I apologize in advance for this. Don't read if you are emotionally compromised (or don't want to become so). Fair warning: this is a death fic. Can be set in a not to distant future. Please don't hate me. :D This awful, awful thing popped into my head basically already written...I didn't mean to do this!

~Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.~

~Khalil Gibran~

Cas had done everything he could.

And everything he'd done had helped. Well, helped as much as everything the doctors had tried. Helped as much as the chemo, the radiation and every other miserable treatment they'd attempted. In the end, though, none of it worked. Not for long.

Not long enough to matter.

So when Sam said he was done with all of it and just wanted to go home, Dean had agreed immediately. Because, much as it killed him, he'd been one breath away from suggesting the same thing. He couldn't take it any more. Couldn't watch Sam get worse while the treatments did nothing but leave him tortured and miserable and weakened.

Left him still sick.

Dean had accepted Sam's request without argument and informed the doctors. Doctors who had already reached the conclusion he and Sam had reached.

Sam was dying.

And they were going home.

It had been as much a relief as it had been the worst moment of Dean's life.

December 1st

"You want more?" Dean asked, nudging his brother in the side.

"Sure." Sam smiled and held out his plate.

Dean grinned and pushed himself to his feet. Sam stole the remote and Dean griped at him just for the sheer joy of it. His brother didn't listen, of course, and merely flipped through the channels until he found some documentary that left Dean bored before he made it out of the room. He walked back into the kitchen, whistling a Christmas song.

They'd had an amazing dinner if he did say so himself. Even more amazing than the dinner he'd created was the amazing fact that Sam had been interested in eating it. It had been cause for celebration that he'd been willing to eat anything at all. The fact he wanted more left Dean grinning even though he knew it wouldn't matter in the long run.

Because Sam was still dying.

It took all his concentration every moment of every day and every second of the long, sleepless nights for Dean to block that thought out. When they'd been preparing to leave the hospital, they'd agreed on a few important things. For one thing, they'd agreed to make every moment count. For another thing, they'd agreed to stop worrying about the inevitable and start enjoying what they had.

What they had left.

Dean forced a smile back on his face as he put another piece of pie on Sam's plate. He automatically made sure it was a small piece. Sam's appetite was a fickle thing and Dean hated that he was already anticipating Sam might spend the rest of the evening puking. If they were lucky, maybe he'd be ok tonight. It had been a good day so far.

"A great day," Dean whispered to himself, putting a generous dollop of whipped cream on top of the warmed pie.

They'd been home for three days now and the first had been spent with Sam miserably settled on the couch because he couldn't sleep. He'd thrown up every half hour for six hours straight.

Yesterday had been a bit of an improvement, but they'd spent it exclusively in Sam's room. Holed up with Netflix and a gallon of Gatorade, Dean had done everything he could to make Sam comfortable. To nurse him through the lingering nausea. To drug him through the pain. To make him smile when all either of them wanted to do was cry.

Today had been even better. After sleeping in late, they'd enjoyed a lazy morning watching reruns of MacGyver and arguing about whether or not they could have come up with a better solution to the inevitable problems on the episode. The afternoon had been spent, against Dean's will, organizing their files.

Their own files.

Dean licked whipped cream off his finger and couldn't help but grin. They had their own files to add to the Men of Letter's collections. And, even if he'd complained loudly and often, it had felt pretty great to sit down with his brother and look over the hunting resources and tips they'd amassed over the years. Sam had been keeping better notes than Dean had ever known. Not that he was really surprised.

It had been a great day.

Dean got himself another piece of pie too, then picked up the plates and started whistling again to distract himself from the inescapable truth. He didn't have much longer before the notes would be all he would have left of his brother. His eyes started to burn, and then he heard Sam's voice telling him to hurry the hell up, I wanted that pie today, not next year.

Shaking it off, Dean's grin widened and he sauntered back into the living room making sure he licked all the whipped cream off Sam's piece of pie before presenting it to him.

It had been a great day.

December 6th

Jody and the girls came by for an early Christmas. Dean had been keeping them on standby for a couple weeks. Sam hadn't wanted to see anyone while he'd been in the hospital. When they'd still thought he might get better. But now that he was home and they both knew he wasn't going to get better, he told Dean he wanted to see Jody again.

Sam didn't want to wait much longer because he didn't know how many good days he had left.

So they had a mini-Christmas party. Jody made every Christmas treat she could think of and they all ate too much. It had been wonderful.

When everyone else fell asleep, Dean took Jody out to the garage and they killed a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue between the two of them.

December 10th

They spent the day reminiscing.

One entire day, save a half-dozen naps on Sam's part, reminiscing. Dean laughed about what old fogies they'd become if they were sitting around telling war stories and Sam thoughtfully pointed out that Dean was still four years older than he was so Dean was really the old fogie.

Dean tried to ignore the fact that he would always be four years older than Sam but Sam wasn't going to get any older. He drank half a bottle of whiskey while Sam took yet another nap.

And then they split the other half of the bottle and went back to remembering and telling stories. Hunts. Their childhood. The women they'd loved.

The women they'd lost.

