This story is beta'd by the awesome Sam's Folly. I can't thank her enough for all her insights and her help.
"I lost my brother. It felt like my world imploded and came raining down on me, and I ran." - Sam Winchester – Supernatural - s8
Soul Survivor
Chapter One – Survivor
…...
They won. They killed Dick, the leader of the Leviathans. It was a hard-won victory after a yearlong struggle . . . and, now, Dean was gone. Everyone was gone. Everyone except Sam.
"You are well and truly on your own."
White-hot fear exploded in Sam's chest. The sheer force of it sent him stumbling forward, dazed and nearly falling to his knees. He turned around in aimless circles, looking in every corner of the empty room, his arms held out ready to defend and his body crouched low ready to pounce.
Sam Winchester was the sole survivor of the fight, and when reality finally hit him—that Dean was gone, Cas was gone, Kevin and Meg were gone, and Bobby was dead—Sam lost it. He fell to his knees, his face buried in his hands.
"Dean?" There was no one to hear Sam's whispered prayer.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream, but, instead, he concentrated on breathing. He breathed and he waited, but nothing happened. No one came—no Leviathans, no demons—not even the cops. It was as if the single most dangerous threat to mankind hadn't just been thwarted here, as if they hadn't just saved the fricking world—again—and paid the ultimate price for it—again.
Sam's fingers threaded through his hair, clawing at his scalp. He'd done it again, thrown everything he had into this fight. Everything. He'd lost it all—everything gone for a world that would never know the cost and would charge headlong into the next end-of-the-world disaster without a clue. Sam sniffed in a deep breath, rubbing the back of his hand against his dripping nose. What would be the cost the next time? He had nothing left to lose, nothing left to give.
"You are well and truly on your own."
"Shut up," Sam hissed at Crowley's smug voice echoing in his head.
The sunlight streaming through the window blinds shifted with the slow movement of time, long slender strips of light that eventually disappeared into Sam's shadow. On his knees, hunched over and trembling, Sam saw the strips of light as the blades of swords piercing through him. He felt the heat of the light across his back, lashes from a dark master, punishment for not saving his brother—again. It was his punishment for being alive.
There was some reason for him to do this—to keep breathing, to keep living. There was something he was supposed to do. . . something . . .
The morning came, and when it did, he remembered.
Sam blew up the lab. In fact, he set so much explosive throughout the building, he blew up the entire complex of SucroCorp. He stood beside the broken Impala—without Dean—and watched as flames engulfed the buildings. Long orange tongues of fire and huge rolling clouds of black smoke billowed into the sky, carrying away the last traces of Richard Roman's grand plan. World domination by the Leviathans had ended before it ever began.
"It's done," Sam said to no one.
He kept breathing. There was some reason for him to do this—to breathe, to live. There was something he was supposed to do . . . something . . .
"Take care of my wheels." The memory of Dean's voice brought on a new wave of tears.
"I will, Dean," Sam promised.
The Impala's face was broken and bent. There were long scars in her shiny black finish where she'd been smashed through the fancy glass marquee that had displayed the proud SucroCorp name. The sign was an empty frame and a mass of shattered glass shards strewn across the lawn. But Baby was still here. Dean's baby was still here, and Sam wasn't alone. He absently picked pieces of glass off the hood, tossing them aside. She wasn't dead. He would fix her just like new, so when Dean came back he wouldn't have to see her scarred and broken.
"I'll take care of your wheels, Dean." Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked up the number of a garage nearby, waited until they came, and watched as they towed her away.
He managed to retrieve his duffel and his laptop from the Impala. He hoped the repairman at the body shop didn't open the trunk, and if he did, that he wouldn't find the false bottom and the weapons cache. The damage to the Impala was to the front end, and Sam gave specific instruction to fix the front only. He didn't want to lose the weapons they'd collected over a lifetime, the only things he and Dean owned.
I have the Impala, and Dean'll be back to get her.
Sam breathed and lived, because there was something he was supposed to do.
"Keep fighting."
The lump in his throat swelled. How? How can I?
"Sammy, remember what I taught you. Remember what Dad taught you."
"Okay, Dean." He swallowed hard against the knot in his throat and nodded to a memory.
He pulled out his phone again and looked up the local motels. He chose the Apple Tree Inn and checked in under the name Jim Rockford, because that's what he and Dean always did when they got separated—the first motel in the Yellow Pages and Jim Rockford. That's how Dean would be able to find him.
But Dean didn't find him.
Day two at the Apple Tree Inn: Sam called the body shop. It would be a couple of days at least before they finished the car. They had to order parts. Sam waited.
Dean didn't find him.
Day three: He spent hours researching, hunting for any clue on the Leviathans. It was as if they never existed, any evidence of their presence on earth erased.
Dean didn't find him.
