Disclaimer: I humbly bow down to Eric Kripke and gang. As much as I want to own Supernatural and its two gorgeous main men, I can't and never will. So don't sue.
The lanky 25 year old flopped down on a flimsy chair that has certainly seen better days and sighed as he stretched his long, lean legs. He had always hated the smell of hospitals – a slight whiff of disinfectant and… bleach. And not to mention the overly immaculate environment and those pristinely white walls. Sometimes he wondered why the walls were white. Is it because white represents purity? Or is it just a mere tradition? He shook his head and tried to focus, his semi-shaggy brown hair messy. He didn't want to admit it, but he was trying to occupy his mind with something else – anything that can take his mind off the purpose as to why he was really there.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester. There's really nothing else we could do now except to hope for a miracle. Be prepared for the predicted, try to make his last few months the best – let him have no regrets. I sincerely wish you all the best."
The doctor's words didn't seem to post any effect whatsoever on him. The only feeling that enveloped him earlier that morning was numbness as he stood there flabbergasted, absently observing the swishing of Dr. Smith's white lab coat as he lumbered away. The supposedly assuring pat on the back after those cutting words only seemed to numb him more.
Leaning forward, the youngest Winchester rested his forehead against his tightly clenched fists. He just couldn't take it anymore, couldn't bear to linger a minute longer in that pasty hospital room where his brother laid. The image of the once rosy cheeked, healthy young man swimmed across his mind. Hot tears welled up in his brown doe eyes, threatening to spill over, but he didn't let them earn their victory. Not that easily.
Every so often, Sam pondered about life. Life can be so unfair sometimes. Why does it have to be their responsibility to hunt down the paranormal, to save people's lives? The fake names, the false IDs, the pretend personalities, the hidden hoard of weapons in the Impala's trunk… In a nutshell, lies. Anger and hatred suddenly surged through his entire being. He felt so useless, so helpless. After everything Dean had done for him, he couldn't even get him out of this deal? He was angry at Dad, at himself, at the freakin' whole wide world. Why do we Winchesters have to suffer so much? First Dad had to go and make that stupid deal with that blasted Yellow-Eyed Demon and gave up his life for Dean's, and now my brother has to follow his footsteps to sacrifice his life for mine? Why was I so soft and didn't finish Jake off when I had the chance? Why?! If I did, all these wouldn't have happened, and Dean would have more than one miserable year to live.
He remembered being kidnapped to that deserted town along with the other 'special children'. The worst thing was only one of them gets to live there alive, the strongest. In the end, only he and Jake were left. He thought he could bring them both safely out, but he was wrong. He remembered Dean's warning. "Sam, watch out!" Before he could react, he felt agonizing pain and heard the resonance of his spine cracking as Jake dug the rusty knife deeper into his back. Merely subconscious, he fell on his knees, limp in Dean's arms, hearing his name being called again and again. To describe the pain as excruciating was an understatement. He wanted to console Dean that everything would be alright, but however hard he tried, he just couldn't find his voice. Then, everything got more distant, his vision became slurred and blurry… he finally relinquished to Death's opened arms, and breathed his last breath in his brother's favorite leather jacket – feeling absolutely nothing.
Sam cringed inwardly at the memory, and his fingers absently wandered to the waistband of his worn out jeans, caressing the smooth surface of the Colt. He was determined to save his brother, and that included blasting every single crossroad demon he summoned until he comes across one that is useful for further information. In fact, he'll start that very moment. A photo of him? Check. A black cat's bones? Check. Graveyard dirt? Check. It was going to be a long night.
Hesitant, he got up and proceeded to that dreaded room. He paused, his hand trembling on the doorknob. Sam took a deep breath and, putting on a brave demeanor, stroded over to the bed where his brother lay. The gleaming tiled floor suddenly appeared to be fascinating. As he reached the bedside, he slowly lifted his eyelids – which seemed to weigh a ton – and took one glance at Dean. That one brief glimpse shattered his mask of audacity and broke his already cracked heart into tiny, unmendable pieces. Sam crumbled as he fell onto his knees. Small streams of tears flowed down his cheeks; they had won this time. He clutched the elder Winchester's arm and buried his face in the bed sheets. He didn't care that the sheets smelled like sterilized softener, he just sobbed and sobbed, letting out all the remorse and devastation he had kept in all this while.
Finally after a few ice ages, Sam finally raised his head and took in his brother's pallid, stony face. Right then, he really missed Dean's sarcasm. He chuckled half-heartedly and fervently swiped his tears dry with his sleeve and stood up.
"Don't worry, Dean. I'll find a way to save you like you always did for me. I promise." With that, Sam walked out without a backward glance, his sinewy frame stoic.
A teardrop gently slid down Dean's cheek, landing with a barely detectable 'plop' on the pillow.