Title: Fifty Miles
Summary: They're about fifty miles from Cold Oak when Dean remembers how to think.
A/N: I was NOT going to write a coda to AHBL, I really wasn't. I had good intentions of keeping myself free from entering the spec realm until Kripke revealed all this comoing Thursday. But kalyw ambushed me with the bunny and MADE me write it. Seriously. I had no choice. So this is entirely her fault. Love to geminigrl11, who, if you haven't guessed by now, beta'ed this piece.
Disclaimer: I own nothing! If I did, Sam would be alive and they would hug!!
-o-
They're about fifty miles from Cold Oak when Dean remembers how to think.
He's staring out the window and sees a road sign—that's the only reason he even has a clue where he is. The rest of the landscape is lost in darkness. It occurs to him that he has no memory of the trip so far. He has no memory of anything. But with awareness comes realization.
Sam's dead. Sammy's gone. Sam died.
The sudden impact of these thoughts makes him want to hurl, but there's no place to do it. He holds it in instead and squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that when he opens them again, this won't be real.
He opens his eyes and sees the Impala's dark interior. It looks foreign to him now, unfamiliar, wrong. He's in the back, which has never been a place he's been used to. He rode shotgun all his childhood and has had the driver's seat ever since.
Something is wrong, this is wrong, everything is wrong. The car is moving, moving without him, without his consent, and he doesn't quite know why.
The road beneath the car is rough and makes the seat bounce and jar and Dean's not wearing his seatbelt. He hits the door and window, again and again, and he thinks that it should hurt. Maybe it does hurt.
Sensation returns next.
It's Bobby's eyes he feels first, probing him in the rearview mirror. He can see the concern in Bobby's eyes even in the dark. The older man is at the wheel, and Dean can feel his discomfort, his awkwardness, and thinks that maybe he should be the one driving.
Then he realizes he feels cold. Cold and wet. Bruised. And empty.
But there's a heaviness all over him, inside of him and outside.
Sam. The heaviness is Sam.
Sam's still laying on him. Sam's still in his arms, a dead weight—dead weight—pressing against him.
For a second, the darkness blinds him and all he knows is the weight of Sam.
Sam's colder than he is, which isn't good, because Dean's shivering even though he can feel the heat blasting through the vents from the front seat.
He looks down and his eyes focus. Sam's not just cold. He's colorless. He's lifeless.
Sam's dead.
Something's choking him and he realizes he's crying.
Sam can't be dead. Sam's his little brother. Sam's the only family he has left. Sam's his life.
But Sam can't be his life, because Sam's dead.
Sam's dead, and all Dean can see is how young he looks. Sam's always been young to him, younger anyway, and it's one of the things that make Dean still want to protect him. Makes Sam seem innocent. Makes Sam seem vulnerable. Just like when they were kids.
He remembers the first time he saw Sam, in the hospital room. Sam had been little then (so little) and wrinkly. Even then, all he knew was that Sam was his to protect. He just hadn't known from what.
He remembers Sam's first laugh, warm in his mother's arms. Wide eyes sparkling as little Sammy giggled at Dean's ridiculous faces.
He remembers Sam's first word, a nearly unintelligible mama that made his father cry.
He remembers everything. Sam's first day of school, Sam's first broken bone, Sam's first kiss, Sam's first fight with their father.
He's spent a lifetime cataloguing Sam's firsts.
Now he's seen Sam's first death.
And he knows it will also be his last.
Because Dean's the only Winchester that seems to have nine lives. Dean's been pulled from the brink more times than he can count. He should be the one dead by now, long before his father, long before his brother. But somehow he's still alive and breathing, somehow his life was given back to him when he'd already been forced to give it up.
Maybe he's lucky. Maybe he's blessed. It doesn't feel that way right now.
None of it means anything, not without Sam. His second chance, his third chance, his father's sacrifice--mean nothing without Sam.
He can hardly breathe.
He remembers holding Sam, how Sam fit into his arms when he was just a baby, and he pulls his brother close again. Sam's body is compliant. His head lolls sideways and Dean catches it with his shoulder. Sam's arm flops off the seat, dangling as Dean hauls him up so he can bury his head in Sam's hair.
He wants to smell his brother, see his brother, feel his brother.
But there's only blood and death and emptiness.
Everything hurts. His fingers from gripping Sam so tightly. His legs from the burden of Sam's weight. His chest from the loss of Sam's breath.
He pulls away, and lets his eyes linger on Sam's face. Its slack and peaceful and Dean can only think about how wrong that is. Sam's many things, but he's not peaceful. Sam is annoyed, petulant, smart—but never still.
He tries to remember Sam that way, remember Sam alive, but for a second all he can see is Sam falling, the look of agony on his face the second before it all ends.
"No," he says, and doesn't care if Bobby hears him. "No, please." Not that. Something else. Anything.
His mind works, fast, desperate. He wants to remember the last time he really spoke to Sam, the last time Sam really heard him.
It's a whirlwind of memories, of misplaced moments of his life, before he settles on one.
He'd asked for pie.
Sure, he said all the right things when Sam was dying, when it was too late. But when it had mattered, he'd asked for extra onions and a piece of pie.
He knows that if he'd gone in with Sam, he'd probably be dead, that the demon would have removed him from the playing field just like Mom, just like Jess, just like every other innocent victim. He knows that Sam wouldn't have wanted Dean sliced open and bled out on some random diner floor. Or worse yet, on the ceiling. He knows that because he knows how much Sam loved him, how much Sam wanted the best for him.
But it doesn't matter what Sam wants. Not anymore. Because Sam's dead.
He just hopes Sam knew he loved him. He hopes it with everything left inside of him.
He could say it now. He could say anything now. He could tell his brother how sorry he was for not supporting his decision to go to college. He could tell his brother how much he wished their dad had told him that he loved him. He could hold Sam, just hold him, like when they were kids, and ease everything else away.
But it doesn't matter now. Because Sam is cold and dead and gone, and the last thing Dean ever asked him for was a piece of pie.
Fifty-five miles outside of Cold Oak, Dean wishes he could forget how to think again.