Sam knows he has things to still take care of. He should go to Illinois and visit Dean's grave, make sure it's being tended to properly. And there's the matter of the Impala - it's sitting safely at Bobby's and while the weapons cache was long disposed of, Sam knows there are other things still in the car that he needs to go through - Dean's music and most of his clothes, John's journal and some of his other stuff.
Beside all that, it's been over a year now, and Sam thinks it's probably time to go and see Bobby, who Sam knows wants to see him - and if Sam's learned anything in the past few months it's that things can happen in the blink of an eye - something he would've thought he'd already learned considering the line of work they were in but something that had never really hit home until Dean was gone.
So, as much as he dreads it, Sam makes some plans around Easter weekend and after some hesitation, books a one-way airline ticket for the Thursday before. It's stupid, he thinks, because he's pretty sure he's not going to want to drive Dean's car back to Boston. It's impractical and he'd have to pretty much take off the day after he gets to South Dakota in order to get back to Boston in time to work on Monday, and he really doesn't think he'll want to do it anyway - just seeing the damn thing is going to be enough, much less climbing in and actually driving it.
Yet he can't quite close that particular door just yet.
At least, not until he gets there and sees how things go.
/
Good Friday.
Bobby's place is the same. Exactly. It feels good to Sam in some ways, to have it unchanged. Familiar. Comforting. The last time he'd been here had been with Dean, after the Apocalypse, when he and Dean were recovering. They'd both been hurt - critically so in Sam's case - and it'd been touch and go for awhile. The whole kidney thing for Sam. "Don't you dare fucking give up on me," he remembers Dean saying to him at one point, when he hadn't pissed for over a day and his fever had soared to a hundred and four. "You're not meant to go this way, Sam. Not now."
Sam doesn't remember much about those days when he'd first gotten there, how grave everything was, how close to dying he actually came, but he does remember these words.
Sam flies out Thursday and he only has until Sunday before he needs to be back. He isn't going to have a chance to stop in Illinois, visit Dean's grave. He's not even sure he's going to be able to bring the Impala back to Boston, or if he even wants to - not unless he starts driving on Saturday and goes straight through - something he's definitely done before, driven a long way without stopping, but he's not sure if he wants to leave Bobby's before then, isn't completely sure he wants to bring the car back with him.
But one thing is certain. Whether he brings it to Boston or not, Sam is going to have to - take care of it. Clean it out. Make some decisions about some things.
He figures Friday morning is as good a time as any.
It's March, so the weather isn't great, the ground still not thawed, but it's not the worst. Gray but dry, cool but no breeze. "I'm going to go and - see to Dean's car," is what he says to Bobby, and pulls on his jacket as soon as they've coffee. "Is it down by the garage?"
"You want any help with that?" The look on his face is unreadable, though Sam thinks he sees something twitch at the outer corner of Bobby's eye for just a second.
"Nah," Sam says. He knows he needs to do this alone. "I've got it."
"Well, you know where I'll be if you change your mind."
Sam is actually trembling a little as he walks down the sloping driveway and catches sight of the car, the car he hasn't been inside since the funeral. He has to talk himself down a little, remind himself that it's just a car, it's no big deal, nothing bad can happen if he looks inside Dean's car for Christ's sake.
It looks beautiful and awful all at the same time.
Beautiful because of what it stands for, what it means, who it represents.
Awful for the exact same reasons.
Dean should be here, Dean should be here -
Sam plunges right in, no preamble, just yanks open the driver's door, slides in and closes himself in.
Just as if they were about to go on a hunt.
The inside smells both different and familiar - damp and closed in from being outside and undriven, but beneath that is the very faint scent of the pine air freshener Dean always had hanging and the scent of the leather seats, that undeniable car smell.
He puts his hands on the wheel, closes his eyes and just - thinks. Goddamn, the car. This car. How fucking much Dean loved it. Sam smiles, thinks about how pissed Dean was that Sam had put in an I-Pod jack when Dean had been in Hell. Really, Sam had had no business "douching her up," as Dean put it. Not when he'd put so much love and effort into her.
