When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 8/12

[buffyaddict13]

Title: When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 8/12
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 10 chapters to this story, and each chapter is going to be pretty longish. my beautiful and sparkly wifey 
kroki_refurwasn't able to beta so 
pizzapixiestepped in for emergency beta duty. thank you very much sweetie! i really appreciate your help!  and i apologize profusely for the huge delay between posts. i promise the rest of the chapters will won't take so long. 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.

Chapter 8

Dean read somewhere that Amarillo used to be called the Yellow Rose of Texas. Standing outside a gutted Winn-Dixie supermarket, Dean figures the rose is dead. There are a few bodies lying amidst the ashes of a crumpled Landry’s Seafood House across the street. Craig blocks Luke's view of the charred remains and they end up inside a Super Target. The store's been looted and it reeks of what Dean hopes are spoiled groceries. Sam and Dean make their way inside and come back out toting water bottles, candy bars and socks. Dean wants to stay longer, but Sam's gaze keeps flicking back toward the highway. He never says hurry up, doesn't push anyone to go faster, but the way Sam bites his lower lip bloody is louder than a shout.

An old Chevy Malibu sits abandoned at the base of the on-ramp to I-80. There's a rusty trail of blood leading from the backseat to a discarded child's car seat lying on the grass. A lonely rattle in the shape of a smiling dog lies inside the seat. The whole scene makes Dean think of the road outside Rivergrove.

"Hold on a sec," Dean says, and opens the driver's side door. The keys are still in the ignition, and a faint bing bing bing chimes out at them. Dean knows enough not to hope, but still, the keys are right there, and the battery works, so he might as well see if it'll start. Sam walks around to the passenger side and pulls the door open. He looks in at Dean and nods. Go ahead. One hand on the steering wheel, the other on the key, and a wave of deja vu sweeps over him. He feels a momentary pang for his departed Impala. He shakes his head, wonders if he and Sam can drive down Route 66 after all. "Here goes nothing," Dean mutters and turns the key.

The engine sputters, coughs. Dean grips the wheel tighter, his palms slick with sweat. Come on, come on, he thinks, and it's as close to a prayer as he’s going to get. The car coughs again, the engine squeals in protest. And then it turns over and roars to life. The car thrums beneath Dean and he thinks holy shit. Sam grins and pats the roof of the car. "All right!" He folds himself into the passenger seat with a grunt and Dean thinks it’s the best sound he's heard in forever.

There's over half a tank of gas. Dean feels like a fucking king. Andy slides into the backseat and Craig climbs in behind Dean. He motions for Luke to follow but the boy doesn’t move. He stands motionless on the edge of the concrete, staring. Craig leans forward and peers out at the boy. "Luke? Come on, kiddo."

Luke takes a step backward, eyes squeezed shut. He makes a high-pitched noise of protest and shakes his head rapidly back and forth. Sam and Craig exit the car immediately, worry etched across their faces. Dean drops his head onto the steering wheel. He recalls Craig’s story about how Luke and his mother had been trapped in a car. No wonder the boy is afraid. He lifts his head and watches Sam kneel in front of Luke.

"I know you’re afraid," Sam says, his voice gentle. "And that’s okay. I’m afraid too. But my brother keeps me safe." Sam puts a hand on each of Luke’s shoulders. "And we’re going to keep you safe." Luke opens his eyes, tears leaking freely down his face. He blinks at Sam, wipes his nose.

At Sam’s words, Dean’s chest feels too tight for his ribs. He discovers he’s smiling and he feels guilty because Luke is freaking out and things are shitty, but he can’t help it. My brother keeps me safe. He scratches his forehead, rubs his chin. I try Sammy. Sometimes I fuck it up, but I always try.

"I had a vision of some people who might get hurt by a demon. Like you and your mom," Sam continues. "And I think we can help them. But not if we get there too late." He reaches for Luke’s hand. "I can’t promise that I can always keep you safe. But I can promise I’ll do everything in my power to try, Luke. Everything. We all will."

Dean doesn’t like the direction Sam’s conversation is going . He wants to pick Luke up and stuff him in the backseat next to Andy. Dean’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror. Andy’s watching the scene unfold through the window, nervously chewing on the side of his thumb.

"Please Luke," Craig says. "Do you think you can help save those people?"

Luke shivers slightly, looking from Sam to Dean. He nods, hesitant at first, then more self-assured. Still holding Sam’s hand, he walks slowly to the car, sneakers dragging. But he gets in. He wipes his face on the hem of his shirt and leans against Craig’s shoulder.

