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"I will bury my brother;
And if I die for it, what happiness!
Convicted of reverence—I shall be content*
To lie beside a brother whom I love. We have only a little time to please the living,"
(Sophocole)
Sam walks on a too familiar road, the one he has taken so many times. He walks slowly, no need to rush, and when he reaches the destination, he stops and sits on a bench there. Closes his eyes as he has done so many times before and feels the familiar sounds and smell and the image of a black 1967 Impala car awaiting not far from where he is. The warmth of the late sunset engulfs his face and lingers in his hair. The wind ruffles his hair, laughing so loudly in his ear like an inside joke, yet so gently caressing his skin as if it's trying to comfort the never-ending aching in his heart, the long-wounded emptiness in his soul. For a minute, Sam just sits there, enjoying the nature. Perhaps because now he is too close to 'it,' he feels the presence of nature so lively in his senses. Sam doesn't know how much time has passed; he opens his eyes, takes one good look at the serene scene, and then takes out everything in his bag. A couple of freshly cut flowers, a pie with extra crust, a coke, and an old-fashioned tape. The wind is a little bit stronger now as the night has almost reached the end of the skyline. Only then does Sam finally take out a small folded piece of paper.
Opening it, he stares, perhaps for too long, before trying to sound the very first syllable.
It's not like he hasn't done it for a long time; in fact, he has done it so many times, like a routine, yet he finds himself unable to control his emotion.
Hi, Dean. It's your little brother, Sam, here.
And suddenly, Sam can almost feel like he is with his big brother again, just like they have always been. As if they were just sitting at that table at the bunker, talking, or as if they just chatted through the phone.
But here he is, all old and grey, with the faded signs of the time lingering in his hair, his skin, and his posture. Still, the phantom presence of his brother here still brings a solace to him and a blade to his never-healed wound.
I know I have been doing this a lot ever since you ... left. Heh. You're probably teasing me about why I am still so bad at all of this despite doing it so many times. But Dean.
He stops, before continuing; his fingers are trembling lightly
It's never easy without you here... And maybe, just maybe, this can be the last time. Dean
Sam smiles.
So bear with me. Here is a list of what you've missed. I know you are laughing and calling me a nerd or something like that, Dean, but I can't help it, so you are going to hear it, OK?
Sam takes a hard and deep breath. The flowers are now scattered all over the seat, but Sam doesn't mind; the smell of pie fills the air as he tries to speak more, now with a more joyful tone.
I've got a house. Nothing new, yeah. But here's the catch. It has a white fence and a huge backyard and everything. It looks like it's from the classic American happy life. And I love it. Very much. My wife and I take good care of it. Personally I would like to think this is the dream house that both Dad and Mom would love to have, and for you and me to grow in a classic pie life, you know.
I've got grandkids now too, Dean. And they are beautiful, and they kinda remind me of us, you know. Hah. I wish you were there to see them. And perhaps be the 'cool' old man you have always talked about. Showing them all the shit we did when we were young, and showing off some skills just like you did for me when I was a kid... You are their hero, you know. I told them about you, about my cool brother.
You are still my hero, Dean.
Sam puts down the paper on his lap, as he can't help looking at the sky one more time, feel something roll down his cheeks as he tries to speak again.
The hunters... they just had a party to celebrate the day before. You remember the old bar. They officially make it their headquarters. But really, it's like... if you were here, I think you could name it something silly like the Hunter's Den or something out of the D&D world. I've been there a few times, Dean. And sometimes, it feels like Ellen and Jo and Ash are here too. If they were, they would be proud of what the hunters have turned the place into. Oh, and they also keep memories of you, Bobby, and other hunters as well, like you guys are some celebrities, haha, but you kinda are, you know. But I don't think you would like what they choose to keep, though. "It's embarrassing! Why don't they show off my weapons or cool shit like that?" or "Also, they're not scared that some of us will come back as some vengeful ghosts or what? And how did they manage to do that?!" But then again, you are in a house full of the best hunters in the world; I doubt that will become an issue.
And I, uh, take up … gardening. I know, I know you probably think that I finally gave in to my nature and decided to grow my rabbit food in the backyard or something, but it's fun, Dean. Actually, I think you would love it as well. It's nice to make something nice and lively rather than, you know... destroying or damaging or killing something, yeah. And it's no easy job at all, Dean. I have to get my head in the book and figure out stuff and try everything, and I joined a club, Dean. A club. It's like college all over again. But it's cool and mature and shit.
Sam, at this point, chuckles at his own words. He feels like a little brother again, trying to justify to his older brother that what he's doing is cool and that he is as cool as Dean is. But then the familiarity of it makes his soul tear a bit. He's trembling; one hand catches the other to stop it from dropping the paper it's holding. That overwhelming feeling is coming again. Can't control it, he crumbles the paper, palms covering his eyes as he tries to stop crying.
His back curves, and his shoulder shivers like a broken leaf hanging on a single branch. The winds blow, but the leaf can't let it go, yet it longs to go with the wave, to finally run its course and fly away with what's left of the winds once they have passed. And Sam is still trying. He doesn't open his eyes anymore; his voice cracks through the tears.
And ... and just the other day, there was a bakery open near my house, and they sell exactly the pies you once told me that Mom usually bought for you, or I think so. And we have another dog, you know. He is so lively and fun, and we love him so much. and ...
The wind blows again, taking away the little paper Sam is holding in his hand. Sam looks at it until he can't see the vision of it anymore; gone is the one containing the physical forms of all the things he wants to say to Dean, but he guesses he doesn't need it anymore.
Sam can still smell the flowers and the pie that he has bought for Dean. They come to his senses like a reminder, like the echo of the serene feeling when Sam and Dean had each other. Just like they did in the old days. Only then does Sam look down again at his hands, empty, but this time, he just smiles so gently as he quietly speaks
I hope you are happy there, Dean. You and everyone. Jake, Castiel, Bobby... everyone. I hope you are with your love. I am here, fulfilling my apple pie life. I hope you're getting yours too. Dean. I know life is and will not be the same without you here, but I hope to live the best of it, to make a great one out of it, and you will be so damn proud of me. The person that you have raised me to become. Dean. I miss you so much. Until we meet again.
Sam closes his eyes once more. The sound of Led Zeppelin songs playing in their 1967 Impala is still ringing in his ears, as he can almost make out the low humming from Dean in a distant memory.
"I can see the sun, but even if I cannot see the sun, I know that it exists. And to know that the sun is there—that is living."
Fyodor Dostoevsky