Sam starts counting the day Dean dies.
He counts anything, everything, eyes flicking and fingers tapping and he counts like a pre-schooler, naming out the numbers under his breath. He starts with big numbers, numbers that seem infinite because he’s trying for time and trying for life as well. He starts with big numbers. Counts down from there.
1,000: the number of miles to get to Lawrence so he can bury Dean’s ashes.
500: the number of road signs welcoming him into towns, cities, states, welcoming him into places he wishes he weren’t at
25: the number of gas stations he doesn’t bother paying at
15: the number of times he almost crashes the car
11: the number of times he means to crash the car
10: the number of days he hasn’t slept
9: the number of times he’s looked over by accident to say “Hey Dean”
8: the number of crossroads demons to turn him down
7: the number of demons that didn’t manage to escape, the number of demons he killed within seconds of their refusal
6: the number of times Led Zeppelin comes on the radio on the way to Lawrence
5: the number of times he sings along, screaming the lyrics till his vocal chords are shot
4: the number of nights he gets the hotel room for, so no one will check on him and fuck everything up
3: the number of
notes, wills, apologies he leaves behind, one for Kevin, one for Garth, one for Cas
2: the number of bottles of sleeping pills he takes, chasing them down with a beer so they don’t taste so funny on his tongue
1: the number of words he sighs into the cheap motel pillow with sleepy and sluggish limbs that creak with aching and yearning, the number of words he reassures himself with, knowing he’ll be okay soon, Dean
0: the number of breaths and heart beats Sam Winchester has left in him, lying alone in a crummy motel room and wishing with every fiber of his body that he ends up in heaven