Rule Twenty-Nine: If it bleeds, you can kill it.
Sam didn't want to be back here. He wanted to simply focus on finding his father. He wanted to forget about his girlfriend's death.
But Dean had insisted they needed to take this case. Even though it wasn't one of the ones their Dad had left them clues for, Dean couldn't turn a blind eye.
Sam stared listlessly out the diner window, the sandwich he'd ordered sitting uneaten in front of him, his hands wrapped around his mug of coffee. He shivered, even though it was late November, it was a comfortable seventy degrees in Palo Alto.
"Sam? Are you listening to me?"
Sam turned to look at his brother, "Huh?"
"I asked if you were gonna finish your sandwich," Dean told him.
Sam shrugged, "I'm not really hungry."
Dean smiled and slid his brother's plate over towards him, picking up the turkey club and taking a large bite.
"Hm," Dean said through a mouthful of bread, meat and veggies, "This isn't too bad."
Sam turned back to the window. They had arrived in California a day ago after reading about the gruesome murders of two young men in Palo Alto. The newspaper didn't go into great detail except to say that the attacker had eviscerated both victims, who had been out late at night, alone. The Winchesters had visited the local morgue, posing as federal agents and discovered that the two men had had their abdomens ripped open and several internal organs removed. Sam couldn't get the sight of the gaping wounds, or the looks of terror on the faces of the victims out of his head since leaving the coroner's office.
They had discussed the possibility of it being a werewolf- since it was a full moon- but Sam wasn't so sure. Yes, it seemed likely, but werewolves only ate their victims' heart and left everything else. The two men lying on slabs in the morgue were missing a lot more than just their hearts. Their abdominal cavities had almost been cleaned out completely.
Dean, almost jokingly, had then suggested that it might be a wendigo. Sam had never heard of a wendigo venturing into a crowded city and so had quickly shut down that idea.
"Maybe it's a Black Dog?" Dean had ventured and so they had started to look more closely at the victims, to see if they'd made any demon deals in the past ten years.
Sam took a sip of coffee, thinking of the interview he and Dean had conducted with the victims' family members that very morning, coming up with absolutely nothing.
The first victim, a middle-aged widower named Paul Morton, had worked in a box factory since graduating from high school. He lived in a small ranch-style home with his daughter and had been a quiet, pleasant man. He kept his property neat and tidy, paid his taxes, doted on his only child, and visited Alta Mesa Memorial Park every Sunday to put flowers on his wife's gravestone.
Sam's heart had clenched when Mr. Morton's daughter, Katrina, had mentioned the name of the cemetery where her mother was buried. It was the same place Jessica had been laid to rest.
The second victim, a young man around Dean's age, named Ethan Hincks, was apparently the complete opposite of Paul Morton. A punk who was always in trouble with the police, Ethan could barely hold down a job for very long, and his current place of employment- a fast-food restaurant- seemed as though it wasn't too upset to be rid of him. Both of Ethan's parents still lived but his maternal grandparents were buried in Alta Mesa Memorial Park. His paternal grandparents were in one of the two Episcopalian cemeteries in the city.
Well, now they had a connection between the two victims, however flimsy. Both had family members buried in the same cemetery.
"It could be a ghost," Dean had suggested, even though there had been no indication of ectoplasm on the victims' bodies, "Maybe one attached itself to these guys at the cemetery."
"We should go to the crime scenes," Dean had decided, "see what we can find there. But first, lunch."
"You done?" Dean asked Sam once he'd polished off the sandwich.
Sam drained his coffee cup and nodded.
"You want to go to the crime scenes together or take one each?" Dean asked as he fished in his wallet for some money.
"We'll get through this faster if we go separately," Sam told him.
"Sure," Dean commented, "I call dibs on the Hincks kid."
Sam opened his mouth to argue but then closed it. He didn't want Dean to know he didn't want to visit the Morton crime scene. It was only a couple of blocks away from the cemetery.
