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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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.

Sam makes no rush for Dean's behalf, just continues at the children's leisure. Eventually the kids begin to dissipate because they've got places they're supposed to be, though Polly sheepishly wanders over to Dean with some cards in her hands. "Did you really fight ghosts and werewolves with a sword?"

But she's ushered away gently by Sam, who is just a bit flustered and silently defensive - he doesn't need to give Dean another reason to get pissed at him, for making up tall tales to enthuse the kids. Instead he straightens up, and says, "What is it?"

It's a good thing Sam chases Polly away, because Dean is inclined to tell her that she shouldn't believe everything she's told. He's fully prepared to dash that wonder in her eyes, since he's of the belief that she will be better-equipped to handle the world if she doesn't believe fanciful tall tales. There's enough in the real world as it is, and there's no point in making hunting sound cool.

But Sam gets her to leave, so Dean starts digging in his sack. As he does so, he comments, "if you're gonna tell the kids crap like that, leave me outta your stories."

He finishes the statement just as he finds what he's looking for. Pausing, he looks around to make sure they're alone. Then he pulls out a small prescription bottle and gives it a light shake. "Sleeping pills."

There are only a handful. Prescriptions are hard to get these days, the pharmacies having already been raided long ago. He found these in an old house a few miles away. The other medicines - antibiotics and miscellaneous painkillers - he handed in, like everything else. These, though, Dean pocketed without sharing. He knew it was doubtful that he'd get a cut of them, since drugs are so hard to come by.

"I'm tired of hearing you at night," Dean says by way of explanation. "Maybe these'll knock you out so we can both get a full night's sleep." Then, he adds, "Just don't go advertising around that you got 'em."

Sam looks at the small bottle like he can't quite wrap his head around what Dean is telling him. Mostly because it would mean Dean did something for him - even if it was for Dean by virtue of shutting Sam up. He reaches out hesitantly, taking the bottle, turning it over in his hands. It's definitely sleeping pills; Sam used these when the premonitions were bad. Or when he dreamed of Jess dying. When Dean burned in Hell.

He nods, pocketing them.

"Thank you," he says quietly, unable to meet Dean's gaze. It's genuine thanks, but he feels hollowed out and undeserving. "Other people deserve this. Should just have them relocate me so you get better sleep, and give it to them."

But it's nice.

"I won't say anything, though."

Changing the subject to something Dean obsesses over seems like a good idea, and he clears his throat. "Anything else? Anything about the gun?"

Leave it to Sam to get sappy over a few sleeping pills. Dean isn't concerned with who may or may not deserve the pills - though the people of the camp have put them up, Dean doesn't feel any sense of obligation toward them. He's been working for his share just like anyone else. Aside from the first meal, there have been no favors.

"Nothing," Dean replies, readily accepting the subject change. A couple of days ago, he finally got it out of Laura - the no-nonsense woman who greeted them when they first arrived and whose name he finally learned - that the party should only have been gone for a few days at most. It seems less and less likely that they'll be coming back at all.

"I'm gonna give it a couple more days, then I'm just gonna go after it myself." He may be able to figure out where they went on his own - and if not, at least he'd be doing something other than sitting around.

"Alright," Sam says, pocketing the medication. He is frankly okay with giving it a few days, because it's not always this easy to find a place to settle for a week or two. A lot of camps are... more hostile. Or dangerous. Not that he blames them, because the world is fucking shit now, but it's nice to be able to walk around a camp and meet people without them turning it into a POW camp. "A few more days."

A few more days, they can do.

The day carries on, and when night falls, Sam takes the sleeping medication. It's surprisingly effective, and though Lucifer appears here and there, it's all blanketed under a mist. Sometimes it's all blackness. Sam wakes up looking more alert, the dark under his eyes faded. Despite himself, he smiles and laughs under his breath. It's been years since he's felt like that asleep. Jesus, who would have thought he could partly vanquish satan by taking some human-made medication? He's betting Lucifer's pissed.

And sue him, he feels like he owes Dean for that. It's why when the opportunity arises, he manages to snake a few brownies from the lady in charge of food, in exchange for skipping out on a meal. Leaves the few blocks in a container next to Dean's bed. It's fucking stupid and Leave It to Beaver, but he can't... not do it, okay.

So it goes.

Days pass. Dean does his thing. Sam does his. Sometimes, they meet in the middle. Sam knows Dean doesn't really give a shit, but something about it is calming for Sam; that there's a middle point, that some tiny piece of the past is here. It's not Dean, but it is, and that's something other than wandering alone.

"Hey, we're short staffed this run," someone says. Hunters are all still MIA, and it's understandable, that they need someone to tag along when Dean and the others come in and tag out to another group to go searching.

"I'll be back in later tonight," Sam says to Dean as he slips on his backpack. It's more like a couple who tolerates each other lately. Sam even tries not to get on Dean's case too much, and it works out that way. "Found a place hidden out back, we haven't touched it yet. If I find anything helpful, I'll let you know."

