A/N: Hey, so, I've been getting back in the Supernatural fandom after a personal hiatus (for multiple reasons that no one wants to hear, suffice to say I miss my babies and am returning full force to the show), and out of all my rekindled emotions I wrote a deathfic because I am a silly person. I hate deathfics, solely for the fact that they make me cry, which makes one think I would be the last soul on earth to write one, but hey, go figure. Nobody understands my mind, least of all myself.

Anywho, this is just a drabble, based off of the "Goodnight, Sammy" theory. In case you haven't heard of it before, the idea is basically that the last line of the last episode should be Dean saying "Goodnight, Sammy" since that was also his first line of the pilot.

Enjoy~

(also forgive me I have no friggin' idea what they're fighting I just plopped something vague in there)

"Never opened myself this way

Life is ours, we live it our way

All these words I don't just say

And nothing else matters."

—Nothing Else Matters, Metallica

"Dean?"

"I gotcha, Sammy, I gotcha." There was a lull in the fighting, a pause, like someone holding their breath before the world fell apart; Dean was perfectly aware that this would be the last free moment of serenity, that the next wave would be the final assault, but all he could see and focus on was a sudden hollow between his ribs, empty and dark, and the vibrant red welling up against his fingers as they pressed into his brother's side. Sam's face was as ashen as the moon above, painted only with the crimson of his own blood; he sagged against Dean, pulling them slowly down to the war-stained earth, fingers clenching with fading strength in the leather of Dean's jacket.

"Dean," he whispered again, voice cracking, saying I'm sorry, I'm sorry, stay with me, in a language of one word, one syllable, desperate and scared.

"It's alright, Sammy, don't apologize. We knew this was gonna go to shit already, but we're takin' them with us, hear me?"

He made a choking-coughing noise and nodded, tucking his head under Dean's chin as though he was four again and Dean eight and the worst worry was a sleepy nightmare. Somehow they kept sinking down, until Dean was kneeling down on his haunches, his arms looped around Sam in an effort to hold him up. It was difficult to see out of his left eye, blood drying in a tacky trail against his cheek and in his eyelashes and his hair from one of the head wounds he must have received. It didn't hurt anymore, at least not enough to take a fraction of his attention away from Sam. It wouldn't matter for long, anyway.

Sam tried to speak again, his voice now nearly inaudible against the rising wind, but Dean shushed him, rubbing a thumb in circles against his shoulder. Even though he knew that it would be alright, that he would share his afterlife with his brother (his fucking soulmate, according to the fucking angels), it burned and twisted at his insides to think of the similarities between now and Cold Oak. "Almost over now, dude. Don't talk."

Sam made a pained approximation of one of his infamous bitchfaces, then shuddered an frowned, his lips becoming a tight, red-smeared line. Tears were tracking down his face, too, mixing with the blood. Pink."You'll–you'll f-follow me?" he asked, breath hitching in his chest.

There was a pang of guilt over the fact that Sam felt that he even had to ask. ""Course I fucking am, Sammy. Right behind you. Can't get rid of me. Bitch," he added as a softer afterthought. Was that something moving? Or were the trees just making shadows?

"J-jerk," Sam gargled, going several shades whiter as his shirt grew darker and wetter.

Yeah, something was definitely moving. Shit.

"Dean?"

"Right here."

Sam's irises looked like black pools now, not uncomfortable and unnatural like a demon's, but sad and lonely like something forgotten. "Dean, I. . ."

"Yeah, I know, Sammy. Be quiet. Almost done." He stroked Sam's freakishly long hair away from his face, and his brother's eyes closed slowly, fluttering, like he wanted to sleep but had to stay awake. Dean realized that his own cheeks were cold, wet, a noise of desperation tearing itself from his throat as something began to claw at him, sudden fresh sharpness driving into his shoulders and back and scalp, growing, knifelike points of pain. Fucking shadows. Sam whimpered.

"Goodnight, Sammy."

Sam went still. Dean drew in a breath and shut his eyes tight, conjuring up sunlight memories of childhood, and followed.