collegedropout | This is the End

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This is the End

The end of the world just happens.

Well, something like that. Sam isn't really very keen on where it began, other than when the Croatoan virus suddenly hit big in parts of the United States and burned outward in every direction; at this point, Sam had already said his goodbyes to Dean, had picked a hemisphere (non-literally, because he's not so sure he could forge plane tickets to China right this moment), started to try to correct his life. There were dreams, yeah, some Lucifer here and there to intrude on his privacy. But he was managing. Until, y'know. Shit hit the fan. In the end, phones went down, electricity, running water supplies. Places shut down. Boarded up. Humanity, trying to thrive. Lucifer, celebrating in his nightmares.

Sam never did speak to Dean again, after their final goodbye. Now he doesn't know if his brother is alive or dead out there.

Maybe he'll never know 'til it's too late. Or until he's dead. Sam's a pretty lucky guy, all things... considered. He's immune. Been bitten more than once even (covered by his jacket, because if people saw... well, he's not about to get mistaken for infected, even if they're only scar tissue now), though most of it was born out of a sick sense of penance. He's hardly afraid to go barreling into a horde of insane viral carriers if it means maybe saving one life who can't handle getting infected. He can go on supply runs for people, too. The more the world eroded away, the more he finds himself wandering from place to place, directionless and distraught.

This is all his fault. It's all on him.

He should have never let the devil out.

He should have never believed a demon could be anything but a twisted, ugly demon.

He should have... Should have done something different.

Bobby isn't in his home, Jo and Ellen are MIA, no signs of life from anyone he knows. No Dean. Just more people to help. Mouths to feed. Croats to kill. By the time he reaches a little place in California, he's exhausted, seeking out an abandoned building to rest up there. He uses his pack as a pillow and listens for any sounds of the infected. Or survivors. It's not like he can deny someone in need of help, in a mess he made. There's probably some big issue just around the corner. Danger. Right now, his only concern is actually getting a few hours of rest before the Devil comes to poke around inside his noggin.

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The virus spread too quickly.

Dean thought they had a chance, at first, to contain it. Hunters banded together to try and keep it from spreading. They risked infection to travel to towns to take down the Croats, their actions becoming increasingly more desperate as the virus expanded, hitting more and more people, until they had to admit: they couldn't stop it. There was nothing they could do, except go after Lucifer and by ending him, hopefully end the mess that he created.

Some hunters got infected. Some left the country in hopes that they could get away, if only briefly. Some stayed to fight. Dean took those who stayed and along with Bobby, a newly human Cas, and, eventually, Chuck, formed a ragtag band of survivors. Together, they raided for supplies, tried to find more survivors, and hunted down the Colt. As time went on, though, and taking in survivors became more risky, they slowed that practice, focusing instead on keeping provisioned so they could live long enough to shoot the devil down with the Colt.

It isn't that Dean didn't think of Sam; he did, and often. Sometimes, he'd wonder if Sam was out there with his own little group of survivors - it seemed likely that he would be, since he is immune and the best possible candidate for seeking out survivors.

Sometimes, though, Dean would wonder if Sam returned to his old habits. It was hard not to, given the note that they ended on. Dean vacillated between wishing Sam would have gotten in contact before the phones went dead and thinking it was best that they stayed away from each other - until enough time passed. Now, Dean just accepts that it was for the best, and tries not to spend too much time thinking of Sam.

Dean gets word from a member of his group, newly returned from a supply run, that the Colt is in California, in an area with rampant infection. A lead is better than no lead at all, so Dean packs up and chooses a few people to go with him, leaving Bobby in charge.

The group is eight strong when they leave, all piled in an old van. The Impala has suffered since the gas shortage - left to rot away in disuse. Now that Dean has to siphon his fuel, using the Impala has become impractical, especially when he can take another vehicle to fit more people.

By the time they cross the California state line, it's just Dean and Bryan, a former car salesman from Texas whose skill in hunting game translated pretty damn well to surviving the end of civilization. He's a good shot - he and Dean work well together in a way that Dean hasn't worked with anyone in a long time.

