a/n: I should warn you that this fic is dark, gloomy, and not uplifting at all. So if you are looking for happiness and sunshine I hope you find what you seek, but you will not find it here. See warnings for details on this matter. The world where the story takes place was inspired by the book The Road by Cormac McCarthy, which is fantastic, go read it! Thank you to my family for betaing this for me even though you guys don't watch Supernatural. That said, all errors are mine so don't blame the betas please!
a/n 2: As of March 13, 2015 I made a few minor edits, but they're all grammar, language and spelling things so nothing about the story has changed.
Disclaimer: I own neither Supernatural nor The Road, this is only fanfiction, and I make no money from this.
Warnings: character death, scary things, violence, illness, minor swearing, angst like whoa
Today the chill air felt greasy and thick, clinging to their clothes and skin as they walked down the treacherous country road. Well, it had certainly been a road at some point in time, but now "road" was an exaggeration.
Sam's coughs broke the oppressive silence—harsh, barking, and wet, like the coughs of a drowning man. He probably was drowning from all the crap clogging his lungs. Worsening day by day, Sam's labored breaths were a now fact of life, a wheezing metronome ticking their way south.
Dean tried to approach Sam to help him, comfort him, do something, but as usual his brother held up a hand. Dean understood not wanting help, so as much as his instincts pressed him to help he stood back. Really it wasn't because Sam didn't want his help. He didn't help Sam because he didn't know how.
Eventually his coughs subsided into whooping gasps, Sam leaning over on his knees so far he was nearly bent double.
"You good?" Dean asked when Sam straightened gingerly.
"M' good."
So they continued walking down the broken asphalt road, south.
Mornings were the worst part of the long, bleak days. Mornings were too still, it was all too easy to reminisce. Once they got moving they could forget. Forget the permanent ache in their feet from walking in torn shoes. Forget their exhaustion from too many night interrupted by Sam's wracking coughs. Forget the past.
The cans of corn and beans on the fire began to steam. Dean crouched to take them out of the fire, knees popping and cracking louder than the flames. He hadn't felt this old before the world ended, but hey, nuclear fallout isn't exactly good for the health.
As Dean dug through his backpack for spoons and bowls, Sam jolted himself awake with his coughs. He hacked until strings of blood and saliva dripped from his clenched teeth to the dead earth.
Dean waited patiently, quelling his instinctive panic. When Sam's fit was finally over he pretended to pretend it never happened and handed Sam a bowl and spoon.
"Beans and corn," he said, flashing a painfully fake grin. He dumped half the food into Sam's bowl.
"Canned glop, my favorite."
"Glad you like it. I'll pass your complements on to the chef," mumbled Dean, mouth already full.
Their usual banter felt forced lately. They couldn't talk they way they used to. They could only pretend that everything was okay. Pretend that Sam didn't gag after just a few bites and push his bowl over to Dean. Pretend that Sam didn't shake all the time from a weakness he couldn't get rid of.
Dean had given up on forcing Sam to eat. But he couldn't bring himself to eat Sam's food. He would rather starve than feel like he was taking Sam's strength. Whatever happened, Dean needed to stay as healthy as possible for Sam. Despite his logic he couldn't bring himself to eat Sam's food because it was still Sam's.
They quickly packed up camp. It never took long as they only had with them what they carried in two tattered backpacks Sam had found in a back room of a deserted office building. When they set off down the road they didn't look back.
Walking down the road had a familiar, comforting feeling. Sam walked on the right, Dean on the left.
Dean thought Sam's wheezing sounded worse today, the underlying rattle stronger. He didn't mention it. They didn't say much of anything on the road anymore. There was once a time when they joked, talked, and reminisced. Now it was hard enough for Sam to breathe without trying to speak.
Mostly the road was lined with dead fields, or forests. Sometimes they passed through a tiny town that had probably been just as deserted before the world ended as it was now. But now they were nearly upon a city.
Ghostly grey shapes rose in front of them in the polluted haze growing ever larger as they walked closer. Gradually they materialized into apartments, houses, factories, restaurants, things long gone and forgotten.
They entered the city cautiously, weapons drawn. They kept out of sight as much as possible, avoiding windows and main streets. Breaths and footsteps quiet. Well, footsteps at least. Sam couldn't exactly do stealth anymore. Dean felt a rush that was something like the rush of a hunt. Except they were trying to avoid becoming prey, but not prey to anything supernatural. These days humans were the real monsters.