"I'll drop you off," Dean told him as they exited the diner and walked towards the Impala, "You can call me if you find anything."
"Sure," Sam muttered.
W
The spot where Paul Morton had met his grisly end was still surrounded by yellow Crime Scene tape, dark brown stains on the sidewalk showed where his blood had spilled. Sam, glancing around and seeing no one was watching him, ducked beneath the tape and crouched down to peer at the stains, trying to find any dried ectoplasm. He didn't see anything. Still, that meant nothing. It had been almost a week since Morton had met his fate.
Digging into his pocket, Sam took out his EMF detector and turned it on. The device beeped and lit up but not in the frenetic way it did when there was ghost activity.
Frowning, Sam turned the device off and shoved it into his pocket, standing. Glancing around, he knew that there were large houses on either side of the street, but they were separated from the street by tall stone walls acting as sound barriers. No one would have been able to see Mr. Morton unless they were sitting on top of the nearly eight feet high walls. The street was busy- cars zoomed past Sam every few seconds in both directions- but it had been quiet the night Morton had been attacked.
Sam sighed and wondered what he was supposed to do now. He guessed he could call Dean had let him know he'd found nothing. But something stopped him. He didn't want to head back to the motel room for more research just yet.
Sam wasn't too far from the cemetery and the fact that he hadn't been able to attend Jessica's funeral blared in his mind. It wouldn't take him long to walk there, about fifteen to twenty minutes.
Before he'd even made a conscious decision to do so, Sam's feet were already moving him in the direction of the cemetery.
SPN
Dean sighed as he stood up, "Damn it."
He hadn't found any trace of ectoplasm and his homemade EMF detector hadn't indicated there had been any ghostly activity here. Looking around, Dean noticed that stores surrounded the crime scene and strip malls- there was a bank, hairdressing place, a 7-11, a pizza place and a burrito place on one side of the street. On the other side were a pawnshop, a pet store, a dollar store and a gas station.
Even though the official report had said there were no witnesses to the murder, Dean knew that the gas station and 7-11 at least were open all night and maybe someone knew something. Maybe there was video surveillance he could look at.
Straightening his suit, Dean headed towards the gas station first.
SPN
Alta Mesa Memorial Park was quite large, seventy-two acres in fact, and at first Sam hesitated at the gates.
How was he supposed to find Jessica?
He thought about turning back, calling Dean to come pick him up, but decided not to. He stepped inside and decided he would just walk around, kill time, as it were, before his brother came for him.
The grounds were exquisitely manicured, with bushes and trees professionally trimmed and pruned; gardens featuring abstract sculptures, angels or saints dotted the lawn; benches donated by families and friends of the deceased offered places to sit and rest or contemplate.
Sam paused at every gravestone he saw that had a 'J' or 'M' in the name carved into it, hoping he would find Jessica's, but he didn't. By the time Dean called, Sam had given up trying to find the place where his girlfriend was buried and was sitting on a granite bench given to the cemetery in memory of Franklin B. Dunhill.
"Where are you?" Dean asked, "I'm sitting at the place where Morton got ganked."
"Oh," Sam replied. Of course, Dean wouldn't have known he'd gone to the cemetery.
He told his brother where he was; "I'll meet you at the front gates."
When Sam met his brother at the entrance to the cemetery, Dean was giving him a weird look but said nothing. Sam climbed into the passenger's seat and did up his seatbelt in silence.
"Did you find it?"
"What?" Sam asked. Did Dean know he'd gone to try and find Jessica?"
"Did you find anything at the crime scene?" Dean asked, "Jesus, I swear you're going deaf."
"No," Sam replied, "Nothing to say a ghost killed him. How about you?"
Dean shook his head.
"I even asked around at the gas station and 7-11 and got a big pile of nothing. They had both given the surveillance tapes to the cops when they started the investigation but there was nothing on them."
