Chapter Text
“Dean,” it starts.
Sam’s voice, clear as the sky stretching endless before Dean, ringing over the song blasting from the radio.
“I hate you,” it continues. “I thought you should know.”
“Always knew, Sammy,” Dean says with a light smile, while the voice goes on.
“And I love you. Dean, I love you so much. And I never told you.”
“Did too,” Dean counters. “All drugged up, when we were hunting that wraith in a mental ward.” Not their best hunt, but a fun memory nonetheless, mortal danger aside.
“I’d give anything for just one more day with you. One more hour, one more minute.”
Maybe Dean should be more wary of whatever this is, but this is Heaven and Jack’s watching over them, so Dean’s instincts are comfortably dulled, lulled into a lazy acceptance of his new circumstances. More than that, he trusts Sam. Finally, fully trusts him, knows he wouldn’t do anything stupid, no matter how much he might want to.
Dean would. That’s why it’s a good thing he’s the one up here.
“The memorial went well,” Sam says abruptly, his tone changing into something steadier, more formal. “No monsters this time. I guess it could count as an open bar, though I didn’t get a choir. No Gary Busey, either, sorry. I read the eulogy. Hope you don’t mind.”
“‘s fine,” Dean says, and he imagines for a moment having to say a eulogy for Sam. He doesn’t know how Sam could bear it.
Little brother has always been the stronger one. Pride blooms in Dean’s chest, as it always does when he thinks of Sam.
“There were so many people. And I hated them all. Even Eileen. Couldn’t look any of them in the eye.”
Dean winces. He knows what’ll come next.
“They didn’t lose you in the way I did. Their world didn’t crash and burn. They were going to drink some, chat some, and go on to live their lives.”
“You promised, Sam,” Dean whispers, wishing he could put his hand on his brother’s face, give him his trademark smirk that was supposed to fix everything.
Sam stays silent for a few moments, and Dean wonders if that was it.
“I scattered your ashes,” Sam’s voice returns, its tone changed again, now into something quiet, something raw. “I scattered your ashes, Dean.” He sounds like he doesn’t believe himself. “Right where you wanted.”
“Good.” Dean nods to himself. That concludes his earthly existence, and he’s made peace with it. He’s left some good legacy—all the people he saved, all the people he protected.
The boy he raised. The boy he’s loved since he first laid eyes on him.
“That’s all, I guess,” Sam says, unsure. Dean can see his mouth go through a few twists. “For now.” It’s a little ominous, and Dean hopes it doesn’t mean that Sam is, in fact, doing something stupid, like using up his soul on a spell. “I’ll write again soon.”
…Write?
*
It’s a few minutes for Dean. Could be hours, could be days, but it just feels real soon, when Sam’s voice fills the car again.
“Hi, Dean.”
Dean waits. He still isn’t sure how exactly this works, what it even is.
“I’ve left the bunker. It’s not home without you.”
Dean remembers how long it took Sam to accept that place as home, and now Dean’s gone and ruined it for him.
“Miracle’s with me. I’m thinking of moving to Arizona. Somewhere close to the Grand Canyon. We had a good time there. Farty donkey, remember?” Sam laughs, just a little, but it’s a good sound. “It’s hot, but you know I like hot.”
It’s also on the other side of the country from Ohio, but Dean doesn’t point that out.
“I’ll probably get a job,” Sam muses. “I still have those hacked credit cards, but I—I need something to fill the time.”
He stops for a long moment, and Dean hears everything Sam doesn’t say.
“Sounds like a plan, Sammy.” He means it, honestly.
“I know you told me to keep fighting,” Sam adds, a little sheepish.
Dean figures Sam can’t hear him, this Earth-to-Heaven line going one-way, apparently.
“But I’m not quitting completely,” Sam adds in a hurry. “I’m still a Man of Letters. Helping out other hunters. Still saving people, just not with my own hands. I hope you’re not angry.”
Dean’s as far from angry as one can possibly be.
“I’m ecstatic,” he says because he is.
