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 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."

"What part of 'shut up' did you miss?" Dean asks, still looking down at Sam's arm as he finishes bandaging it. He lets go of Sam's arm and then looks at his face. There's nothing he can do about his eye - no way to acquire ice - so he'll just have to rest that one out.

"We've got work to do, remember? If you're dead, it's gonna be a hell of a lot harder for me to kill Lucifer."

Ergo: "They were wrong to kill you. They were morons. The first question they should've asked themselves when they found out who you are is, How can we use that? They're freaking hunters, not civilians." They should have thought like hunters, should have realized that Sam could be useful, instead of just jumping the gun to kill him. It was stupidity.

But most of all, they just plain shouldn't have killed Sam. End of story.

Dean puts the first aid supplies back in the sack.

Sam is quiet at that, slumped in the back seat. Everything kind of hurts now; on second thought, maybe numbness is way better. He shifts to glance at Dean, but doesn't say anything for a long moment, until Dean's back in the driver's seat.

"When you're done with me - when Lucifer's dead, if I'm still alive - send me back."

Fair's fair.

Lucifer fucked it up.

Dean starts driving and answers Sam without looking back.

"No."

Simple but firm.

"You can go be suicidal on someone else's watch."

Dean may not be feeling much of anything right now, but he knows damn well that he doesn't want to go through Sam dying a third time.

"If anyone's going back, it's me. Without you."

Because Dean already knows Sam wouldn't approve.

Sam squints, confused and frustrated. "Why? It's not they're fault that I'm a criminal to them. That's all you have to do. I won't be around to get you pissed off, or to lecture you, or to remind you of what a shitty person I was in your life. You get to wipe your hands clean. Hell, you got to until you found me."

He shakes his head, hair falling in his face. He's so tired. Tilts his head against the seat, sighing. "It's be worth it in the end, for everyone, " he says in a hopeful voice. "It's worth it."

"You don't have to be dead to quit lecturing me or pissing me off," Dean points out flatly, eyes still on the road.

He would be frustrated, if he felt as though he had the emotional stamina - not over the fact that Sam is so hell-bent on dying, but over the fact that it bothers Dean on some deep level that still exists within him. This whole event has done nothing but prove that Sam is a liability for him - he can already guess that it's going to get in the way of his plan to take down Lucifer - but Dean knows he's already screwed. Had he and Sam managed to avoid bumping into each other, they would have been just fine, but now Dean needs to grapple with the fact that he does actually, somewhere, care about what happens to his brother.

"You think that's the selfless thing to do? You think you'd be making it easier on everyone by offering yourself up to a camp filled with assholes who want to murder you? Sam the martyr." Though he says it with sarcasm, Dean's tone still retains an empty quality, as though he's emotionally divorced from the words he is speaking.

"Tell that to Bobby. To Cas. To everyone who's gonna be pretty damn glad to see you around again. Tell them and see how selfless they think you are."

A pause.

"Tell that to me again, and I'm just gonna tell you you're more of a selfish asshole than I am, and we both know I'm pretty bad off."

Sam laughs, clipped and slightly manic, smoothing a hand through his hair. It's stained with blood. He's covered in blood, head to toe, a morbid haunting in the back seat. He looks like a moving corpse.

"All Winchesters are assholes. That's the universal joke. I already know I'm the worst of all of us."

They have a long drive together. Sam lays back and tries to relax, having pocketed the pain pills. He doesn't get to do that, while people suffer. There's dirt all over him, grass stains.

"Sam the Martyr. I never wanted to be like that, back with Ruby. I just - wanted to do whatever killed Lilith and saved the world. Honestly, I just wanted to burn out doing something God might actually find worthy. Maybe he'd have let me in if I did something with the evil shit in me."

He shrugs.

"I was wrong. Should have never left that church, though. That's the point of all this, Dean. I should have never left the church."

It's a bit mumbled; he drifts off, hurt and dizzy and drained.

"God, huh?" Dean asks with a slight, humorless huff of a laugh. It's basically an unfunny joke to him now. Cas tried to find God — tried to believe — and came up with a whole bunch of nothing.

"God ain't worth your time. Never was."

He wasn't worth Castiel's time, either.

Dean makes a turn. Heads back to his base, because there's no point in following a lead that ended up being false.

"Maybe you shouldn't've left that church, Sam. But guess what? You did." He glances in the rear view mirror. "So how about you quit bitching about how you should be dead and just deal with being alive?"

