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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"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?"

Dean raises his eyebrows — it's a nice haul, which makes for a good note for them to leave on. He digs through the pile approvingly, then stands to all the stuff to his little collection in the corner of the room. It's all packed and ready to be transported.

"Good," is all Dean says in reply to Sam's initial statements.

"Figure we'll go north to see if we can pick up the group's trail, but they're probably long-dead by now." Spoken factually — why else wouldn't they have returned? "If we don't find anything, we'll head back to my camp."

Dean needs to drop off the supplies and make sure everything is still going smoothly there. And see if anyone there has gotten any news about the Colt.

He walks back to his bed and takes a seat, nodding at Sam's ice pack. "Things get bad out there?" he asks.

He snorts, leaning his head back a little more, squirming to get comfortable in his pillow. "Sort of bad. Nobody died or got infected, though, so I think it's a win. Guy I helped seems kind of fuming about me having to help him out, though." Which is weird, because people usually thank you for rescuing him. But then, Dean didn't, so he's not that surprised in hindsight. Still kind of weird to make a sort-of-enemy in the camp off something like saving a life.

A shrug.

"Thrown face-first into a wall. Been a while since that's happened to me." He was used to it hunting. Ghosts did that shit a lot. "You should get some sleep then. We can eat and go in the afternoon, if you want some daylight."

He's kinda sad about leaving, really. He'll have to say bye to Polly and the kids. Thank Billy for being so open. He has a feeling tomorrow's going to be bittersweet. Saying goodbyes, they're never completely easy for Sam.

"He probably wanted to play hero," Dean replies, thinking that it's pretty damn stupid that people still get hung up about that kind of thing. Playing hero is tiresome. Dean still does it — it's why he's looking for the Colt — but only because someone has to.

"Good that it happened again, then." Not that Dean, even with the way he is these days, would hope for Sam to get hurt. Rather: "You gotta keep sharp somehow." It's important, in Dean's opinion, to be accustomed to getting thrown around and having to react quickly.

Dean is eager to get on the road, but one last good meal wouldn't hurt, since it'll be a while before they get another good one in. "We'll go after breakfast," he tells Sam. "I'll give you an extra half hour to say your goodbyes, since I know you're gonna be sappy about 'em. Only half an hour, though."

Better that than to spend half an hour arguing over why Sam shouldn't be such a damn girl about leaving a camp where they don't really belong, anyway.

Sam scoffs.

"Playing hero is my job, isn't it?"

But he gets it. He nods at the offer of half an hour, and for a moment he's kind of awed that they're... talking like this. It's so fucking different from that night they met, and Sam is cautious and unsure about it all, because they're almost talking like they did before Sam and Dean parted ways. It's not... This isn't supposed to end up like this. It makes his stomach flip, really. He gets to see old faces, soon. He'll be... with Dean, which is awful, because Dean is so much worse now. So much colder.

Best not look a gift horse in the mouth.

He lays down and sleeps.

In the morning, he does say goodbye, to a lot of people. Emel sort of shoves past him in the breakfast line - what is his problem? - but other than that, everyone's warm and welcoming. Hell, to end on a relatively good note, the hunters from before actually get back. Empty-handed save for rations, mind, but still. Staying alive is good. There's sort of a weird hostility about them, though. Mostly toward Sam. They don't... look at him very nicely. What did he do? Did he piss off Emel's group?

He reunites with Dean for just a bit to discuss plans, but he's back off pretty quickly. Polly is happy and beaming alongside two of the older kids; they said they have a goodbye surprise for him, so he follows without question. Maybe Sam should worry. Maybe he's too fucking gullible. Maybe. Because they lead him to a field out in the more forested area, and there's a group of men there, waiting. Armed. The bats and pipes aren't fucking friendly.

Polly and the two children seem just as confused as he is, which is oddly relieving.

"Howdy, Sammy boy," Tim says. Tim.

From before the Croats.

Sam's mouth goes dry, and no attempt to flee gets him away fast enough for the first bat to take his knee out. As Polly runs screaming with the other two for help, Emel and Tim oversee a flurry of kicks, punches. "I saw your bite scars, you fucker," Emel says, "Tim told me what you did. We know what you did."

Blood drips down Sam's face.

It's getting close to time to leave. While Sam is out saying his goodbyes, Dean makes sure that everything is good to go. A few people find out from Sam that they are leaving, and they decide to pay Dean a visit — to say goodbye to him too, because even if Dean hasn't been the most friendly guy around, they still appreciate his help.

