Bobby's dead. That's all Sam can think about. Bobby's dead. He can't be dead. He's their surrogate father, he's their friend, he's their walking, talking encyclopedia of all things Supernatural, he's the one who's always brutally honest with them and kicks their asses when they need it, he's the one they turn to when they have nowhere else to go. He just can't be gone. But he is, and Sam doesn't have the first clue how to even begin dealing with that. It's too much. They've lost too much already, too many people and too many innocent lives and too many uphill battles. He doesn't know how either him or Dean are going to handle this latest blow. Especially so soon after Cas.
He doesn't know how the hell they're going to make it one damn day without Bobby. It was bad enough when they lost Cas, but Bobby? What will they do when they hit a speed-bump on a hunt? Who will they call when the answer they need isn't online or at a local library? Who will Sam go to for advice when Dean's being an ass and Sam needs someone to remind him that sometimes Dean needs his space? Bobby was more than just their sort-of uncle; a lot more, and Sam feels all kinds of lost without him. Add that to completely wrecked about the loss of someone else they both love, and all in all it isn't one of Sam's better weeks.
At first, he's worried about how Dean is going to react. Sam loved Bobby, he really did, but not like Dean did. Dean's always needed the older man around more than Sam has. Whether it was Dad or Bobby or even someone like Gordon, Dean's always liked having someone older and more experienced around to talk to and bounce ideas off of. He's never said it out loud, probably never will, but Sam can tell. He thinks probably it's because, as much progress as Dean's made in learning how to treat Sam as an equal and as much as he tries to see Sam as his partner and not some idiot kid that he has to watch over, Dean's still a little stuck in his role as the older brother and can't help but see himself as the one who should have all the answers. He isn't always so good at letting Sam guide him when he loses his way. So in lieu of Dad, Bobby was there to be the parental figure Dean secretly craves. And now he's gone, and Sam's really worried.
But Dean doesn't react at all, and that's much worse. He glides through the motions of being the executor of Bobby's will, claiming and burning his body, and burying the ashes; it's like he's a ghost. His eyes glaze over the minute the doctor says "I'm sorry, he's gone", and they barely slip back into focus for more than a minute at a time for the next few days. He doesn't speak when he doesn't have to; he doesn't speak to Sam at all. Whenever Sam asks him a question, even something simple and unemotional like 'are you hungry' or 'would you like to drive', Dean just glares at him for half a second and then goes right back to ignoring him. It's driving Sam slowly insane, but there isn't anything he could say to make it better, so he stops saying anything.
When they finally make it back to Rufus' cabin after what has to have been the worst few days of Sam's life, Dean doesn't get any better. Neither of them have showered or slept or eaten a full meal in days, but Dean just walks into the living room like the zombie he's become and sinks down onto the couch, staring straight ahead at nothing with unseeing eyes. Sam pretends to make himself busy for a while, unpacking their things from the car and straightening up around the messy house, but eventually he realizes it's pointless, so he joins his despondent brother. He sits in the chair across from Dean, and mimics him in staring vacantly at the wall.
He's surprised to find that at first, it actually helps a little – just letting his mind go blank and not thinking about anything more significant than the fact that his knee is itchy. He glances slowly at Dean, and Dean glances back when Sam looks away, but their gaze never actually meets. There are tears in Dean's eyes, just like Sam's sure there are tears in his eyes too. He doesn't bring it up, though, he just slumps down further in his chair and lets the hot wetness slip down his cheeks as unbearable sadness suddenly overwhelms him. It comes out of nowhere – maybe triggered by how miserable Dean looks and how much Sam hates to see his usually strong big brother so broken – but once Sam lets the levees break, he can't build them back up.
Bobby's really gone, and Sam can't remember ever being this devastated before, not even when Dad died. His head is spinning, his chest feels like there's an anvil on it and he can't breathe. He's being crushed, gradually but painfully, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. Tears fall slowly down his cheeks, and Sam just lets them even though Dean's sitting right there. Dean sort of scoffs and heaves himself off the couch, and Sam can hear him puttering around in the kitchen. He's annoyed, Sam can tell by the sharpness of the noises he's making as he rummages through drawers, but Sam doesn't really have the inclination to care. If this is the stalemate they're going to settle into – Dean pissed off and pretending to be busy and Sam just sitting here being miserable – then that's fine.
