"We're not even two people. Even before we met, we were just these two halves, walking around with big gaping holes in the shape like the other person. And when we found each other, we were finally whole. And then it was as if we couldn't stand being happy so we ripped ourselves in half again."

-Sylvia Plath

The silence falls between them sudden and thick.

Sam is suffocating, rain pattering against the dirty windows, and has just enough mind left to realize he's begun to make death noises and can't stop. It's still too soon. It'll always be too soon.

When Dean speaks, it only gets worse.

"It's not your fault Sammy. Never was. This was my choice." Forgiveness comes easy to a dying man but then Dean was like that anyway. Too forgiving, especially the times that Sam didn't deserve it.

After a year of burying the truth, of disguising it as grief, the time has finally come. One final unveiling.

Sam swallows. When he speaks, his throat is dry, voice haggard like it hasn't been used for years, "I'm sorry too."

"You don't have anything to be sorry about." Faint whisper, nothing more. Fading, the both of them.

"You'll want to be angry later." Sam goes on like Dean hadn't spoken at all, delicate in the balance between them "You'll want someone to blame. You can blame me. That's ok. Just-just don't blame yourself, okay? Not ever."

Confusion flashes on Dean's face a second before horrified realization takes its place. By then it's too late. One year too late. Sam's been decided ever since he first traced the scar on his back, ever since he wrestled the truth from Dean's eyes. Nothing to do but pay back the debt incurred as an infant carried away from a fire, fixed firmly in his brother's arms.

Sam shoves Dean hard enough to send him sprawling onto the floor of the bathroom, the second of surprise all he needs. Dean is up and scrambling by the time Sam slams the door shut between them, locking it in place. He drags the dresser in front, watches it shakes and tremble back and forth but it stays put.

He lets out a breath, presses his hands flat against the wall that separates them, tries to calm his galloping heartbeat. It's alright, he tells himself over and over, breathes it into existence because he doesn't have the strength for much more.

All he can hear are Dean's fists, Dean's screams, the obvious anger unable to conceal pure panic.

The gun is already loaded. He pulls it from its hiding place beneath the pillow.

"I called Bobby." Sam confesses. Dean has fallen silent but Sam can image his ear pressed against the door, jaw clenched, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. "I don't want you to be the one- " he takes a deep breath and rubs his hand over his face hard. "Just stay in there for awhile, alright? He should be here soon."

He doesn't glance at the other bed, to where Dean's cell had been taken apart. To where Sam knew dozens of frantic texts and voicemails had been left by Bobby ever since their conversation ended half an hour before. Sam had dialed the familiar number as soon as Dean disappeared into the office. On it, he made his last confession.

The reality of the situation had begun to dawn and by that point, Sam was shaking with fine tremors building beneath his skin. It was a miracle that Bobby could piece together his slurred nonsensical questions riddled with demands.

Will you come get me before Dean does? Don't want him to see me like that. Will you watch over him after? You know how stupid he can be, how stubborn. Will you promise not to let him do anything to bring me back? Shit Bobby, don't let him make another deal. Please, please, please. On and on and on.

And in the background, Bobby spewing curses. Stupid reckless boy. Idjits, the both of them. The sound of his breath breaking into a pant, the sound of keys and a roaring ignition.

"Where are you?" Bobby had demanded, trying to reason Sam past it, trying to stop the inevitable.

Sam had answered that one. State, town, hotel, room number.

Almost gently, Sam had added, "Bobby you're not gonna get here in time. Don't kill yourself trying."

And then he'd hung up because he figured those last words were as good as any. Because he knows that no matter how furious, Bobby was never the kind to deny a dying man his last request, especially if that request was for Dean.

That was over an hour ago. No more time to waste, no more stalling if he wanted to have it done before they could stop him.

Sam cocks the gun and the bullet, that bullet, loads in a single ominous click. Such an innocuous sound. A sound he's heard a thousand times before.

There's a letter with Dean's name scrawled across the front, a letter that Sam had written and rewritten a dozen times in the past year. Trying to explain, trying to console, to ask forgiveness. To make Dean understand why he had to do it. Why he couldn't let go, not again. Not when he could stop it.

In the end, Sam hadn't been able to put any of that into words so he had simply written down the truth in all its utter simplicity. That he loved Dean, always would, and that he didn't regret any of it. Not even the last, not even what brought them here.

He lays the letter on the desk, far enough away from the bed that his blood won't reach it. Then he sits.

Dean is begging now but that all falls to the background.

Sam isn't thinking of heaven or hell. He's thought enough about that in the months leading up to this moment. God might have pity. He can hope, but it's a faint buzz at the back of his mind, a mosquito to be swatted away. His own soul stopped counting a long time ago.

Everything pales compared to Dean. It's always been that way between them, something that links them is a little too strong, a little too tight. Burns a little too bright to last.

In the end, in this moment at least, he can't find it within himself to care.

No, Sam isn't thinking as he takes his final breaths. He's remembering. All of it. Snippets of their lives, violent and blood tinged. Heat glittering from the Impala, music turned up too loud, the wind whipping his hair in his face and Dean. Dean always beside him, crooked bad boy smile, dimples peeking out, green eyes shining in the sun. Dean singing off key. Dean stitching Sam back together, low soothing words and soft touches. Dean his brother. His protector. Dean, the last person left in this world that he loves.

The universe hasn't been kind to them. Not Heaven or Hell, angels or demons. But they'd had each other.

Sam starts to cry but it doesn't stop him from pulling the trigger. And then there's no sound at all except for Dean's screams that tear through the door, that turn animalistic in the gaping void, the battering of his fists, now bloody and bruised, the pounding of his own heartbeat as Sam's goes out.

Nothing but deep cutting silence and beyond that, a faint whisper of a sandglass turning over again.