That doesn't stop Dean from putting a bullet in his head after a Croat knocks him down and intentionally bleeds all over him. Dean kills the Croat, first.

"Do what you gotta do," Bryan tells him as he stands back up - then pauses, hands raised as as though in welcome.

There is a chance that Bryan could be clean. Dean could inspect him for minor cuts, maybe tie him up and count the hours to wait for the virus to show. But those are the actions that Dean took before everything went to hell - it just isn't worth the risk anymore. Dean no longer holds out hope that they could be striving toward a better form of survival - no longer puts survivors in quarantine to try and give them a chance. It's too much risk, and Dean is too focused on surviving long enough to kill the devil.

Without a word, he shoots Bryan in the head.

Now Dean's on his own, which is dangerous, but he fully intends to find the Colt and get back to Camp alive.

No matter how determined he is, though, he has to rest at some point, and that's why he scopes out and ultimately settles for an old, abandoned building. There doesn't seem to be any Croat activity, which is ideal, since Dean doesn't have anyone to take turns keeping shifts with him tonight. He plans on taking a nap and then heading back out.

He sneaks inside quietly, since it's still a possibility that there are Croats around, gun out and at the ready. It's hard to see in the dark, but Dean thinks he catches a glimpse of someone in a room he passes.

Without thinking, without stopping to care if it is a survivor or not, Dean aims his gun. He's alone out here - he can't risk infection. That means no questions - shoot and carry on.

So he shoots -

and his gun fails to discharge the bullet. The freaking thing jams.

Dean reaches for his second pistol, hoping that he can get it out in time.

Sam snaps awake from Lucifer's voice. He's not sure if it was his ears or his intuition that even got him there, but he can see the silhouette in the moonlight. Can hear the sound of a bullet getting suck in its chamber, and he wastes no time or thought in launching himself at the figure. His shoulders are bulky despite his uneven diet, smashing hard into ribs, and he aims to pull the man down and pin him against the floor. His hair is grown out a bit, bangs hanging as he struggles; the moonlight is completely stamped out by clouds as they move further from the window.

He has to get the other gun away from this guy. His heartbeat roars in his ears; Croats don't usually use guns, minds too scrambled to even aim too well, but it's not completely unusual. But this - the guy seems to be coordinated, strong, trained. Which means he's likely a robber. Shit. Sam takes no pleasure in killing normal people; he'll try to knock him out, leave him here to wake on his own...!

Dean's ready for the person to react — he's always ready, these days, for some kind of attack — but what he doesn't expect is for the person to be such a competent fighter. The guy takes him down and succeeds in winding him. Dean ends up on his back, taking a gasping breath, but still struggling to maneuver his gun so that it's pointed at the guy. It isn't a Croat, that's clear by now, but desperate people can be almost as dangerous.

He can't see the guy well in the dark, and even if he could, Dean wouldn't be wasting time paying attention to his appearance. It doesn't matter. All that matters is Dean walking away from this alive.

Under the weight of this guy and with the way he's aiming to get hold of the gun, Dean can't get the pistol aimed, so he does the next best thing — he moves his arm up quick, hoping to catch the guy in the jaw so he can roll away.

The blow is harsh on his jaw, pain blooming hot and angry across his mouth as he tastes blood, but he is bullheaded enough to not take that one without giving the guy a decent punch back. Which he does. He's got big hands, and a decent knuckle on him, so he decks the guy once across the face for that shit. A drip of blood dots Dean's collar from his lip, flowing freely, and he grabs for the gun hand before it can aim properly; he slams it on the floor, trying to get it dislodged from the guy's hand. It's too out in the open now; if he can pull his aim around, he can blast a hole in Sam's head, and that'd be sloppy.

He'd deserve it, but still.

Struggling is what he's good at.

The guy gets in a punch, quickly pissing Dean off, because this should be over by now. It pisses him off even more that the guy is bleeding on him, because even though he doesn't seem to be a Croat, anyone with any sense should be concerned about being bled on. For all he knows, this guy could be carrying the virus, even if he isn't actively showing symptoms.

