The Choice, 1/1, PG-13, Gen
I'm not sure how I feel about this one, but I'mma stop angsting over it and post it. It's a bunny that popped and holy crap wouldn't let go, so this got written in one slam. ...And then it sat on my computer getting stared at for several days until tonight.
Title The Choice
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Spoilers: Post 5x03, an AU of 5x04.
Summary: One gun. One bullet. It's up to Sam and Dean to decide who will shoot the bullet...and who will die.
Wordcount: 4,982
The world was hazy when Dean came to. It also hurt, a lot, and pounded like a bad nightclub with bass they thought would sound attractive. His brain felt like it was going to come straight through his skull and keep bouncing all over the cement floor.
Which...was not the last thing he'd seen, or the last place he'd been. He groaned and pushed himself up.
And found himself staring at the one person he hadn't really expected to see again for some time, if at all. A groggy gaze met his before the eyes widened in realization.
As one, they sputtered out, “What are you doing here?” even though Dean was fairly certain Sam had no idea where they were, either.
Dean attempted to not glare at him because hey, civility during a crisis was something he could manage. Even if all he felt like doing was glaring at his brother. The guy who'd betrayed his brother for a demon bitch and her blood. The guy who'd started the apocalypse. Yeah, Dean was okay with not looking at him. Or speaking to him.
He took the time to examine the room. Cemented in on all sides, one big black door in the far corner. No windows, but there was a small black grate right above the door, and inside it, he could make out a red beeping light. The room was dark with minimal light coming from the two lights in the ceiling. It was cold, and the lack of windows gave Dean the unsettled feeling of not knowing where he was. Under the ground, two stories or more up? No way to tell.
Then his eyes landed on the gun, in the middle of the room, halfway between him and Sam. The minute Sam stopped shifting around, he knew they were both staring at it.
“Good morning, boys.”
The voice startled the both of them, and as one they turned towards the grate. Dean attempted to not clench his fists in frustration. It wasn't Sam's fault they were both pretty damn in tune with each other, even after three weeks apart. Of course, they'd been apart longer than that, really, separated by Sam's betrayal and-
Not helping, Dean told himself, and ruthlessly quashed down the anger and worse, the hurt, that always followed that line of thought.
“Who are you?” Sam asked. Always with the questions.
“Not a question I'm going to answer,” the voice said. It sounded electronic, though Dean would've guessed male before female. Deeper, so probably older. “You're both my captive audience now, literally. How long that is depends on you two.”
“How about you let us go, now,” Dean said in the fake cheerful tone he knew made people want to deck him. The calm tone of the speaker made him want to punch something: annoying them and gaining emotional control would make him feel a lot better.
It didn't work. “As I said, Dean, that all depends on you.”
Whoever it was, it knew their names. And probably what they did. He saw Sam glance out of the corner of his eye towards him, then shift back to the speaker in the grate. “And how does it depend on us?” Sam asked, using his own calm and steady tone. It rankled that the kid kept trying to take control of the situation, but for now Dean would let him. Still, this time he let himself glare at Sam, and if the way Sam shifted more towards his wall was any indication, he'd seen Dean's stark disapproval.
There was a chuckle through the speakers. “The rate you two are going, it should be fairly quick,” the voice continued, sounding amused. “Which is good, because there's no water or food in there, boys. And there's none coming.”
Yeah, Dean had noticed the lack of anything in the room besides them and the gun. “The concept is very simple,” the voice continued. “The gun you see before you has one single bullet. That bullet is going to kill one of you.”
Dean froze, his gaze whipping towards Sam, stomach dropping out. Sam was staring at him with obvious horror on his face. “The minute the gun is fired and one of you drops dead, the one still alive may leave,” the voice continued, like whoever it was wasn't talking about killing people. “The camera in the vent will let me monitor the event. Once it's over, the door will open. It's that simple.”
There was a soft clicking sound, and the voice disappeared. Leaving Dean to stare at the gun, then Sam, then back to the gun.
Shit.
It'd been about an hour, by Sam's count. So far, they were keeping to their sides of the room just fine. It wasn't a huge room, but it wasn't a closet either. Enough room that Dean could stand and pace (which he was doing) and Sam could sit with his knees to his chest against his own side of the room (which he was doing). He couldn't take his eyes off the gun.
New model. The bullet was, indeed, the only one in the magazine: Dean had popped the whole thing out to gaze inside. He'd glared at Sam when Sam had gone to see, like he didn't trust Sam near a loaded weapon. He probably didn't.
It wasn't like there wasn't enough other things to consider. Like who the person was. What this was supposed to accomplish: if the person was on the side of the angels, then obviously they needed Dean alive. If they were demonic, then killing Sam wasn't an option. The way this little game was going, either one of them could take the gun and kill the other. This had to be a third party who didn't care who died.
Like they needed more political campaigns: the main two parties were destroying everything just fine so far, thank you very much.
Dean continued to pace. Sam continued to sit and stare at their only way out and, by the same token, their damnation. At least he knew that Dean didn't hate him enough to want to kill him off the bat. He was obviously thinking it over a great deal. That was worth something.
Because Sam knew how this was going to end. It was going to be Dean shooting him. He doubted that Dean was going to really mind all that much, but he appreciated the mental effort Dean was going through in order to try and come up with another solution.
He could see the same arguments Dean was going through and mentally checking off. One bullet wasn't enough to storm whatever the hell could be waiting outside the door. If they turned the camera off in the grate, who knew what could come barreling through the door. Even if they did get the camera turned off and used their bullet wisely, what if nothing came through the door? What if they couldn't get it open? They'd both rot in the cell. Sam shivered at the cold that was seeping through his clothes and tightened his arms around his knees.