“I have to go.” Sam sounds apologetic. “Miracle needs a walk. I hope you’re all right.” He goes quiet, and the next sentence is a whisper. “I wish you could give me some sign or anything.” He pauses, like he’s waiting for that sign. Dean doesn’t know what to do. Sam heaves a soft sigh. “Goodbye, Dean.”
It strikes Dean then that Sam only gets his own voice, that to Sam, he’s talking into the cold, vast void that swallowed Dean and dragged him away.
He’ll do one thing he can do for Sam—he’ll listen, grab every word and store it in his heart, until Sam gets here and Dean can reply to him properly.
Dean settles for a long, long wait.
*
“I should write more often,” Sam says, and Dean perks up. “The letters to you—they help.”
Ah. Sam’s writing letters, and Dean’s hearing them in the process. Must be some special Heaven magic, maybe a gift from Jack. Dean doesn’t want to examine this too closely; if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, as the saying goes.
He’s just happy to hear his brother’s voice. Makes the wait that much easier.
“My therapist—don’t laugh.” Of course, Dean laughs, smacks his hands on the steering wheel. “Dean, I can hear you laughing. Please don’t stop,” he adds, small and hopeless.
It’s Heaven, isn’t it? Dean’s heart isn’t supposed to hurt this much.
“She says my letters to you are an intersection between praying and journaling, and that both are good for me. Nurturing spirituality, connecting with myself, shit like that.”
“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean says because he gotta. “I leave you for a few months, and you turn into a New Age girl.”
“But you know what?” Sam’s voice goes darker, angrier. “I don’t care. I don’t care about any of this stuff. When I write to you, I write to you. To you, my idiot big brother who left me alone, and now I’m not gonna leave you alone in return. This is my revenge, Dean. Wherever you are, sipping top-shelf whiskey and fucking porn stars in your personal Heaven, my letters will find you and will show you the life you’re missing, the life I’m living for you.”
“You’re my Heaven, Sammy,” Dean says simply, glad that Sam can’t hear him, not yet.
“Know this, Dean,” Sam says, menacing now. “I will never let you go.”
He stops, then, but Dean feels him still, as if he’s right there, in the passenger’s seat.
The radio keeps playing, loud in the silence Sam’s left behind him, and when Dean glances sideways, there’s no one in the car with him.
*
Dean’s singing along with Steve Walsh as the song comes up again, when the next letter arrives.
“I’m going back to college,” Sam says, his excitement putting a smile on Dean’s face. “The University of Arizona. Gonna double major in Anthropology and Creative Writing.”
Dean whistles, impressed and not really surprised. Anthropology is basically studying lore, and Sam always liked writing, just take these letters, for example.
“And I’m working at the university library.” Sam chuckles, and it’s only a little sad. “I know, I know. I’m a nerd.”
“You bet you are,” Dean agrees, fondness spreading through his chest like a warm wave.
Every time he thinks he can’t possibly be prouder of Sam, his little brother goes and does something that takes Dean’s breath away on a whole new level.
“Got a house in Tucson,” Sam continues, sounding like he’s not sure if he’s really talking about himself. “Nice neighborhood. A half-hour drive to the Uni.”
Dean thinks about Baby, the one he left on Earth, and wonders if Sam’s driving her or if it hurts too much.
“Got a new car, too,” Sam answers his question unwittingly. “A brand-new piece of plastic. You’d hate it.”
“I already hate it,” Dean shoots back, forgetting for a moment that Sam can’t hear him.
“The Impala—” Sam stumbles over his words, and Dean can see how his face twists in pain. “Don’t worry. I’m taking care of her. Take her out for a spin sometimes. When I can.”
He makes it sound like he means when he has the time, but Dean knows, and he’s sorry, he’s so sorry.
“I gotta go to class now,” Sam says, cheering up at the prospect of learning. Dean grins. In some ways, his baby brother never changes, and Dean adores him for it. “Bye, Dean.”
“Bye, Sammy.”
