A/N - Thank you to all those that have reviewed, followed, favorited and read the story, it means a lot. I hope you enjoy the conclusion!

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

He must have spoken those words out loud because Sam was suddenly in front of him, eyes hard and urgent, lips trembling and tight. Dean couldn't find the strength to lift his head, but he was able to keep eye contact with his brother.

"Don't you give up, Dean. Don't you dare," Sam commanded, his voice deep and harsh. He sounded like Dad in that moment. It sounded like an order, something that Dean always responded to. More than that, though, it sounded like his little brother trying to keep it together even though he was terrified.

Dean never could ignore a scared Sammy.

He knew then that if he died, Sam would blame himself. For whatever reason he could conjure up, he would find some way to turn it around that he could have prevented Dean's injury, his death. He had already lost so much; Jess then Dad. He couldn't take another hit when he was still reeling from those tragedies. Dean knew Sam could live without him, he'd done it for four years, but not now, not when he was so fragile. Dying was not an option. Not when his brother was so damaged and might follow him.

He had to protect his brother.

With a smile, Dean nodded slightly. "K, Sammy. No giving up," he said softly, praying to whomever would listen that he wasn't lying, that somehow he could will himself to stay alive long enough to get help. Even with his body telling him that it was done. Peace out, he was on his own, it seemed to say with every weak beat of his heart, every stuttering breath.

Sam responded to that reassurance with a shaky smile of his own, the tears welling up in his eyes spilling over to trail down his pale cheeks. He lightly patted Dean's shoulder in confirmation, then swung back around to continue tending his injuries. The stitching of his torn flesh resumed, that comforting arm still supporting his weight.

Time ceased to have meaning for Dean. He was in a hazy world of pain and exhaustion that faded in and out as he lost and regained consciousness. When he was aware, Dean could only focus on breathing, trying to push air into lungs that were choking on blood. The dark spots dancing in front of his eyes kept time with the turning of his stomach from the blood loss. He was resting heavier and heavier on Sam's arm, chin lying slack on his hard forearm. He fought the encroaching darkness as much as he could, trying to keep a steady train of thought in his head to stay occupied and aware. Then he would lose the fight and it would all go away for a few blessed moments. Abruptly, he would come back to confused and panicked awareness, not remembering why he hurt and why he could barely breathe. Recollection would come back quickly when he identified the arm around him, understood that the pricks and pulls on the skin on his back were stitches. Then it would begin again, he would go through the same hellish routine, only breathing was even harder, the battle to stay awake lost faster and faster each time.

He must have truly passed out for an extended period as the next time he came to, he was being dragged backwards through the woods. Bleary eyes noted that his feet were propped up on long branches that ran the length of his legs. His head lolled around on his neck, his eyes squeezing shut as he caught sight of the trees and other vegetation passing him in the opposite direction, the dizzying display pushing his stomach into his throat. After a moment of trying to steady the heaving in his gut, his head rolled to the side, peering out again cautiously.

A glance down at his arms revealed that he was wearing Sam's old ratted brown hoodie. There were branches against his arms, which came up past his head. Hands were wrapped around them, familiar hands. Sam. A burst of clarity broke through the fog in his brain. His brother had built a travois. Such a boy scout.

"Sam?" he called out. He was startled at the sound of his voice. It was weak and hoarse, barely audible even to him. Just that one syllable rumbling out of his throat sent him into another coughing fit, the weakest one yet. His chest barely moved, there was not enough air to fully propel out the liquid in his lungs, so he ended up just breathing it back in again with the next shallow breath. He felt the pull of the stitches at his back as the muscles tightened. It wasn't so painful anymore. It was just dull and aching. He wasn't so far gone that he couldn't identify that as his continuing descent into death, but he was far gone enough not to care that much.

Sam must have been alerted that he was awake from the coughing. He didn't stop the movement of the makeshift sled, but he did slow down slightly. "You're going to be okay Dean. Just hold on. You have to hold on," he called back, panting with effort.

Dean wished he could say more to Sam; congratulate him for his ingenuity in making the travois, make sure he was doing okay, but he couldn't find the strength to speak the words. His voice seemed to have fled him, the threat of coughing up more blood that he couldn't fully expel enough to stop him from trying harder. He had to focus on the now, stay present, stay alive.

He concentrated on the heat of Sam's body at his back, the harsh breathing coming from behind and high above his head.

The warmth of Sam's hoodie that smelled of his brother, the amulet bouncing on his chest as they moved over rocks and branches.

Live.

