It's been so long. A decade, maybe more. He stares at the worn headstone at his feet, reading and rereading the inscription. It's simple, the way Dean would have wanted it. There are no elaborate engravings, just the words and the date.
Dean Winchester
January 24, 1979 - May 15, 2016
There's a kind of poetic irony in the fact that Dean died the very same day he had been dragged into Hell.
He kneels down, pebbles digging into his knees through the coarse denim of his jeans, and gently brushes the long grass away. Little white flowers grow in clusters near the base of the headstone. It makes him think of purity... righteousness. The Righteous Man. A choked laugh rises in his throat, but it sounds more like a sob.
For some reason, even the idea of the Apocalypse sounds fantastic now. It's strange to think that such matters used to be everyday to him. Strange, and a little bit frightening. Not because the memories are horrifying (although some of them are), but because he misses it. God, does he miss it. Those days when he and Dean would roam the open roads, hunting and cracking dirty jokes and intentionally pissing each other off. Two brothers against the whole world... hell, not just the whole world - Heaven and Hell, too. Cas popping into the back seat unannounced and scaring the crap out of them.
He chuckles a little but quickly grows sober again.
He hasn't seen the angel since perhaps a few weeks after Dean's death. Cas told him gravely that Dean was at the Roadhouse, with Ellen and Jo and Bobby and John and Mary. That he was happy, finally at peace. Then Castiel had disappeared and had never come back. He'd been left sitting in the dirty old motel room, staring at the revolver in his trembling fingers and contemplating his existence.
He grimaces, not liking to dwell on that era of his life. It had been dark and messy and hopeless. Now he remembers it only as a blur of dim motel rooms and endless roads and a dull ache that didn't go away no matter how much time passed.
Dean had gone down fighting. It had been neither a difficult nor a particularly important job. Just a vengeful spirit - a exceptionally vengeful one - and a little girl with no parents. A little girl who is still alive now thanks to his brother. He bites his lip and blinks quickly to clear the wetness from his eyes. Not quickly enough.
A small, warm hand slips into his own.
"Daddy, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"
His son's thin but still babyish face stares up at him anxiously. Sam tries to smile and squeezes his hand.
"It's nothing, Neil," he says, scooping him up and burying his face in his little boy's soft, fluffy, brown hair. "Daddy just… I miss... someone. I'm okay."
Neil pulls back and gravely cups his cheeks, examining his face carefully. Then he nods wisely, too wisely for his six years, and strokes Sam's face.
"You'll see him again," he tells him. "Just like Mommy says I'll see Buddy again, in Heaven. 'Cause the angels are watching over us, Daddy."
Sam swallows.
"I know, Neil. I know."
He clears his throat and tickles the boy gently. Neil giggles and wriggles out of reach.
"You can't catch me, Daddy!" he shouts exuberantly, pumping a little fist in the air as he scampers towards the car where his mother is waiting. Sam watches him go with a small smile.
This reminds him why he left the life. Why he isn't really missing anything at all. And that life is good, beautiful. Even glorious.
He turns back to the little patch of green grass. The white flowers sway cheerfully in the warm, sweet-smelling breeze. There's peace here.
Dean Winchester
January 24, 1979 - May 15, 2016
And this time the words are comforting, reassuring.
"Jerk," Sam whispers.
And just for a moment, he thinks he hears an answer.
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