"I couldn't save you," he whispered, looking back at the house in New Harmony, Indiana. It played in his head over and over, a constant mantra of guilt, or apology, or condemnation. Perhaps a lot of all three.
The sun is just breaking the horizon, spreading light where Sam doesn't think there should be any. Of course, this neighborhood is silent, but the rest of the world beyond the boundaries of this would be teeming with life, like always. He wanted to stay in this silence forever, because even as he walked among the living he was mostly dead inside, set apart now by so much more than just knowledge or method.
Bobby was looking at him as though he wanted to say something but couldn't. Or wouldn't. Sam didn't much care anymore; nothing Bobby or anyone else said could say would make this better or worse. He wouldn't be okay again until he had his brother back, even if that meant crawling into Hell himself and cutting down everything in his path to find Dean and release him from whatever prison it had thought up.
His mind raced with what seemed like hundreds of half-formed plans, all stumbling over each other and convalescing. But they all came down to one thing, the one thing he needed to be able to carry out these myriad plans.
Ruby had said that there was a bomb inside of him, that whatever powers he had weren't gone, just dormant. This meant that they could be awakened. And now the only person who could have taught him how to awaken them was dead. Dead, just like Dean, who writhed in agony on the floor of a dining room in a random house in New Harmony, Indiana, ripped apart by a foe Sam couldn't fight.
I couldn't save you, couldn't save you, couldn't—
"Sam, we have to get out of here," Bobby looked apologetic, at least.
Sam wiped impatiently at his face. "Yeah, okay." His voice was broken, disjointed. He didn't recognize it.
They stood outside for a moment longer, before Sam finally headed back inside, stepping over the corpse of the old woman just inside, walking the path to the room jerkily, as though he had to force his legs to remember to move.
The double-doors that closed on the dining room were mauled on the outer side, clawed and blackened. Torn so deep that he could almost see through the gouges. Made by claws that were made of Hellfire, frenzied and eager to rip apart his brother's flesh.
Sam couldn't muster up the energy to shudder, instead releasing a bit of the rigidity he implemented to keep himself from shaking. His hands trembled as he pushed open one of the doors.
He kept his gaze fixed on the window on the opposite wall. Even so, the stale smell of congealed blood was heavy in the room. The smell of Dean's blood.
He should have been well out of tears by now; there shouldn't have been enough moisture left in his body after tonight to cry anymore. But the sight of Dean as he was now (he refused to say corpse or body, even in his head) set him off again just as he'd known it would.
Sam supposed the only reason the thought of it didn't anymore was because he'd had a year's warning, a year's time to grow accustomed to the idea, the theory of it. But even a year worth of Tuesdays hadn't numbed him to the sight of Dean dying in any number of ways.
Somewhere, in the back of his aching and clouded mind, he hoped that he would wake up to Asia playing too loudly and Dean lacing up his boots on the bed next to his.
Bobby's hand was on his shoulder, the weight of it making him realize that he was still standing in the doorway. Sam didn't bother wiping his tears. They'd just renew themselves in due time.
They moved into the room for what Sam felt must have been the thousandth time that night, stepping over the sprawled legs of Ruby's long-dead host, moving to stand next to Dean. Sam carefully stepped around his brother's legs and the places where his blood had seeped across the linoleum floor. He bent down, settling into the clean spot where he had been most of the night, unable to move any farther for the moment being.
He looked down at his brother, trying to avoid seeing that his bloodied chest wasn't rising and falling or that his face was so pale that the smattering of freckles across his nose was nonexistent. Sometime earlier Sam had closed Dean's eyes, and they were no longer dead and green and glassy and staring. Instead, his eyelashes rested against his pale cheeks in a way that wasn't quite peaceful.
At least it was better than the alternative.
Then, Sam wouldn't even need to see the real thing again; the image of his brother's eyes without his brother looking back through them would be forever etched into his memory.
The image was fuzzy. Sam ignored the fresh wave of tears and focused on remembering to breathe.
