bloodwrites

Part 2 of the Ghosts Don't Sleep series.

Dean pulls the trigger.

A spray of red splatters the wall behind the bed, and it's that, not the sound of the gunshot, not the recoil, that makes Dean twitch back.

Sam's eyes are still open, still locked on Dean's face. Dean flicks the gun onto the floor, and Sam's head falls to one side, drops onto Dean's shoulder. "Sam," he moans. "Oh, Sammy. I'm so sorry, Sammy." He holds Sam to him, and he's still warm, the blood on Dean's hands is still warm.

"It's okay, Dean."

Dean chokes on his tears as his head jerks up. Sam's standing at the end of the bed, flickering, but he's whole, and he's smiling.

"Come on, Dean," Sam says. "Dean, it's time to go."

And it must be time. It must be midnight, because there's nothing keeping him in anymore. His dead body releases him, and then he's standing beside Sam, looking down at two dead brothers, holding each other on a narrow bed.

Sam slips his hand into Dean's, twines their fingers together. Dean looks down in shock, and he can feel Sam's fingers, and they're warm, but it's not the shocking contrast of heat against cold dead hands.

"Time to go, boys," Death says.

"You," Dean says.

"Yes, me. No one else can be bothered with you anymore. They keep getting turned away, say it's a waste of time to even bother. But this time I think it's for keeps, don't you, Dean?"

"Yeah." He looks up at Sam. "Where are we going?"

Death leans on his cane, stands in the doorway and rolls his eyes to the ceiling. "Upstairs, of course. You think there is any other option, for you two?"

Dean shrugs, tightens his grip on Sam's hand. "Thought maybe in light of recent events, Hell might have been a possibility."

Death snorts. "Even if anyone thought you deserved it, they wouldn't have you. I think they'd be a little afraid you'd take over."

Dean grins. "Too right we would."

Death crosses the room, puts his free hand over Sam and Dean's linked ones, and the bunker fades away.

---

They're in the bunker library, and it feels like night. The lamps are on, but the tables are clear, except for a folded newspaper lying on the nearest. Dean turns around in a circle, then looks up at Sam. "What the hell—?"

"We're home," Sam says. He picks up the newspaper, sliding into a chair as he flicks it open. "It's dated a month ago," he says, then spreads it open on the table. "Look."

Dean bends to read the tiny article hidden in a side column Sam points to, and deja vu hits him like a brick wall. "It's the old lady," he says. "The bitch that killed me." He looks up. "This is the night before I died."

"Yeah," Sam says, and slowly, methodically, he closes the paper and folds it and pushes it aside. "Remember? It was a good night. Things were quiet, we were going to get some beers and watch a movie or something. Then we saw that and decided to get an early night. But that's already happened, Dean. She's gone, we burned her bones. We don't have to do that anymore."

Dean swallows and looks around the room. There, on the steps, is a box of beer. His laptop sits ready to go on the next table over. "This is us now? This is our Heaven? Eternal beer and movie night?"

Sam grins, kicks out another chair and puts his feet up. "Something wrong with that?"

Dean beams, grabs two chairs, and does the same. "Hell no, Sammy. Hell the fuck no."

fin