Summary: Sam’s gone, and to be honest — so is Dean.
Note: I was told to write something depressing, so I did. No regrets.
Most of it was just a blur, and for that Dean’s thankful. He doesn’t want to remember it. And the parts he can remember, the split seconds in his mind that put together the full story, well, they’re the worst. What will forever eat at the back of his mind is how he didn’t see it coming. Not even slightly. He’d always thought Sam was stronger than the Devil — he knew he was. But, really; everyone has their breaking point, right?
Sam just hit his, Dean guessed. And for that he refuses to be mad at Sam. He just can’t.
When he found him, Sam was already gone. As soon as Dean had opened the door he knew something was wrong. It was too quiet, too eerie. The bathroom light was on and the door was wide open. But most of all, Dean noticed that his pillow was flung to the side and his gun was missing.
Him running into the bathroom is faint in his memory; but the deep, crimson red blood on the ground is something he can never forget. The way it almost painted the tile ground, and stained the near carpet a deeper green. It splattered the mirror in an imperfect pattern and the bathtub had a red smear marking it. Dean’s gun was lying an inch or two from Sam’s outstretched hand.
Dean remembers feeling weak, like he was going to pass out. He remembers the way he swayed on his feet, knees daring to buckle, fingers tingling. The room spun quicker by the second. And Dean remembers taking in deep, airless breaths into his lungs. The way he fell to the ground reaching for Sam was dramatic, but the way he held him was damn near poetic. In a clean sweep and pull of his arms, they surrounded Sam. He held him too tight with tears falling too loosely, faith running out too quickly.
Limply, lifelessly, lazily Sam lay in his arms. A dark hole near his temple oozing blood and masking one side of his face. It soaked his hair like rain water, matting it and forcing it to stick to his forehead. The ends of it dripped blood onto Dean’s shirt. Pale and blue, Sam’s lips were. Ghostlike and faded, his skin tone. Nonexistent was his heartbeat.
And Dean could feel it, too. Like a piece of him was ripped off. Jagged and raw came his breaths as he rocked with Sam in his arms. He was speaking, he was sure of it. But he couldn’t hear anything; like he was deaf. But he was crying — begging for Sam to wake up, to take it back, to start over.
“Sammy, please — Sam… no, no, please; Sammy —”
But his pleas fell on unheard ears.
He didn’t move him, Dean didn’t. Not for hours. Honestly, he didn’t know how long he stayed there: on his knees, hugging Sam, rocking. But when he finally gathered a fraction of his thoughts, he stood up. He wiped his tears away, smearing blood on his face in the process, and cleared his throat.
Pull it together, he told himself. But how was he supposed to do that?
—- —- —-
He’d almost missed the note. It wasn’t much, but it was the last thing he had from Sam. On the top of the toilet, written sloppily in black marker on a ripped piece of notebook paper is “Dean, I’m sorry.”. And Dean can almost feel the panic Sam had writing it. He could feel how fast his heart was beating, so hard it shook his vision. How shaky his breath was, and how he was telling himself that he didn’t have to do this.
But maybe he did.
Dean read it over and over. Must’ve read it a thousand times, hearing Sam’s voice cleanly in each one. Could see the tears in his eyes, that puppy dog look he knows how to use so well, the one that sneaked into Dean’s heart and became his weakness. He could see Sam begging with his eyes not to be mad, pleading for him to understand that he doesn’t want to do this, but he has to.
He read it again.
Dean, I’m sorry.
Dean, I’m sorry.
Dean, I’m sorry.
He’d folded it and slid it into his pocket. He found himself, thumbing at it absently; like if he didn’t keep touching it, it’d disappear. Maybe it’d fade away, just like Sam did.
—- —- —-
Three six-packs, two bottles of Jack, and a bottle of straight Vodka. He knew none of them would help, but fuck it, what did he have to lose, right?
It was six fifty-four when he’d found Sam. And it was just after eight when he’d finally glanced at the clock again.
At nine o’clock on the dot, Dean had gone through half a six-pack and a third of the Jack. He liked the way it burned his throat and coated his insides. Liked the way it gave him this warm feeling, the way it forced his heart to beat in this calm manner, even though he was so wired he thought he’d explode.
He’d grabbed the glass by the center, swirled it around twice, then gulped the rest of it. Felt every second of it sliding down his throat, working it’s way into his system and emitting in his bloodstream. He’d drank until he was numb and his heart was on fire. He drank until he was a slurring mess, and reaching in his pocket for his phone.
He dialed Sam’s number.
It rang exactly six times before Sam’s voice said, “Hey, it’s Sam. Sorry I missed your call. You know the drill,” that was followed by a long beep.
"Sa’my," Dean mumbled into the phone, broken and slow. "S’mmy, pl’se. I — I don’ know wh’t I’m gonna do. Sam…"
He hung up.
But he dialed back eleven minutes later.
"…Sammy, look," he starts, this time with a little more focus. "I’m not mad, ok’y? I’m n’t, I — just, I — God. I don’— I’m s’rry, Sammy. Please…Sam, I’m s’ sorry."
Thirty minutes and a full bottle later, his messages got bitter.
"Answer your fucking phone, Sam!" he yelled, loud and angry. "Answer you phone! God, Sam, answer your fucking phone!"
He’d left Sam 109 messages that night.
—- —- —-
It took all he had to burn Sam’s bones. All his strength to put him in the car, wrap him in sheets, and find a deserted area. Took all he had left to pour the gasoline and light the fire. And took all his willpower not to put the fire out and claim Sam back.
But there was nothing to claim back.
Sam was gone, end of story.
—- —- —-
Sam’s phone rang one more time.
Rang for the last time.
As Dean sat in the Impala, shaking more than he’d thought he’d be. He’d took a gulp of Vodka a second ago, but this was something alcohol couldn’t ease.
The engine was running, humming beautifully. And if he had any tears left, Dean probably would’ve cried.
But to be honest, he’s tired and he’s all cried out.
With the cellphone to his ear he looks out at the Grand Canyon and he almost can’t believe how perfect it is. Valleys upon valleys of nothing but rock and dirt, and it must be what heaven looks like. He’s sure of it.
"Sammy," he says into the phone. "We finally made it. The Grand Canyon, we finally made it."
He slides his fingers over the steering wheel and lets his foot drive him closer to the edge, the moonlight putting a spotlight on the car.
"I’m coming to you, Sammy," Dean manages to get out, and he can feel his throat beginning to close. "I’m coming, okay? I’m coming —" he rubs the dashboard of Baby and corrects himself, "We’re coming.”
The phone drops, and the wheels turn.
In the air she looked like a black swan with wheels — pretty, graceful, and perfect.
They always say you never feel more alive than right before you die.