Rock, Paper, Scissors

Rated: T, to be safe.

Summary: Sam should've know Dean would pick scissors. He always picks scissors... Tag to My Heart Will Go On.


Dean thinks about it, after a while...the fact that he'd finally won at rock, paper, scissors. "Always with the scissors!" Sam had said, a long time ago. He was right, of course. He did always pick scissors. He picked them that time, too. Sam picked paper...though, he almost always picked rock.

It's wasn't that Dean didn't anticipate this... It was just instinct to pick the shiny, metal, pointy weapon. There wasn't supposed to be any thought process for rock, paper, scissors. It's freakin' rock, paper, scissors! He liked to save thinking for more important things, like when the time came, whether to pick the blonde or the brunette standing at the bar.

The same should've gone for Sam. Not the blonde or brunette thing; the 'not having to think' thing, when it was rock, paper, scissors time. Why would he have to? Dean always picked scissors! Yet, Sam had picked paper. He didn't know why it bothered him so much. He'd won, for cryin' out loud. Of course, it was all for nothing, since Sam didn't even get the chance to talk to Bobby...

"So, I get immunity, next game, ya know, right?" Dean glanced at Sam, who'd been sitting silently in the passenger seat as Dean drove them down the long stretch of empty highway.

Sam scrunched up his eyebrows, looking over at Dean in confusion, "What?"

"I won rock, paper, scissors," he reminded him, "And you didn't do what you were supposed to, when you lost. That means I've got, like, a credit, or somethin'." He glanced at Sam, again, who gave a small nod, but looked not much less confused than he had before the explanation. "How, exactly, did you lose, by the way?"

"Huh?" Sam glanced over, again. "Oh...uh..."

"You never lose that game, Sammy."

"I must lose sometimes, if that's always what we play to decide on things..."

"No. You don't lose," Dean's brows pinched together. "Not since you were, like, still a chubby little kid."

"Then why do we even play it?" Sam cocked his head. Dean looked over at him, again, before training his eyes back on the road. He didn't reply. "I don't remember that," Sam told him, after a few silent moments.


"I don't remember winning."

Dean shot him an incredulous look, eyes widening slightly, thinking he must be joking. But the look on Sam's face told him that he was being serious. Dean's face morphed into something more akin to concern, than shock. "Are you kidding me?"

Sam shook his head, "No. Should I remember that?" he met his eyes with a look of, possibly, fear.

"I should think so! I mean, I remember losin', and although winning at rock, paper, scissors doesn't really rank up there on the scale of importance, it's not exactly somethin' you shouldn't recall winning every single time since you were a kid!"

"Are you seriously pissed at me for not remembering this?" Sam looked at him, incredulously.

"I'm not pissed," Dean retorted. "Just freakin' out, a little, here, is all. You usually remember every damn thing..."

The car grew quiet, inside. Truth be told, Sam was a little freaked about it, as well. The more he thought about that day at Bobby's, when they played the game, the more he realized that he'd pulled his hand out of his pocket instinctively to Dean's proposed method of ending the debate. He'd known what game they were going to play, but he honestly didn't recall any specific outcome for any previous rounds they'd had. It was there, somewhere...he could tell. Like the name on the tip of your tongue...

"You really aren't shittin' me, are you?" Dean's voice was considerably more calm. "You really don't remember?"

"I'm trying," Sam replied, seeming to wander off into deep thought. The car grew quiet a second time. It was several minutes before Sam let out a frustrated sigh, "I don't understand why I would just forget something like that."

"Glad we're on the same page."

"Well, why do you think I would forget?" Sam looked over at him. "I mean, this is different than trying to remember what you had for breakfast a couple of weeks back on a Wednesday. This is something you say happens every time. I should remember from repetition, alone."

"You're sure you're not just bein' a sore loser?" Dean smirked.

"Dean," an unamused look graced his features.

"I don't know, Sam," he replied, more seriously. "It doesn't make any sense." He watched Sam's head drop a bit from the corner of his eye. Sam was looking, absently, down at the seat between them. "You forget anything else?"

"How am I even supposed to answer that?" Sam looked even more panicked, now, as he shot his gaze back to his brother.

"Guess you're right..."

"Why would you say that, Dean? How...what if I forgot something really important? to fire a shotgun?"

"Did you forget how to fire a shotgun?" he asked with raised brows.


"Then you're fine."


"Sammy, you're fine, okay? Maybe we just need a little time off; get our heads on straight." He glanced at Sam before looking, as calmly as possible, back to the road again. "It's just a few more miles till we get to the next town. We'll get a room, pick up a six-pack, watch some porn...ya know, relax," he shot him a toothy grin.

Sam tried to manage a smile, though his brows danced a bit in conflicted confused. He eventually nodded, and turned his gaze down to his floorboard.

The silence was killing Dean, but he wasn't in the mood to turn on the stereo. In fact, he hadn't even had the thought cross his mind to do so. He was too busy thinking, and thinking lead to nothing good, in Dean's experience.

A full, slow-motioned minute passed in completely dead silence, aside from the life of the Impala's loyal engine. Sam's pensive, almost pained-looking face, accompanied the silence in an eery handshake. Dean couldn't take the quiet any damn more. "You hungry?" he asked, just to break it. "I'm stoppin' for beer anyway. Might as well pick you up a salad, Samantha," he shot him a smug grin.

"Shut up, jerk," Sam huffed, yet it came out with a vague smile.

"Bitch," Dean pitched back, feeling a little better. "If you want somethin' else, just tell me."

"I'm actually not even that hungry," Sam admitted.

"Maybe you will be, once we get there."

"I guess... Hey, you think we could-" the sentence ended, abruptly, and Dean glanced over at his brother, who had suddenly begun flailing...seizing...right there beside him in his seat...

"Sam?" his voice croaked and his hand shot out to grip his younger brother's arm. It took him a moment, actually, to come to the realization that Sam wasn't just messing with him. "Sammy!"


A/N: I originally wanted to make this a one-shot, but it seems it's taken on a mind of its own...