Should he offer? Ask Dean to make it quick? Should he try apologizing again first, for everything? He'd screwed up, he knew that. He'd following Ruby's plans for revenge, for making Lilith pay for Dean's death and her constant threat against his older brother. For all his criticizing of their father, he'd gotten lost in the revenge scheme just as much as John had. Except he'd kept going even after he'd gotten Dean back.
And he'd lost his brother in a completely different way. He'd thought killing Lilith would stop the apocalypse, and he'd have been happy damning his own soul to do it. Except...
Well. The angels had decided to keep their cards a little closer to the chest than they'd thought. Dean had gotten a sneak peek at the hand being dealt and had changed the game. Sam hadn't had a chance.
The constant sound of Dean's footsteps had faded away, and the silence that followed was enough to pull Sam back to the present. Dean was staring at the gun from where he stood, and Sam closed his eyes. It was time.
“You, uh, want me to kneel?”
Dean's eyes whipped up to his, bewilderment in his gaze. “What?”
Well, at least Dean was talking to him, not just glaring like he had been earlier. “Kneel,” Sam repeated. The words sounded wooden even to his own ears. “You know. Execution style. It's a quick, sure-fire way to end it. And...” He swallowed hard, trying not to let emotion creep into his tone. “I don't deserve it, but I'd appreciate it if you made it quick. If you could.” Hey, pick up some beers while you're out, if you could. I'm not sure about the translation on this; would you look at it, if you could? Just another daily task. Easy. He made himself look as calm and casual as he could. He wasn't giving the bastard on the other end of the camera the satisfaction of watching Sam die inside before he died completely.
Dean stared at him for so long that Sam tried not to fidget. Then faster than Sam could respond, Dean kicked the gun off into the corner closest to Sam. It made a loud crack as it hit the cement wall, and Sam jumped at both the speed and the sound.
When he glanced back up at Dean, his brother had already turned to face his own wall. Sam swallowed again and sat back against the wall behind him once more. The gun in the corner was silent.
There was a faint click, and they both stiffened. “Throwing your own chance of getting out isn't nice, boys.”
God, knowing who it was would just make it that much better, that much easier. A face to loathe, a name to despise. To fear. “Sorry if we're not lining up to be perfect puppets,” Sam snapped, unable to help himself. Anything to keep the fear at bay.
Because they were screwed, and they both knew it.
The voice came back on, calm as always. “That's the problem, now isn't it? Neither of you is doing what you're supposed to do. There's still second thoughts roaming through your heads.”
And before either of them could say anything in response, there was another click, and the voice cut out.
Second thoughts? The hell was that supposed to mean?
It could be any of the angels. Any of them would happily see Sam dead. Quite a few wouldn't mind stringing up Dean's guts for garters, either.
Except apparently, Dean was the one walking out of there. It was like everyone had already gotten the script, Sam included, and they all knew how it was supposed to end except for Dean. Dean who was still trying to find a way out of this that didn't involve blowing his little brother's brain into tiny pieces.
He kept himself facing the wall, his gut churning. He was still so mad at Sam for all the dumbass things the kid had done over the past year. The demon blood, the demon bitch, Lucifer, the secrets. The list could go on.
But seeing the gun in front of him and hearing the choice had brought a surge of protectiveness so strong to the surface Dean had had to stand and pace before he'd done something stupid like lunge to cover Sam from danger. And then to hear his brother offer himself up as the victim in a hollow voice...Sam had sounded so empty, so dead, even as he'd obviously tried to keep a straight face and not offer resistance or drama. He'd made it sound like that was the only option, like his shooting Dean wasn't even on the table. Like the guy had specifically asked for Dean to shoot Sam and that was the only way out.
He shut his eyes tight. The way Sam had jerked in fear when he'd tossed the gun. He'd scared Sam. He'd scared Sam. He'd scared Sammy.
And it made him want to die.
Angry at Sam or not, he still loved his brother. Pissed off at him, hurt, wanted to punch him? Yeah, that was still there. There'd always been those types of feelings between them as brothers, because it was part of being brothers. Not as strong as it was these days, of course. But now, now when Sam needed him, now when they needed to work together to get out of this mess-
Yeah, Dean could let it go. And maybe, instead of encouraging Sam to leave, maybe ask him to talk with Dean. Try and reason some of this stupid mess out. Because if the thought of hurting Sam still left his stomach in knots, then he couldn't hate the kid, could he? It'd be easier if he could hate Sam.
If Sam thought Dean could kill him that easily, though, then Sam obviously thought Dean could hate him. He finally turned from the wall and cast his eyes towards the opposite side of the room. Sam was still hunched over himself in an impossibly small ball, head turned to stare at the gun where it fell in the corner. Like it was going to jump up and bite him if he didn't keep watch.
Waiting, Dean realized with a lurch. Sam was waiting for the killing blow, for Dean to go over there and pick up the gun and-
Dean swallowed down the sudden rise of bile. He suddenly wanted Sam to turn and look at him, to see that Dean was willing to talk now, to figure this out, to prove with his eyes and his gestures and hell, even whispered words the camera wouldn't pick up, that Dean didn't hate the kid. That Dean could deal with his anger together with Sam, maybe even help wash it away some of his little brother's obvious guilt in the process. But Sam continued staring at the corner, resignation practically being screamed from his gaze and his curled position.
Only one thing he could do then: switch sides of the room. It was a stupid, tiny little gesture. But the significance would make it very clear that the Winchesters would remain a united front, even through it all.
Before he could even take a step, though, Sam pulled himself out of his hunched over position, and Dean watched in stunned silence as he took hold of the gun.
When Sam glanced over at his brother, shock was the best word he could've used to describe Dean. He hadn't been expecting Sam to make a move for the weapon.
