Sam pounced the second his brother had walked through the door. "The Colt," he said quickly, opening up the discussion.
"Word association," Dean nodded. "Ok, I'll bite. Pony."
"The Colt."
"Uh… Dodge."
"The GUN!"
"Um… ammo?"
"Dean," Sammy growled, throwing up his arms in frustration, "I swear, sometimes I just wanna shoot you!"
"Wouldn't do much good in the long run."
"It would vent my anger."
"Do we have to sing?"
"What?" Sam asked. Had his mind not been swimming in a mixture of anger and curiosity, he might have caught the joke.
"You know," Dean explained patiently (he'd gotten better at being patient as Sam had aged), "we'll sing a song to deal with your anger issues, like in that movie with Adam Sandler."
"You saw 'Anger Management?'"
"Hell yeah. My man Jack was in it."
Sam sighed and leaned up against a wall, slowly sliding down into a sitting position and trying to ignore the concerned look Dean shot him as his joints popped audibly. "You're impossible, you know that?"
Dean joined him on the floor. "I ain't the only one."
"Ain't isn't a word."
"Since when did you become such a grammar freak?"
Sam shook his head. "I found the Colt today."
"Dude, I told you already. The first word that pops into my head is 'pony.' Now, you gonna tell me what's with the psych evaluation?"
"It isn't a psych evaluation, Dean," Sam muttered through gritted teeth as he wrung his hands together in his lap, "I'm simply stating a fact. I found the gun today." Dean opened his mouth. "And I swear, if you say ammo-"
"I was gonna say ammunition, but if you have a problem…"
"Why'd you keep it?"
Dean shrugged, the mood suddenly serious. He knew when he'd pushed his brother too far, could feel it in his bones, and realized that this was one of those times. "I told you," he said softly, "I just wanted it so nothing else could have it."
"You weren't going to use it to kill yourself?"
"Why would I do that?" He couldn't meet Sam's eyes. He already knew that the younger man knew. He'd figured it out. Congrats, Sammy. It only took you 55 years.
"You mean you weren't planning on turning it on yourself after I died?"
Dean sighed. "Look, it's late. Isn't there some History Channel documentary you could watch while the meds take effect?"
"You're not avoiding this. I won't let you. Dean, why'd you keep the Colt?"
He was planning on lying, figuring that Sam was probably so drained from everything that had happened that day that he wouldn't notice, but one look at his brother's alert puppy-dog stare told him that wasn't an option. "At first," the angel admitted slowly, "I just wanted it because it was up for grabs. Thought it needed a good home, you know?"
"But things changed?"
"Yeah. I finally figured it out in New York, a couple of weeks before Ash found it for us. I can't die. I didn't know if I was gonna age or not. And then I just got kind of scared, I guess. It didn't seem fair. But the gun can kill anything, and I thought maybe it could kill me, too."
"Then why do you keep bringing me back?"
"I told you already. It's hard to just sit by and watch it happen when you can do something. I had every intention of letting you go, but some of the things that were trying to take you… no one should die like that. Not slow."
Sam nodded. "But today?"
"The more I think about it, the harder it gets, man. I dunno. It's like it's been ingrained in my mind or something. Dad gave me a job; he told me to protect you. I can't just let you die. It goes against my nature, or something. It feels wrong."
"You can't keep me alive forever, Dean."
The angel nodded sadly. "Yeah, I know. Some day… just not now, all right? Just hang on for a little bit, ok?"
"You have no idea-"
"I miss 'em, too, Sam. Just give me a little more time, all right?"
Sam sighed, hanging his head. "Fine. But nothing more than a month, all right? I'm getting antsy here, dude."
Dean turned to look at him, a smile spreading across his eternally young face. "Do I really need to hear about all of your little problems, Gramps?" Sam shoved him in the shoulder. "Ooh, that hurt," the angel rolled his eyes, "might just have to head into the ER for that one."
