Disclaimer - The characters do not belong to me.
Notes - Unbetaed. Inspired by 'Cops And Robbers' by The Hoosiers.
"I didn't say Simon says!" Sam burst into a fit of giggling, hands over his stomach to try and control his laughter. Five years old, he found great amusement in watching his brother pat his head and rub his stomach at the same time – or, at least try to. Dean didn't have that particular skill, it seemed. He ran a hand sheepishly through his messy hair, sitting down on the couch.
"Come on, Sammy, you know I'm bad at this game," he groaned, flopping his head backwards. His younger brother seemed content to collapse on the ground and roll for a few seconds, before starting to play with his three toy cars. One was not unlike the Impala, and as Sam made it run over one of his little plastic soldiers, he made an engine-like noise. "Hey, why are you running that guy over?" Dean asked curiously, lifting his gaze up to get a better look.
"Because he's secretly a bad man," Sam answered. Dean flinched a little, scooting off the couch and kneeling besides Sam.
"Why's he a bad man?"
Sam seemed to concentrate for a moment, staring at the soldier. He reached out and picked it up in the tips of his fingers, the nails bitten down to the edges. The green had slightly faded away, leaving small flecks lighter or darker shades beneath.
"He's killed his friends," he finally decided, placing the toy down and turning to face Dean. For a short while, Dean didn't know where to look. Sam was obviously looking for confirmation, but he didn't know how to give it to him. "Dean, do people really kill other people?" His hands rested on his knees, face tilted up towards his bigger brother.
"Yeah, some people do," Dean murmured, reaching out and ruffling Sam's hair. "But you don't need to think about that, Sammy. Now, come on, let's play another game." Sam paused and looked as if he was going to question him again, but the promise of more fun and entertainment pushed the issue out of his mind as he scrambled to his feet.
"Another game! We can't play Simon says anymore, Dean, because you lost all your lives."
The night that Sam left for Stanford was a cold one.
Dean's breath frosted up the glass on his window as he breathed on it. His hand moved up, drawing a gun on the clouded surface. He didn't really have any artistic skills, but it at least resembled what he was attempting. His eyes narrowed as he heard a door slam downstairs, getting off his perch and hurrying down. John and Sam were arguing again. Until then, Dean hadn't actually believed that Sam would go to college. He always thought that his brother would be there, elbowing him and making stupid jokes, being his hunting partner.
"You can't control my life!"
"If you walk out that door, don't you ever bother coming back."
Tense seconds of silence followed John's final words, before Sam took a step backwards.
"Fine. You know what, fine."
He grabbed his bag from the floor next to the wall, turning and slamming his way out of the house. Dean glanced at their father, and was greeted by a slight shaking of his head.
"It's his own choice, and his own mistake. Let him go, Dean." It was one of the rare occasions that Dean didn't feel any urge to obey his father. He jogged out of the house and placed his hand on Sam's shoulder before he could get too far away. He held the grip tightly even as the larger whirled around to face him.
"Don't go, Sammy. Stay here, with me." Dean gazed at the other almost pleadingly, his hand sliding from his shoulder to hang loosely by his side.
"I can't. I don't want to do this anymore." He was fed up of the constant moving, the worrying that each day would be his last. Sam wouldn't even stay for Dean anymore.
Dean's voice broke slightly on his next words.
"Simon says you have to stay, or you'll lose one of your three lives," he whispered, fingers curling up uselessly. Sam hesitated, but then his head shook.
"I have to go."
He did, and then Dean was left alone on the side of the road, the wind howling around him, jacket flapping with the force of it.
It was normal to be afraid of the dark. That's what he had told himself, and that's what he had told Sam. It was perfectly normal, and not unusual. The kids whose parents told them to not be afraid were being lied to. There were monsters in the dark. That had been drilled into him from a very young age.
"Dad's on a hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days."
