Fic: When Tomorrow Comes (Supernatural)
Title: When Tomorrow Comes
Prompt: Wasteland
Fandom: Supernatural
Character(s): Sam, Dean
Pairing(s): Gen
Word Count: 5,045
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Never have I ever written, produced, or in any way owned a television series. Therefore, Supernatural is not mine. If you recognize it, I didn’t come up with it.
Warnings: Mentions of suicide
Summary: It’s been three years since the world ended. It’s been a little less since Sam said a word. Dean just focuses on keeping them alive and moving.
It’s been three years since the world ended. Dean wishes sometimes that they had ended with it, but they survived so they keep pushing on and try to make the best of it.
Staying put gets you killed and fast, so they keep moving. Only, in the new age of man, there isn’t enough gas to go around. There’s certainly no one to dig up oil or refine it so driving has long since become a relic of the past.
Now they walk.
They scavenged bikes at one point early on, but most of the roads were damn near impassable and Sam’s tire kept going flat. They ditched them as soon as they realized the bikes were dead weight, something they had to carry more often than they could actually ride them. A possession is only worth carrying so long as it is useful.
He misses them now. They are on a flat, open stretch of highway. It’s cracked and crumbling in areas, but nothing that an inflated tire wouldn’t bounce over. He wishes he could be flying down the road, asphalt running beneath him, blue sky stretching out overhead, and his muscles pumping. He longs for the rush of physical work. He’d run, but Sam could never keep up, and that’s the one thing Dean refuses to give up.
Beside him, Sam trudges with his head down. His limp is more pronounced now that they’ve been walking for hours. Dean knows they’ll have to stop soon. There’s no choice; Sam will keep pushing until he hurts himself worse. Then they’ll be sitting ducks, because Sam won’t be able to move at all.
He’s never see a doctor for any of his problems, not since they happened. Doctors are scarce and the likelihood of finding one, much less one with the right kind of medical knowhow, is like searching for water in the desert. They exist, but they’re nearly impossible to find, useless without the right tools, and almost invariably too expensive to consider.
No change there really.
~~~
They help where they can. They are still hunters, but anymore, people cause more problems than demons or werewolves ever could. People are desperate and that makes them dangerous. He figures it makes sense in a way. With nothing to be gotten for anyone, there’s no reason to try and go above and beyond. Number one first and all that. He’d shoot anyone that tried to steal from him and Sammy. Of course, Sam would make him share, big marshmallow that he is, but Dean’s got to look out for both of them now.
No change there either.
~~~
Up ahead, Dean can see an overhang. It was a bridge once, a place where the highway couldn’t cut through, so it went over. It’s mostly eroded now, crumbling concrete gaping where it should be solid. They’ll have to climb around and meet back up on the other side of the ditch. Whatever it was before, it’s overgrown and full of weeds probably covered in seeds that will stick to their clothes and make washing up a bitch the next time they find a decent stream.
Dean can’t tell how steep it is yet. Sam can’t do steep.
He grunts, and Sam pauses. “Bridge out up ahead,” he says. He’s never entirely sure how much Sam understands. He knows his brother is still in there, somewhere, but most days he seems lost in his own head. Regardless, Sam never answers. He hasn’t since a few months after the end of the world. He still tilts his head like he’s listening, though, and he’ll face Dean if he calls him by name.
Dean doesn’t. “We’ll have to do a little climbing, but we’ll find a place to stop after that.”
It’s force of habit now to try and keep up a bit of conversation. He’d go nuts if he had to drop that last shred of civilization. He likes to pretend that it helps Sam, too. Maybe it reminds him what it’s like to be human - to be part of a team.
When Dean starts walking, so does Sam. They make the edge of the small ravine about thirty minutes later and Dean cusses. Sam frowns down the side, big, sad eyes assessing the steepness of the cliff edge and the distance to the bottom.
What Dean had thought was a shallow ditch is actually an old creek bed that had dug down into the rock and dried out ages ago. It’s not very wide, but it’s probably a ten foot drop. It is too far to drop for Sam and too wide across for Dean to jump, even if he could leave Sam behind. Instead he mutters under his breath and starts scouting along the edge, looking for an easier way down. There’s nothing nearby.
He glances up at the sky. The sun is getting on down on the horizon. It’s well past noon, maybe closer to three. They’ve got less than two hours to cross this thing and find a sheltered spot to set up for the night. He fingers the straps on his bag. This whole thing would be so much easier if they didn’t have to carry their world on their backs. It would be easier if Sam could scramble down the side like he would have three years ago.
Dean finds the likeliest looking spot. It’s not much, but he can see clear hand and foot holds all the way to the bottom. He’ll have to help, but they should be able to make it. He turns to Sam, whose been trailing behind him this whole time, silently watching.
“We’re going to have to climb down. I’ll go first. Stay here till I get to the bottom. Then you can pitch your pack down and follow me.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He knows he won’t get one and he’ll just be wasting daylight at this point. Instead, he turns and casts an exploratory foot over the edge, finding a foothold and easing himself down. He scales down to the bottom in a few seconds and calls up to Sam. “Okay, drop your pack down! I’ll catch it.”
A moment later, Sam’s pack thumps into his arms and he sets it on the ground. “Got it! Now just follow my path down. I’ll spot you from here.”
Although, what exactly he’ll do if his moose of a brother decides to fall and squash him, he’s not sure. He’d probably end up with more injuries than Sam. He still talks Sam through the downward descent. This is the easy part. Sam doesn’t have to do more than support himself with his arms when he’s coming down. It’ll be getting him up, when he has to push with his bad leg that will be the real trouble.
Dean catches him by the shoulders when he stumbles on the last step and steadies him so he doesn’t flop into the grass and rocks. He doesn’t let go until they’ve crossed the few feet to the opposite wall. This one isn’t quite as high, but there’s fewer holds.
