"Yo, we've got someone approaching! Vehicle, no flag raised, no nothing," Chuck shouted.
Dean scowled, loading his shotgun. "Well, let's see what they're here for, shall we?"
"Wait, they're stopping." Chuck glanced at Dean from his binoculars. "It looks like they're unhooking something from the back and leaving it."
"Some kind of trap?"
"Maybe." Chuck passed over his binoculars.
They waited in silence. The truck made no move to come closer, and none of the indistinct figures seemed to want to signal anything.
They dumped whatever they had off and got back into the vehicle. They left.
Dean waited, but the indistinguishable lump was sitting there, and the strangers weren't coming back.
"Uh, Dean? What happened?" Chuck motioned for the binoculars.
"I dunno. Whatever they left for us, it's sitting out there."
"So probably a bomb, right?"
"Only one way to find out." Dean climbed down from the watch tower, shotgun in hand. Chuck went along with him, but seemed to be entirely focused on coming up with all the terrible things the package could consist of. Mostly he was obsessed with bombs. Dean tuned him out.
Whatever it was, it was wrapped in burlap. Dean grimaced, nudging it with his boot.
The bag shifted, something inside squirming. Dean immediately took a step back, aiming his shotgun at the twitching sack.
"Dean, shoot it!" Chuck hissed. "What if it's infected?"
"I thought all the infected had gone South for the winter." Dean nudged it again.
"That doesn't mean they're all gone," Chuck said. "This could be a way to infect all of us so they can steal our stores of toilet paper and food."
Dean raised an eyebrow at him.
"Okay, fine, do your thing. You get infected though, and I will laugh. Hear me?" Chuck took a step back as Dean drew out his knife. He cut through the sack, grimacing at the stiffness from all the blood.
"This dude's in a bad way," he muttered.
"Maybe it's a warning. That they're going to kill all of us."
Dean peeled back the bloody fabric. Underneath matted hair and gore he managed to find the guy's neck.
"Got a pulse," he muttered. "Chuck, go grab some more people to help carry this guy. He's too big to manage with the two of us."
Chuck beat a hasty retreat. Dean swore under his breath at the state of the stranger's back. Lacerations this deep would require a lot of care and medicines, which they couldn't really spare. He'd let their doctor take a look over the guy, and if the prognosis was too poor, they would take the practical route and put him out of his misery.
"Why on earth did they leave you here?" he muttered. Predictably, the man provided no answer.
Half of the guy's face was cut up and badly burned. The other half . . . With shaking hands, Dean wiped away some of the blood.
"Sam?" he whispered. There was a faint gasp of pain from the man as he moved to see his face a little clearer. It . . . it couldn't be Lucifer. All reports said that the devil had fought with the angels, and the angels had won. That was three months ago. That meant . . .
"Dean, what's going on?" Rita put her hands on her hips. "Is this really a smart move?"
"Enough questions. Get this guy in the camp," Dean growled.
He had enough authority that they obeyed without any more questions. Dean got the man—Sam, Lucifer, whichever—into the medic's cabin.
"Start cleaning him up," he ordered. He left the cabin, opening and closing his fists to keep himself from punching someone.
"Cas!" he roared, as soon as he was close enough to the ex-angel's cabin.
Cas's clumsy sprawl told him that he would probably be of no assistance. Dean yanked him up by one arm.
"Get yourself together right now."
"Why would I do that?" Cas shoved at Dean's arm ineffectively. "I am about to reach the perfect state of serenity."
"Because I have someone who looks a helluva a lot like Sam in the doc's cabin, and I need to know if Lucifer's gonna wake up and demolish all of us."
For once, Cas shut up. By the time they got back into the cabin, the good doc had finished peeling away the burlap and had started rinsing away some of the blood.
Cas fell against the wall, staring at Sam. He cursed loudly.
Dr. Jones glared at him. "Pull yourself together, Cas, before I do it for you," she growled.
"How is he?" Dean approached the cot, hissing between his teeth as another sluice of water revealed a raw burn on Sam's side.