Dean grips the steering wheel until his fingers ache. Luke shouldn’t have to be afraid to get in a car. Sam shouldn’t have to look like he’s dying inside. Izzy shouldn’t be dead. But he can’t change any of it. All he can do is drive. So he puts his foot down on the gas.

ooooo

Dean won’t go faster than thirty-five miles an hour. If this weren't the end of the world, if he wasn't in a car where bloody fingerprints form grim constellations on the dashboard, Sam might say something. But it's not safe to go faster. Abandoned cars loom periodically. Some look new, some are missing doors, some are nothing but steel frames and an engine block. But all of them are empty. A mile outside of Amarillo they pass a huge hole on the side of the road. Sam squints out the window, forehead pressed to the glass. He sees the single wooden cross propped against the pile of dirt. A mass grave. Dean's concentrating on not hitting the twisted skeleton of a motorcycle and Sam doesn’t say a word.

His head is pounding and it feels like his intestines are being crushed. The pressure in his skull is building, he half expects brain fluid to start leaking from his ruined eye socket, or maybe his ears. He leans forward, elbows on knees, and cradles his head.

He can still hear April's voice. The Commander likes you best, she says, her head cocked to one side. She’s like a cat, sleek and feral. I think I do too. She slips a hand into the front pocket of his jeans, pulls him closer. How about I show you?

Sam's eyes squeeze shut and he struggles to push the memory away. It’s made of lead and won’t go. It sits heavy in his gut, mocking him, the feel of her hands on his chest, her tongue, her teeth needling his skin. When he feels a hand on his shoulder he nearly flattens himself against the door. Dean’s watching him, face full of concern. "What’s wrong?"

Sam tries to smile, but it feels wrong and broken so he ducks his head. "Nothing. I’m just…" he struggles for the right word. Sick. Broken. Tired. So fucking tired. But this isn’t the time for truth. It never is. He shrugs. "I’m just worried about getting there on time, you know? I want to save them." The last part is true at least.

Dean turns his gaze back to the road, but leaves his hand on Sam. He nods. "We all do, Sam."

Sam knows Dean doesn’t believe him. He can read Dean just as well as Dean can read him, but they both let it go. This isn’t the time to admit fear. Not when everyone else in the car is just as scared. Sam’s eyes flick back to the rearview mirror. Luke is watching him. Sam winks at the boy. He smiles again, and this time he almost means it.

ooooo

They’re getting close now. Sam can tell. Not because of the finger of distant smoke, or the road sign announcing Tucumcari is five miles away. Not because of the crushing silence in the car or the way the gas needle sinks lower. Not because of the way shadows press dark hands against the landscape. He knows they’re getting closer because of the pounding in his head, from the liquid fear in his belly. Each drum beat of pain through his skull feels (sounds) like too late. He keeps his gaze out the window, because he can’t risk Dean seeing his face. If Dean sees him he might break, the careful facade of control, strength, together will splinter and crack and he’ll bleed guilt and terror all over the car. One hand grips the car handle tight enough to make his knuckles ache, the other rubs at the base of his neck, fruitlessly trying to ease the tension knotted just below the skin.

And then, the tension is gone. Just like that. He can breathe. His head is quiet. His stomach unclenches. Because the finger of smoke is no longer a finger, it’s an arm and the screams aren’t just in his mind, they’re whistling up into the sky, ricocheting off the car, yanking his car door open. The car is still moving and Dean is screaming at him--what the fuck? Sam! Sam, no wait just wait what are you-and his feet hit pavement and he’s running. Adrenaline speeds him across the macadam and into the camp.

There’s a squeal of tires and the sound of doors opening and more feet running. "Sam!" This time it’s Andy’s voice but there’s no time to answer because there’s a square of tent right there and fire and screams. He’s always running (out of time) away, but this time he’s running toward. This time he’ll save lives instead of end them. The sound of gun safeties clicking off and muttered Latin threads its way into his brain, and it brings him comfort. It’s a familiar sound, the sound of his childhood, the sound of his life, the sound of Dean. It’s funny how a sound that used to make him sick with resentment now sounds like home.

Sam can see the whole encampment. Time finally stops, waits, and holds him in one still palm. It’s twilight. The sky is pink bleeding into purple and Sam sees the two figures amongst the chaos. 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.

A girl with blond hair crawls out of burning tent, her leg bleeding, desperately pulling a glassy-eyed man by the hem of his shirt. The demon holds a woman by the neck, shaking her like a broken doll. A black woman points a sawed-off shotgun at the demon and aims, one eye squeezed shut. April reaches toward a balding man, her hands sparking blue death.

A hand encircles Sam’s wrist. He doesn’t turn his head because he knows its Andy. A shoulder bumps into him on his right, and it’s Dean. Sam breathes in, breathes out. And then he shouts, his voice arching up and over the surrounding tumult: "Stop."

