The motel was called Red Jacket Motel. Nothing particularly spectacular about it, then again no motel they ever stayed in was anything worth taking a second glance at. All that was required was a roof over their head, a shower to wash away the travels, and a bed to regain their strength. That's exactly what this place provided. It was a one story, rather simple looking motel sitting on the side of a popular highway. Staying true to their name, the roof was a dark red color as well as every door leading to a room with a white plastic lawn chair for every room. 'Must be their idea of serviceā€¦' Sam thought, a small smirk managing to appear upon his face.

He didn't know what town he was in, or even what state. Since the moment of his brother's death, Sam had basically given up on everything. He never answered his cell phone, resorting to merely turning it off as the incessant ringing of concerned callers grated on his nerves. He did, however, sometimes turn his cell phone back on and check the myriad of voicemails left. Distancing himself from everybody was his only option. If he distanced himself, the pain of losing them would be that much less.

Taking the key provided from his jacket pocket, he unlocked the door to the room he reserved for a couple days and entered, a single duffel over his shoulder. Like the motel itself, the room was nothing spectacular. Thin beige carpet covered the room with a makeshift entertainment center/dresser combo on which sat a simple television. Near the only curtained window sat a lonely square wooden table, one matching wooden chair its only company. On the wall leading up to the motel's small bathroom were not one bed, but two, a wooden stand between them with a small light. Off white walls surrounding all.

Slamming the door shut behind him, Sam unceremoniously tossed the duffel bad with the intent of it landing on the table near the window only to have it fall short of it's target, landing on the carpet with a dull thud. There it would stay until Sam decided to take care of it, washing the clothes and cleaning the firearms it contained inside. The clothes he had on now, brown boots, blue jeans, and a blue flannel over shirt with a black undershirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, were a few days old, the stench of stinky hunter all too evident. Sam sat on the bed nearest the door, the bed that Dean would normally have claimed. Even after Dean's death, Sam found himself reserving rooms with two beds. Or ordering food for himself and a black coffee for Dean. Old habits indeed died hard.

The bed creaked softly in protest as Sam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The Impala sat just outside the room, easily viewable through the window. It captured Sam's gaze for long moments, the sleek black exterior beautiful to his eye. Sacred. It's the only thing he has left of his brother. The only object infused with his essence, his memories. Felt like Dean's very soul entered the Impala instead of Hell. Sam's eyes watered, tears threatening to fall at the painful memory of that night. His brother died before his eyes, powerless to do anything but stand pinned against the wall as hellhounds tore his brother to pieces.

Those lifeless eyes still haunt his dreams, still replay in his memories. Holding his body in his hands is something he will never forget, staring into those eyes searching desperately for that spark Sam knew so well. Any sign of life to prove that this is all just a dream, a nightmare. Dean will be alive and well when he woke up in the motel room, ready to hit the road again for the next town. Carrying his body to the Impala, her loving embrace gently cradling his lifeless form in the backseat, was the only proof that was given. He had lost him. Bobby had tried to help, tried to console Sam, tried to make things make sense. It didn't make sense. He can't be dead. His brother had always been there. Always. Sam lashed out violently whenever Bobby attempted to help carry the burden. It wasn't Bobby's burden to bare, it was his. It was his fault his brother is dead. His fault the Hellhounds ripped Dean apart.

Pulling himself from the memory before it took over completely, Sam found the tears that were previously threatening to fall were now streaming down his cheeks. What would Dean think if he saw him now, weeping freely as he stares at his brother's Impala. Suddenly ashamed, Sam quickly wiped his moist tears as he quickly blinked away the remaining tears, sniffling as the fluids from his eyes drained into his nose. The familiar exhausted feeling whenever you openly weep for so long invaded his body. Forgetting the duffel bag on the floor, forgetting to check the many voicemails he probably has waiting, and never bothering to change from his clothes, he moved to a supine position on the bed with his head buried under a pillow. Sweet darkness of slumber gave him the only peace Sam could feel since Dean's death. Forgetting the world, Sam finally slept. Tears still fresh on his cheeks.