WARNING: This chapter contians non-graphic descriptions of sex.
Dean checked himself out of the hospital AMA the next day, ignoring the disapproving doctor's pleas to reconsider. He'd made arrangements to have Sam cremated, the funeral home directorlooking unsettled by Dean's refusal ofa service or wake.
It would be another two days before he could pick up Sam's ashes, so he'd hitched a ride back to where the Impala was parked. The car had been his prized possession once, but now ti seemed hollow and unimportant, a cold hunk of metal. Despite finding it unharmed he was unable to feel any releif - only emptiness.
Inside the car, he'd been immobilized by the sight of Sam's worn sneakers on the passenger seat floor, still laced. He'd stared at the shoes for a good twenty minutes, hands clenched on the steering wheel.
There were signs of his brother all over the interior – a Snickers wrapper on the floor, his laptop in the backseat – as though Sam would open the passenger door at any moment.
Dean clamped down fiercely on that train of thought, turning the key and firing up the engine with a roar. Metallica's Fade to Black filled the car, and he savagely struck the eject button to silence it.
They had been listening to the tape on their way to track down the werewolf, Sammy bitching about Dean's taste while discretely tapping his foot to the rhythm. It had been one of Dean's favorite songs – now itwas like swallowing glass just to hear it.
Silence suited him just fine, these days.
A few miles down the road, he caught Sam's face in the rear-view mirror.
It didn't surprise him - though he supposed most people would have driven off the road if a deceased loved-one appeared unexpectedly in their backseat.
He'd been seeing his brother, off and on, since they'd sedated him in the woods. Sam would just show up, stand silently, and stare at Dean as though he had some amazing, devastating revelation to share. But he never spoke, never made a sound, and Dean had begun trying to ignore him, hoping that the delusion would pass.
After all – it wasn't really Sam, just a pathetic attempt by his grief-stricken mind to resurrect his brother. The real Sam was gone, dead, cold, never coming back.
The Sam hallucination in the backseat met his eyes as he glanced in the mirror, unblinking and stoic.
"You mind tucking those ridiculous fucking wings a little, Sammy? You're blocking my rear-view with all those sissy feathers," he said bitterly, unable to resist speaking to the figment.
Sam's image smiled beatifically, surrounded by white, and Dean had the sudden urge to get fall-down, black-out drunk.
He found the closest bar, a seedy looking dive called The Bootstrap. It was dark, dirty, and full of distrustful looking bikers.
Perfect.
He ordered a shot of vodka, tossing a twenty at the bartender to leave the bottle. The alcohol burned a cold trail down his throat, and he drank with single-minded determination.
Pour. Swallow. Breathe.
Repeat as necessary until numb and/or unconscious.
Halfway through the bottle and feeling decidedly unsteady, he caught the eye of a decent-looking woman at the end of the bar. She smiled coquettishly, leaning forward so he could see down the front of her low-cut shirt. He didn't bother to smile back, but stared at her coldly as she flirted from across the room.
His aloofness seemed to encourage her, though, and soon she made her way over to him. She leaned against him intimately, purring dirty invitations in his ear.
So he took her behind the bar and fucked her - no muttered endearments, no gentleness or promises of something more - just a raw, desperate pursuit of mutual release. He moved in her with a savageness that frightened him, and for a moment he worried that he'd hurt her.
But she moaned and writhed against the alley wall, nails digging into his shoulders as he tore open her shirt, and the concern had been fleeting.
He didn't make a sound as they moved against each other, his hands braced on the bricks on either side of her head. The pleasure that coursed through him soured in his veins, and he welcomed the bitterness.
Life without Sammy was supposed to hurt.
Maybe that was why his brother appeared to be standing in the alley with them, glowing gently amidst the trash and broken glass, like a piece of Heaven lost in Dean's personal Hell. The empty promise of what would never be his again.
Dean closed his eyes against Sam's mournful expression, burying his face in the woman's neck as he came.
He gasped roughly as warm release surged trough his body, washing away the numbness, and tears rushed to his eyes.
He felt overwhelmingly alive.
And that was the worst part of it all.
A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed :)