Title: And The Whole World Can Burn Before I Lose You

Summary: Their last days together. Set Swan Song. / "Nothing is worth spending an entire existence of eternal torture and Hell," you plead. / "The world is," Sam says. And then he lifts his gaze to you. "You are."

Characters/Pairings: Sam, Dean

Warnings: Probable tissues? Slight spoilers for 5.22

Author's Note: So, I just wanted to play around with the second person P.O.V. And I had bits and pieces of ideas that I combined together to create this one-shot. I hope you'd enjoy it!

You're watching him lean over the pool table, the cue stick in his hands stretched out behind the white ball as he aims for his shot carefully, and you know he's working his geeky brain and mentally measuring all the angles and calculating the distances and observing all his chances. He was always analytical, intelligent, quick and sharp-minded. It's why he got into Stanford, after all.

You look at him, at his floppy brown hair and hazel eyes and the slightly visible dimples as he purses his lips in concentration, a line forming in his brow. And you see the newborn baby that you had first held in your arms (same dimples and hair and everything), his tiny hand wrapping around your thumb wholly, and you remember that flush of warmth and love filling you up inside as you stared at him, at your little brother, your Sammy, and promised to him that you'll be the best big brother ever.

And you watch him now, wondering how he had gotten so damn big (how did he get bigger than you?). How did he grow up from that 2kg miniscule baby that had looked up at you all large, doe, innocent eyes free of darkness and agony and sorrow to the man he had turned out to be now, strong-willed and brave and compassionate? (You can't help but be proud that you're the one who raised him). How did time pass by you so fast and you didn't even notice? (How is it already the last day that you'll ever see him?)

The bar is full of life and noise, but you barely hear anything. You barely see anything except him.

Because right now, as you look at him, there's a sense of finality sticking to the back of your mind, reminding you that this wouldn't last long. None of it will. It's whispering to you with cold, terrifying loneliness and mocking goodbyes, breathing into you and tearing at you inside with last day last time no more he'll be gone, and it's telling you that there won't be any more the day after tomorrow.

So, the rest of the world, the world your Sammy's going to save, is the least of your worries as you keep your eyes locked fully on him.

His opponent's fuming at your brother's victory, and you find yourself smiling a little too hard with pride.

After the man leaves, Sammy comes right over to you, holding out a cue stick identical to the one in his other hand. "Play a game with me?"

And you know you can't refuse.

You smirk, snatching it confidently. "Watch out, little brother. 'Cause you're gonna get your ass kicked."

...

For the next few minutes, you're a bit confused as to whether you should be paying more attention to Sammy or the game. Because moments with him are precious, but so is he (you've always known that, but you've never appreciated it until now).

You find that you don't have to think about it at all when you catch yourself focusing on him more than the game anyway (every detail, every feature, every expression and how he looks with every emotion in his eyes and the way he smiles and laughs and shakes his head and gives you the bitch face and the little smirk on his face when he knows he's winning the game against you. You try to burn it all into your mind so you never forget after he's gone).

...

"What do you think is the most painful sacrifice you've ever made?" Sam asks you, in the middle of nowhere, as you both sit on the hood of your car with cool beers in your hands, gazing up at the stars because you know it's the last time Sammy will ever see it (it's the last time you'll ever see it with him).

And you don't have to think too long for the answer.

"It's not the one I've made, Sammy," you say softly, your eyes locked on the albicant, sparkling stars that were watching over the shadowed world. "It's the one I'm going to make."

Sam doesn't say anything, but you know he understands what you mean.

Because he's not just giving himself away for the world. He's giving your little brother away too.

Because this isn't just Sammy's sacrifice. It's yours too.

...

Sleep has never come easy for you.

But today, it was damn near impossible.

Because it's the last night. It's tomorrow, a few hours away, a daylight away for all of it to become real. All your fears, your worries, your imagining of what it would be like to exist without your life (because Sammy's your life. He always has been). What would it be like without Sammy? Without his concerns for your health that he expresses in his typical bitchy way, his puppy eyes that hold your heart and force you to give in, his deep dimples that show up whenever he smiles (the same ones that used to brighten up your day as a kid), his ridiculous mother-henning over you whenever you're sick and hurt.

You push up onto your elbows and sit up on the bed, leaning against the headboard for a moment as you watch the light rises and falls of your brother's back. You know, though, that he's not asleep. You know him well enough (because who else has been there with him like you have been?)

You stand up, take two slow and quiet steps over to your brother, and stop and just stare at the back of his head.

Then you carefully perch on the edge. "I know you're awake."