Ha. He grins, self-deprecation strong.

"Deal with being alive long enough to use as satan bait?" He touches his eye, messing with the swollen area there. It hurts — hurts and hurts and hurts, like some annoying throbbing headache dedicated just to his socket. He sort of manages to get it pulled back a little, blinking. He couldn't... see out of it. It makes his stomach flip-flop. "Was Polly okay?"

More important things to talk about.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean answers, even though Sam has tried to change the subject. "Satan bait. We're still hunters and we still gotta kill Lucifer."

Dean rubs the bridge of his nose. His head still hurts, albeit not as much as it did earlier. But having this conversation with Sam hasn't done much to further ease his headache. He could use an hour or so of silence to process the clusterfuck that was Sam's death and eventual resurrection, but that's kind of hard to get when Sam is harping on his death wish.

"Polly's gonna grow up realizing that no one can be trusted," Dean finally replies to Sam's question. "It's a tough lesson to learn but it's better for her to figure that out now. Those kids are too sheltered in that camp."

They should be learning how to defend themselves - how to stay alive.

Sam just hums at that, unaffected by Dean's reply.

"Should let her know I ended up okay, someday. Hopefully she'll forget and move on with her life as usual." He hopes they never turn into Dean. Or get as vicious and angry as those hunters. He peels off the bloody jacket, revealing a bloody long sleeve. He leans back, sighing. "Don't throw yourself into danger like that again for me, though. I don't care how valuable I am as a satan baiting worm; you're supposed to be the hard-ass not risking himself for others, right?"

He breathes.

"I thought they were going to kill you, too."

"She'll be fine," Dean replies, thinking that Sam's desire to go back and let Polly know he's alive is a stupid one — of course. She's better off not knowing that Sam can't be killed, otherwise she, too, may wind up believing it's better for Sam to be dead, given that the supernatural is the only explanation for something like that. Plus, Dean truly believes that a little bit of horror in a kid's life is a good thing. It prepares them for their future — otherwise trying to survive in a Croat-infected world will be a shock when she's older and has to start being a productive member of her camp.

Dean shrugs, even though Sam can't see the motion through the seat. "I got my morals," Dean replies vaguely. "They ain't the same as yours, but I got 'em." He's not feeling this line of conversation, as it gets into territory that Dean isn't keen on exploring. It's bad enough that he's allowed Sam to become a liability in his life again — he doesn't need to admit to that weakness verbally.

Even though Sam has a point. He could have gotten himself killed. He may still get himself killed over Sam in the future. But they don't need to sit here and analyze that fact.

So he leaves it at that.

"Yeah, well, figure out if you're going to be popping morals when it's convenient — getting them just to die for me is a pain in the ass," he says, voice rough. He closes his good eye and is quiet for a long moment, drifting in his exhaustion. Of course, Lucifer can't leave him alone; he mumbles in his sleep, twitching, mostly incoherent; the best to get out of it is why didn't you let me die. When he opens his eye again, he finds the other still isn't cooperating. His face is smashed against the bottom seat cushion.

"Dean," his voice rumbles, nervous, "What are we going to do if the gun doesn't work?"

It's tempting to snap back at Sam, to return to bickering, but Dean ultimately lets silence stretch between them instead. He doesn't want to give Sam leeway to keep questioning, and he could use some time to think.

As he drives, he can hear Sam murmuring in his sleep. Dean ignores it — doesn't try to wake him up, since some sleep, however fitful, it better than none. He needs Sam to heal up some more, to watch his back on stops so they can make it back to the only safe camp out there.

In those quiet moments, Dean thinks about how Sam is still alive. Because of the freaking devil — but alive nonetheless. As is typical for Dean, especially these days, he attempts to quell any potential emotional reaction to that — Sam's still here, and they have a job to do. That's that.

It's bad enough that Dean lost his tightly kept control once already.

After Sam speaks, Dean answers, without any hesitation. "It'll work."

It has to work. It's their only chance.

"Or it'll be the end."

And that will be that.

"There's got to be something else," Sam says softly. It's not just because he wants to be rid of these dreams — it's just... Something good needs to happen for once. Something needs to work out. Anything. The Devil dying... that would be the best possible thing that Sam could ever witness. After that, everything could repair itself. Get better. "I thought we weren't supposed to give up until we're dead? I can research. I can look into it; there's got to be something. Why else am I alive, if not to try to help kill the Devil?"

Why bother, otherwise? Other than his penance?

