Disclaimer: Eric Kripke is the magnificent bastard responsible for this world; I'm just playing with the left over pieces of his beautifully broken toys.

A/N: I'm still trying to work out that finale. This fic tried to help though I'm not sure if it worked. Oh boys!

He finds it in the glove compartment, behind the tin box that contains their fake ids—there aren't too many of Sam's left, there wasn't time to replace them when Sam came back, the end of the world pressing down on them—wrapped in motel stationary, the same careful mess of corners and tape. His name's scrawled across the top in dull ball point pen, Sam's familiar slopping letters leaning into each other.

Dean.

He doesn't want to open it, doesn't want to see what his brother left for him (he knows, of course he knows, exactly what this is and the same part of him that hates God and hates Sam and hates himself hurts at knowing). He wishes he could put it back, shove it back into the glove compartment and forget about it, maybe to find again some other day. One when it doesn't feel like he's being held down by the throat and being asked to breath at the same time.

He thinks about throwing it out like he did before, just getting rid of the damn thing once and for all (because Sam is dead and God didn't care enough to stop him from stopping the devil and Dean's supposed to be playing house like none of that matters).

He thinks about going to Lawrence, about putting it in the ground with Dad's dog tags over Mom's empty grave, because Sammy would have liked something like that. But then Dean remembers that is brother is-was an idiot, that Sam's not really in Lawrence any more than the rest of them are. Dad and Mom are ashes and Sam's nothing at all anymore, nothing but the pressure in Dean's head and the toy soldier in the ash tray and this stupid gesture in Dean's hand.

The edge of the paper stings when he slides he's finger under it, resists against the sharp tug before it finally tears. And there looking up at him are the familiar features of the amulet Sammy gave him all those years ago (that Sam kept safe when he was in Hell) resting atop the leather cord that's been worn soft.

There's something written on the paper that's been crossed out. He wonders what it was. Some heartfelt goodbye or another promise maybe, something Sam decided Dean didn't need to know in the end. And everything he'll never say to Sam stares back at him in those pen strokes, makes his chest hurt.

He turns the amulet over in his palm, feels the metal warm against his skin. Dean thinks of Sammy all of eight years old and so disappointed that Dad hadn't made it, remembers him as a surly teen that shot up over night and picked fights with Dad constantly. Dean remembers four long years when this was all his brother left behind on his road to Stanford and how he could never bring himself to take it off even then (because somehow Dean had been stupid enough to think Sam could come back from California and everything could be the way it was supposed to be). Dean rubs his thumb over the pointed face, pressed down hard against the rise of something hot and vicious that threatens to tear loose in his throat. And he could lift it and let it fall back into place, let it rest over his heart like it has for most of his life but he can't. Not when the sight of Sam throwing himself over that edge is sharper than the memory of Sam telling him it was his to keep (and if he's crying when he slips it into his pocket, there's no one there to know).

The paper he pinches between his fingers holds it up in the yellow glow of the driveway light like it might reveal he's overlooked. But there's nothing new to find, still just his name and whatever it was Sam blacked out, his brother's handwriting unchanging regardless of how many times he looks it over.

He stares for a long time.

End

A/N II: And then Sam walks up to Dean and they both drive away to whatever crazy adventures await them in Season six where there is no more talk of destinies or vessels, just love, sweet love, because it's the only thing that there is just too little of. And maybe some more manly hugs, because those have now been proven to save the world. Yeah.