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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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."

Dean looks at him, eyes a little narrowed, but finally shrugs. "'Alright' it is."

It's the kind of break that Dean needs. He'll find the Colt eventually, but Lucifer will only be found if he wants to be found — and if he wants to be found, then he'll have a plan for taking Dean and anyone else down with him. If they can rope Lucifer in, somehow, then they'll actually have a chance.

Dean heads over to his bed. If Sam isn't going to sleep, then Dean might as well. He takes off his jacket and starts kicking off his boots.

"This means you're coming back with me," Dean informs Sam. "To my Camp. Where we do things my way."

Just in case Sam hasn't considered that.

"You won't like it, but I don't wanna hear you bitch about it."

He surprisingly grins, a little flash of something that may be insanity behind the gesture; at the very least, it's a complete disregard for anything about himself. "I don't know if you have much of a choice there, if you decide to take me for your plan."

He huffs, no harshness behind it, leaning back.

"Guess we'll see if they're all as big of an asshole."

But really, he wants to see Bobby and Cas again.

Even if they hate him.

He just... needs to see they're okay.

"One step at a time. Go to sleep, man."

Dean doesn't return the grin. He kicks his boots under the bed and pulls back the covers.

"I mean it," Dean tells him, and there is a little bit of harshness in his tone, if only to counteract the absolute lack of it in Sam's. "I'm getting real tired of it already, and we ain't even headed that way yet."

Not that he expects Sam to listen. Dean will make sure, once they get to the camp, that they stay on separate ends and that Sam is too busy with tasks to complain at him.

"Wake me up in two hours and you can nap until breakfast."

Dean's an asshole, but he's still fair.

More or less.

"You don't have to take me," Sam says, unfazed. He doesn't reply to the last part, though, just sits and looks out the small window, catching some of the moonlight. Two hours roll around, and then he decides to forego sleep and let Dean sleep the full two and a half hours. At the end, he taps Dean on the foot with the toe of his boot.

"Come on, or you're gonna starve," he says, and then leaves Dean to wake on his own outside of that. Dean's used to waking up at a moment's notice, Sam's relatively sure. Outside, the camp is active, lively. There are serious faces, sure, but also a hopeful amount of content or casual ones. People, going on with their lives. As best they can anyway.

"I'd like to work first," Sam tells Billy. "I want to earn my food."

It's not an easy decision, even for Sam. his stomach feels like it's inside out, empty and gurgling. But this is how he does things now. So Billy reluctantly allows Sam to start work on the large wall around camp with a coupla' other stronger men around camp. And a few ladies. The end of the world at least helps unisex work, doesn't it? Everyone has purpose. Everyone is capable.

He gets to work.

Dean wakes up immediately, sitting up as Sam makes his way out the room. He could use a few more hours of sleep, but food is even more important at this point, so Dean puts his jacket and boots back on and heads out.

A free meal is a free meal, so Dean isn't going to pull a Sam and offer to work for it. If the people in the camp believe in hospitality, that's their problem, not his. When he realizes Sam hasn't gone to breakfast, Dean shrugs it off and goes to sit at a table with a few guys. They make basic conversation, Dean shares vague details about his own camp — nothing specific, just in case — and they talk about the way they live. After a little while, Dean finally asks if anyone's heard of the Colt.

Everyone denies knowledge of the gun. Dean finishes his breakfast and feels as though it's about time to get back on the road, if no one knows anything. He gets up to go find Sam to tell him to get ready, but the woman from last night stops him.

"I've heard of your gun," she tells him, jumping right into business as usual. "A couple of the hunters around here got a lead on it. They left to go look into it a few days ago."

"Where'd they go?" Dean asks, fully prepared to follow.

She gives him a flat look. "You can wait to ask them yourself when they come back."

They go back and forth, but she refuses to share any specifics, no matter what Dean tells her. He asks around some more, but those who do know about the Colt won't talk to a stranger. So by the time he makes it back to Sam, he's in a pretty foul mood. He walks up to where Sam is working.

"We're stuck here for another few days," he announces. "I got a lead on the Colt but no one'll talk. We gotta wait until a couple hunters get back."

He pauses to survey what Sam's doing.

"But I guess you're just fitting right in."

Sam shrugs. He really isn't sure the Colt will pop up out of thin air, so he sees no problem with biding his time. Instead he puts down his nails and hammer, nodding up to the impressively sized wall. He's sweating and exhausted, but those are one of the few times he feels accomplished.

"Build the wall, protect the people, protect us while we're here. It's not a bad deal." It's really not. As Sam goes to talk more, a smaller child - seven, maybe eight - runs over with a glass of water. She's got curls on top of curls, and big dark eyes.

"Hey!! Here's something to drink, Tommy. Dad says you need it or you're gonna fall over dead."

"Ah - thanks, Polly. If you're sure..."

She beams at him, flustered, and runs off to join a small group of giggling kids. The glass is cool and comforting in his hands.