Day four: Sam called the body shop; another couple of days at least. He spent hours in the stacks at Loyola University searching for clues. It was the best day he'd had since he'd lost Dean. The musty smell of the ancient books was somehow comforting. It reminded him of digging around in Bobby's library, running his hands over the yellowed pages of obscure texts. He spent the entire day among the oldest books in the library.
When he'd first arrived, a portly, older gentleman led him to the section that included ancient religious texts. Sam didn't see another soul until the evening, when another librarian, a tall lean woman, approached him. She had hard features that strangely softened when she smiled at what must have appeared to her to be a young theology student so dedicated to his work he didn't even break to eat.
"We're ready to close up." She placed a graceful hand on Sam's shoulder, and he nodded as he relinquished the book he was presently studying. "I'll put this away," she said. "You should get something to eat. I hear you've been here all day."
Sam smiled weakly. It occurred to him that he was thirsty and the hollow feeling that had annoyed him all afternoon might be hunger, but he wasn't really sure.
"Did you find what you needed?" the woman asked. The eyes that focused on Sam were sympathetic, as if she understood, as if he hadn't found the information he needed for some grand thesis in pursuit of a degree, for letters to tack behind his name.
"No," Sam sighed. He didn't find anything that could explain what had happened to Dean or Kevin. There was nothing here to help him find his brother or the prophet of God. Sam almost growled aloud. Let God find his own prophet. He needed his brother. He had to find Dean.
"I'm sorry." The woman's soft voice brought Sam back to himself. "If you know what you might need, we could make a list and I can pull more texts for you. I can have them waiting for you in the morning." She wanted to be helpful. Sam could see it in her eyes.
"No. I won't be back tomorrow," he answered flatly. He should have thanked her, but defeat weighed heavily on him.
He stopped at Windy City Brewery 'n' Bakery near campus and regretted it the moment he was seated—alone. He ordered a Cobb Salad and a dark ale, then called the waitress back to add a burger to his order. The meat was juicy, medium rare, and huge. It smelled like heaven as he ate his salad. It smelled like Dean, and it made Sam feel better, if only for a few moments.
That night, Sam stood in the middle of his room and tried to regroup. Four days, and he'd come up with nothing. He had no idea what happened to Dean or if he was still alive. He had no data and no workable leads. He scrolled through the contacts on his phone. Dead . . . dead . . . dead . . . no longer in service.
There was Garth. He thought about it. Dean had told Sam that Garth would grow on him. He hadn't. Sam didn't have any faith in Garth's abilities as a hunter. He thought the man was nice enough, but he should be in another line of work.
There was Sheriff Mills. He thought about it. Sam's thumb trembled as it hovered over her number. He would be signing her death warrant if he called her. He closed his eyes, overcome with guilt. She would end up dead, just like everyone else. She wasn't a hunter. She didn't sign on for this. Still, she'd helped him before . . . No! Sam shut off his phone and shoved it in his pocket. There'd been enough deaths. He heaved a deep, tired sigh. He'd do this himself.
Day five: Sam called. The Impala should be ready tomorrow.
He went back to the remains of the lab and sifted through the smoldering rubble, finding nothing—nothing of Dean, nothing of the Leviathans, nothing of Kevin—as if none of them had ever been there.
He went back to the motel and prayed. "Castiel, it's Sam. I need your help." He waited. The quiet room slowly closed in on him. "Please, Cas. I lost Dean. Please help me." The words began to spill out of him, desperate and angry. "Castiel! Answer me, damn it! You owe me!" he screamed at the ceiling. "You owe Dean after what you did, you son-of-a-bitch!" Sam choked on the curse and hung his head. It didn't matter that Castiel didn't answer. The angel was useless. Taking Lucifer out of Sam's head had fried the angel's brain.
Day six: The Impala was repaired. Sam spent the afternoon washing off the dust and fingerprints from the repair shop. She shone like the surface of a mirror. His long fingers stroked lightly across the freshly waxed surface of her hood. The cool metal felt so familiar, the work of washing and polishing so comforting, that Sam forgot the empty feeling of missing his brother for the afternoon.
The Impala was beautiful—perfect. Dean would never know she'd been broken. Sam closed his eyes and held tight as the empty feeling of loneliness and guilt, once again, infested his soul.
"If you broke my car . . ."
"I didn't, Dean! I fixed her. I fixed everything." Sam withered under Dean's wrath. "You'll see. When you get back . . ." He grabbed the waxing cloth and began methodically applying another layer of the white paste to the already sparkling surface of the car. "I'll fix it, Dean. I'll find a way. I'm gonna find you. I'm gonna get you back. I promise."
