A/N: I had writer's block. Apparently I cure writer's block by killing a character. The lyrics are 'Hangman' as sung by The Kingston Trio (but the song itself is a folksong and therefore I am breaking no rules, sneaky, huh?).

Slack Your Rope a While

Hangman, hangman, hangman,

Slack your rope a while.

I think I see my brother

Riding many a mile.

Dean was strapped down and waiting. It was the waiting that was killing him – pun completely intended, because Dean had run out of just about any other way to entertain himself – waiting and strapped down and not even able to scratch his nose. And to add insult to injury, the room was painted a god-awful green. The last colour he was going to see was this stuck-somewhere-between-bogey-and-bile-green.

Though, it's hardly going to be in the forefront of anyone's mind; the last colour a convicted serial killer sees. Still, cruel and unusual punishment, anyone?

"Hey, man, is my brother here yet?" Dean asked the warden. The warden looked back at him with a face carefully devoid of all feeling.

"No, he's not." Dean flinched slightly at the prick of an IV line in his arm.

"But, you can't do it if he's not here. Can't you delay it? Say a needle broke or something, you won't have to wait long, he'll be here." The warden didn't reply, just moved out of the way so the gurney could be rolled into the execution chamber itself. "Hey, no, wait a minute." Dean tried pulling his arms free, breaking the restraints, knocking an IV loose, anything to give Sam some more time. But the restraints were too tight and too strong and Dean had spent too many years on death row.

"Come on, think of it as a last request. Just, I just want to see--" the door (the door that didn't go to the execution chamber) opened and in stepped a man Dean didn't think he'd ever seen before.

"Stop the execution."Dean's head dropped back onto the pillow in relief. The man came further into the room and claimed something about new evidence, but Dean was having trouble getting past how grateful he was for his brother.

Well, brother, did you bring me silver?

Brother, did you bring me gold?

Or did you come to see me,

A-hanging from the gallows pole?

"Dude, talk about leaving it to the last minute!" Sam gave a small smile, which was the best Dean could get out of him these days. "Seriously, what took you so long?"

"The car broke down." Dean stared and Sam smiled. If it weren't for the bullet-proof glass between them, Dean would have happily throttled Sam for scaring him like that, and over a broken-down car, as well.

"Are you kidding me?" Sam even managed a grin.

"Nope. Impala's having her suspension fixed, I borrowed one of Bobby's cars."

"That is the last time you put my life on the line when you're driving one of Bobby's pieces of crap, y'hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear you." There was a silence and Sam's grin faded to nothing. "Dean?" he said, watching his hands twist together on the tabletop.

"Yeah?"

"I don't know if... I don't... The evidence isn't..." Sam paused. "I don't think we'll be able to get you out."

No, I didn't bring you any silver.

No, I didn't bring any gold.

I just come to see you,

Hanging from the gallows pole.

Hangman, hangman, hangman,

Slack your rope a while.

I think I see my father

Riding many a mile.

Being strapped to a gurney with IVs in both arms, awaiting the moment he was rolled into the execution chamber of god-awful green was even less fun the second time around. At least, in Dean's opinion it was. And he'd know; it wasn't like there were many other people who'd gone through the ordeal more than once.

Some music would have been nice. Something to make the atmosphere less oppressive. It was a pity there wasn't a suggestion box, because Dean had some great ideas. There could be a mural painted on the ceiling, something involving scantily-clad women wielding swords. Heck, Dean could live with just the scantily clad women, he wasn't picky. Well, not live with, exactly, it being an execution chamber and all...

It was probably a good thing there wasn't a clock in the room, though. That was too morbid even for Dean. Not that he had much else better to do than watch the last few minutes of his life tick away. Waiting for the hellhounds had been better than this, more exhilarating, at least. Even the hospital had been more enjoyable because he could, you know, leave. Spend some time with Sammy.

The lights flickered.

Dean tensed and glanced around for any and all signs of the supernatural. Though, being strapped down, he wouldn't be able to do anything about it. He almost laughed; if anyone's execution was going to involve a ghost or a demon or a goddamn fairy, it would be his. Of course, he could be entirely overreacting to a slight electrical glitch. Sometimes it really is just technology going wrong for the heck of it.

The lights flickered again.

Then again, maybe not. The lights kept flicking on and off, until even the warden and medical guys were looking worried. There's nothing quite like the worried faces of one's would-be executioners to lift a man's heart. They conferred in the corner and eventually the warden came forward.

"We're going to have to delay. We can't perform the execution without electricity." The lights came back on and stayed on. The warden hesitated, glancing up at the lights, which flickered just once more. "I'd say you must have someone watching over you, but, well..." He left the sentence hanging, but Dean, who could feel the IVs being removed and each and every strap holding him down, got the point. He snorted, someone watching over him, yeah, right.

Well, father, did you bring me silver?

Father, did you bring me gold?

Or did you come to see me,

A-hanging form the gallows pole?