Dean tries again to aim the gun, now that he managed to get it free enough for that to be a possibility, but then his hand is slammed down and Dean loses his god damn grip.

"Fuck," he mutters.

The gun isn't the only weapon he has on him. He also has a couple of knives, but he doesn't know if he can get one out quickly enough. He goes for it regardless, trying to reach around the guy to get into his jacket. If he's going to go down, he can at least go down fighting.

Sam pulls back his fist, ready to slam it back down into Dean's face before he can pull his knife, but — then the figure stops completely, as if frozen by Dean's single breathed word; it couldn't be. It couldn't, right? His brain tries to catch up, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He's suddenly half-insane on demon blood in a motel room, crouched down over Dean and squeezing his windpipe, thinking he's gonna kill me he's gonna hunt me he hates me I have to get out why are you doing this why am I doing this. He couldn't — Dean wouldn't be hunting him, right? He knows it's not him. He has to know. He's got to.

He realizes he's left himself wide open, and seconds are crucial, and he chokes out, "Dean??" urgently, barely able to make out the man's shape in the moonlight. Is he losing his mind? He wouldn't be surprised it he was.

The guy hesitates — his mistake, and ultimately his funeral. Dean gets the knife free, and just as he does, he hears his name.

"Sam." A statement, not a question. Dean recognizes his voice, the way he intones his name. It's Sam, definitely, and now his fighting ability makes sense.

Unfortunately for Sam, though, Dean still doesn't hesitate. He presses the blade up against Sam's throat and says, words laced with threat, "Back up."

Because Sam's been MIA for years, and Dean sure as hell isn't going to entertain a warm and fuzzy reunion when he isn't sure what Sam has been up to — or if he's even really Sam. There was a time when Dean would have welcomed him back with open arms — a time when Dean entertained thoughts of uniting with Sam against the Croats and, ultimately, Lucifer — but those days are long gone. These days, you can't just take a situation at face value — Dean has learned that more than once — so he presses the blade against Sam's skin to make his point.

He isn't fucking around.

The moon shines back through the window, just barely illuminating Sam. He can see Dean a little now that his eyes are adjusting to the nighttime again, that cold sort of sound to his tone unmistakable. A flash of betrayal and misery crosses Sam's face, almost an audible noise of despair that he swallows down as quickly as possible — he didn't think that Dean would exactly care to find him again after everything, or that he even held the same love for his brother anymore, but the sort of ache that comes with the knife at his throat is indescribable.

Of course, while Dean's lost part of his humanity, of his heroic strength, Sam has lost resolve, lost parts of himself that he's not sure death'll bring back. He doesn't deserve a death by his own hands. But he's not afraid at all of Dean cutting his throat; it'd be fitting, wouldn't it? Brother hates him enough to split his neck wide open? He leans into the blade sharply, and it sinks an uncomfortable degree. He can't kill himself, for the same reason he wasn't able to when Dean went to Hell. But Sam's always had an exception when it's Dean aiming at him.

"If you want to do it, do it," he says sharply. He's got stubble and tired eyes and raggedy hair, suited up in jackets and layers like he's homeless, because he is. Homeless and suicidally inclined to let his brother sink a knife into his heart or whatever. Blood dribbles out down his collarbone.

And he isn't fucking around either.

"I want you to back the hell up," Dean enunciates slowly, as though Sam may have missed it the first time he gave the order. Maybe once upon a time, seeing Sam brandish his neck against a knife would make Dean hesitate, but Dean no longer lets anything he feels get in the way of survival.

He doesn't trust Sam. He has no reason to.

Of course, he doesn't want to slit his throat open, either, because that would be pointless. He knows Sam isn't infected, even if he can't sure 100% certain that someone isn't wearing his body, and Sam may have some useful information. Hell, he may even know something about the Colt — maybe that's why he's here.

Instead of waiting for Sam to listen to him, since apparently Sam is a little more than interested in dying, Dean pulls back the knife, drops it, and instead of stabbing Sam, pulls back and punches him in the face.