For a moment, Sam doesn't answer, but you already know he's awake no matter how hard he pretends.

But then he mutters, "I figured you would."

He opens his eyes, gazing up at you (big eyes smiling up at you with adoration and hero-worship and I want to be just like you, De), and then he rolls to his back and sits up, and then slowly scoots over until he's right beside you (Like he has always been. Unlike he won't be after tomorrow).

"Nervous?" you say quietly, hesitant, your voice delicate as if everything would break if you speak too loud or too harsh (as if you would break if you do) as you stare at your hands.

Sam exhales through his nose, and nods a little, and you want to wrap him up or lock him down or beg him to please just don't do this (because he shouldn't have to do this).

"You know what this means, right?" you ask him, still in that voice.

Sam slowly nods, mimicking your posture as he locks his eyes on his own hands like you are (I want to be just like you, De). "I know."

You close your eyes, sighing lightly to yourself, as you open your mouth. You have to try. You have to try at least once more. You have to let him grow up but you have to keep him safe too. "Sam..."

"Dean, don't," Sam warns, soft and low, and a bit scared. "Please, just... don't."

You turn your face to him. "You don't have to do this," you tell him desperately.

Sam still stares at his hands, silent for a few seconds, before he sighs, louder in the soundless room. "Yes, I do."

"Nothing is worth spending an entire existence of eternal torture and Hell," you plead.

"The world is," Sam says. And then he lifts his gaze to you. "You are."

"No," you say, shaking your head, terrified eyes still on him. "No, the world isn't. I'm not. Because nothing is worth losing you, damn it!" Your voice raises with fear and desperation and last day last time no more he'll be gone. And you feel sorrow and hurt burning in your eyes, because Sammy shouldn't have to do this (he shouldn't have to feel like he does).

You grab his shoulders roughly, your grip harsh and tight as you force him to turn towards you. "Hey, look at me. Look at me, damn it!" You snap at him angrily (fearfully) when he doesn't meet your gaze, his eyes fixed downwards, directed towards your bare feet. "Is it because you think you have to? Is this some kind of twisted belief that you deserve this, because of your mistakes, huh? Is that it?"

"There's just no other way," he answers. "You know it."

"No, we don't know anything. There should be other ways. Ways that don't involve me losing you, alright?" you say, wanting him to understand.

Sam grasps your arm. "No, there isn't."

And you stop, clenching your jaw hard as you try not to break, because somewhere, a part of you already knows it's true. Sammy's the only way.

Sam bites his lip, sad eyes filling with tears as his expression crumples slightly. "It's Hell for me either way, Dean," he whispers to you, and swallows, shrugging a little. "If I don't do this, I'll never be able to live with myself, knowing that I never cleaned up the mess I've made. And if I do this..." He chuckles bitterly, and shakes his head. "At least this way, something good can come out of it. This way, I can save people."

What about me? You want to ask him. What about saving me?

You know it's selfish, but you just can't bring yourself to care. Because you and Sammy, you think you have both been selfless for long enough.

Sam smiles tightly, a tremor in it, and gently takes your hand. "Tell me that I can do it, Dean?" he says, a little more than a fragile whisper, soft and low and scared, and all you can see is Sammy's big eyes smiling up at you with adoration and hero-worship and I want to be just like you, De (and you're wondering how you can let that same Sammy jump into a hole full of fire and blood and pain) "Please?"

You suck a heavy, shuddering breath in through your nose, jaw still clenched, and pull him in and clutch at him tightly, cradling the stupid kid against your chest as you fight to keep your goddamn tears in because why does it have to be like this?

You kiss the top of his head, hard, and tell him, "Yes you can, damn it. Yes you can." You bury your face into his hair and mumble brokenly as your eyes slip shut and the tears fall anyway, "I wish you couldn't, Sammy. But you can."

For one insane moment, you wonder if maybe holding him tight and not letting go of him would really be enough to keep him (if it were, then you'd do it forever).

...

When it's all over, and he's gone, you're feeling like just because the entire world didn't fall to ashes, doesn't mean yours didn't either.

Because you know that if you could make the choice, you'd have gladly let the world burn instead of Sammy.

And now, as you kneel before the place where your brother left you forever, you realize how much you're wishing that you had never let go of him after all.

I know that I am nothing new
There's so much more than me and you
But brother, how we must atone
before we turn to stone

-Ingrid Michaelson, Turn To Stone

Thank you for reading. I hope I've done this story justice, and I hope you enjoyed it and that it made you feel something. Let me know what you thought! And for my 'Dying Wish' readers, I have said it before and I'll say it again, I will finish the story and I won't abandon it. It's a promise.