Hour by hour they told their story. A story that, with few exceptions, was singularly theirs. Few people had been with them for significant periods of time in their lives. They told those stories too; toasted old friends living and dead.

And Dean tried not to think about how soon he would be the only one who knew all those stories.

How he was, once again, going to be the last Winchester standing.

December 15th

The doctors hadn't wanted to give a specific time range. Impossible to know, they said. Every situation is different, they said. Could be six months, could be less, they said.

Dean knew they didn't have that long. He knew in his heart Sam wasn't going to make it to the new year. With each passing day, Dean realized time was growing ever shorter.

They'd made Christmas plans. Even wrapped presents. With real wrapping paper. Decorated an actual tree with Jody and the girls. Sam kept asking how many days it was until Christmas and Dean knew it wasn't because he was that excited to open his gifts.

It was because he knew he was running out of time, too.

December 18th

Dean realized Sam wasn't going to make it to Christmas.

December 20th

He and Cas had a brief discussion during one of Sam's ever more frequent, ever longer naps.

Cas agreed.

They needed to move Christmas up. At this point, if Sam made it to the 25th, Dean decided they would celebrate Christmas all over again. But he knew the odds of that were slim.

He and Cas agreed that they'd see how each day went. If they didn't do it sooner, they decided, at the latest, the 23rd was reasonable.

Sam was so confused by now that he only knew what day it was when they told him. And they had to tell him multiple times a day. Had to answer his repetitive questions and try not to let it show how much it was killing them. Had to remind him of simple things he could no longer keep track of anymore.

At times, Dean wasn't even sure if Sam remembered he was dying.

December 21st

They took the Impala out for a drive.

Sam asked and Dean hadn't been able to say no.

Dean tried not to think about the fact it would be the last time he would ever have Sam sitting next to him.

Sam apparently thought about it, though, and quietly cried for two miles before Dean pulled off the road and bumped them down a dirt trail. Parking in the deserted field, he held onto his brother and didn't say anything.

What was there to say?

After awhile, they got out of the car and Dean bundled blankets around Sam and they sat side by side on the hood and stared at the stars as the snowflakes drifted lazily around them.

December 22nd

Dean told Sam it was Christmas Eve.

Sam looked so relieved that Dean almost broke down and cried right then and there. Because, in that moment, he realized Sam had been waiting for Christmas. Holding on for Christmas. Because he was so tired and so sick and so ready to stop fighting. Selfish as he wanted to be, Dean knew he couldn't be selfish now. Sam had fought for almost a year.

Now it was time to allow him to rest.

So Dean teased him about being a five year old and asked him if he'd hung up his stocking.

December 23rd

Dean knew he'd made the right decision. He'd known in his gut that Sam was fading fast. Too fast. Knew he wasn't going to make it to Christmas. And now, sitting with him in a room lit only by the Christmas tree, Dean knew it wouldn't be much longer at all.

It had been a good day even if Sam had slept through much of it. In between, though, he'd been able to participate a little. He'd been free from pain thanks to the drugs and some additional help from Cas. He'd had difficulty concentrating and asked the same questions over and over, but by now both Dean and Cas were so accustomed to it that it didn't bother them.

Much.

Sam smiled when they opened presents. All of them sitting on Sam's bed surrounded by wrapping paper.

Dean almost managed to hold back the tears when he opened Sam's gift.

Cas politely excused himself on the pretense of making hot chocolate. Dean cried shamelessly into his brother's chest; Sam's arms holding him close. Sam had soothed him, weak as he was, until Dean regained his composure.

Cas came back in with a tray of hot chocolate that was more marshmallows than anything else. Dean harassed him about it even though he secretly loved the marshmallows the most. Sam managed a few sips.

The last he'd take of anything.

They settled back to watch a Christmas movie.

"Die Hard is a Christmas movie." Dean insisted, as usual, when Sam, as usual, made his token protest.

They were less than halfway through the movie when Dean felt in his gut that something was changing.

When he heard Sam's soft voice calling his name, Dean asked Cas to pause the movie. Cas did so immediately, and they both glanced instinctively at Sam. Then he and Cas exchanged a look and Dean knew he'd been right. He saw it in Cas' surprisingly bright eyes.

Cas nodded at him, turning to Sam. He leaned closer, squeezing Sam's hand as he said, "You're a good man, Sam Winchester."

Dean couldn't even tease Cas about the Charlie Brown reference because Cas was right. Sam was a good man and he'd spent too much of his life listening to people tell him otherwise.

Sam smiled and squeezed Cas' hand back and whispered, "I'm glad-"

His voice trailed off, but they all heard everything he wasn't able to say.

I'm glad we met you. I'm glad you're our friend. Our brother. I'm glad you're here.

Cas nodded and he didn't try to hide the emotion in his eyes as he rose and silently left the room.

Dean turned the TV off, leaving the room lit once again only by the Christmas tree. He climbed into bed with his brother. Sam was propped up on a pile of pillows and Dean easily slid behind him, pulling him closer until he had Sam cradled in his arms, resting against his chest. Dean knew he wasn't imagining it when he thought Sam felt colder; that his breathing sounded different. Slower.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Sam smiled, his eyes on the Christmas tree. "It was a great Christmas."

