Drabble gift for a friend. See the companion graphic here: http : / / 30 . media . tumblr . com / tumblr_lpp18aaKIv1qadaqmo1_500 . png
The drive is always the hardest part of the trip.
It brings back memories, both good and bad, though Dean tries to keep the recollecting to a minimum. Uncovering his baby once a month is no sweat, but getting behind the wheel and hitting the road always seems to feel like climbing back into the saddle. The first few times he tried he could only sit in the garage, waiting for Sam to come bursting through the door so that they could get back to hunting. But Sam wasn't coming and Dean was only met with silence until the pain got the best of him.
He's better at it now, managing to hold back the tears until he gets a few driving hours under his belt. Each time there's a different trigger: a song on the radio, a sideways glance to the passenger seat, even the sleaze bag motels that line the highway. It feels like there is nothing that his brother's memory hasn't touched.
Dean pulls into the Greenville cemetery, parking in his usual spot before cutting the roar of the engine. He wipes the sleep and salty trails from his face in an attempt to look reasonably presentable before stepping out of the car. He remembers the last time he stood in this cemetery when Sam was topside, scoffing at the thought of acknowledging a headstone for an empty grave. Now it's all he has left of his family that is long gone.
He kneels before the slab of etched granite bearing their mother's name. Somewhere in this plot of dirt and grass resides the dogtags Sam buried long ago. There's a stretched moment of silence before the tears and the words start to flow, and even after all the months he's been coming here, he still recites the same words.
"I miss you Mom…Dad…Sam. Fuck! I miss you all more than I can stand."
Dean bows his head as the water drips from his chin to the dirt, his hand reaching into his jacket to retrieve Sam's pocketknife that he left in the Impala. Dean has carried it for seven months now; seven months of no word from Cas to know if Sam is ever coming back. Flipping open the blade, Dean stabs the ground in an effort to dig a small hole. Truthfully, he wishes he could make the hole six feet deep and put himself inside, but he made a promise and it's one he has to keep.
His fingers run over the rosewood handle one last time, shutting the blade and placing it into the dirt before covering it up for good.
"I love you guys," he whispers as he pats the ground one last time before standing.
There's a brief touch of warmth on his shoulder and the feeling that he's not alone tingles Dean's senses. The wind picks up while the sensation fades, and he can't tell if he's imagining the sound of angel wings or if it's just the trees playing tricks with his mind.
He trudges back to the Impala as the rain starts to fall, pulling the coat close to his body against the cold December air. Falling back into the driver's seat he fires up the engine and starts out on the long drive back to Indiana, back to a family he still feels he doesn't deserve.
Sam had said it was never about the things you leave behind but the memories that remained that were important. As Dean hits the highway they come flowing back, just like they always do when he makes this trip. He grips the steering wheel tight, and tells himself that going to the gravesite will get easier with time.
The drive will always the hardest part.