He's not crying anymore, not really, that was apparently short-lived. But he's still slouched over in his chair and he's still completely smashed up inside. With all the people Sam's lost in his life, he'd have thought it would get easier over time, but it hasn't. It still hurts just as much as it ever did to know that he'll never see Bobby's face again, or Dad's or Castiel's or Jessica's or Ellen's or even Mom's, and her Sam barely knew. It's too much. The last few years of Sam's life have just been one catastrophe after another and Sam's at the end of his rope. He's still got memories of Hell tingeing his nightmares with fire and Lucifer's sickly-sweet smile as he did things to Sam that he can't even let himself think about or he'll break down. He's still healing, still trying to find some way to get out of bed in the mornings and feel like he'll make it through the day without shattering, and now he'll have to deal with what happened to Bobby on top of everything else? Sam isn't so sure he can anymore.
"Alright, are you gonna be doing that for much longer?" Dean snaps, along with a loud bang that Sam equates to him slamming something down on the wooden table.
Sam flinches at the exasperated tone of his brother's voice. He knows Dean isn't good at dealing with things like this, but shit, neither is Sam, and he would've thought if there was anyone in the world who'd understand how Sam feels about this, it would be Dean. Apparently he was wrong. "Shut up," he mumbles, leaning over to rest his elbows on his knees so he can hide his watery eyes behind his hair.
"No, I'm serious. You need to tell me how long you're gonna be like this, 'cause I can't … I just can't, okay?" Dean growls. "Fuck! This is stupid, we can't just sit around and do nothing! Those numbers, the ones Bobby wrote on your hand. We should do something with those, right? Get them to … fuck, I don't know. Who the hell do we give them to? What about that crazy guy, whatever his name was, Frank! He's some kind of technical genius when he's not being totally coo-coo for coco puffs, he could help us figure out what they are."
Sam sniffs. "Sure. Whatever you want, Dean."
"It isn't about what I want!" Dean cries, stepping quickly over to Sam and shoving his shoulder so Sam has to look up at him. "It's about what Bobby would want! He used his last ounce of strength to give us those numbers, so obviously they're important! He'd want us to be finding out what they mean, not sitting around here being all blubbery about it!"
Sam has to clench his jaw to keep it from trembling. If he were the sort of person who took out his anger and frustration with his fists in other people's faces, Dean would so be the owner of a broken nose some time in the next ten seconds. As it is, Dean's complete lack of empathy just makes Sam even sadder. "Y'know what, I don't care. I'm pretty sure this is one of those situations where I'm fully entitled to be all blubbery about it. If me being upset about this is too much for your precious manhood to handle, then just leave me alone."
Dean's glaring again, so intensely he looks scary, but Sam turns his back on him and walks over to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He collapses down onto the bed as a fresh wave of tears overtakes him, and a minute later he hears the front door slam and an engine rumbling and tires squealing as Dean drives away.
Dean's gone for a long time. Sam completely loses track of exactly how long, but it's at least a few hours. He drifts in and out of consciousness; he might've actually slept for a while, Sam's not entirely sure, but mostly he just lies there, alone in a lumpy bed that he's spent the last month sharing with Dean, wallowing in his utter misery. A few times he almost catches sight of something, someone who shouldn't be there, in the corner of his eye. When he blinks it's gone, but it still makes his heart race and has him instinctively reaching for the scar on his palm that doesn't even hurt anymore when he squeezes it. It's a reflex at this point, much more of a placebo effect than anything else, but it still calms Sam down and reminds him of what's real and what isn't.
When Dean does come back, he calls out Sam's name softly but Sam pretends to be asleep. He doesn't want to see his brother right now, not even a little bit. Dean, of course, doesn't take the hint. The bedroom door creaks open slowly, followed by the sound of quiet footsteps. Sam's lying on his side with his back to the rest of the room, so he can't actually see the person who just came into it, but he can still tell it's Dean. He knows what Dean's footsteps sound like and he knows that familiar smell of Old Spice and gun-powder that Dean can't ever really wash off even if it's been days since he's fired a shot.
