this was written for the sam winchester big bang over on tumblr. if you'd like to check the art you can go on my tumblr or ao3, both koedeza
Heat on his skin.
The warmth of the sun on him like the sound of an alarm clock, only much more in his head. And no, he doesn't dream much anymore but if he did-
No.
There are things Sam doesn't do anymore, and imagining is one of them.
He lays there for a few more minutes, opening his eyes every once in a while to catch the red-hot of the sunrise before closing them again. When the heat turns from pleasant to uncomfortable he sits up and stretches out long limbs, shaking the sleep and soreness out.
His VW Rabbit creaks as he shifts inside the tiny trunk, climbing over to the backseats and opening the door to get out of the rapidly heating car. Sometimes he lets himself think of the time before it all ended and he remembers the Impala, the long beast that carried him cross- country. Though the Rabbit is an ugly green and too small and it breaks down at least once a week, it's his mobile home and has saved his ass more times than he can count.
Besides, even owning a car is beyond a blessing now. If it weren't for Ty, the guy Sam traveled and stuck with in Detroit, he imagined he would never have gotten to Arizona. Probably wouldn't have gotten outta Michigan.
Sam pulls his only shirt off the headrest with one hand and takes a cigarette out of a smushed cardboard box with the other, jamming it in between his teeth. He fishes for a lighter in the pocket of his jeans and lights his cigarette, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt.
With the Hawaiian pattern on it, Sam knows what Dean would say. Some tourist crap is what he'd call it, but there is no Dean and there are no more tourists. It's something he'd never be caught dead wearing before, but now he couldn't give a shit. And maybe he's allowed to like the only shirt he owns.
When he ducks back into the car, in between the box of cigarettes and a pile of semi-burned rope he catches the glint of a gun.
Before he can even think about it he has his fingers wrapped around the cool metal and has it pressed against his temple. Irrational, he knows. Next, he guides it to his mouth, takes the safety off and replaces it with his cigarette. Bites down on the metal of the Glock like a dog on a chew toy.
He's died before. He can do it again.
It's easy to forget the number of times he's caught himself since the beginning: A straight razor with the slightest pressure on his neck, the rope in his backseat tied tight and sturdy, his feet dangling off the edge of the canyon just last night. It's ridiculous, really.
He's died before. He can do it again.
Except he most likely won't stay dead, and when he opens his eyes again the inside of the car will be splattered with brains and blood. Sam's not certain, but he's good at inferring. Someone just doesn't want him dead, not yet, so the safety goes back on, the cigarette back between his lips and the gun gets thrown under the all of Sam's crap.
He shuts the door and leans against the hot metal of the car, not even bothering to button up his shirt, knowing all too well the Arizona weather will only result in climbing temperatures until nightfall. He sighs and shakes his head, staring out into the sunrise and tapping his cigarette out. Each inhale burns his lungs but he's not kicking the addiction now, not when he has so little time left. Ever since he started, he's had a hard time deciding whether he loves it or hates it.
He finds he can never really decide, and after all, it's the end of the world. Maybe it'll kill him before September rolls around. Ever since the outbreak, he hasn't been entirely sure of what month it is, and it hasn't mattered, but if the treacherous sun is anything to go by, he'd guess around July or August.
His stomach rumbles and he lifts his shirt up to feel at his abdomen, grimacing when he sees the way his bones stick out. He needs food. The last few months when he was up in Detroit had been solely on rationed meals and cigarettes to stave off the hunger, but now that he made it down south he might be able to find more homes that haven't been completely looted. The almost 30-hour drive from Detroit down to the Grand Canyon went by without a wink of sleep or a crumb of food and only water and piss breaks to keep him awake. By the time he made it to the Canyons, he parked on an overlook and slept for 20 hours straight.
Now he regrets not being awake, not being able to see the Grand Canyon in all its glory. The sunrise is so gorgeous he contemplates staying on this overlook forever, waiting it all out and staring at the deep red gorges before him, but-
He knows he can't. He knows he can't stay here for however long he has left, so instead, he turns and gets in the car, driving away before he can look back.
-x-
American air got musty after a few months, the Croats taking over most of the country, leaving destruction and disorder to create a new home for themselves. Sam's not sure about the rest of the world but he can guess it's about the same. Society left in shambles and the scraps tossed out for those who survived. It's what he's used to though, fighting for his life, killing for love. Besides his new smoking habit and a few new scars, nothing's too different. Yeah, the world seems smaller and he drives a Volkswagen now but things remain the same.
Except when he thinks about Dean. That's like a punch to the gut.
The road ahead is cracked and curved and as his car jitters on he occasionally sees a few people ambling down the side of the road, weary faces and puzzled eyes. It's been a year since the virus got out but Sam thinks for some people it's never going to fully sink in. There are times even he forgets what's happened, eyes widening when he sees a Croat who's strayed from a hoard, skin blanching at the thought of being so alone, jaw clenching at the done deal.