They reached a dilapidated Walgreens. The automatic doors failed to swoosh open, but the glass in front was shattered across the doormat, so they ducked inside.
They proceeded to search for anything salvageable. One lone package of chips that had slid under a shelf and been missed by other looters. A water bottle on a back shelf, lid still sealed.
Dean strolled over to the medicine section. It was picked over, but this store had more than some. No painkillers. No good cough stuff. Sam grabbed the last two bottles of vitamins. Dean picked up the single bottle of kid's cough syrup, lying on the floor amidst dust and debris, and stuck it in his pack.
After exiting the non-swooshing doors they walked down the street. Only a block later Dean felt a tingling at the base of his skull. Something bad was about to happen. He could feel it, something dangero—
A rain of bullets shrieked though the air.
Sam's hand gripped his shoulder like a vise, dragging him to the ground.
Dust exploded in clouds around him.
Sam's mouth moved, made words that Dean couldn't hear.
He ran, Sam ran.
Alley, street, dog park, street, door, kitchen, door, street—
Sam staggered. He fell.
Dean's world snapped back into focus, his breathing and heartbeat pounded in his ears. Dean pulled Sam up to sit against the wall. Sam coughed until he had no more air, and then kept coughing. Dean talked to him, tried to comfort him but would have no recollection of what he said because in his head he panicked, silently the whole time. What happened to him back there? It could have gotten Sam killed. Maybe he was losing it maybe—
"You...okay?" Sam rasped.
"You're sitting on the ground coughing up a lung, and you want to know if I'm okay?"
"Dean. I saw you. You froze! I thought you were hit I thou—"
"I'm fine, Sam. Worry about yourself."
Sam glared at him, but dropped it.
Dean still hadn't adjusted to night without stars. A permanent dingy blanket had draped itself across the sky the day the world ended and even the moon couldn't shine through.
They slept under the same blanket. Dean told himself it was for warmth, which was true. But when he couldn't see his own hand a foot in front of his face, he didn't want to be any farther from Sam than absolutely necessary. It was all too easy to feel abandoned, no matter how close they slept.
He could tell Sam tried to stifle the coughs and let him sleep. It didn't work. He wanted nothing more than to fix his brother but it was too late and they both knew. The blood told them that much.
"Cas," Dean prayed silently, "Please...just please."
He didn't know exactly what he prayed for anymore. His angel never answered. He hadn't answered once in three long years.
Dean squinted as he studied the disintegrating map. He definitely needed glasses. Oh well, too late for that now.
"Hey, Sam. Take a look at this. There's a river less than five miles from here if we take the next exit."
"Dean, you're holding that piece upside down." Sam snatched it and flipped it over. "It's twenty miles out of our way and we have to walk though another city."
"You're reading it wrong. We're here." Dean jabbed the map with his finger. "River's here."
"Fine, maybe we're here, maybe we're there," Sam shouted. "It doesn't matter where we are because we're always freaking nowhere—"
He coughed. And guilt clawed at Dean's insides because maybe, just maybe if he could read the damn map right for once, or if he knew something about medicine his brother wouldn't be constantly coughing up a lung in the middle of freaking nowhere.
"If we go in—into another city we—aren't going to make it out again," gasped Sam, struggling to get his breath back. You might not make it out again, Dean. Dean saw the unsaid words written in his brother's eyes. He felt his fear. But it wouldn't be like last time. He was fine.
"I don't want to either, but we don't have a lot of options here, man. We're past running low on water," he grinned. "And come to think of it, I could really use a shave."
"Fine. Jerk."
"Okay. Bitch."
A dead, graying branch bent low under the young man's weight, but not low enough to let him stand. He hung from his neck by a frayed rope, toes barely brushing the ground. One eye was missing, gore trailing down the poor man's battered face. His emaciated chest and arms had red and purple lashes bruised across his otherwise gray skin. He clearly hadn't been dead for long. If it weren't for the noose he could have been asleep.
Dean's stomach lurched when the man lifted his face and blinked at him with his remaining eye. He was still alive. The man's eye swiveled to face him. His broken skin knitted back together, but it remained pitted and disfigured. He reached up and snapped the rope around his neck with impossible strength, then looked to Dean and smiled a terrible smile.
