No Matter the Consequences, a Supernatural Fic
Title: No Matter the Consequences
Author: LaueHime
Characters: Dean, Sam, hints of Metatron
Genre/Pairing: Hurt/Comfort (technically), Gen.
Type: Fanfiction
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Spoilers for 9x23 "Do You Believe in Miracles"
Warnings:Character death, gory descriptions of violence
Summary: Dean's thoughts during the moments that precede his death.
A/N: This story is written as a companion piece to jojospn’s “Proud of us” on FF.net. She wrote the finale from Sam’s POV. With her permission, I wrote this one-shot in Dean’s POV. I recommend her fic, it’s worth the read!
Disclaimer: Kripke and the CW own this.
XXX
“Carry on my wayward son, there’ll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest, don’t you cry no more” - Kansas
As Crowley had first predicted, the longer he went without giving in to his killing spree, the ‘less better’ he felt. The King of Hell hadn’t sugar coated things as a metallic tang of blood rose up his throat. When he spotted Sam at the camping resort, he might have been surprised, hadn’t he known his brother better than that. Sam wasn’t letting go off the matter he had dug his fangs into. His little brother was like a canine; stubbornly holding on to the chew toy he felt protective of. Sam wouldn’t understand. It only fed Dean’s greed for blood. Crowley had been clear about the mark. Would Dean decide to ignore his hunger, he would destroy himself until nothing remained but oblivious darkness.
Sam should understand that Dean was the only one powerful enough to win against Metatron. At a time, it had been his little brother whom had been deemed capable of taking down Lilith. Dean didn’t miss the parallel, but he wouldn’t bring it up unless Sam did. Either way, his brother had made it clear that he wouldn’t save Dean if it were him that was dying. If he was going to kick the bucket because of the mark, he might at least make his life count.
Hearing Sam remind him of his choices and of the consequences that followed his decision to let Gadreel through the ‘front door’ only fueled the fire that burned in his chest. Sam didn’t need to recall the casualties that they had encountered for he already blamed himself. On the other hand, those deaths were meant to pay the price of saving his brother. Psychic or not, Sam came to his sense because his face softened. The breaking down of pent up anger was replaced by yielding silence before he spoke the words Dean needed to hear.
“I know you’re our best shot” the youngest acknowledged, even though it didn’t begin to please him.
“I’m gonna take my shot; for better or worse” Dean informed. He needed Sam to know that.
Sam nodded. “I know” he replied, his eyes taking on a depth he didn’t need words to convey. Dean had a growing feeling in the pit of his stomach; one that had nothing to do with nausea. It seemed like a blossoming sense of foreboding flourished in his veins.
“No matter the consequences” he added. He really needed Sam to know… that it was okay. That he knew what he was doing. It was his way of telling his brother to let go. It was his way of saying ‘let me try and if I fail, let it be’. Either way, Sam wouldn’t save him, right? Had his brother meant it or had he been trying to hurt him, it didn’t matter. When he took on Metatron, one of them was going down.
“I know” Sam continued, startling Dean. “But if this is it, we’re gonna do it together” Sam stated. He wasn’t offering. Something flickered inside Dean. Maybe, just maybe Sam had meant it the way he thought his brother did.
XXX
Dean didn’t miss the way his hand shook as he rummaged through the trunk of the Impala. He didn’t miss the surge of power that waved inside his chest when his fingers brushed against the blade. His hunger made his stomach churn and ache in desire for destruction. He wondered if that was how Sam felt when he juiced up on demon blood.
He grabbed the blade and held onto it; pulsating strength traveling up his system. Sam was talking to him. His brother was saying something Dean couldn’t hear. The blade was calling for him and its murmur was growing so loud, it covered everything else. For a second, all he could see was red as blood rushed to his ears. His fist flew out and connected with Sam’s skull, producing a sickening thud. In the next second, his brother was on the ground. Dean kneeled next to him and wondered if he was doing the right thing. He had no time to doubt; the roaring in his ears constantly chiming that it was for the best. Sam didn’t need to get a first seat ticket for the blood bath that was about to unfold.
