Been a while. Have some angst to make up for my absence.
Dean takes Sam to Jess's grave.
They have a hunt a few states over, a trail Dean picks up from an acquaintance of an acquaintance. He tells Sam they're making a routine pit stop, to get some sleep - "I'll wake you if I need you, Sammy."
It's sunny when he pulls up outside the cemetery. Dean sits in the car for a minute, and it turns into two, three, ten. There's a pretty little church, an old oak tree, row after row of neatly laid out gravestones, and it all looks so normal in the daylight. Pristine and untouchable. What he always hoped Sam would end up with - buried next to to a pretty girl, three pretty children crying at a funeral filled with friends and neighbours and colleagues.
Sam blinks when he reaches across to shake him awake, sits up slowly and peers out at the churchyard.
"We there already?" he asks, still a little bleary with sleep, and Dean pastes on a smirk and shakes his head.
"Get out the car," Dean says instead of explaining, pushing open his own door and unfolding himself from the seat. Sam watches him with a frown, brows furrowed as he shuts the door behind him.
"What are we doing here, Dean?"
Dean shrugs and scratches at his jaw, turning to wander towards the gate leading to the graveyard. "You still ask too many questions," he calls over his shoulder, smiling slightly when Sam huffs in annoyance.
Sam stays a few steps behind him, so Dean studies the graves as they walk through the cemetery. They all look so clean, so unlike the graves he's used to. The newer ones shine in the sunlight. He reaches out to run a hand along the top of one, then changes his mind. His hands would probably leave ugly smears of dirt on the stones, and he doesn't want to ruin this pretty little place with his presence.
He knows which grave is Jess's. He phoned ahead, asked the vicar - the last one on the fifth row back. Black marble. An angel on top. Her name picked out in golden lettering.
There's a sharp intake of breath behind him when Sam sees it. His brother's footsteps falter. Sam doesn't say anything for a handful of heartbeats, so Dean walks until he's right in front of the grave.
"You never got a chance to see it," he tells Sam quietly. He doesn't look up from the marble, from the name, the Beloved Daughter. "I thought you might want to."
Sam makes a choked noise, but his footsteps are steady as he joins Dean in front of the grave. When Dean glances down, he catches sight of clenched hands, nails biting into skin.
"I miss her," Sam admits, his fingers tightening. Dean looks back to the marble, offering Sam what little privacy he can give. "I feel so fucking guilty, all the time. And I miss her like crazy."
His voice breaks on the last word, body trembling so violently Dean can feel it. Anything else Sam wanted to say is swallowed in his tears, in the sobs that he stifles with the heel of his hand. Dean keeps his gaze fixed on the grave, eyes blurring with his own tears - tears for a girl he'd only met once, tears for the life his brother loved and lost, tears for the innocence of the clean black marble.
"I wanted to bring flowers," Dean breathes, and Sam goes still next to him but Dean presses on. "I wanted to, but I didn't know what kind she'd like best. I figured-" he pauses, swallows roughly, stares down at the little marble angel, "-I figured you were the only thing I could bring her."
Sam's silent, breathing heavily, wetly. He doesn't say thank you.
Dean knows he doesn't deserve a thank you.