The young man kneeled before the grave, his heart emotionally missing; his hands limp as the rested on his knees and his shoulders hunched. His face contorted as the emotions he kept very skillfully hidden away came surging back like the flood waters of Mazula; tears welled in his eyes as he bit his lip to try and stop them. He shuttered, "God, I miss you so much. It's not the same…" he turned his head away while tears hit his jeans.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't save you…" Sam couldn't catch his breath, tears flowing faster and his nose clogging. He mumbled, "I didn't even burn your body…" he looked away again, shaking his head at his past desperation, "but you left me, Dean …you were all I had. God, every day I wake up and wish you hadn't sold your soul, you had just kept me dead and fought the war yourself." Sam stopped while his diaphragm went into a spasm. "But then I'm being selfish, aren't I?" he mumbled to the ground.

He ran his hands through his hair and took a deep breath, his skin tightening from the drying tears. "I never told you the yellow eyed showed me that night, when Mom died," Sam stopped as a cough racked his body and he whipped at his eyes, "but he did. He fed me his blood and now…" he let out a small disbelieving breath, tears now fresh, "now I know; now I know what it does… what it did. Getting the powers, you know… but you don't… not all of it." Sam wrapped his arms around himself and fell forward almost.

"God, Dean," another shuttering breath, "I can't die. Not anymore, God, not since—not since before I won the war. It just happened…" Sam ran his hands through his hair again till they came to rest on his neck. "They tried, but I just got wounded…" he dug his nails into his skin and bit his lip hard. "I've been hit by cars, stabbed, choked," Sam shook his head slightly, at a loss for words, "D—daemons, ghosts, Dean, you name it, it's tried. I just, I just…" he knew his was a manifestation of his mental state but it felt like his heart was breaking in two. "I just don't. I heal, I get better." Sam let out another shaky breath and tried to calm down. "I survive… like always."

He whipped at his tears and rested his hands against the headstone. "I know when you went… that I said I'd see you later," Sam cleared his throat of the gunk that had built up there; "I wish I could keep that promise. I wish I could see you later," his voice sped and he calmed himself again, "but I don't think there's going to be a later." His voice cracked and the tears flowed more freely.

"Sometimes…" Sam started again after a while, "sometimes I wish you'd come back as a daemon," he felt and ignored the tears that hit his jeans and hands, "just so I could see you again…" He stared at the headstone another several minutes, till his vision cleared enough and he was sure his eyes weren't red.

"I don't even have a picture of you, not since before I went to Stanford. All I have are memories, Dean." Sam picked at the grass covering the grave. "I love and hate these memories, Dean. …Dean, I miss you so much." He stopped as his throat began to hurt again and tears welled. He blinked them away and reeled him his emotions. "You have no idea how much…"

He stared at the headstone; it almost proudly displayed 'DEAN WINCHESTER My Brother January 24th, 1979' but Sam had scratched off the death date in anger several decades ago. "See ya later, Dean."

"…Yeah," the usually strong voice cracked, "but not too soon, Sammy …not too soon…"