He hears that the hunters come back and talks to them briefly, but they don't seem all that interested in speaking with him. They mostly brush him off, which is fine by Dean, because if they don't have information on the Colt, then that's all that Dean needs to know.

Deciding to go ahead and pack the van while Sam finishes up, Dean walks toward his building — when Polly and a couple of kids run up to him.

"You gotta help Tommy!" Polly yells, frantic — crying.

"Sammy, they called him Sammy," one of the other kids says — Dean doesn't know his name, but it doesn't matter.

"Where?" Right now, that's the most important question. The details — he can get those when he gets there. But he needs to know where to go first.

"In the field — come on," Polly cries, and takes off. Dean takes out his pistol and immediately follows, without question or hesitation. There's no room for that in this world — and Sam is in trouble.

Freaking Sam. Dean has done just fine over the past few years not thinking about him, not worrying about him, being fine without him, but now here he is, in his life again.

Making Dean worry.

Dean follows Polly out to the field, and when he sees the other hunters, Dean's inclination is to just start shooting. He wants to, so badly his trigger finger aches, but there are too many of them. If Dean shoots, they can easily kill Sam and then turn around and kill him too. As much as Dean just wants to end this, he can't just go in shooting.

"Hey!" he calls out as he runs up to the group. "What the hell is going on here?"

Dean finally gets close enough to see Sam, and it doesn't matter how many years are between them and how different their relationship is now, Dean gets pissed right the fuck off and all he wants is to take Sam away from the god damn camp.

He should have freaking known better than to trust this camp — should have left a long time ago.

"Grab him," one of the men says, and Dean hears Polly yell, "No!" as one of the guys takes a pipe and hits Dean's arm with it. Dean drops his pistol, when the guy proceeds to pick up. Another guy grabs Dean's arms. Dean struggles and tries to wrench away, but the guy holding his pistol hits him with it — once, and then seeing that Dean is still struggling, a second and third time, too.

Dean manages to stay conscious, barely. His vision blurs for a moment, and when it clears again, he realizes they've let him go and have resumed beating on Sam. Dean pushes himself off the ground, trying to stand back up to intervene again.

Sam scrabbles for the hunter's legs, but they pull away and kick harder, stomp down on his fingers, on his back, and his ribs. "Deaaan," he groans, voice strangled and clipped; for a moment, he's not sure where he is. Not sure what is happening. Something in his side snaps, and he screams, eyes bloodshot and cheek and eyelid and lip swollen big. Another stomp. More sharp fire in his body. He crawls toward Dean for a moment, tears of pain leaking with blood.

"Don't - hurt him," he slurs. A bat smashes into his eye, knocking his head to the side. Something there breaks. Somehow, he's conscious, the left side of his upper face bowing disturbingly. Somewhere in the mess of blood is an eye.

"Piece of shit," one of them says harshly, spitting on him. "He fucking did this. He let the world turn into this; why the fuck you defending him, Dean?! Because he's your brother? Guy is barely human!" A few of the other hunters look unsure. A bit horrified. They scream at Polly to leave, because she seems to not have heard them the first time. As Sam lay choking on blood, twitching, Tim wanders over to Dean and grabs his shoulder, forcing him steady to watch while the children rush away.

"See now, your brother? He had a chance to help me and my group a while back against demons. Before the Croats. But he didn't - wanted to play civilian, and my boys died. The son of a bitch wouldn't even drink down demon blood for us. Booted us out."

Sam's body shudders, and he tries again to crawl toward Dean, head sagging and blood and tears dribbling out of his eye. "Dean," he breathes, because he can't remember what he's supposed to really say. His lung is full of something. He coughs. His brother needs his help. Sam needs his brother. "Dean..."

He's sorry. He can't remember why, but he's so sorry. Emel bends down, snaking his hand into Sam's hair and jerking his head up roughly. Sam's good eye rolls, trying to focus. "You killed my family," Emel hisses.

"Don't take it wrong, Dean, but this is divine retribution," Tim says. He nods to Emel, and Emel puts his gun to the base of Sam's spine, right on the button there on his neck. Sam flails one arm, trying to grab blindly for the hand holding him up. He is barely there.

"De-" he gurgles, and then Emel shoots Sam execution-style, and Sam crumples bonelessly into the bloody grass, eye closed. Everything goes very still. A lot of the hunters step back, as if Sam were even a threat now. Or maybe they're ashamed and afraid of what they have done. Emel still looks ready to fight something.

"God save his soul," Tim says.

Emel kicks the corpse hard again, and another rib snaps.

Edited (I wrote it on an iPhone, I must clean this up haha) 2015-03-23 10:05 (UTC)

It turns out that old instincts die hard.

