A Kiss From the Fallen
"Dean, Dean, Dean. I told you one day you would understand – that you were not going to win this battle. You're too weak, Dean. Hell has broken you. What those angels said, that you were going to stop the apocalypse, to stop us, is such a laughing matter. If only you'd taken my offer to come with me that day, Dean, this wouldn't have had to happen."
There is no answer, no more snarky remarks, not even a grunt, coming from Dean, save for sparse wheezing breaths. He can't speak anymore; he thinks his throat might have been wrecked along with any other part of his body. Fleetingly he ponders that this is not so much different from hell, only that it was Alistair there. This one is Sam. Sam who has fallen, who Dean can't even see anymore with his cracked and swollen eyes no matter how much he strains from his place down here on his knees held fast by two pairs of steely hands.
"If only you'd listened to me, Dean, I'd have had you for myself, I'd have been able to protect you, and wouldn't have had to surrender you to Lucifer. As it is, there is nothing I can do."
Dean gives his last effort to free himself, another laughing matter, and that's when he feels a warm, soft, almost loving, caress of Sam's lips upon his brow.
"Take him away."