“Sorry, little brother. It’s not your fight” Dean apologized before walking away, leaving his unconscious brother on the cold and damp bed of rocks littering the roadside.
XXX
He panted harshly, leaning against the concrete wall; the only thing holding him up. His body throbbed from the bruises forming under the brutal hits of the curly-haired man he had mistakenly not taken seriously. Blood ran down his face and pearled into his eyes. Crimson rivulets sat on his upper lip. He coughed, his chest tightening from the effort of breathing; specks of blood staining his lips. His fingers were circled loosely around the blade. He was preparing his strike when the sound of footsteps broke through his blurred haze. He detached glassy eyes from his opponent. It was just a second.
That face, he would recognize anywhere. His Sammy was running towards him; the only thing he could see clearly through a mess of lights and sounds. Sam had found his way back to him like he always did. Even when he was a kid, his little brother had an inner ‘magnet’ when it came to going back home. At that time, ‘home’ was a four letter word Sam spelled D-E-A-N. The memory crumbled and combusted when a sharp pain set his insides on a fire of tearing flesh and ripping muscles. He turned in time to see Metatron’s satisfied eyes staring back at him and gasped as the angel pushed the blade deeper into his abdomen; all air leaving his lungs in a drawled, desperate silent cry for mercy. He panted as the evil-faced God-Wannabe twisted the blade around the wound. Oxygen thrived to reach his deprived lungs as a frigid veil of darkness settled inside him. The sound of Sam’s screaming only reached him from far away, as if he were under water. His brother’s cries were muffled by the feeling of life pulsating out of his broken body.
Blackness tainted the edges of his vision and he tried to blink it away; tried to pull himself out of the pit he was slowly drowning into. His head followed that familiar voice that was trying to reach out to him. His instincts would always respond to Sam’s cries. That’s when it occurred to him that his little brother shouldn’t be there. Sam shouldn’t have come; shouldn’t have to watch him die. Not like this. Not ever. A dejected sigh escaped his lips with no incoming air to replace it. His head started to spin as he felt himself fall to the ground. He hardly felt anything when his skull hit concrete. His eyes were still open albeit unseeing. Everything was bathed in surreal sparks of light that were quickly eaten away by clouding darkness. He could hear the muffled thumps he assumed were his brother’s gigantic feet tapping against the ground in Sam’s race to reach his side. He didn’t want it to end like this. Cold oak had killed a part of him and he expected no less for Sam, would he go through the same fate he did all those years ago. Holding your brother’s body while he’s taking his last breaths… feeling his blood soak through your shirt… his skin rapidly cooling under your fingers as he turns gray and withers away…
XXX
Sam’s fingers are all over him. He can feel them faintly through the overwhelming rush of sensations that assault him at once. His body is pulled off the ground, a grunt of pain escaping his lips before he can hold it. He’s back into a sitting position and Sam is the only thing holding him upright. He leans back against the wall and his eyes snap open as the world around him starts to shake. Is it his time? He peers for Sam’s eyes which are just as alarmed as his. His little brother springs to his feet. The empty space left makes the world seem so much bigger; the gap between himself and life growing so much wider. He wants to drift away. Maybe if he does, he’ll be gone when Sam gets back. His brother won’t have to see…
But Sam comes back. He’s right there, holding him. He can hear his brother’s breaths as Sam rushes his hands over his injuries. Dean recognizes that look. It’s the one Sam sports when he goes all I’m gonna take care of you. His little brother still has hope in his eyes. He needs to look down because he’s not sure he’s worthy of it. Maybe he has given up already. He won’t look at Sam. He can’t.
