When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 7/12
Title: When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 7/12
Author: buffyaddict13
Rating: a strong R for language and a lot of violence. some of it's fairly gory. sorry folks. the end of the world isn't a shiny happy place.
Characters/Pairings: sam, dean, andy, OCs. Gen.
Summary: The war is at hand. it’s demon against man and we’re losing the fight. the special children are wreaking havoc across the land, side by side with demons. dean is on a desperate hunt to find and save his brother while leading a small band of survivors to a final showdown.
A/N: i know you're all sick of apocafics, but I’ve had this idea in my head for a while. I think there will be at least 9 or 10 chapters to this story, and each chapter is going to be pretty longish. ginormous hugs to my beautiful, talented and sparkly wifey
kroki_refur, the bestest beta in all the land. dude. if this story is any good at all, it's because of you. and thank you to everyone who's been reading this. AND i apologize for taking so long to update. the title comes from a suzanne vega song. ALSO, after AHBL 1 and 2, this is officially 100% AU.
Disclaimer: I own nothing winchestery. sucks to be me.
So I stumble home at night
Like I've stumbled through my life
With ghosts and visions in my sight
We are always living in twilight.
--The Weepies
Chapter 7
Nothing feels real. He tells himself he’s dreaming, but he’s not, because every time Andy starts to convince himself he’s someplace safe, someplace else, Izzy’s still dead.
The hurt is so big he can barely feel it. It’s there, though, waiting patiently in the shadows to overwhelm him. It’s not just that he’s lost the woman he loved -- he’s also lost his best friend, and losing both at the same time is just too much. He wants the ground to open up and swallow him, he wants the sky to release an ocean and drown him, because this grinding sameness as every other day feels like a betrayal of the highest order. It makes his stomach hurt and his head ache and his eyes sting.
He takes a shuddering breath and wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his coat. Craig clears his throat, a little awkward. "I don’t have the proper tools…but when we get to New Mexico, I thought maybe you’d like another protective tattoo." Craig hands Andy a slip of paper.
Andy blinks up at Craig, then stares at the paper a moment, unfolds it. His eyes immediately tear up, and the image on the paper blurs and disappears. He looks up at Craig, shocked. "You’d… you’d do this for me?"
Craig nods solemnly. "I would."
Andy wipes his eyes and his nose with the palm of his hand. "I don’t know what to say. I. How." He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself. "Thank you, Professor."
Craig nods. "You’re welcome, son." He reaches down and gives Andy a gentle pat on the shoulder.
Andy refolds the paper and slips it carefully into his pocket. He wipes his eyes again and squints at Sam. He’s still catatonic. Dean’s busy digging through a backpack. Andy frowns, scanning the area. Where’s Luke?
He spots the boy crouched next to the tree Sam attacked the day before, cradling his arm. Andy pushes himself to his feet. "Luke? Are you okay?"
Andy’s shout alerts Dean and Craig and they both look up, startled. Luke tenses, as if he’s going to run, but Andy puts his hands out, palms up, and walks slowly. "It’s okay, Luke. You’re not in trouble. I just want to look at your hand, okay?" Luke stares at Andy, then shrugs and looks away.
"What’s wrong?" Dean calls.
Andy gently pushes Luke’s left hand out of the way and gapes at Luke’s right hand. The boy’s knuckles are split and his hand is bruised and bloody. "Oh Luke," Andy breathes, chest tight, "what did you do?"
Luke lifts his arm to strike the tree again, but Andy grabs him around the waist and physically carries him over to Dean. "Look," Andy says, pointing to Luke’s hand.
Craig blinks as if he’s been struck, and Dean’s face goes hard. "Luke, did you hit your hand on the tree?"
Luke stares down at his shoes, shifting from foot to foot. He glances back at Dean, then to Andy, then back at his shoes. He shrugs.
Craig kneels in front of the boy. "Luke, you can’t be doing things like this. I don’t want you to hurt yourself."
"Just because Sam did it doesn’t mean you should. Sam shouldn’t have done it either," Andy points out.
"No more punching trees," Dean tells Luke sternly, "do you understand?"
Luke nods. He leans forward and rests his head on Craig’s shoulder. Craig rubs the boy’s back, runs his hand through Luke’s hair.
Andy slumps to the ground while Dean pulls out the first aid kit. "If you so much as go near a tree I’m going to put my foot up your ass, you hear me, Gallagher?"
Andy nods and stretches out beside Sam. "I hear you."
"Andy?"
"Huh?"
"You do know you’re my friend, right?"
"I know," Andy says, and closes his eyes.
ooooo
They make their way up the stairs without further incident, and Sam opens the door out onto the eighth level. A tall black man and a big-eyed white boy cross the gloomy ramp to the elevator. They look familiar, but Sam can't quite place them. Dean pulls a newspaper clipping from his pocket and scans it. "It says five people were stabbed on the far end of the level," he says, and tucks the clipping back into his pocket.
Sam shakes his head in disgust. "Six people dead in this ramp alone? And how many more across the city?"
Dean starts checking the EMF meter. "We'll be ready."
"I don't think you will," says a voice. Sam and Dean turn in unison, both drawing their guns at the same time.
Sam Winchester regards them coldly. "I've been waiting for you," he says to Sam.
Sam stares, mouth open, heart racing. He glances at Dean. "It's a skinwalker."
The Other Sam scoffs. "I'm not a skinwalker, Sammy. I'm you."
Sam shakes his head. "No. You're not."
The Other grins, and his eyes are flecks of ice. "Yes," he whispers, "we're the same. And we killed all those people Sam. Does your brother even know he's hunting you?" The Other chuckles. "I mean us."
Sam backs away from the Other. It looks exactly like him, sounds like him, but there's a difference in the eyes, in the way it (he) carries itself, in the tone of voice.
"What's going on here, Sammy?" Dean demands, and Sam doesn't know how to answer because he has no fucking idea.
"Maybe they can help clue you in," the Other sneers, and looks behind Dean.
Sam and Dean glance back to see dozens of pale faces. Men, women and children, all dead. Dean lifts the shotgun. "Get back!" he warns.
"They don't want you," The Other says, "they want Sam. After all, he's the one that killed them."
"No!" Sam protests, a cold bead of sweat rolling down his back. "I didn't mean to. I didn’t want to hurt anyone."
"Now that sounds like a good excuse," the Other says. He lifts an eyebrow and shakes the bangs out of his face. "Do you think they'll buy it?"
Sam turns to the silent crowd, their mouths thin lines of judgment. "I'm sorry," he begins, "I didn't mean to--" he stops abruptly and looks at Dean. He needs to be strong for Dean. He turns back to the crowd. "I can't take back what I did," Sam admits. "And I'm sorry for that. I wish I could take it back. But I have a chance to save some other people-people like you-if you let me go."
"You're not going anywhere," the Other says, pulling a long knife out of a sheath attached to his belt. He holds it up for Sam to see. "Remember this? If I recall correctly, this was one of your best friends." The blade twirls in the Other's fingers, and the cold eyes flash. "Why don't you come and say hello."
"Sam!" Dean yells. "Get away from him!"
Sam shakes his head, "I can't, Dean. I need to do this."
"You need to die," the Other snarls. "That's what you need to do. Do you really think there's redemption waiting for you? Second chances don't exist, Sam. Especially not for monsters like you." The Other Sam gestures toward the silent group gathered around them. "Do you really think they want you to have a second chance?" The Other points at Sam with the knife. "I'm afraid not, Sam. Your time is up."
"Not quite." The crowd seems to ripple and fade and a figure strides through the crowd. She tips an imaginary hat to Sam. "Want some help kicking this loser's ass?" Izzy asks.
Sam’s chest aches at the sight of her. "I dreamed about you," he says in wonder. "You're Izzy."
"And you're Sam Winchester, kick-ass hunter extraordinaire," she grins. She nods to Dean. "Hey there, Dean."
Dean looks between Sam and Izzy. "I don't know what's going on," he says, brow furrowed.
