And the world goes headlong.
It had been 14 days since Sam was taken.
14 days since Dean's entire world had been thrown so far off-kilter that there was absolutely no chance of a safety net, or even a ladder to right himself. Perched uncomfortably on a rickety stool he shuffled, one hand resting on the gnarled timber bar for balance. Mossy green eyes stared with disinterest and decreasing focus as the bottle of whiskey in front of him slowly became emptier. Grasped loosely in his left hand was a misted shot glass, his fingers tapping on the rim to Sole Survivor by Blue Öyster Cult.
He could hear the destruction still raging outside beyond the walls of the bar he had sequestered himself in, and out of the corner of his eyes he could see curious flames licking at the window of the deserted bar, curious as to whom could still be surviving in this desolation... Other than the demons, of course. Dean ignored the flames. What was the point of trying to fight? The last innocent scream of fear had echoed and died hours ago, now all he that remained were screams of joy, of pure unadulterated glee at the devastation throughout the country. It was only a matter of time before they found him, before he found him.
The shrieks of pleasure were suddenly cut off, throwing the world into an eerie silence. It heralded the arrival of a Higher demon. A screech and a sickly gurgle followed, giving Dean only a second to cringe before a young man crashed through the wall of the bar. Oxygen rushed into the stuffy room, welcoming the darting wisps of flame further inside.
Dean shifted slightly to take a look at the dying man-demon. It's obsidian eyes blinked lazily once, twice. Then eyelids folded over shielding them from view and exhaling one last time. The man who it was possessing looked to be young young, and probably carefree, once upon a time. The breath that Dean didn't realise he was holding escaped slowly, his agonizing wait was over. This was it. He was here. The muddied shot glass was raised to his lips one last time..
"This one's for you, Sam," he muttered, before tilting his head back and finishing the drink with a quick gulp, sliding off the stool to stand on unsure feet. He straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin and stared resolutely at the door, at who waited beyond the door.
It was the end.
It had been 62 hours since Dean lost his little brother.
Although lost wasn't exactly the best word to use, Dean had never once "lost" his brother, Sam had always either been taken from him or left of his own accord like Stanford but he had never ever been lost. Dean had always been too much of a good brother to lose him, sometimes to the point of overprotection like the time when he followed Sam to his first house party... and stayed hidden outside in the car all night. But to him, for something to be lost, would be for him to be without it with little prospect of its recovery.
And despite all his vehement denials to the opposite, Dean honestly didn't believe Sam could ever be recovered and brought back safe and sound. At least, not without some divine intervention by a god he hadn't believed in since he was young, and that wasn't going to happen any time soon.
So with a grim yes, for all intents and purposes... his brother was lost.
But that didn't mean Dean couldn't try.
It had been seven days since Dean had been without his brother.
The first thing he had done a week ago, once he managed to regain his composure was to ring Bobby, Ellen, and every other god damn person in his phone book to let them know of the coming apocalypse, that the end of the world was fucking nigh, and that Dean's world had already ended without his brother stood beside him. Bobby had immediately ordered Dean to stock up on supplies, to not do anything rash like charge the opposing army head on, and to get his ass to South Dakota faster than a fly to a freshly rotting corpse. Dean listened to the instructions grimly, before packing his small duffel and a canister of diesel and jumped into his Impala. He'd ring his past one-night-stands on the way, tell them to run, to hide, to lay salt around their doorways and prevent demons from possessing them. The last thing the world needed were more vessels for the demons.
There were more and more corpses everyday. Men, women, animals and children were strewn down the side of the highway like litter thrown out of a window from a passing car. Dean had ceased slowing down and checking them for any survivors, for hope.
He had long since learnt that he would find none.
Turning into the armed fortress which was Bobby's home Dean wasn't as surprised as he should have been to find that Ellen was also there.
"Thought you never left your bar." He muttered, sloping past her and into the house, stepping neatly over the 6 inch thick line of salt. Ellen offered him a grim smile, showing that she hadn't expected any kind of warm greeting, not with Sam…
"We have a better chance of surviving if we stay together, and Bobby has the most protection." She said, making the unsubtle meaning more obvious. Dean shrugged and continued inward, dumping the duffel from his car onto the floor, disturbing dust as he did so.
"I'm not staying." He told her, whirling around so she could witness the agony and determination blazing in his eyes. "I have to get him back… I have to."
"Then we'll get him back together." A new voice stated, Dean and Ellen both turned to see Bobby in the doorway, toting a shotgun in each hand. "We'll win this war and we'll get him back."
