The world ended.
The sun exploded, Earth disintegrated, and life as Sam knew it was over. There was nothing left. Dean was dead. Torn to ribbons before his very eyes, and he couldn't lift a goddamn finger to stop it. He couldn't even kill Lilith before she got a chance to escape. Then both Ruby and Dean were sent to Hell and Sam was left clinging to Dean's bloody and broken body, screaming bloody murder until his throat was raw. When Bobby found him, he was still holding his brother, sobbing silently but only because he'd screamed his voice away.
"Sam..." he said gingerly, voice breaking just a little. Sam shook his head, tightening his grip on Dean. "Sam," he repeated, firmer, and walked over to place a hand on his shoulder, "It's time to let go, son."
Sam shook his head again and replied in a raspy and cracked voice, "I can't. I can't, Bobby, it's-it's my fault and I couldn't stop it and I can't just-"
"Sam," once more, even firmer and with a shake of his shoulder, "This ain't your fault, boy. Dean knew what he was gettin' into. He wouldn't want-"
"Wouldn't want what, Bobby?" Sam interrupted, snapping his head up to look at him. His eyes were red, cheeks soaked in tears to the point that it burned, and his shirt was sticking to his body, drenched in his brother's blood. It was a gruesome sight in more ways than one. "He didn't want this. He was terrified. And I watched him get ripped to pieces. How am I supposed to just let go?"
Bobby's grip on his shoulder tightened, but not to comfort Sam or anything like that. His heart was just about breaking, and though he wasn't in the room when it happened, he could imagine it well enough. "You Winchesters're more alike than you realize. So ready to blame yourselves and never ready to give up. Don't you get it, Sam? Y'can't keep repeatin' the same mistakes over 'n over. You gotta let go. You know what we gotta do."
"No."
"Sam-"
"I said no, Bobby." Sam bowed his head over Dean again, his grip on Dean's shirt making his knuckles turn gray. There was sure to be bruises on his palms, even from through the fabric. He couldn't even think of burning his body; the thought of it sickened him. He would've been mad at Bobby for even thinking about it if his heart wasn't already busy trying to beat its way out of his chest. It hurt, oh God, did it hurt, and Sam was having trouble breathing, let alone arguing.
"Dammit, boy," Bobby replied weakly, not even bothering to try hiding the shakiness of his voice, "You think this doesn't hurt me just as much? You boys're all I've got. Can't stand to lose you too, Sam."
That didn't help. If anything, it made things harder. His heart and his lungs were already gone, but now his blood was going and soon it'd be his brain. He couldn't think straight, and only one word was playing on repeat in the tattered remains of his mind: Dean. "We bury him. Just until I find a way to get him back. He's gonna need his body when I get him back."
"Sam-"
Interrupting yet again, Sam looked back up at Bobby, tears unrelenting and endless, "Please, Bobby. I can't-. Please."
Sam was already so far gone at that point, all Bobby could do was agree.
The next day, not a month later or even a week but the very next fucking day, Sam took off on his own. Bobby tried to stop him, tried to talk some sense into him, but Sam wasn't having any of it. The sun was already rising by the time they finished digging and he gave a half-assed goodbye before hopping into the Impala and chasing the nearest horizon. He drove and drove and drove until she couldn't take it anymore, growling defensively and begging for mercy, and Sam realized that she was crying too.
The car putted to a stop on the side of the road and he rested his forehead on the steering wheel, sobbing quietly and pounding his fists into the leather seats. Middle of bumfuck nowhere and he shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be pushing his limits, shouldn't be driving to nowhere, shouldn't even be in the fucking driver's seat. Dean's blood was still caked all over his clothes, the wheel was still grooved perfectly to fit Dean's hands, and Sam could still hear Dean's voice in the back of his head saying 'Don't be a bitch, Sammy. Keep on movin'.
Dean was everywhere and nowhere and Sam was drowning in it.
He used the very last of the Impala's gas to get to the shadiest motel he could find; shady enough not to question the massive amounts of blood or the wadded up bills. Once inside the cracked-ceiling, single light bathroom, Sam peeled off his clothes and threw them carelessly into a disturbingly stained corner. Dean's blood had soaked through Sam's shirt into his skin and even after standing in excruciatingly hot water until burned raw, Sam still didn't feel clean. The feeling of death clinging to him wouldn't go away, couldn't stop seeing Dean's death replying over and over in his head, and this fucking blood wouldn't get off.
