AN: This is the last new story I will post for a while. I need to finish the others :) I will be writing and posting, I just won't be starting anything new. Just an FYI
Building a coffin, instead of destroying one. Cleaning the body, instead of telling Dean to go take a shower because he smelled. Dressing the body, instead of throwing a bundle of clothes at Dean and saying "get dressed you are not God's gift." Laying Dean's body inside of the homemade coffin, instead of carrying him to the Impala after a minor injury. Burying the body instead of digging up a body to salt and burn. Saying goodbye instead of hello. All of it was too much. Way too much. It was incomprehensible. It was something that Sam Winchester simply could not accept.
Sam worked tirelessly after his brother's death, he looked through every single text Bobby had before he disappeared in the middle of the night. He hardly spoke, he hardly ate, he hardly showered, how could he when Dean was gone, when Dean was in Hell burning, in pain, in agony? How could he take comfort in a warm shower?
In an abandoned house, in the middle of nowhere, Sam was scouring a text he found at a local rummage sale. It was a book on Hell and Sam's eyes began to tear as he read the information on what exactly it was like down there, when he came across something that felt like he should know. Felt like he had seen or faced before. He got up from the table and went to his duffel bag, hurriedly searching through his things for Dad's journal. It wasn't there. He went to the Impala and tore through the car, the trunk all of it. Came up with nothing.
Sam starred at the single green duffel sitting in the back seat and knew, knew with every fiber in his being that his brother had been the last one with the journal and it was in there, it was in that bag, and Sam would have to open it, be assaulted with the scent of his brother, with the very feel of Dean, and dig through clothes that had once housed his brother, that once had kept him warm, and locate the journal that his brother prized almost as much as the car that it was inside of.
Sam swallowed hard, he needed that journal, he needed it to save his brother. He reached for it and grabbed it and opened it quickly. He reached inside and grabbed all of the books that were inside. He jerked his hand out of the bag and slammed the car door shut and went back inside of the house trying not to remember the feel of his brother's jeans against his hands.
He scoured his father's journal and found nothing that resembled the information that he had read. He went and looked at his own journal and found nothing. The only journal that was left was Dean's. Sam looked at the offending black book and reached out and took a swig from the bottle that was sitting on the table.
Opening the book not only meant finding the information but it also meant that he would have to look at Dean's scribbles, have to read his brother's handwriting, and hear his brother's voice in his head as he read the words his brother had painstakingly recorded. Sam wasn't sure he could handle that, wasn't sure that he wouldn't' collapse into a heap of raw emotions.
Running a hand through his hair he decided that the possibility of getting Dean out of hell was worth the emotional break down. He grabbed the book and sat down on the floor, back against the wall and took a deep breath, and then a swig of the hard stuff that was sitting next to his knee and braced himself.
1. That I didn't get married
2. That I never had children
3. That I never had a real job
4. That I didn't tell Dad off
5. That I pulled Sam out of school
6. That I never told the people in my life I loved them
7. That Ben wasn't my son
8. That I never told Sam the rest of that dream
9. That I never finished high school
10. That I hit Sam after Dad died
1. That I raised Sam
2. I killed the YED
3. That I rebuilt the Impala
4. I taught Sam to think for himself
A fat tear plopped down on the paper. This wasn't Dean's hunting journal. This was Dean's death journal. This was the one that Sam had caught Dean writing in, in the middle of the night when he thought Sam was asleep, this is the one that Sam had never wanted to read, the one he knew was full of the things that he wanted to tell Sam and wasn't able. And here it was in black and white, Dean's regrets, which outweighed the accomplishments in Dean's mind.
Sam pulled his long legs up to his chin, held the book close to his heart, and reduced his 6'4 frame to a small quaking ball in the corner of a rat infested, filthy, abandoned home. Sam cried and cried, wished his brother was back, wished that he hadn't given up his life for him, wished that he had killed Jake before Jake had killed him, wished that Dean thought more of himself, wished that Dean had left him dead….