Today's a clear day, the sky open and blue above, and with no AC Sam already feels his shirt sticking to his back with sweat. He takes a quick glance at the map in his lap then turns his head and looks at the back seat. Gear and supplies lay piled together, and in his head, he tries to take stock of what he has and what he needs.
Batteries, more gas, another shirt, canned food, and a few first aid supplies.
He drives until he's off what used to be interstate and in what used to be a town. Tumbleweeds blow in the wind and hit his windshield and he wonders if he's the only person in Arizona with a car. Probably. As he rolls through the town he sees a few stores, all abandoned and most likely looted of everything but it doesn't hurt to look.
He leaves the Rabbit hidden where he can wedge it in a collapsing home, then covers the visible green with trash and rotting wood. He has a canvas pack on his back and a little bit of America's "Horse with No Name" stuck in his head, and he figures its a good a day as any to go ravaging for all the shit that got left behind in the end. No Croats that he can see either, which means more ammo that he can save for hunting food.
Sam reaches one of the places he saw coming into town, an old Costco from the looks of it, but the faded red lettering only has the letters s and c. Senescent and Crumbled is more like it. As he walks across the vast parking lot, a rustle in the wind interrupts the warmth of the day, cuts through like a knife. And a hunch, dark and bold and sure, hits him in the back of the head and makes him walk a little faster. He raises his shoe and stubs out cigarette #3 of the day, jamming it back in his pocket for later. Something's weird.
Croats, more than likely.
Since the end, he's met a wide variety of people, gotten to know some well, but no one's ever felt like he does around them. Maybe it's the demon in them, maybe it's the demon in him, but he feels their presence, hears them chatter like a constant click-clicking. At the beginning of the end, when there were millions and millions spread all over the country it felt like he was having visions all over again, the constant noise and rattle in his head giving him migraines like a kick in the head.
Now a lot of them lie dead, their bodies burned and Sam has learned to ignore those who are left, much like the constant nagging about September in his head.
As Sam pushes past the fallen metal doors he hears the clicking, ears more alert than ever before. A hand reaches into the waistband of his jeans and slides the Glock out, holding it at the ready. He shifts through the shadows of the dark warehouse and weaves through empty boxes and turned over shelves, eyeing the huge metal racks that almost touch the ceiling. The Croats generally aren't smart enough to do much more than move around and attack, but every once in a while there'll be one who knows what it's doing and can get the rest of the hoard to follow.
Late summer in Detroit, a few months after the outbreak, Sam had climbed up to the roof of a building with Ty. They'd wanted to scout out potential Croat hide-outs, maybe see if there were any bands of people who were traveling around seeking shelter.
"The Croatoan virus is smart." Ty examined a carved knife handle and threw it back to Sam who caught it in mid-air.
"Yeah?" Sam let the knife glide through the air and plant itself into the low wall. "How smart?"
"Think about it. You ever see a slow Croat? Ever wonder why there are so many bodies littering the country? At the rate people get bitten there should be hundreds of millions more, there isn't-"
"None of the dead bodies have Croat-killing wounds. No bullets, no slashes." Sam bit the side of his thumb and peered over at Ty.
He thought about it, about how he never saw a Croat that wasn't keeping up with the group, or how most of the dead bodies had no signs of a classic Croat killing. It just seemed like either Croats that had dropped dead, or people who hadn't made it during the turbulent months following the outbreak. Logically, it made no sense.
"It weeds out the weak." Sam had whispered.
"Mmhm." Ty just kept plucking at the strings of his guitar, staring past the roof and out into the streets. He wasn't interested in learning to throw knives. He lived in the heart of Detroit and knew how to use a gun. Sam had asked once if he planned to use his brains and his rickety guitar to survive the coming shitstorm. The deeper into the crisis they were, the more Sam felt his temper shortening. He hadn't known Ty for more than a month, but he cared, didn't want to see him get bitten like everyone else. Later he'd learn that was his mistake.
"If your an old lady, you'll still get bit. You'll just die a lot sooner." Ty said, then started playing a somber sounding tune, letting mumbled words carry across the darkening sky. The same melancholy song he always sang.
"And so I came to the fork in the road
The one where they buried his bones
And oh, I prayed to God to give him peace
That he could find his way back home
Wouldn't want to spend eternity alone"
It was the last time he'd play that stupid guitar.
Sam pushes the memory to the back of his head and continues treading silently, eyes narrowing as it gets darker and darker the further in he goes. He's almost near the back when the clicking he's been hearing in the air turns into a full-on cacophony, and a human scream reaches his ears. Then, one of the metal racks comes crashing down, tearing a garage door on its way down, letting in enough sun to illuminate the scene.
Sam sees it almost as soon as he hears it.