Probably going to be even more surprised at what Sam did.
“Repeat the rules,” Sam called out in a loud voice.
Neither of the brothers moved in the ensuing silence. Finally there was a click, and then the electronic voice came through, sounding slightly puzzled. “The door doesn't open until one of you is dead. One of you, obviously, has to deliver the killing blow. We don't care who. Once the bullet has been fired and one of you has been killed, the survivor may leave.”
“And that's all?” Sam asked. Dean was looking at him like he was crazy, but Sam needed the clarification. He wasn't going to have this backfire on him.
“That's not enough?” the voice asked sarcastically.
“No, I'm just making sure there's not a hidden clause in there or anything.”
There was a pause. “No,” the voice finally said. “That's it.”
“Okay,” Sam said softly, mostly to himself. Well past time to get them out of there.
Well, one of them, at any rate. And Dean wasn't doing anything. Maybe he'd been going to, when he'd turned back towards Sam. No way to know now.
Dean was still staring at him, obviously trying to figure out what the hell he was doing. Wary, because hey, the apocalypse starter had a loaded weapon. Sam gave him a small smile that came out more like a grimace. “It's gonna be okay,” he said, raising the gun.
Dean's eyes went wide in something akin to horror as Sam lifted the gun and put the tip against his own head. “What the hell are you doing?” Dean hissed. “Sam-”
“Getting you out of here,” Sam said quietly. The barrel felt cold, even through all of his hair. But seriously, what else did Dean think he was going to do; tap dance with it?
He swallowed hard and forced himself to be calm. “You get out, you get Castiel, and you come back to salt and burn me, okay?” Sam said as softly as he could. Dean was slowly starting to shake his head, terror etched into his features. “I mean it, Dean. I don't want to be a problem for people down the road.”
He was a problem enough these days, thank you very much. He wouldn't be helping Dean with the clean-up with Lucifer now, bowing out this early, but this was the right thing to do, the only way out.
And really, it was the only way out. This was the best solution, the only solution that made any sort of sense. The one who had to die was Sam. Dean wasn't willing to pull the trigger, well, then, Sam would do it. His brother, even feeling the way he did about Sam, still wasn't willing to hurt him, and the thought was nothing short of humbling. The person who deserved to get out, who needed to get out for the sake of the world, was Dean. His brother had to know that.
It didn't seem like it at the moment, not with Dean starting to raise his hands in a silent plea for Sam to stop. “Put it down, Sam,” Dean said, voice pitched low and gentle. He still looked pretty freaked out: not exactly what someone who hated you would look like if you offered to take care of the problem. It made Sam want to ask, want to know if Dean was just making his passing easier or if he really meant it, if Sam's death really truly frightened him.
Sam wasn't going to know in this lifetime, though.
“Sammy, put it the hell down, now!”
Sam shut his eyes tight for half a moment to maintain his composure at the sound of the missed nickname before he opened them again. Dean was looking increasingly freaked out by the minute, inching forward slowly like Sam wouldn't notice. Like if he got to Sam, he could stop him.
And in that instant, all Sam saw was the big brother who'd all but raised him. Not the man who'd come to loathe him through the past few months as Sam had committed crime after crime. Not the man who'd left him the voicemail that all but disowned Sam and promised his death. No, this was his Dean, his big brother, in that long pause. And to see that again, after walking away from Dean at the rest stop and knowing he'd probably never see Dean again...
That was worth dying for. Sam honestly couldn't have asked for a better way to go out.
“Sam-”
“Kick his ass,” Sam whispered. “I'm leaving you with another mess to clean up, and I'm sorry for that, you'll have no idea. But I know you'll kick his ass for me.” Lucifer wouldn't stand a chance against his brother, once Sam was out of the picture. Dean would win. He couldn't stop the smile at the thought, and felt the sting in his eyes before he realized his cheeks were already wet.
It wasn't like Sam wanted to die. He wanted to live, he wanted to finish the fight, he wanted to find his brother again, if it was at all possible. But out of the two of them, there was only one person who deserved to walk out of the room alive, and it wasn't him. He shut his eyes to clear the blur of new tears.
When he opened them, he glanced up at Dean one last time, trying to keep the memory of his worried, over-protective big brother in his mind.
Dean's eyes widened a fraction: guess they were still in sync enough for Dean to be able to read him. With the same speed he'd used earlier to throw the gun away, Dean leapt forward, arms already reaching out. “Sam-!”
Sam shut his eyes, cocked the hammer, and pulled the trigger.
The hammer flew forward even as Dean landed on top of Sam, a half-second too late to push the gun away. The gun fell from his hand as two bodies collided with the wall. Dean let out something of a cross between a gasp and a cry and started pawing at Sam, pulling and tugging until he was up, cupping Sam's head to stop the bleeding, the fatal blow that couldn't be stopped.
Except if Sam could still feel Dean's shaking hands, then maybe that wasn't the case.
His head ached, and a distant part of himself said, You shot yourself: did you expect it to feel good? while another part of him asked, How are you feeling it at all? He shifted slightly, felt fingers and legs respond in a very non-dead manner.
At his twitching Dean immediately sat up and off of him, staring down at him in stunned silence. Sam glanced up, just as shocked as he was. “What...?”
Sam's question died on his lips as they both turned towards the gun. The gun that wasn't smoking, the gun that...hadn't even made a sound. Dean grabbed it with trembling fingers and popped the magazine out. A long moment passed before he finally turned around. “The hammer's jammed,” he said, and he sounded like he was going to choke on the words. “There's something wedged between it and the firing pin.”