Dean thought he was hardened past the point of getting caught up in emotions, of caring about what Sam does with his life, of having any kind of attachments in a world where attachments just get you killed. He thought he had successfully moved beyond that unrelenting need to save Sammy that has existed within him for as long as he can remember. Dean wanted to believe that he no longer cared.

Kneeling there, trying to get to his feet, likely concussed and fighting to hold on to consciousness - grabbed by Tim and forced to watch - all those old feelings come back. Dean tries to wrench his shoulder out of Tim's grip - wants to beat him with anything available, wants to put a bullet in his head and burn this camp to the ground - but his head is still reeling and Tim just clenches him even harder.

Dean watches. That's all he can do. He watches as they beat Sam and Sam calls out to him and dies. And all Dean can do is slur out, helplessly, "Sammy," and hope that it ends quickly so that Sam doesn't suffer.

Something has been broken in Dean for a long time. Sam could see it - called him out on it more than once - but now? Now it isn't merely broken. It's dead.

It's too late now, but Dean still makes an oath to never, ever let anyone lull him into any sense of security like he did in this camp. He knew it was a bad idea, and he still did it - and now Sam is dead.

Tim lets go of his shoulder and walks over to look at Sam's body. One of the guys from the hunting group - Dean doesn't know his name - comes to help Dean to his feet, refusing to meet his eyes. Dean shoves him away as best he can and gets shakily to his feet by himself.

Everyone turns to look at him.

"My gun." Dean puts out his hand for it, voice hoarse but devoid of emotion.

Silent hesitation. No one moves.

"My gun," Dean repeats, stronger in tone this time.

Billy walks up to the group in that moment. Sees Dean standing there, waiting with his hand out. He looks - upset. Conflicted. Sad. Polly isn't around - Dean doesn't know if Billy is aware that Polly witnessed part of the display. Dean doesn't know. And he truly doesn't give a fuck, either.

"Give him his gun," Billy tells the hunter who's holding it.

"You try anything and we'll kill you, too," Tim tells him. "There's only one of you now."

"That's enough, Tim," Billy warns. "You've done enough."

Dean is given his gun. He holds it and thinks about shooting everyone, seeing as far as he can get before he's taken down. He's a quick shot. He estimates he can get four of them, maybe five, if he can move quick enough, before he winds up killed.

But as much as Dean wants to do it, as little as he cares about what happens to him, he still needs to kill Lucifer. Someone has to do it, and Dean wants to be that someone. He wants to shoot Lucifer with the Colt and watch him die before he takes his own last breath, because then, at least, he'll have killed the one responsible for all of this.

So Dean slips his gun away and starts walking back toward the camp.

They all watch. Billy comes up behind him. "Dean, if I had known your brother -"

"Put his body in my van," Dean interrupts with that same empty tone.

"Dean -"

"Do it."

He'll give Sam a hunter's funeral. Burn his body, just in case Lucifer gets any ideas. Make sure Sam gets sent off right.

Sam was going to do it for him.

Billy stops walking, and ultimately turns to go get some of the guys to load the body.

Dean heads to his room, grabs the few sacks of supplies he's kept there. Starts carrying them to the van.

Polly runs up to him, crying. "I'm sorry," she tells him. "I'm sorry." She grabs him in an awkward hug, since Dean's hands are full and he isn't in the mood to talk to the kid, and repeats it over and over again.

"You did what you could," is all Dean tells her before he detangles himself from her arms. To himself, he thinks, But it wasn't enough.. It never is, anymore - not in this world.

Dean brings the supplies to the van and loads them up once Sam has been placed in the back.

The guys stand around the van, once again unsure. Dean looks at them - settles at looking at Billy. "You better hope I never come back here," he states evenly.

But if he manages to survive killing the devil, Dean will be back.

He gets in the van and drives, feeling devoid of anything beyond the intention to burn Sam's body.

Dean drives for an hour, and in that time Sam's ribs reposition. His skull corrects itself, lungs clear out, heal -- the hole in the back of his neck heals. The thick, lumped wounds on his face recede, just enough, and he's recognizable even with the fat lip and bruising and crusted swollen brow. He tries to open both eyes, manages just one. The other hurts. Can't open it, but it's throbbing in time with his blood. There's a sheet over his face. He feels so tired, he's not sure for a moment he can sit up.

But he does. Silently, like a stiff old man, he sits up in the back seat, putting his heavy arm over the backrest. He sits like this for a long moment, mouth rancid with blood and bile tastes, eyes red-rimmed.

