Once they've fought off the horde of undead and the immediate threat is gone, Sam collapses.

The night air is still and cold. It's an unnatural darkness—it seems to press in on him, squeezing the breath from his lungs.

Across the field, Sam sees Cas bracing himself against a tree. He can hear Dean's groans of exhaustion somewhere among the dead, and he instinctively knows his brother is okay.

He crawls on his hands and knees over the mountains of bodies, some still twitching. (These zombies, they'd found out soon enough, had to be decapitated. The ground is littered with headless corpses and disembodied heads.)

A white sneaker is visible under a pile of gray, rotting bodies. Sam shoves the zombies away to reveal Jack's body.

He's whole, mostly. Sam's eyes skate the length of his body, stopping just above the peaceful set of his mouth. He can't bring himself to look any higher.

Jack's shirt is covered in the sludgy, brown blood from the countless decapitations that happened right above him. One sleeve is torn open, with claw marks visible on his skin below. Some monster in its death throes tore a wound in him.

It doesn't bleed, of course. Of course.

Because he's dead.

There's no blood left for him to bleed. No heartbeat to push it out of him. No reason to gasp in panic, to apply pressure, to get a needle, stop the bleeding, to breathe to him You're gonna be okay, Jack. Even though his instincts are screaming for him to do all those things.

You're gonna be okay.

His hands tremble as they hover over the kid's—his kid's—motionless form. His shell. Sam's kid is an empty shell.

He's cold. When Sam finally brings himself to touch Jack's limp hand, there is no warmth in it. No life, no vitality. There's nothing there anymore.

This isn't the first time Sam has held Jack's dead body. He's well accustomed to seeing, holding the bodies of people he loves.

Last time, though, Jack died peacefully. In relation, painlessly. Sam was there to hear his last breaths.

Not this time.

This time, Jack died with light pouring from his eyes, his mouth, every orifice. All of that grace he'd consumed was burned out of him by an uncaring deity. He died screaming.

Sam places one hand over the eyes. The non-eyes. He can't look at them. Those blackened husks will haunt Sam for all his years, living and dead.

They're warm under his palm.

Whispers of heat breathe up to him, the last vestige of life from the boy he'd loved like a son.

Sam bows his head, his breaths coming shorter and faster. He begins to rock back and forth, a minute motion to contain the part of him that's clawing, screaming, to leap out of him.

He's experienced grief in every flavor. In the past, his brother's death has broken his will to live. Cas's last death left him feeling helpless. Watching the life leak out of Jack last year as he lay in his bed culminated in a determination to get his kid back.

This time his grief is wild, visceral. He wants to strike out, lash out at something. He wants a second chance with that gun, to shoot Chuck—God—for good. He doesn't care what it does to him. They're all as good as dead anyway, he and Dean. Cas.

Jack is already there. He's dead. His kid is dead.

Could Sam even call him his kid anymore? When was the last time he'd acted like a parent toward Jack? No, he'd gotten caught up in one drama after another and somewhere along the way forgotten to care for the person who might have needed him the most.

How many times had he not seen Jack, lurking on the edge of his life, too afraid to approach Sam and ask for the help he'd so clearly needed? When did Sam slip into the patented John Winchester parenting attitude of if he's not dead, he must be fine?

Sam can feel a hand on his shoulder, can hear the muffled echoes of a voice—Dean's—saying something to him. Probably it's okay, are you okay, Sammy answer me, but Sam can't. He can't find his voice, can't say he's okay.

He just got Jack killed.

It wasn't just you, the selfish part of his brain whispers. Cas saw the problem long before you did. Dean almost shot him. You're not the only one to blame.

Sam scoffs aloud. Of course I am. Everything is my fault. I'm the reason Lucifer escaped, almost ended the earth, fathered Jack in the first place.

I'm the reason Dean said yes to Michael. If that hadn't happened, Jack wouldn't have burned off his soul to kill him.

If I had paid more attention, if I'd loved him enough…

The logical corner of Sam's mind reminds him that Jack will need a pyre. A pyre just like the one he'd tried and failed to build last year. I couldn't even do that for him.

Would they burn him with the rest? Pile him on top of the twice-dead zombies and light the bonfire?

Would they have a wake for him? Celebrate his life? What nice things could they say about this child, this eldritch being? He killed our mom, but he didn't mean to. He lost his soul and threw the world into chaos. God himself came down from on high to kill him. He liked chocolate, though.

He was loved. Although not nearly enough to save him.

There's a stinging in Sam's eyes, but no tears fall. The pain slices through him, down to his very soul. This kid had meant so much to him.

Why does he have to lose everything he cares about? It's a cruel cosmic joke at this point.

Why did Jack have to pay the price for Sam's failings?

Jack, I'm so sorry.

It'll never be enough. It'll never bring him back.

Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think - comments feed my SOUL. I'm on tumblr too, hop over and say hi!