Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural in any way, shape, or form

Warnings: language, deathfic. But you knew that already, didn't you?

seven days

They roll into the dusty little motel (the last motel, he thinks, and the insides of his head ring with the thought) and he flops down on the bed, mumbling something about a cheeseburger. Sam sighs and scratched his head and turns on the little television, hoping to catch some of the news.

The tv fuzzes for a minute and he hits the antenna. "Come on," he sighs, frustrated. He taps an impatient foot. The bluish light from the tv casts an unsightly glow onto his face, making him look more tired than he already is. He turns around while he waits, fumbling with his wallet and pulling his laptop out of its bag.

"Seven days" a voice hisses and he twists in a panic and realizes it's just some stupid movie channel.

six days

Dean's moaning about Taco Bell. "Come on, nutty professor, there's a Taco Bell just around the corner it's not going to take long, I need one of those cheese crunch burritos." Sam looks at him and raises an eyebrow before going back to a thick dusty book that Bobby lent him two months ago when he showed up at one in the morning, begging for anything, something,that could help.

"I know you like Taco Bell, Sammy, and there's a chicken cheese wrap with extra sour cream calling your name!" he says, flipping through his wallet while Sam flips pages. The thin paper rips at his violent page turning. Damn.

Dean comes up behind him and slaps the book shut. "Come on, man, let's go, you've been reading that stupid thing all day and night – "

"Dean, what the – " His frustration seeps through. "I'm trying to friggen save your life, sorry if that cuts into your taco time!"

His voice reverberates through the small room, and the echoes are angry too. Dean cocks his head and Sam sighs, puts his elbows to the desk, rubs his face, tired young face, with his hands. "I'm sorry."

By the time he brings his hands down, the door is slamming. Dean is back fifteen minutes later, a burger and fries in his hands.

He always hated Chihuahuas, after all.

five days

Dean wakes up to the sound of pages turning, and there's Sam, nose still in the god damn book, still in the same clothes, still sitting at the same desk.

And he thinks how funny it is, because when they were kids all Sam talked about was moving moving moving, traveling here there and everywhere and seeing the world and getting the girl and the kids and morning jogs with his golden retriever –

…and now here he is, crouched over an ancient book in the dim morning light trying to finish something he didn't even start. And it's funny, because for yearshe prayed that Sammy would just come back and help him and Dad finish business, and now all he wants is for him to float to the great beyond like the puffy, bloated seeds of dandelions that they blew away their childhood on.

four days

He's jingling the car keys in Sam's face. "Come on, let's take a ride," he says, stretching his back. It cracks, the loudest noise in the room aside from Sam's rapid page turning. Dad's notebook is open too, even though he's scoured it thousand of times already, read every tiny, cooked letter. Under it is a messy notebook of his own creation, filled with his own scattered ideas in handwriting that would have (past tense) made his father smile and pat him on the back and say, "That's my boy."

He looks up through shaggy hair, offers a weak smile. He hasn't eaten, hasn't slept, the skin on his face is thin like paper. "Dean," he says, "I can't."

He sighs, shakes his head, digs his fists into his pocket. "Don't you think that it's time to just give up, Sammy?"

He opens and clothes his mouth, bites his lower lip. He avoids his brother's pained gaze.

"I have a lot of work to do, Dean."

three days

"Where were you?" he yells as the door to the motel opens. His hair, too long, half covering his eyes, is wild from having fingers run through it, fingers stiff with quiet desperation. "God, Dean, I must have called your cell a hundred times, why didn't you pick up?"

He looks haphazard, jaw slack and hanging a little bit in a way that Sam's seen too many times. He's swaying on his feet. "S-ssorry Sammy."

He sighs, starts towards his brother who is leaning forward. "You idiot," he mumbles, peeling off his brother's well-worn leather jacket. "Did you drive like this?"

"You would have know if you come with me," Dean says, and Sam can't miss the resentment, the bitterness in his slurred, drunken speech.