He repeated it to himself like a mantra, his lips moving silently to form the word. Live. For Sammy.

His vision was starting to blur again, his breathing slowing even more. There was nothing in his head outside of the command he was sending his body, but it wasn't listening. The sensation of pain and tightness and struggle was almost gone. Relief was taking their place. Or maybe it was nothingness.

"Dean!"

The sharp sound of his name stopped his descent and he pulled himself out of the chasm he had been slipping into. He could only offer a weak "Hmmm?" in response. Sam must have eyes in the back of his head.

"You remember when Dad took us camping by that huge lake in Minnesota?" he asked after a lengthy pause, gasping out the words in between breaths. "We thought we were going to get to go fishing. We ended up having to swim laps around that lake for hours as part of our training. Made us sleep outside with only a blanket. I was so mad. I think that was when we decided we hated camping. Remember that, Dean?"

Dean did remember that. He allowed his mind to drift back to that time, eyes fixed on his lap, his chin resting on his chest. He was ten at the time. Sam had been so excited at first until Dad filled them in on the agenda. Then he was sulky and resentful, glaring at Dad and barely responding to Dean's best efforts to break him out of his funk. It was funny how Sam remembered it as an exercise in torture. Dean remembered racing Sammy in the lake, splashing him and dunking him under the water. The joyous sound of Sammy's laughter under the sun. He remembered lying under the stars with his brother snoring beside him, the warm breeze ruffling through his hair, the soft cadence of crickets lulling him to sleep with a smile.

Sure there had been training involved, but it had been one of the best weekends he'd had at the time. One of the last times he actually enjoyed "camping". Dad had taken it easy on them since Sam had still been so young. It got a lot harder after that point.

"I guess that's when I started hating the woods. Haven't had a reason to change my opinion yet," Sam continued, finishing with a weak laugh. He continued to speak, but it was just noise, the words weren't forming in Dean's head anymore.

Dean knew Sam was trying to keep him engaged, get him talking, keep him alive, but he just didn't have it in him. The bouncing of the travois was jolting through his torn body, ripping through the shock that was numbing him with spikes of pain. His breath was limited to shallow gasps that bubbled and crackled in his chest and throat. He felt like he was drowning in hot blood, but was so cold inside. He couldn't get enough air.

He got lost in oblivion again.

"I have the GPS on, hurry.."

Not moving now. Where…?

"…coming Dean, just…"

A warm hand closing over his cheek,

"…eyes. Come on, look at me Dean…"

Firm words, so scared underneath. Sammy?

"….be okay…"

Felt like a lie, didn't feel okay.

"…Dean…"

Leave a message, not here right now.

"….Please…"

Trying. Trying so hard, don't cry Sammy.

Fragments. That's all he could catch before he would drift again. They didn't make sense, he didn't understand why he wasn't following, but he didn't care. He was just trying to reach that voice. To reach Sammy.

Warmth surrounding him. Eyes glimpse Sam's freakishly long arms wrapped around him. Home.

Time to go home.

The beeping noise creeped into the soft edges of his mind, drawing him slowly out of the peaceful darkness. The light shot into his eyes like knives and he scrunched them closed quickly. He tried again, slower, letting the brightness filter in a bit at a time. Hospital. He'd been in enough of them to know that sterile whiteness for what it was at first glance.

His body was light and fuzzy, his limbs heavy, no obvious aches and pains to tell him what was wrong. They clearly had him on some groovy pain meds. There was a cannula in his nose, the rush of cool air not enough to ease the tightness in his chest, the effort he had to put into breathing. His mouth felt like cotton wool, his tongue rasping dryly over parched lips.

"Dean?"

He turned his head to see his brother sitting in a chair beside him, a relieved smile spreading over his face. He leaned forward, hair falling into his eyes.

"Sammy," Dean whispered, "You look like shit." Sam really did. His eyes were ringed with black circles, his skin pale and drawn tightly to his face. It looked like he hadn't slept or showered in a week.

Sam laughed, his hand reaching out to close around Dean's. "Yeah, right back at you. How you feeling?"

Dean started to shrug, feeling a pull in his back that halted the movement. "Not much. Thirsty."

Rising to his feet, Sam moved around the end of the bed to the table at Dean's right. A pitcher with a cup was waiting. Dean followed his movements carefully, seeing the stiffness in his brother's left side. It looked like there was a bulky bandage under his shirt.

He remembered then. The wendigos. The claws. Bastards.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked, trying and failing to add some volume to his voice. Sam was able to hear him regardless.

