This story came to me completely out of the blue. I'm taking this idea I have and running with it, and hope I don't go in circles or crash in on myself while doing so.
Summary: The world has been reduced to empty land and abandoned cities, and Sam Audum runs among the devils and demons, barely surviving. Dean Winchester is a surprise he can't run away from.
Warnings: Very AU, I doubt it will bare any resemblance to the Winchester world we are used to. Nonwincest Sam/Dean slash.
Disclaimers: Kripke is still refusing my offers for the boys...selfish bastard
Also, I warned you about the slash. Flamers Not Welcomed.
Sam eyed the horizon with distaste, calculating how much time he had to get out of Midland before dark. The Pontiac sputtered under him, reminding him time wasn't the only problem he had; he was almost out of gas. The sun bore down, air hot and heavy on the cracked clay of the desert that was so close to the shoreline. Sam was determined to get out of this godforsaken land before the moon rose and brought the shadows onto him.
A hand-painted sign dawned from the lifeless domes, pointing him to an outpost village, and Sam hoped that they had reserve oil he could pawn something for, maybe some water for stock. The cracked pavement seemed to bow under him, the road mere chunks of asphalt dotted with the underlying cement.
Midland wasn't as bad as many claimed - the demons could walk into the daylight just fine, but the heat reduced the life span of host bodies, so open road was relatively safe. Night was different story, which was why Sam was on his way out.
He had been born in the Midlands, right in the heart of him, right before the dark days started, so the prospect of them wasn't so terrifying, not near as much as the thought of what was following him.
The car shuddered to a halt twenty feet from a gas station, and Sam eyed the low bricks that encircled the building - a salt barrier. The circle was about four inches high, easy to step over, but the mortar had been laced with salt to keep out vessels. The barrier was supposed to be dug six inches into the ground, but this was shoddy work, and Sam could see someone had toppled the bricks by running them through with a car, or maybe just a bike. He shook his head - people weren't as careful as they were in the beginning.
"Hello?" Sam stepped away from the car, hand toying with the butt of a revolver - useless against Demons, but they weren't his only enemy. His ears picked up on something from within the gas station, from the moter home parked near it. He stopped cold, ice in his veins when he realized what the sound was - flies.
The open road is beautiful. That's the only good thing left about this country. Maybe thats not true - things are good near the coast, where the salt in the air drives away the bad things and brings in hope, of all things - but Dean is almost positive that that pales in comparison with this beautiful stretch of gray. It's infinite, and it will be a long time before it fades - and in this life, time is everything.
Dean taps the wheel of the impala in beat with imaginary music, and whispers to himself. Long ago he accepted the fact that he was crazy, driven mad from days and months and fucking centuries in the heart of a war, scared and broken time and time again. A little insanity is a worthy solace.
Darkness is beginning to fall, the sun retreating from this land, surrendering to the darkness once again. Dean sighs and slows the car, feeling blindly behind his seat until he finds a map. It used to be the of the United States, but it was now marked in blue circles and dots to show outposts and safelands. His fingertips found the nearest one seemingly without a glance and he turned off, the seamless pavement giving way to a gnarled and bumpy street, hoping for a bar in his future.
Sam's hand burned with callouses, the shovel heavy in his hands. He had cleaned out the motor home, his detached nature coming into play as he hauled out bloody body after bloody body, dried blood caked to their skin like Halloween's play. He had dug a hole, dumped them in, one by one. Lit the match, holding the beauty of the flame in his eyes for moments before letting it fall, catch the lighter fluid and scorch the dirt.
The gas station had been worse.
Sam couldn't go back there, not to those bodies. Some had been massacred - the ones that had fought back, most likely - the others, mainly women and children, were simply discarded - vessels that hadn't suited the demons.
Instead, he took out his salt, circled it around his car. He painted a dozen devils traps, hoping to get lucky and fend something off if it decided to come back.
Then he huddled low in the back seat, the car almost tightening around him, a vice around his psyche. He fought the urge to cry and pulled up his notebook, reaching in his pocket and pulling out the cards he had found on the counter in the motor home, his hand steady.
Andrea Julen, Age 29, Found 6.21.08
Garret Julen, Age 31, Found 6.21.08
Unknown Girl, Age abt. 9, Found 6.21.08
Unknown Boy, Age abt. 18 months, Found 6.21.08
Sam felt his chest tighten as he wrote the last one. He didn't know why he did this, filled pages and pages, some with entire paragraphs about their life, their death, what they were like. Most were only sentences, information he happened upon, names, ages, birthplaces.
He just thought someone should remember, remember that once people actually lived.
He drifted into sleep, the work ID's held tight against his chest, the faces burned forever into his brain.
The clouds grumbled their discontent, flashes hot and white cutting against a blackened sky. The storm had come in so suddenly it seemed to chase off the faint lingering glimmers of sunset, replacing it with a bruised gloom. Sam glared at the sky, fought the urge to raise a fist and curse the heavens like in a bad play.
The rain started to hit the windows, little platterplatter noises that fought through Sam's growing wall of sleep. He could hear them in his dreams; black smoke on the roof of a tiny cabin; a man with a toothless grin tapping on the glass of his tank, his prison; the sound of blood hitting cold concrete.
He woke in cold sweat, hand finding his knife and brandishing blindly in front of him, slashing wildly through empty air.
Sam could feel the demons, heavy beneath his skin. Everything in him was on fire.
LeaverunGetoutgetoutgetout. They'recoming. Runrunrunrun.
There were the other voices,too. Low and guttural, whispering to him, usually far away tones shockingly loud in his head.
He knew they were close, years of training giving him warning. He was drinking oil, his throat closed and tight in the stale car, waiting for dawn. If it ever came for him.
Rain poured down the windshield of the Impala, little crystalline rivulets, pure and clean. ShwickShwickShwick - the sound of the windshield wipers almost lulled Dean, making him blink dreary eyes.
He could see the silhouetted forms of buildings through the rain and dark, his headlights catching the obscurred gleam of a car conceled in shadow.
Dean blinked once. Twice.
His hand fumbled behind the seat, frantic. He pushed harder on the gas, the shotgun finally fitting into his hand as he swung the corner, switching hands on the sterring wheel and fumbling with the window crank.
He aimed blindly into the night, fired off a shot. He could see someone in the car, palm against the window, stark white against the darkness. They were still.
NononononoNOOO.
After all this time, death never ceased to horrify him. He tore out of the car, screaming into the night, another loud shot. His voice was raw as the words fell from his mouth, familiar and tasting like ash and copper. The dark moved away, disappeared and melted into the black sky.
He ran to the car, found it locked and shattered the front window, little glass squares casscading as he fumbled with the inner lock.
Pleasepleaseplease be alive, come on.
The boy was younger than him, unlined face ashen white. There were double pairs of red crescents on his temples, fingernail marks. Dean pulled him out, surprisingly thick body falling from his grasp and hitting the pavement sickeningly.
"Okay, okay, wake up now. Come on, boy, stay with me." He brushed locks of dark hair turned almost black away from his face, trying to catch a glimmer of his eyes, anything. They boys breath was coming hard and ragged, his eyes moving fitfully behind his lids. "Fine, it's not like you're heavy or anything." Dean hauled him up over his shoulder, staggering to his car among the empty street.
Okay, it took me a really long time to write this chap, for some reason. I don't know how long it will be to get the next one up, but I doubt long, now that I've gotten into it. Lets hope. Review and tell me if I'm doing something wrong, kay?