Carrying On Without You.

Summary. . . . . . . . A drabble set between season 3 and 4, focusing on Sam as he carries on after Dean's death.

Disclaimer. . . . . . . Not mine, probably never will be!

A.N. . . . . . . . . Hey, so I'm tired and completely worn out after the drive back I had yesterday, so if this is crappy please forgive me. Kris, I didn't think I could fit the Impala ride into The Plantation House so I wrote it in this. Thanks for allowing me to drive your very own Metallicar.

He drove because he needed to, needed to get as far away as possible from the daily reminders, away from the constant reassurances that things would be okay, that things would be fine. How could they ever be? How could they ever be when he was now facing the battle alone, a battle he no longer cared about, a battle that he no longer worried about who turned out to be the victor, he'd given enough for this fight, he refused to give more, he had after all nothing left to give. So he pointed the car in any direction he liked the look off and drove, the low throaty rumble of the V8 the only form of soothing comfort he now possessed, the worn leather seats losing the form they had once held and now taking on his own, the rock music he had loathed for as long as he could remember, now a distraction that took his mind away from his last memories of his brother, the constant motion and jerkiness of the big car keeping him awake even when his body was crying out for rest. At first he resisted the temptation to unleash the power beneath the hood, always wary of receiving his brothers rage as a result, even though he knew there was little chance of that happening, but as the weeks grew he began to take out his own anger on the one reminder he had left, barking the tires when dropping into second, or allowing the engine to grunt it's guttural song at any given chance, sure within himself that somewhere his brother approved.

He slept because he needed to, turning the big car off onto the first dirt track he could find, not caring about what could be out there lurking in the dark, forcing his weary mind, body and soul to stop on it's never ending drive to nowhere, curling up into himself on the comforting leather upholstery to begin with, his body used to the contorted angles he forced it into after years spent sleeping just that way, his head resting upon the bench seat facing towards where his brother should have been, his eyes misting over threatening tears when his gaze captured nothing but the gradually condensing glass of the drivers window. He blinked as the condensation seemed to bubble before falling, trickling slowly down the glass to gather in the rubber seal of the window, the wetness that fell onto his stubbled cheeks making him realize that it wasn't the window that was weeping. He would turn away then, a part of him thinking his brother would be mad if he saw him reacting this way, maneuvering his way around on the seat until he faced the other way, his face resting against the cool glass, his eyes gazing blankly at the darkening skyline, his breaths misting up the window hiding his haunted features and hooded eyes from everyone outside and inside the car. Every night the nightmares plagued him, preventing true sleep from forming, and leaving him a cold, damp and shivering mess quivering within the claustrophobic confines of his metal room. After a while he stopped sleeping in the car, and although loathe to do so started returning to the pigsty motels, the cheaper, dingier and more dangerous the better.

He ate because he needed to, forcing himself to stop at least once a day along his never ending road trip at the most dirty and greasy diner he could find, places he knew even his brother would have cringed at entering, places he figured maybe one day he would get lucky at and eat something that would take him also away from this hell of an existence; but each time he walked away intact with yet another unfulfilling meal lying heavily in his stomach. In the end he took to finding motels with stained and grimy kitchenettes, mold filled fridges and blackened coffee pots; buying groceries from stores where the clerks hid behind Plexiglas screens, and no doubt had guns strategically placed underneath the counters. He forced his hands to open cans, peel produce, slice meats, and created jumbled messes of meals, forcing his fingers to grip knives and forks and shovel mounds of the mess into his mouth, where his jaw moved and his teeth chewed monotonously, but he tasted nothing; even the most spicy of creations seeming bland to his switched off mind. He found a new liking to wash down his meals with, a malt liquor that they had usually used to ease away pain and take the ebb off when they fixed each other up, now becoming his nightly pal, the liter bottle going from a twice weekly buy, to a weekly, to an almost daily.

He moved because he need to, his reactions and movements at times uncoordinated and sluggish, at others precise and military standard. His face a stoic mask he tolled his way through days and nights, gradually returning to the hunt he couldn't forget about no matter how hard he tried. He slept, he dreamt, he rose, he ate, he cleaned, he researched, he hunted, the days repeating themselves in much the same pattern until it became an almost ritual; only on the days when he was uncoordinated and clumsy, did he ever break from the pattern. Then he would sew, threading the needle with a calm precision, piercing the skin with no reaction at all, pulling the thread through damaged flesh with ease, all the while chugging back on the only true friend he now had, collapsing onto the bed in unconsciousness once he had finished, a part of him hoping as he faded into the blackness that this time it would be forever. He ignored calls to his cell, knowing that he would receive the same reassurances through the earpiece that he was running away from, choosing instead to turn the phone off and buy an untraceable replacement instead. He contemplated throwing it away, but at the back of his mind he still hoped that one day, when he switched it on and checked each morning, there would be a message from his brother; so he stowed it at the bottom of his duffle, a keepsake of his past life.

He opened the door because he wanted to, tired and lonely after weeks alone, after weeks of searching for a way to get his brother back, trying everything and begging anyone who would listen only to be turned down flat and laughed at mercilessly, he wanted to be comforted. He fought at first, feeling as though it was the right thing to do, told her to just let him die, to take his miserable life away; but as she whispered words about finding and killing Lillith he gradually began to back down, gradually becoming addicted to her and falling under her spell, totally captivated by her by the time he walked out of the bathroom and found the person he had searched so long and hard for standing in the doorway of his motel room.

A.N. . . . . . . See I did warn you it was drabble! Catch you all soon with new work, Peanut x