The silence lulls, and he says hesitantly, "I lost sight in my left eye, pretty sure. I think the devil wanted to leave me a souvenir." Actually, that was exactly it. Lucifer had told him that, exactly. See what people are capable of, Sam? See what you're defending? They're rabid apes, your brother included. But you're special, aren't you, Sammy? That's why I chose you. Always you.

"Oh, I won't give up," Dean replies easily. "But I don't think I'm gonna walk away from Lucifer alive if the Colt doesn't work."

Dean's fully prepared to die, whether he succeeds or not. He figures even if he manages to shoot and successfully kill the devil, his cronies will take him down regardless. Dean figures it'll be the end either way — for him, at least.

Which is the price someone has to pay.

"But knock yourself out. Do all the research you want."

Dean has done enough over the years to convince him that the Colt is the only way, which is why he places so much stock in that plan.

He glances up in the rear view mirror, trying to get a glance at Sam's eye. "Give it a few days, let the swelling go down. Everything else healed up for the most part." Sam was a wreck after the beating he took — and now look at him.

Not that Dean would put it past Lucifer to leave a souvenir like that — but he thinks there's a possibility Sam will regain his eyesight.

Sam shrugs. Everything healed up, sure. Physically, anyway.

"... If you need me to drive, tell me whenever. I don't need both eyes to drive."

He lays down, closes his eye, and pretends to sleep.

It's more restful than sleeping, at this point.

Less to dream about.

Dean drives for a long time, but eventually, he and Sam do switch off. It helps them cover more ground — being able to take turns, catch a few hours of sleep while the other drives. They make a couple of supply stops, too, and are able to stock up on a few things — food, mainly, which is a good haul, because for all the supplies Dean managed to get from the camp, he hadn't been able to take much food for their trip.

The end up making surprisingly good time, and before too many days pass, they arrive at Camp Chitaqua.

Dean drives right by the Impala — which sits there, unused and rotting away, difficult to see in the overgrown vegetation. He doesn't even spare it a glance as he pulls up to the gate. A couple of people, posted to keep watch, see him — recognize both the van and the driver, and call out to get the gate opened for them.

"Home sweet home," Dean tells Sam, holding the brake and waiting for the gates to open up.

Sam sits up, body aching, glancing toward the gate.

Well, it's not exactly any worse than the other place they've been to. Regardless, his stomach actually twists for a moment. "... What if your people know my face? You can't exactly hide who I am from them; shouldn't you be taking me in as a prisoner?"

They won't bother you if I tell them not to.

[Have a little faith in the way your brother runs this show, Sammy.]

They know that I do what I do for a reason.

[And they also know he'll fill them in when they need to know what that reason is. Dean doesn't have to explain himself, and if they want to stick around and reap the benefits of his camp, they know better than to go bucking the system.

The gate opens and Dean pulls the van inside. By the time he puts it in park, Chuck is standing beside his door, clipboard in hand. He hesitates just a moment as Dean steps out of the van, then asks, "The others?"

Dean shakes his head, then gestures to the back of the van, not allowing even a moment of grief before giving instructions.]

Got some supplies. Take inventory.

"Okay, sure, su--holy shit!" Chuck looks back in there to face Sam, and nearly jumps out of his skin. His voice lowers as he leans in. "Sam?! You're -- no way. We all thought you were -- we haven't -- " He looks at Dean, looks at Sam, looks at Dean. "What, was he just in the road with his thumb out or what??"

"I was... staying in an apartment for shelter; we ran into each other. Hey, Chuck."

Sam smiles thinly, softly, and Chuck smiles back. There's relief, but then --

"Holyyyy crap, you're, uh. You're covered in blood, man..."

Yeah, it's a shock — Dean gets it. And they can all have a grand union with each other after they get settled in, but there are things that he needs to do. Most importantly, he needs to find out if anyone has managed to get word of the Colt in his absence — seeing how California didn't pan out.

Chuck does have a point, though. Sam is pretty bloody, and Dean doesn't need anyone getting any ideas about what kind of blood he's covered in, so Dean points to one of the cabins not too far away.

"That's where Cas stays. Go talk to him and he'll tell you where to go to get cleaned up. Chuck will run and get you some clothes after he takes inventory. He's in charge of tracking supplies."

This is the End

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timeskip?? :)

sure

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I have no idea how I managed to do action on that last tag. i guess bc i tagged distractedly at work

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Creates a journal for this

hollaaaaaa

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