My eyes are moving so frantically that I wish they would look over the blood, or how pale Dean's skin is, or that his eyes are too glazed over, but instead I'm seeing everything and panic wells in me. I float my palms over him, around his wound, but nothing is happening. Then I remember; I am powerless now. Human. I can't fix this. I can't keep him.
But I feel that I should pretend, like it will work if I try long enough, so I bring him closer and shush his breaths, praying that they even out, knowing, anyway, that they won't.
What do I do? I don't know what to do. Dean would know what to do.
His mouth is hanging open from the shock of it, and I hear the choking sounds of him trying to breathe in. The confused expressions on his face, eyes unfocused, each rattle of his chest, it all cuts into my heart, and I have to close my eyes against the frustrated tears coming to them. The bastards slip out anyway and fall from my nose and my cheeks.
Acceptance will never be an option. I couldn't possibly accept walking without Dean bumping into my shoulder, never riding shotgun in the car, hand in hand over his knee. But denial won't help him either, won't let him be calm. So I bite my lip and force open my eyes.
Dean was already looking at me, the muscles in his shoulders no longer tense. In fact, he was relaxing all over, his head lolling a bit to each side. My chest felt fit to burst with the realization that, instead of having forever to have him with me, I had minutes at best, and I better move fast.
I looked back at him, pasting on my best you're going to be fine smile, but it must not really be my best because he goes to laugh, only to cough instead. The rattling punches at me, and the resolve to keep smiling is done away with. I bite my lip again. A little dribble of blood comes from the corner of his mouth, and I bring my thumb to wipe it away, but he turns his head so his lips are pressing against it instead. He gives it a kiss, ghosting and soft, then drops away with a gasp. By the time he can hold his head up again the blood from his mouth has dripped onto my shirtsleeve and his stare is a little more cross-eyed.
"Don't worry," I manage to croak out. "We'll be fine."
This time he does get to laugh, then he half shuts his eyes and settles back against my arm with a grimace on his mouth.
"Shut up." He says it so casually and familiarly, though, that I allow myself a moment of faith that he's actually okay, but the still-running flow of blood still reminds me that no, he won't be. "I know…" he struggles out, "I'm not…gonna be….fine."
Of course, I think, defeated, he's died countless times before. He knows what it feels like.
But nothing like this. No person should ever have to feel like he must.
My hands are itching for more contact, so I bring the same thumb up to his face and brush it over his brow, across his temple, and trace my fingers in his buzzed hair.
"Just…" he almost whispers, "don't go…anywhere. I want to…be here."
The breath hitches in my lungs and I'm left mouth agape as I almost ask, where would I ever go? But it doesn't come out, and he sees that. He closes his eyes the rest of the way as my fingers are stuck still in his hair.
"Don't go," he exhales.
This time I breathe sharply through my nose and promise him:
"I won't."
And I didn't. I waited.
And I waited. And I cradled him in my arms, careful not to put too much pressure on his stomach, just so that he'd be comfortable. I waited for his eyes to open. Open so I could fall back into them. They could be green. They could be black again for all I cared. He could sprout fangs or fur or claws. I just wanted him to open them again. Of course, his chest wasn't moving, and I'd wanted that fixed too, but if I'd known the last time I saw the green of them really was the last time, I wouldn't have let him leave me. It was all because we weren't together – I knew it – and if we were just together, he would have been okay. But it was my fault; I didn't stop him, and now he couldn't open his eyes. I closed mine along with him.
I couldn't be bothered to hold my head up any longer. It drooped, lower, then lower, until it stopped against Dean's, and I cried for not protecting him, cried for not saying I love you quite enough, so I said it again and again, pushing it into his head with mine. But he wouldn't hear me, and I couldn't stop.
My lips kissed his, but they were already dead, and the kiss unreciprocated. His shirt fabric wrinkled in my hands as I clutched at him, forgetting that he was hurt, even forgetting he wouldn't feel the pain anymore anyway. I screamed, one filled with such guilt and ferocity that, even though I was no longer able to do so, surely the message could be heard throughout the world, and even in Heaven above:
Dean Winchester is no more.