A/N - Thank you to all those that have reviewed, followed, favorited and read the story, it means a lot. I hope you continue to enjoy it! Should be one more chapter after this, but then this was supposed to be the last chapter, so who knows?

Disclaimer - I don't own anything from the Supernatural universe.

He was submerged beneath fluid, thick and dark, filling every crevice of his body to surround him completely. It was cold and numbing, silent and comforting. There was something outside of it calling to him, drawing him forward. He didn't want to go, he knew that coming out of here was going to be nothing but pain and awfulness, but there was a part of him that knew he had to abandon this safe place. That it really wasn't safe at all, that it was a place to wait for death. That there was someone out there waiting for him that needed him awake.

It was sticky and resistant, difficult to pierce, but he was rewarded with more clarity to those sounds. The muddled, non-distinct tones became his name, popping through the hazy bubble of unconsciousness with finality.

Sammy.

The pain followed as if it had never been gone at all, not coming back to him slowly, but all at once, his breath catching in his throat as it overwhelmed him and threatened to throw him back into that silent river of oblivion. He couldn't stop the cry that tore out of his throat as he haltingly tried to move his hands to the source of that pain, finding that it was in too many places to pinpoint. The sound was followed by coughs that tore through him like knives shredding his lungs and throat, thick wetness filling his mouth.

"Dean! Oh thank God. Stop moving, okay? You need to be still."

There was panic in his brother's voice, it was strained and halting. He remembered that Sam had been hurt, but couldn't recall how bad it was. It sounded like Sam was in trouble. As alarm filled him, he tried to open his eyes, not understanding why it was so hard to do. It was like they had been glued shut. He needed to see his brother, make sure he was okay.

"Sammy?" he whispered, barely audible.

He could feel wet dirt against his mouth as his lips moved, the smell and taste of blood thick in his nose and the back of his throat. He was lying on his stomach and there was pressure on his back. The events that put him here were trickling in slowly and he knew that the agony radiating through his back and torso was from being impaled by some nasty wendigo claws. He'd been slashed by them before, thrown, had bones broken, but never had the joy of actually being stabbed by one. His Dad would be impressed.

The battle to open his eyes was finally won. He was greeted with the sight of his brother's knees. He dragged his eyes upward to see him leaning over his back. Dean noted that he had taken off his jacket and he could see the wounds on his shoulder through the rips in his shirt. They didn't look too bad, but could probably use some stitching. Not to mention a serious cleaning. He couldn't see his face, just the thought of moving his head was enough to make him want to ralph, but then Sam moved back into his line of sight. There were tears tracing their way down Sam's face, but his color was good. Sam looked okay and he sighed in relief. His eyes started to drift closed again, the pain starting to dull back down, promising that painless nothing on the other side.

"No, Dean, stay with me. You need to stay awake," Sam commanded, leaning down so that Dean could see his face without strain. His floppy bangs fell into his eyes and he tossed his head back to clear them. Dean quirked a smile, but didn't have the strength to say anything. Such a girl, with that ridiculous hair. Both arms stayed draped over his back. Dean figured that was the pressure, Sam trying to keep the rest of his blood in his body.

Dean focused in on Sam's face with some effort, noting the sheer terror in every line, the sweat on his upper lip, the overwhelming panic in his darting eyes. It told him everything he needed to know; he was hurt bad. He knew he wasn't in good shape, the chorus of all his various hurts shrieking along his nerve endings like dull knives made that clear, but he was used to pain. He could always count on Sam to fix him up. The only time he had ever seen Sam this worried was when things were really bad.

When Azazel ripped him open from the inside, followed up by a car accident for dessert.

When he'd been electrocuted along with that Rawhead.

When a werewolf had practically eviscerated him.

When a ghost had thrown him out a fourth story window.

The times he had nearly died.

"Be ok, Sam," he forced out of his raw throat, needing to wipe that tragic look off of Sam's face. It didn't work. In fact, he looked worse, tears overflowing his eyes all over again. A bubbling cough shot back up into his throat and he spat out what had come up. He couldn't see it on the darkness of the ground, but he knew it was more blood.

"It's not good Dean. I think it must have nicked your lung, maybe some other things inside. You're bleeding so bad and we're so far from the car..." Sam's voice trembled to a stop as emotion overwhelmed him, his eyes shutting as he fought for control.

Dean didn't think he could feel any more pain, but knowing that Sam was thinking that he was about to watch him die without being able to do anything about it just about did him in. This was not acceptable; he had walked away from worse. He wasn't ready to go yet, he had too much to do. And he definitely couldn't leave Sam out here alone, who knows what the hell else was lurking around out here? He didn't just mean the woods, either. He wasn't going to abandon Sam.

Gathering every bit of his waning strength, he reached out a hand, biting back the groan that rose up. He rested it on Sam's knee, the best he was going to be able to do at the moment. Sam's eyes jerked back open, a bit of hope just on the edges. Dean blinked at him slowly, the lifting of his lids coming slower and slower. It was getting really hard to stay awake. To breathe. To think.

"Patch me up best you can, Sammy. S'not that bad, just hurts."

