Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke. Sadly, I do not own any of these guys.

A/N: The season finale ate me up inside, as I expected it would, and this moment especially made me feel as if I had to respond to it somehow. So, here's a brief peek inside Dean's head during his final living moments. I hope you enjoy it.

O, Thou most blessed One, hear Thou my sighing,

Soothe Thou the sad heart that leans on Thy breast;

Dark fall the shadows, the daylight is dying;

Breathe Thou Thy peace, let the weary find rest.

From "He-With All My Worldly Goods I Thee Endow, She-But, What Is Written in the Law, How Readest" – 1890

Going in alone had been a mistake. Dean knew it the moment he drew the First Blade against Metatron, knew he was fighting a losing battle the second the angel was able to stop the blade with just a simple grab to the wrist. None of the others, not even Abaddon, had been able to do that before. He should have known, but he was far past caring. Taking on Metatron was only the last of an extensive list of mistakes he'd made recently, and at this point, what difference did it really make?

It was too late to stop what he'd started now. It had always been too late. Somewhere in the back of his mind, from the very moment he agreed to take on the mark of Cain's legendary curse, he knew he was signing his own death warrant. He knew he was playing with fire, should have known after all this time that doing so never got the Winchesters anything but burns worse than third-degree.

But even so, it had been a chance to redeem himself – a slim chance, maybe, but a chance nonetheless. And so he had taken it, without so much as a glance at the fine print, because this was his one opportunity to prove his worth to his brother. The same brother who was now holding most of his weight as his lifeblood poured out of him, dripping more precious red gold onto the floor with every stuttering heartbeat.

He didn't have much time, and he knew it. He couldn't even feel the pain he knew should be eating him alive; Metatron had broken more of his body than he could even take stock of before running him through with the angel blade. He couldn't feel Sam's gigantic hands on him, although he knew the mere fact that he was still doing some semblance of standing meant Sam was still at his side. There would be no going back now, no time for chick-flick apologies or regrets. But he could still make sure Sam understood all that he wished he could tell him.

"Sammy, hold up… I gotta say something…"

His voice was weaker than he wanted, raspy thanks to the blood already congealing in his throat as more surged up to join it, but it was loud enough for the younger Winchester to hear. Sam reluctantly let him lean against the closest stable vertical surface, his eyes trained on Dean as though he knew, deep down, that these would be his brother's final words. Grief didn't begin to describe the look in Sam's eyes right now, and Dean wasn't sure why that was.

What's wrong, Sammy? Can't you see this is what we both wanted? Can't you see this is better than I ever deserved?

Dean was surprised that, as he felt his body growing colder and weaker, all he felt was peace and calm. He should have been afraid to die. Death had always been something to fight against, something to cheat, something that meant the end of the battle for both of them, because without one the other was always useless. But now, death was opening its welcoming arms, and Dean could feel himself leaning toward the cold embrace, grateful only that it wasn't Hellfire he felt waiting for him on the other side. He was glad someone had stopped him – even if it had to be Metatron – before it was too late.

The things the Blade was making him do – the very things he had so despised himself for being forced into by Alistair's unending torture in Hell – were never going to stop now unless he was stopped. And Dean would rather die than become any more like the creature he had been in Hell five years ago than the Blade had already made him. He would rather die, because he could never forgive himself if he went through with what his twisted soul was demanding. If Castiel or Sam were to meet their end by his hand, then Dean knew Hell would never be able to conjure up a punishment that compared to what he would do to himself.

But that wasn't what he wanted to say, and there wasn't time to get sidetracked now. Sam had to know that everything was okay, that he was forgiven, that Dean knew he hadn't meant what he'd said about letting his older brother die. Sam had to know, or he would never forgive himself. So he took as deep a breath as possible around the blood in his lungs, willing his voice to stay steady just long enough for this one last moment as his heavy eyelids began to flutter.

"Sam, I'm… proud… of us…"

The words were soft, but he could practically feel them striking Sam with a physical force as his brother gripped him tighter, trying to will strength into a body that was far past the point of fighting on. He could hear Sam speaking frantically to him, begging him to wake up, to hang on. Inwardly, Dean smirked, although his lips were too numb to show it on the outside.

Sorry, little bro. Not this time. Catch you on the flipside though, huh? And don't tell anyone I said this, but… Love ya, Sammy…

And then he let himself slip into the soft, enveloping darkness of eternal sleep, his final heartbeat ringing joyfully as his weary soul slipped away to claim its well-deserved reprieve.