He likes this, Dean decides. Even if it leaves him feeling lonely between the letters.
*
“I met someone,” Sam’s saying, nervous and unsure. “At the Uni.” It sounds like he’s apologizing again, when he’s got nothing to apologize for, not to Dean. “She’s not you, not even close.”
“That’s kinda the point,” Dean says, torn between wanting his brother to be happy and wanting him to be his.
Really, it’s a good thing he died. He would’ve never let Sam go otherwise, would’ve never let anyone else have him.
“She’s got green eyes, and if the light hits right and I squint a little, it’s almost like looking at you again.”
“Oh, c’mon, Sammy.” Dean throws a frustrated look at the passenger’s seat, like Sam’s sitting there, being ridiculous. “Stop comparing your girl to your dead brother.”
“I don’t tell her any of that. You think comparing my girlfriend to my dead brother is fucked-up?”
“Yes, Sammy, that’s exactly what I’m thinking!”
“You do, don’t you? Well, I don’t, so suck it up. I miss you so fucking much, Dean. If I can see you, just a speck of you, this replica that looks right a couple seconds a day, I’m taking that. Do you hear me? I’m taking that, Dean, and you forfeited your right to stop me.”
Dean hears him. He doesn’t know what to say, not that it would matter. Even if Sam could somehow hear him, the kid’s too stubborn to change his mind.
At least he’s got someone now, and Dean exhales in relief, tamping down the surge of jealousy that he can’t avoid.
*
When Sam speaks again, it’s a bombshell.
“I’m gonna be a father, Dean.”
Dean slaps the steering wheel, his face splitting in a huge grin.
“That’s my boy!”
He only feels a slight pang in his chest that he won’t be there to see it, won’t get to be the fun uncle who slips beer to a kid who’s not yet in double digits.
“And I’m scared I’ll be a shit one,” Sam adds, and he does sound terrified.
Dean can’t believe what he’s hearing. Sam’s been a great dad to Jack, why the hell would he doubt himself even for a second?
“You told me once that I was more like Dad than you ever would be.” It’s so low, Dean barely catches it.
He huffs, irritated.
“C’mon, man, that’s not what I meant.” This is the first time he really laments the fact that Sam can’t hear him.
“What if you were right? What if I make the kid be someone they don’t wanna be? What if I screw it all up?”
Dean needs to be there, next to Sam, so he can grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him.
“You’re gonna do great,” he says, helpless. “You’re gonna be the best dad in the world, Sammy.”
Sam stays silent for so long, Dean thinks this was the end of the letter, but then Sam speaks again.
“I’ll have to ask myself what would you do, every step of the way. You’ve always been so good with kids.”
“Got tons of practice with you, little brother.” Dean smiles as a montage of little Sammy’s best hits flashes before his eyes.
The tantrums, the scraped knees, the broken toys. All of them for Dean to fix, ever since he was four, and he did his best, always did his best for Sam. And what do you know? Sam turned out all right, the best person Dean’s ever met.
If Dean could do it, then Sam sure as hell will be fucking awesome at it.
“Wish me luck, Dean. I need you so much.” Sam’s voice goes unsteady, and Dean’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
“Good luck, Sammy,” he says into the empty air, the most he can do.
*
Dean gets a few brief updates about Sam’s studies, learns that Sam’s having a boy, laughs when Sam bitches about all the horny students he catches fucking in the library.
It sounds like a fun life, but there’s a little crack in Sam’s voice that never goes away, that Dean can’t mend, no one can.
Except maybe one thing.
Dean prays for that letter, and when it comes, it’s more than he expected.
“He’s here, Dean.” Sam sounds excited and exhausted, and Dean guesses this is what it’s gonna be like for at least a few more years. “Dean Jr. Your nephew.”
His nephew. Something large fills Dean’s chest; he had a glimpse of it when he had Ben, when he almost believed himself a father. Now, though, this is real—he’s an uncle, and it doesn’t matter that he’s dead.
