Dead means Gone.

As night faded into dawn, three gurneys were raced through the emergency room doors; vital signs were proclaimed emotionlessly and were absorbed by the stoic doctors. Three men- those in attendance noted. Two of them were young. Too young- the elderly waiters sorrowfully whispered to each other.

All three were whisked away to separate rooms- separate hells of pain and medicated stupor- each struggling to break the surface of the impenetrable lake of awaiting death.

John broke through first. With a cry of un-restrained grief and an immediate urgency to see his sons, he was subdued with drugs and drifted back to unconsciousness- the names of his sons falling from his lips.

After all was stable- IV's were dripping, heart monitors beeping, respirators breathing when the body could not- the doctors conferenced in the silent morning hallway; solemnly acknowledging that one would not be saved. He was too far gone.

Sam opened his eyes and asked for Dean. Instead he got a detached nurse who took his pulse and blood pressure and left his questions unanswered. And then left him. Alone Sam's mind launched its assault. Panic consumed his thoughts and soon his urgent yell could be heard echoing along the corridors; shrilly demanding that someone tell him where his brother was- where his father was.

Eventually an orderly with wrinkles that had seen it all, pushed John, captive in a wheel-chair- into the room where his youngest son lay broken. Sam's body was beaten but strong and the doctors had told John that all wounds would heal. John knew better.

But the doctors had told John something else too. They had told him of his eldest son. They had told him of the internal bleeding, the broken bones, the collapsed lungs, and damaged heart. They had told him time was running out. He had told them to fuck off.

Sam barraged his father with questions as John sat beside his son and fought bitterly to hold back the tears that would betray him to those already forming in his youngest eyes. John swallowed the truth and told Sam that Dean was resting. Told him they would see him soon. And Sam told him- now.

Two wheel-chairs bore two Winchester's into the room of the third. There was no smile to welcome them there, no green eyes alive and laughing, no wisecrack to ease the painful tension. And so each Winchester took a side, took a hand and held their breath.

And waited.

As day traded places with dark, Dean whispered his brother's name. Sam smiled and squeezed Dean's hand and John gave in to hope.

Ten minutes later the air became thick with the grating sound of hindered breathing, John's faint whispers instructing his son to- hang on dammit, Sam's soft sobs begging his brother to live.

Then Dean said- I love you- and Sam knew his life was over.

His hand fell slack, his head rolled towards his brother, his eyes forever closed- and Dean Winchester was dead.

Sam's broken protests filled the room and over-flowed into the hall where heads were shook and pain was shared. John's tears were silent but hurt just as much and he pushed himself forward and moved to embrace his only son.

He's not gone- Sam sobbed pushing away from his father. He's not gone.

He's gone- John cried and embraced his son finally as both fell to the floor, clinging to each other with all they had left. Which was very little. Little to nothing…

And then gone.