"Sam has a battle he needs to win," Izzy explains. "And we're here to help him. Are you just gonna stand there and look pretty or are you gonna help?"
Dean squares his shoulders. "I’m gonna help and look pretty. I’m awesome that way."
Sam looks down at his hands and now he's holding the same knife as the Other. He doesn't know if this is real or if he's dreaming, but he knows he needs to beat this not-Sam, if it's the last thing he does.
ooooo
Andy doesn't say a word as they move Izzy's body to the edge of the field. She's away from the road and far enough from the trees that the fire won't spread. Andy stands looking down at her, and Dean searches for something profound and meaningful to say. All he comes up with is, "We were lucky to know her. She made the world a better place." He smiles, wistful. "And definitely a more interesting place, that's for sure."
Andy splutters a half sob, half laugh and nods. "Yeah. She did. She didn't just see colors, she made the colors, you know? And now...now everything just feels...dark."
"Dean." Dean glances over toward Craig.
"Sam's moving."
Dean hurries over to Sam, hoping movement equals good news. "Sam? Can you hear me?"
Sam's head turns, just a little, and his back arches. "Now what?" Dean demands. If something happens to Sam-something more than what's already happened, that is-he's packing it in. New Mexico and the world be damned. He'll just curl up by Sam's side and they can fade away together. "Whatever this is," Dean whispers, gripping Sam's good hand, "you can fight it, do you hear me? Fight it."
ooooo
The Other Sam rolls his eyes. "You think you can actually beat me? You are delusional, Sam. I always heard you were special, but I didn't realize they meant soft in the head." The Other nods toward a group of watchful ghosts. "Just look at that, Sam. And those are only a handful of the people you killed."
"Shut up!" Sam growls. "You don't know me."
"Oh please," the Other sneers. "I am you."
"Dean killed what was left of you a long time ago," Sam says, "you’re not even real."
The Other shrugs. "I’m real to you, and that’s what counts. I’m your personal ghost. These other phantoms? They’re nothing compared to me. And you can’t escape."
"You talk an awful lot for a figment of Sam’s imagination," Dean says and pulls the trigger.
The Other Sam flickers and reappears behind Dean. "You missed," he hisses in Dean’s ear, and slides the knife between Dean’s shoulder blades. Dean sways, then drops to his knees. "It’s okay," Dean says, blood foaming over his lips, "this isn’t real and you know it. He can’t beat you." Dean stares at Sam for another second and slumps to the ground.
All Sam knows is this feels real. This feels like Dean is dying before his eyes and there’s nothing he can do. This feels like he’s dying.
"You’re a real asshole," Izzy says, and throws her knife. It flies through the air with perfect precision and the blade thumps hard and deep into the Other’s chest. He staggers, but the smile never leaves his face. He pulls the knife out with a theatrical flourish and throws it back at Izzy. It embeds itself deep between her eyes. She stares at the Other and then flips him off. "I’m already dead, dickweed. You can’t kill me." She pulls the knife out and lets it fall to the floor with a clatter. "But shit, that still hurts."
Sam launches himself at his mirror image, teeth bared. He knocks him backwards, throws a heavy blow at the Other’s jaw. His jaw. The Other turns his head and spits blood onto the concrete. "Good one," he says. "But not as good as this." The Other’s knife flashes and the blade feels cold and eager against his throat.
Sam grins. "That is good. But I’m better." He puts a hand on the Other’s head and concentrates. "You’re gone. You’re nothing. You’re not even a memory."
The Other writhes beneath him. "My name is Guilt and Misery and Regret and I’ll haunt you until you die."
Sam cocks his head. "Go ahead. It doesn’t matter if you follow me. I can still save those people in New Mexico."
"You couldn’t save Izzy." The Other Sam grins brightly. "And you can’t save yourself."
Sam lowers his face so that their noses almost touch. "This isn’t about saving myself. It’s about saving everyone else. The Other jerks below him and the knife slides into Sam’s throat. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t do anything. Sam smiles. "You can’t hurt me anymore," he whispers. "Your time is over."
The Other’s eyes start to roll and Sam pushes himself up and off him. "So is yours," the other Sam chokes. "They’re coming for you."
Hands reach out and pull Sam backward. Pale decomposing hands pluck at his arms and legs. "Let me go," Sam pleads, desperate, "I’ve got to get to New Mexico."
A man with a crushed misshapen head studies Sam’s face. "You can’t help them," he says and his voice sounds like dirt.
Sam stares into the man's cloudy eyes and doesn't flinch. "I can try."
ooooo
He rolls onto his side expecting to see grim faces and grasping hands, but instead there’s Dean.
Dean hooks his hands into Sam’s collar, as if he can’t quite believe Sam is here. "What the hell?" Dean demands. "What the hell was that?"
Sam pushes himself up cautiously. His whole body aches, and his mind flips through recent memories, orienting itself: riding a bike, the demons, being thrown into the field. And Izzy. Izzy died. Izzy is dead. He tries to concentrate but his thoughts are like mist and they drift away. He remembers a pain in his hand and the dream. The dream.
His stomach is filled with acid. He feels like if they don't leave right now, the chance will be gone, he'll be too late.
Do you really think there's redemption waiting for you? Second chances don't exist, Sam.
He needs to get to New Mexico, not just to save the people there, but to save Dean. And his friends. And, maybe, just maybe, himself.
ooooo
Andy's the one who lights the pyre. They stand at a respectful distance while Izzy's remains burn. Andy's crying but he doesn't bother wiping the tears away. He takes a deep breath and tries to talk through the hot ache in his throat. "Izzy loved Emily Dickinson," he says softly, "and I just wanted to...to share this poem." He risks a quick look at Dean and Dean's head bobs in encouragement.
"The bustle in a house
the morning after death
is solemnest of industries
enacted upon earth.
The sweeping up the heart
and putting love away
we shall not want to use again
until eternity."
Andy swallows. He turns away, hesitates, glances back at the fire. "I'll miss you," he whispers and walks off toward their circle of backpacks.
oooo
They leave the camp before the fire dies down. It's not just Sam who wants to get going; the air feels heavy with despair. Andy feels as if his whole body is made of lead, as if he’s sinking into the ground with each passing step. He concentrates on breathing and wonders how he'll survive. At this moment, walking through the middle of nowhere, he would sell a leg-hell, both legs-for some good weed. Even bad weed. He wants to be stoned, to forget the world for just five minutes.
"How are you?" Sam asks.
Andy jumps at the sound of Sam's voice. He pulls at his sleeves, stretches the cuffs over his hands, opens his mouth, shuts it. Tries again. "I think…I'm having some trouble dealing."
Andy watches the endless road uncoil before them. He blinks back tears. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Yeah. Of course."
"How did you...how did you survive when Jessica died?"
Sam's quiet for so long Andy thinks he's not going to answer. "I had Dean," Sam replies simply.
Andy nods and squints at the horizon. How long ago was it the Roadhouse burned? When everything started to officially go to hell? A year? Fourteen months? He wishes the Sixers had killed him along with Sarah.
He feels Sam's hand on his shoulder. "And you have us, Andy. You aren't alone."
Andy tries to smile at this unexpected kindness, but he can't. Instead he chokes out, "Thanks."
Sam keeps his hand on Andy's shoulder while they walk. Andy can't be sure, but when he looks at the road again, it doesn't seem quite as long.
ooooo
They walk until the sky turns the color of an old bruise. A faint sliver of moon pokes through a cloud; it’s getting too dark to keep traveling.
Nobody's particularly keen on stopping, but it's too dangerous to keep going. They stop on the edge of the road, their backs pressed against a rusting guardrail. Luke slumps against Craig's shoulder and closes his eyes.
Dean taps the zipper on the carry-on bag. "Anybody hungry?" he asks.
Sam shakes his head. Craig and Andy make noncommittal noises, but Luke nods. Dean passes the boy a small bag of Doritos and a granola bar.
