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Dean was no stranger to death.
Hell, he killed death.
Death was a permanent fixture in his life—it shaped who he was.
It took his mother when he was four. His father at 26. His friends, from the ages of ten till forty, all of them at different stages of his life. Not even a month ago it had taken Castiel, the closest friend he’s ever had.
Dean himself had died about a hundred times as is.
He was no stranger to death.
…
He found himself thinking about it more often than he’d like to admit. He thought about the deaths he’d caused, the deaths of his friends, his own deaths. Late at night, he wondered when it would finally stick—what would it take to finally finish him off?
He always thought he’d die in battle; taken down by a demon, the teeth of a vampire—God’s hand himself.
It never occurred to him that he could die from something natural. That had never been apart of the equation.
It seemed… unnatural.
He was human—he knew that—and just like any other human he could die from a heart attack, a stroke, an aneurysm. He could die from electrocution, drowning, suffocation. He wasn’t invincible, and yet… he never considered it an option.
So much of his life was surrounded by the supernatural that the very notion of a natural death seemed… irrational.
So of course, it was just his luck that a stupid piece of rebar would be the thing to finish him off.
The pain was white-hot at first—a wave of agony bursting through his spine. It licked its way up the bones, sending sparks throughout his chest. He’d never forget the sound of his skin tearing, muscles ripping apart to make room for the rusty metal.
Dean gasped, his eyes widening at the sudden intrusion. The machete dropped from his hand, clattering loudly on the floor. That same hand came to rest on his chest like he could feel the metal inside of him from the outside—like it would help at all.
It wasn’t a monster, a demon, an angel. It wasn’t even god.
No, it was some stupid piece of fucking steel that decided Dean’s back was it’s new home.
He tried to laugh at the absurdity of the situation—because of course this is how it would end, why should he have expected any different?—except the sound was distorted, choked off. It came out as a gurgle, the taste of blood prominent on his tongue. Metallic. Wet. He’d been stabbed before, he’d been electrocuted—but nothing compared to this. This… burning presence of a foreign object nestled in his flesh. The pain. The blood coming up his throat, thick and hot.
After what felt like hours, but was probably only a few seconds, he heard his brothers voice. Sam sounded panicked, his voice high pitched and terrified. He said his name the same way he had when they were kids. Back when things were simple, back when his only fear was the monsters under his bed.
He was ripped out of his thoughts by shaking hands on his sides, his face, his shoulders. He opened his eyes (when had they closed?) giving his brother a crooked smile, crimson blood staining his teeth. Even when faced with death, his first instinct was to act like he was okay for the sake of his brother.
“Dean?” Sam whispered, hazel eyes darting across Dean’s face like he was some puzzle he just needed to figure out. He had one hand resting on his shoulder, the other cupping his face, absentmindedly stroking his cheek with his thumb. “You’re okay. You’re—you’re going to be fine.“
His voice was small. Unsure. Dean wanted to hold him. He should be the one comforting Sam—not the other way around. He was the older brother. This was his job for christ sakes.
Dean opened his mouth to say something—all that came out was a pathetic noise (eerily similar to a whine, much to his embarrassment) accompanied by more blood dribbling down his chin. He watched Sam’s face drop, his eyes widening in fear before he was talking again, fast and quiet.
“Oh fuck—shit, okay—Dean? Just stay with me. You’re gonna be fine. Just—hold on, I’m gonna fix this. I’m—“
His hands moved while he spoke, pressing against his chest, his sides. His head was spinning and the pain spiked with every touch of Sam’s hands—god, he was so sick of the pain.
Despite the situation, despite the agony coursing through his veins, Dean appreciated his brothers care. A small part of him felt comforted by the touch—though he’d never admit it out loud.
That was his brother. Always trying to fix what couldn’t be fixed.
Dean tried to speak once more but no sound came out, instead his face twisted into a grimace. He sucked in a sharp breath, the lava like pain shooting through his chest in an instant. It lasted a few seconds before it slowly faded away, replaced instead with a strange warmth and peace.
