Requiem
Title: Requiem
Rating: T
Genre: Supernatural
Series: Phantoms (1/2)
Spoilers: Post No Rest for the Wicked
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.
Summary: His brother is dead, it was time he moved on…
********
The duffel lay across Sam’s lap, open but angled so he could not see inside. It had been that way for forty-two minutes.
It was Dean’s duffel. His brother’s entire life lay inside that bag, what was left of his life. Dean was dead, chest ripped and shredded, dragged to hell by hounds. There was no return, at least no way that Sam had found.
He fumbled with a strap, his fist clenching around the rough canvas. It had been months since his brother’s death and, still, he could not find the courage to open the bag, to disrupt its contents. Dean would not like him rummaging through his stuff.
Dean was dead, gone, never coming back.
It hurt too much to break that last habit, to take away his brother’s last bit of privacy. So Sam stalled, he found other, less emotionally painful tasks. Always, always he avoided the bag and always, always he watched it, wondering at its contents. Dean’s duffel…
The duffel was Dean’s no longer; it was Sam’s.
Breathing deeply, Sam tipped the bag towards him and pushed one tremulous hand through the opening. Motor memory kept his actions on autopilot, placing each item of his brother’s in a line on the bed. He kept his eyes closed, not watching, not wanting to see the small mementos of Dean’s life on display. They were a shrine, a sanctuary, remembrance of what Dean had been to a reverent younger brother. They were all Sam had; they were priceless.
Several minutes passed after Sam laid the last of Dean’s possessions on the mattress. His eyes remained closed, his lungs laboring for breath. He clutched the bag to him, knuckles white with the grip, and thought about his brother. Dean was more than family, closer than anyone Sam had ever known. To have lost him so soon, to have been the source of his death was unbearable. There was not a day that passed which he did not curse God, himself, Lilith…
Dean was dead.
Sam could not accept it, had refused to accept it. Until that morning. It had been Ruby, that demon bitch Dean would happily slay. She had made him look, see that Dean was gone. There was nothing they could do-his brother would rot in hell for eternity-but they could get revenge. Lilith, it all came back to Lilith.
“I’m sorry, Dean.”
Eyes open, Sam let them wander over the detritus of Dean’s existence. There was a worn pair of jeans, underwear, T-shirts, socks, a flannel burned at the cuff from a misdirected match on Sam’s part. Dean had been quick to douse the flames but not before they had singed the hair from his arm. All the dancing around would’ve been funny if they hadn’t been eyeball-deep in zombies.
The broken pocketknife made Sam smile; he’d had an identical one before Stanford, before he’d grown to hate the life planned out for him. Their dad had given them as presents the one Christmas he had remembered. There had been some sort of blood oath-a prick of the finger and a little chanting-and pledges of loyalty. He’d never broken the promise, had been steadfast to the end. Little good it did.
Various charms and trinkets littered the bedspread; Sam was familiar with most of them. There was one to ward off evil spirits; not very useful for a hunt. There were crosses and symbols of multiple religions: the Star of David, a crucifix, a small golden Buddha, some native fetishes, among others. Some of the bric-a-brac was coins with strange figures engraved in the metal or amulets with some small, semi-precious stone. They were unimportant, keepsakes of a hunt gone right, maybe wrong; meaningful only to his brother.
Dean’s journal was just as he’d last seen it: worn, battered, and discolored. An inverted star had been carved in the lower right corner, stained with blue ink. Sam touched the cover, his fingers light and respectful. His brother’s words weren’t the bible but there would be much knowledge in them. Dean’s experiences were one of a kind, even for the hunting world. He put it aside for later, when his heart wasn’t lodged in his throat.
The dented ammunition box gave Sam pause. He picked it from the rubble and brought it up for closer scrutiny. While not an odd thing for Dean to have in his belongings -they lived by their guns-it was the location. Ammo had a proper place and it was not Dean’s duffel. They kept it in the trunk, with the guns, in their pockets, in a special bag designated for such things, not among their earthly possessions. Sam pulled the cardboard tab open, slowly separating the interior flaps. His eyes widened at what he found inside: photos, a lock of hair, and a thick, silver chain.