Dean shoves Sam down to sit on a rock. He’s breathing hard and Dean’s not looking forward to that climb, himself. They rest there for a few minutes before Dean notices the light is dimming in their little canyon. They have to push on or risk getting caught out in the open tonight.
He shoves himself to his feet, picks the smoothest path to the top he can see and walks over. It’s a hard call whether he should spot Sam from the ground or be at the top to help pull him over. Ultimately he decides Sam will need more help getting over the edge than to keep from falling back down. “I’m going on up. Think you can climb with your bag?”
Sam stares up the rock wall, but does eventually pick up his pack and settles it on his shoulders. Dean figures that’s as good as a yes and starts to climb. When he gets to the top, he lays down and looks over the edge.
“Okay, Sam. Let’s do this. You’re going to have to climb a few feet up, then I can help the rest of the way.”
Sam moves forward and starts to climb. He slips at one point and Dean can’t quite reach him yet, but he recovers. When he gets close enough, Dean grabs his arms and lets Sam pull himself up using Dean as an anchor. Together they get him over the edge and Sam lays there, leg sprawled away from him, panting. His eyes are closed and Dean knows the leg has to be killing him. He pushes his dust covered hand through his hair.
“Don’t quit on me now. We’ve got to find some shelter. Gonna rain tonight,” Dean says glancing up at the sky where thick clouds are moving in from the north.
Sam cracks and eye and looks up into the sky. He huffs, the closest Dean’s gotten to a response from him in years, and sits up, then hops up to stand. He starts shuffling forward and Dean moves to walk next to him. He scans the horizon as they go. There’s got to be something nearby that they can use as shelter. He’s too busy focusing on the distance to notice at first when Sam isn’t next to him. But eventually he looks up and realizes Sam started moving further south in a diagonal away from him.
“Sam!” Dean calls after him, but Sam doesn’t slow. Dean jogs to catch up and finds him determinedly trudging towards something. Dean’s never sure what Sam sees or hears or whatever it is he does, but every now and then he does this. It’s like he catches a little glimpse or intuition or something. He’ll strike out in a direction and as long as Dean follows him, he always ends up finding water, or a cave, or even towns.
“Don’t reckon you could tell me where we’re headed now?”
Sam keeps his head down and keeps walking. “Didn’t figure.”
Dean follows his brother. It takes them another hour, but Sam stops at a rock overhang. It’s more like an oddly constructed lean-to with a giant slab of rock propped up against a cliff face. But it’s plenty wide and it’s getting dark. If Dean hangs the tarp up over the side, they should be protected from anything but a raging thunderstorm.
Sam dumps his pack under the wide slab and then ambles out to find wood. The trees around here are misshapen and twisted, brittle from some fire. There’s no soot and it doesn’t smell like smoke anymore, so Dean figures they must be safe enough, though he has his doubts about firewood.
Sam comes back with an armful of wood that looks like it might actually burn and Dean sets to lighting a campfire and trying to figure out if there is any reason to hide the flame or not. It’s still early enough in the year that they don’t have to worry about keeping warm overnight, but one can never be too cautious. He doesn’t have enough to share, even if he wanted to.
But there’s not a good solution. There’s no ventilation in their little den for the night and if they are going to do any cooking, they need a fire. He builds it not far from the mouth of the lean-to and waits until dusk to light it. He hopes that the darkness will hide the smoke. With the rock at their backs, he’s not worried about someone sneaking up behind them.
He heats up a can of beans from their supplies and dumps a good portion into their one bowl, which he hands to Sam. Sam takes it and stares at it, but makes no move to eat. Dean finishes his share before he realizes Sam hasn’t touched his.
“Come on, man. I know it’s not caviar, but it’s what we got.”
Sam sets the bowl aside and shifts so that his legs are stretched out in front of him, wincing as he pulls his bad leg straight.
“Sam.” Dean knows he hates the beans, but it’s this or nothing. If they find water, he has some instant packs of things they could make, but this is it for the night. They don’t have the drinking water to spare for cooking right now.
Sam’s eyes flick his direction. Dean hates that he never looks him in the eye anymore, but he’s not come to expect anything else. “Please? You got to eat. At least it’s not peanut butter and mustard sandwiches.”
Dean remembers that culinary misadventure when they were kids. It seems like three lifetimes ago that they even could imagine having mustard, much less wasting it on a peanut butter sandwich. He’d thought things were tight back then.
“If you don’t eat, you won’t be able to keep walking.”
Sam reaches out and picks up his bowl, although whether because he was swayed by Dean’s logic or just to get him to quit nagging, Dean will never know. He ladles a spoonful to his mouth and eats it, staring out at the fire. Spoonful after spoonful finds its way to his mouth, and Dean is grateful he’s at least eating. It wouldn’t kill the kid to muster up a little gratitude, but he’ll settle for getting some food into him.
Dean pokes at the low fire with a stick and leans back with a huff. He shouldn’t be mad. It’s not Sam’s fault he’s like this. But he misses having someone to talk to. Sam shifts and Dean’s eyes are drawn to him. He scoots, lifting his leg gingerly so it doesn’t drag, to sit next to Dean. He lets his head fall sideways on Dean’s shoulder and he closes his eyes.
Dean bites back a smile. “Yeah, yeah. Glad I make a good pillow.”
Sam smiles, but doesn’t budge.
~~~
In the morning, it’s still raining. Dean peals back the tarp and looks out at the deluge falling outside their makeshift door. It’s not going to let up any time soon, but at least rain means water. They’ll boil it just in case, but Dean pulls out the rope. There isn’t much wind and it’s mostly sheltered here in the shadow of the rocks. He lashes the tarp up and away from the mouth of the cave, out to a couple of nearby trees. He tries to judge just how much they’ll get. If it’s only going to go strong like this for twenty minutes, they’ll have to save it for drinking, but if it looks like it’s going to last, they can shower.
Off in the distance he can hear a rumble of thunder. That decides him. They have at least another hour of rain ahead of them. Sam has sat up and is watching the rain fall. Dean’s not sure why, but Sam loves the rain. He’ll stare at it for hours and hours if Dean lets him. Since they really don’t have a lot else to do, Dean will usually.