He’d seen enough death to know what that meant. The pain vanishing, your body warming up. He knew it all to well—he’d seen it happen to too many people.
He wasn’t ready to die.
…
Fuck.
He was going to die, wasn’t he?
He was going to die to some stupid fucking rebar in the middle of nowhere in a stupid fucking barn of all places.
He could vaguely make out the sound of Sam’s voice—distant, garbled, like Dean was being held underwater. His ears were ringing, his vision graying around the edges. The rebar felt heavy sitting next to his spine, but he knew that it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Ironic.
He managed to lift his free hand, plopping it down onto his brothers shoulder. He went for a smile, close lipped—he didn’t want his brother to see anymore of his blood soaked mouth, this was scary enough as is.
Sam looked frantic in front of him. His eyes wet with tears, still babbling something Dean couldn’t make out. In those few moments of peaceful clarity his brain replayed every memory. Every time he stole food to keep them fed, every hunt, every salt ‘n burn, every argument. Every time he lashed out because he couldn’t handle his own anger. He remembered the quiet moments between gigs, the laughter, the jokes, the pie. He remembered talks over beer, long drives at odd hours of the morning, blaring music that one of them hated while the other screamed their heart out. He remembered the bickering, the playful roughhousing, carrying each other down the street piss drunk, the pranks, the misunderstandings that always ended with Dean’s quiet amusement or a snort.
He remembered the first time Sam died, stabbed in the back, bleeding out in his arms.
Some delirious part of his brain found it funny, noting how similar it was to right now. Only, instead of Sam dying in Deans arms, Dean was dying in Sams.
Somehow, maybe by some miracle, he was able to muster out a small. “Sammy.”
It wasn’t enough. He wanted to say so much more, but the violent coughs racking his frame made it impossible. He hoped Sam understood—that his apology and gratitude made it through.
He wasn’t ready to die.
(The blood in his mouth said otherwise.)
He had too much to live for. He just got over Cas, he had his dog, they were finally at peace—
His vision went dark and the last thing Dean heard was his brothers desperate yelling, begging him to stay awake.
————————————————————
For the next few hours, Dean found himself drifting in and out of consciousness.
He frequently woke up screaming, panting, begging to die. The pain coursing through his body was so overwhelming that it was the only thing he could feel, the only thing he could think about. He woke up to the sensation of a needle piecing his flesh and he let out a broken whimper, scrambling for purchase at the leather underneath him. He woke up to the touch of Sam’s hand on his forehead, his eyes cracking open briefly, glassy and bloodshot, before he once again succumbed to the darkness.
When he woke up for good, it was in the back seat of the Impala. He was laid out on the seats, his clothes soaked with crimson and sticky on his skin. His eyebrows pinched together at the mere thought of the upholstery underneath him staining with his blood. It would take ages to get out, if he managed to do it—he’d probably need a ridiculous amount of peroxide, that’s for sure.
He blinked, breathing harshly through his nose. It smelt awful—the air was metallic and coppery, salty from the sweat. It invaded his sinuses, the acidic after burn making his nose wrinkle. Even if the smell was familiar, even if it smelled like every bad hunt combined into one, it made him nauseous.
That was his blood, after all.
He managed to crack open his eyes, glancing around the dark cabin. The first thing he noticed was the trees blurring through the window, faster than he expected. Brief flashes of light invaded the car every time they drove by a street-light, lighting up his shoes and the bottom half of his pants.
It was late, how late, he couldn’t be sure, but it was late enough that the world was quiet. The only thing he could hear was the steady thrum of the Impala’s engine and his own laboured breathing.
He was alive.
Barely.
The next thing he registered was that everything hurt. His chest, his side, his arms—everything. His lungs burned with every breath, shallow and cruel, often spasming like they didn’t know how to function anymore. His head throbbed, he felt hot, and his body felt like it had been filled with sand. He wasn’t sure he could move even if he tried.