Hundreds of Croats swarming over shelves and broken lights and climbing on racks, knocking everything down. It's like a wave, rocking back and forth between two walls, and in the middle, running towards the entrance is a boy. He's hurtling forwards, but Sam can see that if he doesn't help the kid doesn't stand chance, so he clambers over the debris on the ground and punches through the mass of Croats, ignoring their clawing and biting and tearing as they try to tug him to the ground. He finally gets close enough to grab on to the boy's bicep, circling an arm around it just as he feels teeth sink into his ribs and skin being ripped off.
"Holy fuck," He hisses and pulls the Glock forward, shooting the Croat right in the head, then kicks it off of him. He knows better than anyone that the bite is going to get ugly. Before the boy can get engulfed by the rest, Sam pulls hard, flinging them both out onto empty concrete. They roll for a few seconds, then Sam's yanking the boy back up, tugging on him to follow as Sam runs out of the warehouse.
"Come on, I have a car!" Sam shouts as he's skidding down the street, his side burning from the Croat bite.
The Rabbit is hidden a street or two down from the store, and Sam only glances back once or twice to see if the boy is following before seeing the hoard following them. Once they get there Sam motions for the kid to help uncover the car and then they clamber in, shutting the door and driving out.
Sam takes as many backroads as possible on the way out of town and slides into the interstate faster than the little car is able to handle, but the Rabbit doesn't disappoint.
-x-
"What's your name?" Sam asks when they're well out of Arizona, keeping his eyes on the passing road.
"Me?"
"Yeah."
"Ian." The boy talks nervously and he fidgets a lot, but Sam figures it's not that big of a deal, only normal after everything that's happened. He looks about fourteen or fifteen.
"Where do you live Ian?" Sam's trying to be as nonchalant as possible but the kid is making him a little uncomfortable, how his eyes keep bugging out and he keeps biting his lips. Classic anxious behavior, Sam would know, but the boy seems to be worried about something.
"I used to live in Salt Lake City. I trekked across the state border to find some more food for my sisters and my mom," Ian picks at his fingernails.
Sam frowns. Food must be much scarcer than he thought.
"I can't take you all the way to Salt Lake City because I have somewhere to be, and I'd be wasting my gas, but I can take you to the border, sound good?"
"Yeah," Ian mumbles.
Sam doesn't expect much, but he thinks maybe a thank you would be nice.
His stomach rumbles again.
The drive is quiet until Sam lights up the cigarette in his pocket, rolls down the glass and puffs out, letting his arm hang out the window.
"How'd you get cigarettes?" Ian whispers in awe, reeling at what's left over from the old world.
Sam bites his lip and considers the question. He doesn't want the kid getting any ideas about the things Sam carries around in his car. Ironically enough, he doesn't have half as many weapons as he did before the Croat outbreak, with all of them stowed away in the back of the Impala. Even if he did, the threat of seeming like a mass-murderer doesn't faze him, not anymore.
"Just got them from an old friend." He sighs, memories burning through his head. His tone of voice is low, eyes cast out on the road, and it carries over as an indication to Ian that he shouldn't ask about it anymore.
It only gets Sam thinking about Ty.
"Where are you gonna look for food when you get back?" Sam asks after a few minutes, breaking the tense silence. He still can put his finger on it, but the boy looks even more uncomfortable than before, eyes shifting around every few seconds, shirt wet at the pits.
"I-I dunno. Some traders had passed through the area, and told us how Arizona was the least populated state they'd seen since the outbreak." When Ian says this, a drop of sweat rolls down his forehead. Sam pretends not to notice. "I was hoping since there wouldn't be as many people, there'd be more food."
Dumb, Sam thinks. Really, really dumb. He shakes his head gently. "Look, they were right, I haven't seen a lot of people but,"
"But what? I need to take care of my family."
"Just because there's not a lot of people doesn't mean-" Sam finds the words harder to say than they should be, mouth opening and closing like a fish. "They're dead. They're dead because the heat helped spread around the virus, and before they died they took everything. If you're looking for food it'll be in the homes."
Ian blinks.
"I just needed first-aid stuff and some clothes, that's why I was looking through the stores." Sam finishes, veering off the road once they reach the faded sign of the Utah state line. He parks the car and sits for a few seconds, taking a drag from his cigarette. This is where the kid has to step off, walk the rest of the way back home. Sam feels shitty, just leaving him here on the road, the sun beating down like a thousand drums. He has somewhere to be though, and he's in kind of a time crunch.
"You gotta go Ian."
A few seconds later, and Ian still hasn't moved. In fact, he looks almost green in the face, eyes bulging.
"Ian…"
The attack comes out of nowhere.