Sam doesn't bother blocking it. Now that he knows who it is, he's not sure if it matters anyway. He collapses on his ass, dragging himself tiredly to his knees while a small trickle of blood plays down his upper lip. He wipes at it, scoffing, looking anywhere but at Dean. "If you're here to rob me blind, then, you're out of luck. I just have a knife and a blanket. Since you apparently enjoy murdering people in their fucking sleep, anyway."

Sam would be dead right now if the gun hadn't failed to jam.

It says a lot about Dean. He gets up, walking back toward his small pack and picking it up to slip it back on his back. He doesn't want to tear up in front of Dean. He doesn't want him to know how fucking miserable and hurt he is that this is literally their first interaction back. He knew it would have failed anyway. He's not Dean's brother, not anymore. He knew that when he said goodbye. Well, despite the nagging voice that had told him 'he would never'.

"The place is yours. Good seeing you again, you prick. Family reunion was a blast."

He's leaving. He doesn't have time for this shit. He's got a life to stumble through until something kills him or tries to force him to say 'yes'.

Dean finally gets up off the ground, grabbing his gun in the process. He doesn't point it at Sam again, but he doesn't put it away, either. He holds it idly, in a way that seems like he's just toying it, when in reality, he's keeping it ready for use at a moment's notice. It obviously doesn't bother him when Sam points out that Dean nearly killed him — it wouldn't have been an ideal situation, but Dean has learned that surviving is all about mitigating risk, and in that moment, Sam had been a big risk.

You do what you gotta do, and Dean isn't going to apologize for it.

He calmly watches Sam grab his things and start walking his way out, as though Sam leaving is the most natural thing in the world —

and it is, really.

But Dean isn't done with him yet. If Sam wants to go, that's fine — it's for the best, really, since they can't expect to try and fix what has been broken for years. First, though, Dean wants to know:

"You hear anything about the Colt?" he asks Sam's back, completely ignoring all his other comments.

"No," he says, squaring his jaw as he turns his back to Dean. "I haven't heard anything. There's a small settlement a few hours north I'm heading to, gonna see if they need anyone for supply runs. You should stop by. Maybe they know something."

He hesitates, though, glancing back. As if it takes so much to even ask him anything at all. "Have you seen any of the others?" Because if Sam goes, he at least wants to know if anyone else is making it out there. Part of him wonders if they even should; he's watching humanity crumble, his brother living proof. He can't stand it.

Figures. Dean is beginning to wonder if he's following a dead lead. He's low on supplies and completely out of backup on this trip - and yet he can't find any trace of the gun. It's frustrating, but Dean needs to discount all possibilities before he can turn back around. If the Colt is out here, he doesn't want to miss his chance to grab it.

"Bobby's alive," Dean answers. "Cas turned hippie, but he's still alive, too, somehow." A slight hint of derision in his tone - Cas is loyal, but he spends most of his time stoned nowadays, so Dean doesn't exactly count him as the most dependable guy around. "Ellen and Jo got infected." And now they're dead. Dean killed Jo himself - that was back when he was still hopeful that he could save people and push the end of the world back long enough to make a difference. It hurt, then, to aim and fire, but that was a while back. Dean has hardened himself to the guilt.

"You missed a lot. It's been one hell of a ride."

Dean spins his gun in his hands, then walks toward Sam with the intention of passing him up to get back on the road. Dean could use at least a couple of hours of sleep since he's been running on empty since he shot Bryan - it's rough business, catching shut-eye when there's no one to watch your back - but now he figures he's going to have to stay awake to make sure Sam isn't going to double back around and try anything. Or, worse, get to the Colt before Dean and use it for the enemy.

Dean doesn't know the guy anymore. He needs to consider all possible scenarios.

The loss of Ellen and Jo isn't shocking. Everyone is struggling to live; plenty are dying anyway. But regardless, it puts a lump in his throat that he needs a moment to work around.

"I can tell it has been wild," Sam says, voice soft and brimming with sadness. "Turned you into a Croat, and everything. Careful not to shoot yourself."

He chokes on a laugh.

