Dean stumbles. His brother’s arms catch him: reassuring, strong. His heart thunders.
“Cas!” Sam’s voice cries out, panicked. Calm urgency answers.
“Sam, what’s wrong?”
“It’s his heart.”
Hands grasp at him, tug at his shirt, and Dean feels himself being lifted, carried, then set down on a soft bed. Something cold presses against his chest.
“We weren’t quick enough. The witch, she…”
Words fade into mumbled undertones drowned out by the pounding of his blood. Something else presses on his chest, and a harsh beeping hits his ears. Gentle hands card through his hair. “Dean…”
“S’mmy…” Just a whisper from his straining lungs.
Two pairs of eyes up above him: anxious hazel and reassuring blue. A comforting voice before the blackness takes over.
“Shh, Dean. Everything’s going to be alright.”