Sam can feel Dean's gaze, but he ignores it. He's too exhausted to eat-and not just from the walking. He looks down at his hand, flexes his knuckles beneath the gauze. There's surprisingly little pain. The scars along his arm have healed into a series of pale pink worms crawling across the inside of his skin. He runs a calloused finger over them and realizes they're a map of his life, of who he is, where he's been. Every scar on his body tells a story of loss and pain. The scars are an alphabet of regret and guilt.
Something bumps Sam's knee and he adjusts his sleeve. Luke's standing in front of him. The boy regards Sam with solemn eyes.
"Hey Luke," Sam says. "How's your hand?"
Luke glances at his hand, makes a so-so gesture. He manages an embarrassed smile. Luke points at Sam's hand.
"It doesn't bother me at all, actually." Sam touches the bandage gingerly. "But I shouldn't have hurt myself. And I promised Dean I wouldn't do it anymore. I want you to promise me the same thing, okay?"
Luke looks at Sam with wide eyes and nods. He holds his hand up in a scout's honor gesture. Then he settles down beside Sam and pulls something out of his pocket. He holds the object tightly and Sam can't quite see what it is.
"What have you got there?"
Luke bites his lip and shifts his gaze to the ground. He holds up a small bottle of black nail polish.
Sam studies the bottle. "Is that the nail polish Izzy painted your nails with?" Sam asks quietly.
Luke nods.
"Does it make you feel closer to her by using it?"
Luke swallows and stares intently at the top of the bottle. He doesn't look up, but nods again. He wipes his eyes with his bandaged hand and risks a quick peek at Sam's face. He calms slightly at Sam's expression and sniffs loudly. He lifts the bottle, then gestures with it to Sam.
"You want to paint my fingernails? Like yours?"
Luke swallows. He hesitates, and a dark blush creeps up his face and the tips of his ears. Before he can respond, Sam reaches out and places his hand over Luke's. "I'd like that," Sam says gently. "I think you’re a pretty cool kid and I'd like to look as cool as you."
Luke swallows again, but he manages a half smile. Sam crosses his legs Indian style, and Luke kneels beside him. It takes a while in the growing gloom; it's no manicure, but in the end, Sam's fingernails are black. So is the skin around each nail, but he doesn't care. It makes Luke feel better, and that's what matters.
Andy moves over to Luke's other side. "Do you mind doing me next?"
Luke blinks in surprise and then he smiles, a real smile. He nods. Sam glances around for Dean, finds him trying to start a fire. "Hey Dean?"
Dean straightens up. "What?"
"Come here."
"Dude, I'm busy. Wait a sec."
"Luke needs you for a minute."
Dean ambles over. "What's up?" He takes in Sam's hands, sees Luke carefully drawing the little brush across Andy's thumbnail. He turns to Sam. "Uh, no. No way, Sam."
"It's for Izzy. It was Luke's idea."
Dean argues and throws a few snide comments around, but Sam can tell it's just for show. The minute he said it's for Izzy, Dean's cooperation was sealed.
By the time the sun sets they're all gathered around the fire. Even Craig sports painted nails. It's a sign of respect, of remembrance, and Sam thinks Izzy would laugh at them, but her laughter would hide a secret delight. Sam looks up at the sky, searching for the stars, but they’re in hiding. He pictures them with heads bowed, their light put away out of respect for the dead.
ooooo
Dean always thought he and Sam would spend time hauling ass down Old Route 66 one day. He imagined tooling down the antiquated highway, cutting a swath across flattened landscape and run-down clusters of buildings, more ghost than town. Of course, he also imagined they’d be in the Impala listening to Metallica with the windows cranked down at the time.
The last two days have been a steady slog down Interstate 40, past an endless expanse of empty plains beneath an emptier sky. For the first time in months, the air smells fresh.
Their bottled water supply is getting scarce, and Dean’s hoping they get to Amarillo before it runs out. He’s marking their progress by the number of Ranch Roads that intersect the highway. So far, they’ve passed seven in the course of their two-day journey. Dean scowls. Apparently, the Texas panhandle was a fucking wasteland even before the world ended.
Sam hasn’t said much since they left Izzy behind. He spends most of his time walking by himself, shoulders hunched, head down. Dean's been keeping pace with him, trying to draw him into conversation, but he hasn't been very successful. Every time Dean brings up Izzy, Sam shuts down, radiating a stony silence.
Andy's not much better, but Luke's attached himself to Andy's side, as if he knows his company's needed. Andy's not that much taller than the boy, and they walk together, loss mirrored in both their faces. Craig brings up the rear of their little group, his eyes watchful.
It's true that Dean misses Isobel, but he also misses Claudia, because now they really are walking in the dark, no matter what time of day it is. He's been listening-although he would never admit it-for the sound of whispers or children's voices. But there are none, not even Luke's.
ooooo
"Hi, Sam."
Sam flicks a look at Craig, nods a greeting.
"Seems like we're making pretty good time," Craig comments brightly. He inhales deeply. "Good weather, too." He waves a hand in the air. "Now all we need to do is get rid of these damned flies."
Sam grunts something noncommittal. He doesn't slow his pace. He's got nothing against Craig, but he's not in the mood for conversation.
Craig doesn't seem phased by Sam's lack of response. "It's so weird, you know?" Craig scratches his head with a rueful look. "I used to feel so overwhelmed by life. All the bills. My teaching plans. Grading papers. And now..." he shrugs. "I'd give anything to have that life back."
Sam nods absently. A sign on the side of the highway reads Interstate 40, and under that, Historic Route 66.
"So Sam, I was wondering…do you think you fulfilled your destiny?"
Craig's question perforates Sam's thoughts. It also elicits a response. "What?"
"Your destiny," Craig repeats. "Dean told me how afraid you were of becoming something different. Or evil. How you thought that was your destiny."
Sam's hands clench into fists. For the first time in weeks, he wishes for the rope inside Dean's bag, and he clasps his hands behind his back, tries to keep his breathing even. His voice is hard and smooth, like stones polished beneath a river current. "It was my destiny."
"And that's where you’re mistaken, son."
Sam stops walking. He stares at Craig. "What does that mean?"
Craig puts an arm around Sam's shoulders, encourages him to keep walking. Sam takes another step, lets Craig direct him. "I don't recall talking to you about my destiny, Professor." He nearly spits the last word, and part of him is sorry, but it's a small part, and easily shoved aside. This is not something he wants to talk about. Not with Dean, and especially not with Craig.
Craig smiles again, as if Sam's the friendliest guy in the world. "Of course you didn't," Craig agrees. "But Dean did. After Izzy died."
Sam wants to be pissed at Dean for running his mouth. He wants to be, but he's not.
"My question is, why do you think your destiny was completed the day those Sixers came for you? " Craig's voice is soft, almost tender. "Why don't you think this is what was meant to happen? That everything you've gone through was meant to lead you to this exact place, this exact time?"
Sam tries to swallow, but there's something wrong with his throat, it's too small. His head starts to ache, and he imagines that the pain is emanating from Dean's bullet. He wants to tell Craig to shut up, he wants to walk (run) away, but his mouth is silent and his feet betray him by moving forward one step at a time.
"Do you know the story of Saul?" Craig asks.
Sam's eye is on the horizon. He can't look at Craig, can't acknowledge anything Craig says, can't participate in this conversation at all. His chest tightens with something close to dread, and he struggles to croak out, "Stop."
"It's one of my favorite Bible stories," Craig says, breezing past Sam's protest. "Saul was a bad guy. He helped kill people who believed in God. He stoned them, and he made quite a name for himself while he did it. He was a monster." Craig looks at Sam, and Sam doesn't look back, but he can feel the weight of Craig's gaze pressing down on him.
"You could say he was evil," says Craig, "But one day God gets tired of Saul's behavior and sends him a message. He shines a light on Saul and everything he's done. He tells Saul to shape up if he knows what's good for him." Craig's lips curve into a slight smile. "Of course I'm paraphrasing just a bit.
