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Author's note and warning: Spoiler up to and including Season 10

The terrifying thing was: He felt himself sliding. Again. And there seemed to be absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Stopping the car in the parking lot of a roadside diner Sam sat for a moment and listened to the ticking of the cooling engine. Then he slowly crossed his arms on the steering wheel and put his forehead down on them.

When Dean had been in hell it had been different. He thought. He remembered his pain and terror as he held his brother's mutilated body. His rage. The same rage that kept driving him from crossroads to crossroads after he and Bobby had buried him. A repeat, really, of the time after Gabriel – who they had then thought 'just' a trickster – had taken Dean away from him. An anger so consuming, he had to keep moving, fighting, struggling just to give it an out. Anger at the world, dad, fate, destiny, Lilith, himself … and Dean. Most of all at Dean for making that deal, for thinking Sam would feel it less than he had done when dad did just the same thing. Would resent it less than he had done. Would be able to live with it. And then Ruby had found him. Actually SAVED him from himself (God, the irony), showed him a way to channel his rage and use it for what he thought was something good – and also got him hooked on demon blood. The bitch.

Sam exhaled, a long, shuddering gust of breath. Hot, unwanted tears suddenly prickling behind closed eyelids but he didn't even had it in him to let them fall.

Because the Cage had taken that rage from him. Had given him – with enough distance and an impressive detour into insanity and Castiel's act of contrition – peace. And also robbed him of the one driving force he had relied on his entire life. Leaving only emptiness behind.

Rolling his head slightly on his crossed arms Sam exhaled again, the following inhale ending in a sound suspiciously like a sob.

Truth was … he hadn't even noticed at first. First because he had had no soul and then there had been – as always – Dean. Dean who propelled him forward with his energy and determination as well as occasional bouts of desperation and self-destructive hopelessness that needed to be counteracted. And then Dean had been … gone. Lost in purgatory.

It was like having the rug pulled right out from under his feet, sending him into free fall without ever hitting the bottom. So he had run. Away from his life, from hunting, all those monsters in his head he dared not face alone. Away from this emptiness inside of him. Knowing deep down it was the wrong thing to do. Unable to find the strength to do anything else. Unable to stop this slide into apathy he confused with a wish for normal life.

And he could feel it happening again.

Right here.

Right now.

Could feel this lethargy poisoning his thoughts and stilling his limbs no matter how much he knew he should – no, must – keep moving, keep searching for his brother before something unthinkable happened. Could not stop listening to this tiny, cruel voice in his head insisting that it was no use, that is was never any use, that he had not saved Dean from going to hell just as he had not rescued him from there or purgatory or the First Blade or himself. That he never would. Never.

And he was just so, so tired of failing.

Finally sitting back Sam listlessly stared outside for a long moment then forced himself to climb out of the car, feeling like an old man. Voices drifted over from the brightly lit main room of the diner, snatches of music, dim shapes of people moving about behind the big windows. He almost got back in the car but then he would have needed to drive, decide on a destination, on a next step, would have had to think about all those obstacles piled sky-high in his path and it was all just … too much. Easier to just put everything aside for a moment or two (or days, weeks, months), focus on what was right in front of him (a necessary meal, rest, an injured dog)…

Sighing in defeat Sam dropped his gaze and made his way to the entrance. On entering he barely willed himself to look up as the door clattered shut behind him, struggling even for at least the appearance of normalcy – and stopped in his tracks.

The diner was deserted. No music, no hectic bustle in the kitchen or behind the counter, no people… Except for the thin, dark-clad, black-haired man at one small table, methodically dissecting a burger and French fries on the plate in front of him.

Sam's breath left him in a sudden rush.

"Sam."

There was cool acknowledgment in the cultivated voice devoid of anything human. Piercing black eyes in a haggard face as still and impassive as a statue's rose briefly and a long pale hand tilted the knife in it towards the empty chair on the other side of the table.

"Sit."

The man didn't even wait for his command to be followed, merely turned his attention downward again and cut another perfect little triangle of beef and bun out of the meal on his plate. Dipped it twice in the sauce. Put it in his thin mouth. Chewed and finally swallowed.

Sam felt his own Adam's apple bob too though there was no moisture left in his mouth to go down. Every instinct – and at least those seemed still pretty much alive and kicking – screamed at him to turn and break for the door… But really, what good would it have done? There was not a chance in hell he could outrun something as powerful as Death.

The soles of his shoes squeaked softly on the floor as he made his reluctant way over and sank on the edge of the indicated seat.

Death's gaze remained purely on the next bite he was fastidiously cutting out of his burger. There was again the ritual with the sauce, the almost dainty chewing. He swallowed. Placed his knife precisely angled to half past four on the plate, then mirrored the position with the fork, prongs down and crossing just slightly over the blade. Resting his elbows on the table he folded his thin hands and finally fixed Sam with unreadable eyes.

"I believe, I once mentioned the importance of the order of things to your brother." There was no real inflection in his accurate, slightly accented voice. "And I can assure you too that the order of things is. Important."

Mind immediately flashing back to his decided lack of hesitation to summon Crowley for a deal after Dean … died … Sam grimaced.

"Uh. Sorry?"

Death's eyes narrowed and Sam found himself swallowing again. He really, really wished Dean were here. His brother had always had a better – if slightly wacky – connection with the Forth Horseman. Well. At least when they encountered him in reality and not in someone's (namely Sam's) death dreams. He cleared his throat.

"We – we are just trying to clean up our messes."

It sounded weak to his own ears but Death only pursed his lips briefly. And for a moment Sam thought he saw … something … in his eyes. Something like calculation, maybe. Then they were again opaque and still like a dark, fathomless well.

"Good."

Tapping a long forefinger once he then went on: "Though to be fair, the origin of this current mess is, in fact, a lot older than you."

"What?" Sam frowned.

Ignoring him Death unclasped his hands and picked up a French fry, holding it between thump and index finger. His immaculate brows drew slightly together as he studied it.

"Also, I have found your brother to be much like your human food: Odd. But growing on you."

The dryness of his tone could have raised clouds of dust but Sam's heart still stutter for a second with a hope he did not dare acknowledge. Death's cool eyes abruptly caught his across the French fry.

"As I said: The order of things. Has to be preserved. So consider this a gift."

Sam gasped for air, the hope he didn't dare having blossoming nevertheless almost painfully in his chest.

"You– Do you mean you will – ?"

"You have four hours."

Death bit off the French fry.

Sam yelped at the sudden sensation of falling; then realized that he WAS falling, the chair suddenly vanished under him, teeth rattling as he landed with a jar on the hard – and cold! – ground.

"Ow! Son of a bitch!"