SAM
He doesn't register much, but this he knows instinctively—Dean was there, and now he isn't. Does he have to die here without his brother? That's just not fair. Dean told him he had to fight—he knows that—but it's getting harder. He can feel the darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision, slowly but surely, inch by inch. Only there's no light at the end of this tunnel.
Maybe you don't deserve the light, a voice inside his head whispers. Keep hoping you'll deserve some peace at least.
He hears Castiel's voice, but can't quite grasp its meaning. He might have said something back, but he's not sure if his lips even moved. Then there's a feeling of… something good, soothing, and the pain in his body subsides a little.
He falls asleep.
DEAN
It's almost morning when he and Bobby finally assemble and revive the engine. "I'll gather everyone and get the weapons," Bobby decides. "You have your part to do." Dean gives Bobby a nod and strides away. He walks briskly—time is not on their side. Not on Sam's side.
"We're ready," he informs his mother, crossing the cabin's doorway. "We'll pack everybody onto the bus and drive to the rift. We have to load Sam first."
"Dean," Mary whispers, calmly and quietly. "I'm not sure we should do that."
"What?" Dean understands, but doesn't want to understand.
"Dean…" Mary's voice is soft, loving. She realizes she hasn't used that tone in this life, only in her first lifetime, when her kids were actually kids. "I don't think Sam has that much time. I think we should stay with him here."
Dean's face twists into a grimace of denial, guilt, and frustration.
"Stop," he growls at her. "Don't talk like that. He's going to be okay."
"Dean…"
"Castiel!" he hollers, ignoring her. "Man, we need you here!"
Fear for Sam's life is his most powerful instinct. It makes his breathing rapid, his insides melt, but he's fighting—fighting like a madman. He's going to save him, even if it's the last thing he does.
Cass arrives on foot, not wings. He probably doesn't want to draw Michael's angels' attention. "Dean?" the angel asks, looking around the cabin, searching for any threat.
"Do something!" Dean begs, pointing at Sam. "Please. Please."
Cass glances at the wounded Winchester once, and his shoulders slump in resignation and hopelessness. Still, he puts two fingers on Sam's forehead, and his eyes light up with a bluish glow.
It doesn't last long.
"I couldn't do much," Cass admits, withdrawing his hand. "I'm not at full strength. I gave him what I could."
"Thank you," Dean gasps, releasing the breath he was holding. "C'mon, help me carry him to the bus."
Together, they lift Sam in a "hammock" made from his bedsheets. They try to jostle him as little as possible, but Sam is long, heavy, and lifeless, which makes the task even more challenging.
Finally, they lay him down carefully at the back of the bus, where Dean checks his pulse and breathing, then places a rolled-up blanket under his head as a pillow.
"You did great, Sammy," he praises his unconscious brother. "I told you I had a plan, didn't I? Just hold on a little longer, and it'll be over soon."
When the rest of the refugees are safe on the bus, he delegates Maggie to look after Sam. Mary covers the back with a shotgun while he holds the front with a rifle. Bobby is driving. The engine roars to life, and the bus starts rolling forward.
SAM
He doesn't know how long he has slept. Minutes? Days? There's no way to tell. He feels jostled, disturbed. There's nothing solid under his back, no stable surface beneath him. Is he flying? Maybe he's dead, maybe he perished in that cabin, in this God-forsaken world, without Dean there to tell him it's okay.
A few more sudden, jarring, and painful bumps, and he lands on a flat, hard surface. He probably isn't dead. Being dead doesn't hurt this much.
And most importantly, why are someone else's hands wiping the sweat from his forehead, and not Dean's?
DEAN
There is Lucifer at the rift, waiting for them.
Damn you, Rowena.
Gabriel makes the ultimate sacrifice.
The rift closes before the devil can jump in.
They won.
MAGGIE
After the jump, Sam's heart stops.
Chaos erupts—people are crying, hugging, kissing the ground in relief. Dean is performing CPR on his brother, and Maggie can hear Sam's ribs cracking. The sound churns her stomach, making her nauseous.
Please, can someone tell me what to do now?
DEAN
There's only the rhythm of his hands—the rise and fall of the chest beneath them. The whole world has narrowed down to this: cycling through the steps—compressions, breaths, checking for signs of life. 1, 2, 3… 20, 21, 22… 30. He's pushing with all his upper body weight, feeling Sam's ribs crack under the pressure, but he knows it's expected. Now for the breaths. He pinches Sam's nose, seals his mouth over his, and gives two breaths. Nothing. Sam's chest doesn't rise. Another two breaths. Back to compressions. Sweat beads on his forehead, his arms are burning, but he doesn't slow down. …27, 28, 29, 30. Seconds stretch into hours, each push of his hands feeling like he's forcing time forward.
"C'mon!" Dean gasps. "C'mon, damn it!"
The cycle repeats, and finally, Sam's pulse is back. His face isn't blue anymore. Dean and Castiel carry him outside while Mary frantically calls for an ambulance.
The paramedics won't let him ride with Sam. One of them explains they need space to work on his brother, but Dean is panicking, tempted to kick his way into the ambulance. Mary and Cass hold him back.
