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Sam died in the morning, more or less. Hours had long ago blended into a mess of days, sunrises bleeding into sunsets. Dean knew, at least, that Sam hadn’t died in the evening. When the attending physician had called the time of death, they’d ended it with A.M.
And that was that. The doctors had pulled the breathing tube out of Sam’s throat and wheeled away his monitor. They’d taken the IV out of his arm and peeled the heart monitor leads off his chest. They’d left his body in the bed so Dean could say—so he could say—
Sam’s lying with his eyes closed like he’s pretending to sleep. Any second, any second now he’ll leap up and scare the shit out of Dean, beaming bright enough to rival the stars, a laugh rolling from his lips, I got you good, Dean! I got you good!
(But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.)
Dean sits in an armless vinyl chair next to the bed, his eyes fixed on a cracked piece of tile on the ground. For the past month, he’s assumed this exact position in this exact chair, staring at this exact tile. His only constants. Those, and the rising and falling of Sam’s chest.
He looks at his hands. Is that Sam’s blood under his fingernails? No. It can’t be. When the doctors had first rushed Sam back for surgery, Dean had scrubbed his hands for hours, his brother’s blood dripping down his skin and swirling with the water in the restroom sink. No matter how much soap he'd used, or how raw his hands had become from his efforts, he could still feel Sam's blood rotting deep within his pores.
(Even though it's been a month, he can still feel it festering.)
He looks back at the cracked tile. Sam is lying primly—a doctor had folded his hands across his stomach. It's as if Sam is holding his breath in expectation. Should Dean say something? He is unsure.
Sam had never been unsure. When Dean had been dying after the car accident, Sam had found a Ouija board. Smart kid. Dean had tried the same thing a week ago. After the nurses had finished their nightly rounds, Dean had laid the board on the cracked tile, rested his hands on the pointer, and waited. When the sun had started to throw beams across Sam's still face, Dean had packed up the board and pointer and stared at Sam’s rising and falling chest. He'd had no more ideas left to try.
(I'm so sorry, Sammy.)
Dean wipes his palms on his jeans and finally convinces himself to look squarely at his brother. A somewhat bothered expression is splashed across Sam’s face, his eyebrows quirked like he, too, can’t quite believe that he’s just died. His legs are so long that his feet nearly dangle off the end of the bed. One of the nurses had trimmed his hair two weeks ago, but it’s still long as ever.
A hoarse apology tries to claw out of Dean's throat. He swallows it.
(What good would it do now?)
Dean stands up and reaches a hand toward Sam. His fingers brush against his brother’s still chest, and suddenly he is on the ground, his body crumpled in half. Desperate, horrible sobs breach his lips, and his hands rip at his hair and his face and his shirt, and his brother's chest isn't rising and falling anymore, and it’s all Dean’s fault, it’s all his fault.
But there is nothing he can do, and there is even less he can say.