His words didn't sound too clear to him, having to work their way out of a brain and mouth that were barely functioning, but Sam understood them well enough because he was doing that incredulous chuckle he always did when Dean was trying to make him feel better, no matter how hurt he was.

"Not that bad. Right Dean," he choked out, the tears thick in his throat.

Dean smiled the best he could, not knowing that the exposure of his blood covered teeth were going to completely chase away any semblance of reassurance he had been attempting to provide. Sam went silent above him. Sam stared down at him intently, his blue-green eyes wide and frightened. Dean peered back up at him, not sure what else he could do, only knowing that he trusted Sam implicitly to take care of him. Whatever Sam saw in Dean's gaze had been enough. The fear was replaced with resolve, the panic with calm. Dr. Sam was in the house.

"You're gonna be okay, Dean, I'm not letting you go anywhere," Sam reassured him with a shaky smile.

Dean returned it as best he could, feeling his eyes shut again. He jerked them back open hearing shuffling on the ground next to his head.

Sam reached for the duffel bag that was now by his side, pulling the first aid kit out. Dean figured he had lost some time there, it hadn't been there before. Well, maybe it had. Hell, Bigfoot could be giving him a foot massage and he wasn't sure he would notice. The pain was more dull now, felt deeper inside where he couldn't feel as well. He wanted to be grateful for that, but he knew that probably meant shock. Judging by the blood that was coating Sam's hands, clear up past his wrists, probably was too uncertain a word.

"I need to sit you up, Dean. That will help your breathing," Sam explained, his voice low and measured. He was trying to be soothing. It was cute, really. Reminded him of when Sam was ten and done his first set of stitches in Dean's back. He had talked like Dean was a skittish horse, but he knew it was really Sam's way of keeping himself calm. Whatever his little brother needed to do was fine with him, no one did stitches smaller or straighter than his Sammy.

"Breathing would be good," Dean mumbled, propping his hand under him to push up. He went to bring the other one down to do the same, then cried out at the painful reminder that he had broken his wrist and fell back onto the ground. He had completely forgotten. Seemed just a bit insignificant when you had five razor sharp fingers tear through your back.

"Dammit Dean, stop moving, let me handle it," Sam gritted out. Dean wasn't about to argue at that moment, he was having to wage another battle with unconsciousness from that small movement. Hitting the ground again definitely didn't help matters.

Sam kept one hand at Dean's back, maintaining the pressure, and used the other to grab Dean's shoulder and lever him up. Dean couldn't stop the scream that tore out of him as muscles pulled and shifted to support the new position. Eyes squeezed shut, breathing became a monumental challenge, jaw clenched tightly. He had to just ride it out. Sam was talking to him urgently, but there were bells going off in Dean's head that all but drowned it out.

He must have blacked out again because he found himself fully upright when his eyes opened, his jacket and jean button down shirt lying across his lap, t-shirt rucked up against the back of his neck. He didn't recall any of that happening, so knew he must have stepped out for a minute. He wasn't fully back, everything was still hazy and distant.

Sam had one arm slung around his chest to support him, the hand wrapped around his shoulder. It was nice and warm where Sam was holding him, he was freezing everywhere else. Sam was right, at least breathing was a bit easier in this position. He could still feel an odd pressure squeezing his chest the bubbling rattle of blood with every breath, but he finally felt like he was actually taking in some oxygen again.

Dean turned his head slowly trying to see what Sam was doing, but he wasn't really able to see. "Sam?" he rasped out, his good hand patting the arm around him. Sam's head popped in over his shoulder, his features tense and focused.

"Just hang in there Dean. I'm stitching you up best I can," he said with a strained smile. He moved back to his former position so Dean couldn't see him. He could vaguely feel the prick and pull of the needle and thread, but it was too far down the pain scale to really be noticeable. "Once we get you help, they'll have to just take them out to get to the damage inside, but at least this will help keep you from bleeding out," Sam continued from behind him.

Dean knew he was fuzzy, hell he was downright gone for the most part, but he could hear the manic optimism in Sam's tone. He wasn't sure what his little brother was seeing back there, but it couldn't be good because Sam was scared. He was trying to be tough, trying to keep from worrying, but it was clear as day to the big brother that knew him better than anyone.

"You really think we're gonna get help, Sam?" Dean asked quietly, his voice flat with bleak honesty. He didn't want to say it, didn't even want to think it, but even his dulled out mind knew that it was unlikely he would survive the night. He wanted to fight, wanted to stay strong for Sam, but he could feel the weakness crawling over him, draining him of strength and will. His body was giving out. He knew that time was running out for him.

Sam's hand tightened on his shoulder, the movements on his back stopping for just a split second before resuming. "We're only ten miles or so out of cell phone range. We can do that in our sleep! It's going to be fine, Dean," he answered, his voice bright with hope, but Dean could hear the undercurrents of panic.

"Can't walk, Sammy," Dean whispered in defeat. He could barely keep his head raised. He was hardly even aware of anything below his waist, getting up and walking was as likely as flying at this point. His body was shutting itself down, trying to close off the extremities to protect the core, or something like that, he catalogued with clinical detachment. It was clear.

He was dying.

TBC.