"So Saul does just what God says. He changes. He changes his name to Paul and changes his ways. No more monster, no more evil. He becomes famous throughout the Holy Land for his good works and--"
Sam's tongue feels like stone but he gets it to move. "I don't have scales on my eyes, Professor. I haven’t been called by God. I'm pretty sure it's the just the opposite."
Craig snorts. "You wanna keep feeling sorry for yourself, you go ahead and think that."
"I don't feel sorry for myself," Sam hisses and it takes every ounce of his will power to keep from lashing out at Craig. "I feel sorry about what I did."
"And that's my point. Your destiny isn't about being evil, Sam. It isn't hating yourself. It's helping people. Helping Andy and Luke and myself. I think that's your real destiny. And believing anything else, believing anything less is selling yourself short."
Sam wants to scream at Craig to get away from him, to take his religion and absolution away. He can't, though, because there are tears leaking from his eye and he can't see, not just where he's going, but where he's been, what he's supposed to do. Sam yanks his arm away from Craig, but the bastard won't let go, let go, and he’s trapped.
"You’re a good boy," Craig says softly, "I can see it. You and your brother, both."
Sam shakes his head and he stumbles. Craig’s still holding on, and Sam starts to shake. His teeth start to chatter. Fuck this. Fuck Craig. "Not everything can be forgiven," he says, the words clicking between his teeth.
Craig squeezes his arm. "Yes, Sam, it can."
ooooo
"What’d he say?"
Sam sighs. "Nothing, Dean."
"Don’t give me nothing. I saw the two of you. You were getting all weepy and emo."
"That’s because I was thinking about how much time I have left traveling with you."
"Sam." But Dean grins. "You must be feeling better."
"I guess. That professor is a really…" Sam shrugs. "He’s a good guy. I’m glad we found him."
"You and me both. And, get this." Dean taps the rumpled map. "We’re almost to Amarillo."
"Good. I’m running out of water and-" The words spiral out of his head. Instead, there’s nothing but a flash of white, then a few sparks of color. The colors kaleidoscope into a vision of a small encampment.
There are three tents. At least a dozen people milling around, a cat curled up on top of a cooler, asleep. It’s twilight. The sky is pink bleeding into purple and there’s movement on the highway nearby. Two figures. One is a slender girl with long black hair. She’s smiling and her teeth are filed to points. Black leather bracelets ring each wrist and sparks roll across her knuckles. Beside her walks a demon in its pure form, the air bending and wavering from its heat.
The scene shrinks, expands and flickers like an old-fashioned home movie. A sign along the side of the road reads Tucumcari Historical Museum next right. The cat springs off the cooler, hissing, its tail a bottle brush. The Sixer brushes a hand against a tent and it erupts into flames. A woman screams, then a man. The demon leans down and picks up a shrieking boy by one leg and throws him onto the concrete. The screams spread like fire.
The colors start to contract and spin away, around and down into a single pinpoint. But the screams are just as loud.
ooooo
Sam sways and drops to the ground, landing hard on his knees. Dean yells out in shock, grabs Sam and holds him upright. He shakes Sam, calls for help. Sam’s eye is open and it rolls back and forth, tracking something only he can see. Dean holds Sam’s head steady and waits, teeth grinding in frustration. At first, he thinks Sam’s going catatonic again, but then he realizes what it is. A vision. It’s harder to recognize without Sam clutching his head in pain, but this strange silence unnerves Dean just as much.
Andy’s pacing back and forth, hands fisted into his hair. "What’s going on?" he demands. He looks rumpled and tired, as if he spent the past two nights sleeping under a car. Dean’s pretty sure the guy hasn’t had more than five hours sleep since Izzy died, and his veneer of calm is just about scraped away. He squats down and shakes Sam’s arm. "Sam. Sam?"
Dean brushes Andy away. He feels sorry for Andy, and he sure as hell understands his worry, but nobody’s shaking Sam (except maybe Dean). "Knock it off. I think he’s having a vision."
Craig pulls out his water bottle and hands it to Dean. "Is he all right?" Luke hangs back, all eyes.
Sam twitches and suddenly bolts forward, arms flailing, and lands on his hands and knees. Dean just barely avoids getting clocked in the jaw by Sam’s head. He uncaps Craig’s water bottle and holds it out. "Sammy? You okay?"
Sam blinks and gives his head a hard shake, as if he’s trying to rattle something loose, dislodge a memory. Sam reaches for the water bottle, and drinks. He coughs, drinks again. He hands the bottle back to Dean and lets himself drop backward onto his ass, pulls his knees up and scrubs hard at his face, his eye.
Andy pulls one hand out of his hair to chew at a cuticle. "Was it one of your death-vision things?"
Craig takes his bottle back and puts an arm around Luke. "You okay, Sam?"
Sam shakes his head again. Hair falls in his face and he pushes it roughly away. "I saw another camp." His voice is thin and flat, like paper. Dean can almost hear it tear. "Near Tusca-no, Tucumcari, New Mexico. There’s a demon and a Sixer. I saw at least ten people there." Sam lifts his head and turns to Dean. "They’re all going to die if we don’t help them."
Dean inhales deeply through his nose and stands. Okay then. As if there’s not enough pressure already. He brushes off his jeans and offers a hand to Sam. "Then I guess we better get going." He pulls Sam up and hands him his backpack. Sam’s hand feels clammy, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his face. What he really wants is to tell Sam to take it easy, to rest, to goddamn eat something, but he knows Sam won’t listen, won’t give his own welfare the time of day when he’s had a vision. He’s in full-on freak-out savior mode, and there’s no stopping him now. Dean walks beside him, cursing the fact that the bullet in Sam’s head didn’t kill the visions once and for all.
They haven’t even gone a hundred feet when Sam says, "There’s something else." He avoids Dean’s gaze. "I know the Sixer. Her name is…is April."
Dean studies the road, works at keeping his voice casual. "How do you know her?" He can guess, but he needs to hear it from Sam.
Sam’s shoulders hunch. "I used to. I. Before. We, uh, traveled together. I traveled with Jason the most. But her too." He ducks his head, but not before Dean gets a glimpse of his eyes. They look like twin bruises.
Maybe the fact that Sam knows her gives them an advantage. "So you have an idea of what she can do? How to stop her?"
Sam nods. He’s still looking down, and he stumbles. Dean puts a hand out to steady him, but Sam jerks away. He goes down hard on one knee, pushes himself back up. There’s a fresh hole in the knee of Sam’s jeans, a smear of blood and gravel on his skin. Dean stares. "Dude. What’s wrong? What aren’t you telling me?"
Sam beats a fist against his thigh, once, twice. "Dean. She was there." His fist connects a third time. "She was there that day. I didn’t remember. I didn’t realize. Not until the vision."
Dean feels the frustration building, but it’s no match against the worry. Sam is one tic away from breaking down. He touches Sam’s arm, stops his pounding. He asks gently, "What day?"
"When Sarah died. When I went. When I. You know." His eye slides between Dean and the ground back to Dean. "You know."
Andy crosses his arms, hugs himself. "Wait. Just wait a minute. Does she have, like, some kind of electricity thing with her hands?"
Dean tries to catch Sam’s eye but Sam won’t even look in his direction. Sam’s hands start to shake and he hooks them into his back pockets. "Yeah."
Andy stares at Sam. He opens his mouth, closes it. Hugs himself tighter. "Her teeth."
Sam looks up sharply at this. "What?"
Andy unwraps his arms and starts pacing. "There was something weird about her teeth. They were, like, sharp. Pointed."
Sam holds Andy’s gaze for another beat, then turns and starts walking. "She had her teeth filed. She thought it made her look cool."
Dean wants to make a joke, something about a dentist or some shit, until he sees the look on Sam’s face.
Sam’s expression is a dark mix of disgust, rage, and regret. "I killed people with her," Sam grits out. "I did that. And now it’s on me to stop her." His shoulders straighten, his head comes up, and he quickens his pace. "She’s not going to kill those people, Dean. She’s not going to kill anyone."
Dean hurries to catch up. He catches another glimpse of Sam's face and has to stop himself from flinching. If looks could kill, Dean figures April wouldn't stand a chance.
