Post-apocalyptic setting

[miltia]

Your character's world has ended and purgatory awaits them, a wasteland full of ruined buildings. The surrounding desert constantly wears down the buildings with a neverending wind. There aren't any monsters to worry about, no zombies or demons, but your characters are haunted by the ghosts of people they once knew and there's only one escape from

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[allroadslead]

The pounding in his head had receded to a dull throb and his bandaged arm was feeling a bit better by the time Dean had scrounged together a small pile of sleeping bags. Obnoxiously bright sleeping bags, to be specific. As if they were getting ready to entertain a bunch of nine-year-olds. Not that there were kids around anymore; there hadn't really been any at the institute and he hadn't seen any since the universe collapsed around them. Of course he hadn't; grown men barely were barely staying alive.

An image of a girl stared up at him from one of the sleeping bags and Sam resisted the sudden urge to flip the damn thing over. Dean would've made fun of him once. This was a golden opportunity for that. But there wasn't even a flicker of amusement. Granted, he hadn't expected anything. Not by now. It was just, a part of him couldn't help waiting for it, anyway.

Sam sat down on the makeshift (extremely makeshift) bed. He tugged the Glock out of his waistband and placed it within reach, shaking his head at the suggestion that they head back.

"This'll do. Thanks."

Sleeping on a real mattress would save him from waking up with a kink in his spine, true, and the apartment, despite being in shambles, was a bit better insulated than this place. But convenience was more important than comfort. Wasn't as if he hadn't made do with worse, sleeping propped up against a pile of broken concrete or in the cargo bed of an abandoned pickup truck once with a tarp thrown over to protect from the dusty wind, the bodies of a couple still inside the vehicle itself. When you were half dead on your feet, where you slept became a non-issue so long as you found somewhere to do it. Somewhere that wouldn’t get you killed or looted or both in two seconds flat.

Lack of food was a slight disappointment, too, but not a big deal. He'd gotten used to living on water. The blood did sate him a little bit, took the edge off the gnawing hunger. Whether it was due to the buzz or something else, he had no idea, but he wasn't gonna complain. He knew he'd lost weight, probably a lot of weight, actually. He'd always lost weight easily, once he'd gotten past that whole short-and-chubby stage and hit his growth spurt. The way things were, he was never gonna regain any of it back. Hostess cakes and chocolate bars made for a poor diet. Fridges had stopped running so most stuff was spoiled, if they were even still around. But Dean came back with things sometimes. Cans of soup, usually.

Not tonight, though. The water would have to be good enough. Maybe if they hit a rare patch of luck, he could scrounge up a case of Coke or something so he could run on sugar and caffeine, if nothing else. They had a couple of days to look around. He didn't intend to stay long, but they could use the time out.

Wasn't like the world could end twice. They weren't in a big rush. There was nothing left to outrun when you'd already outrun the end of days.

He hooked a finger around his jacket, the black jean material beyond worn, but durable enough. He'd taken to using it as a blanket when he could. Next best thing. It didn't quite keep him warm, but it kept him covered and while he could sleep without if he wanted to, he didn't like the illusion of exposure. They were just fortunate the temperature hadn't dipped into freezing levels. Yet. He was waiting for it. Another reason to keep on moving, moving south at the very least. The last thing they needed was to be caught in a snowstorm or even heavy rainfall. There weren't a lot of places to take cover. Catching pneumonia? Really not high on his list.