"So, Ethan just suddenly appears with a gaping hole in his chest and drops dead?" Sam asked.
Dean shook his head; "I mean there's nothing on the tapes. Apparently they play fine up until the time Ethan is attacked and then it goes black, that portion of the tape is corroded or something. It goes back to normal after that. It just shows his body lying on the sidewalk until it's discovered."
"You watched the tape?" Sam asked, wondering how Dean had managed to get to the police station and back so quickly.
His brother shook his head, "Nah, but the managers of the gas station and 7-11 went over the tapes with the cops when they asked for them."
"Oh," Sam muttered, "Of course."
Dean took his eyes off the road for a moment, "You feeling okay, Sammy? You haven't exactly been on the top of your game recently."
"I'm fine," Sam muttered, "So, now what do we do?"
"I think we should do more research, really try and figure out what's out there since it's clearly not a werewolf or a Black Dog or a wendigo."
"Or a ghost," Sam muttered. He didn't mind doing research, in fact, he found it the most enjoyable aspect of the job, but he knew that when Dean said 'we' he really meant 'you do research while I fool around'.
W
Sam closed his laptop with a sharp 'snap' and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He had a headache and his eyes burned.
"Anything?" Dean asked from where he sat on the end of his bed, watching TV on mute.
Sam shook his head.
"Nothing around here could do that," he told Dean.
His brother frowned and sighed, "Okay, well, we'll just keep looking."
Sam scowled, "You mean, me."
Dean blinked, "What?"
"I've been researching all afternoon. You've been watching a 'COPS' marathon," Sam snapped.
"Hey! You know I'm always here to bounce ideas off," Dean barked, "Besides, we both can't be on your laptop at the same time."
Sam wanted to say something hurtful, what Dean had said was complete bull shit and he knew it, but he simply sighed, too tired to argue with him.
"Whatever, Dean," he muttered, "You keep telling yourself you're helping."
He could see anger in his sibling's eyes but Dean didn't say anything. Instead, he turned off the TV.
"You want dinner?" he asked.
Sam shrugged, "I'm going to take a shower."
Grabbing his duffel bag, Sam disappeared into the bathroom before Dean could say anything else.
W
When he heard a frantic banging on the bathroom door an hour later, he assumed his brother had to take a piss and wanted him out.
"Give me a second!" Sam snapped, pulling a black t-shirt over his head and reached down for the red and blue plaid button-up he was going to wear over it.
"Get out here, now!" Dean yelled from the other side of the door but instead of sounding angry he sounded almost scared.
Dropping the button-up, Sam reached for the door, unlocking it and threw it open.
"What?" he asked.
Dean turned to him, his eyes large, excitement and horror battling for dominance on his face, "There's been another one."
"What?" Sam asked again, stepped out of the bathroom.
"I was listening to the police scanner and I heard them say there was a 10-54 at Alta Mesa Memorial Park," Dean told him.
For a moment, Sam expected Dean to crack a smile and say he was joking. A 10-54 was police code for 'possible dead body'.
"Then they mentioned that it seemed like the same guy who killed Morton and Hincks."
"Shit," Sam muttered, "Did you get anything else?"
Dean shook his head, "Other than they were asking for the coroner be called."
"Shit," Sam repeated. He glanced out the window. The sun was only now going down.
"You want to go now?" he asked Dean.
His brother nodded and Sam ducked back into the bathroom, putting his suit back on.
W
Dean took his time driving to the cemetery. There was no need to rush with the victim now dead and cops surely crawling all over the area.
Even though he and Sam were dressed as Feds, the local law enforcement usually wasn't too welcoming of outside help.
Dean parked the Impala just inside of the gates, far away from the crime scene, and exited, straightening his suit as he stepped out. From the entrance, he could see a half-dozen cruisers and the coroner's van parked in the cemetery.
"You ready for this?" Dean asked his brother.
Sam nodded and followed him up the path towards the scene.