Time restarts. He can feel the heat of the fire, smell the stink of burnt flesh and fear. April turns away from the terrified man and scans the faces until her eyes find Sam. Her face glows in the orange light. "I thought you’d never get here," she says, and smiles.

ooooo

They stare at each other. April is still smiling. Sam is impassive. Dean wishes Sam would hurry up and work his magic mojo because that bitch gives him the fucking creeps. His finger is itching to pull the trigger. Craig is half way through the exorcism and Luke stands guard next to the professor, a white-knuckled grip on his baseball bat. The demon growls and with a speed Dean can’t fathom, throws the woman he’s holding onto the ground and plucks a boy from inside a tent. The demon lifts the boy high over his head. The boy shrieks endlessly, arms flailing and Dean adjusts his aim and shoots the demon. The bullet does nothing more than knock the demon back two steps; it’s still gripping the boy and his panicked screams spiral higher, into animalistic cries.

The woman with the sawed-off shotgun darts past April and blasts the demon. "Put him down you fucking piece of shit," she calls, "put him down or I’ll kill you."

The demon’s face twists and Dean can see the semblance of a smile. It lifts the boy above its glowing head and-

"Stop." This time Andy’s voice rises on the wind and the demon hesitates.

ooooo

Sam lifts an arm and the boy is pulled from the demon’s grip, still shrieking. The black woman drops the shotgun and lunges for the boy. They both tumble to the ground, shaken but intact. April claps her hands, a wide smile on her face. Her teeth are white nails. "Very nice," she tells Sam. "Impressive. You’ve got a sexy pirate look going on."

Sam doesn’t react; he’s concentrating on holding the demon back. He can hear Craig cycling through the ring of Latin words, it’s almost over. He counts down in his head, ten nine eight. Dean shifts beside him, all nervous energy. Seven six five. Andy’s fingers grip his wrist tighter, he can feel (taste) Andy’s fear. Four three two.

Craig shouts the last syllable.

The demon flinches.

One.

It screams, and then it’s gone, bursting into flames and then nothing. A nearby tent catches fire, and the air around them seems to boil, he’s breathing liquid heat.

April steps toward them. "Are you done with the special effects? Is it my turn now?" Her tongue flicks out over her bottom lip. "I seem to remember you liked the things I did."

Sam shakes his head. "You don’t have to do this."

She laughs. "Do what? Be myself? You’d rather I turned back into a piece of shit nothing like you?" The laughter dies and her face goes hard. "You were his favorite, Sam. His favorite. And you threw that away. For what?" She gestures toward Dean. "For him? For a few humans? Their bones break like sticks. It’s like holding onto dust." She lifts a hand toward him, beseeching. "Wipe the dust from your fingers and come back to us. We’re waiting. He’s waiting."

"I’m human," Sam says. "So are you. Does that make you dust too?"

April shakes her head, impatient. "We’re more. We’re the chosen ones." Her hands spark. "Is this human?"

"Yes," Sam insists. "We’re not demons. We might be special, but we’re just people, April. That’s all. Humanity is what matters," he says, his voice like ash. "What happened to yours?"

April laughs derisively. "Really, Samuel. Do you hear yourself? It’s embarrassing." She flexes her knuckles and electricity crackles. "I’m going to like killing you." Her eyes narrow and she spits at him. "Traitor."

Sam nods and Dean takes the signal. He aims for April’s eye and squeezes the trigger. And April sidesteps. Dean emits a low growl. "How’d the fuck she do that?" he demands.

"Get on the ground," Andy shouts at her.

April glares at Dean for a long moment. "You’re not as good as you think you are." Her voice is soft, but it carries over the crackling flames.

"And you talk too much," Dean says. "Oh, and a word of advice. You have got to see a dentist. Those teeth are fugly."

April turns her glare on Andy. Slowly, she rearranges her face into a smile. "Andrew. Long time no see."

"Get on the ground," Andy thunders, steel in his voice.

April rolls her eyes. "Why don’t you," she retorts. The movement is a flash and before Sam’s eyes can register what’s happening, Andy lets go of his wrist and he’s falling backwards, a knife protruding from his chest.

April laughs. She moves (dances) to the cowering man and touches his forehead. Electricity sparks across his skin, into his eyes and through his wispy gray hair. He shrieks and convulses, dead before he hits the ground.

Sam screams. He can feel the pressure in his throat, feel the ache in his head, but he can’t hear it. All he hears is the sound of Dean’s voice yelling at Andy-it’s gonna be okay, look at me, Andy, look at me. The dead man watches him dispassionately from the ground, his eyes gone cloudy. April might have killed him, but it’s Sam’s fault. He should have been here sooner. How many others are dead? There’s a body beside the third tent. A woman lies on a torn sleeping bag, one pale hand outstretched, palm up, fingers curled. A water lily floating across blue nylon.

"I can help you," Sam tells April.

"I don’t need your help," April spits. She throws another knife and Sam’s hand shoots out to ward it off. The knife clatters harmlessly against a crushed aluminum chair. She stares at Sam, eyes narrowed. "How did you do that?"

