Empty breezes blow silence across strange terrain. A man stands alone. No one knows how long he's been here. No one knows he's here. The planet is empty, far away from anything inhabited or any sort of life. Not even he knows how long he's been alone, staring into the depths of space, remembering sad eyes pleading with him.
"One day, when you find your way back, let these be your guide." The ghostly words woven in the breeze have blown past him many times, but he doesn't move; doesn't even flinch. Once, years ago, his eyes might've filled with tears but now those tears have dried. The memories carried on the wind have grown fainter. The people on earth he'd known, even the ones he'd passed on the streets are long dead. Centuries have blown by on the breeze and still the man in the red flannel stands staring, remembering. For he can never die. The mark on his arm makes sure of that. The mark that sent him here. The mark of eternal death.
"Close your eyes, Sammy."
Sometimes, a man with sad blue eyes and a trench coat watches him. The man in flannel doesn't see him. Doesn't see how he tilts his head, how he waits, how he listens as if he too can hear the memories on the breeze. Sometimes years pass as he watches, sometimes only days.
"They can help you remember what it was to be good… what it was to love." Feelings are like faint memories. They fade with the whispers, blown away on the breeze with the memories of the room he'd called his own, the car he'd loved, the brother he'd killed.
"Close your eyes, Sammy."
The car has long rusted and been towed to a junk yard where it was ground into scrap metal. The building containing the bones of the younger man's body has been bulldozed and dug up with some new building erected upon it. Their home still remains untouched, undiscovered, alone.
"It's for family you must proceed, Dean."
His name has blown away as well. He wonders when it will all disappear. When the last of his memories will be carried away on the strange, silent wind. When those sad hazel green eyes will blow away and the whispering pleas will fade. Sometimes he pleads for it to end, sometimes he listens for it to happen. And the man in the trench coat watches. Maybe one day, the flannel man will turn around. Maybe one day, he'll see the other man with the sad blue eyes and his hands buried deep in his trench coat pockets.
"Cas," he'll whisper the name as if he hasn't forgotten, as if centuries haven't passed, as if he's still Dean. Maybe one day, the angel will smile and sit down and they'll both stare at the depths of space together. Or maybe that day will never come. And Dean will forget. But for now, the angel disappears and Dean stands alone. He feels the scythe in his hand. He hears the pounding of his heart after the exertion of their fight. He sees the tears on his brother's face.
"Forgive me." And Sammy dies.