Before the brothers could get a good look at the victim- still uncovered- a woman in a police uniform stopped them. They explained that they were Agents Frey and Henley and they had been assigned to the two gruesome murders that had already happened in the city. The policewoman looked uncertain of their story but then Dean flashed her his most charming smile and she let them through.
The victim was an elderly man in his seventies or eighties, who, like the other two, had had his abdomen ripped open and his internal organs torn out.
There was another man, sitting in the open back of an ambulance, a blanket wrapped around him.
"Who's that?" Dean asked one of the cops.
"Him? Name's Gilbert Steward," he told the hunter, "He's one of the groundskeepers."
"Was he attacked as well?" Sam asked.
The cop shook his head, "He's our first witness."
Dean looked at Sam.
"We're going to ask Mr. Steward a few questions," Dean told the cop, who shrugged; he wasn't going to step on the FBI's toes.
The hunters stepped up to either side of the man, still wearing his navy blue coveralls with the name of the cemetery embroidered with white thread on the right breast and his own name on the left.
"Mr. Steward?" Sam crouched down so he was eye-level with the man, "I'm Agent Henley and this is Agent Frey of the FBI, can we ask you some questions?"
The man shook his head, "I already talked to the police."
"Please," Sam said, using his puppy-dog eyes, "We need to know who did this so they can't do this to anyone else."
Gilbert Steward sighed and lifted his chin, "I just… I still can't believe it…"
"Did you know the victim?" Dean started.
Mr. Steward shrugged, "I'd seen him enough times but never talked to him in person. He came here almost every day to visit his son's grave. His boy died in Iraq."
"What were you doing when the man was attacked?" Sam asked.
"Raking the leaves out of the gardens," Mr. Steward told them, "My boss is very strict on keeping the place looking nice."
"It is a very beautiful cemetery," Sam offered.
Mr. Steward shrugged.
"Did you get a good look at who killed that man?" Dean asked.
"I… I don't know…"
Dean frowned, "Either you know or you don't."
Sam looked at his brother.
"What did you see?"
"I wasn't really paying attention," Mr. Steward told them, "I was focusing on my work. I was supposed to go home in forty-five minutes so I was trying to get everything done. I saw him," he jerked his chin in the direction of the body, "From the corner of my eye, walking towards the gates, and just kept my head down. I thought he was the only person left inside. We close up as soon as it gets dark so I'd have to lock the gates when I left, but there was still enough time for anyone else to leave if they needed to, you know?"
The hunters nodded. Forty-five minutes was more than enough time to leave the cemetery.
"Anyway, I'm raking and then I see something move from the corner of my eye again. Didn't worry about it at first, thought maybe it was just someone else leaving."
"Then, I noticed it was moving kind of weird like," Mr. Steward's face drained of what little colour was left in it.
"It… she, wasn't walking, she was…. Crawling," he whispered.
"Crawling?" Dean asked.
"Yeah, like something from those Japanese horror movies, you know? I can't watch them, they give me the heebee jeebees, but I've seen the trailers."
"I stopped what I was doing and watched. I didn't know it was a woman at first, I thought it was someone's bed sheet that had caught in the wind; it was moving along the ground, going over gravestones and then back to the ground again."
Dean glanced at Sam, frowning.
"Then, she stood up and started walking normally, like she sensed I was watching her."
"What did she look like?" Sam asked.
"She was wearing this long, white dress, and had this long black hair, and… and the blood," Mr. Steward mumbled.
"Blood?" Dean asked.
Mr. Steward nodded, "There was blood down the front of her dress, at least, that's what it looked like to me."
"Did you see her face?" Dean asked.
The man shook his head, "She… It… made me nervous so I just went back to what I was doing. I didn't hear anything for a few minutes except the wind and then there's this scream, and I go running."
"I thought maybe it was the woman so I hurried over to help but… she didn't need help."