He grins as he comes in, shaking loose water from his hair and making Sam wrinkle his nose. Dean chuckles. “Just water, princess. Come on. I think we’ve got enough time to wash while it’s actually raining.”
Sam perks up, eyes dancing up to stare at the clouds and then he scrounges in his bag until he produces the soap.
Dean digs through his own pack and makes a quick decision. “I’m going to wash this shirt. I can’t smell it another day.”
He strips down out of his jeans. He only has one pair and it’s too cool to go without right now, but he has a couple of extra t-shirts that’ll fit them both so he leaves that on and walks out under the steady rain. It only takes a minute or two until he’s soaked and he can start working in the soap. He doesn’t use much, just enough to make a bit of a lather in the clothing. Soap is a pain to come by when they don’t have much to barter with. He hands it over to Sam who has come out along with him.
When he’s scrubbed as much dirt and funk out as he can, he strips out of the sodden clothes and drapes them over rocks to rinse clean in the rain.
He takes the soap back and starts working on cleaning himself. Anymore, little things like washing the dirt from the road out of his hair is bliss. He’s tempted to just stand out here till he’s rinsed, but the rain is picking up and he’s starting to get chilled so he moves over to the tarp. An experimental poke proves that there’s plenty of water for a quick rinse, but only for one.
He looks back over at Sam, who has moved out into the clearing, arms outstretched and taking in the rain and decides his brother’s not likely to need it. If anything, the kid probably needs the rain. If it starts looking like lightning, Dean will call him back in. With a quick motion, he tips the edge of the tarp, letting the water fall over his head.
He heads back inside and drips dry until he can stand to put fresher clothes on.
The rain lasts the rest of the day and Dean amuses himself by organizing their packs, and when that runs out, using the charred wood from their fire to draw lewd things on the rock wall. He tried at one point to get Sam to play tic-tac-toe or any other half remembered game, but Sam just stares at the stick like it’s an alien and refuses to touch it. Dean doesn’t push these things. He’s learned long ago that however withdrawn Sam may seem, there’s always more room for him to shut down. In the end, it’s one of the slower days they’ve had in a while and Dean can’t really bring himself to hate it too much.
~~~
The next day they head out over the now muddy ground. Things start to dry up around lunch time, whether because they’ve moved into an area that didn’t get as much rain or because the sun seems determined to bring back midsummer on them, Dean doesn’t really care. All he really cares about is getting out of the mud and the puddles that seep into his boots because no matter how much he tries to weather proof them, they were several years old before the apocalypse and they’re just about done. Now he’s just hoping they find someone who has some to trade. Sam’s going to need new shoes soon too and finding anything to fit his ginormous feet was always a challenge, even when people still made shoes in factories.
Their luck stays just as crappy as it always has. The rain follows them. Just when they think they’ve moved out from under the shadow of the clouds, they roll back in. They’re progress slows to a crawl and everything stays slightly waterlogged. The few hours of sunshine they do see makes things muggy and sticky so that not only is everything muddy, but Dean’s sweating through his clothes too.
Sam’s knack holds out by some miracle. They find somewhere to hole up every time the rain starts to bear down on them and Dean’s grateful for that, if nothing else. They’ll also have enough drinking water to last them a lifetime the way it’s going. Or at least into next week.
By the third week of the unexpected slow, Dean is feeling restless. He wants to be moving. They’ve been pushing on and on and on for so long now, it feels weird to be stuck in one place. He feels like there’s something chasing them, although there’s nothing to chase them anymore.
He’s pretty much decided monster can go fuck themselves. There’s no real news network, no real settlements for miles and miles, and no real reason to go looking for trouble. Monster hunting pays better than it used too - folks are more likely to believe in ghosts or ghouls or vampires than they used to be - but it’s riskier, and harder to do without the internet, or even much in the way of books. It’s almost like starting over every single time and Dean’s too busy trying to keep them alive to worry about some crazy yokel who saved a lock of his beloved wife’s hair.
Of course, he keeps his pistol loaded with iron rounds - they ran out of silver nearly a year back - and his machete lives tucked in the bottom of his bag. He still has his silver knife. It would feed them for a month, but unless they’re starving, he can’t bear to part with it. It’s the one bit of silver he knows he can count on.
Sam still carries his too. Dean sees him do a weapons check every now and then and he’s the one responsible for keeping up with Dad and Bobby’s journals.
~~~
There’s only so many times he can field strip his gun. The knives are as well cared for as they’ve ever been and his pack is nearing a scary level of organization. He’s been pacing for the last hour and it’s making Sam nervous. He can see the kid watching him from the corner of his eye as he moves back and forth through the cave they’re staying in tonight. Sam is tense and wary of him, which Dean finds maddening.
It’s not Sam’s fault, he knows, but Dean has done nothing for the past few years but take care of his brother. He’s done his very best not to lash out or yell or anything so confrontational because he knows Sam will shut down on him and might not come back.
Finally he’s had enough of being watch and spins to glare at Sam.
“What?!”
Sam flinches and tightens his grip on the stick he’s been whittling for the past hour. It’s starting to take shape, although it’s still too early to tell into what, not that Dean cares at this moment.
“What exactly are you staring at?”
Sam bows his head and pulls the hunk of wood in closer to himself, making a few tentative cuts and resolutely not looking up. The passive posture infuriates Dean. If he would just say something! He just sits and ignores him. Dean needs out, but it’s pouring rain once again.
“Oh, that’s right,” he says, anger finding the one outlet left to him. “You’re still ignoring me. Still giving me the silent treatment like you’re five.”
Sam sucks in a breath. His head tilts a little so that he’s looking at Dean’s boots.
“Yeah, I get it. I keep us fed. I keep us safe. I keep us in damn clothing and you don’t have to do jack. What? Because the world ended, you get to stick your head in the sand?”