Dean woke from some, frankly, pretty shitty sleep, shivering and shaking, despite the blanket wrapped tightly around him, and it only being September. He jumped nearly a foot in the air when he found someone watching him from across the room. His hand shot under his pillow before he even saw who it was. Of course, his hand didn't find anything under the pillow, but old habits die hard (about as hard as it was for Dean to die, apparently).

Then he saw who it was and he couldn't decide between staring with his mouth hanging open or reaching for his stash of salt (again, old habits...).

"...Dad?" The ghost, or vision, or whatever it was of John Winchester, smiled and nodded. "What are you doing here?" John carried on smiling. "Was that you back there? In the... with the lights?" John nodded. Hope flared within Dean; something he hadn't really felt for a long time. "Well, does that mean you've got a plan? Some way to get me out of this? You got a ghost army out there or something?" John's smile faded and he looked down at his hands.

"You haven't got anything planned, have you?" John looked back up at his son and shook his head. "And I really am going to die tomorrow, aren't I?" John just kept looking. Dean rolled onto his back and threw an arm over his face. This was too much for any person to take. All this yo-yo-ing back and forth; "you're going to die tomorrow, oh wait, no you're not"; "here have some hope, whoops! Sorry! You don't actually have a hope in hell of leaving this prison in anything other than a body bag".

Dean could feel the burn in his eyes and the lump in his throat and tried desperately to keep them at bay. He'd got this far, dammit. If everything had gone to plan (he would never have been in this place) he would already have been dead and buried by now and without shedding a single tear over his own death. He was not going to start now.

Except that he already had.

"Dad, I can't... I don't want to die, Dad!"

"Shh, shh, I know." Dean could feel the warm breath on his ear, like when he was small and Dad would hold him close and rock him and chase away the bad things just by being there.

"I don't want to leave Sammy alone, Dad! It's not fair... I didn't have a choice. Dad, Dad, please, I don't want to be here. Help me, Dad, please..."

"Shh, I know, son, I'm sorry. I can't."

No, I didn't bring you any silver.

No, I didn't bring any gold.

I just come to see you,

Hanging from the gallows pole.

Hangman, hangman, hangman,

Slack your rope a while.

I think I see my sweetheart

Riding many a mile.

Three's a magic number. Third time's a charm. Three's a really fucking boring number because it means you've done everything twice before. Not that Dean was complaining about his three last meals, he'd happily die for another one of those. It's a good idea, a last meal. Dying on an empty stomach would really suck.

Dean didn't want to dwell on his two last conversations with Sam.

"Think we're actually going to get in there this time?" Dean raised his eyebrow at the warden because, seriously 'in there' was where he was going to be executed for Christ's sake. Then he realised that he couldn't be bothered with being indignant and angry and just shrugged as best he could.

"Probably," he said. It wasn't like he had anyone else to come save his ass.

Sweetheart, did you bring me silver?

Sweetheart, did you bring me gold?

Or did you come to see me,

A-hanging from the gallows pole?

So, he was finally there. Actually in the room. The execution chamber itself. And yes, it really was the prison's own patented colour of God-awful Green. Dean tried imagining that mural painted on the ceiling, but it just didn't seem to fit. And there was a microphone dangling right above his head that really got in the way of his creative flow or whatever. Mainly by reminding him that he had a final statement to make, which, shit. What's the last thing you say to the world, to your brother? Dean had never expected to have time to talk while he was dying. Dean had always leant towards more "bang, you're dead." methods of killing, or maybe a "holy shit, I'm bleeding out all over the floor!". Never anything as clean and clinical as this.

Was it too late to request a beheading?

Dean was drawn out of his thoughts by the curtain being drawn back. It revealed a window filled with a surprising number of faces. For the most part, he didn't have a damn clue who they were or what they were doing there, but there were a few he recognised.

Like the son and daughter of that possessed woman who'd gone for Sammy. Like that werewolf's sister.

Like Sam.

Sam looked like a pretty accurate physical representation of how Dean felt. Which was like shit, of course. Especially when faced with a window full of people who were happy to see him die. Like it was some kind of football game and their team had won.

The warden urged him to make his final statement. Dean grinned.

"Well," he said into the microphone, "I gotta say, it coulda been worse, eh, Sammy?" Sam ducked his head, which was the best Dean could ask for.

The warden gave his signal for the drugs to be administered. Dean kept his eyes on Sam. The last colour he was going to see would be God-awful Green, but he was making damn sure that the last face he saw was Sammy's. His eyelids became heavy and started to flutter as he tried to stay awake as long as he could, for Sam's sake. His eyes fluttered closed and he used every last ounce of strength to wrench them back open. Sam's face crumpled and tears started running down his cheeks.

Dean wanted to say something. He wanted to stop Sam looking that way. He wanted to make everything better. He wanted Sam to be safe. He wanted to live a long and healthy life. He wanted to see Sam grow old. He wanted

Yes, I brought you some silver.

Yes, I brought a little gold.

I didn't come to see you,

Hanging from the gallows pole.

Hanging from the gallows pole.

The End.

Thank you for reading.