At this very spot, after John had died, where Dean began to rebuild her. Sam's smile fades. That had been hell, that time right after, how Dean refused to address anything - his grief, his past, his future. Anything. He'd never said anything to anyone, ever, but Sam still, to this day, thinks Dean never really got over it, all the baggage attached to their father going to Hell so Dean could live, leaving so many things unfinished, so many words unsaid between - well, the three of them, really.
But enough wandering down memory lane, Sam thinks. He has to get this done, sort through things, decide what he wants to do with the car, leave it here to sit or try and bring it to Boston.
He goes through the clothes in the back seat first - there are a few things of his and he retrieves those first. The rest are Dean's and he feels a pang at seeing them. He buries his face into one of Dean's shirts and it smells like Dean, and the rush of pain that snaps through him is immediate. He loosely folds it and sets it to the side but decides to get rid of everything else. They're Dean's clothes but Sam won't be able to wear them and beside, Dean wouldn't want him to keep them.
That's done.
Bobby has John's journal in the house - Sam hasn't looked at it yet, but Bobby told him he'd brought it inside, didn't think it would be a good idea to leave it out in the damp of the car. There are other things of course, pictures and notes and other things shoved between the pages that Sam knows he'll need to at least look at before he leaves, but for now - one thing at a time.
And, of course, Dean has John's brown leather coat, had been buried in it. To do anything else with it would've been unthinkable.
So, really, there's just the matter of Dean's music.
Probably the hardest thing Sam's going to have to sort through.
He can't imagine ever listening to it without Dean around.
But it's even harder for him to picture just pitching these tapes into the trash. Gone forever - no fucking way.
His hands are actually trembling when he leans down and begins fingering through the tapes on the floor between the seats.
The music's a touchy thing with Sam. Not just Dean's music, but all music. Some days he can listens to the radio and AC will come on, and - nothing. Sam will hear it and that will be that. Just a song by a group Dean loved, no more and no less. Other times, Sam might hear a song that has nothing to do with Dean, something like the other day when some oldies station at work played, "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother," - a song Dean would've never allowed to grace his airwaves - and Sam had to leave the room so he didn't burst into tears - and it can kill him for no apparent reason. Sam doesn't get that at all, why some fucking song that has nothing to do with Dean will bring him to tears for no good reason, but that's obviously some fucked up issue he has, getting weepy over songs that nudge him the wrong way.
And then there are the songs that smack him right in the face.
Just last week, "Hey, Hey, What Can I Do," had come on Sam's radio and the minute he heard the first guitar strains seeping out, before the first lyrics were even sung, Sam had shut it off, panting, feeling almost hysterical. Because how many times had Dean played that song while they were driving, that smirk on his face as he glanced over at Sam in the passenger seat and sang, "Wanna tell you about the girl I love, my she looks so fine," while he tapped the beat out on the steering wheel. Really, it took so little, Sam had thought in the stillness, after he'd clicked the radio off. He would've been just so happy to be alive right now, listening to Zep and drinking a beer and, getting some kind of job where he could've worked with his hands, coming home to Lisa and Ben or - whoever - every night. Knowing I was all right, that everyone he cared about was taken care of -
So, yeah. The music thing doesn't always go over that well with Sam, but the thing is, he can't really ever tell what song might set him off or for what reasons.
But this right here, Dean's music in Dean's car - that's going to have to be addressed.
Sam inserts the key into the ignition, turns it over without starting the car, and then pushes the first cassette he grabs into the player.
Goddamn, "Over the Hills and Far Away."
Dean's favorite closet Zeppelin tune. Sam used to harass him about it, tell him it was too mellow for Dean to like but Dean didn't care what Sam said, would just flip him off and crank it up louder.
And Sam hadn't minded. It was one of the few songs he and Dean had both liked.
But now, hearing it in this time and in this place, Sam's ready to pull it out of the tape player and fling it out the fucking window.
He doesn't, though. Because it's like a car accident he can't look away from. The words, the music, the memories of Dean in this very spot, driving this fucking car, listening to this fucking song - the sight of him in Sam's head, how something so small and meaningless like this goddamn Led Zeppelin song playing at top volume could make Dean so fucking happy.
Or at least as happy as Dean could be, given the life they'd been leading, how awful it had been.
He reaches over to yank it out, get the damn thing out of there, but doesn't get past getting his fingers on the eject button.
