It's 2006, but just barely. Overall, 2005 was a relatively shit year, but this one is looking even worse. It's also looking like Dean's last.

They're halfway through visiting hours at Our-Lady-of-Merciful-Whogivesashit, and Sam's off to the side of the room hunched over an honest-to-God rosary. And not even one of the tacky ones they stuff into bottles of Poland Spring to let sit overnight, this one is all precious blue beads on a gold chain. Dean doesn't even wanna know where he got the thing.

Dean leans his head back into his pillow and gets about two seconds of restful bliss before his pulseox machine starts screaming bloody murder, which sets Sam into a flurry until he's sure that Dean's taking deep enough breaths that the next one won't be his last.

"Dean," he starts.

"Sammy," Dean huffs out.

The kid rolls his eyes. "This doesn't have to be it, Dean. We can go get a second opinion."

"What difference does it make?" Dean rolls his eyes. "Everyone's gotta die from something."

"Not at 26, Dean."

"It's not the years, man, it's the miles. Life like this? You only get so many."

Sam looks up with red eyes. "I just don't think you deserve to die like this."

Dean scoffs. "What, and the kid with cancer next door does?"

Sam doesn't have a reply. He just goes back to fiddling with the beads in his lap.

Some medical drama is playing on the TV on the wall, a big black box that looks one second away from falling and crushing Dean's feet. He rubs at the scratchy green blanket laid over his legs, one of the ones that are actually pleasant until the lifeless room leeches out all their heat.

Sam looks up again, face all snotty 'cause he's been crying like a girl. "Do you really think you could die tomorrow?"

Dean rolls his shitty little table over and reaches out to check his phone. 6:53 p.m. January 14 2006. No new messages.

He puts on his bravest face, the one he saves for late nights with no bread for the next morning. "I mean, I'm hoping to hold out for at least another week or so. Can't leave Janis and Jimi hanging like that."

Sam blows his bangs out of his eyes. "Dean. Please take this seriously."

"I am! It's not my fault I gotta be the realist around here."

A knock at the door startles Sam out of responding. A nurse leans in. "Five more minutes, boys."

Sam stands up and starts shoving his shit back into his man-purse messenger bag, and Dean's gotta ask.

"What's with the rosary?"

Sam shuffles from foot to foot. "Jess got it for her confirmation. She would've been 23 this-- well, actually. I didn't know until like a month in that you two shared a birthday."

Dean's got no idea how to respond, so he just nods and pulls at a loose thread in his shitty green blanket.

Sam stops by the door. "Dean. Tomorrow I'm taking us to Nebraska. Whatever happens, you're not dying in a hospital."

"Good. The stench of rubbing alcohol is starting to burn my nose," Dean calls after him.

The door slams shut. The room feels darker than before. Lonelier. At least the doctors on TV get to wear cowboy boots.