“Sammy” he croaks with what voice he has left. He hisses when Sam presses a bandana against his bleeding chest. The pain is excruciating and he’s not sure how much more he can take. “You gotta get out of here before he comes back” he slurs while his brother is trying to keep his hold on the wound. Sam tries to hush him, but it only increases his sense of urgency; one that his brother doesn’t heed. Sam is stammering reassurances to keep him grounded. His heart aches at the panic that leaks from his brother’s promises. He knows they’ll be empty because he knows Sam can’t do anything for him. If he doesn’t die from blood loss, it’s the mark that will be the end of him. No matter what happens in between, he knows how it all ends; did from the start. It’s time Sam knows too.
“Listen to me” he pleads, in between two breaths. “It’s better this way” he coaxes. Sam stops to stare at him. He hates that look on his brother’s face. Sam shouldn’t look at him like that; with eyes so broken…
“What?” Sam questions in one breath.
“The blade… it’s making me into something I don’t wanna be” Dean confesses. He knows he’s been acting in control all along, but now that he contemplates his fate, he’d rather things ended like this while he could still pretend to be human. Sam isn’t listening. All he sees is the blood quickly soaking through the bandana and he knows Dean can’t afford to lose more. His little brother isn’t dealing with this right now. Sam wants to get him to safety. They’re up and moving in no time. If it weren’t for Sam holding most of his weight, he wouldn’t be getting anywhere.
“What happened to you being okay with this?” Dean asks because he needs to know. For so long he pretended he didn’t care that Sam wouldn’t save him, but somehow it seems important now. His brother is right there and he’s risking his own life for him.
“I lied” Sam admits shamefully. He doesn’t look too happy about his confession but Dean couldn’t care less. A crushing weight has seemingly been lifted off his shoulder. He feels lighter and even if it’s just his imagination, wishful thinking or whatever, he believes he’s breathing better. So Sam was pissed; he gets that. Sam wanted to hurt him; he can’t blame the kid. But Sam keeping the two of them alive makes him feel blessed. He smiles softly, happy to have lived up to this day.
“Well, ain’t that a bitch” he huffs, his voice breathier than it was seconds ago. They take a couple more steps before breathing proves to be difficult. The world around him gets colder and his legs seem to lack the strength to carry on.
He gags on air that just won’t go down his tightening lungs. “Sam… hold on…” he pleads, already listing sideways. His knees are asking to buckle; it’s only a matter of when. He feels Sam’s grip tighten around him. His little brother is trying to hold him up as if he knows that if they stop now, they won’t get moving again.
His heart is racing as if it’s trying to burst out of his chest. He’s out of breath and his sight is a step away from turning upside down. Sam is still there, by his side. His little brother is going to be watching this and Dean knows it’s too late to stop it. They sit on something, but he’s too focused on putting his words together to see what. There are so many words rushing through his mind, how is he supposed to pick? When you know you’re about to go, what’s the right thing to say? There are so many things he wants to say to Sam and his heart aches at the thought that he should have said them sooner. He wants to say that he’s not mad at Sam for lying to him, for wanting to hurt him. He wants to tell him to take care of himself once he’s gone. He wants to say that he’s sorry for the way things have to end. He never wished for Sam to have to hold him while he slowly bled to his death. He wants Sam to know that he’s okay with this. He wants to tell him to go on. He wants to tell him that he loves him… even if it’s sappy as hell and even if he’ll totally turn this into the mother of all chick flicks.
Blood rushes into his mouth and he tries to swallow the gurgling sounds of his life bleeding out of him. He hears Sam as his brother is calling his name to get him to focus. His pain is too great. His body is on fire, but it’s mostly the fact that he’s got all those things he wishes he could say and knows that he never will. Still, he needs to try. He needs to…
“I gotta say something” he pants out, his lids growing heavier as he strains to keep his head up. For the first time, he locks his eyes into Sam’s. This is important and he’s only going to say it once. His little brother’s eyes are tearing up. Maybe Sam knows that this is it. Dean uses the last bout of energy he has to clap his brother on the shoulder, a familiar gesture he’s used over the years to establish a bond of friendship between them. He would use it to say many things such as ‘you did it’ or ‘I love you’… he’s also used it to say ‘I trust you’. He hopes Sam will get that, even though he doesn’t have enough oxygen left to verbalize it.