Sam stared and stared. The gun had been deliberately made to not fire. Then why had they been locked up inside? Why not a gun with real ammunition? What was the point-
Before he could take a breath Dean was on him again. Sam didn't even get a chance to flinch before he realized his brother's arms were tight around him, in something that resembled a - oh. It took several seconds before Sam even managed to respond, his touch light and hesitant. Dean only tightened his fingers, and Sam knew there'd be bruises tomorrow against his back and on his shoulders.
He couldn't really find it in himself to care.
That was how Ellen and Rufus found them not even seven minutes later as they burst through the door: arms wrapped around the other and gripping like if they let go, the other would disappear.
Hunters. Friggin' hunters. Well, only two, really.
They'd wanted Sam dead, had believed the hype that Sam wasn't human anymore. When word had gotten around that Dean hadn't killed him, had only separated from him, they hadn't taken kindly to it. Prompted by an anonymous figure that sounded remarkably like Zachariah, they'd found both of the Winchesters and decided to get Dean to see what a real monster Sam was. If Dean had shot Sam with the disabled gun, well, then he would've known he could do the real thing. If Sam had shot Dean, then Dean would've seen just what Sam was capable of.
They'd never even thought of Sam turning the gun on himself. They'd been so shocked at the unexpected ending to their psychological experiment that they hadn't even noticed Rufus sneaking up on them until it was too late.
A test. It'd all been a test to get the Winchesters to do what they were supposed to do: Sam to be a monster, Dean to hunt the monsters.
As far as injuries went, this one was pretty minor. Sam needed his head checked out after Dean had slammed it into the wall. Dean had some severe scratches on his hand from bracing himself against the wall as he'd flown. The chloroform that'd been used on them was long since gone.
Just the emotional battering left, as per usual. Dean kinda almost longed for the days where concussions and blood were everywhere and that was it.
Ellen and Rufus had left the boys in a motel room together before retiring for the night themselves. Sam had been about to insist that he take his own room, but one glare from Dean had shut him up. Sam anywhere out of his eyesight was suddenly not something Dean could handle. The thought of not knowing where Sam had been for the past few weeks had become utterly vile, and he wanted to ask Sam what had happened in the time they'd been separated.
Currently at the moment, he couldn't even ask Sam which bed he wanted. Sam, silent as well, stood awkwardly in front of him in the middle of the motel room. Dean clenched his teeth but for a completely different reason than earlier. Now, he was frustrated and pissed off, but at the situation, at Sam for not being brave enough to step forward and say something first, at himself for being stupid enough to have let them separate and get this far.
“Screw this,” Dean growled and took a heavy seat on the edge of the bed nearest the door. “Sit. We need to talk.”
“Usually my line,” Sam said, trying it with a smile for added comfort. It didn't hold for long, and it hadn't really made either of them feel better anyways.
The last time Sam had smiled at him, he'd had a gun to his head.
Dean shuddered, and suddenly he knew exactly where to start. “You don't do that again. Ever.”
“Complain about your taking my lines?”
Dean gave him a look. Sam's attempt at levity faded away. “You know it was the only way out,” Sam said softly. “I had to.”
“Could've shot me,” Dean said. “I'd have been okay with-”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn't have,” Sam snapped. “Jesus, Dean, how could you even-”
“And I'm supposed to what, watch as you put a hole in your goddamn brain-”
“I'd rather die than hurt you!” Sam shouted, and that brought their short, stilted conversation to a complete halt. They stared at each other, both of them completely frustrated with the other for entirely different reasons.
Dean finally stood and started pacing again, mind unconsciously drifting to the calm, sure way that Sam had taken the gun and put it to his head. “Yeah, well, you almost did,” Dean said quietly. Sam deflated where he sat on the bed, the urge to fight apparently having left him too.
The next words that were said had to be carefully chosen, because Dean wasn't willing to risk screwing this up. “What was I supposed to have done, Sam?” he asked. “Watch my baby brother put a freakin' bullet in his brain to save me? And don't even,” Dean said as Sam attempted to cut him off, “try and tell me that you deserved to, or that it would've been better, or any of that garbage, because it wouldn't have been.”
Sam closed his mouth as he weighed what Dean had said. “You've changed your tune,” Sam finally said.
Still angry at Sam? When Dean thought about the past couple of months, yeah. Hurt? Definitely. Betrayed? Yeah, but...fading, with time.
Still able to love the kid through it all, and have it not-so-gently thrust in his face when said kid shoves a gun to his own head in order to take one for the team? Yeah, and the way in which the point had to have been driven home wasn't one Dean was particularly proud of. Even through it all, Sam had been defiant, firm in his beliefs, but willing to give himself up if it meant saving Dean. And maybe, maybe that was part of what had motivated Sam through the past few months. Maybe it was about time Dean asked and found out.
“No,” Dean said, locking gazes with Sam. He didn't look resigned like he had in the room: he looked a little more like Sam now. Still weary, still guilty, still a little hollow. Nothing that a week of sleep, a few warm meals, and getting back into the Impala with Dean wouldn't fix. He held his brother's eyes and let through everything he'd wanted Sam to see in the room earlier: the want and need to make it all right, the care, the love he had for Sam. Through it all, those things hadn't changed.
“No, I really haven't.”
Sam's hesitant, hopeful smile was tinged with sadness. But it was still ten times better than all the other smiles he'd given so far, and Dean would take it.
Tomorrow and the days following wouldn't be bright and shining: one terrible day of eye-openings hadn't changed it all. But they'd work through it. They were still brothers. Sam's quiet, selfless sacrifice had proven that above all, no matter what he said or what he even did, he still loved Dean. Would literally do anything for Dean.
Dean was going to prove that he was just as willing to pick up a gun, a bullet with his name on it, and pull the trigger if it meant keeping Sam safe. Starting with figuring out where the hell Ellen and Rufus had taken those two sons of bitches and dealing out Winchester justice, big brother style.