Dean lived in constant fear that the things in the dark would get at John one day and tear him limb from limb. He had already lost Sam to the education system – he got a cheap thrill when he put it like that – and he didn't want to lose the only other important person in his life. John could be a bastard, but he was still family, and he valued that above everything.
The relief that he felt when Sam told Jess to excuse them was obvious. Together, he and Sam could fight back the monsters like they always had done, and everything would be okay again.
Sam wouldn't admit it to Dean, preferring to drill into his head that he had to be back for his interview on Monday, but the Impala felt comfortable, as if it was an extension of himself. He didn't even mind the ridiculously loud volume that Dean played his songs even if he portrayed otherwise.
He couldn't get over the feeling that he was home. The smell of the car, the slight hint of gasoline and lighter fluid was all too familiar to him. It was as if he had never been away.
"Sammy, pass me the tape down your side," Dean muttered, flicking through the radio stations and finding nothing he liked. He took the tape from Sam, glancing up and grinning widely at him. They had stopped for a burger at a petrol station, Dean complaining that he needed his 'five a day'.
Sam looked back at him. "What?" he asked, confusion lacing his tone.
"I didn't say Simon says. You just lost a life!" He slapped his palm on the steering wheel, taking care that it wasn't too hard, his lips curled into a cheerful expression. Sam groaned, yet couldn't help but laugh.
"You've gotten better in your old age," he teased, taking a bite of his salad.
The windows were steamed up again, this time from heat rather than cold. The Impala rocked slightly, it's windows clouded with the perspiration. In the back seat, Dean arched his back, legs hooked around Sam's waist, his arms around his neck. His nails dug into the skin and then clawed their way down Sam's back as the angle caused a sound to rip from his mouth.
"More."
If he was asked later, he'd deny that anything but masculine grunts were made.
Dean Winchester wasn't loud during sex, and he especially didn't beg. Anyone who said differently was obviously out to tarnish his reputation.
An annoyed mutter left him as Sam did the exact opposite of that, slowing to a stop. Dean's eyes glared at the male above him, hitting his shoulder. "Why the hell would you stop?"
Sam's mouth curled into a grin. Dean wanted nothing more than to kiss him in that moment. At least until he spoke.
"You didn't say Simon says, Dean," he said huskily, lips dragging across his brother's jawbone. Dean was torn between laughing and hitting him over the head, preferably with something hard and heavy.
"Two lives down, one life left," he settled with saying, before any sense of coherency was destroyed into a garbled mess of words as Sam continued.
There was every reason to be afraid of the dark.
Dean hunched over Sam's bleeding chest, desperately trying to plug up the wound with his hands. The blood covered his skin, eyes stricken and fearful. "Come on, Sammy, don't you dare die on me." Sam's eyes flickered closed for a moment, coughing, more of the liquid coating his lips. "You can't die! I haven't said Simon says. You can't die on me, Sammy!" Dean's voice was desperate, breaking apart at the seams as he tried desperately to hold onto his brother.
"Dean," Sam whispered with another harsh breath, almost able to physically hear the rattling of his punctured lung. He had been close to death before, but it had never felt like this. So final. Dean blinked fiercely, holding back the tears for Sam's sake. He would not cry.
"Just hold on, the ambulance is on it's way. Just a little longer, Sammy, hold on," he mumbled, the sticky substance still coating his fingers.
"Guess it was my last life. You finally beat me at the game, Dean." Sam's lips twisted into a pained smile, large hand coming up to touch Dean's cheek. He laughed a little, even though it was obvious it hurt him.
"I don't care about winning," Dean said softly, hands curling uselessly as he realised it was futile. Even though he knew it couldn't be helped, when Sam's eyes fluttered closed and his body grew still, Dean started to shake him. "No, come on, Sammy, don't leave me like this. Please. Don't leave me!"
The paramedics found him still shaking his brother's limp body.
"Simon says I won't be long, Sammy. We'll have a game soon."