"Let me help you," Sam repeats.

April shakes her head. "I have power, now," she says. "I don’t need your help. I’m in control."

"Not as long as you do what he says."

"He’s the Commander. Your Commander," April hisses.

"He’s not, April," Sam tells her. "He’s a demon. He’s nothing. I’m going to destroy him."

April scowls and throws another knife. This time Sam catches it. He doesn’t have time to wonder how he did it, doesn’t care how he did it. All he knows is that the knife handle is in his hand. He looks at it, then at April. "You can’t hurt me," he tells her. "Please. Let me help you."

A three-legged cat runs past them, ears pressed flat against its head, hissing. Sam can hear the little boy crying nearby and whispered words of comfort from the black woman. He can hear Andy screaming in pain, but he can’t concentrate on any of it because April’s running straight at him, hands outstretched, mouth stretched into a snarl.

ooooo

Andy’s fingers scrabble at the knife hilt. "Oh God get it out, get it out," he begs, hysteria spilling through the edges of each word. Dean grimaces. He’s not looking forward to pulling it out.

"Take it out," Craig says, "I’ll apply pressure." He smiles at Andy. "You’ll be okay, son."

Andy watches Craig with leaking eyes. "If I die, maybe I’ll see her." A tear spills down his face. He reaches for Dean’s sleeve. "I want to see her, Dean. I want Izzy."

Dean swallows, stomps down the fear as best he can, but it’s bitter and constant and it goes down harder each time. "You’re not going anywhere, Andy. You’re stuck with us. So just shut up and breathe, okay?" Dean wraps his hand around the hilt and exhales loudly. "Here we go," he says, and pulls. Andy screams, eyes streaming and Craig presses hard on the wound.

"It fucking hurts," Andy grits.

The good news is Andy’s breathing seems okay. The wound looks bad, but Craig’s pressure keeps the bleeding under control. Dean risks a quick look behind Craig. That’s when he sees Luke’s baseball lying abandoned on the ground. Luke is gone.

ooooo

Sam can hear the girl crying. Between sobs she pleads with her father to open his eyes. He can also hear Dean yelling at April, -away from him you bitch!

The sound of a rifle reloading and a woman’s voice, I’ve got her!

Don’t you dare! Do not pull that trigger, that’s my brother!

April launches herself at him and they both hit the ground hard. Her hands grip his head and he can hear the hum of her power, smell the smoke as it wafts off his hair. But there’s no pain. Sam feels as if he’s vibrating, as if the world is trying to throw him off, pry him loose and send him hurtling into space. He automatically grabs for April and holds on, one hand on each side of her face. "Let me help you." He can’t tell if the words are inside his head or out.

"You’re nothing," April screams. "Did you really think you’d get to New Mexico? Do you think the Commander doesn’t know what you’re doing? He’s going to kill everyone there. You’re too late."

Sam closes his eyes and tries to ignore the buzzing in his ears. Behind his eyes. "It’s going to be okay." He can sense the switch in her head. Not a door, but a window. He reaches out with his mind and slams the window shut, locks it. The sparks on his skin go out.

April’s eyes lock onto his. All the fury goes out of her face. She snaps her teeth together with an audible click. She blinks and goes still. Sam rolls onto his knees warily. He pats at his face, his hair. His skin feels dry and sunburned. His hair feels singed, it’s still smoking. "April?"

ooooo

Dean yanks the shotgun from the woman’s hands and tosses it away.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" she yells. "I had a clean shot!"

"Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t," Dean grates back, "but I’m not risking my brother’s life on your aim."

"It looks to me like your brother is a fucking Sixer!" she shrieks and aims a punch at Dean’s shoulder.

Dean sidesteps and grabs her arms, presses them hard against her body. "My brother is saving our lives," he hisses. "Maybe you could say thank you without a bullet." Dean lowers his face next to hers. "Not all Sixers are psychopaths working with the demons." He lets her go. "You remember that."

The woman staggers backward, staring. "What?"

"Dean!"

Dean turns to see Sam on his knees. His hair looks like shit but that’s nothing new. His face is red and peeling in a few spots, but he’s in one piece. And April’s just lying there. Thank God. Dean claps a hand on his brother’s shoulder. "You did it, Sammy!"

Sam’s shoulders hunch and he looks down at April.

"Where’s Luke?" Craig calls. "I can’t find Luke!"

Dean spins in a slow circle, checking the ruined tents and detritus spread across the camp. "Luke!" Dean yells. There’s no answer. He tries again, heart beating faster. "Luke!"

