"He’s gonna be fine, Dean," Sam said, voice strained and cracking. Dean nodded and took a seat as Sam went off to find the doctor. Dean moved his chair closer to the man lying in the hospital bed, his hand grasping the older man’s. "You hang in there, Bobby," Dean breathed, his voice broken but firm, "You’re gonna be fine. It’s not that bad." Tear’s slid down the older Winchester’s face as he said those words, his mind flashing back to the time his brother was stabbed. "Don’t you leave me," he screamed, "Don’t you dare. You’re all we got, come on. You’re like a father to us. You can’t."
Sam slowly walked to the, a look of despair on his face as he watched his older brother, heard him say, “Look, Bobby. You old son of a bitch. Mom and Dad are gone. Ellen and Jo. Ash. They’re all gone. Cas too. Bobby, we can’t lose you too. You are our father and…,” Dean couldn’t finish his sentence. Sam walked in and grabbed up his mess of a brother and pulled him into a tight embrace. The machine beeping next to Bobby slowed down, ending with a long continuous sound. They looked over at Bobby, up at the flat-line on the screen, and back at each other. “How we doin this,” Sam asked, his voice cracking, tears sliding down his face. Dean pulled his gun out, and Sam followed suit. “Together,” Dean whispered. Dean’s hands shook as he brought the barrel to Sam’s head. Sam’s gun reached Dean’s head, “On the count of three,” he suggested, and Dean nodded. “Love you, bitch,” Dean said. Sam smiled half-heartily, “You too, jerk.” Together they counted, “One, two, three,” and fired.