It's okay, Sam. It'll be okay. Promise.
It's not some voice that puts these words in Sam's head, he could never say that, even once he thinks about it, but more a feeling inside him, in his spirit if he's going to get all technical about it. Something that runs right through him, that tells him it's okay if he listens to this music, that it's even okay if he listens to it and cries, or throws something or just fucking - feels - anything.
If he just fucking lets go.
What the fuck? Let go of Dean? Never happen. Not in a million years.
Not let go of Dean. Of what happened to him. Your part in it.
You had no part in it, Sam. You just need to let go.
Sam gasps then, yanks the tape out and drops it onto the seat.
Because it's too fucking weird right now - all of this, listening to Dean's music and hearing - well, not Dean's voice, not exactly, but feeling something about Dean while all this is going on - and Sam can only take so much at one time.
One thing is certain, though. He knows he's going to keep the music. All of it.
/
"Okay, what about this?"
It's Friday night and Sam and Bobby are in Bobby's living room, still poking through Dean's things. John's journal, specifically. After thumbing through it, Sam's decided to leave it with Bobby and his massive book collection. He takes the pictures out, the pictures Jenni gave them in Lawrence, and a couple of other pics that Dean had, mainly for I.D. purposes and the note Dean had written after he'd left Cicero that last time, but other than those things, Sam doesn't want the journal itself, doesn't need it.
Bobby's holding up the Indian blanket from Julia, Dean's nurse in Oklahoma. "You want this?"
Sam remembers her giving it to him that next day, when he'd signed all the papers, taken care of all the arrangements for the "funeral" and getting Dean's body back to Illinois. She'd handed him Dean's clothes, the amulet and the blanket, which had momentarily confused him. "This is your's -"
"I really - gave it to Dean," she had answered. ""Because of how much he said he was looking forward to seeing the Grand Canyon. You should keep it, Sam."
"No, I can't," he'd said. It was the last damn thing he wanted, some blanket that reminded him of yet one more fucking thing that Dean wasn't going to have or get to do. "That's nice of you but-"
"Take it," she'd said again, pushing the folded blanket into his hands. "Some day, you'll go to the Grand Canyon, Sam. I know you can't think about that now, but some day it'll be one of those things you'll want to do. For your brother. So take it and try not to lose sight of those things you can still do to - remember him."
She really hadn't given him much of a choice, and he'd been so desperate to end the entire exchange that he'd blindly taken the blanket from her, along with the rest of Dean's possessions and thrown them into the back of the Impala. The last time he'd been inside Dean's car had when Bobby had driven them from Oklahoma to Illinois for the funeral. Sam had been in such a daze then, he hadn't even really noticed driving around in Dean's car without Dean - but he knew, after the funeral, that he couldn't be alone in it, driving it around like before so he'd asked Bobby to take it back to South Dakota, which he'd done without hesitation. Sam had bought that piece-of-shit, dusky purple rusting Corolla, complete with a stick shift and everything. He'd paid five hundred bucks for a car with over a hundred thousand miles on it because it was the first car Sam found that was the exact opposite of Dean's, one he thought he could drive around in without losing his shit.
Now, Sam looks at the blanket Bobby's holding, remembers Julia's words about seeing the Grand Canyon some day. Without Dean. Goddamn it, why is this so fucking hard? Sam thinks. It's been over a year and it's still right there, in his face, everywhere he goes. The car and the music and people yelling, "Sam," in the middle of the street and even this blanket that should mean absolutely nothing to him but does, because even after all this time has passed, every damn thing reminds him of Dean, and Dean not being here.
"Why do you think this is still so hard for me?" The words just slip out; Sam hasn't meant to ask this. But he can't help it - the seeming endless weight of it all never seems to let up, not even a little. "I mean, compared to - after Dean went to Hell. It seems like I got used to not having him around so much easier then."
Bobby doesn't try to hide the doubt on his face. "I don't remember it that way at all. How can you say you handled it better? It's a year out and you're working, making plans to go to school, meeting people. You're living, Sam. Whatever it was that you were doing when Dean went to Hell, it wasn't that."
"I don't feel like I'm living," Sam says. And he doesn't. Some days are better than others, but he still has yet to get through more than one day where he doesn't feel like he could fly apart at some point, if he were to allow himself. "I feel like I'm dragging myself through everything. And just barely that."
