The Plain Cross

Dean used to joke about what would be written on his headstone when he died. Options he considered over the years included "Lady Lover", "The sexiest man to have ever lived", "Jerk", "Master of the Blue Steel", "Stubborn bastard", "Dean Winchester: 369, Death: 1" and "Out to Lunch: Be Back Soon". He never really took death seriously.

But on May 2nd, 2008, Dean died for real. A hell hound ripped him to pieces and dragged his soul into the Pit.

There was no last-minute rescue, no Faith Healer on hand, no deal with the devil, no time re-set. Dean was dead, and he wasn't coming back.

They had never talked about it, but there was an unspoken agreement among hunters that their bodies would be burned on a Funeral Pyre when their time came. They had encountered enough ghosts and vengeful spirits to be damn sure they never wanted to turn into that, and cremation was the surest way to ensure their souls moved on.

But Sam couldn't do it. His mother had burned to death in a fire; Jess, too. He couldn't watch his Dean's body go up in flames. He couldn't see the brother he had looked up to, admired, loved, be reduced to nothing but ash and dust. He couldn't accept the finality of death.

So he buried Dean instead. He found a secluded clearing and a simple pine box, and he laid his brother to rest.

He considered putting up a headstone.

But what could he say, to mark the life of Dean Winchester?

'Devoted Son, Beloved Brother.'

'Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down his life for a friend.'

'There is peace now you are done. Lay your weary head to rest. Don't you cry no more.'

'Survived by the brother he raised and the thousands he saved.'

'Hero.'

But nothing was good enough. Mere words could not describe who Dean was, what he had done, how much he was loved. Mere words could not express the depth of Sam's grief.

Dean was dead.

Sam couldn't even believe those comforting lies people cling to when the grief is too much to bear: "He's in a better place now", "He's resting", "He's finally at peace", "He's been reunited with his family", "He's happy now".

Sam knew the truth.

Dean was in Hell.

Dean was screaming.

Dean was burning.

Dean was being tortured for eternity.

There would be no peace, no rest, no end to the torment.

Dean was in Hell.

Dean was in Hell because he had taken Sam's place. He had made a deal with a demon, sold his soul, sacrificed himself, submitted to the flames – all to save Sam.

How was Sam supposed to live with that? How was he supposed to carry on with his life, knowing that every breath he took was a breath he had stolen from his brother? How was he supposed to find a way to be happy, the way Dean would have wanted him to, with the knowledge that Dean had damned himself to give Sam that future? How was he supposed to cope without his brother at his side?

How was he supposed to say goodbye?

The grave he dug on auto-pilot, and the coffin he sealed quickly to hide the horrific damage the hell hound had done. But the first handful of dirt nearly broke him. Later, he could never remember how he filled in the hole, or when he had dropped the shovel and collapsed to his knees. There was no counting the tears he had shed, or the hours he had spent in silent, agonising grief.

But when the shaking and shuddering stopped, when he had no more tears to give, he stared at the space where a headstone should be.

He tried, one last time, to think of something profound or meaningful to say.

But only one word came to mind.

No.

No.

No!

This wasn't the end. This wasn't goodbye. Dean was not going to rot in Hell for all of eternity. Sam was not going to leave him there. This was not Dean's final resting place. Sam was not going to come back here once a year with a bunch of flowers and try to find a way to be at peace with what had happened. Sam was not going to abandon his brother.

Dean was coming back. Sam was going to save his brother if it was the last thing he did.

Sam marked the place of the burial, but not with a headstone.

At the head of Dean's grave he set a plain, wooden cross.

Because the cross was not just a symbol of death.

It was a symbol of resurrection.