Author: buffyaddict13
Rating: a strong R for language and a lot of violence. some of it's fairly gory. sorry folks. the end of the world isn't a shiny happy place.
Characters/Pairings: sam, dean, andy, OCs. Gen.
Summary: The war is at hand. it’s demon against man and we’re losing the fight. the special children are wreaking havoc across the land, side by side with demons. dean is on a desperate hunt to find and save his brother while leading a small band of survivors to a final showdown.
A/N: i know you're all sick of apocafics, but I’ve had this idea in my head for a while. I think there will be at least 9 or 10 chapters to this story, and each chapter is going to be pretty longish. ginormous hugs to my beautiful, talented and sparkly wifey
kroki_refur, the bestest beta in all the land. dude. if this story is any good at all, it's because of you. and thank you to everyone who's been reading this. AND i apologize for taking so long to update. the title comes from a suzanne vega song. ALSO, after AHBL 1 and 2, this is officially 100% AU.
Disclaimer: I own nothing winchestery. sucks to be me.
So I stumble home at night
Like I've stumbled through my life
With ghosts and visions in my sight
We are always living in twilight.
--The Weepies
Chapter 7
Nothing feels real. He tells himself he’s dreaming, but he’s not, because every time Andy starts to convince himself he’s someplace safe, someplace else, Izzy’s still dead.
The hurt is so big he can barely feel it. It’s there, though, waiting patiently in the shadows to overwhelm him. It’s not just that he’s lost the woman he loved -- he’s also lost his best friend, and losing both at the same time is just too much. He wants the ground to open up and swallow him, he wants the sky to release an ocean and drown him, because this grinding sameness as every other day feels like a betrayal of the highest order. It makes his stomach hurt and his head ache and his eyes sting.
He takes a shuddering breath and wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his coat. Craig clears his throat, a little awkward. "I don’t have the proper tools…but when we get to New Mexico, I thought maybe you’d like another protective tattoo." Craig hands Andy a slip of paper.
Andy blinks up at Craig, then stares at the paper a moment, unfolds it. His eyes immediately tear up, and the image on the paper blurs and disappears. He looks up at Craig, shocked. "You’d… you’d do this for me?"
Craig nods solemnly. "I would."
Andy wipes his eyes and his nose with the palm of his hand. "I don’t know what to say. I. How." He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself. "Thank you, Professor."
Craig nods. "You’re welcome, son." He reaches down and gives Andy a gentle pat on the shoulder.
Andy refolds the paper and slips it carefully into his pocket. He wipes his eyes again and squints at Sam. He’s still catatonic. Dean’s busy digging through a backpack. Andy frowns, scanning the area. Where’s Luke?
He spots the boy crouched next to the tree Sam attacked the day before, cradling his arm. Andy pushes himself to his feet. "Luke? Are you okay?"
Andy’s shout alerts Dean and Craig and they both look up, startled. Luke tenses, as if he’s going to run, but Andy puts his hands out, palms up, and walks slowly. "It’s okay, Luke. You’re not in trouble. I just want to look at your hand, okay?" Luke stares at Andy, then shrugs and looks away.
"What’s wrong?" Dean calls.
Andy gently pushes Luke’s left hand out of the way and gapes at Luke’s right hand. The boy’s knuckles are split and his hand is bruised and bloody. "Oh Luke," Andy breathes, chest tight, "what did you do?"
Luke lifts his arm to strike the tree again, but Andy grabs him around the waist and physically carries him over to Dean. "Look," Andy says, pointing to Luke’s hand.
Craig blinks as if he’s been struck, and Dean’s face goes hard. "Luke, did you hit your hand on the tree?"
Luke stares down at his shoes, shifting from foot to foot. He glances back at Dean, then to Andy, then back at his shoes. He shrugs.
Craig kneels in front of the boy. "Luke, you can’t be doing things like this. I don’t want you to hurt yourself."
"Just because Sam did it doesn’t mean you should. Sam shouldn’t have done it either," Andy points out.
"No more punching trees," Dean tells Luke sternly, "do you understand?"
Luke nods. He leans forward and rests his head on Craig’s shoulder. Craig rubs the boy’s back, runs his hand through Luke’s hair.
Andy slumps to the ground while Dean pulls out the first aid kit. "If you so much as go near a tree I’m going to put my foot up your ass, you hear me, Gallagher?"
Andy nods and stretches out beside Sam. "I hear you."
"Andy?"
"Huh?"
"You do know you’re my friend, right?"
"I know," Andy says, and closes his eyes.
ooooo
They make their way up the stairs without further incident, and Sam opens the door out onto the eighth level. A tall black man and a big-eyed white boy cross the gloomy ramp to the elevator. They look familiar, but Sam can't quite place them. Dean pulls a newspaper clipping from his pocket and scans it. "It says five people were stabbed on the far end of the level," he says, and tucks the clipping back into his pocket.
Sam shakes his head in disgust. "Six people dead in this ramp alone? And how many more across the city?"
Dean starts checking the EMF meter. "We'll be ready."
"I don't think you will," says a voice. Sam and Dean turn in unison, both drawing their guns at the same time.
Sam Winchester regards them coldly. "I've been waiting for you," he says to Sam.
Sam stares, mouth open, heart racing. He glances at Dean. "It's a skinwalker."
The Other Sam scoffs. "I'm not a skinwalker, Sammy. I'm you."
Sam shakes his head. "No. You're not."
The Other grins, and his eyes are flecks of ice. "Yes," he whispers, "we're the same. And we killed all those people Sam. Does your brother even know he's hunting you?" The Other chuckles. "I mean us."
Sam backs away from the Other. It looks exactly like him, sounds like him, but there's a difference in the eyes, in the way it (he) carries itself, in the tone of voice.
"What's going on here, Sammy?" Dean demands, and Sam doesn't know how to answer because he has no fucking idea.
"Maybe they can help clue you in," the Other sneers, and looks behind Dean.
Sam and Dean glance back to see dozens of pale faces. Men, women and children, all dead. Dean lifts the shotgun. "Get back!" he warns.
"They don't want you," The Other says, "they want Sam. After all, he's the one that killed them."
"No!" Sam protests, a cold bead of sweat rolling down his back. "I didn't mean to. I didn’t want to hurt anyone."
"Now that sounds like a good excuse," the Other says. He lifts an eyebrow and shakes the bangs out of his face. "Do you think they'll buy it?"
Sam turns to the silent crowd, their mouths thin lines of judgment. "I'm sorry," he begins, "I didn't mean to--" he stops abruptly and looks at Dean. He needs to be strong for Dean. He turns back to the crowd. "I can't take back what I did," Sam admits. "And I'm sorry for that. I wish I could take it back. But I have a chance to save some other people-people like you-if you let me go."
"You're not going anywhere," the Other says, pulling a long knife out of a sheath attached to his belt. He holds it up for Sam to see. "Remember this? If I recall correctly, this was one of your best friends." The blade twirls in the Other's fingers, and the cold eyes flash. "Why don't you come and say hello."
"Sam!" Dean yells. "Get away from him!"
Sam shakes his head, "I can't, Dean. I need to do this."
"You need to die," the Other snarls. "That's what you need to do. Do you really think there's redemption waiting for you? Second chances don't exist, Sam. Especially not for monsters like you." The Other Sam gestures toward the silent group gathered around them. "Do you really think they want you to have a second chance?" The Other points at Sam with the knife. "I'm afraid not, Sam. Your time is up."
"Not quite." The crowd seems to ripple and fade and a figure strides through the crowd. She tips an imaginary hat to Sam. "Want some help kicking this loser's ass?" Izzy asks.
Sam’s chest aches at the sight of her. "I dreamed about you," he says in wonder. "You're Izzy."
"And you're Sam Winchester, kick-ass hunter extraordinaire," she grins. She nods to Dean. "Hey there, Dean."
Dean looks between Sam and Izzy. "I don't know what's going on," he says, brow furrowed.