"Normal," Bobby says. His voice is gruff, and Sam wonders if it's for his sake, as well as Sam's. "You miss him. He was the biggest part of your life for a long time. You've been through stuff together people could never even fathom. I think it would be crazy if you didn't still feel this way."
If only the words could make him feel a little better. "But why didn't I feel this - grief or whatever - when Dean went to Hell?"
"Gee, Sam, maybe because you were messing around with a demon and sucking down demon blood every chance you got?" Bobby says. He steps forward, hands him the blanket. "Guess what? All that shit you were doing then? Covered up any pain you might've felt. Now? This is the real thing. The right thing. It's okay if thinking about Dean right now makes you feel bad. At least you're feeling something this time."
"Jesus, I really did him wrong back then." It's the first time Sam has admitted this out loud, and really understood it, how despicable his behavior had been during that time. He shakes his head. "I just hope -"
"He did," Bobby says. "If there's one thing Dean had made his peace with, it was you." He pulls something out of his pocket and Sam can see it's Dean's phone. "This?"
Sam looks at it long and hard. It wasn't so very long ago that he longed for this very thing - Dean's phone with Dean's damn voice on it. He has no doubt that if he would've had it, Sam would've listened to the voice mail endlessly.
The car. The music. Dean's shirt. The pictures. And now the blanket.
Somehow, those things seem like they'll be enough.
"I - no," Sam says. "You can - take care of it." He can't bring himself to say, "get rid of it" even though that's what he means.
"Done," Bobby says. And while he doesn't say anything else, there's something in his eyes that Sam can see, a flash of something that might just be a hint of relief.
/
Sam ends up driving the Impala back to Boston.
He knows he's going to do it when he lies down for sleep even though he hasn't actually voiced a formal commitment to it. But he's up early on Saturday, Bobby with him, again making coffee like he already knows what Sam's going to do. "Next Christmas," is the last thing he tells Sam. "No excuses. I want your goofy mug gracing my dinner table."
And Sam smiles a little, thinking about it. "Castiel going to be here again?"
Bobby rolls his eyes. "I suppose somebody has to take pity on the poor bastard. Might as well be me. Us."
Sam thinks he'll be ready to spend a holiday with people - Bobby and Castiel - by then, and he nods his assent. "I'll see if I can get the time off," he says. Whatever happens, it'll be worth seeing Cas and Bobby sharing Christmas dinner together.
The drive back to Boston goes better than he expects. He doesn't feel weird or awful, though to be fair, it's not like he has a whole lot of time to think about Dean or driving his car or much of anything else. He's driving like a freaking bat out of hell and Sam will still be cutting it close to make it back to Boston by Monday morning.
He only stops for gas and food, and he gets lucky in that he doesn't run into any traffic or weather snafus, and he manages to just make it into the city right at the start of rush hour.
He can't go home, he's got nowhere to park the car - something he's going to have to deal with as soon as he's done with work.
But instead of being irritated or upset, he has to smile. Already, Dean's car is being a pain in his ass, almost more trouble than it's worth.
Like Dean in some ways.
And, though Sam would have never thought it possible, it feels kind of good to have it here despite all the hassles.
He ends up parking it in the visitors lot at the hospital and making it into the locker room with twenty minutes to spare. He should be exhausted, he's just driven straight though from South Dakota to Boston but he feels good in a way he hasn't felt for a long time.
Like he's taken care of some important business and come out on the right side.
He takes a quick shower, gets dressed in his scrubs, grabs coffee, dashes over to the nurses station. "I need a phone book," he says, to no one in particular. He begins rummaging around for one, smiles his thanks when Sharon, the unit secretary hands one to him and randomly opens it up. "What are you looking for?" she asks him.
"I need to find a place that'll let me park a car - preferably inside, like an indoor parking garage," Sam says. He has no idea where to begin, what to look under and briefly wonders if he should just wait until his break to look online.
"You bought a car?" Jillian, one of the other nurses asks. It probably seems crazy when they've heard about the hassles he had with the Toyota and how he didn't mind getting rid of it and using the T.
