a/n: This was originally written as an assignment for a self-study course on writing I was doing at the time. The prompt was to describe an action, or a person feeling strong emotion, preferably using repetition, onomatopoeia, and a variety of other things. As soon as I saw the assignment, I knew this was the story I was going to write. It turned out longer than the assignment called for, but oh well. All my stuff is longer than originally intended.
It's not him, Sam thought.
It's not him.
He parked the Impala in a small clearing deep in the heart of the forest, far from any curious eyes. For a moment he sat behind the wheel, taking slow, deep breaths—in, out, in, out—preparing himself mentally for what had to be done.
For what he alone could do.
It's not him.
Eileen would have wanted to come. Bobby, Jody, Charlie, Donna, they all would have come, would have dropped everything and driven all night to be here, but he hadn't told anyone yet. Not even Eileen. Because telling them would make it real, and it couldn't be real, not yet, not if he was going to be able to get through this evening.
It's not him.
It became his mantra: it's not him as he pulled an axe and a handsaw from the Impala's trunk; it's not him as he cut down saplings and dead branches, it's not him as he sawed up fallen trees; it's not him as he built the funeral pyre.
The forest was silent, the only sounds his: the crunch of fallen leaves under his feet; the chun, chun, chun of the axe and the sw, sw, sw of the saw; the huh, huh, huh of labored breathing; the thud, thud, thud of wood as it was piled high.
It's not him. Not really.
It wasn't the first funeral pyre he'd ever built, but he was determined it would be the last. He didn't have the heart to continue hunting. He was walking away. Someone else was going to have to take up the slack because he was done.
Sniffing, swallowing hard, Sam pulled the body of his brother out from the back seat, fought down the gorge that was forcing its way up his throat as he wrapped it in linen and tied it in twine.
"It's not him," he muttered as he lay the body on top of the pyre.
This is what he'd wanted, Sam reminded himself. The finality of a hunter's funeral. He didn't want to take the inherent risks a burial carried, of becoming a vengeful spirit or a zombie. And he didn't want Sam to be tempted to bring him back in a moment of weakness. He was ready to go, begged Sam to give him permission to go.
He'd once told Sam he didn't want to grow old, didn't want to suffer the indignities of old age. Not that there'd been much risk of that. Hunters typically didn't need a pension plan. Instead, they died in the field, doing the only thing they knew how to do.
But it was more than that. Truth be told, part of him had been ready to go ever since Castiel died. Sam didn't know how it had happened; Dean wouldn't talk about it. Wouldn't mention Cas's name, wouldn't even acknowledge that he'd ever existed.
Something had broken in Dean that day in a way that couldn't ever be fixed.
It's not him. It's just his body. He's gone. To be honest, he's been gone for a while. Deep down, he's been gone for weeks. Maybe even months.
Ever since Cas's death, Dean had been a whirlwind of activity, of joviality and of manic energy, taking on every hunting job possible, no matter how tough or how far away.
But Sam had known Dean his entire life. That wasn't Dean happy, that was him trying to convince everyone he was happy. It was pushing himself so hard that even Sam couldn't keep up with him. He hadn't wanted to give himself any time to think.
Any time to grieve.
Sam poured gasoline over the wood. Over the body on top. It's not him. He pulled out Dean's lighter. Lit it. Tossed it into the pile of wood.
The fire started slowly, crackling and popping around the edges, then with a whoosh shot into the sky.
Sam could feel the heat beginning to burn his skin. He stepped back.
The forest was filled with the blaze's deafening roar.
The only elegy a hunter ever got.
For hours, Sam kept his lonely vigil. Watched as the fire died down. Watched as it burned itself out. Watched as everything turned to ash.
Dean was gone.
Sam fell to his knees and wept.