"Sam has a battle he needs to win," Izzy explains. "And we're here to help him. Are you just gonna stand there and look pretty or are you gonna help?"
Dean squares his shoulders. "I’m gonna help and look pretty. I’m awesome that way."
Sam looks down at his hands and now he's holding the same knife as the Other. He doesn't know if this is real or if he's dreaming, but he knows he needs to beat this not-Sam, if it's the last thing he does.
ooooo
Andy doesn't say a word as they move Izzy's body to the edge of the field. She's away from the road and far enough from the trees that the fire won't spread. Andy stands looking down at her, and Dean searches for something profound and meaningful to say. All he comes up with is, "We were lucky to know her. She made the world a better place." He smiles, wistful. "And definitely a more interesting place, that's for sure."
Andy splutters a half sob, half laugh and nods. "Yeah. She did. She didn't just see colors, she made the colors, you know? And now...now everything just feels...dark."
"Dean." Dean glances over toward Craig.
"Sam's moving."
Dean hurries over to Sam, hoping movement equals good news. "Sam? Can you hear me?"
Sam's head turns, just a little, and his back arches. "Now what?" Dean demands. If something happens to Sam-something more than what's already happened, that is-he's packing it in. New Mexico and the world be damned. He'll just curl up by Sam's side and they can fade away together. "Whatever this is," Dean whispers, gripping Sam's good hand, "you can fight it, do you hear me? Fight it."
ooooo
The Other Sam rolls his eyes. "You think you can actually beat me? You are delusional, Sam. I always heard you were special, but I didn't realize they meant soft in the head." The Other nods toward a group of watchful ghosts. "Just look at that, Sam. And those are only a handful of the people you killed."
"Shut up!" Sam growls. "You don't know me."
"Oh please," the Other sneers. "I am you."
"Dean killed what was left of you a long time ago," Sam says, "you’re not even real."
The Other shrugs. "I’m real to you, and that’s what counts. I’m your personal ghost. These other phantoms? They’re nothing compared to me. And you can’t escape."
"You talk an awful lot for a figment of Sam’s imagination," Dean says and pulls the trigger.
The Other Sam flickers and reappears behind Dean. "You missed," he hisses in Dean’s ear, and slides the knife between Dean’s shoulder blades. Dean sways, then drops to his knees. "It’s okay," Dean says, blood foaming over his lips, "this isn’t real and you know it. He can’t beat you." Dean stares at Sam for another second and slumps to the ground.
All Sam knows is this feels real. This feels like Dean is dying before his eyes and there’s nothing he can do. This feels like he’s dying.
"You’re a real asshole," Izzy says, and throws her knife. It flies through the air with perfect precision and the blade thumps hard and deep into the Other’s chest. He staggers, but the smile never leaves his face. He pulls the knife out with a theatrical flourish and throws it back at Izzy. It embeds itself deep between her eyes. She stares at the Other and then flips him off. "I’m already dead, dickweed. You can’t kill me." She pulls the knife out and lets it fall to the floor with a clatter. "But shit, that still hurts."
Sam launches himself at his mirror image, teeth bared. He knocks him backwards, throws a heavy blow at the Other’s jaw. His jaw. The Other turns his head and spits blood onto the concrete. "Good one," he says. "But not as good as this." The Other’s knife flashes and the blade feels cold and eager against his throat.
Sam grins. "That is good. But I’m better." He puts a hand on the Other’s head and concentrates. "You’re gone. You’re nothing. You’re not even a memory."
The Other writhes beneath him. "My name is Guilt and Misery and Regret and I’ll haunt you until you die."
Sam cocks his head. "Go ahead. It doesn’t matter if you follow me. I can still save those people in New Mexico."
"You couldn’t save Izzy." The Other Sam grins brightly. "And you can’t save yourself."
Sam lowers his face so that their noses almost touch. "This isn’t about saving myself. It’s about saving everyone else. The Other jerks below him and the knife slides into Sam’s throat. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t do anything. Sam smiles. "You can’t hurt me anymore," he whispers. "Your time is over."
The Other’s eyes start to roll and Sam pushes himself up and off him. "So is yours," the other Sam chokes. "They’re coming for you."
Hands reach out and pull Sam backward. Pale decomposing hands pluck at his arms and legs. "Let me go," Sam pleads, desperate, "I’ve got to get to New Mexico."
A man with a crushed misshapen head studies Sam’s face. "You can’t help them," he says and his voice sounds like dirt.
Sam stares into the man's cloudy eyes and doesn't flinch. "I can try."
ooooo
He rolls onto his side expecting to see grim faces and grasping hands, but instead there’s Dean.
Dean hooks his hands into Sam’s collar, as if he can’t quite believe Sam is here. "What the hell?" Dean demands. "What the hell was that?"
Sam pushes himself up cautiously. His whole body aches, and his mind flips through recent memories, orienting itself: riding a bike, the demons, being thrown into the field. And Izzy. Izzy died. Izzy is dead. He tries to concentrate but his thoughts are like mist and they drift away. He remembers a pain in his hand and the dream. The dream.
His stomach is filled with acid. He feels like if they don't leave right now, the chance will be gone, he'll be too late.
Do you really think there's redemption waiting for you? Second chances don't exist, Sam.
He needs to get to New Mexico, not just to save the people there, but to save Dean. And his friends. And, maybe, just maybe, himself.
ooooo
Andy's the one who lights the pyre. They stand at a respectful distance while Izzy's remains burn. Andy's crying but he doesn't bother wiping the tears away. He takes a deep breath and tries to talk through the hot ache in his throat. "Izzy loved Emily Dickinson," he says softly, "and I just wanted to...to share this poem." He risks a quick look at Dean and Dean's head bobs in encouragement.
"The bustle in a house
the morning after death
is solemnest of industries
enacted upon earth.
The sweeping up the heart
and putting love away
we shall not want to use again
until eternity."
Andy swallows. He turns away, hesitates, glances back at the fire. "I'll miss you," he whispers and walks off toward their circle of backpacks.
oooo
They leave the camp before the fire dies down. It's not just Sam who wants to get going; the air feels heavy with despair. Andy feels as if his whole body is made of lead, as if he’s sinking into the ground with each passing step. He concentrates on breathing and wonders how he'll survive. At this moment, walking through the middle of nowhere, he would sell a leg-hell, both legs-for some good weed. Even bad weed. He wants to be stoned, to forget the world for just five minutes.
"How are you?" Sam asks.
Andy jumps at the sound of Sam's voice. He pulls at his sleeves, stretches the cuffs over his hands, opens his mouth, shuts it. Tries again. "I think…I'm having some trouble dealing."
Andy watches the endless road uncoil before them. He blinks back tears. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Yeah. Of course."
"How did you...how did you survive when Jessica died?"
Sam's quiet for so long Andy thinks he's not going to answer. "I had Dean," Sam replies simply.
Andy nods and squints at the horizon. How long ago was it the Roadhouse burned? When everything started to officially go to hell? A year? Fourteen months? He wishes the Sixers had killed him along with Sarah.
He feels Sam's hand on his shoulder. "And you have us, Andy. You aren't alone."
Andy tries to smile at this unexpected kindness, but he can't. Instead he chokes out, "Thanks."
Sam keeps his hand on Andy's shoulder while they walk. Andy can't be sure, but when he looks at the road again, it doesn't seem quite as long.
ooooo
They walk until the sky turns the color of an old bruise. A faint sliver of moon pokes through a cloud; it’s getting too dark to keep traveling.
Nobody's particularly keen on stopping, but it's too dangerous to keep going. They stop on the edge of the road, their backs pressed against a rusting guardrail. Luke slumps against Craig's shoulder and closes his eyes.
Dean taps the zipper on the carry-on bag. "Anybody hungry?" he asks.
Sam shakes his head. Craig and Andy make noncommittal noises, but Luke nods. Dean passes the boy a small bag of Doritos and a granola bar.