The hair was suspicious and contrary to training. It was very long, dark and something he did not recognize. The fact that Dean had it made Sam’s heart thud against his ribcage. Hair was real, had belonged to a person, and they had been taught not to keep such mementos. A restless spirit could be drawn to it, to a piece of themselves. Dean had known but he had kept it regardless. Sam smoothed his fingers over the strand; it was soft, silky, probably a woman’s.
Few were the photos, four in total. All were of the same person…woman. She was pretty, petite, eyes soulful and dark, lips full and smiling. And her hair…it was long and dark brown. Sam’s attention flicked to the lock he had set aside, eyes narrowing at the connection. He flipped through the photographs, not able to place the woman. In them, she was relaxed, happy, smiling-dancing on a beach barefoot, lying on a bed hair spread out around her, standing before a mirror clad only in an oversized Metallica t-shirt-except the last. In it, she was sleeping, curled against the door of a car…of the Impala.
Air frozen in his lungs, Sam pulled the chain from the box, felt the heavy pull of weight at its bottom. He blinked at it, not fully comprehending. Rings, both gold, chimed together; one was larger-a man’s-the other much smaller-a woman’s-but both were heavy bands without adornment, matching.
Wedding rings.
Numb and lifeless, Sam let the necklace pool in his hands. He slumped in his seat, sliding to the floor when his muscles refused to obey. He knelt on the grimy carpet, staring at the photos scattered about his body, at the rings glinting in the meager light, and sobbed. Tears slipped down his cheeks, scalding and wet, but he felt no relief or comfort. He squeezed the chain until the silver bit into his palm, that pain more welcome, more satisfying.
There was so much Sam had never asked his brother, so much he never knew. Four years they had been apart, four years without contact. And now…Dean was dead and Sam would never know about the woman…
…about Dean’s wife.
--------
The End
Rating: T
Genre: Supernatural
Series: Phantoms (1/2)
Spoilers: Post No Rest for the Wicked
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.
Summary: His brother is dead, it was time he moved on…
********
The duffel lay across Sam’s lap, open but angled so he could not see inside. It had been that way for forty-two minutes.
It was Dean’s duffel. His brother’s entire life lay inside that bag, what was left of his life. Dean was dead, chest ripped and shredded, dragged to hell by hounds. There was no return, at least no way that Sam had found.
He fumbled with a strap, his fist clenching around the rough canvas. It had been months since his brother’s death and, still, he could not find the courage to open the bag, to disrupt its contents. Dean would not like him rummaging through his stuff.
Dean was dead, gone, never coming back.
It hurt too much to break that last habit, to take away his brother’s last bit of privacy. So Sam stalled, he found other, less emotionally painful tasks. Always, always he avoided the bag and always, always he watched it, wondering at its contents. Dean’s duffel…
The duffel was Dean’s no longer; it was Sam’s.
Breathing deeply, Sam tipped the bag towards him and pushed one tremulous hand through the opening. Motor memory kept his actions on autopilot, placing each item of his brother’s in a line on the bed. He kept his eyes closed, not watching, not wanting to see the small mementos of Dean’s life on display. They were a shrine, a sanctuary, remembrance of what Dean had been to a reverent younger brother. They were all Sam had; they were priceless.
Several minutes passed after Sam laid the last of Dean’s possessions on the mattress. His eyes remained closed, his lungs laboring for breath. He clutched the bag to him, knuckles white with the grip, and thought about his brother. Dean was more than family, closer than anyone Sam had ever known. To have lost him so soon, to have been the source of his death was unbearable. There was not a day that passed which he did not curse God, himself, Lilith…
Dean was dead.
Sam could not accept it, had refused to accept it. Until that morning. It had been Ruby, that demon bitch Dean would happily slay. She had made him look, see that Dean was gone. There was nothing they could do-his brother would rot in hell for eternity-but they could get revenge. Lilith, it all came back to Lilith.
