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Sam shudders. It won’t be long now. Dean’s holding him. Sam’s position has slipped, but it feels right to be cradled against Dean’s shoulder, looking up at Dean’s jaw. Feels familiar. One of Dean’s hands absentmindedly cards fingers through Sam’s hair, even though it’s crusty with blood.
“Dean,” Sam coughs, and Dean looks down at him. The look on Dean’s face catches in Sam’s throat and he feels the corners of his eyes burn, feels a newfound urgency. He only has so much time left. He has to make use of it. “Dean, I love you.”
The fear and the worry and the misery and the anger that crowd the crow’s feet on Dean’s weathered face disappear. He smiles down at Sam and there’s only love there. He shifts, holding Sam a little tighter. “I know. I love you, too, Sammy.”
“No, I…” Sam’s words catch on another cough. He’s feeling a little lightheaded. He peers up at Dean, face heated with shame, but he feels lighter with what he’s about to say. Dean needs to know. It’s the final secret Sam’s been keeping in his heart. “No, I…”
He can’t say it.
“I know,” Dean whispers.
Sam shakes his head. It makes his vision swim. He gets a hand in the material of Dean’s shirt and holds tight. “No, you don’t know,” Sam tries. He should be able to say it, just this once, but he can’t.
“I know, sweetheart,” Dean says, and he pulls Sam into a hug and Sam dimly registers that something hurts deep inside him. He leans into the hug with the little strength he has left and dimly registers Dean kissing his forehead. “Me, too.”
Sam’s heart skips a beat. He doesn’t know what to say. There’s no time. There’s no time for them. But there could’ve been. So many moments that could have become real. His eyes scrunch up and he buries his tears in Dean’s chest. Lets out a sob that burns in his lungs. Dean presses their bodies closer together.
“Hey, shh,” Dean coos. “It’s okay. I’m here, I gotcha. Just rest, okay, Sammy? You can rest.”
Sam lets Dean’s comfort wash over him. The fight leaves him. He floats, then, just feeling Dean hold him, maybe hearing Dean sing to him, but that could be his imagination.
He can feel it coming now. He sags in Dean’s arms, growing heavy, his hand falling into his lap, and Dean only adjusts his grip, keeping him safe. “It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean chokes out, pressing his lips to the crown of Sam’s head.
Sam doesn’t hear anything after that. Loses most of his sense of feeling right after, until all that’s left is the scent of Dean, the feeling of Dean, an intangible, powerful thing that carries him upward.
He knows that wherever he goes next, Dean will be there. Dean will follow.
And, maybe, in the next world, they’ll stand a chance.
He lets go.