14 years, 2 months, 21 days after
The door of the Impala squeaked; Sam used to rib him about getting the doors oiled, but neither of them really wanted to lose that sound. It connected them to their childhood. He rummaged in the back seat and came out with two slightly warm beers.
The clearing was empty as usual, the burnt patch of ground was long overgrown, like it had never been there at all. He hadn't marked the spot, it's not like he would ever forget; that night would always be scorched in his mind.
The last days of summer had baked the ground into dust and dry sod, and his footsteps shook grasshoppers out of the whispering stalks of golden grass. The sun was low and red on the horizon.
Dean popped off the beer caps with his keys and poured one out in the grass for Sam.
"You know, I can't stop thinking about Stanford, about the night you left." The empty beer dripped.
"You hopped on that bus, and I don't know, it was like I froze up." He flipped the empty bottle up.
" I just remember—it's the stupidest thing," Dean huffed a laugh, "back at the house that night, I got out of the shower, and there was your toothbrush, just sitting in the cup, and I remember wondering what you would do without your toothbrush, like it was something you couldn't replace for a buck at any Gas-N-Sip."
He swallowed.
"I almost jumped in the Impala at two in the morning to give it to you. Made it out the door even." He sat down on the brittle grass, dangling his arms over his knees and dropping the empty bottle by his feet.
"Man, I still wish I had."
He rubbed the label on his beer with his thumb.
"He's a freakin Art History major." Dean took a pull from the warm beer. "Don't know where he got that."
It was quiet except for the hum of crickets starting to sing in the grass. A breeze teased the trees and tickled his bare arms.
"He's a good kid, Sam."
He swung his bottle around in slow circles.
"Man, I miss him already."
He waited as the sun faded.
"He told me I could go back to hunting, but it just wouldn't be the same without you, Sammy."
It wasn't like when Sam had left. He saw Tom every couple of weeks. He was home for the holidays. He called him to ask for help, with the car, with homework (yeah, not much help there), with questions about how to write a check or how to cook rice, or how to de-ice a freezer.
But the days were long when the house was quiet, and on those days he would think of Sam like he had only been gone for weeks, not years.
He drove down to the bunker one cold April morning and unlocked the massive door for the first time in more than a decade.
The bunker's hall's were full of ghosts, just not the kind you could get rid of with a simple salt and burn: Sam sitting in the library, his nose practically hitting the book in front of him; his forehead creased, Cass coming down the stairs; cocking his head like that would help him understand a reference, Sam's footsteps down the hall, Sam laughing at the table, throwing his head back, Sam thumbing through the archives, Sam's voice echoing in the kitchen.
Every corner, every door was imprinted with memories, and for the first time, Dean didn't want to run. For the first time the memories weren't like being stabbed, or flayed, or burned alive, but a welcome pain that was almost sweet.
21 years after
He finally brought Tom out to the field. The place had seemed like his own sanctuary, somewhere he could talk to his brother without feeling buckets of crazy, but on the anniversary, Tom had asked to come.
Dean watched Tom lay flowers, lilies or something, on the spot. He was tall, almost as tall as Sam, taller than his uncle now. He had graduated and was getting married in a few weeks. How had time passed so quickly?
Tom cleared his throat.
Dean had hung back, leaning against the car, giving Tom some privacy, but he could still hear him.
"Uh...hey, Dad." He was faced away from Dean dressed in a black t-shirt and faded jeans. His hair curled up at the nape of his neck in the humid heat. "Sorry I haven't visited before," he rested his hands loose on his hips, "but I'm getting married. I just thought you should know. Not that you don't, but I wanted to tell you." He ran a hand through his hair, and Dean looked down at his feet.
"I guess you really wanted me to have a normal life, and I do. Uncle Dean, he gave up everything to give me that. I just wanted to tell you that he did a really good job."
Dean turned away and tightened his jaw.
"And since you can't be there at the church, I'm so glad that Dean can." There was a long pause and the sound of some shuffling. " I know you miss him, but just let me have him for a little longer, okay?"
Dean looked back and Tommy was crouched down with one hand splayed across the ground.
If Dean's eyes were a little bit wetter than normal when they climbed back into the Impala, it was probably because of allergies, or age, or something.
26 years after
"How long has it been?"
"26 years."
"Feels like yesterday." They leaned against the Impala.
Jody had let her hair grow out a bit, and it was pulled back from her face to the nape of her neck. It was snow white now, and it made her look softer.
Dean's was shot through with grey. Funny, he never thought that he would live long enough for that. He was already older than his father ever got. Every morning his bones reminded him of years of abuse, creaking and groaning; his knees ached when the pressure dropped and rain moved in.
"Thanks for coming, Jody."
"Thanks for asking."
Dean nodded.
"I think he's probably tired of me coming around."
Jody laughed. "I think he's more concerned that you're alone."
"Hey, I'm not a hermit or anything." Dean cleared his throat. "I see Tom and Sarah at least once a week, and I babysit the twins a few times a month."
"What about friends?" Jody asked, shoving her hands deep in the pockets of her jacket and looking up at him. Her brown eyes still bored through him as keen as ever.
"I've got you."
Jody snorted. "You only come out a couple times a year, and I'm always the one having to call. Don't you have anyone else? A drinking buddy, someone to shoot the breeze with?"
Dean shrugged. "What can I say? All my other friends are dead."
Jody sighed. "Yeah, mine too."
Donna.
Dean slung an arm around Jody's shoulder.
"She went out like a hunter." Donna had died the year before in a Wendigo hunt with Jody and the girls.
He could feel her nod under his arm.
"Just you and me now, I guess," Jody said.
30 years 4 months after
"Sorry, Sam, it's just me this time." He shut the door of the Impala and squinted up at the sun.
He cleared his throat. "Tom and Sarah moved to Louisiana last month;Tom got a snazzy job at a museum. Art curator. I'm driving out to see them next week. Mazzy and Maddie are already eight. Crazy, right?"
He shrugged up his shoulders, pulling against a tired ache.
"Getting old is a bitch, you really dodged a bullet there." He ran a hand through his grey hair and sighed.
"I'm on my way to Fort Collins. Apparently, Clair and Patience got on the wrong side of a witch. Something about vomiting up hairballs; they want my help." Dean huffed. "You were the one that was good with all that witchy stuff, but I'm all they've got."
He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and pulled it out. A text from Clair lit up the screen; there were a lot of exclamation points.
"Well, Sam, duty calls. Guess I'm the new Bobby." He opened his baby's door and looked back at the empty clearing one last time.
"Say hi to Jody for me."
35 years 5 months 2 days after
He dreamed of Sam.
They were in the Impala—just driving.
His brother was like he remembered him last, three days of stubble and a long thin face, but he smiled, and it was like the kid he used to know, no shadows, just light.
He woke up with Sam's name on his lips.
He grabbed the keys from his bedside table.
He walked around the Impala with a limp, the ache from a vamp hunt gone wrong harder to hide these days. His hands weren't as steady as they used to be, shaky as he pulled the beer out.
He didn't say anything, just poured Sam out a cold one and leaned against his Baby, watching the dark gather and feeling the November cold deep in his bones.
When the stars came out and his breath fogged the air, he smiled, shoved his half numb hands down in his pockets, and turned away.
He slid behind the wheel and settled on the cold leather before revving her up. Light flooded the clearing, angling to the driver's side. Dean sighed. A burnt out bulb. He patted the dash.
"Not as young as we used to be, huh?"
With one headlight, he pulled out and onto the dark road.
Not far now. Only miles to go.
The End