Here lies a venti soy hazelnut latte, extra hot. Dean couldn’t tell you what that means, only that it tastes like shit, but it’s the only thing he drinks since Sam jumped into a hole. Was pushed into a hole. Fell into a hole. Doesn’t matter. Coffee spills and Dean doesn’t wipe it up.
Since Sam fell jumped was pushed into a hole, the Impala’s been parked neatly and securely in Lisa’s garage under a tarp. She glares at him whenever Dean walks in to do his laundry, but she’s a museum now, a mausoleum for the brother that jumped fell was pushed into a hole. Everything is the same, nothing’s changed except where she’s parked and the keys in her ignition. They’re always in Dean’s pocket, but there’s still an old Starbucks cup on the floor of her backseat. It’s not moldy, Sam drank all the coffee, but it still has “Sam” scrawled on the side of the cup, the sleeve is still in place, the stains of Sam’s chapstick are still imprinted on the lid.
Here lies a venti soy hazelnut latte, extra hot. It still has Sam all over it. Sometimes, Dean goes to Starbucks just to buy a venti soy hazelnut latte, extra hot, and he’ll leave it in the Impala for a few days to soak up the smell, because that’s the last thing Dean remembers Sam smelling like. Even the fucking day he fell was pushed jumped into a hole, he had to have his fuckin’ latte. He and Dean sat right here in this car, Dean drinking real coffee (which he doesn’t ever drink anymore, not since Sam), and Sam drinking his venti soy hazelnut latte, extra hot. It’s foreign, all these words are foreign, and they’ll never mean anything to Dean other than “this tastes like sugar and not coffee” but Dean, every morning on his way to work, stops by the Starbucks drive-through (even though it’s a good 15 minutes out of his way) to purchase a venti soy hazelnut latte, extra hot. And he drinks every drop, because now they taste like Sam.
Dean wouldn’t tell you he’s living life in memorium to Sam, only… he’s living his life in memorium to Sam, because if he doesn’t he’ll forget Sam, even though it’s not like he ever could. Sam is written on Dean’s bones. Sam is Dean’s soul.
There’s still a random drive-thru paper soda cup sitting in the passenger seat cup holder. It started leaking and Dean had to put a towel under it, but he didn’t dump it out. Couldn’t. It’s gone moldy but Dean can’t dump it out because it was Sam’s. The soda isn’t soda anymore, it’s well past flat and has gone onto syrup but he can’t toss it because it’s Sam’s. Sam’s fingerprints are still pressed into the door handle, onto the window where Sam pointed at a diner through the glass. The shape of his hand is imprinted on the dust on the dashboard where he grabbed it to sit up after falling asleep. The seat is still long enough for his legs.
Dean wouldn’t say he’s living in memorium, but he is, ever since the day his brother was pushed jumped fell into a hole in Stull Cemetery.