"Yeah. No. I have my brother's car - I brought it back from South Dakota this weekend. I need to find a place where I can keep it. You guys know of anywhere that I can store it that won't take up my entire paycheck?"
"Do you mind coming out to West Roxbury to get to it?" Randi asks. "Because if you don't, I've got room in my garage."
Sam doesn't even know where West Roxbury is, but if it were a hundred miles away he'd be fine with it. "Really?" he asks. "How much would you want for the space?"
She seems insulted by that. "Nothing. There's nothing to charge you for. It would just be your car sitting in my garage, right?"
"Yeah, but I still think I should pay you something for it - the space I'm taking up or whatever."
"Why? I've got all this extra room and you need it. I'd feel like I was ripping you off."
Sam's aware that everyone else is watching them go back and forth, and his face grows a little warm. "Well, if you're serious," he says. "Then that would be great. I have it sitting down in the visitors parking lot right now."
"All right," Randi says. "After work you can follow me home. We'll have to stop and get my daughter from school first. Is that okay?"
"Fine," Sam says, and it is. He's got nowhere to be and he's just happy he's going to have somewhere to put the car.
Though, throughout the day, when he has a moment, Sam wonders about things. He knows Randi has a daughter, had heard her and Jillian talking about her, but he wonders about the empty garage and the not having to check with a husband about whether or not it would be a good idea for some stranger to keep his car at the house.
It would appear that he knows as little about Randi as she does about him.
Everything goes according to plan, he and Randi leave at three and Sam follows her first to her daughter's school and then out to her house in West Roxbury. It's not far at all and he can't believe his good fortune once again. It's exactly as she said - a double garage with plenty of room for Dean's car.
"I usually leave mine out during the summer anyway," Randi tells him, after she's introduced him to her daughter. "But I imagine you'll want it left in the garage as much as possible seeing what good shape it's in."
"Maybe just in the winter," Sam says. "It's been left out before. Plenty. I'll get another set of keys made and leave them with you in case you need to move it for some reason."
He hasn't had time to take anything out of the car, hasn't even been home yet. "Sorry," he apologizes. He pulls out his stuff, the blanket, Dean's shirt, tries to scoop up Dean's tapes. "I would've cleaned this stuff out but I didn't even go home before I came to work this morning."
"It's okay," Randi says. "Jenna, run inside and grab a plastic bag for Sam, would you?"
The girl scampers off and Sam stops what he's doing for a minute. "I really can't thank you enough for letting me keep the car here," he says. "I didn't know what I was going to do otherwise."
"Oh, it's really no problem," Randi says. She peers inside. "So, this is your brother's car. It's really nice. You don't see a lot of cars like this around."
"Yeah, this was his baby," Sam says. "We - it was totaled a few years back in an accident and he rebuilt it from scrap."
"Sounds like your brother was good with cars."
"He was." Sam leans over, pops open the glove box. He's moving and doing things before he even realizes it. He pulls out the papers he's brought from John's journal, shakes out the photos and fingers one out, hands it to her. "This is Dean."
She takes it from him, studies it and they're both silent for a moment. "He doesn't really look like you," she says, and when she looks over at Sam, she's smiling.
He's somewhat surprised at that - usually everyone comments on how good looking Dean is. Was. "No," Sam agrees. He comes and stands next to her, takes a look at the picture with her. "When we were kids I was a runt and then, after I got the kidney transplant I got bigger than him and everything. But yeah, we don't really look anything alike."
She looks back at the picture for a minute, really studies it. "He looks serious here, but you can still see he has a kind face."
Again. Not what most people usually say about Dean. And while it's true and he isn't smiling in this picture - not that he had occasion to smile all that often - Sam knows what she means. No matter how hard Dean looked, how world-worn he was, there was something in his face that always came across, some kind of compassion or empathy. Because he knew things that just about everyone else walking the planet didn't - how life could be taken in the blink of an eye before someone even knew what was happening. "He was kind. Always thought of everyone else first." He looks back down at the picture for a moment because he can't say anything else.
Really, wasn't that who Dean was?
"He sounds like a great guy, Sam." She smiles, hands him back the photo.
Jenna comes back then, waving the plastic bag at them. "I got it," she says. "I got a bigger one so the blanket will fit." She notices the picture Sam's still holding. "Who's that picture of?"