The man fell silent for a moment or two, as though to gather his thoughts.
"It was getting dark but I saw her crouched on the ground and I could hear these wet, slurping sounds, like she was eating something. I went to ask her if she was okay and that's when I saw… him."
"I don't know what happened after that, I kind of blacked out I guess," Mr. Steward told them apologetically, "I just… froze. I was still standing when I came to, so I think I was just in shock, but the woman was gone. I didn't know what to do so I called the police as soon as I could."
Sam stood, glancing back at the body of the elderly man, now covered in a sheet.
"Tell me Agents," Mr. Steward asked, "Did a woman really do this?"
"It sounds like whoever did was severely mentally ill," Dean told him absentmindedly.
What the hell had they just listened to? Were they really dealing with a ghost? But then again, ghosts didn't tear open man's chests and eat their insides.
Grabbing Sam by the shoulder, Dean steered his brother away from the crime scene until they were out of the circle of light created by the cruisers and ambulance.
"What the hell are we dealing with?" Dean asked Sam.
"I have no freakin' clue," Sam admitted.
W
As soon as they returned to the motel room, Sam booted up his laptop and set about researching again, this time with renewed energy now that they had more to go on.
"I'm gonna order us some dinner," Dean told him, "You want anything in particular?"
Sam shook his head, "Whatever you want is fine."
W
Dean tossed a pizza crust into the box and lay on his back on his bed, feeling satisfied.
"Dean!"
He jumped and sat up at his brother's shout.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I think we have a Pontianak on our hands," Sam told him.
"A what?" Dean asked, frowning.
"They come from Malay folklore," Sam told him, turning in his seat, holding onto his laptop, "They are spirits of women who died while pregnant. They return to get revenge on men by tearing them open and eating their entrails."
Dean grimaced.
"How do you kill it?" he asked, the most important question of all.
"You have to drive a nail into the back of its neck," Sam told him.
"Well, that should be a piece of cake," Dean muttered.
Sam sighed.
"What's wrong?"
"It's just… I'm not sure this is it," he confessed, "I mean, a lot of its description, adds up: the black hair, and white dress, its victims and the way it eats…"
"But?" Dean asked, knowing there was a 'but' coming.
"It says here that since the Pontianak is the spirit of a woman who died while she was pregnant, she's make a sound like a baby," Sam explained, "The crying is quiet when she's near and louder when she's far away, to confuse her victims, I guess."
"So?" Dean asked.
"Mr. Steward didn't say anything about hearing a baby."
Dean sighed, "Well, its worth a shot, at least."
"Dean," Sam said, clearly not comfortable with this, "What if I'm wrong and it's something else."
"Sam, this is the closest we've been to identifying this thing so far," Dean told him, "I'm willing to take that chance."
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Okay, so, when do you want to do this?"
"There's no time like the present," Dean smiled.
SPN
Sam's hand felt slick with sweat as he clutched the railroad spike in one hand and a flashlight in the other. He couldn't help but think how incredibly stupid they were to be going after the Pontianak like this.
It was late at night, scene of the most recent murder was deserted, with nothing to indicate anything nefarious had happened earlier that evening except for the yellow tape strung up across the patch of asphalt where the old man's body had lain.
Sam kept his eyes peeled for a flash of white among the grey headstones, his breath coming in rapid bursts as he ventured deeper into the cemetery.
Dean had insisted they use railroad spikes to kill the Pontianak.
"I don't want to get that close to the bitch," Dean had argued when Sam had shown him the handful of inch-long nails he'd found. So, before arriving at the cemetery, they had stopped at some railroad tracks and pulled up a couple of spikes. Covered in dirt and rust, Sam told himself that even if what they were after wasn't a Pontianak, the iron would be able to dissipate a spirit long enough for them to get real weapons.
Sam took a few more steps forward; sweeping his flashlight across the stark faces of the gravestones and froze.