Sam has dropped his head again, his tools forgotten in his lap. Dean should stop. He knows he should. None of this is Sam’s fault. In some way or fashion it was that group of hunters - real, deer hunters or some such - but he’s never gotten the full story and he doubts he ever will. They’re the ones he blames for Sam being like this, but Sam’s here. They’re not. And Dean is pretty sure he’s going to go mental if he doesn’t get some sort of human contact soon.
That’s why he finds himself snapping, “Grow up, Sam. The world doesn’t stop because you got hurt. It was hard on all of us, but you don’t see the rest of us stumbling around like zombies.”
Sam is nearly shaking now. He has wrapped his arms around himself and that’s always a bad sign.
“Dammit, Sam. Just say something!”
Sam’s eyes clench shut and he goes still, just a fine trembling in all his limbs. His mouth opens and closes several times. Dean watches in fascinated horror as Sam struggles to get around it.
Finally, he draws in a long shuddering breath. With tears on his cheeks, he chokes on whatever it is he’s trying to say. Then he stands and hobbles out of the cave so quickly, Dean’s brain doesn’t have time to catch up, partly because he’s stunned that Sam actually tried to speak.
He just stares at the rock where his brother had been sitting. Wood shavings litter the floor and his knife lays open on the ground where it fell when he stood. His carving is laying, barely started near the cave wall.
Dean’s pulse kicks up a notch when he realizes that Sam is gone. He’s not just stepped out to get a breath of air, he’s stumbled on and out and away. Dean blinks and he jerks forward into the rain. It’s pouring and pitch black, but he keeps going anyway.
“Sam!” He calls as he slips down a muddy track following the uneven mud track.
“Sammy!”
It’s stupid, he knows. Sam hasn’t said anything for years and he left thinking Dean was pissed at him. He’s not likely to call out, even if he could. Dean stumbles on, glad there’s something of a path, because in this soup, there’s not really enough light to track by but he’s pretty certain Sam would avoid the woody underbrush.
“Sam!” Dean screams. “Sam, answer me!”
The track ends in a cliff. They’d had to find the long way up and around the back side of the hill. Dean slides to a stop when he sees Sam’s silhouette turn towards him, outlined by a flash of lightning near the edge of the steep sides.
“Sammy!”
Dean starts forward. A tilt of the head is the only acknowledgement he gets. “What are you doing?” Dean asks breathlessly. Sam turns back towards the edge. His toes a lipping the rock. Dean’s heart stops.
He takes a few tentative steps forward. “Hey,” he says. “Why don’t you come back just a bit?”
Sam doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even turn to look at him. “Come on, man. You’re scaring me.” Dean pauses hoping Sam will ease back. He’s close enough to grab him if he decides to do something stupid, but Sam has always been a quick draw when it counts and Dean has a feeling this definitely counts.
“I’m sorry.” Dean says. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was out of line. I wish you felt like you could talk to me, but I don’t blame you.”
Sam shakes his head, not looking around. “S-s-sorry,” he manages to stutter out, so low Dean nearly misses it.
Dean steps forward and sets a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “No, Sam. Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. Not really.”
Sam is still shaking his head, but he lets Dean’s hand rest on his shoulder.
“I know it’s been tough, but we’re making it.”
Sam casts a sideways glance, eyes skipping down to Dean’s shoulder. He’s trembling under Dean’s hand. “Come on, let’s get back inside.”
Sam frowns and leans forward, not dangerously so, but Dean panics. “Sam!”
Sam cringes away a hair and Dean grips him harder. “Please,” he says. “Don’t. Just don’t move.”
Sam leans back, away from the fall and frowns back at Dean, brows drawn down together.
“Look, Sam. You can’t do this. You have to stay. If you go, then so do I.”
The time for deals and bringing people back from the dead is over. He couldn’t bring Sam back to this. Dean’s not cruel. But this place, this ass end of the universe doesn’t make sense anymore. Everything’s gone rough and if it weren’t for Sam, Dean would have given up long ago. Sam has been at the center of Dean’s universe for so long, without him, he’d be lost.
Sam seems to grasp what he means and Dean can see the realization crash over him. His eyes grow wide and he takes three blessed steps back from the edge, pulling Dean with him. He’s shaking his head emphatically and takes both of Dean’s arms in his hands. He struggles, breathing hard. Dean’s not sure what to do to help him and the rain keeps dripping in his eyes, making it hard to see around the bright flashes of lightning.
“No.”
Dean sucks in a breath. It’s Sam’s second word in three years and Dean feels like he should do something. Celebrate. His voice is low, rough and gravelly, but it’s more than he’s done in three years.
But the panic in Sam’s eyes makes him realize that maybe he’s misjudged the situation.
Dean pulls back a little. “Hey,” he says. “Sam, calm down. It’s okay. It’s all right. I’m not going anywhere.”
Sam looks like he’s still in the throes of a panic attack. “I’m okay. I promise. Just don’t scare me like that again.”
Sam’s head drops and his shoulders sag. Dean pulls him into a hug. “Hey. We’re fine. We’re all fine.”
Sam clings onto him like he hasn’t since he was a snot-nosed kid. Dean’s a little surprised, but they probably were overdue for it. Aside from necessity, Sam hasn’t let Dean touch him since it all happened.
He pulls back a little, just enough to get some room between him and his brother so he can look down. Sam doesn’t budge. He keeps his face pressed into Dean’s chest. Dean snorts and turns, throwing and arm across his shoulder. Together they make their way back to the cave and semi-warm clothes.
He’ll see about making a celebratory something in the morning. They’ve got plenty of firewood and time on their hands, maybe he’ll break out the tin of jiffy pop he’s been saving. And when the rain lets up, maybe they’ll find one of the big settlements in the north. Maybe it’s time they found a place to put down some roots.
Of course, he wasn’t planning on the 1950’s secret society guy popping out of the closet of the hotel they would squat in a week later, but then, life very rarely went according to plan for Dean Winchester.