"Billy's daughter. I told her to guess what my name was, and she got it right." Clearly. He is actually pleased about his new name, calm and serene in the heat. Still wearing a fucking full jacket. He needs to look into long sleeves

"Jesus," Dean murmurs after Polly has run off. "Not even a day in and you're making friends with kids."

Dean used to be good at connecting with kids — back before all this crap went down. These days, kids just remind him of the fact that they probably aren't going to see adulthood, unless Dean kills the devil soon and somehow stamps out the Croatoan virus. And even if they make it, they're just going to live crappy lives until they finally do die.

So he avoids them.

"This ain't Sesame Street, Sam."

It bothers him, Dean realizes. A lot of the way Sam is bothers him, in ways he thought he managed to overcome a long time ago. The fact that they're together at all — and now projected to be together even longer — is a problem. Sam's always been a liability, but it's even worse now that he's the same old Sam in an entirely different, cut-throat world.

Sam may think Dean has lost pieces of himself over time, but Dean thinks that Sam should have lost that stubborn hope a long time ago.

"If it were Sesame Street, you wouldn't be as big of a douche," Sam points out, "And there'd probably be a hell of a lot more counting and singing. You done being the guy in the trash can?" He cocks his head to the side, raising an eyebrow. "And it's Tommy. Samuel is my middle name, if you have to be stingy about it."

He's adjusting, Dean. That's a survival trait you'd do well to pick up.

"I owe a few of them piggy back rides for bringing me water. That's how it works. You pay for what you're given." He pulls at the collar of Dean's old jacket before turning back to the wall, drinking his water down quickly. "I'll be here. You going out to look around when the hunters come back in?"

That's the thing - Dean doesn't want to adjust to this kind of life, to play house in a camp where he can't call the shots or get the information that he needs.

He doesn't want to get comfortable. Too much adjustment leads to a false sense of security, which can get a guy killed.

Dean doesn't answer the question.

"Don't worry about what I'm gonna do." Since he's sure Sam will have something to say about it, regardless.

With that, he starts waking away.

"I worry about everything," Sam says, no real punch of anything harsh behind it. So it goes, though — a few days pass this way. Dean does his own thing, Sam does his own. One of the women in camp gives Sam a long-sleeve after he explains that he had been horribly scarred and is self-conscious about it, which is true; he's mostly worried people will see that he should clearly be infected. Worried that they'll see him as a freak... which he is. But still. He keeps Dean's jacket, because Dean keeps his, and that's fine with him.

He works on the wall. He eats. He works. Sleeps a few hours a night. He's skinnier but he's got a lot of lean muscle, can reach further than most of the other men in camp. It's good this way. Of course, nighttime is always hard — he ends up seeing Lucifer often, and the angel seems to be unfazed by Sam's continual refusals. But his vessel looks like it's fit to burst. He comes back one night with a little boy's vessel, skin already flecking from not being strong enough for such a force, and Sam wakes up and has to muffle his miserable tears into his hands where he lay.

He copes as best he can with that, and on the fifth day of Dean's searching and Sam's working, he sits down surrounded by the local kids (there's eight of them, eight children, alive and vibrant). He shows them a slew of magic tricks with an old dusty set of poker cards, and they're amazed. It's a good thing he had a stint trying to be a magician as a child, isn't it?

He glances up to see Dean wandering back into camp, the children all looking back, too.

"Now there's a magic trick, kids. Trying to make that guy look anything other than — " He makes a face to mimic Dean's, and the kids all hoot and holler with laughter. One kid says Maybe Dean's face is just stuck that way!, and Sam has to try not to laugh himself.

"Can I try the quarter trick, Tommy?" An older boy says. He takes the quarter and pulls a small boy, about three or four, to the side. They look a lot a like, and for a moment Sam's heart hurts at the thought that they're likely brothers. Ready, Mason?? the boy says, and the small child gasps in wonder when his brother reveals a quarter, in fact, behind the boy's ear. It's in moments like this, that Sam feels the most at ease.

"You gotta work on that, I could totally tell," says Polly.

"Maybe you guys'll do better with Go Fish..."

As the days go by, Dean doesn't necessarily get comfortable with being in the camp, but he does loosen up just a little. He stops asking Sam to watch his back while he sleeps and he starts going on supply runs to earn his meals. Billy and the others tell Dean he can keep a percentage of what they find, so it isn't a bad deal. Dean remains restless to get back on the road, though, and only bides his time because the party that left to look for the Colt still isn't back.

He's returning from one of the runs with an old sack filled with a few things - some spare ammo, a couple of blankets, things like that. He stops to survey the scene before him - Sam playing house, as usual.

"Funny," he replies without humor at the quip about his expression.

"When you're done goofing off, we gotta talk."

As usual, Dean ignores the kids. He moves to stand off to the side to wait not-so-patiently for Sam to finish.

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