Just close your eyes
The sun is going down
You'll be all right
No one can hurt you now
Come morning light
You and I'll be safe and sound

Safe and Sound

They sat cross-legged on the rough wooden floor, facing each other. Sam was crying, and Dean wanted to but he couldn't. Someone had to be the strong one here.

Everything was gone, finished. Dad was dead, Bobby was dead, Caleb and Pastor Jim were dead. All of them killed by the exact same thing. They were all alone. No one in the world to be there for them.

"Dean!" There was a plea in Sam's voice, and it broke Dean's heart. "Dean, I can't, I'm scared!"

"It's going to be okay, Sammy," said Dean gently. "We're going to be all right."

Sam nodded, trusting him implicitly. He was sixteen, but he felt like all of three years old again. This was wrong, so wrong, but there was nothing else to do. Everyone they knew was dead. The Impala was wrecked. They were stranded in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of winter, in the middle of Minnesota. They were out of food, drink and ammo. They were as good as dead already, so why not expedite the process?

"There's got to be another way," whispered Sam. The cold was making his teeth chatter.

"There isn't, Sammy," Dean reminded him. "We're snowed in. We don't have any food left. There's no heating. We'll be dead in a day anyway. This is better."

Sam bit his lower lip, considering. Then – "Okay, Dean."

Dean smiled at him, a strained stretching of his facial muscles. "Okay, any last confessions?"

"I was the one who mixed hair dye in your shampoo last year," admitted Sam with a slight grin.

"Ah, I knew it," Dean said. "You little bitch."

Something lodged in Sam's throat. It was one of the last times he'd ever hear Dean call him that. The thought brought the tears back, and he looked away, staring at his hands knotted in his lap.

"Hey, hey, hey," Dean said softly, leaning forward and raising Sam's face with his hand. "It's okay, Sammy. It's okay. It's all right."

Unable to help himself, Sam clambered into Dean's lap. He was as tall as Dean now, but he was still skinnier and sometimes, the comfort of his brother's warmth helped tremendously. Now was one of those times.

Dean patted his head. "Listen to me, Sammy," he said, his tone firm but gentle. "It's going to be okay, you hear me? We'll be fine. We won't be suffering anymore."

"What if we go to hell?" asked Sam, resting his head against Dean's shoulder.

"Why should we?" argued Dean. "We've never done anything wrong. All we've done our entire lives is help people. That's our ticket to the good life, right there."

Sam didn't answer; he was holding on to Dean's jacket for dear life and trying not to think about the next few minutes. Then he asked, "Dean? They won't separate us, right?"

"Of course they won't," said Dean confidently. "Don't worry about it, Sammy."

"Will it hurt?" Sam's voice was small, childish. Dean felt a pang as he realized that even at sixteen, Sam never really grew out of the awkward kid he'd been at eleven. He was always going to be Sammy, little Sammy, Dean's Sammy.

"I don't know." They only had a bit of time left anyway. Might as well be honest.

"Are you scared, Dean?"

Dean swallowed. "Yes," he confessed. "I'm really scared, Sammy, but there's nothing else we can do."

Sam was silent for a bit, before asking, "You think Mom and Dad will be there?"

"You bet," Dean answered. "You'll get to meet Mom. She's amazing, you know."

"Hm," was Sam's answer. Then, "Dean, it's cold."

"I know, Sam. We're going to die of hypothermia if we don't do this."

"I don't want to die of hypothermia. I don't want to die at all." Sam's voice was breaking again.

"Neither do I, Sammy," admitted Dean.

"But we'll be okay, right?"

"Yes. We will."

Sam took a deep breath and said, "Well, in any case, Dean..."

Dean knew that tone. "Chick-flick moment?" he guessed.

Sam laughed a little. "Yes."

"Aw, what the hell," muttered Dean. "Bring it on, then."

Sam laughed again, and the sound drove a nail through Dean's heart. Before Sam could say anything Dean held him just a little bit tighter and muttered into his hair, "I love you, bitch."

"I love you too, jerk." Sam sounded tearful again, but his voice was steady.

They stayed in the embrace for a few more minutes, drawing warmth and comfort from each other. Neither wanted to leave, to do what they had to, but if it was going to be done, it had to be done soon. Otherwise they'd lose courage and freeze to death in the middle of the night, and considering their options, Dean really thought his idea was better. Much painless too, and they got the time to say goodbye.

Presently – too soon for Dean's liking – Sam crawled out of Dean's lap and took up his previous position, steeling himself and saying, "Well, if we're going to do this... let's get it over with."

Dean nodded. He seemed incapable of speaking. Sam picked up the gun lying nearby, but before he could do more than flick the safety off, Dean said, "Wait."

Sam put the gun down. Dean took Sam's cold hands in his own and leaned forward to kiss his forehead. "See you on the other side, Sammy," he whispered.

"Yeah." Sam didn't trust himself to say more than that. His heart was thundering in his ribcage now, as if it knew its beats were numbered. His breathing was shallow and rapid. So was Dean's.

They both picked up their guns. Dean brought his shaking arm up and put the barrel against Sam's forehead, and Sam did the same. His arm was shaking worse than Dean's – he could barely hold the gun in place.

"On the count of three," murmured Dean, his voice shaking so badly Sam could barely understand. "Three."

"Two," whispered Sam.

Dean looked into Sam's eyes and offered him a smile. Sam smiled back as they said in unison, "One."

They found the two boys three weeks later, huddled up together and slumped on the floor. The snow had just begun to melt, and some of the campers had complained about the smell coming from the old cabin. The local authorities checked, and that was how Sam and Dean were found.

It was a clear case of a suicide pact, and yet the boys looked happy, noted the officer who found them. They looked peaceful. It wasn't a mystery what had driven them to it – searching the cabin revealed the absence of food, water or any form of heating. All available wood had already been chopped up and was now ashes in a corner of the cabin.

"It's tragic, really," said the mayor in a speech a week after the boys were found. "Such an extent of negligence will not be ignored. Also more concerning are the weapons in the boys' possession..." He yammered on and on, but no one was listening. It was a better alternative to hypothermia, and everyone agreed.

Somewhere in the great upstairs, Dean Winchester facepalmed. "We're being used for political purposes, Sammy!" he wailed dramatically.

Sam rolled his eyes at him. "Shut up, you big drama queen."

"Boys!" called Mary. "Dinner!"

"Coming, Mom!" Sam answered. The word sounded unfamiliar in his voice, but oh God, it sounded so good. The kid was relishing every moment he got to spend with the mother he'd never known.

"What say we haunt that mayor?" asked John at the dinner table. His smile was relaxed, genuinely happy.

"John!" said Mary reproachfully.

"Just kidding, dear."

Dean had been right – they were all right.

I'm not feeling well, okay? And that messes with my creativity. Then I write depressing shit.

Review anyway, yeah?

-Peace