"At least I can die sooner or later knowing everything about you that mattered died already." He shucks on the pack more, starts walking out too, too awake and in pain to try to sleep through Lucifer tonight. It isn't unusual. He doesn't have Dean's car, but he'll painstakingly travel until his feet are raw, because that's the status quo. "Bye, Dean."

He figures by the time he gets there himself, Dean'll be long gone. This is probably it. He'll save his tears for when he's out on his own in the night. The old Dean probably would have been joking if he called Sam a sap. He would give anything to fix it.

But Dean just sees a freak, someone who's not his brother. He doesn't give a fuck about him anymore. Makes carrying on a hell of a lot heavier. Makes breathing thick and difficult, like his head is swarming with bees, stuffed with cotton. There are pictures of his family in his bag, burning holes there.

One foot in front of the other.

Don't break down yet.

People need help.

Dean just listens as he walks, fully intending on leaving Sam without acknowledging him beyond what he has done already. It isn't worth it - engaging in conversation, trying to act like they can get back to a place where they are brothers, again. It's better to treat him like a stranger. Then they can both move on with their lives.

But just before they make it outside, Dean turns around to look at Sam - ignoring that dismissive Bye, Dean.

"You're judging me?"

He huffs out a humorless, breathy laugh.

"For doing what I gotta do to survive in a world that you ended." He points at Sam with the pistol, emphasizing that you.

"Hate to break it to you, Sammy," Dean adds, and there is no affection in his use of the nickname, "But you don't got a moral foot to stand on."

He looks back at Dean, face hollowed out and eyes empty and red-rimmed from exhaustion and solitude. He doesn't have the same fight in him as he used to. As Dean does now. "Yeah. I did this. And yeah, if you had any common sense, you would've finished the job with that knife. Doesn't change anything I said, does it? You're as much a walking corpse as me."

He shrugs.

"Keep it up, you'll be stuck in Hell next to me. Wouldn't want that."

That's a genuine warning. He doesn't bother with arguing anymore. He doesn't ask why Dean doesn't just blow his brains out right now, with his back turned. He figures this is all punishment. And anyway, Lucifer will probably make good on his multiple threats to bring him back to life.

He keeps walking. The night is cold as hell, his breaths coming out in small puffs. The front door is just a frame. He wonders if the colt could kill him completely. Maybe Lucifer would weaken enough for someone to kill. Like Dean. As always, these are simply hopeful daydreams.

"Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt," Dean replies, shrugging Sam's comments off. He is aware of his own mortality - he faces it every day, after all - and Dean definitely isn't keen on going back to Hell, but he doesn't focus any energy on thinking about the afterlife. The way he sees it, he has to do whatever necessary to bring down Lucifer once and for all. If that road leads to Hell, then so be it. If he's successful, at least Dean will have accomplished something before being tossed back down there.

He doesn't try to make any further conversation. Instead, he lets Sam go his way. Dean turns, heading back toward his van, parked just down the road. He's going to need gas, soon, which he was hoping to put off until daylight, but if he's heading back out on the road already, then sooner would be better than later.

He makes it to the van, pulls the handle, and is halfway into the seat when a Croat gets the jump on him.

He hadn't seen the Croat, which isn't like Dean - usually he's good at spotting them, even in the dark, since he's had so much practice. Freaking Sam - distracting him. He shouldn't have let that happen, but here he is, a Croat looming over him, cutting its stomach open.

Shit.

The blood pours out all over Dean - his jacket, his shirt, his skin. The Croat - a woman - rubs a hand over her stomach wound as Dean struggles to raise his pistol, reaches forward toward Dean's face -

And Dean shoots it, a single shot sounding in the night.

He shoves the corpse off of him quickly, but the damage is done. He's covered in blood and the chance that he's managed to be infected is pretty damn high. Dean was in a scuffle with Croats just yesterday, and while he doesn't have any gaping wounds, he did suffer a couple of scrapes, which may not be completely scabbed over. He sits back up, pistol still in hand.

