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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"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."

"Save it, Sam," Dean replies, tone now irritated. Dean would argue that he still has his humanity, but he isn't interested in prolonging this conversation, especially when they have such little time to sleep. "You can preach your love-everyone crap to the people around here tomorrow. Leave me outta it."

At least Sam is conceding, so Dean can actually get some sleep tonight. He watches Sam settle in, then shifts so that his back is against the wall, turning his attention to the door in case they get any visitors.

Sam just sighs through his nose, quiet, and starts taking off his jacket, which ends up being a mistake; he lost his shirt giving it to Dean, though he forgot all about that in the flurry of things happening, so removing the jacket merely reveals mouth-sized scars on his arms, thick patches of scars from knife wounds, from nails and broken glass, from all the attempts on his life from Croats and a few people here and there. Ultimately, he quickly pulls the jacket back on, dragging the covers over his head.

It feels good to have a bed again, and not just his bag as a pillow. Maybe if he works hard enough tomorrow, he and the other campers will deem him worthy of a shower, something to rinse out his hair, clean off some of the gunk. Of course, it takes Lucifer all but thirty minutes to start invading Sam's dreams. Rolling in his bed, his brow furrows into that worried arch, eyes flickering in his head. Just say yes, Sam. I see your dreams. I see you've found Dean. I know he's hurt you; if you just let me, I can make things easier.

"No," he rasps, "I won't. I won't. Get the fuck away from me."

He turns back over, back to Dean.

"Get out -- won't say yes. M'not you. Le'me alone... Stop with their faces..."

Only now does Dean realize that Sam is without a shirt — he had assumed Sam had taken his, but obviously that isn't the case. He shakes his head to himself, thinking that it's pretty freaking ridiculous that Sam could live years in a world like this, reunite with a brother that he obviously thinks has lost himself (or whatever spin Sam wants to put on it), and see all of the ugliness that exists — and still retain enough kindness to literally give someone the shirt off of his back.

It's stupid, is what it is.

Dean spends the next half hour keeping watch. He stays seated on the bed for a little while, but before long, he realizes just how tired he feels — so he stands up and paces quietly around the room for a while, occasionally stopping to take a look out the door. He's in the process of lapping the room again when he hears Sam mumbling in his sleep.

Dean walks over to him, standing over his bed, but he doesn't wake Sam up right away. He listens, and hears very clearly the words won't say yes — and immediately, Dean knows that Sam isn't just having a nightmare.

Putting his hand on Sam's shoulder, Dean gives him a rough shake — there's nothing gentle about the movement. "Wake up."

Sam wakes up with a start, throwing a wild punch; dad had always told them to not let anyone get the jump on him. But then he breathes deeply, forehead sweaty and pulse racing, and sits up in bed very urgently.

"What? What is it? Something happening?" Because he needs to be prepared. Being soft-hearted hasn't particularly changed the desire to be prepared. He looks around the room, dazed and confused, finding nothing out of place. Instead, he rubs his face. "How long was it this time?"

Deans steps out of the way before that punch can make contact, fully expecting Sam to wake up swinging.

"'Bout thirty minutes," Dean tells him.

But that isn't the important part of this conversation.

"You wanna talk about how you're having tea time with the devil in your head?"

Because Dean wants to talk about it. Right now, it's clear, from the way he folds his arms, pistol still in hand, and tilts his head, waiting for Sam to explain.

Sam looks at him, really looks at him, and then his eyelids flutter with quiet exasperation. "What do you want me to say? Started after we parted ways. He visits me pretty much every night with a sob story or some way to torture me without putting a literal finger on me. Sometimes he's you, or sometimes he's Jess. Mom. Dad. Either way, at this point he's just static."

Static that pisses him off.

"I don't know what else to tell you. If you don't like it, you can shoot me with the Colt, make sure he doesn't get his vessel while you're figuring out how to deal with him." It's practical. Sam wouldn't care. Other than him getting let off easy for what happened.

Edited 2015-03-20 22:26 (UTC)

Dean spreads his hands with a little demonstrative shrug. "Can't. No Colt." Yeah, he's being a little bit of an asshole, implying that the missing Colt may be the reason why he isn't putting a bullet between Sam's eyes.

"Besides, I'm not gonna kill you for something we can use."

It bothers him that Sam's hearing the devil — makes him pretty damn uncomfortable on a deep level that Dean wasn't even sure existed anymore. He forces himself to ignore that, though, in favor of focusing on the possibility.

"After I find the Colt, I gotta find him."

And what better way than to use bait?

Sam looks thoughtful for a surprisingly short moment.

And then he nods.

"Alright."

And without any fight on the matter or any need for clarification on anything Dean's said, he says, "You should sleep. I don't think I'll get any more than that." Doubtful, anyway, especially when he feels wide-awake after that startled jump back into consciousness.

"'Alright?'" Dean asks, genuinely surprised. "You've been on my ass this whole time about the way I do things, and now all you say is 'alight'?"

He shouldn't be looking a gift horse in the mouth, but he can't resist. Sam was lecturing him just thirty minutes ago.

He shrugs.

"It's just using me as bait, right? Who cares if it's just me?"

He leans against one of the further walls, arms folded over his chest.

"I have it coming to me. We both agree on that much. Might as well use that to kill the Devil, if it's possible."

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

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