He gasps one last time, collecting as much air as he’s going to be able to get. For all the words that he wants to say, for all the things that he craves to get off his chest, one thing stands out from the lot. “I’m proud of us” Dean breathes. No matter how much they fight, they always manage to put their differences aside to find their way home in the end. He sees salty water well up in Sam’s eyes. He hears the quiet sobs that his brother is trying to bite back. The hand he left on Sam’s shoulder he takes to cup his little brother’s cheek. Fuck the no chick flick rule. He’s fucking dying for Christ’s sake; he gets to have one comforting gesture towards the only family he has left and the one he’s about to leave behind.
He fights to keep his eyes on Sam for as long as he can. If it burns out the only fuel he has left, he wants it to be the last thing he does. He wants those big hazel green eyes to be the last thing he remembers about being human. He thought he was okay with dying but as he draws in his last breaths, he realizes how scary it is; for him, but mostly for Sam. He wishes he could say that everything’s going to be okay, but he knows he can’t.
The darkness becomes enveloping. It wraps its bony arms around him and shuts his senses off, one at the time. Too heavy to hold, his head falls into Sam’s chest. That’s right where he wants to be for his last seconds. Sam’s fingers rush to cup his cold cheeks. He’s so close to his brother. Sam’s warmth is inviting. It calms his racing heart until he can hardly feel its thumps. It quiets down softly as if going to sleep. He catches himself thinking that the melody of Sam’s heartbeat is his lullaby. All the things he did, all the consequences they’ve suffered… they’re the reason he can feel that heartbeat inside his brother’s chest. He knows now that he’s done the right thing.
Protecting Sammy has always been his job. If dying means keeping his brother safe, then he’s ready to go. He hates that Sam is pleading for him to hold on. He hates the feeling of his brother’s tears on the top of his head. He knows he’s hurting Sam, but he can’t go on. He’d rather die like this than turn into a monster.
I’m sorry Sammy.
His eyes flutter closed and he pushes out a last shaky breath before everything grows quiet.
Peaceful.
Author: LaueHime
Characters: Dean, Sam, hints of Metatron
Genre/Pairing: Hurt/Comfort (technically), Gen.
Type: Fanfiction
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Spoilers for 9x23 "Do You Believe in Miracles"
Warnings:Character death, gory descriptions of violence
Summary: Dean's thoughts during the moments that precede his death.
A/N: This story is written as a companion piece to jojospn’s “Proud of us” on FF.net. She wrote the finale from Sam’s POV. With her permission, I wrote this one-shot in Dean’s POV. I recommend her fic, it’s worth the read!
Disclaimer: Kripke and the CW own this.
XXX
“Carry on my wayward son, there’ll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest, don’t you cry no more” - Kansas
As Crowley had first predicted, the longer he went without giving in to his killing spree, the ‘less better’ he felt. The King of Hell hadn’t sugar coated things as a metallic tang of blood rose up his throat. When he spotted Sam at the camping resort, he might have been surprised, hadn’t he known his brother better than that. Sam wasn’t letting go off the matter he had dug his fangs into. His little brother was like a canine; stubbornly holding on to the chew toy he felt protective of. Sam wouldn’t understand. It only fed Dean’s greed for blood. Crowley had been clear about the mark. Would Dean decide to ignore his hunger, he would destroy himself until nothing remained but oblivious darkness.
Sam should understand that Dean was the only one powerful enough to win against Metatron. At a time, it had been his little brother whom had been deemed capable of taking down Lilith. Dean didn’t miss the parallel, but he wouldn’t bring it up unless Sam did. Either way, his brother had made it clear that he wouldn’t save Dean if it were him that was dying. If he was going to kick the bucket because of the mark, he might at least make his life count.
Hearing Sam remind him of his choices and of the consequences that followed his decision to let Gadreel through the ‘front door’ only fueled the fire that burned in his chest. Sam didn’t need to recall the casualties that they had encountered for he already blamed himself. On the other hand, those deaths were meant to pay the price of saving his brother. Psychic or not, Sam came to his sense because his face softened. The breaking down of pent up anger was replaced by yielding silence before he spoke the words Dean needed to hear.