He drew long jagged fingernails and ripped open his own chest. No blood flowed from the wound. A dark swarm came from inside him. Then parts of it took flight and Dean realized that flies were pouring from the man's chest. The man reached inside his crawling chest cavity and pulled out a wicked knife, advancing on the brothers.
Dean wasted no time in whipping out a gun and firing two bullets, three, four, into the undead thing.
"Dean!"
Sam's voice broke into his head, louder than the gunshots, louder than anything. He almost dropped the gun in shock. The man remained on the rope. Hanging from his neck.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
Dean's knees gave out and he fell forever until Sam caught him. They both sat heavily in the dirt. Sam gently pried the gun out of his shaking hands. They sat there for a long time.
Sometimes it rained, frigid and acrid. They swore and scrambled as the first stinging drops pelted down, desperately setting up an impromptu shelter and covering everything they had. Usually the rain helped Sam breathe, batting the dust down to the ground. He still wheezed today though.
Dean carried both their backpacks. Even without the burden of added weight Sam fell behind. He seemed to stumble over every crack and bump in the road and occasionally his own feet. He thought someone might be following them, and he though he heard distant voices down the road. But he couldn't really trust his own senses anymore.
"Dean," Sam's pleading tone stopped him in his tracks. Sam swayed unsteadily and Dean could hear every painful, shallow, rasping breath.
"Here, we'll take a break." Dean shucked off the packs and fished around in one until he found a water bottle. "Hey. C'mon sit down. We're stopping."
Sam sat so quickly it was more of a fall, but Dean caught him. He hated Sam's frailty. They'd both lost a lot of weight but Sam had to weigh less than him now, the way his bones jabbed Dean where he slumped against him. He shook exhaustion and strain.
"Drink." Dean pressed the bottle into his brother's hand, took off the cap for him. "Sammy?"
"Dea—," Sam broke off coughing. "Can't breathe," he choked out, eyes wide, afraid.
"Okay. It's okay. You're fine Sam. You can breathe. You can breathe."
It wasn't okay. Sam wasn't fine. Dean took back the bottle and put it away.
There could be people following them.
Sam reached out for his hand, spindly fingers gripping painfully tight.
Was that noise a cart rolling down the asphalt?
And still he coughed.
Was that voices?
It wasn't supposed to be like this. Dean felt old, too old. Sam was young.
Were they getting closer?
"We can't stay here, man," said Dean, "Come on."
He put on their packs, and then physically dragged his brother up. They clearly weren't going to get very far. Dean needed to find a place for them to lay low for a few days. Just until Sam recovered.
But he won't get better, Dean, he's never going to. Shut up.
Dean didn't want to wake Sam. The kid needed his rest to get better.
He's not getting better.
"Shut up," muttered Dean.
"Sammy?" He shook his brother's bony shoulder. "You with me?"
Sam groaned and turned his face into the sagging, mildewed mattress. Dean hadn't wanted to wake him, but they had to move. They'd camped out in the same abandoned farmhouse for three days already, far longer than was safe. Dean had hoped to wait out Sam's fever there, but it persisted.
However, a low-grade fever didn't concern him as much as getting caught by some of the other humans still wandering the broken landscape. Dean really didn't fancy being made into some tyrant's slave, or someone's dinner.
"I gotta piss. You better be up by the time I'm back."
Sam wasn't up when he got back.
"Come on, dude. I'm not gonna carry you."
Sam slowly dragged himself up until he was sitting leaned against the wall. He looked pretty damn pitiful. He shivered and hugged himself, head drooping, body listing sideways.
"You know what, Sammy? Screw it. Just go back to sleep. We'll stay another day."
One day turned into two days, which became a week. Their supplies dwindled and Sam's fever climbed higher and higher.
Dean stood in a clearing in the woods. The stars glittered above him growing brighter by the second. Then they began to dance. They trickled down from the heavens in complex swirling patterns.
One found its way to Dean's clearing. It drifted down toward him in an intricate spiral so beautiful he couldn't breathe. He opened his hands to catch it, for it was only the size of a light bulb, though a million times brighter.
It came to rest in his palm, lighter than it should have been for its size. He then saw that it wasn't a star at all, but a large glowing egg, too beautiful to have come from anywhere on earth. The sides were pliable, but firm like a balloon.
