One thing was for sure. Being deaf didn't affect his ability to drink or to hole up in abandoned places. He had taken up residence in a decaying house where he spent time pouring over what little lore he could find on demonic deals and drinking himself into a stupor just to get some rest when he wasn't out chasing down even the whisper of a lead.
In a perverse way, Sam was glad Dean wasn't there to see him now. He was past being disgusting – had passed it a couple of days ago. He could feel the stiff stubble that was fast becoming more than a shadow on his jaw. He caught the scent of old whiskey and sweat whenever he moved and his head itched whenever he was lucid enough to realize it. His eyes felt like sandpaper and he couldn't sleep because half the time his deafness felt oppressive and he had a hard time relaxing enough to even think of resting. He knew what was in the dark and exactly how vulnerable he was now. When he finally did collapse in exhaustion, he was plagued by nightmares.
Nightmares of Dean being taken, filled with the baying of invisible hounds and gurgling screams. Nightmares of heat and torture conducted by half formed creatures. Then there was the reoccurring dream where his brother stood in front of him and berated him. He would stand there in some nondescript hotel room, arms crossed over his chest, figure blocking the door. He would scowl then howl at Sam.
"What are you doing Sam? Is this what you wanted? Big brother's gone and now you've got the run of the place. Do anything you want to now."
Sam would shiver. "No, Dean. I'm trying."
"Yeah, Sammy. You're always trying, but it doesn't seem to do a lot of good. God, you're pathetic. Why did I even bother? I should have just let you rot." Dean would turn. He would reach for the door as though to leave, but Sam never could let him.
"You don't mean that."
Dean would whirl on him. "Oh, yeah? I'm pretty certain this is not what I bargained for! I sold my soul for this? So you could sit around and twiddle your thumbs? What a waste."
"Dean, I'm going to get you back. I will."
Dean would snort. "Right, Sam. Just like you weren't going to let me go to Hell in first place. All the times I've bailed your ass out, and you couldn't even save me once. Not once. Some brother you are. It should be you down there. Not me."
And Sam would freeze, because Dean was right. He had damned his brother.
The guilt from that alone would have driven him to madness. That should have been enough for one man. Maybe even three men. Knowing that Sam had all but shipped Dean off to Hell gift-wrapped with a bow on top was more than enough weight to carry with him. Which was why he nearly broke when he realized he liked having those dreams as much as he hated them.
It wasn't just that he knew he deserved whatever dream-Dean dished out. He would take that beating any day. Take it and bear it for the punishment it was meant to be.
No, Sam secretly cherished them too because that was the only time he got to talk to his brother, no matter how monstrous the conversations were. That was the only time he got to hear his brother's voice.
When he woke up, soaked in sweat and shaking, it was with the knowledge that even if he did bring Dean back, even if he managed to do it without trading places and got to see Dean alive one more time, he'd never hear him again. Not that annoying humming he did when he brushed his teeth or the way he smirked with his voice when he call Sam, Sammy just because he knew it would piss his little brother off.
Dean's agonized screams would be the last thing Sam ever heard, and that realization was killing his soul just as surely as any crossroad's deal he could make.
So he drank. He drank to dull the loneliness and forget some of his guilt. He drank to make the silence seem less oppressive. He drank because he knew it would kill him slowly from the inside.
It somewhere around day ten when she showed up. He had stumbled into the current motel he was using as a base while he hunted down the newest lead, stalked another demon. Somewhere between the door and the bed he realized something was wrong. The realization did not come in time to stop the fist that was flying towards his face. Between his exhaustion and his alcoholic haze, it was embarrassingly easy for the intruder to gain the upper hand.
Then the blond chick jumped into the fray and he was caught just as neatly as he had ever been pinned by Dean back when he was learning to fight. While the goon held him in place, the woman frisked him briefly, hand lingering just a bit long for comfort over his ass, and consequently the knife tucked into his waste band.
He felt the blade slide free and felt the woman's warm breath as she spoke into his neck. He supposed he should be a bit more frightened, but really he was just pissed. Trust him to walk into a trap like an idiot.
The woman was in front of him now, threatening him. It was too dark to even begin to guess what her exact words were, but he knew a death threat when he saw one. And really he was ready to take her up on it. Maybe he and Dean could be together down in Hell.
He jerked out of the restraining hold on his arm, still tethered by the one in his hair. He shoved toward her as much as he could, trying to seem threatening rather than desperate.
"Fine. Go ahead. Do it."
He grimaced. How long had it been since he'd spoke? His throat felt scratchy and thick. Had he even made a sound? It felt strange. He had no way to know how his voice sounded and he felt like an idiot when he tried to speak. He knew he probably sounded stupid at the very least. Not that it mattered much at that moment.
She met his eye and he could see the wildness there. He recognized the same need he felt when chasing demons. It was the desire to kill, to right the wrongs that had been done to him.
She pulled back and he braced for the strike. The knife swept past him and buried itself into the chest of the demon holding him. As knife did its job and the demon died, he found himself being propelled back out the door and maneuvered into the Impala. He really wished he remembered the drive back to his derelict home.
When he came to he was sprawled on the dilapidated table in what had once been a kitchen, passed out in an exhausted haze. He had started awake with the feeling he was being watched. He was on his feet in less than a second, knife held menacingly before him. Another second and his brain had caught up with his reflexes. There was a smug woman standing in his kitchen.
Sam stared her down, in no mood for pleasantries and too drunk to care about asking questions. She smirked, then spoke. Everything was a bit hazy, even through the sharp flair of adrenaline that had his heart pumping. He only caught words.
"…that…old friend…No…"
Then her eyes flashed and he was in motion. He had dowsed her in hold water and reached for the knife. He nearly panicked when he realized it wasn't there anymore, but he pulled his gun instead. Consecrated iron might not kill a demon, but it would sting and he was not going to be murdered without making it uncomfortable for both parties involve. Last night he'd had no choice. This morning, he did.
Her eyes grew large and slightly panicked.
"Sam!...me…Ruby."
Then he understood. He relaxed but didn't drop the gun.
"Ruby? What do you want," he asked, trying to keep his tone quiet and threatening. Which was hard, considering the room was spinning.
She frowned. "I'm here to help…out…if you…me, We…beat her." He shook his head. Help? That was rich.
"Who says I want your help? Dean was right. I ought to kill you now. Who's the meat suite this time anyway?"
She frowned. "Why do you care? You've never asked before."
"I'm asking now."
She looked nervous, almost disappointed. She wouldn't meet his eye, but she did answer. "Some secretary."
Sam pushed the gun right up to her forehead. "Get out of her, now." She started to say something, but he shoved her. "I said now. Or I exorcise you and send you right back down to Hell."
Ruby huffed, but fled. The girl dropped to the floor, unconscious. Sam had just enough time to carry her out and set her on the porch before she started to rouse. He was close enough to town that she could find her own way home from there. She sat up as he was entering the house. He paused at the door and said, "Town's about a mile and a half east from here. If you leave now, you'll make dinner." He shut the door.
He returned to the kitchen and sank down in the chair he had vacated earlier. He ought to get up and draw a devil's trap, but he couldn't be bothered at this point. He grabbed the bottle he had been nursing and took a swig.
