It was time. It was past time, actually. But somehow Sam could never quite bring himself to open that door... to step into his brother's room...

He'd tried, he'd really tried. But every time something held him back. If he opened that door, if he saw Dean's room standing just the way he'd left it, then it would be real. His brother would be dead.

And so he'd tiptoed past that door for the better part of a year, not giving it so much as a passing glance whenever he walked down the hall.

The room wasn't waiting for Dean to return from some hunting trip, or a grocery run. It was just an empty room. Sam knew that. He wasn't insane. But he also knew it was a Pandora's Box, filled to overflowing with memories. Entering meant tearing the scab off a wound, ripping open the hole in his heart that he'd tried so hard to fill.

"Would you like me to go in with you, Sam?" Eileen said, resting a hand on Sam's where it lay frozen in place on the doorknob.

"No," he replied. He turned to face his wife, his very pregnant wife, and tempered his unheard, abrupt answer with a gentle, "No, thank you. I have to do this alone."

"Okay. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me." Eileen moved her hands to cup her rounded stomach. "Little Dean – or Deanna – is feeling restless tonight. Maybe a glass of herbal tea will help me relax."

Sam watched as she walked away, waddling slightly in a most endearing way. As if feeling his eyes on her, she turned and signed, 'I love you.'

'Love you,' he signed back, feeling a familiar rush of deep emotion buzz through his veins. This, this is why he had to do what he'd put off doing for so long. He owed that amazing woman a real home. The Bunker was no place to raise a baby – not that Eileen had ever complained. But Sam had made up his mind. This kid – his kid! – was going to have a full time, devoted father. Sam was going to see to that. He'd be there reading bedtime stories every night. He'd kiss boo-boos better, play catch or attend pretend tea parties. He'd sit through shitty school concerts with a proud smile on his face.

Sam Winchester was going to have a life outside of hunting. It was a miracle of sorts – though it came at a terrible price. "Dean would have made a terrific uncle," he murmured. He'd been the one to nudge – hell no, push – Sam into Eileen's arms after Jack brought her back.

"Don't fuck this up," Dean had advised. "One of us deserves a happy ending."

Dean had plans of his own. He was finally beginning to piece his life back together in the wake of losing Castiel. He wasn't happy – no, never that – but he was soldiering on. Together, with the resurrected Charlie and Bobby, he was going to turn the Bunker into a topnotch supernatural training facility.

"Hogwarts for Hunters," Charlie quipped, and Dean rolled his eyes. But Sam could see how taken he was with the idea.

Dean was gone now, but his dream lived on. Charlie and Bobby's first trainees were due tomorrow. Within a few weeks, others would arrive and living quarters would soon be in high demand. Sam and Eileen were moving out to a little house in the country. Sam would commute to the Bunker as an occasional guest lecturer, but that was to be the extent of his involvement.

Their belongings were already packed and loaded in the Impala. So, no more procrastinating. It was time to remove Dean's personal effects from his room.

At his feet, Miracle gave an impatient whimper and pressed himself hard against Sam's leg.

"Yeah. Okay, boy," Sam said, and opened the door.

Miracle bounded in and jumped up on the bed, raising a light cloud of dust which lingered in the air like a restless spirit.

Sam followed more slowly, casting a suspicious glance from side to side. No sudden drop in temperature enveloped the room. The dust was simply that: dust, not the ghost of his brother. He honestly didn't know if that made him feel better or worse.

Deciding not to analyze the feeling, he set to work instead.

There was a stack of cardboard boxes out in the hall. It was doubtful he'd require more than one or two to collect Dean's few possessions. What clothing wasn't torn or bloodstained went into a box marked Goodwill; the rest went in the trash. The weapons displayed on the wall, Sam left in place. Charlie could distribute them to the new generation of hunters. Sam kept only the demon knife and the Colt. Toiletries went into the 'keep' box, Sam blinking back tears as the scent of his brother's aftershave clung to his hands after he'd placed that bottle in with the rest. There were a few assorted items in the bedside table's drawer: coins, keys, fake IDs and credit cards, a tube of (eww!) lube... Nothing unexpected there, just the normal kind of junk people accumulate in their life – though, not surprisingly, Dean had acquired less of it than most. The books of lore piled on a desk, Sam set out in the hall to be returned to the Bunker library. Several paperback novels, well-read and well-loved as evinced by their condition, went into the 'keep' box. As did their father's journal, and a few cassette tapes that had been borrowed from the car.

Sam's attention shifted to the framed photos Dean had deemed worthy of displaying: an old one of their mother before the fire; one of Sam and Dean leaning against the Impala, looking impossibly young; one of the whole, adult Winchester family, taken when both John and Mary were briefly back with them. Sam glanced at the others as he packed them in the box: Bobby, Charlie, and one of Cas and Dean. Dean's arm was slung across the angel's shoulders, Castiel suspiciously (but fondly) squinting at the hunter. Sam chuckled. He remembered taking that picture several years ago. They were driving back from a hunt in Tulsa – no, Toledo. Whatever. They had stopped for gas and Dean was teasing Castiel about wearing his coat on such a warm summer's day. On impulse, Sam had snapped a picture of his grinning brother and the confused angel. He probably still had that picture on one of his old cellphones. Dean must have sneaked a copy and had it printed to join his little array of family pictures.

