Worst case scenario - [Supernatural, Dean/Sam]
“And this tree is supposed to protect us from a werewolf? Seriously, Dude, my aunt’s baby poodle can rip it apart.”
Sam frowns. “Dean, we don’t have an aunt.”
“I’m just saying it’s a bad idea.”
“Oh, so you have a better one?” Sam sighs, refusing to let Dean’s complaints get to him. Well, it’s true that the tree is barely wide enough to hide one person, and that puts Sam in a position where he’s all but draped over his brother, but it was either that or nothing at all.
“Yeah,” Dean answers and peeks from behind the tree, “I say we start praying for silver bullets to grow on trees.”
“Or we could skip that part and move straight to deathbed confessions.”
Dean’s eyebrows rise with disbelief. “Dude, you’re such a pessimist.”
Just then a very angry growl comes from inside the cabin they’ve been watching for a while now. Dean purses his lips, as though contemplating whether he should speak his mind or not. Then he nods. “OK, deathbed confessions. You first. Go.”
Sam blurts out the first ‘last words’ that come to his mind. “Ah- I love you.”
Dean throws him a quick glance before clearing his throat and focusing his attention back on the cabin. “Come again?”
Unable to repeat the cheesy confession, Sam just stares at Dean’s leather clad back, realizing at that moment just how unfamiliar that part of Dean is to him. It was always him who turned to face elsewhere and ran away, always the youngest Winchester who snapped and took off in search of something better, something normal, not knowing that this is the best it gets.
“Sam?”
Dean turns, pressing his back partly to the tree, and just looks at him in a confused yet patient way. And at that moment Sam comes to another realization - even if Dean had ever walked ahead, he was simply leading and he always looked back to make sure Sam followed.
“Hey.” Dean’s almost-whisper is rough, knowing, and Sam closes his eyes and tries to take deep breaths. It’s a one-word question with a million-word meaning that only a Winchester knows to ask, and only a Winchester can answer. But all Sam can think of is the idea that they might not be getting out of it this time, and it seems that it’s such a waste to breathe and not say anything, especially when there is so much that needs to be said.
It’s obviously cliché, but Sam needs to tell Dean that he’s sorry, wants to tell him that at some point in their life it’s alright to turn around and walk towards their own goals. But it’s too late now.
And even if it wasn’t too late, how do you explain all this to someone who’s always had ‘find, salt and burn’ as his motto in life? How do you apologize to a man who doesn’t keep a grudge, and who considers that any discussion not revolving around a hunt or food is a chick flick moment? How do you promise Love to someone who’d already seen it burn once?
“Dude! Answer your partner when he calls you,” Dean finally snaps and flashes his stolen badge at him.
Sam rolls his eyes, partly annoyed and partly glad that his thoughts were interrupted. “Yes, sir.”
“Detective,” Dean corrects and sticks out his chin, waving the badge slightly from side to side as though it’s a perfectly acceptable excuse to his haughtiness.
Dean’s behavior makes the utter shit they’re in seem just like any other job, when they crack jokes while investigating, then do what needs to be done -usually covering themselves in grime and bruises in the process- and drive their Impala back into another cheap motel’s parking. Dean doesn’t act like someone who’s probably going to be ripped to shreds by a werewolf pretty soon, and Sam doesn’t know if he’s just being blindly optimistic or matter-of-factly accepting of death.
Either way, it’s better than getting depressed and losing control. Besides, what better way is there for them to die if not during a hunt? Sam thinks, and a smile tugs on his lips.
“Yes, detective…,” he pauses to squint at Dean’s badge, “Scully.”
His small smile quickly transforms into a mischievous grin, and it’s met with a very brotherly glare and a swat on his head. “Bitch.”
“Ow! Jerk,” Sam throws back and rubs the sore spot. Dean frowns at him then turns back to peek from behind the tree with a snort.
“You’re such a girl, Sammy. Even red riding-hood is tougher than you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” Sam grunts as he loads his gun, futilely hoping that a silver bullet got lost somewhere in his enormous Jeans pockets, “I want to see you not getting tougher when you’re facing the big bad wolf.”
“Dude…That’s just a bedtime story,” Dean says, dropping his head against the tree in exasperation. “It’s also known as ‘fiction’, college boy.”
Suddenly Dean hears the click of the safety being disarmed, and in a second his back is pressing against the tree, his gun out and ready in his right hand. From the corner of his eye he can see all traces of a smile instantly disappear from his brother’s lips. Instead, they are pressed in a grim line.
“Fiction or not, that one seems pretty real to me. And I can even guess how this story is going to end,” Sam says more forcefully that he intended and aims to the head of the werewolf that’s now running towards them with all its might.
The obvious struggle in Sam’s tone hits somewhere deep, and Dean is forced to gulp down the lump that has formed in his own throat. He’s not an idiot, he knows this will probably be the last time he gets to see the world, but instead of looking aimlessly around him, he chooses to watch his baby brother and memorize the long body and the sharp face all over again, just in case some details slipped his memory.
Their eyes don’t meet, and it may have something to do with Sam being focused on the beast instead of him, but Dean is sure that it’s only because Sam always knew him by heart, ever since he was a kid. He is even certain that Sam is thinking about him as he aims at the creature, and for a moment the idea of deathbed confessions crosses his mind and he seriously considers saying something awfully kitschy like ‘I love you’, but that will only add to the utter hopelessness of their situation, and more that death itself Dean’s scared of seeing his baby brother break down and cry.
So he simply turns his attention to the werewolf and grips with renewed determination the gun that almost went slack in his hand.
“I thought you said we were dealing with a loner!” he shouts over the beast’s loud growl, waiting for it to come within shooting range despite the knowledge that the bullets will only postpone the inevitable.
“I was just proven wrong!” Sam shouts right back, his gun held firmly although his voice wavers. “Now, Dean!”
And after, they are both deaf to the world, hearing only their heartbeats and the occasional gunshots.
fin.