“I know you’re our best shot” the youngest acknowledged, even though it didn’t begin to please him.
“I’m gonna take my shot; for better or worse” Dean informed. He needed Sam to know that.
Sam nodded. “I know” he replied, his eyes taking on a depth he didn’t need words to convey. Dean had a growing feeling in the pit of his stomach; one that had nothing to do with nausea. It seemed like a blossoming sense of foreboding flourished in his veins.
“No matter the consequences” he added. He really needed Sam to know… that it was okay. That he knew what he was doing. It was his way of telling his brother to let go. It was his way of saying ‘let me try and if I fail, let it be’. Either way, Sam wouldn’t save him, right? Had his brother meant it or had he been trying to hurt him, it didn’t matter. When he took on Metatron, one of them was going down.
“I know” Sam continued, startling Dean. “But if this is it, we’re gonna do it together” Sam stated. He wasn’t offering. Something flickered inside Dean. Maybe, just maybe Sam had meant it the way he thought his brother did.
XXX
Dean didn’t miss the way his hand shook as he rummaged through the trunk of the Impala. He didn’t miss the surge of power that waved inside his chest when his fingers brushed against the blade. His hunger made his stomach churn and ache in desire for destruction. He wondered if that was how Sam felt when he juiced up on demon blood.
He grabbed the blade and held onto it; pulsating strength traveling up his system. Sam was talking to him. His brother was saying something Dean couldn’t hear. The blade was calling for him and its murmur was growing so loud, it covered everything else. For a second, all he could see was red as blood rushed to his ears. His fist flew out and connected with Sam’s skull, producing a sickening thud. In the next second, his brother was on the ground. Dean kneeled next to him and wondered if he was doing the right thing. He had no time to doubt; the roaring in his ears constantly chiming that it was for the best. Sam didn’t need to get a first seat ticket for the blood bath that was about to unfold.
“Sorry, little brother. It’s not your fight” Dean apologized before walking away, leaving his unconscious brother on the cold and damp bed of rocks littering the roadside.
XXX
He panted harshly, leaning against the concrete wall; the only thing holding him up. His body throbbed from the bruises forming under the brutal hits of the curly-haired man he had mistakenly not taken seriously. Blood ran down his face and pearled into his eyes. Crimson rivulets sat on his upper lip. He coughed, his chest tightening from the effort of breathing; specks of blood staining his lips. His fingers were circled loosely around the blade. He was preparing his strike when the sound of footsteps broke through his blurred haze. He detached glassy eyes from his opponent. It was just a second.
That face, he would recognize anywhere. His Sammy was running towards him; the only thing he could see clearly through a mess of lights and sounds. Sam had found his way back to him like he always did. Even when he was a kid, his little brother had an inner ‘magnet’ when it came to going back home. At that time, ‘home’ was a four letter word Sam spelled D-E-A-N. The memory crumbled and combusted when a sharp pain set his insides on a fire of tearing flesh and ripping muscles. He turned in time to see Metatron’s satisfied eyes staring back at him and gasped as the angel pushed the blade deeper into his abdomen; all air leaving his lungs in a drawled, desperate silent cry for mercy. He panted as the evil-faced God-Wannabe twisted the blade around the wound. Oxygen thrived to reach his deprived lungs as a frigid veil of darkness settled inside him. The sound of Sam’s screaming only reached him from far away, as if he were under water. His brother’s cries were muffled by the feeling of life pulsating out of his broken body.
