"No, no, no don't die on me!"
The blade is still buried deep in his lung, and with every breath he takes, it rattles. His tissue pushes it back and forth, cold metallic against the warmth of his insides, and it’s the discomfort of its shifting that bothers him the most. Everything is a blur - he’s on the floor now, curled onto his side with one hand wrapped around the frigid hilt of the angel blade stuck in his chest. Maybe it’d be best to leave it in, maybe he’d last longer - but he pulls it out anyway, whining low & breathless as he does. It hurts like a bitch.
As the weapon is dropped onto the floor, hands grab at Dean’s shoulder, hurried at first, but then timid & careful. His fragility in this moment is something this person is hyper aware of, even if they couldn’t possibly fathom the pain he’s in. They edge him onto his back, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Every gasp is a burden, and every exhale burns. Blood is pulsing rhythmically from his chest, but it’s not the blood loss that’ll kill him.
Stiles is knelt beside him. Dean can’t help but feel a little guilty - dying in front of Stiles, after all the kid’s been through, is the last thing he ever wanted. But it’s better this way.
Stiles’ hands are working at fixing him, trying hard to will the blood back into his body, but he’s past saving. The hole in his lung isn’t something a teenager can fix - and even if there is a hospital close by, it’s not close enough. By the time an ambulance arrives, Dean’ll be dead. Again.
Dean grips Stiles’ wrist, holding it hard & in place. There’s nothing he can do. He doesn’t want his last few minutes to be spent watching his lover try in vain to fix what can’t be. His breaths are labored & difficult, and it takes all he’s got just to find Stiles’ hand and hold it.
He gives the boy’s hand a squeeze, but he’s gone before Stiles has the chance to squeeze back.
