Writhing in pain, but adamant on keeping consciousness, prolonging the inevitable for as long as possible,
even if that means just one more minute to be in Sam's arms. The hell hounds had got the best of Dean and
now he could feel a gravitational pull towards the depths of hell.
He reached up with a hand – burning the last of his remaining energy in such a simple movement – to touch his brother's face,
blood smeared across Sam's cheek, but he could tell his brother didn't care.
Sam's salty tears began to stream down his cheeks, making him look so young. And he was – so young that is – to lose everyone.
Dean knew Bobby would look out for him, but Sam needed a family, he needed his brother, how could Dean look after Sam from hell?
The excruciating pain became too much and Dean knew there was only moments left. At this point, Dean could almost hear Sam's heart breaking
and there was nothing he could do about it. The thick tendrils of cloudy black mist enveloped him as he seeped through unconsciousness into his
eternal doom...