Sometime later, he relights the fire and checks his phone. Afterwards he stands in the middle of the room, fire warm on his back and stares at the piles of book and papers stuffed into corners and cupboards. There's all sorts of stuff in those old pages, information that might give him at least an idea of where to start. He tries to think of someone to call but there's no one he can think of who would understand and the thought of trying to explain Dean's disappearance to a disembodied voice over an unreliable phone makes his palms sweat and his heart do a funny little flip in his chest. He remembers Kevin and struggles to recall why he is important; he's only a kid, a scared one at that. What can he do?
He decides to do some light housework. Six hours and many dust bunnies later the cabin is tidy and the contents an ancient packet of ramen noodles is simmering on the stove. He checks his phone and glances around and takes a step toward his bag, his laptop inside and hesitates, bile burns suddenly at the back of his throat and he swallows with distaste. He takes another step toward it and that's as far as he gets. Where does he even start? Dean's gone again, always leaving him, dying again and again and again, expecting Sam to pick up the pieces and toddle along as if his heart hasn't been ripped from his chest and stomped on. Dean's expectations have always been greater than Sam's ability to meet them.
"Please come back, Dean. I don't know what to do," Sam whispers, raising his head and eyes, he quickly looks back down, Dean's not in heaven because he's not dead. No portal opened and dragged him to Hell, nothing reached from the beyond and dragged him to some alternate reality. He just vanished. He was not dead. Sam goes outside and brings in more firewood, a robin sings loudly from a nearby tree, the notes are high and sweet, neither too fast or too slow. Sam stops and listens for a minute, losing himself in the melodic trilling, watching the warm red of the bird's feathers ruffle in the slight breeze. When he steps back inside the fire has almost gone out, the smoldering wood black and fragile, Sam stares at it confusion, he wasn't gone any time at all. It takes him a while to get it going again. He eats his noodles in front of the fire.
He goes to sleep in his clothes again, a cold cup of coffee still grasped in his hand when he awakes. He makes a fresh cup of coffee and tries to decide how to spend the day. He leaves his bag where it is and avoids looking at the various books now neatly lined along slightly lopsided shelves.
He finds himself a sheet of blank paper and a pen intending to write a list of the steps he needs to take to find his brother. First he checks his phone and makes one call. Dean doesn't answer.
His pen hovers over the paper but he can't decide what to write. After a moment his pen decides for him. Dean, it writes. Is, he writes, where? He writes his own name and adds a 2 next to it. Twice dead. He underlines the word Dean and then a question mark, then guides his pen to the figure 2 and taps it because it doesn't seem quite right. Was it 2 or more? He scratches his head with the pen and crosses out the 2. It's more than that, but just how many more? Huh. He'll have to think about that one. He writes another name, Bobby. Well, was that 1 or 2? This is harder than he thought. So he writes another name down and then another. All those people who have died in the course of his life, mostly those he was there for, or caused their toes to turn up or stopped them from dying and then maybe let go too soon. Those that were his fault, those that were Dean's, those whose names he never knew, like the guy in Oklahoma, with the pierced eyebrow and beady eyes.
After a bit he fetches another piece of paper and as he writes the list, he experiments with his handwriting, sloping one way, adding a loop or two here and there; it's a long list. He pins it to the wall and studies it dispassionately. How it will help him find Dean, he has no idea, but at least he's done something. His stomach rumbles quietly so he goes and heats some wieners and beans. There's about 10 cans huddled in the end of a kitchen shelf, with them and the half a jar of coffee he's good for a few days.
He quickly loses track of the time. He took his watch off at some point and now can't find it. There are no working clocks in the cabin and if there are any batteries to replace he hasn't looked and doesn't intend to. Half of one side of the cabin wall is now papered with his hand written lists and notes. Pinned in uniform rows and columns, a life size spreadsheet that flutters and rustles every time he opens the door, he had found a red pen at some point and every third sheet is written in bright scarlet. Like scattered blood drops on a white bed sheet, they remind Sam that because of his choices and his actions a lot of people died in nasty, brutish ways.
The center piece of paper had four words on it, written in capitals but not underlined, as Jessica had always reminded him as he slumped over another assignment, one or the other, but not both. Sam can't help thinking that it's a metaphor for something, as he traces a shaky finger over the words: DEAN IS COMING BACK. He faces the wall every evening and reads everything he has written and always ends on that particular notation, knowing he will find Dean even if he isn't looking for him and that Dean will find him even if he doesn't know he should. Sam ignores the tiny voice that cries out from the far reaches of his mind, the one that seems to have thing about logic and common sense, coupled with words about hiding and losing your goddamn mind. He knows all about such things and in his opinion, and really there is no one else to offer up an alternative, he is completely and utterly as sane as he has ever been.
About the same time the beans run out Sam realizes that he hasn't had a shower in more than a few days and his head itches just a little. The afternoon air feels warm and humid and outside the scent of the forest hangs heavy in the breeze. Sam strips off his clothes and stands in the open doorway, in his underwear, there's no one around to smell him anyway. He scratches at his belly and lifts an arm for a quick sniff; he coughs loudly at the fumes. Maybe washing himself isn't such a bad idea, after all if Dean should suddenly decide to appear he probably wouldn't enjoy hugging such a stinky brother. Sam nods to himself, because when Dean comes back Sam is going to hug the stuffing out of him, whether he likes it or not. He bends down and scoops his clothes off the floor and tries not to think about how much he would like a hug right now.
His phone falls from the back pocket of his jeans, he runs a finger across the screen. The battery has died. Sam glares at it resentfully for a couple of seconds and then tosses it at a nearby shelf, he misses and it clatters to the floor. He doesn't look to see where it falls as he heads for the small bathroom at the back of the cabin.