Bobby stepped forward, moving to pick Dean up, but Sam rasped, "No," in a way that he would have to apologize for later. He hesitated a moment longer, before slipping one arm into the space at the arch of Dean's neck and the other under his brother's knees.
He stood up slowly, trying not to notice the limp way Dean's head fell back against his arm. He was heavier than Sam expected, and he strained a little, trying to grasp onto his fading strength.
Finally, cradling Dean against his chest like a sleeping child, Sam started out of the dining room. He was afraid to look back at the place where Dean had been lying, afraid to see the pool of his lifeblood that stained the cheap hardwood imitation.
There was a rustling sound behind him, and Bobby was picking up Ruby's host. Bringing her out to be salted and burned like the rest of the dead hosts and people Lilith had killed.
The front door had swung shut behind them. Sam shifted Dean's weight in his arms and kicked at the door with his foot, maneuvering so that he could hold it open for Bobby and Ruby.
Birds were chirping now, singing their joy to each other and the sky, greeting the sun with an enthusiasm that Sam can't remember ever having. There was only him now, the weight in his arms the one physical thing that he couldn't ever let go of.
There was only him, Dean, and Bobby carrying Ruby's body to the pile that was already smoldering. Laying out a sheet from the house across the back seat of the Impala, conscious even now that Dean would kill him if he got his blood all over the upholstery.
Stiffly, Sam let the door slam shut behind him and moved down the porch and the three short stairs. He was unnecessarily careful, trying not to jostle Dean where it could be avoided. He didn't look at Bobby as he settled Dean into the car, too absorbed with not hurting Dean and slightly afraid of what he might find there if he did.
After Dean was situated, Sam mode to get into the driver's seat. Bobby restrained him.
"Here, Son, let me."
Sam didn't have the heart to protest, and he figured Bobby had a point, so he dug Dean's keyring reluctantly out of his pocket and handed it over to the older man. He knew there was more work to be done here, and he knew that he would be absolutely no help. He wanted to get out of here as quickly as was humanly possible.
"We gotta take care of the family and the rest of the bodies first," he continued, pocketing the keys. Somehow, Sam knew that when Bobby said 'we' he meant 'I', because there was no way Sam was leaving the Impala now that Dean was there.
As Bobby worked on finishing up, getting the family out of state as quickly as possible and dragging the other few corpses to the pyre in the middle of the cul-de-sac, Sam moved around the Impala and threw open the passenger side door.
Sitting there, with Dean dead in the back seat, wasn't really any better than kneeling next to the lifeless body on the floor of the house had been. The contrast here seemed nearly maddening. Most of his memories of his brother were here, in this car, the only one constant beside each other that they had.
Dean driving, blasting music to the point of being annoying and singing off-key. Dean staring out into the night, concentrating on something Sam couldn't see, lips a hard line and eyes cold as ice. Dean and Dad, talking over the front seat while Sam was in the back, reading or brooding or whatever his teenaged-self used to do.
Dean slumped against the door in the back, bleeding and contusions made a thousand times worse by the semi barreling into the side of the car, unconscious as Sam called his name.
And now, Dean sprawled across the back seat, pale and lifeless. Sam didn't want to look, didn't want to remember Dean this way, not here, where so many happy memories had taken place while Sam was sitting right here. But he couldn't help it, was obsessive about it, as though he was checking from moment to moment to make sure that Dean really was gone.
One foot was planted on the asphalt outside. Sam slid down in his seat and wondered how his big, strong, fearless brother could have gone down without a gun in his hand, without saving some innocent person from unspeakable horror. Wondered why he couldn't save him, what it would take to do it now.
He didn't even twitch when Bobby started the engine, just pulled his other leg inside the Impala and shut his door, and tried not to think about Dean the way he was now whole way back to Bobby's place.
A/N: This was written at six in the morning after I hadn't slept all night, so... sorry? Feedback is sparkly hearts.