He loves that boy fiercely, and he hopes it’ll be a long time till they meet, but he can’t wait.
“I have a son, Dean,” Sam continues, awed and a little lost. “And he’s beautiful. Dean, if only you could see him.”
“Don’t need to,” Dean says with one-hundred percent certainty. “I know he is.”
Sam doesn’t say anything for a while, and Dean longs to be there, to hold Sam’s hand through the enormity of this change. To tease him, too, and to be on hand for an emergency diaper run.
He misses Sam every second that they aren’t together, but missing out on this part of Sam’s life hurts so much, Dean momentarily wonders if he’d been relocated to Hell.
Sam resumes speaking, and Dean loses his breath.
“I saw this little bundle,” Sam whispers, like he’s sharing a fragile secret, “and my world, what was left of it after you, narrowed down to him. Like all the love I still had in my body, all of it rushed out toward him, enveloping him in this kind of light that only I get to see.”
He pauses before asking the question Dean knows he’s gonna ask.
“Was it like this for you, Dean? With me?”
It’s been more than forty years of life and who-knows-how long of death, but Dean remembers. Of course, he does.
“Yeah, Sammy.” His voice trembles with the memory. “Spot-on.”
“I didn’t know.” There are tears in Sam’s voice, and all Dean can do is listen. It’s becoming frustrating. “Dean, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I thought I did, but I didn’t.”
When Sam gets here, Dean’s gonna have to smack his head for all this apologizing. As if there exists a universe in which Dean doesn’t forgive his brother anything.
Even if it did, Chuck has already erased it, and good riddance.
“I’ll do everything,” Sam says resolutely. “I’ll give him the best life I can. And I’ll tell him all about you. It’ll be like you’re here with us.”
Now there are tears on Dean’s cheeks.
“Gah, Sammy.” He wipes his eyes with a grimace. “Look what you did.”
“I will love him for the two of us,” Sam continues, voice growing stronger with every word. “There’ll never be a day when he won’t know how much he’s loved. I’ll give him what you’ve given me.”
“Good.” Dean nods as he sniffles. “That’s good.”
“I just hope you knew that you were loved, too. Still are. Will always be.”
Dean takes a long, long breath.
He didn’t always believe it, didn’t always understand what Sam saw in him but a broken boy with a list of sins a mile long.
“I knew,” he says still, because he did, because Sam made sure he did. “I know.”
Sometimes it was the only thing he knew in the whole world, and it was enough.
It’s always been enough.
*
It’s not The Notebook—Sam doesn’t write to Dean every day, but he surely writes for longer than one year.
Dean gets to celebrate things with Sam. Birthdays, weddings, every single Christmas, the burn of Sam’s eggnog still fresh on Dean’s tongue from that surprise Christmas they thought was their last one before Dean got dragged to Hell. Every milestone Dean Jr. hits, Dean knows all about it. His first step—three at once, very brave; his first word—Dean’s name, just like Sam’s was, because Sam has been that zealous in making his son know he has an uncle. The little guy was pointing at Dean’s photo when he said it, mimicking his father, and Dean can’t stop imagining that scene and grinning.
It’s a good stretch of the road, Baby’s purring and classic rock mixing with Sam’s voice telling Dean about happy things, but Dean knows life, and it’s not all sunshine and rainbows.
He gets to mourn with Sam, too, and that’s when he really wishes he could be a ghost, just a little ripple in the air to let Sam know he’s not alone, not really, never.
“Miracle passed away.” Sam’s voice is wobbly, and Dean’s pretty sure the paper Sam’s writing on is dotted with wet spots. “He was the only one who missed you like I did—daily, horribly.”
“I’m sorry,” Dean offers uselessly.
“It’s like I still had this part of you, this tiny little part here with me, and now it’s gone, and it’s like you’re gone all over again.” Sam’s words come in a rush, brittle and broken. “And I can’t bear it. I can hardly bear it on any other day, and I count days, you know, I still do, I know exactly how long I’ve had to live without you.”