When Dean returns to his room to find brownies sitting there beside his bed, his first thought is Sam, you sappy moron, but his second thought is brownies are freaking delicious. He eats all of them in one sitting. Enjoys them, thoroughly, in a way he hasn't enjoyed food in a long time because he so rarely gets to eat what he likes these days.

He doesn't say anything to Sam about it.

The next few days drag by for Dean. He gets tired of supply runs and increasingly antsy to leave. He and Sam manage to work out their arrangement a little better — Sam doesn't bitch at him too much, and Dean tries to keep his more opinionated remarks to himself. It works in a way that makes Dean think he'll be able to tolerate bringing Sam back to his camp. If nothing else, he knows Bobby will be happy to see him, and who knows, maybe Sam will be able to talk Cas into sobering up a little so that he can be more useful. There's potential, there, and Dean decides it's better if he can keep an eye on Sam, anyway. Just in case Sam suddenly decides to go weak and say yes, which is a possibility — one Dean wants to avoid.

Which may have partially motivated his decision to give Sam the sleeping pills. Dean wants to use Sam for his connection to Lucifer, sure, but it'll be a while before they're ready for that, especially since it seems like he won't be finding the Colt this time around. He doesn't need Sam caving in the meanwhile.

Newly returned from the earlier supply run, Dean is sitting on the bed, cleaning his pistol, when Sam comes in to get his backpack. "If you find any first aid supplies, see if they'll let you keep some to take back with us," Dean tells Sam. Aside from the prescriptions, they haven't found much by way of first aid supplies since Dean joined the runs, so he hasn't been able to create a personal stock. And the supply he brought with him to California has been running low.

Sam leaves, and Dean decides to make one last-ditch effort to get some information out of Laura. If it doesn't work, he and Sam will just leave tomorrow, maybe see if they can pick up a trail, and if not, they can just go back and keep an ear out for more information. Dean has been gone long enough.

Laura won't budge, so Dean decides to switch tactics and flirts with her instead. She seems surprised, since she just rebuked his efforts for information, but she doesn't turn him down. Hey, if it's his last night, he might as well get something out of it — so he feeds her some lines about how he feels like they understand each other, talks about how he really admires her for sticking to her guns even though he's been bugging her for information all this time. It doesn't work at first — Laura is smart, so she seems skeptical — but if there's one thing that Dean has learned about the end of the world, it's that people end up feeling desperate for comfort that no one seems to be able to provide anymore.

And that's how Dean ends bringing Laura back to his room, taking advantage of the fact that Sam won't be returning until late.

There's a hum of acknowledgement before Sam heads out. From there, he has relatively decent interaction with the other scavengers; some have been out with Dean; some praise his quickness and smarts out there, which is the last part of Dean that Sam wants back. The run goes pretty smoothly, and Sam manages to secretly nab some pain pills and a few bandaged and alcohol swabs before he hears a scream from the other room - Croats.

Sam rushes in instantly, finding one of the men they came with grappling frantically with a wild infected; there are more, too, and Sam jumps in immediately. He's able to get the guy free, sinking his knife into one's heart before two descend on him. They slam his forehead into a wall too fucking hard, and everything goes black.

When he wakes up, the man he helped, Emel, he's looking down at him grimly. For a frightening moment he thinks he was "infected" and the man was planning to kill him, but he just nods. "Close call, man."

Sam eventually wanders back in to his room late into the night, holding a ice pack to a nasty bruising mark on his hairline, only to find Laura turning over to look at him in surprise.

"......"

"Careful, he has a history of crabs."

You're welcome, Dean.

Dean is dozing beside Laura, but he wakes up immediately when he hears Sam enter the room — old habits die hard. As Laura turns over, Dean sits up, grabbing his clothes from beside the bed and pulling them back on.

Laura doesn't take the comment very well. As Dean's pulling on his shirt, she jumps up, taking the blanket with her.

"Are you serious?" she asks, the very picture of disgusted. She starts scooping up her own clothes. "I should have known better."

And okay, maybe Dean should have ushered her out before Sam got back, instead of taking his sweet time, but that didn't merit Sam chasing her away.

"He's lying," Dean tells her, but Laura is already storming out of the room.

Dean glares at Sam — not really finding much humor in the situation himself, but not entirely pissed off, either, so that's something. He had to get her out of here eventually, after all. "She's gonna tell everyone in camp," Dean remarks, shaking his head. "And she took my blanket."

Which he probably isn't getting back.

"You're lucky we're leaving tomorrow."

Which is the plan, by the way.

Sam just grins like an asshole, dropping a bundle of first aid stuff on Dean's side of the bed before wandering toward his own. "There's some good stuff in there. Swiped pain killers, too." Let it be known, Sam is still a good thief when he needs to be. He winces as he sits down, the room wobbling a bit. Stupid headache. Stupid wall.

He closes his eyes, feet crossed, and lounges in the quiet of temporary home. "So no luck on the colt here. And no hunter group in sight. Are you leading us back to camp or is this another trek somewhere else?"

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