Work Text:
Dean always made fun of Sam’s big brown leather carry-all. It’s his laptop bag from Stanford, worn, torn, stretched and sagging from first carrying textbooks and later heavy books of lore and prophecy and whatever else Bobby had him flipping through. He’s resewn its popped seams innumerable times over the years. It's one of the final pieces of memorabilia that Sam has of his life outside hunting, ironically repurposed exactly for that. Stuffed full of papers, phones, chargers, receipts from who knows where. He hangs it on a hook in his room - his purse rack, Dean mocked.
He holds it in his big hands and fondly thinks about all the places it’s been, all the things it had seen as if it were sentient. All the people who had passed by it, handed it to him, stole it to rummage through. He tries not to think about all the people it would never see again.
Sam leaves it there on his purse hook when he shuts off the Bunker’s lights and locks the huge metal doors for the last time, turning his back on it forever.