"Over here," says a soft voice. A blond girl walks toward him, supporting Luke. The left leg of the boy’s jeans is stained with blood.

ooooo

April’s eyes flutter open and Sam thinks of butterflies. Once he and Jess had a picnic in a park near Stanford and there had been Monarch butterflies. The flowers had been alive with them. He and Jess had lain on their backs watching the butterflies dance beneath lazy clouds. Sam’s heart stutters and he feels a pain so deep he can’t (doesn't want to) breathe. He wants that day back. He wants those butterflies. He wants to feel Jessica’s hand in his. But that day, that life is gone. Instead he’s surrounded by (brings) death. April’s face looks different now. She looks older, broken, her eyes jitter in their sockets.

Sam remembers the feel of linoleum against his back after Dean shot him. He remembers Dean holding him while he screamed. He can remember the heat of the bullet, and the knowledge of everything he had done closing in. He remembers the crushing disappointment that the bullet didn’t kill him. Now, he grabs April’s hand and holds it. He squeezes. "It’ll be okay," he says.

April’s chest heaves and Sam realizes she’s laughing. She chokes and rolls onto her side. "Okay?" she gasps. "Nothing…is…okay. Nothing will…ever be okay."

Sam brushes black cobwebs of hair from her face. "I’ll help you," he says. It’s a promise.

The choked laughter dies away and April’s voice drops to a whisper. "You should have killed me," she says. "I should be dead." Her voice becomes a wail. "The things I’ve done. Oh my God. Oh shit, Sam. I can’t. No. No."

He’ll help her. He will. If he can get over what he’s done, so can she. It’s a lie, he’s not over it, he’s still under it, buried, but he’s trying and surely that counts for something. And if he can try, so can she. If she can help them fight, if she can stand beside him and Andy, it will all be worth it.

"You can make up for what you did," he tells her.

April closes her eyes. "It’s too late."

"It’s never too late," Sam insists. He grips her hand harder. "April. Really. I’ll help you. Me and Andy both." He’s not really sure about Andy, but he needs to convince her there’s hope, that she can get through this. She can.

April pulls her hand free and covers her face. "It’s too late," she repeats, her voice muffled from behind her hands. Her fingernails are painted black and it makes him think of Isobel. He’s still looking at her fingers when the sparks begin to dance across her skin.

ooooo

Dean picks up Luke and carries him over to Craig in a few quick steps. The woman with the sawed-off shotgun follows. Her coffee-colored skin shines with sweat; her dark hair is swept up in a loose ponytail. "Watch out," she says, "I can help. I’m good at stitches."

Dean gives her a look. "Are you a doctor?"

She flashes a rueful smile. "I’m a vet."

"He’s not a dog," Dean snaps.

The woman’s smile turns icy. "No, but you’re a jackass."

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up and he chuckles in spite of himself. "Huh. That was pretty good," he concedes. He holds out a hand. "My name’s Dean."

The woman takes it and her grip is firm. "I’m Vanessa. Nessa for short." She points to the little tow-headed boy shadowing her. "This is Owen."

Dean offers the boy a quick smile, then turns to Luke. "You okay buddy?" Luke nods, but his face is pinched. Dean notices the slender blond girl is still holding Luke’s hand. "What happened?"

The girl is a good head taller than Luke, and very thin. She’ll all elbows, knees and neck. Her blond hair is dark and oily and twisted into two braids. She’s wearing wire-rim glasses that look too big for her face. "I was running from the demon-trying to get my dad away, you know? And I tripped and I think I blacked out or something because the next thing I know, he-" she nods toward Luke, "-was helping me up but his leg was bleeding and I didn’t know what to do, you know?" Her eyes dart from face to face, never settling on anyone long enough for eye contact.

"Julie, where’s your dad?" Nessa asks, peering through the semi-darkness. "Is he okay?"

"He’s sitting with Tripod waiting for my mom."

Dean has no idea what the girl’s dad is doing with a tripod, but it’s not worth asking about because Andy needs help. "Nessa? I need you to take a look at my friend Andy. That bitch stabbed him."

Nessa doesn’t hesitate. "Show me," she demands, and Dean brings her to Andy. Craig’s still with him, but it’s clear he’s anxious about Luke.

"Luke’s fine, he just needs some stitches," Dean tells him. "Can you clean his wound? That kid, Julie can help you. I need to light a fire and pour a salt circle."

"What’s a salt circle?" Nessa asks.

"Are you kidding? It’s-" Sam’s anguished cry freezes the words in Dean’s throat.

One of the tents is still smoldering and there’s enough light to make out the two figures on the ground. He can smell burning hair and something else, something worse. Shit. "Sam!" he cries. "Answer me!" Dean stumbles to an abrupt stop when he reaches them. Sam’s holding one of April’s hands between his own and April’s face is wreathed in smoke. He can just make out blisters and ruined skin and her eyes are-

Dean spins away and tries hard not to vomit. He plants a hand on each thigh and focuses on two things: his boots and breathing.

"I couldn’t save her," Sam whispers. "I tried. I told her I could help her and she…she…" his words trail off into a choking sound.

