November 19th, 2014.
Sam woke up to blazing autumn sunshine invading through his curtain-less windows, blinking ungratefully at the sun streaming onto him. He'd lost track of time, but he guessed it was around mid-morning, perhaps hitting 11 o'clock. Sam didn't have much use for time anymore. It's not like he did anything in the daytime anymore...apart from maybe drink. He'd stopped hunting a year or two ago, when the Croatoan virus started hitting the world properly. Hunting had only reminded Sam of the loneliness and despair that came with it, not to mention the constant reminder that the destruction of the world he was now witnessing was ultimately down to him.
Sam had fallen into deep depths of depression, and without anyone to save him, he'd embraced it. He couldn't see any way out. Apart from saying yes. The big yes. To the Devil himself.
He dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come into his mind. Sam shook his head and rubbed his eyes, which were stinging from the combination of tiredness and a mild hangover. Had he just considered saying yes? It was hard to tell. Sam wasn't fully convinced that he was completely sober yet, which was normal. He blinked forcefully a few more times and reached for the near empty bottle by the sofa.
As the day continued, the thought that had once been a fleeting instinct inside Sam's head was now a constant voice that wouldn't go away. Drinking a bit more helped ease it for a while, but it would always return. Yes. Yes. That word circled round in his head for several hours before Sam ended up throwing a bottle against the wall in anger. The shards of glass cascading over the floor and a couple hitting him on rebound didn't bother him; he needed to stop it somehow.
Why was this possibility seeming so appealing to him now? Was it a sign that showed he had truly given up? That he wasn't worth anything else anymore? Maybe it was the revelation that there was no longer anything else to be done, Sam thought, the idea turning his stomach.
Now the thought of saying yes had entered his line of thinking, he couldn't shake it. In a twisted way, it reminded Sam of how Jess used to nag him to take him out to the same restaurant every other Saturday back at Stanford. She'd loved that restaurant. Sam felt an imitation of a smirk creep onto his tired face, which quickly disappeared as he realised the difference between the two. That voice of Jess' had been constant, yes, but always a pleasure to hear. This voice – this one was not at all pleasant, or welcome.
As day turned into evening, and evening evolved into night, the thought got more and more pressing that Sam had drunk his way through nearly three bottles of straight whiskey to try and convince himself what he used to fight for. Dean would have soon dissuaded him otherwise. He could almost hear his brother's voice in his head.
"Are you crazy? After everything we've been through, you're just going to give up?"
Sam could hear it, but it failed to persuade him. Because Dean wasn't here anymore. He was hunting with Cas, and Bobby somewhere...if they were even still alive. Everyone had left him. He had no connections with anyone anymore.
A deep part of him yearned for another connection to someone. His relationship with Dean had long since shattered into pieces, and he hadn't seen Bobby or Cas in even longer. Maybe the only connection you deserve to feel is Satan riding shotgun, responded the stubborn voice inside his head.
Sam took another swig of alcohol. It was going to be a long night before he managed to knock himself out.
"He was not dead yet, not exactly – parts of him were dead already, certainly other parts were still only waiting for something to happen, something grand..."