but what if on the last ever episode of supernatural we come full circle and dean carries sam’s corpse out of a fire
Sammy. Oh, God, Sammy…
Once again, the Winchesters had done the world a massive favor: they’d closed the gates of Hell. No demon could get in or out ever again, not anymore. All the ones left stranded on Earth—Crowley included—had vaporized, cut off from their power source. But not before making the Winchesters pay for all their trouble.
Cas couldn’t help them. God knows where he was now—where did angels go when they died, anyway? Because there was no other explanation. Cas had died, for good this time, Dean knew. There was no coming back from… from that. God, Cas…
“Sam—Sam. Come on, Sammy, come on…”
He was messed up pretty bad. It was too dark for Dean to see exactly what was wrong, but there was blood everywhere, soaked in his clothes and smeared on his face, and his breath was hitching and rasping in his throat. His eyes were half-closed and he didn’t even seem to notice as Dean hoisted him up, looping one of his ridiculously long arms over his shoulders.
Dean wasn’t doing so hot himself. He was pretty sure there was something hanging out of his gut region that wasn’t supposed to be exposed to the air, and everything was screaming with pain. There was blood in his mouth and tears on his face and even his breath tasted revoltingly like salt and copper. He felt like he was back in Hell. He could walk at least, though, and he’d be damned if he or Sam were gonna kick the bucket in this shithole. Anyway, the building was on fire, so if they had any chance of survival, it was out there.
“We’re gonna make it, Sam, okay? Hold tight. We’re gonna make it.”
Sam didn’t respond, but Dean heard him cough weakly a few seconds later, so he knew the guy was still alive.
It was pathetically slow. Dean’s legs were trembling and he seemed to be losing feeling in them. As if it wasn’t hard enough to walk around on his own, Sam’s legs weren’t moving at all—they dragged limply on the ground, massively long and gangly as they always were. He was sagging in Dean’s grip, barely even able to keep his head up. The tension of the situation wasn’t made any better by the fact that the fire was moving much faster than they were. It crackled along the walls and the ceiling, licking up the wood as it seared their skin.
Dean heard an ominous cracking sound coming from the ceiling, and he had only a split-second’s warning before one of the building’s wooden beams snapped under the heat of the flames, and a whole chunk of the roof caved in. Both brothers were thrown to the ground and lay, for a moment, unmoving, covered in charred debris. The temptation to die was very strong for Dean just then; the prospect of simply lying there until the exhaustion pulling at his consciousness finally took over was a very appealing one. But then—
He barely heard it over the sound of crackling flames and the creaking of the building’s dying foundations, it was so soft. In fact, if he hadn’t looked up and seen Sam looking at him from his position on the ground, eyes open but worryingly dim, he wouldn’t have believed he’d heard it at all. Sam’s hand jerked, like he was trying to reach for his older brother.
“Dean, don’t…” His cheeks puffed as he coughed again, his lips dark with blood. “Get out…”
More coughing. Dean’s gaze hardened, and that little plea was just enough to jump-start his system. He didn’t care that Sam wanted Dean to leave without him. Sam was still alive. And if he didn’t carry his little brother out of the fire again, then who would? Agony lanced through his arms as, with enormous effort, he pushed himself up, dislodging a few chunks of plywood from his back. He made his way to Sam—his brother trying to say something to him the whole way there, but nothing making it past his throat—and hooked his hands under his brother’s shoulders and knees. With a sudden burst of strength he didn’t realize he had, he hauled Sam up in his arms.
“We’re gettin’ outta here, Sammy,” he said fiercely through gritted teeth, staggering forward. “Even if it kills us.”
The strain was immense. He didn’t know how he’d managed it the first time. The smoke was everywhere, making his eyes smart and his throat hoarse. He couldn’t say anything to Sam—not even to ask if he was still alive—because he was coughing so much.
Finally, he busted through a closed door and into the cold, fresh night air. He carried Sam out to the Impala, somehow still under the vain hope that he could possibly drive himself and his brother to the hospital, but his strength failed him as they reached it and his knees buckled and he collapsed against the side, gasping for breath. His mouth was as dry as charred sandpaper, a pang hitting his lungs with each inhalation.
Sam still hadn’t moved from where he lay, collapsed on the ground where Dean had left him. With great difficulty, Dean managed to pull him close, propping him up against the Impala. “Hey, Sam,” he grunted, giving his brother a little shake. He paused. “Sam?”
Even before Sam’s head lolled on his slumped shoulders, before Dean got a better look at the vicious gash running from his shoulder to his opposite hip, before he saw those hazel eyes glazed over like glass marbles, he knew his brother was gone, and probably had been for some time. He hugged Sam’s body close, clinging to it as he tried to hold back tears. It wasn’t so bad, he supposed; he could feel himself going, too. Wherever Sam was, Dean would be joining him soon enough. That didn’t stop it from hurting, though.
“We did it, Sammy,” he choked into Sam’s hair. “We did it. You can rest now, okay? We’re done.” He took a shaky breath as that thought set in, but it was cut off by a strained sob. “We’re finally done.”