A/N: After watching Tuesday's epic finale, I felt I had to write something about those final minutes. So here's a little drabble/short story featuring Sam's POV. Before I continue with this AN, MAJOR spoilers for those who have yet to see the finale. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! DISCLAIMER: I don't own Supernatural, just borrowing the boys for bit.

Proud of Us

"I'm proud of us."

Dean's eyes slide close, and Sam's heart shatters. The bloodied hand that brushes against his cheek drops, and he can feel his brother flop limply in his arms. For a moment, his brother's final words fall on deaf ears as Sam pulls his brother aside, tapping him gently, praying for some sort of miracle."Wake up, buddy," he pleads tearfully, Sam's own heart nearly stops as he speaks, waiting, praying, that his brother will answer him. Please, Dean. I'm begging you. You can't go. Don't do this to me. But his brother remains deathly still; he could be sleeping. His face, bloodied and bruised, still cupped gently in Sam's arms, is still warm. But Sam knows that, as much as he tries to deny it, he is only lying to himself. His brother is dead, dying in his arms in a way eerily similar to his own death in Cold Oak years earlier. A little part of Dean had died that night, holding Sam, limp as a rag doll, in his arms. And now, in the dank and cold of that abandoned warehouse, Sam's own world is crumbling.

"Dean!" The name slips through trembling lips, his voice catching, A single tear trickles from one hazel eye, and he pulls his brother close as he weeps. He's gone. His brother, best friend, the one who had kept him human for all these godforsaken years. His whole world has shattered before his very eyes. And it's his fault. He had told his brother that he wouldn't have saved him. That he would have let him die if the situations were reversed. It didn't matter if Dean had misconstrued his words. Sam knew they would hurt him. Had wanted them to hurt. But he hadn't wanted this. He should have fucking known better, but he had never wanted this.

If only he had tried harder to fix their relationship. It was one he had been convinced was broken beyond repair. But nothing was. Everything, every goddamned mess the brothers had been in since childhood, had always been settled. Even the really messy ones: namely Sam's addiction to demon blood. He had obviously noticed the parallels between his lust for power then, and Dean's mad desire to kill now. The Mark had done this to him, just as much as his very own addiction five years earlier had nearly consumed him. But the demon blood addiction had not been Dean's fault. This, however, was. If he had only kept his goddamned mouth shut, Dean would not have felt the need to turn to Crowley; would not have picked up the First Blade; wouldn't have gotten that fucking Mark of Cain branded on his arm. And he would most certainly not be lying dead now.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he cries.


Sam doesn't remember Dean's last words until later that night, his brother's body lying on his bed at the Bunker. Sam had carefully cleaned his brother's wounds, washing his face tenderly, with the care Dean would have bestowed Sam should the situation have been reversed. He lookes like he were unconscious, sleeping off a hunt gone wrong. He'd be better in the morning. It is the blood stained shirt that reminded Sam that there would be no waking up this time.

I'm proud of us. Once again Dean's words, so strong despite his desperate gasps for breath, echo in his brain. Proud of what? Of how he has let his brother down, yet again? Sam has been nothing but a fuck up since the day he was born. Constantly butting heads with his father? Check. Getting his girlfriend murdered? Check. Failing to save Dean from Hell... mentally Sam calculates every mistake, every failure, one by one. How could his brother possibly be proud of what they had done? Sure, they had saved their fair share of people over the years: Andrea Barr and her son, Lucas; Sheriff Mills; Evan Hudson; Dean's former lover, Cassie. But there had been also those they had failed to save: Tommy Collins, Sarah, Jessica...

Dean himself.

Slowly Sam heads to the library, about to drink himself into oblivion. As he pours glass after glass, he is once again reminded how his actions are doing nothing to save his brother; are instead the same desperate attempts at blocking the pain. His year with Amelia flashed before him, the year he had believed his brother to be dead. He had done nothing to save him. To even fucking look for him. He had given up after a few months. And Dean would have never given up on him. Hell, he never did. For a moment, Sam stares at the half empty glass of Jack Daniels in his hand. This is his chance. This is finally his time to save his brother for once.

"I'll make you proud, Dean," Sam mutters. He pours one last glass of whiskey and drains it, barely feeling the burn as the amber liquid slides down his throat. Setting the glass on the table with surprising gentleness, Sam gets up, in search of the necessary materials. Within twenty minutes he stands in the panic room, a match grasped in his hand; steady for the first time since he had seen Metatron murder his brother.

"Damn it, Crowley. You got him into this mess, you will get him out. Or so help me God..."