“Sam.” Everything in Dean aches.
“Don’t get mad at me. Don’t you do that,” Sam pleads in an echo of Dean’s voice from so many years ago. “I have to. I have to keep you alive in me. That’s my job. That and Dean Jr.”
Dean peers at the road in front of him, as if it can somehow tell him how to make things right.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Sam goes on, ripping new holes in Dean’s chest. “I don’t want to know how to do this.”
Dean rubs a hand over his mouth, but there’s nothing he can do, nothing at all.
“I just want you back, Dean. I just want you back.”
Dean steps on it, as though that can take him away from the absolute misery of Sam’s sobs.
*
The next letter takes a while, even for Dean.
He keeps driving, the radio cycling through his favorite songs, and he sings along, but it doesn’t feel right. Not without Sam’s voice there.
The weather is perfect, just warm enough that Dean isn’t sweating in his jacket, and the scenery is breathtaking. Baby’s fuel tank is perpetually full, as is Dean’s stomach, although he wouldn’t mind a burger sometime down the road, just for the taste of it.
It’s Heaven, and it’s his to explore and enjoy, but he can’t, not really. Not alone.
Not when a half of him, the better half of him isn’t there.
“Hi, Dean,” Sam’s voice filters over Zep’s Ramble On, and Dean turns down the volume, something he’s never done before.
“Hi, Sammy,” he exhales, relieved that Sam doesn’t sound as shattered as he did the last time Dean heard him.
“Sorry I didn’t write sooner.” Again with the apologies. Dean will definitely have to talk to Sam about it. “I wanted to get this done before I wrote to you again.”
Dean tenses, just in case. Sam doesn’t exactly have a good track record with secret projects. Neither of them does.
“I wrote a book,” Sam says, sounding like he’s five again and presenting Dean with a picture he drew of the two of them, which he did almost on a weekly basis for a while. Those pictures were terrible and Dean loved them to bits.
He has no doubt he’d love Sam’s book, too.
“That’s awesome, Sammy,” he says, shoulders dropping and lips curling in a proud smile.
“Actually, it’s a series. It’s called Carry On. Like that song you liked.” Sam goes steadily from shy to excited. “It’s about a guy who drives around the country and hunts monsters. Not very original, I know. But, well, write what you know.”
Dean relaxes in his seat and lets Sam’s voice wash over him.
“The main character’s name is Ned Smith,” Sam chatters on, and Dean wishes he were there to see Sam’s face brightening like he knows it does. “It’s kinda your name backwards, and you remember that last name, right? When you wore red suspenders and drank smoothies. Man, you looked ridiculous. And you thought I was hitting on you, which, okay, maybe I was a little.”
Dean almost drives Baby off the road. Sure, they didn’t know they were brothers in that cursed fantasy world by Zachariah, but—but Sam can’t be serious.
It has always been Dean, only Dean, who looked at his brother and felt things he wasn’t supposed to feel.
“So these books,” Sam says, and Dean tries to focus back on his words. “I got to thinking what your life’d have been like if you didn’t have me to constantly worry about. Just you, killing evil sons of bitches and raising hell. And that’s what I’m writing about. You, living your best life.”
Dean shakes his head. His little brother, the smartest person in the world, can still be such an idiot sometimes.
“I have a four-book contract, and my agent thinks there’s a good chance I’ll get more, so you’re gonna have a long life. Like you should have.” Sam’s voice cracks on the last sentence, and Dean sighs.
Sam’s books are brilliant, Dean knows that. But the premise is all wrong.
There ain’t no Dean if there ain’t no Sam, doesn’t Sam know it?
*
“Dean Jr. turned sixteen yesterday,” Sam says, somewhat graver than Dean expected him to sound when talking about his son’s birthday. “I gave him the monster talk.”
Well. Dean taps the steering wheel, waiting to find out how that went.
“He didn’t freak out. Didn’t even blink. Just asked me if his Mom knows.” Sam stops for a moment. “She doesn’t,” he says, blank.