"Hard to say. Infection's inevitable, at this point. It's just a matter of whether he's strong enough to live through it," Dr. Jones said shortly.
"He's strong," Cas said. Dean glanced at him sharply. There was something close to wonder in his voice, and it put him on edge.
"I'll help with the stitching," he muttered. "Cas, can you tell?"
"It isn't Lu—it isn't him." Cas reached out with one finger, touching Sam's bicep. "How is he alive?"
"Don't ask me." Dean slid the needle through Sam's flesh and began the arduous work of pulling pieces of skin back together. To his surprise, Cas stayed through the entire process, simply watching.
After finishing his back, they turned him over.
Dr. Jones moved down to Sam's lower half. Uncharacteristically, she cursed.
"What is it?"
She pointed to the spiraled pattern down Sam's leg. "Something was twisted around this leg. I think he was pulled by it." She began palpating at his hip.
Sam lurched upwards, making a sharp huffing noise and scrabbling desperately. Dean caught his hands, pressing him back down.
"Sam, don't fight us," he growled. Sam's one eye rolled in its socket, tears streaking down his cheek.
There was a sharp popping sound. Sam's back arched, and then he collapsed, unconscious.
Dean swung around. "What did you do?"
Dr. Jones was looking a little pale. "His hip was dislocated. I reduced it."
Dean couldn't stand anymore. "Take care of him, doc," he said. "You know the rules about meds."
"Sure thing."
Dean stepped out. There were people going about their business, so he forced himself to act normally until he made it to his cabin. He didn't make it to his bed, collapsing against the wall with a low whine. Dean had buried Sam a long time ago, let himself only use bitterness and regret when thinking about his lost little brother. And now. Now that was ripped open.
"Dean?"
Cas entered Dean's cabin without knocking. Dean hastily turned away so he wouldn't see his face, but the ex-angel was staring at his bloody hands.
"Knock next time," Dean snarled, wiping at his face.
"It was Sam," Cas said dumbly. "Sam's alive."
"What's left of him," Dean said harshly. He finally twisted on his heel to face Castiel. "If he survives this, we have no way of knowing what shape Lucifer's left him in. Is he still addicted to demon blood?"
Cas was still stoned, so he wasn't able to focus properly on Dean's face. "I didn't sense anything demonic."
"Like you have enough juice to even tell stuff like that," Dean said.
Cas scowled. "We will see."
He left, and Dean locked the door behind him. It was only twenty minutes before he was disturbed again—leading an entire camp back from the brink of destruction had made him into somewhat of a desired commodity in all aspects of people's lives.
It actually helped, being back among the others and helping four year old Kelly climb down from the roof. Dean had carved out a life for himself in this place. And he couldn't help but feel like Sam's return was the herald to it being torn away again.
"Dean?" The doctor approached, looking exhausted. "I've done what I can."
Dean stepped away from the others, drawing her with him. "And?"
She huffed a little, wiping a shaking hand across her face. "He's got a long way to go. Temp's already high. I have antibiotics enough to last for a two week course. Chances are that it won't be enough. Assuming he'll be lucid enough to take oral meds."
"Great." Dean grit his teeth together. "I've got work to do. Keep me posted."
"No, Dean, he's going to need more help. I've got my family and whatever other patients come along. You need to find someone to care for him practically 24/7."
"Well, that is not going to happen, so—"
"I'll do it."
Cas's voice was almost expected, but as always, mostly unwelcome. Dean took a breath to avoid punching him. "Are you going to be sober enough to manage that?" he asked.
"I'll dry out."
"Whatever. Do what you want, I have work to do."
Despite what Dean pretended, Sam was a black hole, drawing him in. Every few hours of every day, he would end up near Cas's place looking for excuses to go inside. He only let himself look in for a few minutes at a time—to all appearances, Sam's condition was constant. He was feverish, unable to comprehend or speak, and in pain.
Surprisingly, Cas seemed to stay sober. For the few days following Sam's arrival, he never left Sam's side. Dean couldn't help feeling a twinge of something—jealousy, anger, resentment, he wasn't sure what—every time he found Cas placing wet washcloths on Sam's forehead or plying him with cups of water.
