So tell
me…what could you possibly say to make that alright?
Dean stared
at him, and Sam wasn’t sure if he was begging Sam to find
something – anything – to answer with, or if he was pleading
with Sam to shut up, say nothing, because Dean knew there was
nothing he could say. Finally, Dean climbed back into the
Impala, the door creaking shut behind him, while Sam sat still,
silent, on the hood.
And damned
if, for once, Sam didn’t know the answer, couldn’t speak
it, because it had been almost a year and it still wasn’t
alright that Jess was dead because of him.