I can still remember the last time I saw Dean. I had been living in New York for only a few months then. I remember that January night like the worn pages of my favorite novel.
The snow crunched underfoot as my brother and I walked down the sidewalk. Then I saw him standing in the dim light under the streetlight. I knew if was Dean before he called my name. He looked as I’d he had something important to say. But I never got the chance to hear it. For my brother upon recognizing Dean pulled me away. I looked back and he was still standing there snowflakes sliding down his leather jacket.
We locked eyes for a moment before I lost sight of him around the corner.
All these years later I still think of Dean and how he got back on that train and rode over three thousand miles over that awful land and never knew why he had come anyway, except to see me. So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken down river pier watching the long,long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over the West Coast, and all that road going, all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Montana I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry and tonight the stars’ll be out. The evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody,nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Winchester, I even think of Sam Winchester the brother we never found, I think of Dean Winchester and of that cold January night.