"Yeah, it was." Dean's gaze drifted from the tree back to his brother.

Sam nodded against his chest, then his eyes slid closed as he whispered, "I'm tired."

"I know." The lump in his throat was huge and painful, and he didn't want to, but Dean said, "It's ok. It's ok if you want to sleep. I'm right here."

"Will you be here when I wake up?"

A hot tear ran down his cheek. Dean already knew Sam wouldn't be waking up this time. He held him closer and said, "Yeah. I'll be here."

"It's ok?"

Dean didn't want to answer that with a yes. Because none of this was ok. He wanted to

shout NO and punch a wall. But he'd already gone through the anger stage of grieving. A few thousand times. And he'd already had to repair the drywall in two rooms.

So he nodded, resting his chin against Sam's head. "It's ok, Sammy. Just get some sleep and it'll be better in the morning, alright?"

For a few minutes, they fell silent. Dean listened to Sam's breathing and tried to prepare himself for when he wouldn't. Sam shifted slightly and Dean lifted his head, glancing down. Sam was looking up at him with a smile and a faraway expression in his eyes.

"Dean," he whispered, "I can see her."

"Who?"

"Jess. She said she missed me."

"Well, you better listen to her. She's been waitin' a long time for you." Dean couldn't fight the tears back now, but teased, "Better not keep that poor girl waitin' any longer. She might find someone better lookin' than you are."

Sam laughed and Dean smiled.

Then Sam's smile faded and he sounded distressed when he said, "But I don't see you, Dean. Where are you?"

"I'll be there soon. I promise." Dean didn't know if he'd be there soon or not. He'd already promised Sam he wouldn't do anything stupid. He'd promised him to keep going as long as he could. Fighting the good fight until he couldn't fight it anymore or it killed him.

"I don't want to leave you," Sam whispered, tears running down his face now too as he gripped Dean's hand weakly.

It was like a sword through his chest. There was no way to prepare for something like this. He'd watched his brother die before and it still didn't prepare him for this. Dean tightened his hold around Sam, as if it would help keep him here, and choked out, "It's ok for you to go on ahead. I'll come find you later, Sammy."

"Will you be alright?"

"Yeah." NO! "I will."

"You'll find me?"

"I always have, haven't I?" Dean smiled.

Sam smiled, too.

And then he fell asleep.

December 24th

Cas stood at his side in front of the pyre.

Dean shivered in the cold winter air and felt oddly at peace. He didn't know how he'd managed to drag himself out of bed this morning. Or how he was going to get out of bed again tomorrow morning. But he was going to do it anyway.

Because he'd promised Sam.

His reason for living had died in his arms, but this time it hadn't been monsters or demons or evil that had taken his brother. It had been illness. A purely human death. Nothing supernatural. Somehow that gave Dean a sense of peace he hadn't thought possible.

There was no bringing his brother back this time and he wasn't going to leap off a cliff to follow him. No deals, no spells. Dean was going to pick up and move forward just like every other person on the planet did when they lost someone they loved.

So he nodded when Cas squeezed his shoulder. Followed him back to the Impala. Drove back to the bunker. Home. They settled down in Sam's room and Cas handed him a beer. Dean turned Die Hard back on and found himself laughing as he tried to answer Cas's questions about the film.

Later that night, after he'd made sure the turkey was thawed for Christmas dinner tomorrow, Dean wandered the silent halls of the bunker. He found himself back in Sam's room as a weariness he'd never felt before swept over him. The tree was still lit and the bed was still empty. Dean spread out on top of the covers, staring at the tree. His heart ached and he rubbed his chest at the crushing pain.

Thinking about how much he missed his brother, he closed his eyes and pictured Sam with Jessica. And then he pictured himself - someday - happy and reunited with his brother.

Dean smiled as he fell asleep.

December 25th

Cas stood in the doorway on Christmas morning.

The past few days, months, had been difficult. His inability to save Sam weighed heavily on his heart. On several different occasions, both Sam and Dean had reassured him that they didn't blame him. That they weren't angry with him. Cas had struggled with it for a long time, but accepted their absolution and had done what he could to make the end more pleasant, more peaceful.

Now, he smiled sadly as he looked at the scene before him.

The room was lit only by the Christmas tree and Dean was lying there on Sam's bed. He looked comfortable. At rest. At peace. A small smile on his face.

Cas had been there when Dean had promised Sam he wouldn't try any deals to bring him back. He'd promised he wouldn't take his own life. Cas knew Dean had been sincere. He knew Dean hadn't done anything to harm himself.

He'd simply gone to bed last night, fully intending to get out of it again this morning. Last night, they'd talked about making pancakes for breakfast and Dean had offered to teach Cas the rudiments of American football as they ate Christmas dinner together.

Now, though, there would be no football or Christmas dinner.

Because Dean had gone to find his brother.

Tissues?

Sorry! Please don't hate me! I honestly don't think either of them would last long without the other at this point. They've been through too much in their lives. The next time one goes, I'm betting the other follows one way or another. :(

My New Year's Resolution should probably be to write happy stories. :D