emptywithout:

Sam paced back and forth across the kitchen, his bare feet scuffling along the cold, tiled floor. It had been three days since he had seen Dean. He woke up that day and Dean was just…gone. No note, nothing. No signs of a struggle. Dean hadn’t called or texted either.

Although it was 8 o’clock in the morning, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and quickly drank it down. He had a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He poured another glass, but just held it, staring across the room at the door, as if Dean would walk in at any second. His grip tightened on the glass, and it shattered in his hand, shards of glass and liquor going everywhere. Sam looked at the cuts on his hand, watching the blood mix with the alcohol, barely noticing the sting.

He did look up however, when he felt a presence in the room. He knew it wasn’t Dean. He turned slowly to face the intruder.

“ ‘Sup Sam? I’ve got something to tell you…”

Sam nodded acceptingly, his hair falling into his face. He did not cry. He offered her a drink. She set her scythe against the wall and joined him.

This glass he finished slowly. It would probably be his last.

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