Instead, he was stuck in another anonymous cheesy-ass motel room, arguing with Sam. Which was at least consistent, he guessed. He'd spent most of his life arguing with his brother about everything under the sun, why would he have expect his last hour on earth to be any different? "For the last time, Sam, forget it," he said, wishing with everything in him that his brother could just, for once, let something drop. "Shouldn't my last hour be about me and not you?" Sam's face got that mulish expression that used to mean a screaming temper tantrum when he was a toddler. Come to think on it, it wasn't so much different now that Sam was an adult. "Just let me do this for you. Please." "Don't." Dean turned back to the mirror in the bathroom, eyeing Sam in the reflection. He was so tired of fighting, couldn't Sam see that? This wasn't how he wanted to go out. It was too much like the night Sam left for college. "Sam, just...please don't." God, when had he gotten to be so exhausted, so old? He sounded like Dad. Hell, he felt like Dad. It wasn't the comfort he'd always imagined it would be. "Let me do this for you." Under Sam's calm plea, Dean could hear the desperation – Let me do something for you, anything at all. He sighed, then handed Sam the straight razor without another word. He was such a fucking sucker for his family. Sam sat him down on the edge of one of the beds, then disappeared into the bathroom for a minute before coming back out with the shaving cream and a damp towel. He knelt between Dean's legs, the action strangely intimate in a way that Dean didn't want to think too much about. He'd always laughed at Bobby's joke about the two of them arguing like an old married couple, but he figured all siblings did that. This...well, this was something entirely different. Domestic in a way that Dean never associated with his family, no matter much often Dad had tried (and failed, but it wasn't his fault, he did the best he could, and fuck anyone that said different, even himself) to give them some semblance of normalcy. The first cool brush of Sam's fingers as he smeared shaving gel across Dean's bristle-rough cheeks was another intimacy, but this one he could handle. He was used to his brother's touch – a slap on the back, a cuff to the head, the infrequent hard hugs when it felt like Sam was doing his best to absorb Dean into him. Those were familiar, and sometimes welcome, because it meant his brother was fighting by his side the way it was meant to be. It was the broken, yet stubbornly determined look on Sam's face that he didn't think he could take. He closed his eyes against it in self-defense. "Remember when you used to do this for Dad when he was injured?" Sam asked softly, after he'd run the blade across the flat of Dean's cheek in a smooth motion. "Yeah." Dean smiled slightly, careful not to move too much. His eyes fluttered open, and he was relieved to see that Sam looked more like himself. "It's why he started growing a beard, remember? Got nicked one too many times." Sam's smile showed off twin dimples that mirrored Dean's faded memories of their mother. "You weren't that bad." "Yeah, I was. You always had steadier hands." "Dean..." "It was the only thing he ever tried to teach me that I completely failed at." Funny how the memory of it still hurt, even after all these years. Sam set the razor aside and leaned in. In his eyes, Dean could see unconditional love and unfathomable grief. "You never failed, Dean." Each carefully measured, forceful word carried a biblical weight. "You never failed either of us." Automatically, Dean opened his mouth to argue, and then just as abruptly shut it. Let Sam have his illusions, misguided though they were. In a little over a half hour, they would be all he'd have left. Instead, Dean tilted his head back, concentrated on the smooth slide of the blade as Sam resumed shaving Dean with dogged purpose. He looked like he did back when they were still in school – like grooming Dean was a test and he was going to be graded on it. Hell, maybe Sam was hoping the Hellhounds would be blinded by Dean's shiny, smooth cheeks and he'd be able to escape his fate. "What're you smiling at?" Sam asked, narrowing his eyes as he turned Dean's face from side to side, looking for any missed spots. "Nothing, man." The corners of Dean's mouth twitched again. "But you'll make someone a good wife one day." "Asshole," Sam replied affectionately, and delivered one of his patent swipes across Dean's head. "You're free to rinse." "Thanks, Mom." Dean danced out of reach of the next swipe, and made his way to the sink. "Nice job," he commented, eyeing his face in the mirror. He still looked like he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in a month (which he hadn't), but his cheeks and chin were as smooth as the proverbial baby's bottom. Made him look younger. Innocent in a way he could never remember being, even when he had been a kid. But then, he hadn't been innocent since he was four years old. "Thanks," Sam replied. He hadn't moved. His eyes were red-rimmed, and solemn. "Sam..." In two long strides, Dean moved to gather Sam close. With a choked sob, Sam clung to him, fingers digging into his jacket, arms strong around him. Dean could feel the jackhammer of Sam's heart beating next to his own, could hear the ragged breaths as Sam fought for control. For a long moment, Dean didn't think Sam was going to let go. For a long moment, Dean wasn't sure he could, either. Then he heard Sam softly whispering against his neck, breath a hot brand on his skin, the words choked, filled with resolve: "De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine: Domine, exaudi vocem meam: Fiant aures tuae intendentes, In vocem deprecationis meae." Dean pulled back, lifted his brow in question. He really should have learned more Latin than just exorcisms. Too late now. "What did you just say?" Sam smiled slightly and shook his head, taking the next step back. He looked slightly steadier on his feet. Dean was strangely grateful for it, because it meant Sam was trying. "It was for me, not you. Are you...?" "Yes. I'm sure." No way he could handle meeting his end if he knew Sam was there to witness it. He'd seen firsthand what Hellhounds did to a person, and there was no way he'd ever let Sam watch that, no matter how much he didn't want to be alone in his last few minutes. He didn't have any strength left for anyone other than himself. "I just want you to know I'm not burning your body." "Sam…" Again, the same look of stubborn determination graced Sam's face. "Bobby and I are gonna find a way to get you back." "Okay." It was an old argument by this point, one Dean knew he was never going to win. And it wasn't like he'd be in a position to object anyway, even if Sam chose to sell his corpse to the highest bidder for a bottle of Wild Turkey and some blow. Not that his brother even liked whiskey, the heathen, but the principle was the same. "Stay strong, alright. We will get you out." "Okay, Sam." He wanted to tell Sam not to bother, not to waste his life, not to waste the willing sacrifice Dean's soul on a pipe dream, on revenge like Dad. But the words stuck like ash in his throat. If their positions had been reversed... Well, he'd have never let Sam go through with it, no matter what, but that wasn't the point. But if Dean was in Sam's place, he knew he'd move Heaven and Hell and all of the worlds in between to get his brother back. Hell, it was why he was in this mess in the first place, and why Dad was no longer with them. They were Winchesters. Familial sacrifice and vengeance were embedded into their DNA. "You, uh...probably should..." "Yeah, I know." Already, Dean could hear the faint growling of the Hellhounds. If he took a deep enough breath, he could almost smell the fetid odor of them, stalking steadily closer. He gave Sam a last, reassuring nod (although who the hell he was trying to fool, he had no idea, but appearances, man, he had a part to play), dug nails into his fists to keep from reaching out again, then turned for the door. He didn't – couldn't – look back. Once outside, he glanced up at the night sky, swept his gaze across the infinite blanket of stars. Took a last, deep, cleansing breath. He didn't know if there really was a Heaven, but if there really was a Hell, then it stood to reason that the reverse would be true. And if there was a Heaven, then maybe, just maybe, he'd be heard. "Take care of him, Dad. Watch over him, keep him safe," Dean murmured, and caressed the Impala one last time as he walked out of the parking lot. Five minutes left.
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