Ian has his hands on the Glock that was sitting in the middle compartment, fingers scrabbling to fit where the trigger is, eyes wild and terrified. Sam moves as fast he can, trying to sling an arm around his neck and lock him in a choke-hold, but Ian brings a leg up and kicks his chest with brute force, knocking him back into the door. Somehow, the window doesn't shatter and while Sam tries to shake the dizziness from his head Ian's throwing open the door and scrambling out, gun aimed shakily at Sam.
A shot rings out.
"Fuck! Ian, what the fuck!" Sam yells, arms and legs tangled up in front of him as if they'll protect him at all. He has no idea where the bullet landed, can barely see in the position he's in and doesn't know if the boy is still aiming at him.
"What the fuck was that for?" Sam shouts again, even more confused than before. It all explains the shaky, crazed behavior, but what the hell is this kid trying to pull?
"You got bit!" Ian yelps, gun still pointed at Sam.
"Yeah, and what in the name of God is your problem?"
"My problem?"
"Fuck." Sam hisses and moves his hand a fraction of an inch, rotating to open the car door. He tumbles out and lands on hot concrete, a shot ringing out again as he hits the ground. He hears a bullet whiz above him.
"You tried to shoot me!" Sam yells from the protection of the Rabbit, his nose picking up the scent of burning leather. He catches his cigarette lying on the seat, probably knocked from his mouth when Ian kicked him back. He swipes a hand forward and grabs it, hissing when it burns at his palm and falls to the concrete.
His only option is to risk peeking at Ian.
"So? You got bit, I saw you," Ian's hands shake, the gun in them rocking like a boat on the sea.
Oh.
He got bit.
Sam glances down at his side, surprised to see his shirt sticky with blood. Adrenaline, he guesses, like natural amnesia. Now that he's thinking about it, it throbs, pounding in time with his heart.
He breathes in, then out, eyes half closed. He just needs to tell Ian what's going on. A dry wind runs through him and through the car, fluttering the leaves on the ground. He takes a second to collect himself then pulls a lighter out of his pocket. He can't let some fourteen-year-old know he's jumpy, not right now. He'll just explain himself, and it'll be fine.
"Yeah, I did-" Sam struggles to get the lighter going, the wind killing the flame before it meets his cigarette. "Fuck," He mutters under his breath and hunches over, trying to get the thing to light up.
"Hey! I asked you a question!" The boy's sounds terrified, and with good reason too, because Sam hasn't turned yet, and that goes against everything he probably knows about Croats.
"Yes, I got bit, ok look-" Sam finally gets his cigarette lit and snaps his lighter off, shoving it back in his pocket. He gets up slowly with his hands out in surrender and walks around the side of the car until he's face to face with Ian.
Sam doesn't do I'll believe it when I see it, not with everything that's happened in his life, but he can see how someone else would, especially right now. He lifts up his shirt and flashes a human-sized bite mark, red and inflamed right under his ribs. It's deeper than he thought it'd be, a jagged looking circle that will definitely leave a scar. Ian jumps back but then takes a stumbling step forward, gun still pointed forward.
"Hey, lower the gun before you shoot me in the foot," Sam says, prompting the boy nearer with a sideways nod of his head.
Ian lowers it and steps forward, eyes widening as he lays his eyes on the wound. The bite, Sam knows from experience, looks like a regular wound, not the purple-blue rot of a Croatoan bite.
"How is this possible? What even…" Ian looks at it in awe, hovering a finger over the bite before bringing his hand back down.
"I'm immune." Sam brings his shirt back down, pulling it taut so it doesn't stick to his skin, and takes a drag of his cigarette. Ian looks completely confused.
"Yeah, someone's saving me for something." Sam puts a hand out, gesturing toward the Glock in Ian's hand. He passes it back, and Sam pretends not to notice the hesitation in his movement. It lands solidly in his palm and Sam sticks it back in his waistband, ignoring how it rubs against the bite.
"Hey Ian, look-" Sam opens the back seat of the car and rummages under all his crap, pulling out a pistol that he knows is half-loaded. "There aren't too many rounds in this, but…"
Ian still eyes Sam with apprehension, wary of his movements, but accepts the gun when Sam hands it over. "Thank you. You- You never told me your name."
Sam's lips quirk up at that.
"I think it's better if you never find out. If anyone comes looking, you won't have to lie." He figures this will only confuse Ian even more, but he knows he's never going to see the kid again. It's sad, he thinks, that human connection is as scarce as a meal. When the dust settled, he thought their humanity would bring the survivors together. Fitting, that it's what's tearing them apart.
"Anyway, I gotta go, so uh, take care of your family. Keep them safe." Sam awkwardly reaches over to pat Ian on the back then turns on his heel, back in the direction of the Rabbit.
"Who?"
"Huh?" He turns around when he hears Ian's voice.
"Who's saving you?"
"Oh." Sam looks down at his scuffed shoes, the holes in his jeans, the marks on his skin, the way the smoke from his cigarette trails up into the air.
"The Devil."