He thought he'd heard something. Straining to hear over the sound of the wind, Sam let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.
It was nothing. He continued walking.
SPN
Dean squinted into the darkness and pointed his flashlight at what he thought was a streak of white atop a gravestone. Yellow eyes glared at him from the gloom and the low growl of a pissed off cat reached his ears as a white cat darted behind a grave.
Laughing off his fear, Dean continued walking, feeling confident with the heavy railroad spike in his hand.
SPN
Sam felt as though he was rooted to the spot as his flashlight illuminated the name carved into the grave in front of him.
He played the light over the letters as he mouthed the name, silently, " Jessica Moore."
Stepping forward, Sam knelt down and touched the cool granite.
"Jess," he mumbled, letting the railroad spike fall from his hand, "I found you."
His chest ached and tears burned in his eyes. Someone had laid a bouquet of red roses and white baby's breath in front of the grave; someone else had left a small, pink teddy bear.
"Jess," Sam whispered, his throat tightening, "I'm… I'm so sorry, Jess."
Leaning his head forward, he rested his brow against his girlfriend's gravestone and closed his eyes. All he could hear was the sound of the blood rushing in his veins.
SPN
Dean could make out the faint, white glow of his brother's flashlight in the distance, the sight comforting, as he focused on that.
He was about to turn away, head in the other direction, when suddenly the light went out.
SPN
Sam lifted his head and placed his palm on the gravestone, his tears threatening to overflow.
He wanted nothing more than to sit here for the rest of the night but he knew he had a job to do. As he reached down to grab the railroad spike from where he'd dropped it, he hear, ever so faintly, the sound of a baby crying.
SPN
Dean waited for a second, waiting to see if the flashlight's glow would appear. It didn't.
Wondering if maybe the batteries had died, Dean almost turned again when a guttural cry cut through the air and sent him running past gravestones towards his brother.
"SAM!"
SPN
Sam's fingers curled around the railroad spike and he turned where he knelt, ready to fight the Pontianak. It seemed to tower over him, its dress mere inches from his face, a horrible stench of rotting flesh rising up from it.
Sam ignored the bloodstained dress and lifted his gaze and his blood froze in his veins.
SPN
"SAM!" Dean shouted, his heart hammering in his chest, as he ran closer, he could make out the Pontianak, its back to him, its white dress and black hair billowing in the wind.
"SAMMY!"
SPN
Jessica Moore's face gazed down at Sam.
The hunter couldn't move, could barely breathe.
No, this was wrong, this was a mistake. It wasn't Jess, couldn't be her. She wasn't… she couldn't be…
The Pontianak opened her mouth as though she was going to speak but a faint, infantile cry escaped her blue lips.
"Jess," Sam gasped, and the Pontianak began bending at the waist, hands held out towards him as though to embrace him.
Sam didn't move as the Pontianak sank her fingers into his abdomen, the pain ripping an animalistic cry of pain from him and suddenly the force that held him frozen to the spot seemed to thaw. He fell back against the gravestone, the spirit's fingers pulling away, covered in blood, and he remembered he was still holding the railroad spike.
With an arm that felt made of lead, Sam lifted his arm and slashed at the Pontianak's face.
The spirit let out a high-pitched scream as drew back, her face bisected by a line of blood.
Sam watched in horror as the lower half of the Pontianak's face fell away to reveal the white bone of a skeleton. Jessica's blue eyes glowed red and she reached down again, fingers hooked into claws.
Suddenly she jerked forward, making a gurgling sound as thick black liquid began dripping from her mouth. Her eyes dulled to their normal blue and she gaze found Sam. She stared at Sam almost sadly for a moment before disintegrating into ash before him.
"Holy shit!" Dean cried from where he stood, the railroad spike still in his raised hand, "That was close."
SPN
The moment of triumph fizzled out when Dean looked down and saw blood blooming on his brother's shirt.