Day seven: Dean still hadn't found him. Dean wasn't going to find him. Dean was gone. Sam felt as if his throat would explode, and he swallowed frantically, unable to get anything past the brokenness inside him. He dropped to his knees beside the bed and fell forward, his upper body draped across the bed, his face buried in the covers, and cried.
"What am I supposed to do?" he whispered into the darkness.
"The Family Business. Saving people. Hunting things."
"I couldn't save Dad." Sam's body trembled. "I couldn't save you." His whisper disappeared into the covers. "I can't find you."
"Keep fighting, Sammy."
…...
The light from a halogen lamp poured into the underground library at the Campbell Family Compound, flooding the dark chamber as Sam descended the steps. He set the lamp, along with an empty duffel, on the big oak table that filled the only open space in the middle of the room.
Haphazard stacks of books, papers, and mismatched bookshelves filled with jumbled piles of assorted family journals surrounded him. He picked up an old leather-bound journal and gazed at the cover, lightly running his hand across the surface. He pictured Dean's delighted smile when he'd informed Sam that it was Samuel Colt's journal—the Samuel Colt—hunter and gunmaker.
Sam closed his eyes and relived the moment.
"Dude, no," Sam told him, excitement thrumming through him.
"Dude, yes," Dean answered, showing off the leather journal. He slowly opened the cover for Sam to see Samuel Colt's signature on the title page.
"Well, let me see it." Sam reached for the journal.
"Get your own." Dean was smug as he pulled the journal possessively closer to him, still smiling in wonder at his prize.
"I'll save it for you."Sam stuffed the journal in his duffel and turned back to search for anything else that might shed some light on what happened to Dean.
After a day of plundering, he was no closer to figuring out what happened to Dean. He hauled the heavily stuffed duffel out of the library and tossed it into the back seat of the Impala before he headed west, toward Sioux Falls.
All night, twelve hours on the road to get to Sioux Falls, and no welcoming bed for him at Bobby's. Bobby was as close to a father to him and Dean as their own father had been. Sam's eyes clouded with tears as he remembered the many times he and Dean drove all night to get to here. Besides the Impala, this was the closest thing he had to a home, and it went up in flames, just like the home in Kansas, the home he'd never known.
"Sam?" Bobby's gruff voice was so soft Sam almost missed it. "I ain't cutting you out, boy . . . not ever."
Sam felt something in him break, a small crack that leaked out a little of his soul. He would never again know the feeling of being safe in a bed, able to truly rest, burrowed deep beneath the covers. He would never again sit with Dean and Bobby, surrounded by the smell of whiskey and Old Spice.
Sam stopped at the diner in downtown Sioux Falls for lunch. He ordered a chef salad and a cheeseburger and fries. The waitress boxed up the burger and fries for him, but he left the box on the table.
He bought a bottle of Old Spice, a bottle of whiskey, and checked into the Arrowhead Inn under the name of Rockford. He opened both bottles as soon as he closed the door behind him. The smell of Old Spice filled Sam's nostrils, giving him warm memories of better times. The whiskey emptied Sam's mind, giving him precious release from doubt and guilt.
On his third morning in Sioux Falls, Sam emerged from his room, empty whiskey bottle discarded in the trash, a whopping headache, and whatever bile his stomach could conjure up swirling it's way down the drain. He bought aspirin and paint from a nearby discount store and wandered downtown to a fresh market to buy herbs. He stopped in at the diner for a big greasy breakfast complete with fried eggs, bacon, hash browns and a short stack, most of which hit his two-day empty, hung-over stomach and forced its way back up as Sam scrambled to make it to the toilet as soon as he returned to his room. He finally laid his forehead on the porcelain rim, feeling the cool seep into his burning skin. This sucks ass.
"Ah Sammy. Such a lightweight." Dean's voice comforted him, and the ache in Sam's body began to ease.
Sam painted a devil's trap on the floor and gathered summoning herbs he'd bought into a bowl. He barely felt it when he sliced across his palm with his silver butterfly knife. The cut was deep, deeper than it needed to be, and Sam watched as his blood oozed out and dripped onto the herbs. When he dropped a lighted matchbook onto the blood-soaked herbs, he chanted a summoning ritual, and the flames leaped high, casting an orange glow over the room.
"Moose?" Crowley shoved his hands into the pockets of his expensive wool coat. "Whatever can I do for you?" His brows rose and he gave Sam a caustic smile. "No wait. The real issue is . . . whatever could you possibly do for me? I already know what you want. The problem is, you have nothing to bargain with."
"What did you do with him?" Sam asked.
"The prophet?" Crowley paced within the circle of the devil's trap. "I have him. In fact, he's buried so deep in my world that no one will find him. You can't get to him, and any hope Heaven had of getting the prophet died with that half-wit Castiel."
"Keep the prophet." Sam almost choked on the words. It was wrong; in his heart he knew it was wrong, but he didn't care. "Where's Dean?"