Dean squats next to him. "You stopped her, Sam. You saved lives. And you tried to save her. That’s what matters."

Sam shakes his head. "I couldn’t save her," Sam repeats. "I didn’t. I. Why does this keep happening?"

"Sammy. Listen to me. You did save people. There’s a girl and a little boy and a vet and an older guy here. That’s four people."

Sam shrugs Dean’s arm off. "And how many are dead? April. At least two more. We don’t even know."

"Come on, don’t do this. April made her decision. You tried to stop her, Sam, you did. And that’s all you can do. "

Sam turns away. "How’s Andy? Is he okay?"

"I think so. The knife didn’t hit his lungs, and there’s a…doctor working on him right now. You know Andy, he’s a tougher than he looks. He’ll be back on his feet before you know it. He’s probably dreaming of a giant bong right now."

Sam doesn’t answer. He’s looking at his hands and it takes Dean a minute to figure out why. His palms are wet with April’s blood. "I’m tired, Dean," he says. "I’m so tired."

"I know," Dean says. He sinks onto the grass beside Sam. He wants to say something to make this better. To make Sam better. But there are no words like that left and he’s sick of lying. So he tells the truth. "So am I."

ooooo

Dean spends the next half hour trying to coax a conversation out of Sam. But Sam won’t budge, physically or verbally. Dean can practically see him pulling the silence around him like a blanket. By the time Dean’s leg falls asleep he’s had enough. "I’ll be back," Dean promises and shakes his leg, trying to get rid of the pins and needles. Sam doesn’t respond and Dean rubs at his forehead, defeated.

By the time he has a decent fire built and gets Craig to help him make the salt circle, Andy’s stitched up and sleeping. Nessa confirms he’ll be okay and relief slams through him like a ten-foot wave. Thank God. Luke’s leg is bandaged and Julie informs him he had seven stitches.  Luke acts like he just won the gold medal for cool.

Nessa and Julie share their supply of trail mix and overripe bananas. Craig throws in some granola bars and potato chips. Dean walks the camp perimeter while the others eat. Sam is still hunched by April, but he tries to console himself with the fact that Sam isn’t trying to hurt himself. Or comatose.

He’s nibbling on a handful of trail mix when Nessa walks over. "Hey. I never really thanked you for…everything. So. Thank you. We’d probably all be dead if you guys hadn’t shown up."

"You’re welcome," Dean responds. "I’m sorry we couldn’t do more." There are three bodies laid out beyond the furthest tent. Owen’s sister and an older married couple.

Nessa watches Dean carefully for a long moment. Then she says, "I’ve never seen a Sixer help someone before."

Dean shrugs. "Now you have."

"You said he’s…your brother?"

"My little brother. And I trust him with my life." He returns her gaze coolly. "And yours."

Nessa nods. "Okay then. It just takes some getting used to, that’s all."

Dean’s laughter is harsh. "This whole world takes some getting used to."

Nessa sighs. "You got that right."

The group is huddled around the fire. Andy’s sleeping form is at the outer edge, then Luke and Craig. Julie’s sitting between Craig and a man in his mid to late thirties. He’s got thick brown hair and Dean is shocked to see it’s in worse shape than Sam’s. He’s holding a black cat in his lap and Dean can see it’s only got three legs. Ah. So that’s Tripod. The little boy, Owen, is curled on top of a blanket near Julie’s feet.

"Who’s that next to Julie?" Dean asks.

"Her dad. David. He’s not…he’s not quite right. His wife died in the Twin Cities fires. Sometimes he remembers she’s dead, sometimes he spends hours calling for her. It’s really hard on Julie."

"What about Owen? His sister is one of the dead?"

Nessa nods. "She was in college. She left when she couldn’t get in touch with her folks. She found Owen in the house alone, hiding in a closet. She has…had no idea what happened to her parents. We all figured it was the disease." Nessa’s voice grows hushed. "I can’t believe she’s really gone." She swipes a hand across her eyes. "What about you?"

"It’s just me and Sam. We hooked up with a professor and the kid he looks out for. And there’s our friend Andy, he’s the one you fixed up. Thank you for that. And I might as well tell you now, he’s a Sixer too." Off her look he continues, "He and Sam help protect us. And now we’ll protect you."

"Jesus," she hisses, stunned. "Who are you people?"

Dean grins and his teeth shine bright in the moonlight. "We’re the good guys."

ooooo

Sam is still by that girl. He’s been there a long time. Craig is pretending that he’s not looking at Sam, but he is. Luke can tell when people are pretending. Grown ups do a lot of pretending. But then, so does he.

His leg hurts. Once, when he was little he burned himself on a match. Mom got really mad. He was trying to help light the birthday candles and she yelled at him so hard he cried. But that was a long time ago. Back when he had birthdays. And his mom. Now his leg burns just like his finger did.

