The world ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper. – T.S. Elliot

When Sam was eighteen, the world was so vast and open to him that some days it scared him shitless at the same time that it excited every cell in his body.

His father still made him hunt. Dean still secretly babied him and tried to calm their fights. Sam just counted down the days until he could leave for college. He dutifully researched for hunts and did his homework, and Dean followed John's every order and picked up some of Sam's hunting responsibilities when he had a little more homework even though John explicitly told him not to. It was as close to rebellion as Dean would get, and Sam appreciated it.

It was just a run-of-the-mill vengeful spirit. It was cut and dry. Simple. Easy. Not even a three-man job. Salt and burn and go home. Until it wasn't. John didn't expect it to attack Sammy because it had only attacked older men before. Sam didn't expect it to knock his gun away before he could fire it. Dean didn't expect it to hurt this much, although he knew he probably should have anticipated it. As the spirit moved towards the now-unarmed, youngest Winchester, Dean didn't even hesitate. He never hesitated when it came to Sammy. He felt the ghost's pitchfork enter the soft flesh of his stomach, his skin and muscles burning as the object punctured him, and a gunshot sounded soon after, removing the ghost and his weapon. He heard Sam yell, heard the whoosh of the fire as it claimed the grave and tore the spirit away from them, felt the soft, damp grass underneath of him as he collapsed. His heart pounded painfully in his chest, blood soaking through his t-shirt and jacket. He could hear Sam talking, but couldn't make out the words. A cough ripped itself from his chest, and blood bubbled past his lips. He knew there was internal damage, knew this was it, and only regretted that Sam had to see him fall. Someone was shaking him, lifting him, carrying him, but he was so tired. His eyes fell shut and he couldn't bring himself to open them again until someone roughly shook him again. He recognized the backseat of the Impala, and his hand tightly grasped Sam's.

"Love…you," he rasped, knowing he had to get the words out, had to tell Sam because God only knew how many times any of them had actually heard each other say the words. His vision was blurring at the edges as time both stopped and whirled rapidly around him. "Be…good…don't…fight…." He struggled to pull in air, ignoring the tears streaming down his face. "Leave…hunting," he whispered, the words more of a plea than anything else.

"Don't, Dean, no, stay with me," Sam sobbed, "stay with me, we're almost to the hospital. Hold on, you'll be okay, please, Dean. Don't leave me," Sam begged, "you promised you would never leave me."

Dean felt himself fading, so he mustered one last smile, reaching a shaking hand up to cup Sam's cheek and wipe away the tears flooding from his little brother's eyes.

"Goodnight, Sammy," he whispered, his body shuddering one time before going still just as they reached the hospital. The doctors pronounced him dead on arrival. One was kind enough to explain to them that there was just too much internal damage to even attempt to resuscitate him as it would likely have done more harm than good.

When Sam was eighteen, his world died in his arms, and he would have done and given anything to change it.

I'm feeling rather wicked today, so I'll just leave this here. I'm not done though, I promise this won't be this sad all the time, but I couldn't resist if for today.