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The first thing he became aware of, was the smell. The clean, steril smell that surprised him so much because it wasn’t what he was expecting.
Sulfur or leather, that’s what he’d gone out thinkin about. Hell or Heaven. The rack or the Impala.
Eternal damnation or a lame rerun of his best memories, in the hope of maybe one day seeing his baby brother again. Later rather than sooner, because Sam deserved to live, and grow old and be bald and fat and surrounded by kids that looked like him.
He’d have given anything to be there to see it, but he thought he could find a way to be okay with missing it. Just as long as Sam was happy.
The second thing that came to him was the beeping sound next to his ears, and on any other day that would have snapped him into awareness and made it clear to him where he was.
But that wasn’t any other day, and if it took him a bit longer to realize that he hadn’t actually bit it, then sue him - being impaled will do that to you.
He slowly opened his eyes, the bright white of the ceiling over him blinding him and making it really tempting to just go back to sleep - but that’s when he felt something over his hand.
Fingers, his mind finally put together. The weight of a hand he knew all too well, fingers he remembered holding just before slipping into the darkness that overcame him in that barn.
With that, he finally acknowledged the sniffling sound coming from the man next to his bed, and his big brother instinct took over, still stronger than any injury and any drug.
Alive. Hospital. Look out for Sammy.
“Sammy?” he called, his voice coming out a bit lower and not as firm as he’d planned, raw and weak from disuse.
Sam’s head snapped up at that, red bloodshot eyes looking at Dean behind still too long bangs.
He looked like shit, was all Dean could think. The beard was too long, he was too pale and definitely looked like he’d cried his way into this week.
Dean was tempted to make fun of him. But then he remembered his little brother begging him not to go, mastering up the strength to promise him it was gonna be okay, holding his hand for what Dean really thought was going to be the last time - and suddenly joking around didn’t sound as enticing.
“Dee?” He said, and the childhood nickname broke Dean’s heart while making it grow ten sizes.
This fucking kid. A couple years shy of forty and still somehow able to make himself look all of three years old and tear at Dean's heartstrings.
“I - how are you feeling?” Asked Sam, his hand still holding his big brother’s, with no intention of letting go. Dean only squeezed it harder.
“Peachy.” He tried for humor, then seeing Sam’s eyes drop to the floor “I’m serious, Sam. I’m okay.”
Sam nodded and bit his lip, looking so shell shocked Dean wanted to get up and shake him.
“Sam.” He called, but the youngest had taken a particular interest in the wall behind Dean’s head.
“Hey, Sammy.” He tried again, softer, this time finally getting Sam to look at him.
“You with me, kiddo?” He asked.
Sam let out a shaky breath and nodded again.
“I thought I lost you.” He admitted, staring at his fingers still on Dean’s.
“I thought that was it and that I - that I was gonna have to do this on my own. I can’t, Dean. I don’t care what you said or what I said I just can’t. If you go, I go.”
Then, a little quieter. - “Please don’t go.”
And wasn’t that a punch in the guts?
Right there and then, Dean felt willing to promise him just about anything as long as he could get that look off Sam’s face.
“I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“You said goodbye. You looked like you were okay with it. I thought we were past this, Dean. I can’t - I can’t spend every minute thinking you’re gonna get yourself killed. I need you here. There’s no version of this where I make it alone. Not after all we’ve been through. You go and I’ll be one bullet behind you.”
Another tear slipped down his face, and he didn’t even bother to wipe it away, too wrapped up in the grief of what almost was. The crushing, all consuming fear of losing his brother for good.
He’d really thought that was it, that he was never going to see Dean again - that after all they’d done, all they’d faced, they’d be permanently separated by a nail in a barn in the middle of nowhere.
He couldn’t breath just thinking about it. That cold, terrifying feeling of being utterly and completely alone, of holding his lifeless brother in his arms, of forcing the words out of his mouth - “You can go now”- when all he wanted to do was beg him to please, please, please just stay with him.
Everything that happened next was a blur. He vaguely remembered Dean going limp in his arms, his hand abandoning his hold - and that’s why he couldn’t let go now, not happening, never again - and then he’d stopped breathing. Just for a second, before Sam remembered how to function and got to work.
Somehow, he got Dean to the hospital. Somehow they managed to pry him away from him, enough to get him into surgery. That was five days ago, and since then Sam had barely left his side.
“Breathe.” Dean reminded him, and only then did Sam notice he was hyperventilating.
“Just breathe, little brother. I’m not bailing on your ass anytime soon, okay? I swear. I didn’t wanna-- I thought there was nothing we could do. I didn’t wanna die, I just wanted to make it easier.”
When Sam didn’t look convinced, he tried to sit up to get to him, ignoring the tubes coming out of his body and pushing the pain at the back of his head.