"It's Cas' turn to go out for supplies," Chuck said, approaching Dean. "Dr. Jones has asked that you take over watching Sam."
Dean rubbed a dirty hand across his forehead. He'd been working in the gardens for hours. He didn't really want to deal with Sam, but he could use the respite from the heat.
Cas's cabin smelled strongly of weed. Dean grimaced, dragging over a chair and setting up next to the bed. Sam was lying quietly, breaths a little faster than they should be. Dean shifted uneasily.
"Well, if you're going to just lie there, I might as well make sure you aren't dying," he muttered, trying to make an excuse to . . . well, there was no one to hear him.
He fished out the thermometer from the medical supplies scattered around Cas's place. Sam's brow creased when he stuck it in his mouth, but made no verbal protest.
101.5 degrees Fahrenheit. Dean sighed, picking up a washcloth and soaking it in water. "Never could do this the easy way, huh Sam," he muttered.
He went to put the washcloth against Sam's forehead, only to find Sam's eye open, staring at him. Dean flinched.
"Sam?" he asked cautiously. There was no response, and he swallowed. "Lucifer?"
Sam didn't seem to comprehend anything he was saying. Dean carefully placed the washcloth and Sam's eye closed; he pressed lightly into the touch like it was soothing.
For a moment, something like nostalgia welled up inside of Dean. He pressed it back furiously, drawing his hand away from his brother. Sam had let the devil inside, he had ended the world. There was nothing left between them.
Sam's eye flickered open. His vague gaze wandered around until it landed on Dean. Frozen, Dean watched as one of Sam's hands crept out from under the covers. It was shaky, weak. But he still managed to cross the gap and brush Dean's face.
Dean stood violently, shoving the chair back. Sam cringed back.
"I'll be over here," Dean muttered. He dragged his chair over to the makeshift table in the corner. Sam's eye tracked him, refusing to close. Dean tried to look anywhere but at Sam.
As soon as Cas got back, he was out the door.
A few weeks passed. Dean was focused on the minutiae of survival, so he spent his days managing the camp and keeping everyone alive.
An incoming raid by another group of survivors managed to distract him completely, until one day he turned around, and saw Sam limping alongside Cas.
He was pretty sure his mouth was hanging open, and that he looked like an idiot.
"Hey, Dean," Cas greeted. "We're out for a . . . I can't remember what it's called."
Dean eyed him suspiciously. "Are you high again?"
"A walk!" Cas said, snapping his fingers awkwardly. "Oh and yes."
"Just what we needed. You stoned again," Dean muttered. He avoided looking directly at Sam, continuing his work of stockpiling the ammo.
"I have women to go find," Cas announced. "Sam stay with Dean."
"What, Cas—"
He looked up, but Cas was already retreating. Dean muttered a curse after him.
Sam limped over, left leg dragging. Dean cleared his throat.
"Well, make yourself useful," he muttered. "Sort through this ammo and find the good shells."
Sam stretched out his scarred hands, carefully taking the box Dean extended. He shuffled close, pulling his leg around so he could sit at the bench next to him. Dean resisted the urge to shift away.
They worked in silence. Eventually, Dean glanced over. "So your infection's gone?" he checked.
Sam stared at him, and then nodded. Dean considered asking him if he could talk, but the outcomes to that were potentially horrible, so he didn't risk it.
He did have to ask one thing though.
"Is Lucifer gone?"
The question was loud in the silence. Dean dared to look over at Sam.
Sam's hands were trembling. His eye stared unseeing at the bullet in his hands. Dean felt his insides twist with remorse.
"Sam?" he tried. Sam didn't respond. Dean reached out and touched Sam's arm.
The reaction was instantaneous. Sam scrambled backwards, scattering bullets in his terror. He was nearly hyperventilating.
"Sam, snap out of it!" Dean demanded. His harsh tone did nothing to help Sam, who ended up falling on the ground in his haste to get away from Dean.
