Author's Note: Because there can never be enough post apocalyptic AU fics. Ever.
When he first suggested it, Dean had freaked out. Which he thought was pretty reasonable, but Sam had just gotten that faintly pained look on his face like he couldn't believe Dean was making a big deal about this.
"No," he said. "No. Do you realize how stupid that is?"
"I can get out," Sam said, in that stupid, patient, I'm going to explain this to you in words you can understand voice. "And I can't get infected. We need supplies, Dean, or having a safe place isn't going to do any good."
"Oh, sure," Dean sneered. "You can still get ripped to bits, Sam, remember? You're not invincible."
"No, but I'm the less vulnerable alternative." Sam's expression shifted a little, and there was almost pleading in his eyes. "Dean. Let me do this."
"Is this how you're going to try to – make up for things? It's practically suicide." Dean narrowed his eyes, resisting the puppy-eyes. They'd always been significantly less effective when it meant putting Sam's well being at risk. "Is that your clever plan, then? Get yourself killed? Because I gotta tell you, that's-"
Sam flinched in a way that was less than comforting. Yeah, it'd been rough. Yeah, they'd been apart for a long time before Sam had miraculously staggered in out of nowhere, apparently without a demonic escort.
It would have been nice to pretend that the thought that Sam might be just a little passively suicidal didn't terrify Dean.
"I just – need to be a little useful," Sam said quietly. "Like it or not, I – owe these people. I can't get infected, that gives me a fighting chance. I can do this."
"He's right," said Castiel, and damn but Dean hated it when the former angel sided with Sam. He seemed to do it with near alarming frequency. Also when he approached silently and jumped in without so much clearing his throat. Castiel looked rumpled, disheveled, and somewhat dazed.
"Are you high?" Dean said, perhaps with a bit of a sneer. "Or drunk, or both?"
"Probably both," said Castiel sardonically. He had liked the angel better when he was painfully earnest. "But that doesn't matter. Sam is still right. We need someone to get supplies, and he's at the least risk for it."
"And if he's only asking so he can go and get himself killed?" Dean snapped. Sam cleared his throat loudly.
"Dean. I'm not – an idiot, okay? I won't do anything stupid."
"Do you really think," Castiel pointed out, "That if your brother were inclined toward suicide, he would be any less likely to do it here in camp, feeling like a useless burden?"
"I can't decide if you're helpful or not," Sam said, from Dean's other side, and Dean wanted to yell at them both. Chuck decided him, coming up to his elbow with what looked like apprehension on his face.
"Dean," he said, "We're running low on toilet paper."
Sam looked up, straight at Dean, and said, "I'll get it."
Dean gritted his teeth and said, "Take a gun. If you're not back in five hours I'm going out to kick your ass." Sam's mouth twitched like he thought that was amusing, and he strode away, looking more like the old Sam than he had for a while. Dean stared worriedly after him.
"He'll be fine," Castiel slurred.
"You don't know that," Dean said. "When was the last time he was really fine?"
As expected, the former angel didn't have an answer to that.
He stalked around in a bad mood for four and a half hours, and then retreated into the cabin he shared with Sam, who walked in only about five minutes later, a little bit of color in his face and a small smile curving his mouth. "Hey, Dean," he said, "I'm home. Found a store, brought as much back as I could. Including toilet paper."
"Any trouble with Croats?"
"Nah," said Sam, and flopped down on the bed.
Dean looked him over just to be sure, and then checked the gun. Half the rounds had been fired. So 'nah' was relative.
He swallowed hard and braced himself to wake Sam up and argue about this not being safe – but he was alive, wasn't he? And smiling, just a little. Maybe this would be enough for his brother's fixing things complex and he wouldn't feel like becoming a martyr.
It was worth a try.
~.~
Inside two weeks, everyone except for Sam loved Sam.
Which wasn't surprising, Sam was like that. But it wasn't because of his conversation or puppy eyes, because Sam kept those tucked away along with himself, most of the time, reading obscure books or thinking, which Dean hoped actually translated to thinking and not to brooding, though he really doubted it.
Sam found things, though. Things like chocolate, and Dean was pretty sure some people were ready to start a fan club over that alone.
He went out just about every day, longer and longer trips, but they weren't out of toilet paper. Sam couldn't work miracles, of course, but having enough food for everyone was just about one.
Dean had maybe hoped a little that everyone else's happiness and gratitude would somehow leak through the 'it's all my fault' shield that Sam had set up, and maybe even wear off a little bit of the edge on this crusade to Put Things Right.
It didn't.
In fact, it only seemed to make things worse.