When he realized what he was doing, Sam was quick to tell him to “Stay the fuck down, you moron”.
Dean ignored him, putting his free hand on the kid’s shoulder. Sam leaned into it despite himself, tension leaving him under the all too familiar touch. Calloused fingers he knew better than his own, that had been there his whole life.
Memories flooded his mind, thousands of instances when those same hands held him and kept him together, the one thing in that God forsaken world he’d always been able to count on.
They were there to keep him standing in his first steps, to feed him his first meals, to stitch him up after the worst of hunts. They healed and reassured and somehow made it all better.
He took a deep breath and finally locked eyes with Dean. His larger than life big brother, the idiot who throughout their crazy lives had never given up on him - even when he’d had all the reasons to -, the hero who saved him and the whole damn world and still managed to only ever see his mistakes. He was there, and he was alive, and he was looking at Sam with the same big brother worry that settled something in Sam’s chest.
Not dead - he finally admitted to himself. Way too fucking close, but somehow still there. Somehow still by his side.
He let out the air he’d been holding in, brushed the tears from his eyes and nodded twice.
Assured that his little brother wasn’t going to break down again, Dean let himself fall back onto the pillow, trying and failing to hold in a whimper as the pain in his back made itself known.
They stayed like that for a while - Dean lying down, Sam at his side, ignoring that they should probably call a doctor now that Dean was awake because this moment was theirs, and they really didn’t want someone intruding - and Dean almost started dozing off again when Sam spoke.
“I don’t wanna keep doing this.” He admitted, quiet, like it was a secret he was too ashamed to confess even to himself.
Even drugged and tired Dean knew exactly what he was talking about; still, he raised an eyebrow, giving his brother a chance to explain himself.
“I hate hospitals, and I hate seeing you in them, and I hate never knowing when we’re gonna have to be in one again.” He looked straight into his big brother’s eyes, and continued.
“I was gonna lose you a rusty nail. We beat God, and a four inches piece of metal is what almost…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“I’m not saying I wanna forget about hunting. But there’s other things we can do, less dangerous things that don’t involve all this. I know what you’re thinking - the family business and all that - and you can call me selfish if you want, but please just consider it for a second-”
“- Okay.” Interrupted Dean, enjoying the shock on Sam’s face.
“Okay?” Asked the younger one, a disbelieving look in his eyes and the sparkle of hope that Dean had missed until then finally back.
“Yeah, Sammy. We can figure something out. I get it. I was kinda - I was thinking about it too, actually. Even before all this. We’ve earned it, haven’t we? To just sit back for a little, let someone else handle it. And it’s like you said, we can manage the phones and hand out info, we’re not gonna just disappear. But believe me, I don’t wanna see you in a hospital anymore that you do.”
“You mean it?” Asked Sam, a smile slowly making its way on his features.
“I do.” Dean answered, and he couldn’t help but chuckle when Sam honest to God beamed in front of him. He would have given up everything right that second if it meant his little brother would keep smiling like that.
Leaving hunting was the right choice, he knew it and had been looking for the right way to bring it up for a while.
It’s not that he wouldn’t miss it, the family business was all he’d ever known, but before he ever picked up a gun, he’d been picking up his kid. Being Sam’s brother had always been his most important job - his purpose in life. A responsibility he’d taken on more than willingly because how could he not?
And now that they’d finally gotten the chance to live their own lives, without someone pulling the strings for them, Dean wanted Sam as far away from blood and pain and broken limbs as possible.
He wanted him safe, and happy, and by his side for as long as he could.
They’d done enough. They’d fought and bled and died to save the world time and time again. They’d lost everything and everyone they’d ever known, including each other, suffered more than anyone else on the planet while trying to do right by the people they felt a need to protect.
He didn’t regret it, not a second of it, but he also didn’t want to go through it again - didn’t want to watch Sam go through it again.
There were wounds that were never going to heal, holes their lives and their hearts that would never be filled again.
Rowena was dead, Jack had left for good and Cas... He couldn't even think about Cas without his stomach turning at all the words he never got to speak, how much he regretted not saying something, anything to him.
He didn't get that chance with his best friend, and he was not about to make the same mistake with his brother.
Instead of saying anything else, he squeezed Sam’s hand again, then yawned; his injury catching up to him now that they stood on more solid ground.
“Get some sleep.” Sam ordered, switching into mother-henning mode and getting that look on his face that promised weeks worth of following Dean around and treating him like a five years old.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Murmured the oldest, already dozing off, but he couldn’t find it in himself to really mind.
When Dean felt Sam’s hand leaving his own a while later, the action followed by a deep exhale and Sam’s head settling on the hook of his shoulder, Dean ruffled Sam’s hair and waited for the scoff he knew was coming.
The second it did, right on time and a hundred percent annoyed little brother, he knew they’d be just fine.