The jolt seemed to wake Sam from his panic. He stared around. For a second, he almost looked like a child in his confusion. Dean's instincts told him to go comfort Sam; the rest of him held back.
"Dean, did you manage to—" Rita stopped at the sight of Sam. "What's going on?" she asked.
"I'm done here," Dean said. "What's up?"
Rita kept glancing between Dean and Sam. "Uh, I was going to ask you if you'd assigned anyone to patrolling the South side for the next shift."
Dean cursed. "I'll have to pick up that one, I guess," he muttered. "Remind me to straighten out that schedule tomorrow, alright?"
"Sure thing, Dean." Rita cast one more speculative look at Sam before jogging off.
Dean scooped up the fallen ammunition, throwing it haphazardly into the boxes. "Perfect, another shift walking around the perimeter," he muttered to himself. "Just what I needed."
He walked off.
Sam followed.
Dean turned, staring at him. "What are you doing?" he asked.
Sam took a step back, scarred face impassive except for his one eye, which managed to make him look like a kicked puppy.
"Whatever, don't get in the way," Dean said.
Sam followed him, a limping shadow.
It was difficult, having Sam around. Not only did he never say anything, but he freaked people out. Dean was getting half the amount of work done he usually did.
Dean literally ran into him as he turned to go on his patrol.
"Sam! Could you for once stop being a baby and following me all over the place?"
Of course Sam just looked hurt. Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Give me some space, man. That's all."
Sam nodded, long hair falling into his face.
Sam started leaving Dean alone, and Dean did his best not to miss his silent shadow. It was better this way.
Three days later, Dean realized his mistake.
He was finishing up at the garden one day when he realized how quiet it was. Adults were always spread out across the camp while kids were centered in a few buildings to keep them safe. But by sunset, dinner summoned everyone in from their jobs and the camp grew pretty loud.
Dean tossed down his hoe and set off. As he approached the west side, he heard shouting. He broke into a jog, and then a sprint when he heard something about "die," and "demon."
He thought Croats were attacking again. The last thing he expected to see was Sam curled up on the ground, hands covering his face as a few people kicked at him and spat on him, while the rest watched uncertainly.
"Hey!" he roared.
It was a testament to how harsh Dean had been after Detroit had fallen that all of them immediately stopped and turned towards him.
"Dean," one guy said uncertainly. "What—"
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snarled.
One of the braver idiots gestured to Sam. "This man ended the world. We thought it was only fair he pay his dues."
Dean didn't know what expression was on his face, but it was enough that all of them took a step back.
"You stay away from Sam. He was screwed over, just like the rest of you."
"Was he the devil?" Rita spoke up.
Dean grit his teeth. "Yes. And obviously he paid for it." He gestured to Sam's mangled face. "Now you leave him alone, or you will have to answer to me."
They dispersed, with only a few mutters. Dean approached Sam, unsure whether to pick him up or not.
"Can you get up?" he asked gruffly.
Cas ran up.
"What happened?"
Dean looked back at Sam; Sam's one eye was staring at Dean like he was his entire world.
"Take care of him," he managed to say before retreating.
It only took a few hours before Dean had to see how Sam was doing. He headed over to Cas's, pausing at the door to listen.
"No, Sam, you're supposed to smoke it."
Dean wanted to keep walking. He really really did.
"What are you doing, Cas?"
Cas scowled. He was twitching, so obviously he wasn't high yet. "I was attempting to allay some of Sam's pain, but he won't cooperate."
"Yeah, that's just what we need. Sam addicted to something else," Dean muttered.
"Well, the benefits of—" Cas started.
Dean's brain caught up to what Cas had said. "Wait, Sam's pain?"
Cas looked at Dean, entirely sober and entirely unamused. "Dean, will you stay on topic for once?"
Dean ignored him. "Sam, what pain?" he asked sharply.
Sam's eye gazed at him uncertainly. He seemed to deliberate for a moment, and then shook his head.
"No? No what, no pain?"
Cas snorted.