Prompt: Wasteland
Fandom: Supernatural
Character(s): Sam, Dean
Pairing(s): Gen
Word Count: 5,045
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Never have I ever written, produced, or in any way owned a television series. Therefore, Supernatural is not mine. If you recognize it, I didn’t come up with it.
Warnings: Mentions of suicide
Summary: It’s been three years since the world ended. It’s been a little less since Sam said a word. Dean just focuses on keeping them alive and moving.
It’s been three years since the world ended. Dean wishes sometimes that they had ended with it, but they survived so they keep pushing on and try to make the best of it.
Staying put gets you killed and fast, so they keep moving. Only, in the new age of man, there isn’t enough gas to go around. There’s certainly no one to dig up oil or refine it so driving has long since become a relic of the past.
Now they walk.
They scavenged bikes at one point early on, but most of the roads were damn near impassable and Sam’s tire kept going flat. They ditched them as soon as they realized the bikes were dead weight, something they had to carry more often than they could actually ride them. A possession is only worth carrying so long as it is useful.
He misses them now. They are on a flat, open stretch of highway. It’s cracked and crumbling in areas, but nothing that an inflated tire wouldn’t bounce over. He wishes he could be flying down the road, asphalt running beneath him, blue sky stretching out overhead, and his muscles pumping. He longs for the rush of physical work. He’d run, but Sam could never keep up, and that’s the one thing Dean refuses to give up.
Beside him, Sam trudges with his head down. His limp is more pronounced now that they’ve been walking for hours. Dean knows they’ll have to stop soon. There’s no choice; Sam will keep pushing until he hurts himself worse. Then they’ll be sitting ducks, because Sam won’t be able to move at all.
He’s never see a doctor for any of his problems, not since they happened. Doctors are scarce and the likelihood of finding one, much less one with the right kind of medical knowhow, is like searching for water in the desert. They exist, but they’re nearly impossible to find, useless without the right tools, and almost invariably too expensive to consider.
No change there really.
~~~
They help where they can. They are still hunters, but anymore, people cause more problems than demons or werewolves ever could. People are desperate and that makes them dangerous. He figures it makes sense in a way. With nothing to be gotten for anyone, there’s no reason to try and go above and beyond. Number one first and all that. He’d shoot anyone that tried to steal from him and Sammy. Of course, Sam would make him share, big marshmallow that he is, but Dean’s got to look out for both of them now.
No change there either.
~~~
Up ahead, Dean can see an overhang. It was a bridge once, a place where the highway couldn’t cut through, so it went over. It’s mostly eroded now, crumbling concrete gaping where it should be solid. They’ll have to climb around and meet back up on the other side of the ditch. Whatever it was before, it’s overgrown and full of weeds probably covered in seeds that will stick to their clothes and make washing up a bitch the next time they find a decent stream.
Dean can’t tell how steep it is yet. Sam can’t do steep.
He grunts, and Sam pauses. “Bridge out up ahead,” he says. He’s never entirely sure how much Sam understands. He knows his brother is still in there, somewhere, but most days he seems lost in his own head. Regardless, Sam never answers. He hasn’t since a few months after the end of the world. He still tilts his head like he’s listening, though, and he’ll face Dean if he calls him by name.
Dean doesn’t. “We’ll have to do a little climbing, but we’ll find a place to stop after that.”
It’s force of habit now to try and keep up a bit of conversation. He’d go nuts if he had to drop that last shred of civilization. He likes to pretend that it helps Sam, too. Maybe it reminds him what it’s like to be human - to be part of a team.
When Dean starts walking, so does Sam. They make the edge of the small ravine about thirty minutes later and Dean cusses. Sam frowns down the side, big, sad eyes assessing the steepness of the cliff edge and the distance to the bottom.
What Dean had thought was a shallow ditch is actually an old creek bed that had dug down into the rock and dried out ages ago. It’s not very wide, but it’s probably a ten foot drop. It is too far to drop for Sam and too wide across for Dean to jump, even if he could leave Sam behind. Instead he mutters under his breath and starts scouting along the edge, looking for an easier way down. There’s nothing nearby.
He glances up at the sky. The sun is getting on down on the horizon. It’s well past noon, maybe closer to three. They’ve got less than two hours to cross this thing and find a sheltered spot to set up for the night. He fingers the straps on his bag. This whole thing would be so much easier if they didn’t have to carry their world on their backs. It would be easier if Sam could scramble down the side like he would have three years ago.
Dean finds the likeliest looking spot. It’s not much, but he can see clear hand and foot holds all the way to the bottom. He’ll have to help, but they should be able to make it. He turns to Sam, whose been trailing behind him this whole time, silently watching.
“We’re going to have to climb down. I’ll go first. Stay here till I get to the bottom. Then you can pitch your pack down and follow me.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He knows he won’t get one and he’ll just be wasting daylight at this point. Instead, he turns and casts an exploratory foot over the edge, finding a foothold and easing himself down. He scales down to the bottom in a few seconds and calls up to Sam. “Okay, drop your pack down! I’ll catch it.”
A moment later, Sam’s pack thumps into his arms and he sets it on the ground. “Got it! Now just follow my path down. I’ll spot you from here.”
Although, what exactly he’ll do if his moose of a brother decides to fall and squash him, he’s not sure. He’d probably end up with more injuries than Sam. He still talks Sam through the downward descent. This is the easy part. Sam doesn’t have to do more than support himself with his arms when he’s coming down. It’ll be getting him up, when he has to push with his bad leg that will be the real trouble.
Dean catches him by the shoulders when he stumbles on the last step and steadies him so he doesn’t flop into the grass and rocks. He doesn’t let go until they’ve crossed the few feet to the opposite wall. This one isn’t quite as high, but there’s fewer holds.
Dean shoves Sam down to sit on a rock. He’s breathing hard and Dean’s not looking forward to that climb, himself. They rest there for a few minutes before Dean notices the light is dimming in their little canyon. They have to push on or risk getting caught out in the open tonight.
