The Last Time

The stopwatch ticks. One per second, as a darkness starts to filter through the curtains – but the curtains aren't there anymore.

There's only so much time. Everyone has a set amount of time, that was what you used to believe. Then, discovering there was a whole whack-job world out there that had its own views on what should happen to you when you die, about what fate everyone had, you didn't give it much more thought. You just accepted your fate would come in time.

It has come and gone now, technically. You're a minute overtime, and the clock's counting down. Soon, you'll have to say yes or no, stay or go. Soon, you won't even have the opportunity to be able to make that decision.

And the pocket watch counts down the seconds, as your last memory fads around you.

The only choice he wanted to think about now was alcohol. Whiskey or beer. Not that it was much of a choice, he needed oblivion, and he needed it fast.

But oblivion was staring him in the face. Oblivion was lying on that bed, surrounded by useless, useless sons of bitches, pressing button and using complicatedly named equipment. Oblivion had left him feeling hollow, once again. He'd only just started to recover from the last loss, and just as before, another had come to bite him in the arse.

When would people stop dying?

He turned, leaving his brother standing there, heading out. He couldn't have told you if he was running or walking, he couldn't have said. He just knew he was heading for the nearest exit. The swanky big black car Dick had been in, that bastard, was gone. He wouldn't have cared if it was. He just headed to the van they arrived in, and grabbed the bag from the back.

He was running this time, running to the back of the hospital, to a small, out-of-sight section of tarmac and high walls. He dropped the bag, dropped down beside it. From the side pocket he pulled a stick of chalk. From the methodless mess, he pulled a book. He drew the sigil, found the incantation, and spoke.

Breaths behind him. He didn't turn, as no protests issued, he didn't stop speaking, either, not until a demon stood before him.

"Hello boys. For what glorious crusade have I been summoned into this time?"

"He's dead."

He didn't need to say who. There wasn't many left who he could have been talking about, and the tears on his face narrowed it down to that one choice.

There was a pause, a confused, disbelieve filled silence. "What?" the English son-of-a-bitch said eventually, the single word filled with denial. "Dead? Him? Please, I doubt a bazooka could knock him-"

"He's dead. And I, for one, am not going to do a single, sorry thing to stop the Leviathan whilst he's like that."

A foot shuffled behind him, the sound of his brother taking a stance, of seeing where he was going and wanting a part in it. "Me neither."

The demon frowned. "What, you think it's a state that's gonna change anytime soon?"

"I don't have time for you being all stubborn and British and prude, so let's just get straight to what I want," he cut in, before the snarky comments began. "I want him alive. You can do that. And yes I know your little embarrassing problem and I'm willing to give it to you. Yeah, again. But then, when he's awake and cussing and downing whiskey like it's the end of the world again, you're gonna give it back. And I'll tell you why. We're the world's best hopes of stopping Dick, and you know it. You need us. And if he's dead, if you have my soul, I'm telling you, I'm not moving off the couch."

"You wouldn't. You can't just sit back and watch the world be eaten alive."

"Look at me. Look at my face. I've lost pretty much everything I care about, my friends, every father I ever had, even my damn car. I'm quite happy to give up now. The world can go and have the ending it's wanted so long. I, for one, am quite happy for it to do so."

Pause. "Are you seriously going to go along with this, moose?"

"Makes perfect sense to me. I'm with him."

Hearing those worlds made it feel better. Made his decision feel right. If his life hadn't fallen off shit creek a long time ago, he might've smiled.

"You're going to have kiss me. You realise that? It's the only way to seal the deal, mate."

He shrugged. "Trust me, mate. I've kissed worse."

He probably wouldn't realise, anyway. His heart was thudding too hard.

"But – come on, boyo, I'm a tricky figure. If you've learnt anything over the last few years, you should have at least learned that!"

"I'm counting on your desperation and selfish ways."

"Yeah, but then, so was your friend Cassy. So was Bobby last time, and you had to pretty much kill me to get it back."

The small thoughts, the slight uncertainty, were being shoved before his nose. He could even feel the frown his brother would be pulling behind him, the doubt in his gaze. The gaze before him was patient, was gentle, yes, was hopeful, but perhaps there was care in there, too.

"Seriously kid. Only do this if you're certain. Are you certain?"

The pocket watch counts down the seconds, seconds that are slowly leaving you. They're passing by with no action taking place. You haven't said anything, and the Reaper before you grows impatient.

Your mouth opens. You think you know what're you going to say now, and you turn your gaze from the couch where an echo of your boys was before. He smiles, reading your answer in your face.

It's not what you want. He knows this. But it's the lesser of two evils. As much as it would hurt them for you to die, you know it'll hurt them more if they have to burn you.

As light fills the room – the memory, whatever – you wonder, vaguely, as you close your eyes to the brightness of it, if he needed you to say it, or if he could just take it from your expression, because you didn't breathe a word. But this isn't the darkness he promised, and if it's not one thing, it must be the other.

Surely this must be heaven.

Something shifts quickly – something falls out from beneath your feet – and you're lying down.

Lying down in heaven?

Something's pressing into your face.

The world's red – bright light shining through your eyelids.

But it's the pain that finally makes you realise – you would have had to say it. This isn't heaven.

For a second, you wonder what those two idiots did this time. You start to plan how you're going to whop their asses. Also high on your priority – getting back into jeans and getting a glass of whisky in your hands.

But for now, as two cautious footsteps enter what you assume is your room, as someone calls your voice, and as you open your eyes only to wince at a bright light that most definitely isn't heaven – you're just grateful.

There you go. An alternative. Not the best crafted, could have made it into a nice long epic hunt for Bobby's soul, but I a) don't have time (bleedin schoolwork, unfortunately) and b) felt like going for simplicity.

Now, you're left with two questions:

Is Dean getting his soul back?

And Is Death just going to let the Winchesters cheat him out of a soul once more?

Tempted to do a longer sequel – but not sure. Depends on reviews I get, so, if you want another – please review!