He shifted quietly but the movement sent a sharp pain radiating through his chest. He groaned at the feeling, tilting his head back onto the leather while the sensation dulled to a slight throb. He cracked his eyes open again, licking his blood stained lips.
”Sam?”
His voice was quiet, raspy and hoarse. Likely from the screaming. For a second he thought Sam didn’t hear him and he shifted again, trying to pull himself into a sitting position. He very quickly realized that was a dumb idea and he let out another frustrated groan, balling his hand into a tight fist while his body dropped back onto the leather seats.
“Dean?”
That was Sam’s voice, quiet but tight with fear. He could hear the apprehension, the hesitant hope lacing that one word. His eyes darted to the rearview mirror, tilting down, and Dean caught a glimpse of his brother’s pale, drawn face.
“Hey—fuck, hey, you’re awake.” His voice, like Dean’s, was raspy. He didn’t have to be a genius to figure out why. “Jesus, man, you scared the hell outta me.” His little brother’s voice cracked partway through ‘hell’ and Dean held back a fond smile. Sometimes he forgot Sam was four years younger, but sometimes, during times like these, it was strikingly apparent.
Even if he felt sappy, he couldn’t show it. He almost died, after all. So of course he tried to give him a cocky smirk—it came out more like a grimace. “You…” he paused, coughing. “You look like crap.”
Sam laughed, but the sound was hollow. Tired. He gave Dean a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and he watched his younger brother’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. “You’re one to talk.”
Dean laughed. A short, choppy sound that left him wheezing in pain. His vision blurred, doubling with a harsh wheeze from his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment, opening them once he felt the pain had died down to a reasonable level.
They sat in silence for a moment and Dean tried to remember exactly why he was here. He knew he was hurt—that much was obvious—but the how, what and when were much too fuzzy for his liking. So of course, he asked the question he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer too: “What happened?”
Sam sucked in a breath, his knuckles tightening on the steering wheel. The air was tense for a brief second before Sam let out a sigh, relaxing ever so slightly.
“You got impaled.” He said, clenching his jaw for a brief moment. “I pulled you off the rebar. Got you stitched up. You’re lucky it missed your heart.” He sounded sad, traumatized. Dean winced at the imagery, letting out a small hiss of pain. He couldn’t imagine…
Sam locked eyes with him in the rearview, his face was stone cold serious. ”It missed everything vital by inches, Dean.”
“Inches,” he whispered, parroting what his brother said. He looked away from the mirror, letting his eyes land on the car roof while he sat with that information for a good second. Then he let out a quiet laugh—figures. He was always flirting with death but he couldn’t seem to die, no matter what he did.
Sam’s voice cut off his train of thought, tight with.. something Dean couldn’t place. “You passed out, I—.. I thought you died.” His voice trailed off, the quiet admission felt heavy, suffocating. “I couldn’t get you to a hospital, not in time. I did what I could.” Sam’s voice broke with anger—at himself, most likely. He was a perfectionist in every sense of the word, even if he had saved his brother’s life, it would be like him to hate himself for not doing it ‘right’.
Dean opened his mouth to say something but was once again cut off by his brother. “I didn’t know if you’d make it.”
He felt his heart break right then and there.
”God, Sammy, I—“ Dean shifted, trying to angle himself in a way that wouldn’t strain his neck trying to look at his brother and failed miserably. Fire laced through his ribs, sudden, hot and all encompassing. Dean bit back a scream, biting his lip harshly as he fell back into his original position.
This was really starting to piss him off.
“Don’t move,” Sam said quickly, unaware of Dean’s internal frustration. “You lost a lot of blood—I don’t want you to pull your stitches.”
Dean hummed quietly in agreement. Clearly, moving wasn’t working out for him, he may as well quit while he was ahead.
”I gave you some painkillers earlier, I bet they’re wearing off.”
He briefly wondered how exactly his brother gave him the painkillers before he remembered the numerous creams he carried around with him. Wow. Dean always called him a nerd for it.. oh, how the tables have turned.
He quietly muttered a “Thanks, Sammy.” Closing his eyes. Even if all he could see was the darkness behind his eyelids, he could still feel his brothers eyes on him, always checking to make sure he was there.