The rear doors close, and as the ambulance pulls away, Dean's knees buckle. He collapses onto the cold, wet asphalt. Cass stays beside him, lips moving, but Dean can't hear a word. All he can do is stare blankly in the direction the ambulance disappeared.
Mary returns with a flask of whiskey and thrusts it into his hand.
"Dean, I know it's hard, but you have to pull yourself together," she says firmly. "We need to go. I'm driving."
"I… I had to… resuscitate him, Mom," he mumbles. "My little brother…"
"I know," Mary interrupts, her voice steady but strained. "But we have to stay strong. We need to be there for Sam. Now, drink." She gestures to the flask.
The alcohol burns his throat, but it helps.
Cass offers his hand, pulling Dean to his feet.
"Take care of these people, Castiel," Mary instructs the angel as she climbs behind the wheel of the Impala. "We'll call you as soon as we know something."
Dean slides into the passenger seat, his head a little clearer, thanks to the whiskey. Mary drives fast, and twenty minutes later, they pull into the hospital parking lot.
MARY
At first, they can't learn much about Sam's condition, only that he made it to the hospital alive. Two agonizing hours in the family waiting room pass before someone calls their names. Fake names, of course.
A large, middle-aged man with a piercing gaze introduces himself as Dr. Eric Coleman, Sam's ICU physician.
"Mrs. and Mr. Fitzmartin, I won't sugarcoat this—Sam's condition is extremely critical," he says. "We're doing everything we can, but I'm very concerned. From what we can tell, he's in full-blown septic shock and showing signs of multiple organ failure. We'll know more once the lab results come in. We've started powerful, broad-spectrum antibiotics and stabilized his vitals with life support and blood transfusions, but I have to be honest—it doesn't look optimistic."
Mary nods to show she understands. Dean, however, remains motionless, his knuckles white as he clenches his fists.
"What about…" Mary clears her throat. "What about the injury?"
"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," the doctor says, sidestepping the question. "I can take you to see him now, but be prepared—he's in a medically induced coma and has a breathing tube."
Mary nods again, and they rise to follow. She and Dean walk a step behind the doctor through sterile hallways and doors, until they reach the ICU. Dr. Coleman opens the doors with his ID card, and they enter.
Mary had been in ICUs before—anyone living a hunter's life had—but it still chills her to the bone. The stark, sterile atmosphere, the sharp scent of antiseptic, the otherworldly quiet. The doctor leads them past rooms with glass walls, the air filled with the soft beeping of machines. Here, even the smallest infection is an enemy.
She tries not to look at the patients—pale faces, tubes snaking around their bodies, machines doing the work of feeding, breathing, keeping them alive. The constant rhythm of beeping reminds her that time in this place isn't measured in hours but in heartbeats and oxygen levels.
Each bed is surrounded by a forest of equipment—monitors flashing vital signs, IV poles dripping medication, ventilators breathing with cold precision. It seems impossible, but her strong, Rambo-like trained son lies in one of those beds, with these snake-tubes connected everywhere, throttled with a breathing port in his mouth and surrounded by an army of machines, collection bags and IV's.
They stop at the bed in the corner.
There he is.
A nurse brings them two folding chairs.
It's worse than I thought.
"Visiting hours are limited," the nurse whispers. "From 3 p.m. to 6 p.m., with a thirty-minute maximum. After that, you'll have to leave."
"What?" Dean snaps out of his daze, disbelief in his voice. "No, he's my brother—I have to stay with him!"
„Please keep your voice down, sir," the nurse says gently but firmly. "I'm sorry, but those are the rules."
"It's okay, Jenna," Dr. Coleman interjects. "Let one of them stay tonight." He turns to Dean and Mary. "Gloves and masks are mandatory at all times. If you're asked to step back, you step back. If you're asked to leave, you leave. Do we understand each other?"
They nod in unison. "I'll leave you to it, then," the doctor says, walking away with heavy but quick steps.
Mary sinks into the plastic chair and motions for Dean to do the same, but he remains standing, frozen in place.
Sam's eyes are closed, his eyelids slightly sunken as if lost in a place no one can reach. His lips, cracked and dry, barely move with each breath the ventilator forces into his lungs. Bruises from IVs and injections dot his arms, purple and blue against his pale skin—a quiet testament to the battle his body is waging.
It's bad. Really, really bad.
To be honest, Dean doesn't look much better. His eyes are dull, rimmed with red, dark shadows carved under them, giving him the appearance of someone utterly drained. His gaze is distant, lost in worst-case scenarios looping endlessly in his mind.
What are we going to do if Sam doesn't make it out of this?
And what if he does?
"I should probably give Castiel a call," Mary says instead, stepping away from the chair. "Will you be okay?"
"What?" Dean mumbles, completely lost.
"Will you be okay alone here?" she repeats, forcing Dean to look her in the eye. "I don't know if the nurse will allow me to come back. I need to know that you can manage."
"Yeah, I'll manage," Dean declares, bracing himself. "I'll take care of him. You can go, Mom."
She leaves her phone number at the nurse's station and walks out of the galaxy known as the ICU.