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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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.

Sam looks up at Dean, hesitating, and he can't fucking help it that the uncertainty and concern flashes in his eyes. He's just not capable of being like that; he never has been that great at hiding how he feels from his brother. Stranger. Whatever he is now. He holds out the gun grip-up, wondering if Dean's just gonna blow his brains out and leave everything Sam did pointless in the end. He also pulls the knives, familiar with Dean's favorite hiding places regardless of how much time has passed. "I'll bury you, if you do. Since I'm already here. Unless you'd prefer the hunter's pyre." He looks down, away from Dean. "I can figure something out."

He will. Because he's held onto his humanity for a reason. What else can he try to keep? He gets up, patting off his pants. The blood on his clothes is dry now. He coughs into his sleeve, and says, "But if you're not, you're good to drive. Go ahead and keep following this road, you'll run into the settlement, from what I know."

Dean takes the gun, and immediately feels a lot less tense. He hates being defenseless - won't go anywhere, not even in the Camp, without having his weapons on him. Even though Sam has made it clear that he wants Dean to live, Dean can't be at ease - or, at least, as at ease as he gets these days - until he has it back.

He takes the knives, too, and finds a place in Sam's jacket to store them for now.

"I made it this long," Dean tells him. "Might as well stick it out now." In truth, it does seem like he has gotten away without infection, but Dean is still pissed off about being saved - the odds weren't in his favor, and he had no right keeping Dean from killing himself. Especially not after all this time.

He glances at the van, then back at Sam. "Did you bother to fill her up while you were playing hero?" He doesn't wait for a response, because he assumes he knows the answer: Sam was too damn busy trying to make sure Dean would live to go off and siphon gas from somewhere. "Didn't think so. She's got to be running on empty by now."

Dean can't afford to get stuck without a vehicle. He eventually needs to make it back to the Camp.

"Get in the van. You'll watch my back while I get some gas."

It's an order that Dean expects to be obeyed - clearly, he's grown accustomed to being listened to over the past few years. He starts walking without seeing if Sam will follow - not exactly keen on having a tag along who is going to get weepy and sentimental every time something bad happens, but he has at least Sam has proven that he isn't a threat. That, and Dean does need a little backup - he can't even risk closing his eyes without someone to help him keep guard. Might as well use what he's got - pickings are slim.

"Don't think that means I'm gonna sit around and listen to you lecture me," he adds as he walks. "You're still a fucking moron."

Edited 2015-03-18 16:36 (UTC)

"All right, Rambo. You're a hard ass, I get it." Sam almost declines entirely, but he has the same thought process -- Dean will probably get his ass attached by Croats, and if Sam sticks around long enough to get him gas, then whatever. Truth be told, he wants to run in the opposite direction; Dean's already destroyed the small sacred memory he had of their old brotherhood. He doesn't want to watch this train wreck. Rather his own. "I don't need to lecture you. You already know you're out of your mind. Just go where you're going so I can move on, before you end up shooting me because I blink funny."

Lecture, what lecture. He can at least say he hasn't lost every ounce of sass. Maybe it was waiting for Dean. He sits in the very back of the van, folds his arms, ready to nap until Dean actually needs him. He doesn't get much sleep, but it's worsened by the constant badgering from the devil. He's tired in pretty much every way imaginable.

"Found Dean, huh? What a class act."

"Shut up."

"I'm just saying, the Angels abandoned everything. Your brother hates you. Could just make this easy for yourself."

"No."

"Broken record."

Sam wakes up with a violent start, a few minutes after he falls asleep.

Nevermind on sleep tonight, then.

Dean wants to point out that he's survived years living the way he does, making the choices to shoot down those who were potentially infected without pausing to ask questions, but he doesn't need Sam to counter with the fact that he nearly got himself killed just a couple of hours ago. Instead, he says, coldly, "We better split up soon, then," as he gets in the driver's seat of the van. And that's the plan — he and Sam obviously aren't going to see eye-to-eye on anything, so it's pointless trying to stick together beyond necessity.