Then he was hitting the road with Sam in the passenger seat, where his little brother belonged.
END
~Nebula
Title The Choice
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Spoilers: Post 5x03, an AU of 5x04.
Summary: One gun. One bullet. It's up to Sam and Dean to decide who will shoot the bullet...and who will die.
Wordcount: 4,982
The world was hazy when Dean came to. It also hurt, a lot, and pounded like a bad nightclub with bass they thought would sound attractive. His brain felt like it was going to come straight through his skull and keep bouncing all over the cement floor.
Which...was not the last thing he'd seen, or the last place he'd been. He groaned and pushed himself up.
And found himself staring at the one person he hadn't really expected to see again for some time, if at all. A groggy gaze met his before the eyes widened in realization.
As one, they sputtered out, “What are you doing here?” even though Dean was fairly certain Sam had no idea where they were, either.
Dean attempted to not glare at him because hey, civility during a crisis was something he could manage. Even if all he felt like doing was glaring at his brother. The guy who'd betrayed his brother for a demon bitch and her blood. The guy who'd started the apocalypse. Yeah, Dean was okay with not looking at him. Or speaking to him.
He took the time to examine the room. Cemented in on all sides, one big black door in the far corner. No windows, but there was a small black grate right above the door, and inside it, he could make out a red beeping light. The room was dark with minimal light coming from the two lights in the ceiling. It was cold, and the lack of windows gave Dean the unsettled feeling of not knowing where he was. Under the ground, two stories or more up? No way to tell.
Then his eyes landed on the gun, in the middle of the room, halfway between him and Sam. The minute Sam stopped shifting around, he knew they were both staring at it.
“Good morning, boys.”
The voice startled the both of them, and as one they turned towards the grate. Dean attempted to not clench his fists in frustration. It wasn't Sam's fault they were both pretty damn in tune with each other, even after three weeks apart. Of course, they'd been apart longer than that, really, separated by Sam's betrayal and-
Not helping, Dean told himself, and ruthlessly quashed down the anger and worse, the hurt, that always followed that line of thought.
“Who are you?” Sam asked. Always with the questions.
“Not a question I'm going to answer,” the voice said. It sounded electronic, though Dean would've guessed male before female. Deeper, so probably older. “You're both my captive audience now, literally. How long that is depends on you two.”
“How about you let us go, now,” Dean said in the fake cheerful tone he knew made people want to deck him. The calm tone of the speaker made him want to punch something: annoying them and gaining emotional control would make him feel a lot better.
It didn't work. “As I said, Dean, that all depends on you.”
Whoever it was, it knew their names. And probably what they did. He saw Sam glance out of the corner of his eye towards him, then shift back to the speaker in the grate. “And how does it depend on us?” Sam asked, using his own calm and steady tone. It rankled that the kid kept trying to take control of the situation, but for now Dean would let him. Still, this time he let himself glare at Sam, and if the way Sam shifted more towards his wall was any indication, he'd seen Dean's stark disapproval.
There was a chuckle through the speakers. “The rate you two are going, it should be fairly quick,” the voice continued, sounding amused. “Which is good, because there's no water or food in there, boys. And there's none coming.”
Yeah, Dean had noticed the lack of anything in the room besides them and the gun. “The concept is very simple,” the voice continued. “The gun you see before you has one single bullet. That bullet is going to kill one of you.”
Dean froze, his gaze whipping towards Sam, stomach dropping out. Sam was staring at him with obvious horror on his face. “The minute the gun is fired and one of you drops dead, the one still alive may leave,” the voice continued, like whoever it was wasn't talking about killing people. “The camera in the vent will let me monitor the event. Once it's over, the door will open. It's that simple.”
There was a soft clicking sound, and the voice disappeared. Leaving Dean to stare at the gun, then Sam, then back to the gun.
Shit.
It'd been about an hour, by Sam's count. So far, they were keeping to their sides of the room just fine. It wasn't a huge room, but it wasn't a closet either. Enough room that Dean could stand and pace (which he was doing) and Sam could sit with his knees to his chest against his own side of the room (which he was doing). He couldn't take his eyes off the gun.
New model. The bullet was, indeed, the only one in the magazine: Dean had popped the whole thing out to gaze inside. He'd glared at Sam when Sam had gone to see, like he didn't trust Sam near a loaded weapon. He probably didn't.
It wasn't like there wasn't enough other things to consider. Like who the person was. What this was supposed to accomplish: if the person was on the side of the angels, then obviously they needed Dean alive. If they were demonic, then killing Sam wasn't an option. The way this little game was going, either one of them could take the gun and kill the other. This had to be a third party who didn't care who died.
Like they needed more political campaigns: the main two parties were destroying everything just fine so far, thank you very much.
Dean continued to pace. Sam continued to sit and stare at their only way out and, by the same token, their damnation. At least he knew that Dean didn't hate him enough to want to kill him off the bat. He was obviously thinking it over a great deal. That was worth something.
Because Sam knew how this was going to end. It was going to be Dean shooting him. He doubted that Dean was going to really mind all that much, but he appreciated the mental effort Dean was going through in order to try and come up with another solution.
He could see the same arguments Dean was going through and mentally checking off. One bullet wasn't enough to storm whatever the hell could be waiting outside the door. If they turned the camera off in the grate, who knew what could come barreling through the door. Even if they did get the camera turned off and used their bullet wisely, what if nothing came through the door? What if they couldn't get it open? They'd both rot in the cell. Sam shivered at the cold that was seeping through his clothes and tightened his arms around his knees.