“One hell of a secret to keep, Sammy.” Dean doesn’t judge, though. It’s a hell of a story to tell, too.
“I told Dean Jr. everything. The hunting, the Men of Letters. How I really lost you.” There’s that crack in Sam’s voice again, the unhealable one. “He’s curious about the lore, and he wants to do what I do, helping other hunters, so we’ve got some work to do. But I don’t think he’ll choose hunting. He’s already got plans for his future, and honestly, I’m relieved.”
Dean finds himself relieved as well. He might have loved hunting, but he’s all kinds of fucked-up.
Nice to know someone in the family turned out to be a well-adjusted human being.
“He’s obsessed with cars,” Sam says and chuckles, a little watery. “I think he gets it from you. And he wants to go to college. Grad school, too.” He hesitates for a moment, but pushes on. “It’s kinda like he’s our son. Mine and yours.”
Dean flushes at the thought. He’s already had Jack to parent with Sam, and it did all kinds of things to Dean’s head, but Sam throwing out the concept of them having a kid of their own—that’s almost too much to bear.
It shouldn’t be legal for Sam to talk so casually about things Dean didn’t even dare dream about.
It shouldn’t be possible for Sam to dream about them, too.
“Whatever he chooses,” Sam’s saying as Dean’s hands tremble on the steering wheel, “I just want him to be happy.”
“Are you happy, Sam?” Dean asks, voice tearing over the impossibility of getting an answer.
“It’s all that matters, right?” Sam sounds wistful now, like he also wishes he could get an answer from Dean right now. “I hope you’re happy, Dean.”
“I will be,” Dean promises. “I will be.”
He will. It’s just a matter of time.
*
Over the next few letters, Dean learns that Sam’s books fare much better than Chuck’s did, which Dean never doubted for a second. Sam gets a fan base, and he cites Dean some of the Ned Smith thirst letters he gets. They’re absolutely obscene, making even Dean blush a few times.
Dean Jr.’s academic career takes off, too, which Dean never doubted either.
“Full ride at Stanford,” Sam tells him, bursting with pride. “Mechanical Engineering. He’s gonna teach people how to make cars greener. Take care of the world in his own way.”
“Attaboy.” Dean’s also bursting with pride. He just wishes there was a way to let his nephew know that.
“He hasn’t even left yet, but I miss him already,” Sam admits. “Don’t know how I’m gonna deal with the empty nest.”
Old pain takes Dean back to the night when Sam left, no warning, no proper goodbye. A fight with Dad and a long look at Dean, lip bitten against anything Sam might have wanted to say.
Dean’s forgiven Sam for it a long time ago, but it still hurts.
“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam apologizes again. “For leaving like that. I couldn’t tell Dad, but I should’ve told you.”
Dean shrugs, not that Sam can see him.
“That’s in the past, man.” It is, it truly is. He’ll keep telling Sam that until he gets through to him. “What’s done is done.”
“I missed you,” Sam says, voice wavering. “At Stanford. Kept hugging my pillow at night, wishing it were you.”
That’s—that makes Dean’s face burn.
“C’mon, man,” he mutters, but it’s shaky, unconvincing even to himself. “I’m not gonna be the little spoon.”
Not that he’ll ever be any kind of spoon with Sam.
“I still do that,” Sam says, and Dean wonders what his wife thinks about it. “And I wish you were here to tease me about it.”
Tease him? Dean would have a problem breathing if that scenario somehow played out.
“Who’s oversharing now, huh?” Sam asks with another chuckle that’s terribly close to a sob. “Good thing you’re never gonna get this letter.” The next sound is definitely a sob.
“But I’ve already got it,” Dean says, voice tapering off as he tries to make sense of what Sam’s just told him.
He’s heard what he’s heard, and the question is: what’s he gonna do about it?
*
Sam’s voice is changing, and Dean tries to imagine how his little brother ages. The salt in his hair, the map of wrinkles on his face, the rim of his fancy glasses. He must look beautiful, dignified, a veritable silver fox.
