Choice
Warnings: Thoughts of Suicide? Sort of? Set season 3, before Dean goes to Hell. Fun brotherly angst.
Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me.
"You reckon that's what this damn thing does, Sammy?" Dean paused, not really waiting for an answer as Sam sat, frozen, in the passenger seat. "Some kinda destroyer of souls, or whatever?"
Sam prayed to whatever God was up there that, in that moment, Dean wasn't thinking what Sam was absolutely terrified he was thinking.
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When Sam Winchester woke up, in a dingy motel somewhere in the middle of Minnesota, the first thing out of his mouth had been, "Fuck, Dean, pick up your fucking phone."
Once the words left his mouth, the ringing stopped and Sam groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes, surprised that Dean hadn't woken up. Too tired to really give a shit, but surprised nonetheless.
Yawning, Sam rolled over onto his side, pulling his arm away and forcing his eyes open to the bed across from him.
The empty bed.
Sam shot up, the only thought running across his head being, 'No, not yet. Still have six weeks. No, no, too early.', but the panic was already setting in as he flung off the bed sheets, getting to his feet and stumbling just a bit.
He whirled around where he stood, spinning to scan the motel room. Not in the bathroom. Not in the kitchen. Not here.
Fuck.
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Dean Winchester was sitting in the car. He didn't know what time it was, probably 3 by this point, way too early for anyone to be awake.
But him.
He'd become obsessed the past couple days, obsessed with counting every minute he had left.
At complete unawares that his little brother had been doing the same.
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Once Sam had gathered his bearings, too early- too early, they still had six weeks no, no, not fair- calming down enough to realize that all of Dean's stuff was still here and there was no note, he'd flung himself out the room, careful not to mess up the salt. Breath still in his throat, he scanned the area for the-
The Impala.
Still there.
Sam couldn't let himself relax just yet, starting towards the car, still in his socks, heart pounding in his ears. Please, Dean, be in there, be somewhere, be here, be here.
It felt like the tips of his fingers were going numb, and he couldn't hear anything that wasn't his own strangled breaths of air, tearing from his throat.
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Dean came to a conclusion, realizing that yeah, there was one way to be saved.
Only one.
He didn't have to go to Hell after all.
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Relief burning in his eyes, Sam wrenched open the passenger car door, and stared at Dean, sitting over in the driver's seat, looking pale but looking calm.
"Jesus fuck, Dean, what the hell are you doing?" Sam hissed, reaching out to grab Dean's shoulder when he froze, paused. Stared at the colt, The Colt, in Dean's grasp, Dean's fingers curled over it almost protectively.
"Sammy, I think I've finally figured this out."
And Sam didn't like that, the soft almost hushed tone of…relief? Hysteria? Fuck if Sam knew, and in that moment, Sam didn't even fucking care.
He wanted to say something then, maybe tell Dean to put down the fucking gun and get outside and come back into the motel and sit down and maybe Sam can get him a beer or a cup of coffee or just let him fucking sleep or something, but Dean started talking again.
"Y'know Sam, all this time, you've been trying to keep me alive, but I just don't want to go to Hell. But you know what this does, dude? Fuckin' kills demons, don't it? Doesn't send 'em back to Hell, like when you're exorcisin' those little shits, but this fuckin' kills 'em."
Dean's barely making sense, except he's making so much sense, and Sam's trying to understand. Sam stared at Dean, covered by shadows and looking all dramatic in the fucking moonlight streaming through the windshield and staring at the gun and now Sam's staring at the gun and then at his brother and something clicks.
He's not moving fast though, despite the sudden rush of adrenaline telling him to grab the gun, punch Dean in the face and start screaming, and slowly gets into the passenger's seat, closing the door behind him.
Shotgun shuts his cakehole.
Except, not this time.
"Dean, I don't know what you're talking about." Except, Sam does, he really does, he knows exactly what the fuck Dean's talking about and where the fuck Dean's going with this and hell fucking no. But he's tense, and maybe all the adrenaline that had been pumping through his veins a couple seconds earlier had turned into ice. Can blood do that?
Probably, because he doesn't think he can move now, even if it's to grab the gun out of his brother's hands. He's going weirdly numb, because the fact that maybe Dean has a point, but no fucking way, is turning his fingers into popsicles and he's turning into a fucking ice block in the god damn Impala while his brother fingers the fucking Colt like it's a girl or something.
"You reckon that's what this damn thing does, Sammy?" Dean paused, not really waiting for an answer as Sam sat, frozen, in the passenger seat. "Some kinda destroyer of souls, or whatever?"
Sam prayed to whatever God was up there that, in that moment, Dean wasn't thinking what Sam was absolutely terrified he was thinking. But he was, of course he was, Dean wasn't fucking stupid and Sam wishes, for once, that he was.