Dean drives a few miles. He passes a gas station — what's left of it, at least — but they're all empty these days. His best bet is to find a vehicle and hope there's still some gas inside.

He notices Sam jolt awake because he glances in the rear view mirror at the right time. He wouldn't be surprised if Sam is riddled with nightmares — a lot of survivors are. It's common to hear people crying out in the middle of the night at the Camp. Not that Dean is going to think too deeply about it, or have a heart-to-heart with Sam about it. That's just the way it goes when the world is basically over.

For most people. Dean's nightmares stopped a while back.

"Good timing," he states, just as he slows the car down. "We're gonna see if this one has anything in it." He gestures to a car as they pull up to it. "I got a container in back."

"I'll go get it, just stay in the van in case you need to bolt," Sam says without pause, moving to get the container in the back. "I'll yell if I need you, but if it's too much, you can always take off and leave me." Not that he thinks Dean needs the reminder, and that hurts as much as everything else, but he accepts it. This world is his punishment; a Dean that doesn't give a fuck about him is his personal Hell, and he has to take the pain and punishment and be something better than before.

He grabs the container and leaves wordlessly. It's very quiet, which is always good, and there are a number of cars left around the place. For the most part, they're nearly empty; even between five or six cars, there's little but a few inches of gas. Barely that. However, he disappears behind the store for a long moment — there's the muffled sound of something growling and screaming. The screaming doesn't last long, though.

Dean should probably be more concerned with the headlights down the road, in his rearview mirror. Sam, meanwhile, wanders back out from behind the gas station, the container full of gas, and swishes it around to offer to Dean. His stare trails back toward the headlights, too.

Never a dull moment.

Dean isn't exactly a fan of Sam telling him what to do — it's one thing to have Sam watch his back. It's another entirely to have Sam tell him to sit tight. The only reason he listens and doesn't get out of the car is because someone needs to keep lookout, and the way his reunion with Sam has been going, if Dean follows, all they're going to get out of this situation is argument.

So fine, he sits back, takes out his pistol, scans the area, and let's Sam do his thing. It sounds like he handles a Croat out there, and if there's one, there is probably more, so Dean is ready to take out any that appear.

Except, no other Croats appear. A car does instead, headlights catching Dean's eyes and reminding him that he has a headache. End of the world, and he still has to deal with some asshole leaving his brights on.

As Sam returns, Dean gets out of the car and goes to step beside him.

"Lemme handle this, Sam," Dean says, warning in his tone. "My way."

"Your way is blasting a hole in their head," he grumbles, and then says with more certainty, but he moves to stand closer to Dean, for the purpose of taking a bullet for him of course. Fuck it, he's Dean's brother. If he dies, he can go defending the dickhead. The car -- no, truck Big ol' one, with men sitting in the back of it. Lot of 'em, too. He's not sure if they're equipped to take them out, but then, they could have pulled up and blasted them all to pieces anyway. The driver, maybe just a little older than Sam, hops out and calls from a distance, "You a refugee? Name's Billy, and these fellas here are hunters, same as me. Could get you to the next place if you're havin' trouble."

Sam glances at Dean.

"Do I know you two? You seem familiar." And yeah, actually, Billy is familiar. Maybe someone Dad worked with? He must've been a pretty new hunter at the time. He's got clean clothes and a simple sort of look about him, like the guy you'd see at the bar, who drinks just enough and plays poker for the sake of the game. "... Winchester. I don't believe my eyes. You're Dean, aintcha? You and me and your old man, we did a gig long, long time ago."

Oh. Well. That answers that.

"I was 22, new buck in the game. You probably remember me with shaggier hair. Don't remember the short one bein' so tall, though."

If it gets down to it, Dean assumes he's going to wind up having to struggle against Sam to take down any kind of threat. Which makes Sam a liability. But Dean's a quick shot, and now he knows better than to take his time to pull a trigger while Sam is around, so he thinks he can make quick business of their company if things go south.

He takes the gas from Sam and sets it on the ground, pistol in hand, as the truck pulls up, and is immediately on guard when he sees just how many men are in the truck. He has extra bullets, but not a whole lot of them.

