Brothers Keep Her

Sam flips his collar against the brisk winter wind, standing outside the roadhouse bar. His hands find solace in the pockets of his coat as he prepares to go inside, just as he has done every day for the last three weeks. It never gets any easier.

The door opens and two burly men walk out of the bar. One wears a red bandana on his head, the other has a salt and pepper beard and a gold cross hanging just above the hairs of his chest. They wear matching leather vests.

He takes a deep breath. He knows he needs to pick up one foot and place it in front of the other and do it again and again until he makes it to the table by the jukebox, but he can’t move.

The bikers start their Harleys with a thunderous snarl. Sam looks up, part of him desperate to just ride off into the unknown. What’s the point in getting close? Everyone he’s ever loved is dead and gone. He sniffs and glances up at the sky.

Everyone except Dean, who’s died and come back more times than Sam wants to count. Every day with Dean is a blessing, but Sam feels like they’re running out of those.

They haven’t seen Cas since that night.

The sun will set soon. He’s got to get his brother out of the bar before the night crowd comes in. The bartenders called Sam the first three nights in a row when Dean started trouble when he wouldn’t let anyone touch the jukebox. Customers walked out because of the depressing music he played all night, every night.

He runs his hands down the stubble on his face and shakes out his arms. Just go.

A blast of warm air washes over him the moment he opens the door. He can already hear the music playing on the jukebox. This time, he’s walked into the middle of a song that worries him: "Save a Place for Me" by Matthew West.

Save a place for me,

Save a place for me.

I’ll be there soon.

I’ll be there soon...

He finds Dean at the same table, slumped over in the same chair, with the same number of empty beer bottles and shot glasses scattered in front of him. The bartender nods at Sam, offering a sympathetic smile as she polishes a glass. Sam presses his lips into a line and gives her a short nod back.

He knows he has to be cautious. Dean’s been volatile ever since you... well. Ever since you. Even now it crushes Sam inside to think about it, let alone say it out loud. He glances around the bar, and half the customers are focused on him and Dean, watching. He looks away and takes the seat across from his brother, leaving his hands in his pockets.

As the song plays out, they sit there, not looking at each other, not talking either. Dean picks at the label on his beer bottle. He’s got a pile of them stacked on the table.

When the song ends, Sam speaks. “Hey,” he says, his voice low.

Dean doesn’t react. He goes on picking at the label, staring at the bottle.

“It’s time to go, Dean.”

The corner finally peels up. Dean takes a hold of it and pulls it slowly, steadily, until it’s free. Then he stares at it for a moment, thinking God knows what, before placing it on the top of the pile. “We’ve been through this so many times,” he says, and for the first time in days, his voice is soft. “Why does it hurt so much more this time, Sam?”

Sam looks at the pile of labels as the next song begins. “Because you loved her,” he says, holding his own composure. He couldn’t let Dean see him struggle, too.

“I loved Anna, but it didn’t hurt this much,” he says.

“That’s because Anna tried to kill Mom and Dad before she died. And that wasn’t love.” He knew better than to mention Lisa.

Dean scoffs as the next song queues up.

A hundred days to make me older

Since the last time that I saw your pretty face

A thousand lies have made me colder

And I don’t think I can look at this the same

“I dream about her.” Dean spins the beer bottle, inspecting the sticky residue left behind as the song nears the end. ”Every. Damn. Night.”

Sam keeps his mouth shut. He already knows about Dean’s dreams. He’s woken up nearly every night to Dean talking or crying or screaming in his sleep. He stopped going to his room after the third night. Now he just lies on his back, staring at the ceiling until he can no longer hear Dean’s misery through the vent in the wall.

“It’s like I’ve got a knife in my chest, and it’s twisting, Sam.” His eyes glisten in the amber light. “And I can’t stop it.”

Sam looks down at the table. He doesn’t know how to fix that.

Dean wipes his eyes and straightens his stack of labels, then picks them up and rolls them into a tube. But it triggers something, and his eyebrows smash together in the middle of his forehead as he crushes the labels in his hand.

Sam sits up, knowing they both need a change of atmosphere. “I’m hungry. Let’s go grab something to eat.”

Dean smirks, but his eyes are distant. “Code for: get Dean out of here before he causes another scene.”

Sam doesn’t respond.

“Yeah,” Dean says as the song ends. He pushes the last bottle toward the others and slides off his stool. “That was my last quarter anyway.”

Sam walks a step behind as they leave, waving at the bartender on the way. She stops wiping down the bar to wave back with pity all over her face.

The sky is a few shades darker than it was when Sam first arrived. “She’s over here,” Dean says, sauntering across the parking lot toward Baby. He digs the keys out of his pocket and tosses them over his shoulder.

Sam snaps them out of the air. His hand is on the door handle, just about to open the door when he hears his name. He turns; the sight before him a relief. “Cas.”

Cas glances at Dean in the passenger seat, slumped against the door, leaning on the window. “How is he?”

Sam looks at his brother, too. “I’ve never seen him this bad. I-” He stops. Maybe the song lyrics don’t mean anything. Maybe Sam’s just over reacting. Maybe Dean just hurts but not that bad. Still, he had to say something to someone so he wouldn’t be the only one stuck with these thoughts. I’ll be there soon... “I’m worried he might...” He looks at Castiel again. “I don’t know if he’s going to come out of this one, Cas.”

The grim look on the Angel’s face doesn’t make him feel any better. “You think he’ll try to end his life.”

Sam nods. “Ma- Maybe.”

“I have news. But we shouldn’t talk here.”

“What kind of news?” Sam asks, furrowing his brow.

“I’ll meet you at the Bunker. I have one more thing to do, first.” And he’s gone.

Sam lowers himself into the driver’s seat. Baby’s leather is soft and worn, squelching as he adjusts. He glances at Dean before putting the key in the ignition.

The sky burns purple, orange, and pink as Sam pulls out of the bar to drive him home.