The woods are dark and endless and hiding there is easy.

He squats down on the soft earth, the knees of his jeans damp and uncomfortable, the cold seeping in, making his legs ache, his back twinge.

He is only glad he can still feel.

He can't hear them anymore but he senses that they are close. He feels foolish really, hiding beneath the murky canopy of trees, because he knows they can, and will, find him using methods that are distinctly supernatural.

He rubs a hand over his grimy face and sinks lower into the filth. Perhaps, he muses, it is fitting he die here, die in the darkness that has forever surrounded him, die without the benefit of mercy, without the benefit of light.

Tears, salty and unexpected, trickle down his hot cheeks and he buries his head in his hands, his long hair falling about his face, dirty and greasy, so long since he had the luxury of a shower or even a bath.

"Sammy," he hears his name being called, soft, gentle and he tenses, spine snapping. He knows the voice, knows that it does not belong to either of pursuers, knows that the person it belongs to would never, ever hurt him.

He burrows down further, wishing he could sink into the dirt, vanish forever, vanish from sight. He doesn't want to see the owner of that voice, doesn't want to look into tortured green eyes and see the hurt there.

He owes his brother that much.

"Sam," Dean sounds pissed, "I know you are in there bro, come on Sammy, come on now, I won't hurt you – we can fix this."

He swallows, sobs real now, muffled by his arm, lips pressed against the stinking cotton of his shirt. His big brother, always there, always thinking that he could mend everything, make everything right again.

Not this time, he thinks, rubbing at his wet fingers, knowing the stains there are more than mud, more than dirt. He puts one digit to his mouth and winces at the tangy, metallic taste. The blood is not his own and it makes him sick to think of what he did, of how the spots came to be there.

He never wanted this, never asked for it but it was, is, his destiny and he cannot escape it now.

It is too late.

***

Dean kneels by his brother's body, hands on Sam's face, stroking back unruly bangs, shaking fingers closing hazel eyes that stare mindlessly into the distance. Sam's clothes are caked in filth, mud, grime and dirt, his hands covered in blood. Dean chokes back hysteria, chokes back anger, chokes on grief.

There are no deals to be had, no more clauses, no more escapes.

Sam is dead, gone, his soul who knows where and Dean is alone, no angels, no demons, no family.

He lets his head rest on his brother's chest. Sam looks peaceful, so young and painfully innocent.

Dean rages at the world.

The world continues on.

End