Being recognized doesn't make Dean feel comfortable, exactly. There was a time when it would — back when Dean was still recruiting for his ragtag group, looking to take on anyone who would help him pursue his cause. Then it started getting more and more dangerous, people started fighting for resources, friends forgot their loyalty. Recognition doesn't count for much anymore.

But Dean needs to play it smart. He may be colder than he was before, but he hasn't grown stupid.

"Yeah, I'm Dean," he replies. "This is Sam," he adds, since the guy is referring to him as 'the short one.' "I remember that hunt. Chupacabra, right?"

He's conscious of the fact that he's still holding his gun, so Dean lowers it to his side — doesn't put it away, but tones down his threatening stance.

"We were just stopping for some gas — heading north, but we should be able to get ourselves there."

Normally Dean wouldn't advertise a coveted resource, but they saw Sam hand it over as they pulled up, so there's no point in trying to hide it.

Laughing, Billy grins, looking younger than he did a moment before.

"Yeah. Yup. That'd be the one. Can't believe a goddamn Chupacabra nearly did me in, too."

Sam can imagine Dean making fun of him. Throwing an arm over his shoulder and saying he'd do better next time. Calling him a loser, but a pretty awesome one. Those days don't exist anymore, though.

"Sounds like a deal," Billy says, "We got a full tank — don't worry 'bout us eyeballing your treasure there. We're gonna be up at the camp just down the road a few miles up; you stop by, we'll get you guys a meal free of charge. Any after the first, I'll have to get compensation through some work, but still. Free meal's an offer anyway."

Billy nods, tips his hat, and climbs back into the truck, and it pulls away without any other trouble. Sam can't help but think he sees a familiar, solemn face in the bed of the truck, but it's dark out and his eyes are playing games with him.

"... Free meal sounds pretty good. I'm guessing you're about half-starved anyway."

Pot, kettle, black.

Not that Sam cares if Dean eats.

Or maybe he fucking does, he doesn't know.

"We'll go," Dean decides out loud, watching the truck drive away. "But not for that."

It's true that Dean hasn't eaten in a while - his provisions only lasted until California, and Dean's intention was to find a place to stock back up - but he isn't as interested in the food as he is the possibility of finding out more information about the Colt. It isn't that his love of eating is gone, necessarily, it's just that he's a hell of a lot more focused on more important things.

And really, it's hard to find the same joy in eating whatever scraps as he used to find in eating hamburgers and pie.

He uses the gas that Sam collected to fill back up the van and then they are on the road again, heading to the camp.

"We'll split ways at the camp," he tells Sam after a few minutes of silent planning. "I'm only gonna stay long enough to find out about the Colt. Whatever you do from there is your business."

"Sure. Just to the camp," Sam says, in that surprisingly soft way that counteracts Dean. He is willing - more than willing - to hold fort there, to work for his next meal. It's good enough that he even gets one, for all that he's caused. He has to count his blessings that he gets to stay in one place for long. Sometimes, people know him. And sometimes, they're unhappy with him. "As long as nobody recognizes me or my name. You can make up a different one for me. Was Bruce at the last place. Some kid named me since I didn't bother with one."

Better than getting recognized and beat up. Not that Dean likely cares, but still.

He climbs into the back again.

Dean drives.

Before long, they pull up to the Camp. It's impressively well-provisioned, it's obvious even in the dark. It seems as though most of the housing consists of actual cabins instead of tents from what Dean can see illuminated by his headlights, though there are a few outliers on the outskirts. The camp is surrounded by a heavy-duty fence and there are several people on patrol.

As they pull up, a woman walks over, rifle in hand. She's a little younger than Sam, by Dean's estimation, but she has a tough, non-nonsense expression as she gives Dean a very obvious once-over. "You Dean?" she asks, and Dean nods. "Billy told us to expect you."

She looks at Sam for a moment, appraisingly.

"You guys gonna stand out here all day or are you coming in?"

