Sam Winchester is dead.
He died a long time ago. It wasn't big and dramatic. It wasn't filled with screams and gunshots. It was slow and painful. Torture spread out over months, years. Pieces of his soul being stripped away. Burning, one by one. Ashes blown away into the abyss until there was nothing left.
"What did you say?"
He didn't mean to say it. Not outloud. But the words are out despite himself. As if a river breaking through the dam, the truth busts out from somewhere inside of him.
He watches as concern on the other's face replaces confusion. Then fear replaces concern. And panic replaces the fear behind the green eyes staring back at him. But he remains still. He doesn't wince, doesn't startle as the gun is thrust in his back. He doesn't fight or struggle as he's pushed into the devil's trap. There's no fear left inside of him to feel. There's nothing there at all.
"Where is Sam? Where is my brother?"
He wishes he knew. He thinks back, trying to find the answer. But he knows only one thing: Sam's not here. Hasn't been for a long time now. After years of broken dreams and pain, loss and revenge; years of dying a thousand times over and being brought back; years of watching his brother getting torn to shreds; years of secrets and lies, decisions and actions; years of losing pieces of himself - there is nothing left.
He finally finds the words. "He's gone."
Holy water splashes over him but it doesn't hurt.
He still remembers pain. Physical. And not. Pain that burns so hot, goes so deep, you're willing to cut your own soul out to make it stop. He wonders if that's what happened here. He's not sure.
"What did you do to Sam?" It's not a question. It's a plea. And he wishes he didn't have to say it. But now that the truth is out, there is no way to push it back in.
"Who are you?!"
The answer is clear now.
"I'm what's left"