It was 42 hours since Dean last slept. 42 long hours since the blood encrusted on his forearms and head had stained his skin and clothes a dirty crimson. 42 hours since the apocalypse began, and 42 long, excruciating hours since Sam was lost to him.
Dean grasped at his mobile phone, fingers trembling as he pounded the buttons, desperately trying to ring his brother.
"Come on Sam!" He muttered for the fifteenth time as he held the phone up to his ear and listened to the monotone of the ringing.
And listened.
And listened.
For the fifteenth time Sam didn't pick up, but Dean had already known that he wouldn't.
It was four days since Hell broke loose.
Whilst motoring down a deserted Highway Dean happened upon a young man, staggering along the dusty road, gripping his right arm with his left. Slowing the Impala to a crawl Dean knew that if he didn't try and help the man in the middle of nowhere in this god forsaken land, that the man would probably die. Ripped to shreds by the spirits he was aware were heading this way. Dean's conscience hadn't given up on him just yet and as he grew closer he saw more details about the man, trudging slowly, stumbling now and then. He saw that the man's hair was too long like Sam and that the red jacket around his shoulders was tattered and torn. But as he grew closer Dean noticed something else.
The man's right arm was not attached to his shoulder.
The red jacket was supposed to be a white Varsity jacket.
"God…" Dean muttered, aghast at the man, kid in front of him. The kid hadn't turned around yet, hadn't shown his face, Dean knew he could speed up, leave the kid for the lost cause he knew him to be, and not have to see his face in his nightmares. But he knew that his mind would just impose Sam's face onto the kid, And that he could bear that less than the guilt.
Rolling down the window he stuck his head out, "Hey, kid!" He called, softly yet clearly so as not to startle the young man. The kid didn't respond, just continued his slowly unsteady gait next to the car. Shock thought Dean, as he called again, a little louder this time.
Ever so slowly, like a page of a book being half turned by a reader who relished the previous prose, the man turned around and Dean caught a look at his face.
Or rather, the lack of it.
The skin had been torn off, revealing bone and sinew, and a white jawbone frozen in a horrific grin. The kid moaned, the single eyeball left in his skull whirled sickeningly fixing onto Dean. Dean froze in horror, the kid was already dead. He stumbled and moaned again, the only sound he could make without lips, or a tongue. He raised his one arm, staggering slowly towards Dean. One word flashed through Dean's mind, zombie. It left him only one option.
"I'm sorry." He whispered, pressing his foot down on the accelerator and speeding down the empty highway, away from the dead young man, away from the niggling voice in his head screaming at him all is lost.
One week and four days after Sam left, Dean gave up all hope.
It happened in the night, just as he laid his head down to rest on Bobby's couch, a woman slammed into the front door, begging and screaming to be let in. Ellen had wanted to open the door, unable to bear the tortured cries. Bobby had said no, said it was a trap, but after ten minutes of the screaming Dean had caved, he wouldn't be able to live with himself if the woman turned out to be innocent.
The woman it turned out, was innocent, but that didn't stop her kicking a hole in the protective salt line granting the demons entry into their fortress.
Dean saw the first of the demons gloating in the hall later that evening when he went to get a drink, he started to yell but a fierce blow to the head blackened his vision and he fell silently to the floor.
Rays of sunlight woke Dean, and he immediately choked on the bitter stench of blood. Ellen was slumped like a ragdoll against the opposite wall, her throat torn out. Bobby had been ripped into several pieces scattered throughout the front room, his dismembered hand still clutching the handle of his treasured shotgun. The other woman was nowhere to be found.
It had been fourteen days since Sam had been taken.
Dean had taken the last tank of diesel from Bobby's pick-up truck and drove his aged Impala to Ellen's bar The Roadhouse, to where Sam would know to find him.
He'd rummaged through the cabinets and helped himself to a half empty bottle of whiskey, after all Ellen wouldn't be needing it anymore. He choked down a sob, slid an abandoned shot glass towards him and sat down to drink.
An hour later, when the body was hurled through the wall and slammed into the bar, not 3 feet away from him, Dean put down his shot glass and walked through the door of the Ragnarök to meet his brother.
Sam was leaning against the bonnet of the Impala outside.
"Hi big brother." He greeted cheerily, as if unaware of the corpses strewn about him, corpses of the people he had killed. Dean clenched his fists, fingernails digging into his palm drawing blood. He stared at the floor, unable to bear looking at the monster his brother had become.
"Why?" He asked, was all he could utter in the face of the one man who had wrought such chaos and destruction upon the world.
"Because I can." Was the reply. A gun clicked. Dean lifted his head and met his brother's onyx eyes.
"Goodbye brother."