Because Castiel was a part of the family – deservedly so. Bobby and Charlie too. Bobby, their surrogate father figure; Charlie, the pesky little sister they'd never had. And Cas...?

Sam frowned. He wasn't sure how to rank the angel. Brother, certainly, in Sam's mind. But he had the feeling that Cas rated as something more in Dean's eyes – or, at least he'd had the potential to be more. If Dean had let him in. If Dean hadn't lost him to The Empty before he could pull his head out of his ass. Maybe Sam should have pushed his brother as Dean had later pushed him? Not that it mattered now. They were both gone. Lost to Sam and to each other.

Sam sighed, and placed the photo in with the rest.

And that was basically it. He was done, his brother's worldly possessions – all that remained of Dean Winchester – contained in a single box.

Miracle protested when Sam shooed him off the bed. Big, soulful, brown eyes stared up at Sam as if he were taking his beloved master away from him for a second time, just when he had found his scent again. Sam wiped away more tears, and moved to strip the bed of its linens.

He tossed Dean's pillow to the dog, and Miracle contentedly curled up on it. The rest of the bedding Sam threw out in the hall, resisting the urge to follow the dog's example and nest inside it. Instead, he seated himself on the bed and looked around the emptied room.

It was time to go, but still he lingered, unwilling to sever the last link he had to his brother. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eileen peek in the door. But she remained silent, simply gathering up the discarded bedding, her footsteps fading as she carried it away.

You have a good one there, Sammy, Dean's voice played inside his head, and Sam choked back a laugh that was equal parts a sob. "I do," he said softly. "I thank God – I mean Jack – for her every day."

He rose to his feet, prepared to take the next step in his life, the one that would carry him farther away from Dean. But, instead of taking that step, on impulse he turned to lift the mattress, knowing it to be a favoured hiding place.

He wasn't disappointed. There was a book hidden there. A leather-bound journal, one not unlike their father's, with neatly documented cases. Not surprising. Sam had a journal very much like this too. It would be interesting to compare notes but, beyond that, it was a tangible connection to his brother. A treasure he had almost overlooked, and was oh-so-grateful he had found. Sam leafed through a few pages, noting that the final detailed entry was the day before Castiel was taken by The Empty. The next day was essentially blank, marked only by Cas's name, the date, and water blotches that Sam strongly suspected were tears. After that, all the accounts were shockingly brief: a date, a place, a creature. Nothing more.

The entry for the day Jack became the new God was simply, Up yours, Chuck.

Sam closed the book and was about to place it in the 'keep' box when a folded piece of paper fluttered out to the floor. On it, in block letters, was a single word: Cas.

Sam picked the paper up and sat back down on the bed. With trembling fingers, he unfolded it and stared blankly at the page. It was a poem: written in several colours of ink, with many crossed out words, and arrows rearranging the placement of lines. Clearly this had been a work in progress, accomplished over several sittings, possibly over a span of years.

Sam began to pick his way through the mess of words, deciphering what went where with all the meticulous intensity he brought to translating arcane lore. After several minutes, he believed he had everything properly in order. In a hushed voice, then, he read aloud:

"If you could see what's in my heart
We could transcend the constraints
That bind me.

"If I could learn to accept who I am
Maybe then I could allow myself
To accept you.

"If I could admit to how I feel
Would it be enough to keep you
Here with me?

"If I could let myself love
The one I'd love forever
Would be you."

Silence filled the room as the final word was spoken.

Dean wrote a poem, he thought numbly.

Dean loved Cas. Loved him with all his heart.

That came as less of a surprise. It was a given, almost an obvious fact – obvious to everyone except maybe Cas and Dean.

There was a tragedy worthy of a Shakespearean play in the lines Dean had written. Or possibly a comedy of errors.

Those two oblivious assholes went to their respective eternal rests with Cas probably not knowing and Dean definitely not admitting how he felt.

They could have built a life together. They could have found some measure of comfort and happiness with each other, in a world that offered them little else but hardship and pain.

Sam didn't doubt for a minute that the angel loved Dean too. If only Dean had handed him the completed poem, maybe Cas would have found the courage to speak his own truth. The truth that smouldered in his eyes every time he looked at Dean. Yes, Sam could easily imagine the words 'I love you' spilling from the angel's lips.

Sam carefully refolded the note and tucked it back into the journal before placing both in the box.

"Come on, boy," he said, stooping to grab the pillow as he walked towards the door, the box cradled in his other arm. Miracle trotted obediently at his heels as he entered the hallway, and Sam turned to gaze one final time at the now truly empty room. It's power to haunt him was gone, laid to rest by what he had just learned of Dean's life and what that meant to his own: how it confirmed that his decision to move on was the right one.

No 'if I could' about it, Sam Winchester would. He would live a long and happy life with the woman he adored. He would remember Dean and his angel, and keep the memories of what they meant to each other (and to the world) alive in his heart. Because he could. Because that is what his brother would have wanted for him, even though Dean stupidly denied himself his own heart's desire.

"Goodbye, Dean," Sam murmured, and gently closed the door.