"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times," Sam grinned, "Izzie Stevens is not a real doctor. And that show was so overrated!"
o0o0o0o
"I'll get it," Sam called as he headed toward the door. Whoever was outside the tiny house was obviously very impatient, because the knocking sound didn't stop. "Coming, I'm coming!"
He yanked the door open to find a young woman with short brown hair and sparkling blue eyes. "Hi!" she said, smiling brightly.
"Um, hey," Sam grinned before turning and calling out to his brother. "Dean, it's for you." He turned back to the door. "I assume."
The girl nodded. "Yeah. I'm Angelina."
"Sam. Dean's my-"
"Brother." She grinned at the look of shock on the older man's face. "Um, he told me last night. It's cool. I totally understand. Can I come in?"
"Sure, yeah." Sam stepped aside and let the pretty little thing enter as Dean emerged from the kitchen, half a granola bar shoved into his mouth. "Is this yours?"
Dean eyed the girl before smiling and almost choking on his snack as he attempted to talk. "'S fine."
"Excuse me?"
Dean finally got the chunk of granola swallowed. "I said she's mine, yeah. Dude, 79 years with me and you're still not fluent in Deanish? I'm disappointed."
Sammy just shook his head. "Why in the world would I pay that much attention to how you talk?"
"Maybe my velvety smooth voice?"
The old man rolled his eyes and headed back into the living room, where he'd been watching an awesome History Channel documentary on World War 3. "Whatever, Dean. Have fun with your little friend, and try not to get too frisky on the kitchen table. Some of us still like to eat there."
Dean just answered with an eye roll of his own before flashing a winning smile at Angelina. "Told you he gets cranky," he shrugged, "so, what brings you by?"
"I'm not sure, really," the girl answered, following him through the house and into the kitchen, "I guess it's just… I've never really met anyone else like me before."
"Ditto. I always just thought I was the only one."
"Feels like your life's one big cosmic joke, doesn't it?"
"Sometimes," he nodded, "but others…" He glanced toward the living room.
"You've been keeping him alive, haven't you?" she asked, following his gaze.
"Yeah. He's starting to get sick of it. I don't know what to do anymore. I can't just let him… you know? It just doesn't feel right."
"I know how you feel," Angie said sadly, gently touching his arm.
"We made a deal last night," Dean said quietly, "he's gonna give me a month to work this whole thing out with myself. Four weeks. Even if I'm not ready, I have to let him go. I'm not sure if I can do that."
"Of course you can," the girl assured, moving closer and staring up at him with understanding eyes, "I know it."
The angel pulled away. "Not so sure, Angie. I kind of have issues with being alone."
"Don't worry about that," she smiled, wrapping her arms around his waist, "I'm not going anywhere."
o0o0o0o
Sam's smile reached ear-to-ear. It was just what he'd been hoping for, a chance to leave this world behind without any guilt about leaving his brother alone. Dean had finally found someone like him, someone good and pure, someone who couldn't die.
Grabbing the remote, Sammy flipped the TV off and settled back into his chair for a short nap as the sound of the two people talking in the next room continued. He closed his eyes as his head began to ache dully, an odd sensation after years without a migraine.
o0o0o0o
Dean's hands closed around her throat and began to glow as Angelina writhed in his grip. Panic was written across her rapidly paling face as she fought against her attacker. Dean wasn't about to give in, though, and tightened his hold on the other immortal.
"You bitch," he hissed, "you killed him. You stole it and you killed him."
Angie opened her mouth to speak, but only hoarse choking sounds came out as her lips began to go noticeably blue and her eyes rolled back into her head.
Dean, though, refused to let go. He was smarter than that.
o0o0o0o
Sam jumped awake, his head throbbing, mind swimming with the gravity of what he'd just seen. "What the hell?" he muttered as he scrubbed a shaking hand over his face.
He froze, suddenly unaware of the pain in his head or the happy voices in the other room. The whole of his focus went to one small spot on his face, just below his left eye. It was numb. He couldn't feel anything as he poked at it, and panic slowly began to rise in his chest.
"What the hell?" he wondered again as he let his hand slide into his lap and began to mull over the first vision he'd had in 55 years.