50 Ways The Winchesters Did Not Die
The stray bullet caught Dean under the third rib; he never saw the shooter, and would never know that it was some kid that only wanted a wallet since the gas station till had no more than seventy bucks.
Sometimes, like right now, Sam wondered if America really should give guns to people, like him, because the times he's ever used a gun has resulted in his family getting hurt; he waits until sundown and closes the bathroom door before pointing the gun to his temple.
The witch's lip twitches as she curses the oldest sibling with youth; not knowing that she miscalculated his age, causing Dean to de-age past life.
Hendrickson pulls some strings with some old army buddies to figure out some of the old haunts to these Winchester kids; One Robert Singer is a frequent stop on their maps, so Hendrickson sits and waits, sipping watered down beer, wondering why the old man would water it down.
Dean fucking hates snow; nothing ever good came from something so cold; he falls and dyes it crimson.
She drinks their blood, wishing there were more.
Dean shoots an Agent Bauer square in the chest, after that same agent, without hesitation, shot his brother clean from temple to temple.
Cursed Roses should stay in Disney movies, Dean thinks, before closing his eyes one last time, red pedals crushed within his hand.
Angry jagged marks sprawl down Sam's back, and all he can think is about the lucrative amount of Vicodin he can chew while Dean's shaking his shoulder, telling him to stay awake.
"I told you I'd get him first," red eyes wink toward green, as she walks her puppet fingers across the stitches of the younger Winchester, vanishing before the nurse arrives.
Sam's whole is not the sum of his parts, but the sum of him and his brother; together they move as a complete unit, and right now he's counted up short.
Dean's in mid-explosion before he realizes his left arm is feeling odd, odd like not good; there's too many people to get past, and Bruce Willis is enough of a bad ass to die watching that Dean smiles as the pain radiating from his chest suddenly stops.
He catches the flicker too late, telling himself he needs to step up his game, right before all the motel keys break away from the hooks on the walls like bullets which know exactly who their target is.
Sam slams the rusty old door hard enough to flake oxidation into the air;
"One order, sir, I'll follow: I will never come back."
He squints at the picture, etching the face into his memory, familiarity barely scratching the surface of thought.
"You know, I used to have this brother, Sammy, his name was. Good man. You should meet him, if he ever came to visit."
Calm eyes stare back at the old man holding the photo,
"I know, Dean. I'm sure he's here when he can."
Looking up Sam spots Dean with a halo of fire, blood flowing from his eyes and all Sam can think of is how this is the son of Mary dying again.
Bobby keeps a shotgun and a flask near the front and back doors of his house during the week because he knows no matter how tired and over worked the Winchester boys make themselves, they always somehow manage to rest on the Sabbath; Bobby rests then knowing they won't be storming in asking for help or make a bloody mess on his book, but finds himself roused out of sleep by some barking, and prays to god it's just them wanting to barbeque a few steaks, but knows they'd never show up on a Sunday unless something went south, possibly literally.
"You need to save me, please, I ain't asking for much; all I need is a little more time and I can do the rest on my own. Please."
"Dean answer your phone. Anyway, I was wrong. The line of deaths go back seventy five years, not twenty, which means it's an Achiyalatopa, you need to use iron rounds not the silver we thought. Get back to me, Dean."
Dean hated knowing which plants were good for medicinal reasons and what were good for poison because he always found himself twitching whenever he was in some housewife's living room staring at the plants and not the grieving widow or some such; it was down right distracting seeing pretty but deadly plants sitting next to his offered cup of coffee. He tries figuring the blooming season before sipping at his coffee. He's off by two months.
He feels the smile spread across the face, knowing instantly that Sam believes him; and he's never more felt like screaming in his whole life, but can't get out from under the building pressure surrounding him. He hears laughing before he's blotted out like bad ink on a page, signature rewritten.
Last thing Dean hears is Fogerty singing from the still working car radio about being ready to die, and he's never more sure that he's not.
Dean wonders if he'll ever manage to crawl is way out of hell, like dad.
"Oh him? No, he's just some crazy old bastard that really loves four shots of whiskey; you'll never get him talkin' though. I heard he ain't got a tongue."
Pull. Click. Pull. Click. Pull. Click. He dies with the first bullet never knowing the chambers spin twice more around before tense fingers realize there are no more bullets, just air.
