness. "When?" he asked. Then he said, "Yes, of course, we'll be there." He hung up the phone.

"Dad, what happened?"

John sighed. "Ben Suthers died."

Dean shook his head. "No…how?"

"Poltergeist. Damn…" John said, still clutching the phone in one hand as he rubbed the back of his neck with the other.

"When's the funeral?"

"Tuesday. Come on, get your stuff packed – we're driving to Michigan."

By the time they got there, family and friends were already pouring in to commemorate Ben, who had always been a generally well-like type of guy. But Dean wasn't interested in the multitude of people. He was looking for Ben's only son, only child – Sean.

He finally found him sitting outside, beer bottle in hand even though technically he was only nineteen (Sam's age) and too young to drink. "Hey," Dean said.

Sean snapped his head around, and stood up upon seeing Dean. "Hey," he returned quietly.

"So," Dean said as they sat back down on the grassy hill together, "how're you holding up?"

Sean shrugged. "I don't know…hasn't really sunk in yet, you know? I mean, there are so many things that I still want to tell him that I simply…can't anymore." Dean looked at Sean, and saw that there were black circles under his eyes.

Dean sighed and turned his head, looking back over the hill. "I know, dude. It's a dangerous gig. You and your Dad were a pretty awesome team, though." Sean nodded.

"How's Sam?" he asked. "I heard he's at Stanford now, really riled up your old man."

"Yeah," Dean chuckled, "Dad was pretty pissed. I actually…haven't talked to Sam. Y'know – awakward."

"Yeah."

Sean then shifted a little bit. "I remember the last time I saw Sam. We got into a fight about who was better – the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or Power Rangers." He laughed and took a swig of his drink. "Sam gave me a nice black eye. He still have that great left hook?"

Dean laughed. "Hell yes." He remembered how Sam had tried to use that 'great left hook' on his own father just before he left.

"You know," Sean said, "Dad told me that I'd laugh about that whole fight some day, even though it seemed pretty awful then. But he knew!" Sean laughed. "It all seems so trivial now…compared to…"

"Yeah, I know. I'm so sorry, Sean."

Sean tried to force himself to smile, but he couldn't. "I guess this is why…they tell you to always say I love you and all that shit. I mean, I know it always sounds so sappy and stupid, but when your Dad is dead and your last conversation was about picking up dishwasher detergent…"

"Live with no regrets," Dean added, trying to help out the kid.

"Yup," Sean said, taking one last swig from the bottle before he pitched it over the hill. He closed his eyes as he listen to it shatter, as if it was the sweetest melody he had ever heard. "No regrets."

The funeral was the next morning. As Dean stood at the gravesite beside his Dad while the casket was lowered to the ground, he turned and looked at his father. I'm sure glad that isn't you in there, he whispered in his thoughts. He tried to imagine his Dad dying. The thought gave him the kind of internal shock he hadn't had since he was a kid. His Dad had broken his leg after a run in with several angry possessed people, and when he saw his Dad struggling to hobble around in a big leg cast, it had taken him aback. His eyes had widened, and his voice always caught in his throat. After all, this was the mighty, invincible John Winchester. He was Superman, and Superman was never hurt. Ever.

So trying to imagine him dead…no. The thoughts just couldn't mesh together in his mind. No.

He then caught sight of Sean. He was standing alone, slightly apart from the rest of the mourners. His eyes were red-rimmed and his face was one of unbelievable pain. But the worst part was the aloneness. Will that be me someday? Dean wondered. Will I be alone, Sammy and Dad gone? Will I have to stand by their gravesites alone, thinking about all of the things that I should have said or I should have done? Am I going to be the one to bury them?

John watched in concern as he saw his son grow more and more visibly upset. Finally, he put a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Come on," he said, "let's go."

"But—"

"C'mon, Dean," John said, tugging his son away from the others. They settled down in the truck and John drove for only a few miles before he pulled over. "Dean?"

Dean had been staring out the window, and he still didn't remove his gaze from the sign boasting all of the fast food restaurants within a ten-mile radius. But he wasn't reading the words on the sign – the face of an anguished Sean kept flickering before his eyes…

Finally, he turned to face his Dad. "I don't want to be like Sean."

"What?"

"I don't want our last conversation to be about dishwasher detergent!"

"Dean, hold on!"

"I don't want you to die and…not know…Jesus Christ!" he yelled, slapping his hands on the dashboard in frustration. Why were the words that were possibly the most important ones he would ever utter so difficult to say?

"Dean?"

He felt himself start to lose it. "I don't want to be alone some day, and I don't want Sam to be alone and I don't want you to be alone!"

John chuckled a little bit. "Dean, is this all about dying? Because I'm not planning on dying any time soon!"

"Neither was Ben Suthers," Dean whispered. He stared at the gearshift for a moment before he finally looked up again. "I…I just want you to know."

"I know, Dean."

"And I want Sam to know."

"He knows, Dean."

Dean took a deep breath as he felt his feelings start to spill and bubble over, like a high school chemical reaction experiment gone wrong. "Just drive," he muttered, his gaze returning to the window.

John started the engine again, but before he pulled away he placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "I know, Dean."

Once they got back to the room they were staying at, John decided to go out and get something to eat, leaving Dean alone. He flopped down on his bed and stared at the ceiling for a while before he reached for his phone.

Dean scrolled through the contacts before he found Sam. He took a few deep breaths before he hit CALL and held the phone to his ear. As he listened to it ring once, twice, three times he tried to put together the words he hadn't been able to say before. He wanted to say all of the mature, important things that he meant to say before Sam left for school but ended in, "See ya later, Sammy."

Suddenly – "Hey, this is Sam Winchester. Sorry you got my voicemail, leave a message and I'll call you. Bye."

"You can record your message now," a smooth female voice said.

Beep.

Dean tried to open his mouth, but his lips were cemented together. He hung up the phone and laid his arm over his head, choking on all of the words that he meant to say.

Or maybe those were tears…he wasn't quite sure.