So this is just a quick oneshot, changing the canon scene just a bit, so that Dean gets his chance to say something. We all know he needed to say something. Review, please, and let me know what you think.
-Han
"Dean!"
Dean is kicked back, shoved down, and he can feel claws on his chest, ripping down, in, deep. He can see the dogs, but he can never tell Sam what they look like; Hell and Hound all mixed up until he can understand the name. He will never look at dogs the same way again. If he ever sees anything again. He probably won't.
Sam's yelling at him and Dean doesn't have the strength to say get back, stay safe, protect yourself, this was my choice. Blood pours from his chest and he's on fire, every nerve in his body is alive and dying all at once. He is dying. Just like Sam did.
"Sam!" the name is a rough tumble of terror from numb lips as the cold night seeps into Dean's skin and reminds him that he's cold. He doesn't care, he's running, he's tripping on the end and catching his too-tall brother as his knees hit the ground. Sam collapses into his arms.
He's not breathing.
Dean's chest is barely moving up and down, clogged down by shredded skin and organ and muscle and bone, and Sam is frantically clutching at his shoulders, trying to keep him awake. His brother's green eyes don't seem as bright, they've lost their gold accents. Sam's crying, and he can't stop it. He just keeps saying Dean's name like it'll make him better, it'll heal him just the way he needs to be and then everything will be better.
Nothing will ever be better again, not when Sam's hazel eyes lose their life and his body doesn't respond to Dean's strong, eternal embrace. Dean doesn't want to let go. Won't. Not ever.
Sam is his responsibility and a knife to the spine is not going to stop him from making this right. Dean can't let his brother die. Not now. Their father's death is still too fresh and every moment Sam doesn't breathe, Dean can feel his mind slipping away. He's crying and he knows it, but there's no point in stopping.
"Dean, just breathe dammit, please," Sam begs, and his shoulders are caved in as he watches his brother struggle. He can see the whites of Dean's ribs poking through his chest and knows this must hurt worse than anything. Must hurt worse than a knife to the spine and Dean didn't have to do this for him. Shouldn't have.
But Sam knows Dean doesn't regret it. Won't.
He only wishes he could stop it, could have saved the day like the Winchesters were supposed to. He guesses he can't do anything right. Except cry over a dying body. His brother. The only father he's really known; the one who raised him when John had the world to rescue and Dean had Sam to watch over.
Has Sam ever said thank you for that?
He wishes he had, God, he wishes he'd taken the moment.
The moments spent on the drive to Bobby's are the most agonizing Dean's ever felt. Having to load his brother's body into the back seat, slide into the driver's. The music is off and silence should have enveloped them, but Dean is talking to Sam, his voice a begging whisper on the wind, the memory of a half-forgotten dream.
"Sammy, you just gotta breathe. Breathe, Sammy, please, God, please!" He slams his hand into the steering wheel when there isn't a response and he's not even sorry. "Please." This time the word is a broken whisper, so empty and fragile, he'd be embarrassed if anyone heard it. He sounds like his old self, his four-year-old-just-lost-his-mother self. The one that cried and begged for his Mommy so often John had threatened to hit him if he didn't shut up.
He didn't speak for a year after that.
He may never speak again if he can't fix Sammy.
Water is still leaking from his eyes and it blurs his vision, but his foot has slammed onto the gas pedal and he's doing 110 with no plans to slow down and if the cops stopped him, he'd outrun them. Simple. He has a mission, and Sam knew how good Dean was when it came to those.
Sam knew. It had been obvious Dean had done something the moment he took that beautiful breath, the one that filled his lungs and whispered 'it's okay' to Dean over and over and over until he believed it. He could fool himself into thinking it wouldn't cost anything, but Sam always knew it had been Dean that saved him.
It would always be Dean that saved him.
It was a mission Dean would never fail, not even if it meant his life. And as he's dying in Sam's arms, he can say he's accomplished it. He deserves a fucking medal and Sam promises to get him one. He doesn't know from where, but that's how he'll bury his brother, with a war medal around his neck.
He almost laughs at the thought and Dean struggles to make eye contact and holds with him, his lips trying to move, trying to form a word and Sam just knows what it will be because it never fails to be the same one.
"Sammy," Dean slurs out and it's almost unheard, barely a whisper laced with pain so deep it even hurts Sam. Dean tries to make a smile, all white teeth and blood-speckled lips and it makes Sam's breath catch and come out in a half-sob.
"Oh God, Dean," He says and he can see the light dying, fading, and the painful way he's breathing slows down, so slow, too slow. Not fast enough. Breathe in, Dean. Just breathe!
Dean kisses a demon in the middle of the crossroads, it's dark and cold and her skin feels wrong and unnatural against his but he kisses her with all he has. He hopes she can feel all his hatred and pain and anger. He hopes it makes her afraid.
Exactly two seconds later, in a way he will never ever tell Sam, he can feel something in his body shift, flare in white-hot agony, and seize up. Something in him knows his soul has been branded for Hell, for sin, for torture, in the name of his brother. All for Sam.
No regrets.
Miles away, Sam Winchester's back arches off a cot in Bobby Singer's house, his lungs expanding and drinking in air he's never thought was sweeter. He takes it all, everything he can, and his eyes open and find the ceiling and he wants to see his brother, but he's not there. He takes his first breath alone.
Dean takes his last breath in his brother's arms, like Sam had before him, but this time, no one would come back. Blood oozes into the shredded remains of his shirt and Sam is astonished he's lasted this long, or maybe not long at all. It feels like seconds are days to him, and every moment stretches on infinitely. He's rocking back and forth, crying so hard he can't breathe, the sobs are crushing his attempts to gain air.
Dean's eyes stare vacantly over his shoulder, and Sam grabs at his shoulders and is shaking him, nearly shouting half-garbled words that sound like screams that sound like sobs that sound like dying. Like Dean.
But his brother died quietly, and that attempt at a cocky smirk is frozen on his face, all white teeth and blood-speckled lips. No regrets. Never any regrets.