"Jenna -"
Jenna looks over at her mom and freezes. "No, it's fine," Sam says. He flips the picture around so she can see it better. "This is my brother, Dean. The one who used to own the car."
She peers at the picture, much as her mother had done. "He looks like a soldier," she says. "Was he?"
If you only knew, Sam thinks. "No," he says. "He wasn't a soldier like you're thinking. But he - did a lot of things in his life that helped a lot of people."
"My daddy was a soldier."
Randi is looking decidedly uncomfortable. "Her daddy had short hair like that," she says. "Your brother probably reminds her of him that way."
All the past tense usage hasn't escaped Sam, but he won't ask, not when Randi's been so good about not prying about Dean. "He was a combat medic in Iraq," Randi goes on, answering Sam's unspoken question. "He died three years ago."
Sam is shocked though he shouldn't be, given how it all suddenly rushes to him, how she's been able to sense where he's at with his grief, how she's somehow known when to inch forward or back off with him. "I'm sorry," he says. "I had no idea."
"No, of course you didn't," she says. She smoothes Jenna's hair but keeps her eyes on Sam. "But it's only fair to tell you, I think - I mean, you told me about Dean and you're going to be keeping your car here and - it just seemed like the right time to say something."
Something passes through Sam at her words, some nameless thing that has to do with knowing and sudden understanding. He wants to say more - so much more - things about how hard all of this is, questions about losing someone who sacrifices himself, things having to do with making sure people know what a hero really is - all these things are things Sam sees himself talking about with her, someone who has been where he's at - but he knows it will have to wait. His exhaustion is catching up with him, Jenna is here and it's getting late.
They drive him back to his place just as the sky is beginning to go purple and it's all Sam can do not to fall asleep on the drive back. "Are you going to be okay?" Randi asks. "I mean, when's the last time you slept?"
"I'll be fine," Sam says. He smiles to himself, thinking of how many times he and Dean drove with little or no sleep, how maybe one day he'll have to sit down with her and let her in on some of their road trips. "I'm going to go home and just sleep until I have to come to work tomorrow."
And the thing is? Sam knows he'll be fine. He's tired and it's been a hugely emotional past few days and he's got a lot of Dean's stuff with him and any time before this that would've been a recipe for disaster, just the right combo to send his grief raging to the surface.
But tonight, when Sam lets himself into his apartment all he is is tired and ready to fall into bed. And maybe a little bit hungry. And possibly a bit thankful - though he'll have to think about that one for a bit - to have Dean's things with him. He's grateful that Randi found it worth her time and offered him a place to put Dean's car for awhile because it feels damn good to Sam that someone is offering a hand in goodwill and friendship - things he knows are out there but hasn't had the will to pursue until now.
But mostly, he's just glad to be back home.
Something he'd never thought he'd ever feel.
/
On occasion, Castiel will show up out of nowhere - not in the middle of the room like he used to but at Sam's door, knocking on it proper and then having to wait until it's answered, just like everyone else. He stays a few hours at most, just to "check-in," as Sam's come to think of these little visits, and he wonders if this is something Dean asked Cas to do, keep tabs on him to make sure he's okay.
The first time this happens, Sam thinks something bad has happened - to Bobby specifically - and he's almost afraid to talk to him, afraid of what he might hear, because it's unheard of that Cas would just pop in unannounced without bearing some kind of terrible news.
But after the initial visit, Sam gets used to it, welcomes it actually, and after his visit to Bobby's he actually calls Castiel himself, leaves a message on his voicemail that he has some questions he wants to ask and within two days Cas is at his door. Sam can't help but smile to himself a little - because as used to Castiel and his angelic ways that he's become, he knows he'll always be floored by how Cas will show up without luggage or anything most people would bring when they go on a visit somewhere.
"You said you had some questions?" These are the first words out of Castiel's mouth when Sam opens the door and Sam shakes his head a little. Someone really needs to give him some lessons in etiquette.
"Yeah, I did," Sam says, letting him in. "But I didn't mean for you to necessarily come here in person. You could've just called me back."
"Should I leave and then call you?"
"No, of course not," Sam says. "It's good to see you. Where were you when I called?"
"I'm in Virginia right now. Manassas."
