Title: One Bullet

Author: Piratelf

Rating: PG (Strong Language)

Fandom: Supernatural (SPN)

Type: Fictional Person General Audience, Alternate Universe

Disclaimer: Eric Kripke created Sam, Dean and John Winchester and The CW owns them. NO money will be made from this work.

Beta: CaptainoGondor

Notes: The time frame is after Croatoan before Hunted. References events in Asylum and In My Time Of Dying.

Summary: A discussion between the brothers brings out an old issue and resolves a new one.

"There's just one bullet left." Sam took the Colt off of the table where Dean was cleaning and loading the weapons. He sort of fondled it in his hands as he walked over to the lumpy-ass crap motel bed and sat down. He looked at the gun like you'd look at the newborn baby Jesus; wonder, confusion, hope and fear.

"No problem, just one yellow eyed son-of-a-bitch to kill." Dean clicked the trigger on the Glock.

"No," Sam said quietly. "We'll have to decide."

"Decide?"

Sam looked up at Dean. "Him or me."

"What?!"

"Dad said I was a demon."

"Sam, that doesn't –"

"Listen to me, Dean!" Sam interrupted his brother, raising his voice just enough to be heard. "I've had holy water splashed all over me, I've practically bathed in salt, I can say Christo, Hell, Dean I've performed exorcisms! If I'm a demon, how fucking strong must I be?"

Dean sat silent. He wanted to say something, but, though his mind was working furiously, nothing came out.

Sam pushed the loading gate open. He looked at the silver bullet inside. "Probably only one thing could kill me," he tentatively reached for the bullet.

Suddenly his hand was slapped aside. Dean grabbed the gun from Sam and snapped it shut. "You know what? From now on – " Dean stuffed the Colt in his waistband and pulled his shirt down over it – "this gun does not exist to you. Understand me? You don't touch it, you don't look at it, you don't even think about it!"

"Dean," Sam sighed.

"You hear me, Sam?"

"Have I ever mentioned you sound just like Dad when you say that?"

"Are. We. Clear?"

"Whatever, John."

Dean's hand absolutely itched to smack Sam's mouth like it hadn't since he was a sullen, bitchy sixteen and Dean was an impatient, impulsive twenty.

But, he didn't do it then, so he could overcome it now. He walked back to the table, sat down and continued swabbing the barrel of the Glock.

Sam pulled his knees up to his chest and watched Dean for a few minutes, until the steam stopped coming out of his ears. "Dean?"

Whoa, déjà vu. How is it that after almost twenty years and a fairly substantial voice change, Sam could still sound exactly the same as he did when he was five? "What?"

"Let's talk about this."

"About what? About my little brother committing suicide? I'll pass, thanks."

"We can't just pretend that this information doesn't exist, Dean. This isn't going to go away just because we ignore it. Believe me, I wish it would, but it won't."

"Look, you're not a demon, Sam. You're you. You're the same as you've always been. Let's just go with that. When your eyes go yellow, or you start leaving a sulphur ring in the bath tub, then we'll worry."

"It'll be too late then."

"Too late for what? Too late to shoot you?"

"Too late for me to shoot myself. I'll be too far gone then. If you give me the Colt then, Hell, I'll probably shoot you!"

"Well, I've lived through that before Sammy, I think I'll survive it again."

"WHAT?!"

"You remember, at the-"

"I know what you mean, Dean! I can't believe you're still holding on to that! I thought you said we were cool!"

Dean shrugged calmly. But he wasn't calm. He hadn't meant to bring it up. But he was trying to distract Sammy, change the subject. Yep, he'd succeeded there. "We're cool, I'm just sayin'-"

"No! No we're not cool, Dean! God!" Sam ran his hand through his hair so violently, Dean was surprised he hadn't left a bald spot. "How can you still blame me for that? I told you, I'm sorry! I told you, it wasn't me, it was the doctor, and that rage therapy thing he did to me! Why don't you believe me, Dean? Why?"

"I do believe you Sam, it was just a joke."

"No, no it wasn't! You really think I wanted to kill you! You think that of me!"

"Damn it, Sam! You took my gun, you pointed it at my face, and you pulled the trigger!"

"Yes, but-"

"FOUR times, Sammy!"

"But I would never have done that if Ellicott hadn't been messing with my head!"

"Hey, it was in there to begin with. You knew who I was, you knew who you were and you knew what you were pissed off about. It wasn't a possession, Sam."

"I didn't say it was. But it also wasn't how I really felt, and is definitely not how I feel about you! Don't you understand? Ellicott tapped into the rage center of my brain! The only emotion I felt was rage! Things that are just slightly annoying, or frustrating, or even maddening were enraging me! And I couldn't help it! Do you think that cop wanted to kill his wife? You think that kid wanted to fry his friends? You said it yourself, it was Ellicott's spirit that was making everybody homicidal! Why doesn't that apply to me? Huh?"

Dean thought about that for a minute. A full minute. What Sam was saying was true, but he couldn't dismiss seeing that hate in his eyes. Or could he? Isn't that how they got into this conversation? "So, you're saying you don't have that hate inside you? You're saying you'd never kill your own brother."

"YES! That's exactly what I'm saying. I would never, never do that, and you should know that, Dean."

"Okay." Dean nodded. "Then we agree."

"Yeah," Sam said uncertainly, wary of this sudden change in demeanor. "We agree."

"You'd never shoot me."

"Right."

"You don't want me dead."

"No! God, no!"

"So, you don't need the Colt, then, do you?"

"What? No, Dean, that's completely different!"

"Why? You're you, I'm me. What's the difference?"

"Because, I'm different now!"

Dean frowned, "Different? How? You still have horrible taste in music, you still take too long in the bathroom, you're still a huge dork, I see no difference."

"Dean, come on. Even if it doesn't show, we KNOW I'm different."

"No different than you were in Illinois."

"Yeah, but . . . I'm gonna change."

"Maybe. We'll see."

"Dean, you will be in danger! Once I'm not me anymore, I could hurt you!"

"I'll tell you what. Once you're not you anymore, all bets are off, how's that?"

"Dean." Sam shook his head sadly.

"What?"

"You won't shoot me."

"How do you know?"

"Cause I know you. And cause I've been there. I couldn't shoot Dad, you won't be able to shoot me."

"Dad was possessed. It's different."

"So was that guy who was pounding on my face, and you knew it."

"Yeah, and I shot him."

"Yeah, because he was gonna kill me. But you'll never be able to shoot me, Dean."

"Sammy, listen, to me. Once you aren't you anymore, I WILL kill the thing that took you. I promise you that."

Sam looked at his brother, doubt, worry and maybe a bit of hope warred in his eyes.

"Have I ever broken a promise to you, little brother?"

Sam grinned and shook his head. "No."

"No, that's right. So you take that promise, and you give me just a little trust, and we'll get through this thing. All right?"

Sam sighed, suddenly tired. The old patterns are so ingrained sometimes, so comfortable and so easy, we don't even notice when we slip back into them. Like a well worn path through an overgrown wood. This demon thing was new, following his brother's lead was old. And Sam didn't even realize when his foot slipped from the underbrush to the path. "Okay, Dean."

Dean patted the lump where the cold steel of the Colt rested against his skin. "And we'll just let me worry about the gun, right?"

"What gun?" Sam blinked, innocently.

"That's my boy."