He shoves himself to his feet, picks the smoothest path to the top he can see and walks over. It’s a hard call whether he should spot Sam from the ground or be at the top to help pull him over. Ultimately he decides Sam will need more help getting over the edge than to keep from falling back down. “I’m going on up. Think you can climb with your bag?”
Sam stares up the rock wall, but does eventually pick up his pack and settles it on his shoulders. Dean figures that’s as good as a yes and starts to climb. When he gets to the top, he lays down and looks over the edge.
“Okay, Sam. Let’s do this. You’re going to have to climb a few feet up, then I can help the rest of the way.”
Sam moves forward and starts to climb. He slips at one point and Dean can’t quite reach him yet, but he recovers. When he gets close enough, Dean grabs his arms and lets Sam pull himself up using Dean as an anchor. Together they get him over the edge and Sam lays there, leg sprawled away from him, panting. His eyes are closed and Dean knows the leg has to be killing him. He pushes his dust covered hand through his hair.
“Don’t quit on me now. We’ve got to find some shelter. Gonna rain tonight,” Dean says glancing up at the sky where thick clouds are moving in from the north.
Sam cracks and eye and looks up into the sky. He huffs, the closest Dean’s gotten to a response from him in years, and sits up, then hops up to stand. He starts shuffling forward and Dean moves to walk next to him. He scans the horizon as they go. There’s got to be something nearby that they can use as shelter. He’s too busy focusing on the distance to notice at first when Sam isn’t next to him. But eventually he looks up and realizes Sam started moving further south in a diagonal away from him.
“Sam!” Dean calls after him, but Sam doesn’t slow. Dean jogs to catch up and finds him determinedly trudging towards something. Dean’s never sure what Sam sees or hears or whatever it is he does, but every now and then he does this. It’s like he catches a little glimpse or intuition or something. He’ll strike out in a direction and as long as Dean follows him, he always ends up finding water, or a cave, or even towns.
“Don’t reckon you could tell me where we’re headed now?”
Sam keeps his head down and keeps walking. “Didn’t figure.”
Dean follows his brother. It takes them another hour, but Sam stops at a rock overhang. It’s more like an oddly constructed lean-to with a giant slab of rock propped up against a cliff face. But it’s plenty wide and it’s getting dark. If Dean hangs the tarp up over the side, they should be protected from anything but a raging thunderstorm.
Sam dumps his pack under the wide slab and then ambles out to find wood. The trees around here are misshapen and twisted, brittle from some fire. There’s no soot and it doesn’t smell like smoke anymore, so Dean figures they must be safe enough, though he has his doubts about firewood.
Sam comes back with an armful of wood that looks like it might actually burn and Dean sets to lighting a campfire and trying to figure out if there is any reason to hide the flame or not. It’s still early enough in the year that they don’t have to worry about keeping warm overnight, but one can never be too cautious. He doesn’t have enough to share, even if he wanted to.
But there’s not a good solution. There’s no ventilation in their little den for the night and if they are going to do any cooking, they need a fire. He builds it not far from the mouth of the lean-to and waits until dusk to light it. He hopes that the darkness will hide the smoke. With the rock at their backs, he’s not worried about someone sneaking up behind them.
He heats up a can of beans from their supplies and dumps a good portion into their one bowl, which he hands to Sam. Sam takes it and stares at it, but makes no move to eat. Dean finishes his share before he realizes Sam hasn’t touched his.
“Come on, man. I know it’s not caviar, but it’s what we got.”
Sam sets the bowl aside and shifts so that his legs are stretched out in front of him, wincing as he pulls his bad leg straight.
“Sam.” Dean knows he hates the beans, but it’s this or nothing. If they find water, he has some instant packs of things they could make, but this is it for the night. They don’t have the drinking water to spare for cooking right now.
Sam’s eyes flick his direction. Dean hates that he never looks him in the eye anymore, but he’s not come to expect anything else. “Please? You got to eat. At least it’s not peanut butter and mustard sandwiches.”
Dean remembers that culinary misadventure when they were kids. It seems like three lifetimes ago that they even could imagine having mustard, much less wasting it on a peanut butter sandwich. He’d thought things were tight back then.
“If you don’t eat, you won’t be able to keep walking.”
Sam reaches out and picks up his bowl, although whether because he was swayed by Dean’s logic or just to get him to quit nagging, Dean will never know. He ladles a spoonful to his mouth and eats it, staring out at the fire. Spoonful after spoonful finds its way to his mouth, and Dean is grateful he’s at least eating. It wouldn’t kill the kid to muster up a little gratitude, but he’ll settle for getting some food into him.
Dean pokes at the low fire with a stick and leans back with a huff. He shouldn’t be mad. It’s not Sam’s fault he’s like this. But he misses having someone to talk to. Sam shifts and Dean’s eyes are drawn to him. He scoots, lifting his leg gingerly so it doesn’t drag, to sit next to Dean. He lets his head fall sideways on Dean’s shoulder and he closes his eyes.
Dean bites back a smile. “Yeah, yeah. Glad I make a good pillow.”
Sam smiles, but doesn’t budge.
~~~
In the morning, it’s still raining. Dean peals back the tarp and looks out at the deluge falling outside their makeshift door. It’s not going to let up any time soon, but at least rain means water. They’ll boil it just in case, but Dean pulls out the rope. There isn’t much wind and it’s mostly sheltered here in the shadow of the rocks. He lashes the tarp up and away from the mouth of the cave, out to a couple of nearby trees. He tries to judge just how much they’ll get. If it’s only going to go strong like this for twenty minutes, they’ll have to save it for drinking, but if it looks like it’s going to last, they can shower.
Off in the distance he can hear a rumble of thunder. That decides him. They have at least another hour of rain ahead of them. Sam has sat up and is watching the rain fall. Dean’s not sure why, but Sam loves the rain. He’ll stare at it for hours and hours if Dean lets him. Since they really don’t have a lot else to do, Dean will usually.
