Dean had had many sleepless nights before. But they were nothing compared to this.

Leaning forward in the hard, plastic visitors' chair, hands clasped before him, Dean watched as his brother breathed, terrified that each breath he took would be his last.

The hospital room was cold, sterile, and austere. Starched white blankets were drawn up to just beneath the youngest Winchester's chin to help keep him warm, a heart monitor pinged steadily, a mask covered Sam's mouth and nose, giving him the much needed oxygen that his damaged lungs simply could not absorb any longer.

Gingerly, almost as though he were afraid to, Dean reached out and wrapped his fingers around his brother's chilly, thin hand. The hand, which had once been so strong, confident and full of life, was now a shadow of its former self, as was the man it belonged to.

Sam's skin was stretched taut, thin as parchment, pale; Dean could see every vein, could make out the curve of every bone. His brother's eyes had sunken into their sockets, the lids purple and bruised looking. If Sam did open his eyes- something he rarely did anymore, they were dull, darkened by pain that the strongest drugs barely touched.

Sam never complained though, and it would seem to the casual observer that he was not suffering at all.

But Dean knew better. He knew in the way his brother would tighten his grip on his fingers, knew it in the way that Sam trembled, knew it in the way he spoke his older brother's name that he was in agony.

Something prevented the younger Winchester from crying or even screaming in pain from the disease ravaging his body. The doctors and nurses told Dean that he was just too weak to react like that. But Dean wondered if, somewhere deep in Sam's dying brain, the hell he was suffering through now had triggered a hell of a different kind and his brother refused to show how much he was hurting.

Out of habit, Dean raised his free hand to brush his brother's hair back from his face only to touch cool skin. Sam's hair had fallen out months ago when the doctors told him a few rounds of aggressive chemotherapy would help slow- but not stop- the cancer.

Dean still didn't understand it. Sam had never been a smoker, regularly exercised, was practically a vegetarian and still he got cancer. The doctors hadn't been much help in explaining why his brother had gotten sick, mentioning something about exposure to second-hand smoke or having a family history of the disease, really didn't convince the elder hunter.

Sam suddenly gasped, coughing, his back arching from the force of it.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean murmured, "It's okay, it's okay."

Drops of crimson splattered the inside of the oxygen mask and Sam settled again.

Dean sighed and rubbed his thumb across his brother's knuckles.

Yes, he had had many sleepless nights before but this… this was the worst. If he thought he could sell his soul to save his brother again, he would do so in a heartbeat. But, who was he kidding, that wasn't going to happen again. All he could do was wait and comfort his dying sibling and keep from falling apart, not do anything stupid and maybe, just maybe he would see Sam again one day.

Closing his eyes, Dean squeezed his brother's hand gently.

"You sons of bitches got that up there? I will see Sam again. If I have to crawl up there tooth and nail I will. You aren't gonna stop me."

Opening his eyes, he peered down at his brother.

"You hear me, Sammy? You wait for me, okay? It might take a while but I'll meet you up there."

Dean smiled, feeling his eyes sting, leaned forward and kissed his brother's forehead for the last time.

Author's Note:

Story title comes from a song by the band Memphis May Fire.

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