Dean hated it.
He hated feeling weak, being helpless. He hated being wrong. Most of all, he hated the way Sam kept glancing back at him, like Dean might up and vanish if he looked away for too long. He understood that his brother was worried—but come on, he’s fine.
Once again, silence stretched between then. This time less tense, or maybe Dean was too preoccupied with the pain to notice any of it this time around.
About a minute later they hit a nasty bump in the road and Dean winced, letting out a low hiss while he curled an arm around his chest. God, they’d been driving for forever. They couldn’t be that far from the bunker, could they?
He swallowed, cracking his eyes open. “How long?”
“Couple hours since the barn, couple more to go. We should be back around 1.”
Dean licked his lips again (god, he was so thirsty) grimacing once more at the dried up blood. He was sure Sam had cleaned off his face, but it was clear to him that his lips weren’t important enough. “Feels like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
“Yeah, well, getting stabbed will do that to a guy.”
For the umpteenth time, silence stretched between them. Well, it was silent except for the sound of the Impala. The low hum of her engine singing a familiar song, the occasional crunching of rocks beneath her tires, it was familiar. Comforting.
Of course, since Dean had a streak going, he was the one to interrupt the quiet. “Thought I was a goner, man.”
Sam swallowed audibly, if Dean looked over he’d see the helpless expression plastered onto his face before it was covered by neutrality and thinly veiled concern. “Me too.”
“I was ready. Thought—y’know, I’d go out fighting. Not like that.”
“I know.” Sam’s voice was barely a whisper. Dean turned to look at his brother, his eyes glanced over the narrowed eyes and tight lips, landing instead on his brother’s grip of the steering wheel. At this point, it was starting to concern Dean. Sam’s knuckles were white and he was pretty sure he was shaking with how tightly he held on to the leather.
“That’s why I didn’t let you.”
Dean let his head roll back, blinking up at the ceiling. His chest felt warm, but not from the pain. A small smile stretched across his face, eyes crinkling with a fondness he couldn’t express. “You saved me.”
Sam didn’t respond right away, wether it was the embarrassment or something else, Dean didn’t know. Eventually his voice broke through the silence, quiet and full of pain. “I couldn’t lose you like that. Not to some piece of rebar and bad luck.”
Dean grunted in return, willing himself to move on from the sappy feelings. He’d blame it on the painkillers if Sam brought this up again. “Yeah, well… thanks.”
They fell into a quiet again, only this time it was comfortable, calming. Sam absentmindedly tapped a beat on the steering wheel, occasionally glancing back at Dean, though it wasn’t anywhere near as frequent as before.
Dean found himself drifting in and out of consciousness. Every time he surfaced, Sam was still there—asking if he was alright, tossing him a bottle of painkillers, some water. He was always looking back with eyes full of love and a scary amount of worry.
Dean wasn’t sure how he felt about if.
He still hated feeling helpless, weak—absolutely despised being dependant on others. But being cared for… taken care of without the fear of it being held over his head… it was something he hadn’t felt in a good long while.
At some point, maybe an hour or so later, Dean rasped out, “You sure this isn’t a dream?”
Sam glanced back at him with an expression full of mirth, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Pretty sure. You’re breathing too damn loudly to be a hallucination.”
Dean tried to chuckle. It hurt like hell and came out sounding more like a strangled fish. “Bitch.”
Sam snorted. “Jerk.”
”Jackass—“
”Okay, you know what.” Sam snapped playfully, looking back at Dean with a raised eyebrow. “I think it would be more beneficial for you to get some sleep, asshole.”
Dean grinned at that, letting out an airy laugh that really just felt like a glorified sigh. “Sure, sure. Whatever you say, dickhead.”
Dean let his eyes fall shut, the grin he’d plastered to his face stayed put until he finally conked out a few minutes later. Once Sam was sure Dean was asleep, he glanced back at his brother with a small smile and watery eyes.
“Welcome back, man.”