Should he offer? Ask Dean to make it quick? Should he try apologizing again first, for everything? He'd screwed up, he knew that. He'd following Ruby's plans for revenge, for making Lilith pay for Dean's death and her constant threat against his older brother. For all his criticizing of their father, he'd gotten lost in the revenge scheme just as much as John had. Except he'd kept going even after he'd gotten Dean back.
And he'd lost his brother in a completely different way. He'd thought killing Lilith would stop the apocalypse, and he'd have been happy damning his own soul to do it. Except...
Well. The angels had decided to keep their cards a little closer to the chest than they'd thought. Dean had gotten a sneak peek at the hand being dealt and had changed the game. Sam hadn't had a chance.
The constant sound of Dean's footsteps had faded away, and the silence that followed was enough to pull Sam back to the present. Dean was staring at the gun from where he stood, and Sam closed his eyes. It was time.
“You, uh, want me to kneel?”
Dean's eyes whipped up to his, bewilderment in his gaze. “What?”
Well, at least Dean was talking to him, not just glaring like he had been earlier. “Kneel,” Sam repeated. The words sounded wooden even to his own ears. “You know. Execution style. It's a quick, sure-fire way to end it. And...” He swallowed hard, trying not to let emotion creep into his tone. “I don't deserve it, but I'd appreciate it if you made it quick. If you could.” Hey, pick up some beers while you're out, if you could. I'm not sure about the translation on this; would you look at it, if you could? Just another daily task. Easy. He made himself look as calm and casual as he could. He wasn't giving the bastard on the other end of the camera the satisfaction of watching Sam die inside before he died completely.
Dean stared at him for so long that Sam tried not to fidget. Then faster than Sam could respond, Dean kicked the gun off into the corner closest to Sam. It made a loud crack as it hit the cement wall, and Sam jumped at both the speed and the sound.
When he glanced back up at Dean, his brother had already turned to face his own wall. Sam swallowed again and sat back against the wall behind him once more. The gun in the corner was silent.
There was a faint click, and they both stiffened. “Throwing your own chance of getting out isn't nice, boys.”
God, knowing who it was would just make it that much better, that much easier. A face to loathe, a name to despise. To fear. “Sorry if we're not lining up to be perfect puppets,” Sam snapped, unable to help himself. Anything to keep the fear at bay.
Because they were screwed, and they both knew it.
The voice came back on, calm as always. “That's the problem, now isn't it? Neither of you is doing what you're supposed to do. There's still second thoughts roaming through your heads.”
And before either of them could say anything in response, there was another click, and the voice cut out.
Second thoughts? The hell was that supposed to mean?
It could be any of the angels. Any of them would happily see Sam dead. Quite a few wouldn't mind stringing up Dean's guts for garters, either.
Except apparently, Dean was the one walking out of there. It was like everyone had already gotten the script, Sam included, and they all knew how it was supposed to end except for Dean. Dean who was still trying to find a way out of this that didn't involve blowing his little brother's brain into tiny pieces.
He kept himself facing the wall, his gut churning. He was still so mad at Sam for all the dumbass things the kid had done over the past year. The demon blood, the demon bitch, Lucifer, the secrets. The list could go on.
But seeing the gun in front of him and hearing the choice had brought a surge of protectiveness so strong to the surface Dean had had to stand and pace before he'd done something stupid like lunge to cover Sam from danger. And then to hear his brother offer himself up as the victim in a hollow voice...Sam had sounded so empty, so dead, even as he'd obviously tried to keep a straight face and not offer resistance or drama. He'd made it sound like that was the only option, like his shooting Dean wasn't even on the table. Like the guy had specifically asked for Dean to shoot Sam and that was the only way out.
He shut his eyes tight. The way Sam had jerked in fear when he'd tossed the gun. He'd scared Sam. He'd scared Sam. He'd scared Sammy.
And it made him want to die.
Angry at Sam or not, he still loved his brother. Pissed off at him, hurt, wanted to punch him? Yeah, that was still there. There'd always been those types of feelings between them as brothers, because it was part of being brothers. Not as strong as it was these days, of course. But now, now when Sam needed him, now when they needed to work together to get out of this mess-
Yeah, Dean could let it go. And maybe, instead of encouraging Sam to leave, maybe ask him to talk with Dean. Try and reason some of this stupid mess out. Because if the thought of hurting Sam still left his stomach in knots, then he couldn't hate the kid, could he? It'd be easier if he could hate Sam.
If Sam thought Dean could kill him that easily, though, then Sam obviously thought Dean could hate him. He finally turned from the wall and cast his eyes towards the opposite side of the room. Sam was still hunched over himself in an impossibly small ball, head turned to stare at the gun where it fell in the corner. Like it was going to jump up and bite him if he didn't keep watch.
Waiting, Dean realized with a lurch. Sam was waiting for the killing blow, for Dean to go over there and pick up the gun and-
Dean swallowed down the sudden rise of bile. He suddenly wanted Sam to turn and look at him, to see that Dean was willing to talk now, to figure this out, to prove with his eyes and his gestures and hell, even whispered words the camera wouldn't pick up, that Dean didn't hate the kid. That Dean could deal with his anger together with Sam, maybe even help wash it away some of his little brother's obvious guilt in the process. But Sam continued staring at the corner, resignation practically being screamed from his gaze and his curled position.
Only one thing he could do then: switch sides of the room. It was a stupid, tiny little gesture. But the significance would make it very clear that the Winchesters would remain a united front, even through it all.
Before he could even take a step, though, Sam pulled himself out of his hunched over position, and Dean watched in stunned silence as he took hold of the gun.
When Sam glanced over at his brother, shock was the best word he could've used to describe Dean. He hadn't been expecting Sam to make a move for the weapon.
Probably going to be even more surprised at what Sam did.
“Repeat the rules,” Sam called out in a loud voice.