"Sam!" he dropped to his knees and pulled up his sibling's shirt to examine his wounds. There were five deep wounds in his abdomen, just above his navel, from where the Pontianak had been trying to rip his brother's guts out.
"Sam! Sam?" Dean peered at his sibling's face; his eyes were glazed.
"Hey! Can you hear me?" Dean put his hands on either side of Sam's face.
"It was her," Sam whispered.
"What?" Dean asked, "Say that again."
"It was her," Sam repeated and closed his eyes.
What was going on? Dean looked around, his eyes catching the name on the gravestone his brother was leaning against.
"C'mon Sammy," Dean didn't have time to think about anything else but getting his brother back to their motel, "Get up."
He put one of Sam's arms around his shoulder and gathered their flashlights with the other, "Stand up with me, there you go. We'll get you back to the car, okay?"
Sam didn't reply.
Dean's heart hammered in his chest and he forced thoughts of Jessica Moore and the Pontianak out of his head. Not until they were back to the motel and he knew Sam was safe.
W
The drive back to the motel room was a grim one. Dean sat in silence, keeping his gaze locked on the road ahead of him while his brother hunched in the passenger's seat, shaking his head every so often and mumbling something that sounded like 'it was her' over and over again.
Dean led his brother inside, got him to take off his shirt and began patching the wounds. They were deep but not life threatening and Dean just prayed the Pontianak's claws weren't poisonous as he cleaned the wounds with holy water before putting bandages over them.
"Here," Dean grabbed the bottle of Jim Beam from his duffel bag and handed it to his brother, "Drink up."
Slowly, as though he were moving in a dream, Sam unscrewed the lid and tipped the bottle to his mouth.
After a mouthful of bourbon, he seemed to come out of his daze.
"You saved me," he muttered.
Dean shrugged, "It was nothing."
"It was her, Dean," Sam told him, holding the bottle between his knees, "It was Jessica."
Dean reached out and took the bottle from his brother and took a swig.
"Are you sure? Maybe… maybe they pretend to look like a loved one to get close to you or something," Dean offered, nothing wanting the alternative to be true.
Sam shook his head, "It was her, Dean, I know it was. It was Jess."
Dean handed the bottle back to his brother. Sam took a long drink before handing it back.
"But, if it really was your girlfriend," Dean began, not drinking, "Then wouldn't that mean she was pregnant?"
Sam nodded his head once.
"You never told me she was pregnant," Dean said and took a drink, the bourbon burning all the way down.
"I didn't know," Sam admitted.
Dean didn't say anything for a long time. He nudged his brother's leg with the bottle but Sam shook his head.
"I wish she'd have told me," Sam muttered.
Dean didn't know what to say.
"I was going to ask her to marry me, you know," Sam told him, "When I got home after Jericho? I was going to ask her to marry me that night. I had the ring and… and everything."
"Sammy," Dean murmured.
He reached out to his brother and Sam leaned towards him, towards his embrace. Sam pressed his face into his shoulder and cried, letting the grief he'd been holding inside for so long, out.
Dean said nothing. He didn't have to. He just hugged his baby brother to his chest as he'd done so many times since they were children, and let him know, with actions instead of words, that he was there for him.
SPN
The next morning, before leaving Palo Alto, Sam made them stop twice.
Dean remained in the car as Sam walked through the gates of Alta Mesa Memorial Park once again, a sunny bouquet of yellow Gerber Daisies- Jess' favourite flower- clutched in one hand.
Dean leaned forward and turned on the radio and then turned up the volume when Skid Row's 'Remember You' started playing.
Settling back, he smiled sadly as he watched his brother's form grew smaller and smaller as he walked further into the cemetery.
Author's Note:
Rule provided by Eliiereynolds777.
Thanks to jensensgirl3, firstcatfish, StyxxsOmega, SamDeanLover28, Kathy, and hectatess for reviewing.
Please take a moment or two and leave a review if you enjoyed this story!