There are more where that particular Croat comes from, and in the scuffle they are descending upon Dean just as swiftly -- two of them, actually, and once the girl is down he'll get a good view of one of them lunging for him. Sam -- strangely, curiously, against all he thinks Dean would want from him -- appears from the sidelines and grabs the man, sinking his blade into the soft throat there. There is one other and he's rushing him, grabbing him by the hair and ripping the blade through his chest, into his heart. With his dying breath, he bites down on Sam's exposed arm, and Sam doesn't bother trying to evade. The layers prevent any piercing teeth, even if he were able to get infected.

He rushes to Dean.

Not sure why, but he does, and his hands shake when he grabs Dean's shirt, eyes wide and full of fear. "You fucking idiot, why -- Get this off, I've got water to wash it off -- we're gonna switch clothes. Get them off."

He's terrified.

It's preposterous.

He can't help it. Just like he didn't leave, didn't walk along further, wanted to hang back and make sure... Something. Make sure everything was okay? It's the least he could do.

Dean does see Sam taking care of the other two Croats, and thinks he's an idiot for not keeping walking. Dean likely would have, were the situation reversed.

Then again, Sam is immune and he isn't.

It still strikes him as a stupid move, but Sam makes quick work of the Croats, then comes over, freaking out.

Dean is calm. He grabs Sam's wrist to get him to stop pulling on his shirt. "Stop."

There's only one way this is going to end, and it isn't going to be with Dean becoming a Croat.

He raises the pistol in his other hand to his head, resting the barrel against his skull. "Guess it's Hell for me after all," he tells Sam.

It's the best, most logical decision: off himself before he turns, just like he offed Bryan and countless others. It isn't that he is without reservation — he really would rather not put a bullet in his own skull, but he doubts Sam has the gumption to do it for him — but he refuses to live to see himself spread this infection.

Oh, well, this is the easiest choice he's made since the outbreak.

He grabs the gun, wrenches Dean's wrist to the side, and then slams his head into Dean's chin as hard as he can. Because it's hell of a lot easier to clean up and check out an unconscious man than it is someone trying to pre-emptively kill himself for no fucking reason (pot, kettle, whatever; he doesn't care). Once he's got Dean down for the count, he can at least drag him out and give him a look over; he pulls an old flashlight and a small case from his pack (because he lied to Dean, just in case the asshole tries to really steal from him), checking the still form over. Quickly, he cuts through the shirt, because it's too risky to pull it up over Dean's head. The rest of him looks okay - the jacket is bloody, but it's removable. Pants have some smears, but it's nothing severe.

He pours out water, wipes away blood as carefully as he can. It's a close call, to be sure, but he thinks it'll be okay; in case it's not, he monitors Dean's pulse. It's steady. Usually with Croats, blood pressure rises. It's not an exact science, but...

Right. He opens up his pack, starts to put the square bandages over scrapes, over anything that could be contaminated. He slips off his shirt, tugs it over Dean. He was gonna take Dean's shirt, but - it's pretty much ruined with blood, and he cut through it anyway, so. He'll just switch off jackets with Dean. Sam's jacket is warmer anyway. The fucker.

Once Dean is dressed again...

Well, he's clean. But he's still unconscious.

Shit.

Well, if he just drives them even just thirty minutes out, they can avoid any other Croats in the area that could have heard anything. He puts Dean in the back (with surprising care, the fucker, once again). He gets in and drives, kind of rusty, because he hasn't driven in years. But hey, Dean taught him since he was nine, so... so. So.

He sighs. Pulls over, turns off the car, and sits outside of it on the side of the road at night while he waits for Dean to come back around. At this point, he'll be able to tell what the damage is from the Croat, but... it looks good. Sam thinks it's okay. Once he wakes up, if he doesn't beat the shit out of him for knocking him out, he can part ways then. Then they're done. It's done, walking away again with bruises and cuts from each other's fists, leaving a mark for a few weeks until that dries up too and there's nothing to remember.

Well, for Dean. Sam still has pictures. He looks at them, as he waits, rubbing his thumb over one of Jess and him from Stanford. The one next to it is Dean and him laughing; Sam has those curls, all young and stupid and actually semi-innocent.