"Stay out of this," Dean growled at him. "Sam, answer me."
Sam shook his head again. Dean breathed heavily through his nose. Striding forward, he yanked Sam to his feet and dragged him out of Cas's place, ignoring the ex-angel's whining and Sam's bad leg. Only when he got into their cabin did he let go of Sam and turn on him.
"What are we doing here, Sam?" he asked. "How did we get into this mess in the first place? Lying to each other. So you want to start that game again?"
Sam's hazel eye looked too bright, too wet. Dean scrambled for his righteous anger. "Well, we aren't going anywhere, Sam. If you don't trust me to talk to me or tell me about what's going on with you, then we might as well give up, right?"
A tear slid down Sam's cheek.
"Hey. Sam, I'm sorry, I'm bad at this, okay?" he said roughly. "Will you look at me?"
Slowly, Sam lifted his gaze.
Dean figured that it couldn't hurt to try. "I didn't mean . . . look, you could . . . you could write, y'know? Or we could come up with some kind of sign language, right?"
Sam's face was nearly impossible to read at the best of times, stiff scar tissue keeping his expressions flat and hard. But Dean caught the widening of his eye, the twitch of his fingers.
Dean cleared his throat. "All I'm sayin' is, I know I'm a jerk, but I, uh, I wouldn't be opposed to you putting me in my place like you should be."
He waited a second, but Sam seemed to be processing. Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "Something for you to think about," he muttered, turning away.
He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder—the first time Sam had reached for him since he'd been back. Dean turned, feeling something eerily like hope.
Sam looked at him through his shaggy hair.
And raised his middle finger.
Things were still . . . off. Not that Dean had expected things to magically be alright. But at least Sam was a little more present, a little more responsive. He followed Dean around like a puppy, but he started gesturing, reaching out to touch Dean in short bursts, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed.
Cas stared sourly at them. "You've been a jerk to him for weeks, and suddenly now you're the one he likes," he said.
Sam looked at Cas from behind his hair. His lip quirked a little.
"You can work out your jealousy issues later, Cas." Dean grunted as he finished working on the engine. "Now, let's see if this baby works."
Cas began reaching for his joint, but Sam spirited it away before he could finish. Cas stared at him, dumbfounded.
"What the f—"
"Language," Dean interrupted absently. "Kids are picking up the cuss words. Kirsten's insisting we all clean up."
"Yeah, well I'll clean up after Sam gives me my drugs back."
Dean glanced up at that, eyeing Sam. Sam was gazing placidly at the sky. He couldn't tell if Sam was doing that deliberately to seem innocent, or simply zoning out in one of his moments again.
"Sammy, did you eat lunch?" he asked.
Sam twitched, looking over at Dean. After hesitating a moment, he shook his head. Dean sighed, slamming the hood down.
"Dude, you've got to stop doing this. I can't always be your babysitter," he growled.
Sam shrank, and Dean curbed his tongue. He scooted into the old Jeep's driver's seat, revving the engine and smiling when it caught.
"Let's go get some food," he said, prying himself out of the rusty vehicle.
"Give it back, Sam," Cas said loudly.
He offered a hand to Cas. Cas opened it expectantly, but instead Sam's empty palm wrapped around Cas'.
Dean guffawed. "See, Cas? Sammy loves you too."
Cas scowled at the two of them. "I think I preferred when the two of you didn't get along."
"Hey, Dean?"
Dean turned. Chuck was staring at him dolefully.
"Oh bearer of bad news, what now?"
Chuck scowled. "You are in a good mood."
"C'mon, spit it up."
"Dr. Jones reported that we are completely out of bandages and other medical supplies."
Dean blew out a breath between his teeth. "Who's on scavenging?"
"You and Rita."
Dean stiffened. He still hadn't forgiven her for her part in hurting Sam. "I don't think so."
Sam picked at his sleeve. Even with one eye, he managed to make a pleading look that tugged Dean's heartstrings.
"No way, Sam. I can't take you out there."
Sam nodded vigorously. Dean looked pointedly at Sam's leg. Sam countered by pointing at the Jeep.