Blackness tainted the edges of his vision and he tried to blink it away; tried to pull himself out of the pit he was slowly drowning into. His head followed that familiar voice that was trying to reach out to him. His instincts would always respond to Sam’s cries. That’s when it occurred to him that his little brother shouldn’t be there. Sam shouldn’t have come; shouldn’t have to watch him die. Not like this. Not ever. A dejected sigh escaped his lips with no incoming air to replace it. His head started to spin as he felt himself fall to the ground. He hardly felt anything when his skull hit concrete. His eyes were still open albeit unseeing. Everything was bathed in surreal sparks of light that were quickly eaten away by clouding darkness. He could hear the muffled thumps he assumed were his brother’s gigantic feet tapping against the ground in Sam’s race to reach his side. He didn’t want it to end like this. Cold oak had killed a part of him and he expected no less for Sam, would he go through the same fate he did all those years ago. Holding your brother’s body while he’s taking his last breaths… feeling his blood soak through your shirt… his skin rapidly cooling under your fingers as he turns gray and withers away…
XXX
Sam’s fingers are all over him. He can feel them faintly through the overwhelming rush of sensations that assault him at once. His body is pulled off the ground, a grunt of pain escaping his lips before he can hold it. He’s back into a sitting position and Sam is the only thing holding him upright. He leans back against the wall and his eyes snap open as the world around him starts to shake. Is it his time? He peers for Sam’s eyes which are just as alarmed as his. His little brother springs to his feet. The empty space left makes the world seem so much bigger; the gap between himself and life growing so much wider. He wants to drift away. Maybe if he does, he’ll be gone when Sam gets back. His brother won’t have to see…
But Sam comes back. He’s right there, holding him. He can hear his brother’s breaths as Sam rushes his hands over his injuries. Dean recognizes that look. It’s the one Sam sports when he goes all I’m gonna take care of you. His little brother still has hope in his eyes. He needs to look down because he’s not sure he’s worthy of it. Maybe he has given up already. He won’t look at Sam. He can’t.
“Sammy” he croaks with what voice he has left. He hisses when Sam presses a bandana against his bleeding chest. The pain is excruciating and he’s not sure how much more he can take. “You gotta get out of here before he comes back” he slurs while his brother is trying to keep his hold on the wound. Sam tries to hush him, but it only increases his sense of urgency; one that his brother doesn’t heed. Sam is stammering reassurances to keep him grounded. His heart aches at the panic that leaks from his brother’s promises. He knows they’ll be empty because he knows Sam can’t do anything for him. If he doesn’t die from blood loss, it’s the mark that will be the end of him. No matter what happens in between, he knows how it all ends; did from the start. It’s time Sam knows too.
“Listen to me” he pleads, in between two breaths. “It’s better this way” he coaxes. Sam stops to stare at him. He hates that look on his brother’s face. Sam shouldn’t look at him like that; with eyes so broken…
“What?” Sam questions in one breath.
“The blade… it’s making me into something I don’t wanna be” Dean confesses. He knows he’s been acting in control all along, but now that he contemplates his fate, he’d rather things ended like this while he could still pretend to be human. Sam isn’t listening. All he sees is the blood quickly soaking through the bandana and he knows Dean can’t afford to lose more. His little brother isn’t dealing with this right now. Sam wants to get him to safety. They’re up and moving in no time. If it weren’t for Sam holding most of his weight, he wouldn’t be getting anywhere.
“What happened to you being okay with this?” Dean asks because he needs to know. For so long he pretended he didn’t care that Sam wouldn’t save him, but somehow it seems important now. His brother is right there and he’s risking his own life for him.
“I lied” Sam admits shamefully. He doesn’t look too happy about his confession but Dean couldn’t care less. A crushing weight has seemingly been lifted off his shoulder. He feels lighter and even if it’s just his imagination, wishful thinking or whatever, he believes he’s breathing better. So Sam was pissed; he gets that. Sam wanted to hurt him; he can’t blame the kid. But Sam keeping the two of them alive makes him feel blessed. He smiles softly, happy to have lived up to this day.
“Well, ain’t that a bitch” he huffs, his voice breathier than it was seconds ago. They take a couple more steps before breathing proves to be difficult. The world around him gets colder and his legs seem to lack the strength to carry on.