Without offering her name or giving them so much as a smile — maybe she isn't too excited about a couple of strangers coming by, something Dean wouldn't blame her for — she leads them to the gate.

Dean walks in silence, without bothering to see if Sam is following or not. As far as he's concerned, the splitting of ways can happen right now. Better sooner than later.

Sam follows. Of course, he think this is probably the end of it, too, but then the woman leads them to a small apartment complex and nods at it. It's just side-by-side homes, a bit broken down but livable. Inside, there are beds, a few lined up. Probably in case of visitors. "You two can spend the night here. Breakfast's in about 4 hours, so I suggest you get some sleep, because we don't let anyone but the kids and the sick sleep in."

Sam's always surprised by the presence of children in camps.

It's hard, to keep children alive. It makes him smile a little, relieved, because it's sort of a small glimmer of hope in an world that is more often than not shitty. The lady leaves just as fast as she comes in, giving Dean an assessing glance as she moves. "Don't bug your neighbors, they've got the earliest shift."

Sam stands, pack on back, awkward. He feels out of place in camps.

"... You two must be the same person. Surly and holding a gun."

Dean is a little annoyed by their sleeping arrangements, but he doesn't protest. It's pretty crappy — being in someone else's camp, having to follow someone else's directions. Dean's grown so accustomed to calling the shots that it bothers him to kowtow to someone else.

But if he wants answers about the Colt, he needs to play along until he gets them — or at least until he confirms that no one knows anything.

Dean watches the woman leave, then turns to Sam. "We're the kinda people who survive out there," he tells Sam, walking over to one of the beds. He has to admit, it's pretty damn nice to have someone who's no-nonsense around, after spending time with Sam, who still seems to have such an idealistic view of the world. He decides to talk to her tomorrow, before he leaves the camp.

Might as well, since he's already delayed.

"Since we're stuck in here together, I'll take the first shift."

The implication being that they're not going to rest easy just because they're supposedly in a safe place. Dean knows better than to sleep surrounded by strangers without someone keeping an eye out.

"You got two hours."

He sits on the bed and takes out his pistol.

Sam raises his eyebrow.

"You need more than two hours if you're going to be ready on your feet tomorrow. I'm guessing you've barely gotten two hours the days before this, too." He motions to the door. "We can block it with the drawers, something to slow down anyone who comes in. I know you're still sharp enough to handle something from suddenly sleeping to awake."

He sighs.

"There's no reason to think they'd kill us in our sleep. They could have killed us off way before this."

Sam's guess is accurate - Dean hasn't gotten much sleep at all in the past few days, especially since he's been on his own without someone to watch his back. He could use it, definitely, but that doesn't mean he's going to let down his guard. He's accustomed to getting little sleep and having to deal with it.

"Must be nice to live in a fantasy world where everyone is just sunshine and roses," Dean replies, looking him from his pistol back up to Sam.

Just because a few people in the camp are a-okay with visitors doesn't mean that others are going to be keen on having their resources used up. Dean has been dealing with group dynamics for years now — they suck.

"I'll stick to reality."

He cocks his pistol so that it's ready to go at a moment's notice, but consider's Sam's alternative plan. It wouldn't hurt to move the drawers there, whether they're sleeping or not.

He glances tiredly from the door to Dean.

"Nothing in this place is sunshine and roses. But you're fighting for the wrong things if you think that throwing out anything human about you is the way to save humanity." Sam's reached this conclusion very early on. Even when people stole from him, beat him for what they knew — even if they got scared and ran in the middle of an attack, or threatened him if he got anywhere near their families or friends... Sam had hope. He may not have any hope for himself, but he has enough to try to find the good left in this world. "I owe the world that much. Trying to find some good in it, after what I've done."

He says it in that quiet little way, and then shakes his head and goes to lay down.

He knows he's likely not going to win Dean over.

"You're about as bullheaded as Dad was," he huffs, pulling back the covers. "Just wake me up when you're ready to sleep, if you're gonna be like this."

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hope this is okay!! lemme know

it's perfect

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i forgot to have Dean take the gas from Sam....casually fixes that

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