Sam misses having his side, and idly wonders if he really needs part of his liver to live past the night; it's the lack of blood that does him in at the end.
He twirls in place a few times searching the tree tops, looking for something new, not the same old exact trees with smeared blood and ash on them; he needs to find his brother, but he can't make the effort to call his name, only four letters long.
He drops his gun, optioning to reason his way out from the radius of the shotgun blast, knowing full well Dean probably can't hear him by the looks of the blank sheen filming his brother's eyes; he tries anyway.
If only they hadn't smashed his shooting hand, Dean knew he would have managed to react quicker.
Who knew plagues actually happened.
His hair is all gone, eye brows yearned for memories, and all he can think of is how much he wants a shot of Jagermeister; if he plays his cards right, he could score a shot or two before he goes through the third round.
The math teacher is hot; it's just too bad she's a demigod which eats children.
Three hundred and sixty five point two four one days in a year; it takes point zero zero zero one percent of that accumulation to shatter Sam to the point he can't stand, talk, or see; all because of a torn leather cord missing a pendant lying in the middle of a dusty road.
Sam knew he should have waited; Dean was always better at making pipe bombs than he was.
Blood coats his hands, making the stitches clumsy parodies of themselves; they're out of holy water; he pours a half drank water bottle into the wound, knowing Dean is in no position to know any difference; he doesn't tell Dean about the small cut on his hand, hidden by Dean's blood. They'll know in four weeks time.
"Hey man, don't you dare lay a hand on her; why don't you try me on for size, buddy."
Just past the picket fence, right on across the grassy knoll is a handmade cross marking a space where a fire once was: Dean Winchester. Beloved Brother. Fighter. One Hell of a Fucking Father.
The file says he's a serial killer; she doesn't listen to him when he asks for her help, doesn't listen to him plead with her to get the children out of the house, but certainly listens to the sound her freshly issued gun makes when she pulls the small trigger twice quickly.
Dean lines up his site, keeping the safety on until the last moment when he's sure: Sam does down quick, but the demon behind him stares Dean in the eyes from yards away and all Dean can think is Thank God.
Dean's sure he's been here before, crazy wall paper sure to make impressions that don't end up taking; he stares up at the knick-knacks of the diner, syrup dripping onto his lap and realizes he's in the diner Dad took a bullet for some waitress, and idly wonders if he'll ever get a chance to impress a lady like that.
Sam sits on his porch, eyeing the sunset like a weary old friend who has always been there, but has been not quite the best of companions, lifts his beer and feels the hair sweep off his neck in the breeze; never saying the hopes that it's Dean, still watching his back.
"We regret to inform you that your son, Sam Winchester, died in the field of battle…"
He makes his last breath mean the most, letting it drag out across moments, sinking into his skin and pulling life from him and into the world; he's given so much already, he might as well give his last breath back as well.
"Sorry kid, we're just tired of this whole debacle; I mean, you die, then you don't, then you die, and then you don't. Then you sell your soul, but get it back, die, but come back again? No, kid, were done. We ain't ever coming for you."
Dean props his feet up on to the yellow counter for folding clothes, and let the sound of dryers lull him to sleep, never feeling the playful swats of Sam to wake up turn into urgent hands on either shoulder.
Hazel eyes clouded yellow stare back at John,
"Ain't no way of getting out of this Johnny boy." John watches as his boy snaps his fingers and along with it, John's neck.
"They say that junk yard is haunted, the ghost just sits there in the passenger seat of one of them old cock rock cars; doesn't do anything but sit there, looking, as if the driver's missing."
Dean's out of his league, he knows this as the men in suites are talking over his head, literally, about him without ever taking to him, as if what he'd say would damage the case; the only words he understands is "death penalty" so be beings talking, figuring it wouldn't hurt.
"Today in Greenwich, Alabama there was a shootout between two as of yet unnamed gunmen and local authorities; reports say the two men held up within an old abandoned church and any attempts to gain access into the building resulted in gunfire."
"Cause of death: Severe contusions to the cardiac walls, whatever got through the chest plate somehow managed to squeeze the heart, but got interrupted; John Doe died bleeding out into his chest. Now onto the second John Doe found at the same site as the aforementioned body; judging by the facial bone structure the pair may be brothers, and certainly sustained similar injuries."