He grins as he comes in, shaking loose water from his hair and making Sam wrinkle his nose. Dean chuckles. “Just water, princess. Come on. I think we’ve got enough time to wash while it’s actually raining.”
Sam perks up, eyes dancing up to stare at the clouds and then he scrounges in his bag until he produces the soap.
Dean digs through his own pack and makes a quick decision. “I’m going to wash this shirt. I can’t smell it another day.”
He strips down out of his jeans. He only has one pair and it’s too cool to go without right now, but he has a couple of extra t-shirts that’ll fit them both so he leaves that on and walks out under the steady rain. It only takes a minute or two until he’s soaked and he can start working in the soap. He doesn’t use much, just enough to make a bit of a lather in the clothing. Soap is a pain to come by when they don’t have much to barter with. He hands it over to Sam who has come out along with him.
When he’s scrubbed as much dirt and funk out as he can, he strips out of the sodden clothes and drapes them over rocks to rinse clean in the rain.
He takes the soap back and starts working on cleaning himself. Anymore, little things like washing the dirt from the road out of his hair is bliss. He’s tempted to just stand out here till he’s rinsed, but the rain is picking up and he’s starting to get chilled so he moves over to the tarp. An experimental poke proves that there’s plenty of water for a quick rinse, but only for one.
He looks back over at Sam, who has moved out into the clearing, arms outstretched and taking in the rain and decides his brother’s not likely to need it. If anything, the kid probably needs the rain. If it starts looking like lightning, Dean will call him back in. With a quick motion, he tips the edge of the tarp, letting the water fall over his head.
He heads back inside and drips dry until he can stand to put fresher clothes on.
The rain lasts the rest of the day and Dean amuses himself by organizing their packs, and when that runs out, using the charred wood from their fire to draw lewd things on the rock wall. He tried at one point to get Sam to play tic-tac-toe or any other half remembered game, but Sam just stares at the stick like it’s an alien and refuses to touch it. Dean doesn’t push these things. He’s learned long ago that however withdrawn Sam may seem, there’s always more room for him to shut down. In the end, it’s one of the slower days they’ve had in a while and Dean can’t really bring himself to hate it too much.
~~~
The next day they head out over the now muddy ground. Things start to dry up around lunch time, whether because they’ve moved into an area that didn’t get as much rain or because the sun seems determined to bring back midsummer on them, Dean doesn’t really care. All he really cares about is getting out of the mud and the puddles that seep into his boots because no matter how much he tries to weather proof them, they were several years old before the apocalypse and they’re just about done. Now he’s just hoping they find someone who has some to trade. Sam’s going to need new shoes soon too and finding anything to fit his ginormous feet was always a challenge, even when people still made shoes in factories.
Their luck stays just as crappy as it always has. The rain follows them. Just when they think they’ve moved out from under the shadow of the clouds, they roll back in. They’re progress slows to a crawl and everything stays slightly waterlogged. The few hours of sunshine they do see makes things muggy and sticky so that not only is everything muddy, but Dean’s sweating through his clothes too.
Sam’s knack holds out by some miracle. They find somewhere to hole up every time the rain starts to bear down on them and Dean’s grateful for that, if nothing else. They’ll also have enough drinking water to last them a lifetime the way it’s going. Or at least into next week.
By the third week of the unexpected slow, Dean is feeling restless. He wants to be moving. They’ve been pushing on and on and on for so long now, it feels weird to be stuck in one place. He feels like there’s something chasing them, although there’s nothing to chase them anymore.
He’s pretty much decided monster can go fuck themselves. There’s no real news network, no real settlements for miles and miles, and no real reason to go looking for trouble. Monster hunting pays better than it used too - folks are more likely to believe in ghosts or ghouls or vampires than they used to be - but it’s riskier, and harder to do without the internet, or even much in the way of books. It’s almost like starting over every single time and Dean’s too busy trying to keep them alive to worry about some crazy yokel who saved a lock of his beloved wife’s hair.
Of course, he keeps his pistol loaded with iron rounds - they ran out of silver nearly a year back - and his machete lives tucked in the bottom of his bag. He still has his silver knife. It would feed them for a month, but unless they’re starving, he can’t bear to part with it. It’s the one bit of silver he knows he can count on.
Sam still carries his too. Dean sees him do a weapons check every now and then and he’s the one responsible for keeping up with Dad and Bobby’s journals.
~~~
There’s only so many times he can field strip his gun. The knives are as well cared for as they’ve ever been and his pack is nearing a scary level of organization. He’s been pacing for the last hour and it’s making Sam nervous. He can see the kid watching him from the corner of his eye as he moves back and forth through the cave they’re staying in tonight. Sam is tense and wary of him, which Dean finds maddening.
It’s not Sam’s fault, he knows, but Dean has done nothing for the past few years but take care of his brother. He’s done his very best not to lash out or yell or anything so confrontational because he knows Sam will shut down on him and might not come back.
Finally he’s had enough of being watch and spins to glare at Sam.
“What?!”
Sam flinches and tightens his grip on the stick he’s been whittling for the past hour. It’s starting to take shape, although it’s still too early to tell into what, not that Dean cares at this moment.
“What exactly are you staring at?”
Sam bows his head and pulls the hunk of wood in closer to himself, making a few tentative cuts and resolutely not looking up. The passive posture infuriates Dean. If he would just say something! He just sits and ignores him. Dean needs out, but it’s pouring rain once again.
“Oh, that’s right,” he says, anger finding the one outlet left to him. “You’re still ignoring me. Still giving me the silent treatment like you’re five.”
Sam sucks in a breath. His head tilts a little so that he’s looking at Dean’s boots.
“Yeah, I get it. I keep us fed. I keep us safe. I keep us in damn clothing and you don’t have to do jack. What? Because the world ended, you get to stick your head in the sand?”