Forget the kids. Dean cursed. Loudly.
The Jeep rumbled through the broken streets. On edge, Dean constantly craned his neck around, looking for leftover croats or any other kind of threats.
In stark contrast, Sam seemed more relaxed than Dean had seen him since his return. He propped up his arm on the door, letting the wind play through his fingertips.
"I take it you like this," Dean stated.
Sam looked over at him. His eye flickered with whatever various responses he wanted to say, but he ended up gesturing impotently.
"We'll try and pick up some paper and pens for you," Dean muttered, mostly to himself.
Every time they went scavenging, they had to go a little farther. They had a good system; a map back at camp noted all the places empty, all places with some supplies left, and potential roads where old stores might be located. Dean headed in one of those directions, hating how loud the engine was.
"Here we are." Dean pulled up at an old pharmacy store. One broken window, but it was impossible to tell how much had been raided.
Sam got out faster than Dean expected, hobbling into the store before him.
"Sam," he hissed. His little brother didn't listen, and Dean swore, picking up his shotgun and following.
To their surprise, the inside seemed relatively intact. A few aisles had been raided, but mostly people had been after the food or basic supplies.
"Here we are," Dean said. He swept up the entire row of bandaids, antibacterial ointment, and more. "This should do nicely."
He looked around. "Sam?"
There was a sharp noise of something breaking. Dean's heart rate shot up, and he barreled towards the back, where the sound had come from.
Instead of finding Sam under attack, though, he found him on the floor, sobbing. Shards of a broken mirror were scattered around him.
"Sammy," Dean said, a little softer. "Hey, kiddo, look at me."
The mirror crunched under his boots. He carefully put a hand on Sam's arm, drawing his hand forward. His knuckles were sliced up.
"Is this about the scars? Cuz Sammy, those don't matter. Have you seen Phil? That dude has a way uglier face than you."
Sam shook his head. Dean pressed his lips together in thought. "Help me out here, Sammy. What's going on in that head of yours?"
Sam's hand shot out, gripping a shard of mirror. Even as Dean yelled at Sam, he sliced open his finger. To Dean's horror, he began writing with his blood. He looked on as Sam traced out incomprehensible symbols.
"Sammy, I can't read that," he whispered.
Sam stared for a moment, and then began rewriting in English.
"Lucifer?" Dean choked. "Sam, wha—"
Sam pointed to his own face, and then to the word he'd written.
"Sam," Dean breathed.
Sam simply stared at his sluggishly bleeding finger. Dean carefully wrapped his hand around his little brother's, tugging open one of the bandages he'd just grabbed and cleaning his wound up.
Dean had words he could say. A lot of 'em. Some that could even help Sam get past his issues, start moving on. But they stuck in his throat as he thought about Detroit, Sam giving in.
"Let's head out," he said gruffly.
The winter went by pretty smoothly. A few stragglers joined the camp, some babies were born. Rita got pregnant, though she refused to tell anyone whom the father was. Sam started using basic signs, taught to him by an old deaf man.
Under normal circumstances, the coming thaw and warm weather would have been good news. For them, it meant the potential return of Croats. Dean was waiting for them to die off—without a good supply of humans to eat, they should starve. But there was no way to tell.
Dean snuck up on Sam. While most of the kids in the camp had been told by their parents to stay away from Sam, Mindy was a stubborn little thing and loved to go against her mother's rules.
Thus, she had made fast friends with Sam.
"No, build the wall this way," she said bossily.
Sam hesitantly stacked up the stones. He always kept his hair hiding his scarred face when Mindy was around.
Mindy sighed noisily. She tugged at his hands, ignoring when he flinched.
"No, dummy, like this." She scooted into Sam's lap and began reconstructing their little fortress. Dean swallowed the lump in his throat at the dumbfounded expression on Sam's face. Tentatively, Sam put a hand on Mindy's curly black hair.
However much Dean wanted to leave them to it, it was dinner time.
"Food," he announced. "Mindy, don't make me ask twice."