Sam feels the mattress dip beside him, but he doesn't turn around. He's not particularly interested in anything Dean has to say right now, but for a long time Dean doesn't say anything at all. Sam frowns but holds his ground, still wiping tears of grief off his face even as his chest clenches uncomfortably at the awkwardness of Dean sitting right there but not speaking. Eventually, though, Sam feels a gentle hand on his upper-arm.
"Sammy," Dean starts, but Sam shrugs his hand off and curls in on himself even more.
"I need you to go away," he says, firmly even though there's a little waver in his voice.
Dean sighs. "C'mon, don't be like that."
"Dean, Bobby is dead," Sam grinds out. "He was the closest damn thing we had to a father and he's dead, so if I need to be sad for a while I don't think that's unreasonable. If you wanna keep on pretending everything's fine, then you go right ahead, but leave me the fuck out of it."
Dean's breath hitches just a bit at Sam's harsh words, and then he exhales again, heavily. "Look, I … you're right, okay? You gotta deal with this in your own way. I'm not here to get in your face about it, I just wanted to say I'm sorry. You were upset earlier and I should've been there for you, and I wasn't. So, I'm sorry. That's all."
The mattress levels out again as Dean gets up to leave, and Sam really wants to roll over and tell Dean how stupid he's being – that he doesn't always have to just worry about being there for Sam; he should worry about his own needs too and actually deal with these things when they happen instead of drowning them in a river of booze and hunting and pretend bravado – but he doesn't. He doesn't say any of it because he's said it all before and Dean never changes.
Just before Dean leaves the room, he softly says, "I can't talk about this, I just … can't. But if you need to, I'll try to listen."
Sam blinks. It takes a minute for Dean's parting words to really sink in, and then Sam's up off the bed like a shot and trailing after him into the living room. It's a little pathetic, probably, that Sam's closing in on thirty years old and he still needs his big brother around to comfort him in situations like this, but he's too far gone to backtrack now.
"You mean that?" he asks the back of Dean's head.
Dean turns around slowly, cringing but nodding. "Yeah. Can't promise I'll actually make you feel any better, but I'll try. If you want."
"You don't …" Sam sighs. "Look, it's not like I actually want to talk about it either. We both know what happened, we both know what he … meant, to us. We don't need to have some kind of group therapy over it. Just … maybe you could stop yelling at me?"
Dean winces a little and fidgets, crossing and uncrossing his arms. "I'm sorry."
Sam nods and makes his way over to the couch. He's not fully expecting Dean to join him, but Dean does. He plops down beside Sam and he even, although reluctantly, lifts his arm up and drapes it over Sam's shoulders. Sam smiles inwardly and slides down just enough to lean against Dean's side. They're not actually cuddling, because Sam's pretty sure if he tried to cuddle Dean right now he'd get a black eye for his trouble, but even the small amount of contact is soothing.
"I probably won't, you know," Dean says. "Stop yelling at you, I mean."
Sam laughs softly. "I know."
He's the one Dean takes his anger out on sometimes, Sam's accepted that it's one of his roles in their relationship. He's okay with it, mostly, because he also gets all the other sides of Dean that other people don't. He gets the funny side; the devoted, fiercely loyal side; the sweet, gentle, loving side of Dean that no one else will ever see.
"It's not you, though, okay?"
"I know that too."
"I just … he was … this wasn't supposed to …" Dean fumbles over his words, his voice thickening in emotion, but he's trying and Sam has to give him credit for that, so he reaches up and brushes his fingers over Dean's cheek. Dean turns to look at him, and Sam smiles a little and then kisses him, just once and barely more than a peck; just to remind Dean that he's here.
"You don't have to do this," he says, frowning as Dean blinks back tears. "It's alright, I don't need it. Just stay here with me, okay? That's enough."
Dean nods. Sam can tell he's grateful for the way out Sam just gave him, but his eyes are still shiny with unshed tears, so Sam shifts onto his side enough to slide his arm around Dean's stomach. Dean cups the back of Sam's head in his hand, petting through his hair and then kissing him on the forehead, and then he gets both arms around Sam's body and holds him close. Sam swallows thickly over the lump in his throat and leans his head down on Dean's shoulder, soaking up the warmth and the comforting scent.
Dean rests his chin on top of Sam's head, and then he sniffs and lets out an audible, shaky breath, and Sam thinks that just about says it all.