Every time he considers burning these, he can't.

Edited 2015-03-18 01:23 (UTC)

Maybe it's indicative of just how hardened Dean has become, but he doesn't expect Sam to stop him. He expects Sam to be sappy about it sure — expects him to lament a little, because that's just the way Dean remembers Sam as being, and he figures old habits die hard — but he doesn't anticipate that Sam will try and stop him. It doesn't help that Dean's guard is down, since he plans on dying anyway.

Sam is too quick. Dean is effectively subdued and knocked out.

When he wakes up, he's in the back of the van. He sits up, head pounding, and rubs his face. He doesn't know how long he's been out, but he isn't a Croat — yet.

He opens the door to the van and climbs out. He realizes, sparing a glance downward, that he is wearing Sam's clothes now. He doesn't have his pistol on him anymore, which makes him feel ill at ease. He never goes anywhere without having it available.

Seeing Sam, Dean walks over to him, noting that he's having a little trip down memory lane but not giving a damn about that — Dean is pissed.

"You fucking moron." Dean wants to go off on him, wants to punch him again, a few times for good measure, for saving him — because saving him risked Dean becoming something he never, ever wants to become.

But he needs to know, before anything else: "How long has it been?"

Sam tucks away the pictures, calm as usual, and zips up the bloody jacket to get the full warmth of it. He sort of wishes he had his old gloves; he'd given them up to someone else who was more deserving. That's sort of just what he is now. Not that it gives him much comfort, after what happened to the world, but it does feel right when he can give someone something, anything, to make this all easier.

"I'm the moron? You're clean, Dean. Been almost two hours since she attacked you, no symptoms, not even a change in temp or heart rate. Nothing other than being pissed off, but I'm starting to notice you're always pissed off."

He shakes his head, rising to his feet. "Shouldn't shoot until you know who'll make it. There's not enough of us around as there is. But sure — you wanna wail on me, do it. I see the look in your eye. You wouldn't be the first."

He's probably been dying for the reason to, anyway.

Edited 2015-03-18 03:28 (UTC)

Two hours, no symptoms. He's not clear of the threat just yet, but now that he's made it this far — forced into riding it out — he might as well see it to the end.

It isn't like Sam was kind enough to leave him his freaking gun.

"Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do," Dean snaps, and yeah, it's pretty freaking tempting to just let loose on Sam, but he restrains himself because he has other questions. "Everything I do is for survival." Not necessarily the survival of his little group, but the survival of the world — the idea that he can get to Lucifer before there are no survivors left.

Then, the most important question: "Where's my fucking gun, Sam."

And his knives, which are probably in the blood jacket Sam's now wearing.

"Gimme 'em. Now."

"I already told you, nothing you're doing is actually survival, not what really matters for survival. But whatever." He looks Dean up and down, wishing he had a little water. Used it all cleaning up this jerk next to him. Go figure. It's like he can't even help but throw things at him, whether he likes it or not. He stuffs his hands in the pockets. "You going to try to kill yourself again?"

Because that would be pretty stupid on his part, after making it for this long.

"Because if you die now, who else who's that pigheaded will actually get the Colt?"

They can debate their separate philosophies to the death, but it won't change Dean's mind. A guy might be infected? Better to take him out before he rips out of his restraints and tears open someone's throat. Dean's seen it happen. A looter is camping in an abandoned building? Better to shoot first and ask questions later or you'll wind up shot over the territory. It happened to Dean — twice. He still has the scars from the shitty doctoring job he did on those wounds.

Get contaminated? Dying is better than risking being part of all of this. Dead would have taken death easily — doesn't regret that he was about to pull the trigger, even though he's survived so far.

"It's none of your god damn business what I do with it, so hand it over."

Dean reaches out an arm.

Sam's right, though, in that Dean has little faith in the rest of his men. He doubts they'll pull off finding the Colt without him. It needs to be Dean — but Dean would rather be dead with a bullet in his brain than a Croat, no matter the consequences.

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hope this is okay!! lemme know

it's perfect

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no subject

no subject

no subject