Mindy stuck out her tongue at him, and then scampered away as he growled at her.
Sam stared after the girl.
"Little brat," Dean said. "She give you any trouble?"
Sam shook his shaggy head. He made the gesture for 'no' and 'hungry.' Dean scowled.
"I don't think so. You're skin and bones." He poked at Sam's ribs to make his point. When Sam still seemed hesitant, Dean pulled out the big guns. "For me, Sammy," he said.
Sam huffed a little, and ducked his head. "Attaboy," Dean said. He couldn't deny, it felt good being a big brother again. He slung an arm around Sam's neck towing him along until they got to the dining room. Sam took a step away, falling behind Dean, like he always did when the others were around. Dean had tried to convince him that he didn't care, but Sam had some idea in his head that he was a blight for Dean's image as a leader.
Judging by the hostile looks Sam still got, he probably wasn't wrong, though.
Dean made sure Sam got enough food on his plate before going to talk to some of the other men about a new line of defense. When he looked up to check on Sam, he saw him offering food to some of the kids.
"Yo, shoo!" he growled at them. He was normally pretty lenient with anyone under ten, but Sam needed to eat.
Sam looked up at him. Dean noted suddenly that the scarred side of his face looked pretty inflamed.
"Finish your food and let's go home," he said. Once he got him back to their cabin, he lit a candle and peered at Sam's face.
"Looks like you've got an infection in your bad eye," he murmured. He took a moment to wash his hands before carefully touching the edges of the scarred and fused tissue. Sam made a whimpering sound at the back of his throat.
"Easy, kiddo." Dean swore under his breath. "Dr. Jones might need to work on this."
Sam's other eye patiently tracked Dean as he began boiling water.
"Was it Lucifer that did this to you?" Dean asked.
Sam shook his head.
Dean sucked in a deep breath. "Sammy, if you can . . . can you tell me what happened in Detroit?"
The scratching noise of pencil on paper told Dean he was going to get a real answer from Sam for once. He focused on pouring out the boiling water, letting it cool. Sam didn't protest as he began cleaning out the dried pus from the corner of his eyelid, trying to get past the gunk and to the actual infection. Only after he was finished cleaning did he focus on what Sam had written.
"Lucifer took me. I was hurt and confused. He looked like you. I said yes."
Dean swallowed thickly. "Like me?" he whispered.
Sam laboriously wrote out "my fault."
"Aw, Sam." Dean carefully pressed another wet cloth against his little brother's eye. "That's not true. You were played."
At Sam's dubious expression, Dean tipped his chin up. "You were," he said firmly. Very slowly he sat down next to Sam, curling his hand around Sam's neck. "And I've blamed you for too long. I'm sorry."
Sam's mouth tilted up a little.
"Things'll get better," Dean promised.
Rita died with a gurgle, blood gushing from her throat. Dean tore through the Croat attacking her, but he was too late. The screams of his camp echoed in his ears; Dean ran. He found Cas first, beating off a few Croats while he screamed obscenities. Dean finished them off with his machete, shoving Cas behind the cabin and gripping his shoulder.
"Where's Sam?!" he shouted.
"Before the attack . . . he was over by the schoolhouse."
Dean nodded, hefting his blade. "Let's go."
Cas loaded his shotgun, baring his teeth. "Right behind you."
Dead bodies littered the ground as they ran—some Croats, some human. He heard a little girl's shriek, and sped up.
Mindy was pinned against the barn by three Croats.
And Sam was charging in, no weapon, nothing.
Something tore from Dean's throat—a scream, a growl, Sam's name, or some amalgamation of the three. He was too far away, and Cas' shotgun had too much spread, and could hit Sam as well.
Sam reached the Croats. He inserted himself between Mindy and the vicious creatures, beating them off with his bare hands.
Dean was finally close enough to do damage. He stabbed one of them, lopping off the head of another. Mindy cried out, ducking beneath and clinging onto his leg. It hindered him from helping Sam finish off the last one, but with a twist of his arm, Sam snapped the last Croat's neck.
