Dean woke with a start, hand under his pillow automatically, going for the knife that he had never gotten over the habit of keeping there.

"Its ok," Sam's voice sounded hoarse, rough, "it's only me."

Dean sat up, pulling his hand from under the pillow and rubbing his eyes with it. Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed, eyes shadowed. He looked pale, wan and his hair needed a wash. Dean sighed.

"You haven't slept at all have you Sam?"

"No, but its ok," Sam forced a smile that didn't convince either of them and Dean reached out and patted his hand, awkwardly, still not really used to giving small gestures of affection, "Dean, I need – I need to talk to you."

"Sure Sam," Dean swung his legs out of bed and settled next to his brother, slinging an arm around his shoulders, "I'm all ears."

Sam was silent for so long that Dean wondered if he had heard his brother right. He could hear the rattle in Sam's chest; feel how skinny Sam was under his clothing. He hated it when his brother was sick, hated that he couldn't do anything to make him feel better. He gave Sam's shoulder a gentle squeeze, "Sammy?" He began, "you wanted to talk."

"God, this is so hard," Sam, sounded terrible, his breath hitching, he was shuddering under Dean's touch and his eyes were dull and lifeless. Dean felt his stomach clench, his heart thumping hard in his chest, his eyes never leaving Sam's face.

"Sam," he said again, "Sam, you're scaring me."

Sam took another long, rattling breath and began to speak. Dean could only stare at him, unable to believe what he was hearing. It didn't make sense, it couldn't be right. Sam had a chest infection, Sam had been released from hospital, Sam couldn't be sitting here on the bed talking about this – this thing. Dean felt his throat close and his eyes sting, unable to hear what Sam was saying anymore, his mind stuck on the one phrase that had come from Sam's lips.

Cancer – Sam had cancer.

He realised, suddenly, that Sam had stopped speaking, that Sam had gone silent and still. Dean could hear his own breathing, harsh and hitched; feel his hands trembling, his whole body shuddering along with Sam's.

"You – you are gonna leave me again Sammy," Dean hardly recognised his own voice, "you are gonna leave me again."

"I don't want to Dean," Sam's voice hitched, there were tears in those slanting hazel eyes now, "I – I didn't want to tell you any of this but Bobby thought you should know…I planned to walk away – but I guess you would have just come after me."

"You have to go back to the hospital," Dean got to his feet, pacing around the room, picking up boots, socks, shirts and stuffing them into his duffle, "you can have treatment right? You can have treatment that will help with this. You shouldn't have left Sammy, you can have treatment and you can get better – right?"

"Dean," Sam got to his feet, shakily, and put his hand on Dean's arm, stilling him, "treatment will only prolong my life – it won't – it won't save it – I'm – I'm dying Dean and there is nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do."

"Damn you." Anger, hot and bitter, surged in Dean's gut and he grabbed his little brother by the shoulder and began to shake him, hard. "You don't get to check out on me again Sammy – you don't get to do that, there must be something, some deal we can make, some ritual we can try, I'm not letting you go little brother – no fucking way."

"Dean" Sam spoke again, shaking his head. "No deals ok? No rituals, no treatments – I just wanna stay with you – have normal with you – I just want to go home for a while – please – please – I just want to be with you."

"Sammy," Dean was aware of the tears that were spilling down his cheeks, salt stinging his eyes, snot dribbling from his nose, "Sammy – you can't – you can't leave me – Sammy – Sammy – not again – Sammy – please."

"I – Dean – please – for a little while," Dean felt Sam's long arms go around him, clutching him closer, he felt Sam's head drop onto his shoulder, felt the soft chestnut hair brush against his cheek. He recalled that terrible night in Cold Oak when Sam had been in his arms just like this, when Sam had slumped, cold and lifeless against him, when Sam had left him again, left him alone and afraid.

He had gotten Sam back from that – he had gotten his brother back.

This time there would be no resurrection, no coming back, no Sam back beside him in the Impala, no moaning about his music, no bitch face. Sam would be gone forever and Dean would be alone.

Dean's legs went from under him and he went down hard and fast, taking Sam with him. The two of them rocked together on the hard floor, sobs shaking both of them, one clutching the other, both of them believing that, if they held on hard enough, nothing could separate them.

Bobby found them like that nearly an hour later and he didn't even attempt to prise them apart. They were Winchesters after all and not even hell had managed to divide them.

Bobby was not about to try.