He knelt on the ground and began to dig with his hands. He scraped away the leaf litter and dug into the soft earth. He dug until he felt a wooden handle. He pulled it and an ornate knife slid cleanly out of the dirt. He began to peel the egg with it. It came away in gluey layers until he all that remained was a smooth pearlescent stone no larger than a peach pit. It glowed so brightly he had to squint. He set it on a rock and smashed it with the hilt of his knife. Each crack made it glow brighter, and bright-
The unmistakable sweeping glare of a flashlight beam awakened Dean. There it went again. Someone was outside. Someone they probably didn't want to let in. There was faint clamor he could hear now from outside. Several humans. It wasn't clear whether they were people...or just humans.
"Sam. Wake up."
Sam didn't wake up.
"Sam."
Sam didn't wake up.
He shook him.
Sam didn't wake up.
Dean's stomach clenched with panic.
He pressed his ear to his brother's chest. Another beam swept through the room momentarily blinding him. Nothing. He felt ice crushing him from the inside. No. No. The clamor outside got louder.
Thnp. Then there it was. A faint beat.
Thnp. A sign that Sam was still alive.
Thnp. Dean could have cried. But he didn't have time to savor his relief. He had to hide Sam and assess the situation outside.
He dragged his mountain of a little brother across the room, not gently, but at least he avoided the larger pieces of furniture. Time was of the essence and even a scrawny Sam wasn't exactly light. His brother didn't wake up through the whole uncomfortable affair. He stashed Sam in the tiny, long-unused bathroom and closed the door.
He heard the back door he'd painstakingly reinforced crash open. He left Sam and closed the doors behind him as he ran downstairs, grabbing the pistol. As he waited at the bottom of the stairs, loud feet drew closer. He tried to count. He guessed three. Maybe four. Or none because he'd lost reality somewhere along the way.
They rounded the corner, blinding him with the flashlight.
He surprised them, he had the pistol ready, aiming at what he hoped was a person but he really couldn't tell because of the light in his eyes. Unfortunately, surprised people with guns shoot.
He heard the shot, painfully loud in the confines of the hallway. He didn't feel anything at first. Then the familiar agonizing burn rushed through his chest. Not a clean through-the-heart shot, but he knew it was close enough. He was dying.
Huh.
Four people. He'd been right.
They didn't look surprised anymore. The woman with the gun kicked him out of the way and the group traipsed up the stairs.
Dean felt his own heartbeat, condemning him to die, pressing his blood out of the wound.
Darkness faded in around the edges of his vision.
It closed in and blotted out the middle.
And Dean knew as surely as he was dying, Sam would die too.
He'd failed.
Linda took one look at the guy on the bathroom floor and knew he was a dead man. She refused to waste a bullet on him. He wasn't a threat like the one downstairs. She took everything useful from the room and went to find the rest of her family. Maybe, with the stuff they got from this place they would make it. Make it where? She didn't know.
Sam drifted gradually and painfully into consciousness. His ribs hurt. His mouth and throat burned a line of pain down into his chest with every breath. A faint shaft of sunlight brightened his surroundings and Sam realized that he had no idea where he was.
"Dean?" he rasped. But he could barely hear himself. Okay. So, he was on his own. He took note of the situation.
Toilet, sink, tub. Okay he was in a bathroom. But why? A farmhouse, something about a farmhouse. Vague snippets of the last few days rushed through his head. Dean had wanted to leave. Sam had been holding him back.
"Dean," he croaked again, but his lungs tightened and he coughed. And coughed. And coughed.
As the painful spasms wracked his body a cold certainty grew in his mind. Dean had finally given up on him.
Okay.
So he would die right here in an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.
Sam was surprised. Not by the fact that he was going to die, but by how little that fact disturbed him. As a hunter he'd had more than his share of near-death experiences. But he didn't expect to die at all. He expected Dean to get there before the actual death part.
But Dean was gone now and he had to keep reminding himself and accept it. Because he wouldn't get away this time. Good. In a way he deserved it. And he had to keep reminding himself of that too. He did deserve this, for all he'd put Dean through. For...for everything.
He drifted in and out of consciousness.
Time blurred around him.
It could have been years he lay there. No it couldn't. Because he didn't have any water. So he didn't have years. Just three days. Three days.
He slept.
He woke.
His lips cracked and bled into his parched mouth.
He coughed and felt something snap in his chest. Pain flared sharply with each breath. A rib.
Sleep claimed him for the last time. Along with the bitter feeling of abandonment he felt relief. Dean was better off without his dying brother to drag along. And he, Sam, would get what he deserved.