Neither of the brothers moved in the ensuing silence. Finally there was a click, and then the electronic voice came through, sounding slightly puzzled. “The door doesn't open until one of you is dead. One of you, obviously, has to deliver the killing blow. We don't care who. Once the bullet has been fired and one of you has been killed, the survivor may leave.”
“And that's all?” Sam asked. Dean was looking at him like he was crazy, but Sam needed the clarification. He wasn't going to have this backfire on him.
“That's not enough?” the voice asked sarcastically.
“No, I'm just making sure there's not a hidden clause in there or anything.”
There was a pause. “No,” the voice finally said. “That's it.”
“Okay,” Sam said softly, mostly to himself. Well past time to get them out of there.
Well, one of them, at any rate. And Dean wasn't doing anything. Maybe he'd been going to, when he'd turned back towards Sam. No way to know now.
Dean was still staring at him, obviously trying to figure out what the hell he was doing. Wary, because hey, the apocalypse starter had a loaded weapon. Sam gave him a small smile that came out more like a grimace. “It's gonna be okay,” he said, raising the gun.
Dean's eyes went wide in something akin to horror as Sam lifted the gun and put the tip against his own head. “What the hell are you doing?” Dean hissed. “Sam-”
“Getting you out of here,” Sam said quietly. The barrel felt cold, even through all of his hair. But seriously, what else did Dean think he was going to do; tap dance with it?
He swallowed hard and forced himself to be calm. “You get out, you get Castiel, and you come back to salt and burn me, okay?” Sam said as softly as he could. Dean was slowly starting to shake his head, terror etched into his features. “I mean it, Dean. I don't want to be a problem for people down the road.”
He was a problem enough these days, thank you very much. He wouldn't be helping Dean with the clean-up with Lucifer now, bowing out this early, but this was the right thing to do, the only way out.
And really, it was the only way out. This was the best solution, the only solution that made any sort of sense. The one who had to die was Sam. Dean wasn't willing to pull the trigger, well, then, Sam would do it. His brother, even feeling the way he did about Sam, still wasn't willing to hurt him, and the thought was nothing short of humbling. The person who deserved to get out, who needed to get out for the sake of the world, was Dean. His brother had to know that.
It didn't seem like it at the moment, not with Dean starting to raise his hands in a silent plea for Sam to stop. “Put it down, Sam,” Dean said, voice pitched low and gentle. He still looked pretty freaked out: not exactly what someone who hated you would look like if you offered to take care of the problem. It made Sam want to ask, want to know if Dean was just making his passing easier or if he really meant it, if Sam's death really truly frightened him.
Sam wasn't going to know in this lifetime, though.
“Sammy, put it the hell down, now!”
Sam shut his eyes tight for half a moment to maintain his composure at the sound of the missed nickname before he opened them again. Dean was looking increasingly freaked out by the minute, inching forward slowly like Sam wouldn't notice. Like if he got to Sam, he could stop him.
And in that instant, all Sam saw was the big brother who'd all but raised him. Not the man who'd come to loathe him through the past few months as Sam had committed crime after crime. Not the man who'd left him the voicemail that all but disowned Sam and promised his death. No, this was his Dean, his big brother, in that long pause. And to see that again, after walking away from Dean at the rest stop and knowing he'd probably never see Dean again...
That was worth dying for. Sam honestly couldn't have asked for a better way to go out.
“Sam-”
“Kick his ass,” Sam whispered. “I'm leaving you with another mess to clean up, and I'm sorry for that, you'll have no idea. But I know you'll kick his ass for me.” Lucifer wouldn't stand a chance against his brother, once Sam was out of the picture. Dean would win. He couldn't stop the smile at the thought, and felt the sting in his eyes before he realized his cheeks were already wet.
It wasn't like Sam wanted to die. He wanted to live, he wanted to finish the fight, he wanted to find his brother again, if it was at all possible. But out of the two of them, there was only one person who deserved to walk out of the room alive, and it wasn't him. He shut his eyes to clear the blur of new tears.
When he opened them, he glanced up at Dean one last time, trying to keep the memory of his worried, over-protective big brother in his mind.
Dean's eyes widened a fraction: guess they were still in sync enough for Dean to be able to read him. With the same speed he'd used earlier to throw the gun away, Dean leapt forward, arms already reaching out. “Sam-!”
Sam shut his eyes, cocked the hammer, and pulled the trigger.
The hammer flew forward even as Dean landed on top of Sam, a half-second too late to push the gun away. The gun fell from his hand as two bodies collided with the wall. Dean let out something of a cross between a gasp and a cry and started pawing at Sam, pulling and tugging until he was up, cupping Sam's head to stop the bleeding, the fatal blow that couldn't be stopped.
Except if Sam could still feel Dean's shaking hands, then maybe that wasn't the case.
His head ached, and a distant part of himself said, You shot yourself: did you expect it to feel good? while another part of him asked, How are you feeling it at all? He shifted slightly, felt fingers and legs respond in a very non-dead manner.
At his twitching Dean immediately sat up and off of him, staring down at him in stunned silence. Sam glanced up, just as shocked as he was. “What...?”
Sam's question died on his lips as they both turned towards the gun. The gun that wasn't smoking, the gun that...hadn't even made a sound. Dean grabbed it with trembling fingers and popped the magazine out. A long moment passed before he finally turned around. “The hammer's jammed,” he said, and he sounded like he was going to choke on the words. “There's something wedged between it and the firing pin.”
Sam stared and stared. The gun had been deliberately made to not fire. Then why had they been locked up inside? Why not a gun with real ammunition? What was the point-
Before he could take a breath Dean was on him again. Sam didn't even get a chance to flinch before he realized his brother's arms were tight around him, in something that resembled a - oh. It took several seconds before Sam even managed to respond, his touch light and hesitant. Dean only tightened his fingers, and Sam knew there'd be bruises tomorrow against his back and on his shoulders.