He remembers a little. A lot soon follows. "Dean?" He croaks, voice like sandpaper. He doesn't look over at Dean, just stares at the passing scenery - shell-shocked into silence, until the numbness in his head goes away. He remembers being ice cold, and the Devil whispering, sad and sympathetic.

He reaches into his mouth, pulls a tooth from the side where they had knocked it out. Stares at it like he's not sure how it got there.

Yeah, he's in shock.

Dean doesn't hear Sam sit up — doesn't look in his rear view mirror right away. He's too focused on the task ahead, scanning areas to find a safe place to burn Sam's body.

Then he hears his name.

Dean doesn't jump. He doesn't react with surprise or jerk the vehicle to a stop. Instead, he calmly looks in the rear view mirror, sees Sam, and then pulls over.

Nothing surprises him anymore.

Obviously, a bullet wasn't enough to keep Sam dead, so whether this is the Sam of an hour ago or something supernatural coming to mock Dean for being sentimental and hanging on to Sam's body long enough to give it a proper hunter's funeral — well, it doesn't matter. Either way, a gun isn't going to provide him with much defense.

Dean isn't a fan of going weaponless in situations like these, though, so he ultimately pulls out the pistol anyway. He doesn't aim it, though. Just holds it in his hand as he turns around to get a good look at Sam.

He doesn't feel anything. There's no relief, no shock, no grim sense of joy. Dean's fresh out of emotion, so he settles on saying: "You're really gonna make me ask?"

Because if Sam's going to wake up from the freaking dead, the least he can do is explain what the hell is going on.

Or offer up his arm so Dean can perform the necessary tests.

Sam still doesn't look at him. He stares at the molar in his hand, wondering how he's holding it when he still feels all of his teeth with his tongue. He blinks. "Ask what?" he says in a raw, low voice. Dropping the tooth, his hand hovers shakily to touch his sensitive face, and before he can really stop himself he's shivering violently where he sits.

"Lucifer said I'm not allowed to," he slurs. Dean's hollowed out. Sam wishes he could be. He curls up on himself, hands over his head, and cowers at the weights pressing down in his chest, crushing his lungs and heart. "M'sorry. Messed up your time to leave. I'm sorry."

He's scared. He's so fucking terrified, because he'll never die, and Lucifer will always be there to hear his 'no', until it's pleading and he's widdled down to nothing. And Dean will abandon him, because he's unwanted, because he tries too hard, lets his feelings ruin everything. Lets what he did ruin everything. "You didn't deserve that. M'sorry. It was supposed to just be me. It's my fault, so it's me."

Edited 2015-03-24 00:53 (UTC)

"Shut up, Sam."

Dean gets out of the van and opens the sliding door. Climbs in back and takes a seat next to Sam, squinting at him in the dim van light.

"Alright. Lemme see your arm."

First things first, just to make sure that Lucifer isn't pulling some kind of stunt that Dean's going to buy into. He doesn't wait for Sam to respond. Takes his wrist, firmly, and pushes his jacket up to expose his arm. He pulls out a silver knife and uses it to slice the skin. Putting that away, he then uses the holy water he keeps under the driver's seat.

And of course, nothing happens. Dean didn't figure it would — Lucifer bringing Sam back makes sense, if he's been coveting Sam's body for years.

He reaches to the side, where the resources are packed, and rummages through the bags until he gets the first aid supplies out. He takes out two pain pills and holds them out to Sam.

"Take these."

They help Cas. Might help Sam get his shit together. Or at least shut him up until he's able to process what's going on.

Then maybe Dean'll have two junkies being a pain in his ass.

He then takes out a bandage for the wound he just created.

Motions — that's all they are. Dean is going through the motions established long ago: checking for humanity, tending wounds, being a hunter. That's about the extent of what he can do. He feels emotionally burnt out, like there's nothing left for him to use in reacting to the fact that Sam is still here.

Sam takes the pain pills in his hand, but doesn't take them.

"You shouldn't'f came. They were wrong to hurt you, but they weren't wrong to kill me. We both know that." Dean's already hinted enough, that if Sam hadn't been useful as bait, he would've been iced a while ago. If Dean had wanted to put a bullet between Sam's eyes, Sam would have accepted it, all things considered. Those men back there... they weren't robbers, or cold-blooded killers. They wanted to kill the man who ruined their lives.

Sam can't fault it. He hates that he involved the kids — they had no right.

But the rest...

He watches Dean treat the cut, his one green eye glancing up to Dean sparingly as he lets his arm hang limp in Dean's grip.

He's voice is almost inaudible, rough.

"Thank you for trying."

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here we goooooooooooooo

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