He wants Sam to come by the fire. Everybody else is lying down. Almost everybody, anyway. Dean isn’t, but that’s because he’s standing guard. Part of him feels like crying, and he doesn’t know why. He can’t believe he was so scared to get in the car. The morning feels far away, like it happened to somebody else. Getting in the car had been scary, but the fight at the camp had been terrifying. When he was trying to help Julie, he’d said a lot of bad words inside his head. And he also prayed. He hoped God only listened to the prayer part and not the swears.

His eyes flick to Andy’s chest and he watches it rise and fall. Andy’s snoring softly and that makes him feel good. Craig told him a bunch of times that Andy’s going to be okay. He's pretty sure Craig wasn’t pretending about that. Luke twists in his sleeping bag and looks at Julie. He likes her. She’s nice. Something’s wrong with her dad and he feels bad about that. He wonders what it would be like if his mom was still alive but broken like Julie’s dad. He bites his lip, considering. He decides he’d be happy if his mom was alive no matter what her mind or brain or whatever else was like. Even if she was sad all the time, at least she could still hold his hand. At least he could hug her. Now all he has is Craig and Andy and Sam and Dean. They’re not his mom, not even close. But they try. He can tell. And even though it makes him sad, it sort of makes him happy too. It seems like he can’t just feel one thing at a time anymore.

He stretches and checks to make sure Craig is sleeping. He pokes Craig in the arm but the man doesn’t move. Carefully, he gets up and slips out of the salt circle. He doesn’t get far before Dean’s voice floats over to him. "What are you doing? Do you need to take a leak?"

Luke walks over, hands jammed in his sweatshirt pockets. He shakes his head. He points at himself, then at Sam.

Dean frowns. "Okay, look. It’s real nice you want to check on Sam, but he’s not…he’s not in a real talkative mood right now."

The boy lifts an eyebrow. He could care less if Sam wants to talk. It’s not like he’s a motor mouth.

Dean sees his mistake and chuckles. "Okay, fine. I see your point. But Sam’s sitting by April and she’s…" Dean shuts his mouth. The boy can feel the pretend radiating off Dean. He shrugs, tries to let Dean know that he doesn’t care about the dead lady. He didn’t know her. Besides, she was a bad person. She killed people. She was the bad kind of Sixer. He figures that’s why Sam is sad. Because he met a Sixer who didn’t want to be good like him. And now, just like he was afraid of getting in the car, Sam is afraid to leave the lady.

Dean’s talking. He’s acting all nice and smiley but it’s obvious he wants him to go away, to go back by the fire and leave Sam alone. The boy thinks of a word he’s heard Andy say plenty of times: bullshit.

ooooo

Sam looks up at the sky and sees a handful of faint stars. He remembers a conversation he had months (years) ago with Izzy about a construction paper sky and scissors. He looks back down at April and blows out a shaky sigh.

He hadn’t realized how badly he wanted (needed) to save her until she died. He had wanted to save them all. Four people dead because of him. Dean told him none of it was his fault, if he wanted to blame someone for the deaths, blame April. Blame the demon. Sam understands what Dean’s saying, but it doesn’t help. The demon might have physically killed but the blame is still Sam’s.

He tries to work through the mysterious calculations in his head: Add the colums of regret and guilt and subtract love.  Multiply shame. They refuse to make sense. That’s when he feels the small hand take his. Sam looks at the hand and it’s attached to Luke. Luke’s watching him from beneath his fringe of dark hair, his eyes as big as the moon.

Sam’s first instinct is to flinch away. He wants to tell the boy to leave. He wants to scream, to run. But he does none of those things. Instead, he lets Luke squeeze his hand and tries to smile. His lips don't cooperate, but Luke gets the gist because he nods. "Luke, I’m sorry," he croaks. "I’m sorry I made you get in the car this morning." The boy takes a step back and gently pulls Sam’s arm, an invitation to stand. To come inside the salt circle. Sam swallows and pushes himself unsteadily to his feet. "I'm sorry," he whispers.  This time his apology is for April. Luke pulls again, a little harder this time. Come on. It’s okay.  Same takes a tentative step.  His legs are cramped from kneeling so long but they hold his weight.

Dean is right there, waiting for him. Sam knows instinctively that Dean’s been watching their exchange. His face is tight with emotion and he nods too, echoing Luke. Sam inhales, lets himself stand at his full height. Dean walks over and he nudges Sam forward with his shoulder. "You did good today," he says. "And if you can’t see that, if you don’t realize that, then dude? You’re just plain wrong." Dean gives him a sideways glance. "As usual."

Sam’s eyes narrow but he huffs out a weak chuckle. "You wish."

Luke stops and points at both of them, then twirls a finger by his ear while rolling his eyes. You’re both nuts.