He couldn't really find it in himself to care.
That was how Ellen and Rufus found them not even seven minutes later as they burst through the door: arms wrapped around the other and gripping like if they let go, the other would disappear.
Hunters. Friggin' hunters. Well, only two, really.
They'd wanted Sam dead, had believed the hype that Sam wasn't human anymore. When word had gotten around that Dean hadn't killed him, had only separated from him, they hadn't taken kindly to it. Prompted by an anonymous figure that sounded remarkably like Zachariah, they'd found both of the Winchesters and decided to get Dean to see what a real monster Sam was. If Dean had shot Sam with the disabled gun, well, then he would've known he could do the real thing. If Sam had shot Dean, then Dean would've seen just what Sam was capable of.
They'd never even thought of Sam turning the gun on himself. They'd been so shocked at the unexpected ending to their psychological experiment that they hadn't even noticed Rufus sneaking up on them until it was too late.
A test. It'd all been a test to get the Winchesters to do what they were supposed to do: Sam to be a monster, Dean to hunt the monsters.
As far as injuries went, this one was pretty minor. Sam needed his head checked out after Dean had slammed it into the wall. Dean had some severe scratches on his hand from bracing himself against the wall as he'd flown. The chloroform that'd been used on them was long since gone.
Just the emotional battering left, as per usual. Dean kinda almost longed for the days where concussions and blood were everywhere and that was it.
Ellen and Rufus had left the boys in a motel room together before retiring for the night themselves. Sam had been about to insist that he take his own room, but one glare from Dean had shut him up. Sam anywhere out of his eyesight was suddenly not something Dean could handle. The thought of not knowing where Sam had been for the past few weeks had become utterly vile, and he wanted to ask Sam what had happened in the time they'd been separated.
Currently at the moment, he couldn't even ask Sam which bed he wanted. Sam, silent as well, stood awkwardly in front of him in the middle of the motel room. Dean clenched his teeth but for a completely different reason than earlier. Now, he was frustrated and pissed off, but at the situation, at Sam for not being brave enough to step forward and say something first, at himself for being stupid enough to have let them separate and get this far.
“Screw this,” Dean growled and took a heavy seat on the edge of the bed nearest the door. “Sit. We need to talk.”
“Usually my line,” Sam said, trying it with a smile for added comfort. It didn't hold for long, and it hadn't really made either of them feel better anyways.
The last time Sam had smiled at him, he'd had a gun to his head.
Dean shuddered, and suddenly he knew exactly where to start. “You don't do that again. Ever.”
“Complain about your taking my lines?”
Dean gave him a look. Sam's attempt at levity faded away. “You know it was the only way out,” Sam said softly. “I had to.”
“Could've shot me,” Dean said. “I'd have been okay with-”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn't have,” Sam snapped. “Jesus, Dean, how could you even-”
“And I'm supposed to what, watch as you put a hole in your goddamn brain-”
“I'd rather die than hurt you!” Sam shouted, and that brought their short, stilted conversation to a complete halt. They stared at each other, both of them completely frustrated with the other for entirely different reasons.
Dean finally stood and started pacing again, mind unconsciously drifting to the calm, sure way that Sam had taken the gun and put it to his head. “Yeah, well, you almost did,” Dean said quietly. Sam deflated where he sat on the bed, the urge to fight apparently having left him too.
The next words that were said had to be carefully chosen, because Dean wasn't willing to risk screwing this up. “What was I supposed to have done, Sam?” he asked. “Watch my baby brother put a freakin' bullet in his brain to save me? And don't even,” Dean said as Sam attempted to cut him off, “try and tell me that you deserved to, or that it would've been better, or any of that garbage, because it wouldn't have been.”
Sam closed his mouth as he weighed what Dean had said. “You've changed your tune,” Sam finally said.
Still angry at Sam? When Dean thought about the past couple of months, yeah. Hurt? Definitely. Betrayed? Yeah, but...fading, with time.
Still able to love the kid through it all, and have it not-so-gently thrust in his face when said kid shoves a gun to his own head in order to take one for the team? Yeah, and the way in which the point had to have been driven home wasn't one Dean was particularly proud of. Even through it all, Sam had been defiant, firm in his beliefs, but willing to give himself up if it meant saving Dean. And maybe, maybe that was part of what had motivated Sam through the past few months. Maybe it was about time Dean asked and found out.
“No,” Dean said, locking gazes with Sam. He didn't look resigned like he had in the room: he looked a little more like Sam now. Still weary, still guilty, still a little hollow. Nothing that a week of sleep, a few warm meals, and getting back into the Impala with Dean wouldn't fix. He held his brother's eyes and let through everything he'd wanted Sam to see in the room earlier: the want and need to make it all right, the care, the love he had for Sam. Through it all, those things hadn't changed.
“No, I really haven't.”
Sam's hesitant, hopeful smile was tinged with sadness. But it was still ten times better than all the other smiles he'd given so far, and Dean would take it.
Tomorrow and the days following wouldn't be bright and shining: one terrible day of eye-openings hadn't changed it all. But they'd work through it. They were still brothers. Sam's quiet, selfless sacrifice had proven that above all, no matter what he said or what he even did, he still loved Dean. Would literally do anything for Dean.
Dean was going to prove that he was just as willing to pick up a gun, a bullet with his name on it, and pull the trigger if it meant keeping Sam safe. Starting with figuring out where the hell Ellen and Rufus had taken those two sons of bitches and dealing out Winchester justice, big brother style.
Then he was hitting the road with Sam in the passenger seat, where his little brother belonged.
END
~Nebula