There were several gouges on Sam's arms, his chest. Dean swallowed heavily, dragging him forward.
"Dean, is he infected?" Cas asked.
"We'll figure it out later," Dean said. He shepherded the three along until they made it to the Jeep. "Everybody in."
"My mommy," Mindy whimpered.
"I'm sorry, Mindy." Dean could see her mother dying with a scream if he closed his eyes. He revved the Jeep, pulling out. He took the route through the camp, just to see if he could pick up any other survivors, but all that remained were Croats chewing on corpses, staring at the Jeep with hungry eyes.
"Let's get out of here," Cas said.
Dean obeyed him, feeling his guts churn in nausea. He had thought that maybe, the camp was . . . but no, nothing was secure. Or safe.
Sam grunted a little. Dean glanced in the rearview mirror; he was poking at his wounds.
"Leave 'em alone, Sammy," Dean said. "I'll fix 'em up when we stop."
"Stop where?" Cas sounded despairing. "We have nowhere to go."
"We'll head North."
"The crazy people don't like the cold," Mindy announced. "That's what my mom says."
"Yeah, kid."
Dean glanced in the mirror again. His eyes were drawn to Sam's wounds over and over. After everything that had happened, if he were to lose Sam now . . .
"That looks like a decent place to camp out for the night," Cas said. He was pointing to what looked like an old clinic, and Dean pulled up to it.
"Might have some supplies, too." Dean glanced back at Sam, who shrugged.
"Sure," Cas said suspiciously. "Look, are you ready to do what is necessary if Sam turns?"
"He won't," Dean said. "I think. I mean, he used to be immune."
Sam was rummaging through the back of the Jeep. He held up some rope, gesturing to himself."
"Sam—"
Sam narrowed his eye at him.
Dean unwillingly settled Sam into one of the old exam rooms. He took care of his wounds first, but after that he tied Sam up, being careful with his bad leg.
"Too tight?" he checked.
Sam rolled his eye at Dean.
"I found some blankets, and a decent supply of drugs," Cas announced. He tucked a couple of the blankets around Sam, staring down at him. "You feel crazy? I don't want you to be crazy."
Sam smiled a little, wiggling free an arm to hook his fingers in Cas' pocket.
"I'll take first watch," Dean said. "You three, try and get some sleep."
Mindy curled up on the floor, pulling a blanket around herself. Cas hitched himself up on the end of the exam table, grunting as Sam swung his tied feet on top of him.
"Nice," he muttered.
"No fighting." Dean loaded his revolver. "Sleep."
It was nearing dawn when Dean heard a disturbance. He tensed, drawing up his gun. The sound had come from inside the clinic, and he turned back from the door.
Cas yelled, and Dean sprinted towards the exam room. Mindy was snarling, going for Cas' throat. Sam, still tied up, had inserted himself between her and Cas, holding her back with his bound hands.
Dean didn't hesitate as he shot Mindy in the head.
"Good timing," Cas breathed.
Dean shook his head. "We should've checked her."
Sam made a sound like a wounded animal. Dean was just close enough to catch him as he collapsed, reaching for Mindy.
"Easy, Sammy. She's gone, she's gone."
There was desperation and pain in Sam's eyes.
And guilt.
"It wasn't your fault," he whispered. "Sam, we have to keep moving."
Sam made the sign for 'why?'
Dean looked helplessly to Cas. "Sam, we've made it this far. We have to keep going."
Sam's gaze was full of despair. But he still picked himself up, bad leg dragging awkwardly, and patiently waited for Dean to cut him free of his bonds, ready to follow Dean's lead. For now, that was all Dean could ask.
A/N: This was for a prompt on ohsam which I wrote a short response to and then expanded:
1.) Camp Chitaqua, post-apocalypse
2.) Dean, Stoner Cas
3.) disfigurement, mutism
A belated Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! Last fic of the year, and I barely finished it in time. Vacation has turned into far more work than I'd anticipated, so there's been very little writing. Hopefully this next year will be a productive one! Thanks for sticking around :)