"Dean's gone, you gigantic buffoon. We've been through this already. Don't you get it? You're the only one left. You're on your own, alone. It's the Titanic, and you're the sole survivor."
"Take me in his place, and let him go," Sam pleaded.
"That's not going to happen, Sam. You tried that deal before."
"Then take me too. Take me to Dean."
Crowley studied Sam's face. "You want me to take you to Hell? Nothing in exchange? Just so you can be with your brother?"
"Yes. Take me to Dean." Sam latched onto the possibility, the sliver of hope he thought he saw in Crowley's questions. If he could just get to Dean, they could figure it out. At least, he wouldn't be alone—left behind.
"You Winchesters really are priceless. And predictable, I might add."
Crowley's smug face made Sam want to rage in anger, but he wanted Crowley's help. He needed Crowley's help. There was no one else left to turn to, so Sam swallowed his anger, keeping his face impassive.
"As tempting as it is to grind your soul into the lowest part of Hell, I have to be honest, Sam. Dean's not in Hell."
"Where is he, then?" Sam watched as Crowley seemed to consider the question.
"Not really my concern. I have what I want." Crowley raised his hand and then hesitated. "Think about it, Sam. He's not in Hell. He's not on Earth. Where else could he be? Now, you'll have to excuse me because," he gestured to himself, "King of Hell, you moron. You need more than a simple devil's trap to hold me." He stretched his fingers over the painted lines, melting them away into nothing. "I know. Didn't know I could do that. Bit of a learning curve for both of us." Crowley smiled, and it almost seemed genuinely sympathetic.
There was nothing in Sioux Falls, no reason to be here. Maybe it was force of habit that had brought Sam back to Singer Salvage. Maybe he just had nowhere else to go. He rambled through the burned out remains of the house. Whatever was salvageable after the fire had long ago been retrieved by Bobby and was in Rufus's cabin.
Sam wandered through the yard and the outbuildings. What was left of Bobby's tools, he packed in the trunk of the Impala. Then, he sorted through everything he'd packed in the car one last time. Sioux Falls was a pit stop. There was nothing left for him here, and the only other place he knew Dean would look for him was Rufus's cabin. But the cabin was small and already pretty full of books, tools and equipment that Sam, Bobby and Dean had stashed away. He picked carefully what was useful enough to go and what would be left behind.
Sam gazed out the rear view mirror, watching that part of his life fade into the past as he drove away. Something in him broke just a little more, a bigger crack leaking out more of his soul.
…...
He drove straight through from Sioux Falls to Whitefish, Montana; twenty hours on the road with stops for fuel and bathroom breaks, living on bottled water and protein bars. When he rolled into town, he ate at a nice, upscale restaurant. He was road weary, dirty and had two weeks of unkempt scruff on his face. He hadn't showered since sometime the day before yesterday, and he didn't care. The looks and sniffs he got didn't faze him.
When he was seated, away in a far corner, he ordered a salad for himself and a burger and fries for Dean, just like he'd done a dozen times over the past two weeks, and he left Dean's meal untouched, just like always. He knew one day he would order this same meal, and Dean would be there to enjoy the burger Sam ordered for him. He didn't refuse when the waiter offered to box Dean's meal for takeout, but he left it on the table. He always left it on the table, boxed or not.
Once he had eaten, he stopped for supplies and headed up the back road that led to Rufus's cabin. Making his way through wilderness and small villages, campgrounds and resort lodges, past Lake Five and Half Moon Lake, through West Glacier and finally winding along Lake McDonald on Going-to-the-Sun Road, he finally turned onto a nameless road that was little more than a narrow dirt path big enough for one vehicle. There were only two cabins at Fish Lake, and of the several times Sam and Dean had driven to the cabin, they'd never met another vehicle.
An hour northeast of Whitefish, Sam felt as if he was headed to the only place on earth left for him. "The last homely house," Tolkien's words wandered through Sam's mind. His mouth curled in a small bitter smile. If only it were so. If only such a place waited for him, a place like the wonderful home of Elron in Rivendell that Tolkien created in his writings, a place of beauty where weary warriors could be safe, rest, eat and receive guidance from wise elves and wizards. But it was not so. Not in the real world.
In the real world, Rufus's cabin was rough and small. Far from civilization, it had few homey attributes. It was a simple structure with a couple of electrical outlets that were enough to power a small refrigerator, a computer, and a lamp, but not all at the same time. There was plumbing—a sink in the kitchen area and a small bathroom, but no hot water heater. It would be cold when winter came. The only source of heat was an ancient woodstove, which was also the only means of cooking.
The cabin was hardly homey. Still, it was the place Dean would know to find Sam, and deep in his soul, Sam knew it—could feel it. Dean would come to the cabin. Sam had no idea how right he was.
TBC