"Virginia," Sam says. "What's there?"
"It's a very beautiful place, Sam. I like the weather. And I find I enjoy my work there immensely."
"Work? What work?" Sam hasn't even given thought to how Castiel might be supporting himself or what he's doing with all his free time. He has a hard time imagining Cas fitting in with the normal workaday world.
"I'm - apprenticing at a funeral home. Learning all aspects of that - trade, I guess you'd call it."
"What?" Though why Sam is shocked by this, he has no idea. "Isn't that a little - gruesome? I mean, given how much death you've had to be around and all?"
"I find the work - gives me a sense of peace," Castiel says. He's looking around Sam's room, as if trying to decide something. "There's a - comfort in preparing people for that last journey. Plus, I seem to have a certain - flair for dealing with people in their bereavement." He looks back at Sam. "Or so I've been told."
He certainly seemed to be helpful to Dean those last days, Sam thinks, and he's once again reminded of what he wants to ask. "I could see that," he agrees. "It's probably one of the few jobs I can actually see you - doing well in."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"Good. That's how I meant it." Sam pulls out one of the chairs from the table. "Here, why don't you sit. Do you want something to drink? Are you hungry?"
Castiel removes his coat - and Sam is pretty sure this a first, seeing Castiel take that coat off like a normal person - but remains standing. "I'm fine," Cas says. "What are your questions?"
Yeah, Sam has time to think. What I wouldn't give to have a video of that Christmas dinner between him and Bobby, what the conversation was like. "I have a couple questions about - Dean."
"I'm listening."
Sam clears his throat, plunges in. "I was at Bobby's a few weeks ago," he says. "I cleaned out Dean's car while I was there. Went through some stuff. Mostly his music, but some other things he had. And I - I felt something, I think. Something about Dean."
Castiel doesn't say anything, just waits.
"Like he might've been trying to - tell me something," Sam goes on. "Maybe give me a message? Or - something -" His voice trails off then, both at Castiel's lack of response and his own doubts about what he's trying to get at.
Still, Cas stays silent.
"Do you think he's - all right?" And before Castiel can say anything, Sam rushes on. "But I don't want you to tell me anything - specific. No - messages that he's feeling this way or that way. Just - do you think he's okay or not?"
"I know he's okay," Castiel says.
"You - can feel him? He's tried to contact you?"
"Of course not. And I'm not going to be able to "feel" Dean, at least not in the sense you mean. You won't feel him either," Castiel says. "Because he's not here. He's - made it to the other side. He's at peace, Sam. He doesn't have any unfinished business here or a troubled spirit or is caught between anything. Anything you feel is purely - your own thoughts." He looks at Sam then, gives that penetrating look that he can still muster despite the fact that he's lost all his angel juice and is, for all intents and purposes, more human than angel. "He's all right and he knows you're going to be all right. He would have no need to contact you."
"But I don't get it. How do you - I - we - know he's okay then?"
And for the first time he can ever remember, Sam sees what he thinks qualifies as a smile cross Castiel's face. "Because," he says. "You go on what you've seen before, things that have come to pass in other - instances."
"Previous experiences?"
Castiel smiles a little more. "That, and something even more important."
This time it's Sam who waits.
"Your faith."
/
May second, and Sam's twenty-ninth birthday comes complete with a cake at work and a rousing, more-than-flat rendition of "Happy Birthday," and an evening phone call from Bobby. It's more than Sam would've had if it would've just been him marking the day but it's also a huge step up from the year before when he'd been driving around in the pile-of-crap Corolla, looking for a place to park so he could buy a bottle of cheap - anything - to drink and then crash.
A huge improvement, really.
But despite the progress, it's still hard. A year and a half out, and Sam still misses Dean just as much as at the beginning. Some days, even more, if Sam's honest with himself. There will still be moments where Sam will hear something, something mentioned, and he'll think, "I need to remember to tell Dean that," and the thought will slice right through him at what he's just done, how he still aches for Dean to be here with him, to have just one more minute with him.
But for now, for today, Sam's not in that place and he knows enough to be grateful for it. After he gets through talking to Bobby he sits down in front of the computer, opens up his files that he's simply labeled, "Dean."
He begins typing.