Sam can feel Dean's gaze, but he ignores it. He's too exhausted to eat-and not just from the walking. He looks down at his hand, flexes his knuckles beneath the gauze. There's surprisingly little pain. The scars along his arm have healed into a series of pale pink worms crawling across the inside of his skin. He runs a calloused finger over them and realizes they're a map of his life, of who he is, where he's been. Every scar on his body tells a story of loss and pain. The scars are an alphabet of regret and guilt.
Something bumps Sam's knee and he adjusts his sleeve. Luke's standing in front of him. The boy regards Sam with solemn eyes.
"Hey Luke," Sam says. "How's your hand?"
Luke glances at his hand, makes a so-so gesture. He manages an embarrassed smile. Luke points at Sam's hand.
"It doesn't bother me at all, actually." Sam touches the bandage gingerly. "But I shouldn't have hurt myself. And I promised Dean I wouldn't do it anymore. I want you to promise me the same thing, okay?"
Luke looks at Sam with wide eyes and nods. He holds his hand up in a scout's honor gesture. Then he settles down beside Sam and pulls something out of his pocket. He holds the object tightly and Sam can't quite see what it is.
"What have you got there?"
Luke bites his lip and shifts his gaze to the ground. He holds up a small bottle of black nail polish.
Sam studies the bottle. "Is that the nail polish Izzy painted your nails with?" Sam asks quietly.
Luke nods.
"Does it make you feel closer to her by using it?"
Luke swallows and stares intently at the top of the bottle. He doesn't look up, but nods again. He wipes his eyes with his bandaged hand and risks a quick peek at Sam's face. He calms slightly at Sam's expression and sniffs loudly. He lifts the bottle, then gestures with it to Sam.
"You want to paint my fingernails? Like yours?"
Luke swallows. He hesitates, and a dark blush creeps up his face and the tips of his ears. Before he can respond, Sam reaches out and places his hand over Luke's. "I'd like that," Sam says gently. "I think you’re a pretty cool kid and I'd like to look as cool as you."
Luke swallows again, but he manages a half smile. Sam crosses his legs Indian style, and Luke kneels beside him. It takes a while in the growing gloom; it's no manicure, but in the end, Sam's fingernails are black. So is the skin around each nail, but he doesn't care. It makes Luke feel better, and that's what matters.
Andy moves over to Luke's other side. "Do you mind doing me next?"
Luke blinks in surprise and then he smiles, a real smile. He nods. Sam glances around for Dean, finds him trying to start a fire. "Hey Dean?"
Dean straightens up. "What?"
"Come here."
"Dude, I'm busy. Wait a sec."
"Luke needs you for a minute."
Dean ambles over. "What's up?" He takes in Sam's hands, sees Luke carefully drawing the little brush across Andy's thumbnail. He turns to Sam. "Uh, no. No way, Sam."
"It's for Izzy. It was Luke's idea."
Dean argues and throws a few snide comments around, but Sam can tell it's just for show. The minute he said it's for Izzy, Dean's cooperation was sealed.
By the time the sun sets they're all gathered around the fire. Even Craig sports painted nails. It's a sign of respect, of remembrance, and Sam thinks Izzy would laugh at them, but her laughter would hide a secret delight. Sam looks up at the sky, searching for the stars, but they’re in hiding. He pictures them with heads bowed, their light put away out of respect for the dead.
ooooo
Dean always thought he and Sam would spend time hauling ass down Old Route 66 one day. He imagined tooling down the antiquated highway, cutting a swath across flattened landscape and run-down clusters of buildings, more ghost than town. Of course, he also imagined they’d be in the Impala listening to Metallica with the windows cranked down at the time.
The last two days have been a steady slog down Interstate 40, past an endless expanse of empty plains beneath an emptier sky. For the first time in months, the air smells fresh.
Their bottled water supply is getting scarce, and Dean’s hoping they get to Amarillo before it runs out. He’s marking their progress by the number of Ranch Roads that intersect the highway. So far, they’ve passed seven in the course of their two-day journey. Dean scowls. Apparently, the Texas panhandle was a fucking wasteland even before the world ended.
Sam hasn’t said much since they left Izzy behind. He spends most of his time walking by himself, shoulders hunched, head down. Dean's been keeping pace with him, trying to draw him into conversation, but he hasn't been very successful. Every time Dean brings up Izzy, Sam shuts down, radiating a stony silence.
Andy's not much better, but Luke's attached himself to Andy's side, as if he knows his company's needed. Andy's not that much taller than the boy, and they walk together, loss mirrored in both their faces. Craig brings up the rear of their little group, his eyes watchful.
It's true that Dean misses Isobel, but he also misses Claudia, because now they really are walking in the dark, no matter what time of day it is. He's been listening-although he would never admit it-for the sound of whispers or children's voices. But there are none, not even Luke's.
ooooo
"Hi, Sam."
Sam flicks a look at Craig, nods a greeting.
"Seems like we're making pretty good time," Craig comments brightly. He inhales deeply. "Good weather, too." He waves a hand in the air. "Now all we need to do is get rid of these damned flies."
Sam grunts something noncommittal. He doesn't slow his pace. He's got nothing against Craig, but he's not in the mood for conversation.
Craig doesn't seem phased by Sam's lack of response. "It's so weird, you know?" Craig scratches his head with a rueful look. "I used to feel so overwhelmed by life. All the bills. My teaching plans. Grading papers. And now..." he shrugs. "I'd give anything to have that life back."
Sam nods absently. A sign on the side of the highway reads Interstate 40, and under that, Historic Route 66.
"So Sam, I was wondering…do you think you fulfilled your destiny?"
Craig's question perforates Sam's thoughts. It also elicits a response. "What?"
"Your destiny," Craig repeats. "Dean told me how afraid you were of becoming something different. Or evil. How you thought that was your destiny."
Sam's hands clench into fists. For the first time in weeks, he wishes for the rope inside Dean's bag, and he clasps his hands behind his back, tries to keep his breathing even. His voice is hard and smooth, like stones polished beneath a river current. "It was my destiny."
"And that's where you’re mistaken, son."
Sam stops walking. He stares at Craig. "What does that mean?"
Craig puts an arm around Sam's shoulders, encourages him to keep walking. Sam takes another step, lets Craig direct him. "I don't recall talking to you about my destiny, Professor." He nearly spits the last word, and part of him is sorry, but it's a small part, and easily shoved aside. This is not something he wants to talk about. Not with Dean, and especially not with Craig.
Craig smiles again, as if Sam's the friendliest guy in the world. "Of course you didn't," Craig agrees. "But Dean did. After Izzy died."
Sam wants to be pissed at Dean for running his mouth. He wants to be, but he's not.
"My question is, why do you think your destiny was completed the day those Sixers came for you? " Craig's voice is soft, almost tender. "Why don't you think this is what was meant to happen? That everything you've gone through was meant to lead you to this exact place, this exact time?"
Sam tries to swallow, but there's something wrong with his throat, it's too small. His head starts to ache, and he imagines that the pain is emanating from Dean's bullet. He wants to tell Craig to shut up, he wants to walk (run) away, but his mouth is silent and his feet betray him by moving forward one step at a time.
"Do you know the story of Saul?" Craig asks.
Sam's eye is on the horizon. He can't look at Craig, can't acknowledge anything Craig says, can't participate in this conversation at all. His chest tightens with something close to dread, and he struggles to croak out, "Stop."
"It's one of my favorite Bible stories," Craig says, breezing past Sam's protest. "Saul was a bad guy. He helped kill people who believed in God. He stoned them, and he made quite a name for himself while he did it. He was a monster." Craig looks at Sam, and Sam doesn't look back, but he can feel the weight of Craig's gaze pressing down on him.
"You could say he was evil," says Craig, "But one day God gets tired of Saul's behavior and sends him a message. He shines a light on Saul and everything he's done. He tells Saul to shape up if he knows what's good for him." Craig's lips curve into a slight smile. "Of course I'm paraphrasing just a bit.
"So Saul does just what God says. He changes. He changes his name to Paul and changes his ways. No more monster, no more evil. He becomes famous throughout the Holy Land for his good works and--"
Sam's tongue feels like stone but he gets it to move. "I don't have scales on my eyes, Professor. I haven’t been called by God. I'm pretty sure it's the just the opposite."
