Three days.
Sam had been in ICU, his body detoxing from the Ketamine, for three days. In that time, only his ventilator had been removed. The boy was still unconscious, unable to respond to his family, his face pale and drawn.
And Dean was dying inside. According to Sam's doctor, the longer the boy remained unconscious, the worse his chances for a complete recovery became.
This might be it. This might be the final tailspin that his little brother couldn't pull out of.
He'd been through so much, and he was so young, and he'd fought so hard.
Dean's heart broke in smaller and smaller pieces every day.
If there was anyone in the world who didn't deserve this, it was Sammy. Sammy, with his sunny smile and warm hugs and his goofy sense of humor. Sammy, who loved dogs and books and all things green and leafy. Sam - the boy who'd spent every day he could helping Dean get his legs back under him and who had been willing to endure physical pain to give his father a second chance at love.
This couldn't happen. It just couldn't. Not to Sam. Not to them.
Dean leaned in and reapplied the Chapstick to his brother's dried lips. They looked positively painful, and Dean was damned if he'd allow chapped and bleeding lips to add to his brother's discomfort.
Like he wasn't suffering enough already.
"Hey, Sammy. Got some more Chapstick for ya, little bro. You gotta wake up for us and start takin' care of this stuff yourself, you hear? I ain't you're damned nursemaid, right? Why don't you open your eyes for me, bud? Please, Sammy? Can you open your eyes? Talk to me? Squeeze my hand? Something?"
Nothing.
Just silence, interrupted by the occasional beeps and blips of the machines that monitored his brother's steady decline.
Dean sat back down in his chair, pulled up close beside his brother's bed. It was where he'd been for the last three days, and it was where he'd stay until Sam no longer needed him - until he either got better or …
Dean choked off a strangled noise. He couldn't go there. He just couldn't. He stood back up and gently lifted his brother's lifeless hand. He leaned in and rearranged Sam's silky bangs, smiling.
"You look like hell, kid. You better get yourself awake, or I just might take a mind to shave this mop right off. Save the nurses all that time and money they've been spending on dry shampoo for your hairy self. What would you think of that, hunh? How about a nice buzz cut? Maybe a high and tight? I could make you look almost as handsome as your stud of a big brother. Just need a little hair gel is all."
Dean studied the younger boy. He looked so damned small and young lying there helpless, dwarfed by sheets and pillows and machines. He remembered everything Sam had been through this last year - all the trauma, the fear, the sadness. All the times Sam had been forced to fight for his life and his virtue, all the people who'd failed him, all the times he'd pushed his own needs to the back burner to help his big brother down the steps or out of bed or to the bathroom.
And always with a smile on his face. Always willing to compromise. Always careful not to let Dean feel ashamed or embarrassed or needy. It was just a way Sam had about him.
Sammy was a giver. Had been since he was old enough to know how.
Dean turned away and ran his fist into the wall next to the window.
It couldn't end like this. It just couldn't.