A/N: 'Sup, my friends? So I was re-watching Supernatural and this episode (3x16) has always struck me emotionally, so I figured it was about time that I write a fanfiction for it. I know all of the details aren't right, or there are some that are missing, or that just don't make sense, but for the sake of this story, just go with it (for example, I understand that Dean was in a coffin when they buried him, but for the sake of emotions, this story is how I would imagine it).

Disclaimer: Unless I am secretly Eric Kripke, I don't own Supernatural

Dead.

Dean was dead.

My brother was gone, forever.

It didn't matter that Lilith was gone, that she couldn't kill me. As the smoke left Ruby's body and I spotted Dean's bloodied corpse, I wishes that she had been able to kill me. Nothing matter if he was gone. Nothing.

I fell to my knees, clutching Dean close to my chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

In the end, it didn't matter how hard we tried to find a cure for him. It didn't matter all of the leads we followed to their dead ends. It didn't matter that he did it for me.

I was alive and he was gone. And nothing can ever right that fact.

First mom, then dad. And now, even Dean has been taken from me by the supernatural forces of evil. Everyone I ever loved had been taken from me.

I tried to leave the life. For a while, I was free. From dad, from the monsters that stalked our downsized family. Then Dean came, asking for my help, and I was pulled back into the Life. Jess was killed and all I had left to live for again was my family.

The one thing that remained constant throughout my life was that Dean was always there, ready to protect me or comfort me in his No chick-flicks brand of caring.

And now even he was gone.

I held my brother close, even as my tears slowed down; even as his body began to pale as the last of his life seeped from the gashes in his flesh. I continued to stare at his mutilated body, at his wide green eyes.

When Bobby found me and tried to pull Dean from my arms, I resisted. I couldn't let my brother go. Not now, not ever.

Because letting go of his body would mean that I was letting go of him, and I couldn't allow that. I just couldn't.

Bobby must have understood, because he took off his hat in a gesture of remorse and left me alone in the room, silently closing the doors behind him.

I remained in that room long into the next day.

Sunlight streamed into the room and I couldn't help but numbly think how unfair it was that Dean was dead and the world was so bright and cheerful.

When I finally stood up, my bones creaked from sitting in the same position for too long. I bent down and scooped my brother into my arms. I carried him from the room, past Bobby who was sitting half-drunk in the living room, and to the Impala where Dean had parked it that horrible night. I lay him down gently in the backseat, barely able to even look at him in his state. I almost turned away, but then I glanced back. Bending at the waist, I brushed my fingers over his eyelids, shutting them. That way, he looked a little more peaceful; I took off my jacket and draped it over his lower body, pretending that he was sleeping.

I returned to the house, where Bobby had stood, holding out the bottle of whiskey out to me as I returned. I accepted, guzzling half of the remaining alcohol in a single swig. I gave it back to him.

Then, in a quiet tone, I spoke. "Let's go."

He nodded, following me out of the house and down to the cars.

I drove for miles, but in the car that Dean had so fondly kept, the memories were inescapable.

Me and Dean, bored in the backseat while dad drove silently in the front seat. Me and Dean, in the front, working our first case together since I left for college. Me and Dean, discussing a hunt while chowing down on some fast food we'd picked up. Me and Dean, singing a Bon Jovi song and trying to pretend that Dean wasn't about to become a chew toy for someone Demon's pit-bull from Hell.

And now, me in the front seat and him in the back.

Dead.

"You can't be dead," I murmur under my breath, so quiet that, for a moment, I doubt that I even said anything. Then, in an explosion of emotions: "You can't be dead!"

All of my emotions creep past the initial skin of numbness that had coated my mind over the previous hours. "Dammit, Dean! You can't leave me like this!" I swallow hard, glancing through the mirror back at my brother. "You can't be gone…"

I think about where he must be now. Somewhere in the fiery pit, being tortured in the worst ways imaginable.

If I allow myself to, I can almost envision Dean screaming my name, cursing Azazel and Lillith and Ruby, and every other demon he can think of.

After that, I don't allow myself to think of Hell at all.

I can understand what people mean by remembering their loved ones as they were, and not what they had become during and after their last moments.

I want to remember Dean as he was. I want to remember his ridiculous obsession with the Impala, his love for burgers and pie. I want to remember him, sitting behind the wheel, tapping his finger to AC/DC and Styx. I want to remember him calling me an idiot and asking if the chick flick moment was over.

Eventually, I pull over to the side of a road, to where a large clump of trees are. Bobby pulls up behind me and together we retrieve Dean from the back of the Impala. We begin a somber march through the woods until we reach a small clearing.

Bobby has brought a shovel and he digs a trench in the ground while I sit next to my brother, silently telling him goodbye, thanking him for everything he has done for me.

When the hole is big enough- I refuse to think the word 'grave' or I just might lose it- Bobby and I lower Dean's body as gracefully as possible into it.

For a minute, we stand there, silently gazing at him.

He doesn't look peaceful. He doesn't look at rest. He looks exactly as he is: a dead man who has just been condemned to an eternity in Hell.

When the sun begins to set, we cover him with the fresh dirt.

Bobby retrieves something from his truck and holds it out to me. A small whine works its way out of my mouth as I see what it is: a small, wooden cross. A single tear trickles from the side of my eye as I place it above where Dean's head is.

Bobby claps a firm hand on my shoulder, pretending that his eyes are not just as wet as mine are. Clearing his throat, he tells me that he'll be waiting whenever I'm ready, and then stumbles back to his truck.

I stand there until night has fallen, trying to get it across my mind that Dean is really gone, that there is no way out of this.

But I can't let him go; he's my brother.

Determined, I stare down at the pile of dirt covering my older brother like a blanket.

"I'll fix this, Dean. I promise you, this is not the last time I'll see you."

I return to the Impala. Giving Bobby a short nod, I climb in and we drive off to his house.

Four long months later, my promise became reality.