In an attempt to keep himself from going MacBeth, he got out of the shower in a huff and stood in front of the mirror. He looked like Hell. Dark rings beneath eyes so bloodshot, you'd think he hadn't known a day's rest in his life; skin wrought tight and in flames from the scalding water; and every muscle in his body tense as he gripped the sides of the sink. Dean's necklace was dangling from his neck, and Sam watched it swing back and forth endlessly. It was supposed to be a sign of peace and protection but he felt a storm raging inside him, tearing apart everything he'd ever known and believed in.
Their lives had always been far from easy but without Dean around, it was like all those wounds had been dug up, salted and burned. But this time, the ghosts weren't leaving and he was haunted by every memory, every word, every flicker of light from the lightbulb above him. He was on fire, literally, figuratively, and he couldn't fucking take it.
His fist connected with the mirror before he really knew what was happening and the sight of more blood made him vomit. It was his own blood, but also Dean's and John's and Mary's and he was fucking alone. Sam was frozen in that moment when all that kept him grounded was ripped from him with the claws of a Hellhound.
The world was over. He was trapped.
So time started moving without him.
Sam woke up in a cold sweat, breathing hard and heart going a million miles an hour until he realized where he was: an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar motel room. A distant memory of the same situation set panic coursing through his veins and he quickly pulled off his shirt only to find the Devil's trap on his chest still fully intact. He exhaled deeply in relief, "Damn. What the Hell happened last night, Dean?" The croakiness of his voice startled him and he looked over to where his brother should have been sleeping, only to find a table beneath a window instead of a second queen sized bed. A table littered with empty bottles of liquor, half of which were smashed, not counting the ones that were on the floor. And a very disturbing lack of his brother's presence.
"Dean?" The memory came flooding back to him accompanied by a headache, which had him curled over with his head in his hands. Dead was dead. Dead and gone and without him, Sam had gone into auto-pilot, no longer living but simply…existing. It suddenly made sense why he couldn't remember last night – he'd apparently bought out a liquor store. He got up with a grown and went to the bathroom. Unshaven, but that wasn't unusual. What was unusual was that he looked like he hadn't shaved in days. His brows pulled together in confusion and he went back to the bed, taking the motel's notepad out of the nightstand drawer.
"Greenbridge, California?" he coughed, trying to clear that awful scratchiness from his voice. The last thing he remembered was crossing the Illinois state border into Iowa. How the Hell did he end up in California? The awful thought that he'd been on auto-pilot for a few days crept its way into Sam's head, and then things started coming back to him. He remembered driving there, but not when. He remembered coming into the room, but not falling asleep. He remember screaming and crying and drinking and breaking things, all of it, and goddammit, who the fuck was supposed to save him now?
How was he supposed to get out of this hole with no one to toss him a rope? How was he supposed to keep moving with no one to shove him forward against his will? How was he supposed to live without Dean? He wasn't. He wasn't supposed to live without him, and wasn't that the problem in the first place? Dean was in hell because of him, dead because of him, and how was he supposed to live with that?
He wasn't. He couldn't.
Sam rushed from the bathroom to where he had haphazardly their bag of weapons into a corner and pulled out a painfully familiar pistol. A .45 caliber custom engraved Colt, one he'd only ever used in dire moments, and what better a time to use Dean's gun than to even the score? After everything he'd done, there was no way he would be heading upstairs, and that thought didn't bug him as much as it should've. It meant he could follow Dean; he could find him and everything would be okay again. Home, completion, even in Hell, and that was all Sam wanted. That's all.
But he couldn't do it. The gun was too heavy, the trigger too stiff, and nothing would ever let him take his own life like that. Dean would climb out of Hell and kill Sam himself before he ever got the chance. He dropped the gun, quietly crying, and then it was all over. "Fuck," he muttered pathetically, head once again in his hands. "Fuck!" he shouted, punching the wall with his already injured hand. There was a sickening crack, the cuts from the mirror opening up again along with a few newly broken bones.
"Fuck…" and then everything went dark.