Dean would surely fall in love with him all over again if he saw him like that. He lets his imagination run wild as he listens to Sam’s old man cadences.
“Hi, Dean,” Sam says with that special mix of joy and pain he has reserved for Dean’s name.
“Hi, Sammy,” Dean responds dutifully.
“It’s so weird,” Sam gets straight to the point, and Dean goes on high alert, ready to come back to life and help his brother with whatever it is that’s bothering him. “I’m on book eight, and they’re doing great. People adore you, you know.”
Dean isn’t surprised. He’s always said he’s adorable.
“But there’s this thing.” Sam sounds more puzzled than frustrated. “I keep trying to add a love interest for you, but no one sticks. I’ve tried girls, I’ve tried boys, I’ve even tried an angel once.”
Dean’s reminded of Cass’s last words to him, and he shifts in his seat. He should’ve said something, but he still doesn’t know what he could’ve said. That he’s sorry? That he’s flattered? Neither seemed right.
Cass said it made him happy, just saying all that stuff, and Dean holds on to that. If he ever gave the same speech to Sam, he probably would have liked dying straight after, too, so he didn’t have to hear Sam rejecting him.
“I want you to be happy,” Sam goes on, “have someone by your side, but you keep saying adios to everyone. Always the adios. No matter what I do, you just aren’t falling in love, and I don’t know why.”
“That’s easy, Sammy,” Dean says, thankful that Sam still can’t hear him. “It’s always been you for me, that’s all.”
“Maybe I should try the King of Hell next time.” It comes out a little acidic. “You two sure had an epic bromance.”
Is Sam jealous? He sounds jealous. It shouldn’t, but it warms Dean’s heart.
“It could be my fault, too,” Sam says, pensive now. “I don’t think I want anyone else to have you, not really.”
Now that sets Dean’s heart on fire.
“You’re mine, Dean.” It’s fierce, an ultimatum. “And I’m yours. I’m yours.”
Dean realizes, distantly, that he still doesn’t know the name of Sam’s wife.
He’s not sure he wants to.
*
“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam’s voice erupts in the car, quick, furious. “Fuck you. You know what this feels like, living without your brother, and you did this to me. Years and years and years, and you aren’t here, and I look at your photos every fucking day, and I have no idea why you thought I could do it, because I can’t. I don’t care what I promised you, every part of me, every fiber I’ve got, wants to die, or find a way to bring you back. Dean Jr. is the only reason why I’m even still here. I’m not gonna leave him like you left me. Dean, you left me. You always said you were protecting me, but where are you now? Why didn’t you protect me from the worst thing that could’ve happened to me? I will never forgive you for this. You called me a selfish bastard once, but it’s you. You’re the most selfish person I’ve met. If you really, truly cared for me, you’d have stayed. You wouldn’t make me lose you. Wouldn’t send me into the world half out of my head with grief. I drink too much. I have nightmares. I see you everywhere. You’re all I think about. Your stupid grins and your stupid jokes and the smell of your stupid aftershave. How you’d wrap your arms around me and everything’d be all right. This is what home means. Not the Impala, not the bunker, not this damn house that has never seen you. It’s you, it’s always been you. No one else. I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this. I don’t think I have long left. Wait for me, Dean. I will see you again, and I’ll kick your ass, and I’ll hug the shit out of you. You won’t have a single whole rib left, I swear. Just… wait for me. Please.”
Dean waits.
*
“I miss you, Dean.”
“I know, Sammy. I’m sorry.”
*
The last letter is little more than a hastily scribbled note.
Sam’s voice is frail, and Dean imagines this simple act of writing is stealing the last of Sam’s strength.
He listens closely.
“I’m coming, Dean. I’m coming to Heaven and if I don’t find you there, I swear to Jack, I’ll burn the place down. I’ll turn over every stone, Heaven and Hell and Purgatory, so just wait for me. I’ll be there soon.”
“I’m right here, Sammy,” Dean says, and he stops the car.