Sam has dropped his head again, his tools forgotten in his lap. Dean should stop. He knows he should. None of this is Sam’s fault. In some way or fashion it was that group of hunters - real, deer hunters or some such - but he’s never gotten the full story and he doubts he ever will. They’re the ones he blames for Sam being like this, but Sam’s here. They’re not. And Dean is pretty sure he’s going to go mental if he doesn’t get some sort of human contact soon.
That’s why he finds himself snapping, “Grow up, Sam. The world doesn’t stop because you got hurt. It was hard on all of us, but you don’t see the rest of us stumbling around like zombies.”
Sam is nearly shaking now. He has wrapped his arms around himself and that’s always a bad sign.
“Dammit, Sam. Just say something!”
Sam’s eyes clench shut and he goes still, just a fine trembling in all his limbs. His mouth opens and closes several times. Dean watches in fascinated horror as Sam struggles to get around it.
Finally, he draws in a long shuddering breath. With tears on his cheeks, he chokes on whatever it is he’s trying to say. Then he stands and hobbles out of the cave so quickly, Dean’s brain doesn’t have time to catch up, partly because he’s stunned that Sam actually tried to speak.
He just stares at the rock where his brother had been sitting. Wood shavings litter the floor and his knife lays open on the ground where it fell when he stood. His carving is laying, barely started near the cave wall.
Dean’s pulse kicks up a notch when he realizes that Sam is gone. He’s not just stepped out to get a breath of air, he’s stumbled on and out and away. Dean blinks and he jerks forward into the rain. It’s pouring and pitch black, but he keeps going anyway.
“Sam!” He calls as he slips down a muddy track following the uneven mud track.
“Sammy!”
It’s stupid, he knows. Sam hasn’t said anything for years and he left thinking Dean was pissed at him. He’s not likely to call out, even if he could. Dean stumbles on, glad there’s something of a path, because in this soup, there’s not really enough light to track by but he’s pretty certain Sam would avoid the woody underbrush.
“Sam!” Dean screams. “Sam, answer me!”
The track ends in a cliff. They’d had to find the long way up and around the back side of the hill. Dean slides to a stop when he sees Sam’s silhouette turn towards him, outlined by a flash of lightning near the edge of the steep sides.
“Sammy!”
Dean starts forward. A tilt of the head is the only acknowledgement he gets. “What are you doing?” Dean asks breathlessly. Sam turns back towards the edge. His toes a lipping the rock. Dean’s heart stops.
He takes a few tentative steps forward. “Hey,” he says. “Why don’t you come back just a bit?”
Sam doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even turn to look at him. “Come on, man. You’re scaring me.” Dean pauses hoping Sam will ease back. He’s close enough to grab him if he decides to do something stupid, but Sam has always been a quick draw when it counts and Dean has a feeling this definitely counts.
“I’m sorry.” Dean says. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was out of line. I wish you felt like you could talk to me, but I don’t blame you.”
Sam shakes his head, not looking around. “S-s-sorry,” he manages to stutter out, so low Dean nearly misses it.
Dean steps forward and sets a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “No, Sam. Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. Not really.”
Sam is still shaking his head, but he lets Dean’s hand rest on his shoulder.
“I know it’s been tough, but we’re making it.”
Sam casts a sideways glance, eyes skipping down to Dean’s shoulder. He’s trembling under Dean’s hand. “Come on, let’s get back inside.”
Sam frowns and leans forward, not dangerously so, but Dean panics. “Sam!”
Sam cringes away a hair and Dean grips him harder. “Please,” he says. “Don’t. Just don’t move.”
Sam leans back, away from the fall and frowns back at Dean, brows drawn down together.
“Look, Sam. You can’t do this. You have to stay. If you go, then so do I.”
The time for deals and bringing people back from the dead is over. He couldn’t bring Sam back to this. Dean’s not cruel. But this place, this ass end of the universe doesn’t make sense anymore. Everything’s gone rough and if it weren’t for Sam, Dean would have given up long ago. Sam has been at the center of Dean’s universe for so long, without him, he’d be lost.
Sam seems to grasp what he means and Dean can see the realization crash over him. His eyes grow wide and he takes three blessed steps back from the edge, pulling Dean with him. He’s shaking his head emphatically and takes both of Dean’s arms in his hands. He struggles, breathing hard. Dean’s not sure what to do to help him and the rain keeps dripping in his eyes, making it hard to see around the bright flashes of lightning.
“No.”
Dean sucks in a breath. It’s Sam’s second word in three years and Dean feels like he should do something. Celebrate. His voice is low, rough and gravelly, but it’s more than he’s done in three years.
But the panic in Sam’s eyes makes him realize that maybe he’s misjudged the situation.
Dean pulls back a little. “Hey,” he says. “Sam, calm down. It’s okay. It’s all right. I’m not going anywhere.”
Sam looks like he’s still in the throes of a panic attack. “I’m okay. I promise. Just don’t scare me like that again.”
Sam’s head drops and his shoulders sag. Dean pulls him into a hug. “Hey. We’re fine. We’re all fine.”
Sam clings onto him like he hasn’t since he was a snot-nosed kid. Dean’s a little surprised, but they probably were overdue for it. Aside from necessity, Sam hasn’t let Dean touch him since it all happened.
He pulls back a little, just enough to get some room between him and his brother so he can look down. Sam doesn’t budge. He keeps his face pressed into Dean’s chest. Dean snorts and turns, throwing and arm across his shoulder. Together they make their way back to the cave and semi-warm clothes.
He’ll see about making a celebratory something in the morning. They’ve got plenty of firewood and time on their hands, maybe he’ll break out the tin of jiffy pop he’s been saving. And when the rain lets up, maybe they’ll find one of the big settlements in the north. Maybe it’s time they found a place to put down some roots.
Of course, he wasn’t planning on the 1950’s secret society guy popping out of the closet of the hotel they would squat in a week later, but then, life very rarely went according to plan for Dean Winchester.