Hi, Cassie how are you? It's Sam Winchester again. Sorry I haven't gotten back to you sooner but there are things I've been busy with, both personal and at work. Anyway, I hope all is well with you and I wanted to let you know that I think I am ready to start putting something together about Dean. I still don't really know how it's all going to work, how I'll do it, but I think I have enough - material to get started.
This is an understatement. Every single person that Sam has contacted so far has answered him. Diane Ballard and Kathleen Hudek are two who answer his email almost right away, both expressing sadness at Dean's death and offers to help any way they can, whatever Sam wants them to do. Mara Daniels and the Collins siblings in Colorado. Sarah and the Pikes and Lucas and Andrea. He'd even gotten a phone call from Lisa Braeden one day - all of them responding to the email Sam sent out on Dean's birthday - January 24th, another horrible day - or at least a day that could've ended up horrible if Sam hadn't kept sight of the mission and forged ahead.
That mission being keeping Dean's memory alive, introducing him to those who deserve - need - to know about the things he's done, what he gave up.
The hero he was.
Every response Sam had received had been an offer to help, or a loving testimonial to what Dean had done for them.
"Sam I am so sorry Dean passed away - thank you for letting me know. You must be devastated but of course, knowing the good things you and he did while he was alive must be a huge comfort to you -"
"We'll never forget what you and Dean did for us so whatever you need me to do, just ask. We'd love to help any way we can."
"Dean saved our lives. There's no price that can be put on that. I'm so sorry you lost him, Sam, but I am also sure he's been rewarded for all that he's done, all the fruits that have come from his labors. I'd be happy to help you make a tribute to him when you figure out what you want to do."
"We were so shocked by your email - but so very glad you told us so we could remember one more time how grateful we are to you and Dean for what you did not only for us but for the countless others you've no doubt saved. Just say the word when you want us to help you with your project."
Sam rereads these emails on nights when he struggles with everything, and while he had hoped a couple people would be willing to help in his endeavor to keep Dean's memory alive, he hadn't expected the quick outpouring of support and sympathy from everyone he's contacted so far. Really, he hadn't expected some of these people to even remember Dean.
And this is just the people Sam's been able to contact so far. He still has a list of people who he needs to either find a phone number or email address for, but for now, he thinks he's contacted enough people to get things started.
Anyway - I'll forward you some of the emails that people have sent me and you can tell me what you think and how I should maybe go about doing this. I might not be able to go super quickly on this - I'm taking the MCAT's in Sept. so I need to get ready for that and there are a couple of science classes I still need to take before I apply to med school, but I'll make the time to do this because it's really important to me.
He's in a very different place now, than he was on his previous birthday, where Sam couldn't have imagined sending emails out to everyone about Dean and wanting to think about writing something about everything Dean has done. A year ago, Sam's birthday passed unacknowledged, just another day without any meaning or even any hope.
Sam sits in front of the computer, idly fingering the keys to the Impala on the desk in front of him. Tomorrow after work he's going out to Randi's to take it for a drive, make sure it's running okay. He's been out there a couple of times since bringing the car there to do just that, get in and drive it just to let it run.
The first time he went alone but the second time Randi and Jenna came with him and they'd ended up stopping for ice cream. It was almost like a date.
But it wasn't.
Just like tomorrow, when Sam goes to their house and takes the car out and then stays for dinner. That's almost like a date as well.
Except it's not.
Randi had asked him if he wanted to come out today and Sam knows why she did it. She understands that it's his birthday and wants to make sure he'll be okay and all. It's the whole friends thing and for right now, Sam could use a friend, and she's been a good one to have.
But today, Sam doesn't want to be with a friend, he wants to be with Dean, so he comes home and rereads the emails and looks at the pictures and takes the Indian blanket out of the closet and lays it across the foot of his bed.
Tomorrow will be soon enough for Sam to go and be with other people.
So many things Dean has taught him over the years, some obvious and some that weren't revealed until the time was right.
Everything Dean has ever shown Sam has been important, but it's only now that Sam is beginning to realize that the most important thing Dean's ever taught him is that giving up and letting go are two vastly different things, that the one will keep you in chains while the other will set you free.
Sam is slowly beginning to let go.
And somehow, he knows - no, despite what Castiel says - can feel - that Dean approves.