Take a Moment
He leans back against the door of his precious '67 Chevy Impala. He looks out onto the crystal blue lake before him, seeing the sun reflect off it, how bright it is. How can such a beautiful day be associated with something so terrible that happened the previous year?
Sam's death.
How was it possible that one year had already passed since Sam left? He wishes time could stop for a while, if only a few seconds. Sam's dead, really gone. If only he had gotten there sooner.
I could've prevented all of this from happening. If only I had gotten there sooner.
He squints now, because the sun seems to be getting increasingly bright as the seconds pass. The sky is an electric blue; it's almost too bright to look at. The clouds are the whitest of whites. The California sun, the warm weather. Maybe it's a good thing the day's so nice. It kind of describes Sam: bright, energetic. It all fits, in some sort of way.
He takes a swig from the bottle of beer in his hand; the liquid tastes flat now. It was in his hand, idle, for the past ten minutes since he had opened it and took a sip. Still, he drinks it anyway, silently toasting the beer to his brother, whom no one can forget.
I'm sorry, Sammy.
He remembers the nights he never told her about—the nights where he got shit faced to the point where he couldn't walk in a straight line even if he tried. He lied, and he told her that it was just "one too many." An accident—he simply lost count of drinks.
She believed him and brushed it off. He wished he could tell her that he missed Sam, more than he thought, but he was a Winchester. No chick flick moments, right? How could he talk about his feelings?
There may have been some nights where a tear or two was shed in silence. Everyone had their way to grieve, and he had to find his way. This was it. It hadn't helped, nonetheless. Still, he hurt in new ways that he never thought possible. The pain he experienced in Hell was nothing compared to this: the death—no, murder—of his brother.
Can you see me right now, Sam? From wherever you are? Can you hear my thoughts? Anything?
His thought process pauses for a millisecond.
This seems useless.
He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, and his foot kicks at the dirt on the ground as he reaches for another beer from the cooler. He cracks the top open and downs nearly half of it in mere seconds.
He wishes there was some way, any way, to bring back Sammy. He would give anything, almost anything, to have him back. Have his brother with him and act like he never left. He knows she would agree, too.
He hopes Sammy can see—from wherever he is—that for the most part, he's doing okay. Not "fantastic" or "terrible", but halfway in the middle: okay. His gaze goes back up to the clear, blue sky and wonders. Is she okay, too?
They never spoke about the incident after a couple of months. Neither of them wanted to open that can of worms again, he had assumed. Still, he wonders again. Is she really okay? She was just as affected by Sam's passing as he was.
Sammy was her ex-boyfriend, the one she truly loved, he remembers. He recalls a time when she told him that she thought she'd marry Sam. It only lasted nearly two years, and they called it quits.
And what was that nonsense Sam was talking about in his hospital bed before he died? He gave Dean permission? For what? To start a relationship with her if his feelings were that way? Not a chance. He never felt that way about her before, not now either. Why would Sam say something like that?
Maybe…maybe so that they could take care of each other. Get each other through this…whatever you want to call it? It was possible, but how should he know? All Dean knew was that they would never be together. Not in any lifetime, really.
A sigh emits his mouth as he rubs a hand over his tired face. He wishes that he wasn't here, upset about his brother's death. He wishes it were the opposite. He wants to be out with his brother; getting drinks and watching Sam roll his eyes every time Dean tried to hit on a girl and successfully get her number, a triumphant smile on Dean's face.
"You wanna think with your upstairs brain a little, Dean?"
He wants those moments back, among others. Those most. Or maybe the times they hunted together. The non-stop road trip, stripping the country of demons and killing all kinds of supernatural creatures everyday. Sharing those crappy motels together weren't all that bad, either, he admits to himself.
Sure, there was some sort of pain involved most times, but it was worth is. He thinks it was, anyway. They went through a lot, but at the end of the day, Sam was all he had. Now, she was all he had.
Her duty was to take care of him—Sam had said so. Made her promise. She promised, and to this day, she has never let him down. It's almost commendable how many times she helped his drunk self in and helped him into bed. Or the times she stayed up all night making sure he was okay—if he needed water or a trashcan to throw up in. Or that one time he got so incredibly sick, he could barely move. She did everything to help him get better: made him soup, let him listen to his Metallica cassettes to fall asleep, reminded him to take his medicine on time. Everything.
She's never broken her promise, Sammy. Never.
So he keeps thinking. His thoughts are consuming him. Usually, it's never a good thing, but today, he'll make an exception. He'll let him mind jump from thought to thought, from Sam to everything else that's happened in the past year. His mind will jump to her, and he'll wonder what if they were together? What would change?
He stops. It seems too weird to think about. He'll let their relationship stay the way it has been. Better that way, he thinks.
Wish there was a way to bring you back. Maybe you guys would get back together or something. And me…well, at least I'd still have you around. The way it used to be, ya know?
"Dean?" Her voice breaks him away from his thoughts.
He looks up and finds her standing a few inches away from him. "Yeah?"
"Might be time to head back," she says, "Everyone's waiting."
He looks out onto the water briefly before looking back at her. "Just a few more minutes."
She simply nods her head and leans back against the Impala like he is. "Are you okay?" She asks.
He takes a moment to think about it. Is he?
"Yeah, Ror, I think I'm okay."