Because Sam got into Stanford and Dean didn't and he's not sure what the fuck that has to do with anything but it probably has something to do with something and Dean's talking again and Sam wonders when he's going to start saying something that'll make Dean put the fucking gun down.
"Destroyer of souls is a pretty cool name, don'tcha think? Definitely what it does though, kills 'em? Kills 'em so that they don't come back from Hell and Sammy, I don't wanna go to Hell."
Sam wonders idly if Dean's drunk, but he can't smell alcohol on his breath and Dean doesn't sound so much as he does drunk, as he does tired. Fucking exhausted, actually, that's how Dean sounds.
"I'm gonna get you out of this." Sam finally speaks, and his voice is hoarse and his lips are dry and it sounds like he's said the line a million times, and maybe he has, and he's probably on autopilot.
Here sits Sam Winchester, turning into an ice-block next to his probably suicidal brother who doesn't want to go to Hell but he's probably going to because he sold his soul for his brother who died and all he has left is to kill his soul before it goes to Hell and he's on autopilot.
Prepare for take off. Prepare for landing. Quick, prepare for the crash we're goin' down.
Hell, Hell, Hell.
"What if you don't?" Dean sounds a little desperate now, or something, and Sam wants to scream again. There's no fucking way he's not getting Dean out of this fucking deal, even if he has to shove a garden hose into the devil's gate so that all the fire's gone and there's only smoke and if there's no Hell, Dean doesn't have to go.
"Then I'll get you out."
Sam never really thought about that, and he's surprised the answer leaves his lips without him ever actually considering it, but there's something softer in the air now, like the tension that had been bleeding off Sam, off Dean, off the Impala, off the fucking Colt, had melted.
Dean's shoulder sags and Sam finally turns, realizing that he'd been staring determinedly out the fucking window like a fucking imbecile, to stare at his brother.
Dean's staring at him, and his face is open, hiding nothing, maybe too tired to put on a façade, and Sam wants to wince, wants to cry, wants to fucking bite off his arm or something stupid, at the look Dean's giving him.
He doesn't even know what the fuck Dean's looking at him with. Trust? Love? That weird kind of condescending patronizing pity that people usually give people who don't want to admit that the world spins on an axis?
There's a thud and Sam winces then, even though the sound is way too soft to be a fucking gunshot, and figures Dean's dropped the gun. Man, that fucking gun.
"Okay. Okay, Sammy."
Sam's not sure what Dean's replying to, and wracks his brains to remember the last thing he said, and then Dean's getting out of the car while Sam's still sitting there, sitting here, wondering if Dean would've shot himself in the head, dead and gone and no soul, if he hadn't woken up because someone had fucking called Dean in the middle of the night.
Sam follows Dean with his eyes as his brother leans against the hood of the car, looking over his shoulder at him, eyes dark, dark green, ever green, evergreen like evergreen pine and maybe they should buy themselves a candle later and light it and sit down and exchange stories about their shitty childhood.
Except that makes no fucking sense and Sam leans over to pick up the stupid fucking gun, the Destroyer of Souls, and gets out of the car as well, tucking the gun away.
Dean's still leaning against the car, no longer looking at him and kind of just looking up, and Sam walks over and stands next to him, following his gaze.
"Hey, Dean?" Sam thinks he's melting now, because the ice in his veins has turned into really cold water and it's pumping through him, and the adrenaline is back, laced with anger and disbelief and his face is probably all pinched now, thinking about Dean fucking shooting himself in the head and leaving Sam to wake up in the morning and come out and see his dead brother in the Impala and how the fuck is he supposed to keep the Impala when there's brains all over the window or whatever?
"Yeah?" Dean turns, straightening up and looking at Sam curiously.
Sam punches him, hard enough that Dean goes down. Right hook, in the jaw, I came, I saw, I hit 'em right there in the jaw, get back motherfucker you don't know me like that-
"What the fuck, Sam!?" Dean's picking himself up, rubbing at his face and looking perfectly indignant, self-righteous bastard, like he hadn't just been planning on destroying his soul. Without leaving a god damn note!
"Don't you ever pull something like that again, got it?" Sam thinks he maybe sounds dangerous now. Kinda like Dad, maybe. Maybe that'll make Dean listen and make Dean believe that everything will be okay and Sam really is gonna get him the fuck out of this. Or out of Hell.
But Sam was going to save Dean one way or another, and Dean just needed to stay put in one place, be it on Earth or in Hell until Sam got him the fuck out.
"You're such a fuckin' girl," Dean grumbles, rolling his eyes and trudging back to the motel and Sam follows after him, like he always does.
Like he always will.
First time writing a Supernatural fanfic, and I don't know if it's any good, but I hope you like it! Please leave a review, if you can!