"Arm on me Dean, come on, over to the bed," he sighs, slinging his older brother's arm across his shoulder in a way he's done too many times before, except then his brother was writhing and bleeding (most of the time for him, always for Sammy…)

He lays Dean down on the bed, and his legs (limp noodle legs) flop over the edge. He bends down and starts to untie his shoes. "You know, Sammy, all you're doing lately is reading those books, reading those big ol' books, but you know it's not gonna help. Bobby said, I'm a gonna die. It don't matter what you do."

His fingers freeze on the laces. "Bobby never said that, Dean."

"Yeah he did, 'course he did, you remember. You were both down in his kitchen and thought I was upstairs in the shower and he was giving you all of those books and… and…"

He's starting to gag and Sam rips him off the bed and they barely make it to the toilet in time. He doesn't need Dean to finish. He remembers the words:

you can't save him, sam.

"You know," he says, as he picks up his lead heavy head and wipes the spit from his chin, "all I wanted was my last few days with my little brother."

two days

It's the worst hangover he's ever had. He says that every time, but this time it has to be the worst. There's no competition. He's laying on the bed in a pair of boxers and socks, arms crossed over chest, watching some kind of terrible TV movie.

His brother turns from the desk. "I know how to save you."

He shakes his head. "Sam –"

"Dean, it's the only way."

"Sam. Knock it off."

"Dean, it's the only thing I've read about how to reverse a demon deal. If I go, it all goes away, alright? We don't have any other options…"

He turns, eyes flashing. "Yes, we do, Sam! We just let it alone and I die like I'm suppose –"

"Do not say 'supposed to', if you could pull your head out of your ass you'd know that you aren'tsupposed to be dying right now Dean, it's me –"

"Oh don't start this shit up again, Sam, I swear to God –"

"It's not fair to me, Dean, and you're just laying down and acceptingit –"

"You think I want to die?" he explodes, his voice booming through the room. "You honestly think I want to?"

"Well I don't know Dean, you haven't done jack shit to stop it –"

"Shut up!" he yells, and he hits a lamp and it smashes, hits the wall, shatters like every promise that's ever been made. "I don't want to die, I don't know why in the hell you keep insisting that I do, but you know what I don't want more, Sammy?" He licks his lips, his trembling lips. "I… I don't want you to…" his voice cracks.

one day

An alarm goes off at four and Sam stirs, groans a little. He's fallen asleep on the desk, and starts to sit up, a crick in his neck. It's still dark. "Dean…" he mumbles.

But his brother is already sitting up, kicking off the sheet, stretching for one final time. He yawns and turns to his brother.

"Dean, it's four o clock in the morning."

"Yeah, I know."

An hour later they're sitting on the roof of the motel, with two beers and Sam's books. Dean strikes the match and doesn't miss the way Sam's eyes glisten as he drops it, lights the words that couldn't save him ablaze, and a warmth washes over them as the pink rays of early sun streaks the sky.

They stare into the fire, transfixed as it crackles and the pages melt.

Everything always comes back to fire.

It all burns in the end.

the day

He's sitting in the tiny Church, because that's what you do when someone's gone for good.

Stroke,is the official cause of death, which makes him smile the tiniest bit. Stroke.After all the things he's done. He laughed hollowly when they said it. Dean made him promise not to let them write heart attack.

There's a crucifix up front, hanging over His head, and words spoken over twenty years ago flash to the front of his brain as he licks his lips:

Easter Sunday, and John gets them up, tucks them into pants and button down shirts, saying it's what their mother would have wanted. It's been four years since she's gone, and he still tries to keep some semblance of 'normal.'

"Dean," Sam whispers, tugging on his brother's arm as they read from the Gospel. "Dean!"

"Shh, Sam, Dad said you have to be quiet." He remembers Church, from before his life burned.

"Dean, what's that mean?" he asks, pointing to the four letters over Jesus' head on the crucifix. INRI.

INRI.

INRI.

"It means," Dean whispers as the congregation sings, 'thanks be to God', "I NeverRegrettedIt."