“I’m sorry, Dean.”
Eyes open, Sam let them wander over the detritus of Dean’s existence. There was a worn pair of jeans, underwear, T-shirts, socks, a flannel burned at the cuff from a misdirected match on Sam’s part. Dean had been quick to douse the flames but not before they had singed the hair from his arm. All the dancing around would’ve been funny if they hadn’t been eyeball-deep in zombies.
The broken pocketknife made Sam smile; he’d had an identical one before Stanford, before he’d grown to hate the life planned out for him. Their dad had given them as presents the one Christmas he had remembered. There had been some sort of blood oath-a prick of the finger and a little chanting-and pledges of loyalty. He’d never broken the promise, had been steadfast to the end. Little good it did.
Various charms and trinkets littered the bedspread; Sam was familiar with most of them. There was one to ward off evil spirits; not very useful for a hunt. There were crosses and symbols of multiple religions: the Star of David, a crucifix, a small golden Buddha, some native fetishes, among others. Some of the bric-a-brac was coins with strange figures engraved in the metal or amulets with some small, semi-precious stone. They were unimportant, keepsakes of a hunt gone right, maybe wrong; meaningful only to his brother.
Dean’s journal was just as he’d last seen it: worn, battered, and discolored. An inverted star had been carved in the lower right corner, stained with blue ink. Sam touched the cover, his fingers light and respectful. His brother’s words weren’t the bible but there would be much knowledge in them. Dean’s experiences were one of a kind, even for the hunting world. He put it aside for later, when his heart wasn’t lodged in his throat.
The dented ammunition box gave Sam pause. He picked it from the rubble and brought it up for closer scrutiny. While not an odd thing for Dean to have in his belongings -they lived by their guns-it was the location. Ammo had a proper place and it was not Dean’s duffel. They kept it in the trunk, with the guns, in their pockets, in a special bag designated for such things, not among their earthly possessions. Sam pulled the cardboard tab open, slowly separating the interior flaps. His eyes widened at what he found inside: photos, a lock of hair, and a thick, silver chain.
The hair was suspicious and contrary to training. It was very long, dark and something he did not recognize. The fact that Dean had it made Sam’s heart thud against his ribcage. Hair was real, had belonged to a person, and they had been taught not to keep such mementos. A restless spirit could be drawn to it, to a piece of themselves. Dean had known but he had kept it regardless. Sam smoothed his fingers over the strand; it was soft, silky, probably a woman’s.
Few were the photos, four in total. All were of the same person…woman. She was pretty, petite, eyes soulful and dark, lips full and smiling. And her hair…it was long and dark brown. Sam’s attention flicked to the lock he had set aside, eyes narrowing at the connection. He flipped through the photographs, not able to place the woman. In them, she was relaxed, happy, smiling-dancing on a beach barefoot, lying on a bed hair spread out around her, standing before a mirror clad only in an oversized Metallica t-shirt-except the last. In it, she was sleeping, curled against the door of a car…of the Impala.
Air frozen in his lungs, Sam pulled the chain from the box, felt the heavy pull of weight at its bottom. He blinked at it, not fully comprehending. Rings, both gold, chimed together; one was larger-a man’s-the other much smaller-a woman’s-but both were heavy bands without adornment, matching.
Wedding rings.
Numb and lifeless, Sam let the necklace pool in his hands. He slumped in his seat, sliding to the floor when his muscles refused to obey. He knelt on the grimy carpet, staring at the photos scattered about his body, at the rings glinting in the meager light, and sobbed. Tears slipped down his cheeks, scalding and wet, but he felt no relief or comfort. He squeezed the chain until the silver bit into his palm, that pain more welcome, more satisfying.
There was so much Sam had never asked his brother, so much he never knew. Four years they had been apart, four years without contact. And now…Dean was dead and Sam would never know about the woman…
…about Dean’s wife.
--------
The End