"Yeah, Dean, I'm fine. A few stitches, nothing major. Here," he said, holding out the cup, moving the straw to Dean's lips.

He thought to grab the cup away, he didn't need his little brother feeding him like an invalid, but his hand wouldn't rise to obey his brain. Damn pain meds. Give him a fifth of liquor, no problem. Two vicodin? He was on his ass, floating on a cloud of helplessness and he was pretty sure vicodin was baby aspirin compared to what they had in his IV.

The cool liquid passed over his lips and tongue like the sweetest nectar, rolling down his aching throat like silk. That was nice. Definitely needed more of that. A few more sips, then Sam was pulling it away. Dean glared up at him to meet Sam's apologetic smile.

"Sorry, Dean, I'm not supposed to give you too much." Sam set the cup back down and then headed back over to the chair to sit down again.

The urge to close his eyes and sleep for at least a month was strong, but Dean shoved it away. He was pretty sure he had slept plenty. Right now, he wanted some answers. "How'd you get me here?" Dean asked. He was trying to remember, but couldn't really get more than a few snippets that didn't really fill in any blanks.

The smile faded from Sam's face and he slumped back in the chair. He was still close enough to take Dean's hand again. Dean registered that it was a total chick move, but it felt good to have the contact and he could blame it on the pain meds if it was ever mentioned again.

"I made a travois out of branches and our clothes and I dragged you until I got enough cell reception to call 911. They air lifted you out," Sam started.

Dean's eyes widened at that. "Air lifted? As in helicopter?" Sam nodded. "Thank God I was out for that." He always maintained that if he was supposed to be in the air flying, then he should be able to sprout wings.

"Uh, you weren't out for all of it, but since you've managed to suppress and deny, I'll not mention any details."

"'Preciate it." Dean mumbled, glad that those memories were gone.

"You coded on the way here. Then three more times in surgery. They didn't have much hope for you." Sam didn't meet his eyes as he said those words in a strangely toneless voice. Instead, they focused on his hand resting on Dean's. The somber and weary lines of his face spoke of what he had gone through during all of that. Dean wished he could take it all away, wished that Sam didn't have to deal with that.

"People always underestimate me, it's these boyish good looks," Dean rasped, trying to get pull Sammy out of those bad memories.

It didn't fully chase away the ghosts, but Sam was at least looking at him again.

"Trust me, you weren't so pretty when they got you in here. Anyway, they fixed up your punctured lung, lacerated liver and put an assload of stitches in. You had a mild infection, but it cleared up pretty quickly," Sam explained.

"How long have I been here?" Dean asked, trying to process the information through his foggier than usual brain.

"A week tomorrow. They said you could probably leave in another week barring any further complications, so we'll plan to sneak you out in a few days."

Silence fell over them for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts. Dean was trying to piece together events, but he simply couldn't remember much past the initial injury. It was too hard to think anyway. His eyes were starting to fall shut again against his will.

"I almost lost you Dean. You can't do that to me again." Sam's words fell into that silence abruptly, but softly, the intensity of the meaning behind them not dimmed by how quietly they were said.

Dean looked over at Sam, seeing the torment that almost bordered on insanity in his eyes. Sam couldn't take another hit, he was saying it clear as day to Dean.

"I won't Sammy," he promised, knowing that it was a promise he was unlikely to keep. Sam knew it too, though. It's not the first time he'd made that same promise lying in a hospital bed.

Sam nodded tightly, visibly swallowing back the tears that were starting to rise up in his throat. He finally released Dean's hand.

"Hey Sammy?" Dean waited until Sam looked at him before continuing, "Thanks for saving my ass, man. I knew those mutant long legs of yours would come in handy one day."

Sam laughed, running a hand through his hair. "Anytime Dean."

Dean was definitely ready to end this lifetime movie of the week they had going here. He needed to sleep and he figured he had about thirty seconds before he lost the fight to keep his eyes open.

"Go get some sleep. And take a shower. I've smelled corpses that were fresher than you. I'll be here," he ordered, his eyes cheating and only giving him fifteen seconds.

On the fringes of sleep, he heard Sam get up. A hand rested on his forehead for a brief moment. "I'll be back soon, okay?" Sam said softly. Dean nodded.

"Oh and Dean?" Sam called from further across the room. This time Dean did drag his eyes back open to stare questioningly at this brother who had stopped by the door. A smile was tilting up one side of his mouth.

"I told you so."

And there it was. Dean would have laughed if he could have worked up the energy. Instead he smiled and settled back into the pillow.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

The Winchester way of saying "I love you".

And that's all folks! Thanks so much for reading!