He gags on air that just won’t go down his tightening lungs. “Sam… hold on…” he pleads, already listing sideways. His knees are asking to buckle; it’s only a matter of when. He feels Sam’s grip tighten around him. His little brother is trying to hold him up as if he knows that if they stop now, they won’t get moving again.
His heart is racing as if it’s trying to burst out of his chest. He’s out of breath and his sight is a step away from turning upside down. Sam is still there, by his side. His little brother is going to be watching this and Dean knows it’s too late to stop it. They sit on something, but he’s too focused on putting his words together to see what. There are so many words rushing through his mind, how is he supposed to pick? When you know you’re about to go, what’s the right thing to say? There are so many things he wants to say to Sam and his heart aches at the thought that he should have said them sooner. He wants to say that he’s not mad at Sam for lying to him, for wanting to hurt him. He wants to tell him to take care of himself once he’s gone. He wants to say that he’s sorry for the way things have to end. He never wished for Sam to have to hold him while he slowly bled to his death. He wants Sam to know that he’s okay with this. He wants to tell him to go on. He wants to tell him that he loves him… even if it’s sappy as hell and even if he’ll totally turn this into the mother of all chick flicks.
Blood rushes into his mouth and he tries to swallow the gurgling sounds of his life bleeding out of him. He hears Sam as his brother is calling his name to get him to focus. His pain is too great. His body is on fire, but it’s mostly the fact that he’s got all those things he wishes he could say and knows that he never will. Still, he needs to try. He needs to…
“I gotta say something” he pants out, his lids growing heavier as he strains to keep his head up. For the first time, he locks his eyes into Sam’s. This is important and he’s only going to say it once. His little brother’s eyes are tearing up. Maybe Sam knows that this is it. Dean uses the last bout of energy he has to clap his brother on the shoulder, a familiar gesture he’s used over the years to establish a bond of friendship between them. He would use it to say many things such as ‘you did it’ or ‘I love you’… he’s also used it to say ‘I trust you’. He hopes Sam will get that, even though he doesn’t have enough oxygen left to verbalize it.
He gasps one last time, collecting as much air as he’s going to be able to get. For all the words that he wants to say, for all the things that he craves to get off his chest, one thing stands out from the lot. “I’m proud of us” Dean breathes. No matter how much they fight, they always manage to put their differences aside to find their way home in the end. He sees salty water well up in Sam’s eyes. He hears the quiet sobs that his brother is trying to bite back. The hand he left on Sam’s shoulder he takes to cup his little brother’s cheek. Fuck the no chick flick rule. He’s fucking dying for Christ’s sake; he gets to have one comforting gesture towards the only family he has left and the one he’s about to leave behind.
He fights to keep his eyes on Sam for as long as he can. If it burns out the only fuel he has left, he wants it to be the last thing he does. He wants those big hazel green eyes to be the last thing he remembers about being human. He thought he was okay with dying but as he draws in his last breaths, he realizes how scary it is; for him, but mostly for Sam. He wishes he could say that everything’s going to be okay, but he knows he can’t.
The darkness becomes enveloping. It wraps its bony arms around him and shuts his senses off, one at the time. Too heavy to hold, his head falls into Sam’s chest. That’s right where he wants to be for his last seconds. Sam’s fingers rush to cup his cold cheeks. He’s so close to his brother. Sam’s warmth is inviting. It calms his racing heart until he can hardly feel its thumps. It quiets down softly as if going to sleep. He catches himself thinking that the melody of Sam’s heartbeat is his lullaby. All the things he did, all the consequences they’ve suffered… they’re the reason he can feel that heartbeat inside his brother’s chest. He knows now that he’s done the right thing.
Protecting Sammy has always been his job. If dying means keeping his brother safe, then he’s ready to go. He hates that Sam is pleading for him to hold on. He hates the feeling of his brother’s tears on the top of his head. He knows he’s hurting Sam, but he can’t go on. He’d rather die like this than turn into a monster.
I’m sorry Sammy.
His eyes flutter closed and he pushes out a last shaky breath before everything grows quiet.
Peaceful.