Craig snorts. "You wanna keep feeling sorry for yourself, you go ahead and think that."
"I don't feel sorry for myself," Sam hisses and it takes every ounce of his will power to keep from lashing out at Craig. "I feel sorry about what I did."
"And that's my point. Your destiny isn't about being evil, Sam. It isn't hating yourself. It's helping people. Helping Andy and Luke and myself. I think that's your real destiny. And believing anything else, believing anything less is selling yourself short."
Sam wants to scream at Craig to get away from him, to take his religion and absolution away. He can't, though, because there are tears leaking from his eye and he can't see, not just where he's going, but where he's been, what he's supposed to do. Sam yanks his arm away from Craig, but the bastard won't let go, let go, and he’s trapped.
"You’re a good boy," Craig says softly, "I can see it. You and your brother, both."
Sam shakes his head and he stumbles. Craig’s still holding on, and Sam starts to shake. His teeth start to chatter. Fuck this. Fuck Craig. "Not everything can be forgiven," he says, the words clicking between his teeth.
Craig squeezes his arm. "Yes, Sam, it can."
ooooo
"What’d he say?"
Sam sighs. "Nothing, Dean."
"Don’t give me nothing. I saw the two of you. You were getting all weepy and emo."
"That’s because I was thinking about how much time I have left traveling with you."
"Sam." But Dean grins. "You must be feeling better."
"I guess. That professor is a really…" Sam shrugs. "He’s a good guy. I’m glad we found him."
"You and me both. And, get this." Dean taps the rumpled map. "We’re almost to Amarillo."
"Good. I’m running out of water and-" The words spiral out of his head. Instead, there’s nothing but a flash of white, then a few sparks of color. The colors kaleidoscope into a vision of a small encampment.
There are three tents. At least a dozen people milling around, a cat curled up on top of a cooler, asleep. It’s twilight. The sky is pink bleeding into purple and there’s movement on the highway nearby. Two figures. One is a slender girl with long black hair. She’s smiling and her teeth are filed to points. Black leather bracelets ring each wrist and sparks roll across her knuckles. Beside her walks a demon in its pure form, the air bending and wavering from its heat.
The scene shrinks, expands and flickers like an old-fashioned home movie. A sign along the side of the road reads Tucumcari Historical Museum next right. The cat springs off the cooler, hissing, its tail a bottle brush. The Sixer brushes a hand against a tent and it erupts into flames. A woman screams, then a man. The demon leans down and picks up a shrieking boy by one leg and throws him onto the concrete. The screams spread like fire.
The colors start to contract and spin away, around and down into a single pinpoint. But the screams are just as loud.
ooooo
Sam sways and drops to the ground, landing hard on his knees. Dean yells out in shock, grabs Sam and holds him upright. He shakes Sam, calls for help. Sam’s eye is open and it rolls back and forth, tracking something only he can see. Dean holds Sam’s head steady and waits, teeth grinding in frustration. At first, he thinks Sam’s going catatonic again, but then he realizes what it is. A vision. It’s harder to recognize without Sam clutching his head in pain, but this strange silence unnerves Dean just as much.
Andy’s pacing back and forth, hands fisted into his hair. "What’s going on?" he demands. He looks rumpled and tired, as if he spent the past two nights sleeping under a car. Dean’s pretty sure the guy hasn’t had more than five hours sleep since Izzy died, and his veneer of calm is just about scraped away. He squats down and shakes Sam’s arm. "Sam. Sam?"
Dean brushes Andy away. He feels sorry for Andy, and he sure as hell understands his worry, but nobody’s shaking Sam (except maybe Dean). "Knock it off. I think he’s having a vision."
Craig pulls out his water bottle and hands it to Dean. "Is he all right?" Luke hangs back, all eyes.
Sam twitches and suddenly bolts forward, arms flailing, and lands on his hands and knees. Dean just barely avoids getting clocked in the jaw by Sam’s head. He uncaps Craig’s water bottle and holds it out. "Sammy? You okay?"
Sam blinks and gives his head a hard shake, as if he’s trying to rattle something loose, dislodge a memory. Sam reaches for the water bottle, and drinks. He coughs, drinks again. He hands the bottle back to Dean and lets himself drop backward onto his ass, pulls his knees up and scrubs hard at his face, his eye.
Andy pulls one hand out of his hair to chew at a cuticle. "Was it one of your death-vision things?"
Craig takes his bottle back and puts an arm around Luke. "You okay, Sam?"
Sam shakes his head again. Hair falls in his face and he pushes it roughly away. "I saw another camp." His voice is thin and flat, like paper. Dean can almost hear it tear. "Near Tusca-no, Tucumcari, New Mexico. There’s a demon and a Sixer. I saw at least ten people there." Sam lifts his head and turns to Dean. "They’re all going to die if we don’t help them."
Dean inhales deeply through his nose and stands. Okay then. As if there’s not enough pressure already. He brushes off his jeans and offers a hand to Sam. "Then I guess we better get going." He pulls Sam up and hands him his backpack. Sam’s hand feels clammy, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his face. What he really wants is to tell Sam to take it easy, to rest, to goddamn eat something, but he knows Sam won’t listen, won’t give his own welfare the time of day when he’s had a vision. He’s in full-on freak-out savior mode, and there’s no stopping him now. Dean walks beside him, cursing the fact that the bullet in Sam’s head didn’t kill the visions once and for all.
They haven’t even gone a hundred feet when Sam says, "There’s something else." He avoids Dean’s gaze. "I know the Sixer. Her name is…is April."
Dean studies the road, works at keeping his voice casual. "How do you know her?" He can guess, but he needs to hear it from Sam.
Sam’s shoulders hunch. "I used to. I. Before. We, uh, traveled together. I traveled with Jason the most. But her too." He ducks his head, but not before Dean gets a glimpse of his eyes. They look like twin bruises.
Maybe the fact that Sam knows her gives them an advantage. "So you have an idea of what she can do? How to stop her?"
Sam nods. He’s still looking down, and he stumbles. Dean puts a hand out to steady him, but Sam jerks away. He goes down hard on one knee, pushes himself back up. There’s a fresh hole in the knee of Sam’s jeans, a smear of blood and gravel on his skin. Dean stares. "Dude. What’s wrong? What aren’t you telling me?"
Sam beats a fist against his thigh, once, twice. "Dean. She was there." His fist connects a third time. "She was there that day. I didn’t remember. I didn’t realize. Not until the vision."
Dean feels the frustration building, but it’s no match against the worry. Sam is one tic away from breaking down. He touches Sam’s arm, stops his pounding. He asks gently, "What day?"
"When Sarah died. When I went. When I. You know." His eye slides between Dean and the ground back to Dean. "You know."
Andy crosses his arms, hugs himself. "Wait. Just wait a minute. Does she have, like, some kind of electricity thing with her hands?"
Dean tries to catch Sam’s eye but Sam won’t even look in his direction. Sam’s hands start to shake and he hooks them into his back pockets. "Yeah."
Andy stares at Sam. He opens his mouth, closes it. Hugs himself tighter. "Her teeth."
Sam looks up sharply at this. "What?"
Andy unwraps his arms and starts pacing. "There was something weird about her teeth. They were, like, sharp. Pointed."
Sam holds Andy’s gaze for another beat, then turns and starts walking. "She had her teeth filed. She thought it made her look cool."
Dean wants to make a joke, something about a dentist or some shit, until he sees the look on Sam’s face.
Sam’s expression is a dark mix of disgust, rage, and regret. "I killed people with her," Sam grits out. "I did that. And now it’s on me to stop her." His shoulders straighten, his head comes up, and he quickens his pace. "She’s not going to kill those people, Dean. She’s not going to kill anyone."
Dean hurries to catch up. He catches another glimpse of Sam's face and has to stop himself from flinching. If looks could kill, Dean figures April wouldn't stand a chance.