Now Sam’s laugh is genuine. "Oh, really?"

Luke grins, nodding.

"I’m crazy all right," Dean agrees, tapping the side of his head. "Like a fox."

Luke snorts out a gust of laughter and claps a hand over his mouth. His smile is too big to hide behind his hand.

"Dude," Dean says, sounding aggrieved. "It’s not that funny."

"Like a fox," Sam scoffs. "I think you mean ‘like a loon’."

Luke mimes slapping something off his arm and then scratches an imaginary itch. He wiggles his eyebrows at Sam.

Sam snaps his fingers and hugs Luke. "That’s right. Crazy as a bedbug."

Dean scowls. "You guys both suck," he grumps, but his voice is light. Sam pretends not to notice the wink he gives Luke.

ooooo

Dean wakes up to find Nessa and Craig have already buried the bodies. Most everyone is packed up and within a half hour they’re ready to move on. The car has two melted tires and no spare. Dean’s pissed, but there’s nothing he can do about it. Andy’s in pain and the thought of making him walk isn’t particularly appealing but Andy insists he’s up for it. There’s no specific conversation inviting Nessa’s group to travel with Dean or Dean’s group with Nessa’s. They don’t need to. Everyone knows there’s safety in numbers. So they head off down the road.

"You’re on your way to T or C?" Nessa asks Dean.

He nods. "You too, huh?"

"I have no idea where else to go at this point. We saw one of those spray painted signs back in Missouri, and figured it was just as good as anywhere else." She pauses. "Hopefully better."

Dean nods. "It will be."

The walk is slow. They make lousy time because Owen’s little and Andy’s hurting. Eventually Sam carries the little boy and Craig puts an arm around Andy’s shoulders. The support seems to help.

They’ve been walking for more than an hour when Dean hears the noise. A faint buzzing in the distance. He and Sam exchange glances. Without a word they quicken their pace until they’re both in the lead.

"What’s that noise?" Julie asks. She’s walking with her father, holding his hand. Dean has the impression she’s holding David’s hand to keep track of him, not for her own comfort. Tripod is cradled in the crook of her other arm. His head rests on Julie’s shoulder and despite the cat’s bedraggled appearance, he still manages to look regal. David peers around, blinking behind his glasses. The black plastic frames are broken and a length of tape holds them together. "I don’t know, hon. It sounds almost like…a car."

Dean squints into the distance. "Not a car," he says. And there, a good mile away, is a puff of dust. Movement. The buzz becomes a roar and then they can all see it now. A motorcycle heading their way.

"Off the road," Dean commands. He waves a hand at Julie and David to get off the highway. Sam sets Owen down by Nessa. They stand along the shoulder in a single line, almost like soldiers. Dean pulls out his gun, so does Sam. Nessa directs Owen to stand behind her and hoists the shotgun. Andy lifts his own gun with a grimace. Luke pulls his bat out of his backpack and positions himself between Craig and Julie.

Dean glances at Sam. Be ready.

I am.

The motorcycle downshifts and the engine whines. The driver squeals to a stop a good hundred yards away and slides off of the bike. It’s a man. He’s wearing jeans and a worn leather jacket. Dean notices with some interest the Sign of Solomon is drawn in chalk on the top of the man’s helmet. He’s wearing a camouflage pattern backpack and a double shoulder holster. Both pistols are visible.

The rider unstraps the helmet and lifts it off. He tosses it onto the motorcycle seat and that’s when Dean notices the backpack is full of cylindrical cans. Black spray paint. The man turns toward to them with a wide grin. His face is lined and he squints in the sunlight. "There’s no need for trouble, now. I’m just looking for Sam Winchester," he says, and slowly reaches into a pocket. He pulls out a toothpick. He sticks it in his mouth where it hangs off his lip in defiance of gravity.

Dean takes a step forward. "Who wants to know?"

The man scans the group. His eyes flick from Sam to Dean, and back to Sam. He nods toward Sam. "You Sam Winchester?" he asks, toothpick bobbing.

Dean’s face shutters. "There’s nobody here by that name."

The rider looks amused. "That so?"

"Why are you looking for him?" Sam asks and it’s all Dean can do not to punch Sam in the head.

The rider beams. "You all can consider me the welcome wagon."

Sam’s eyebrows knit. "The welcome wagon?"

"Yep. I’m here to accompany one Samuel Winchester to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico."

Sam steps forward before Dean can stop him. "I’m Sam."

The rider nods. "Course you are." He shoots a look toward Dean that seems to say jackass.

"We’re not going anywhere with you," Dean says. "You could be a demon, or a-"

"For fuck’s sake, I’m no demon. We’ve got some travelin’ to do and we’d best be on our way. Doc’s getting impatient. Truth be told, we all are."

"Impatient for what?" Dean demands.

The man rolls his eyes, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "For Sam, of course."