"Sam," Dean said as Sam was packing a duffel with water and a machete, among other things. "You know. We have enough to last for a while. No one's expecting you to go out every day."
"I didn't go out yesterday," Sam said, too mildly, and not looking at Dean.
"Every other day. Same thing, Sam." He crossed his arms. "I could just forbid you to go."
"And how well do you think that would work?" Sam looked up, and he'd dropped the small smile, looking too serious, too tired. He wasn't the only one, of course, but that didn't make it any more okay. "You agreed to this, remember?"
Dean ground his teeth. "Under duress, remember?"
"I don't think Castiel supporting me counts as 'duress,'" Sam said dryly, still packing, dammit. "Calm down, Dean. I'll be fine."
"Famous last words," muttered Dean, and Sam gave him one of those twisted sideways smiles that were the closest to dimples that he got these days and said, "Aren't they all, now?"
Dean was really not entertained by Sam's sense of humor. Then again, Dean wasn't entertained by much lately, and fatalism was too much of a reality for it to be funny. But it was a losing battle, and he'd known that since starting the conversation. For a little while, Sam had done everything Dean asked, creeping around like he was trying to become a mouse, until Dean had threatened to kick his ass if he didn't cut it out.
He wasn't sure that this form of atonement was that much better.
"Five hours," Dean said, "I'll expect you back then. Or I'll send out a search party. Of one."
Sam's face scrunched up. "Give me seven, Dean. There is travel time."
"It'll be dark."
"So?" Sam shouldered his duffel. "We've traveled in worse, remember?"
Dean ground his teeth again and said with more firmness than he really felt, "Six. And that's all."
Sam rolled his eyes in an old, familiar gesture that was at least partly, Dean suspected, for his benefit. "All right. Six hours. I'll be back. Maybe I'll even find you a skin mag."
"Bitch," Dean said, and Sam just flipped him off over his shoulder, already striding away, long legs eating up ground. Dean watched him go with a squirming feeling like a highly neurotic worm in his stomach. The one he had every time he knew Sam was walking into danger.
He realized, belatedly, that Chuck was watching him stare forlornly after his brother like a lost puppy. "You know," said Chuck, "I have this feeling like he's trying to prove something."
"Don't think I haven't noticed," Dean snapped, and pushed past the former prophet toward the main camp to find something to do for six hours, instead of sitting like a helicopter mom and fretting. Though he was unfortunately aware that was exactly what was going to happen anyway.
~.~
During the first hour, Dean discussed plans with a half drunk Castiel and a few others, and worried about Sam. During the second hour, Dean examined the stores and pretended to organize a few things, and worried about Sam. During the third hour, Dean weeded the garden and worried about Sam, while simultaneously cursing him for driving Dean to these depths. There was a thunderstorm approaching from the east that he could hear, and Dean almost reached for a cell phone to call Sam and tell him to get back right now (and there was definitely a 'young lady' at the end of that sentence).
That wouldn't have been very effective, though. Cell phones didn't work terribly well in a post-apocalyptic world.
There ought to have been more to do. There usually was plenty to keep Dean busy while Sam was gone so he could effectively ignore the nagging thought in the back of his head that there were demons out there that were probably slobbering to get their hands on Sam, and the Croats could still kill you even if they didn't infect you, and there were things like downed power lines and shit to worry about besides.
In the fourth hour, for some reason, alarm bells started going off, and Dean began pacing.
"Something's wrong," he said, to Castiel, because the former angel had found him pacing and was sitting on the steps, looking more alert than was his wont these days.
"Of course," Cas said. "The world is ending. I should think-"
"Don't be an ass," Dean snapped. "You know what I mean."
"I don't understand how you can know that," Cas said, sounding faintly like he was complaining, and Dean just scowled.
"I just do. Spend enough time with someone and eventually you get a feel for it. I know when Sam's in trouble." Dean narrowed his eyes. "I just don't know how bad."
"He'll survive," said Castiel, a little too casually. Dean rounded on him.
"Yeah? And how do you know that? Because I sure don't. And I'm not just going to trust that the world's going to be good to Sam. That approach hasn't worked so far."
"You're overreacting. Don't borrow trouble until-"
"Shut the fuck up, Cas."
Cas shut the fuck up, but he didn't leave, which Dean actually appreciated. He paced a few more times, then said, "I should go out and find him."
"No," disagreed the former angel. "You should not. It would, in fact, be very stupid."
"If he's not back-"
"Then I'll knock you unconscious. I'm sure Sam would thank me." Castiel must have been more lucid than Dean expected. He only got that sort of caustic tone when he was craving something or other. Dean did not feel very sorry for him at the moment, even if he usually could.
"Did he put you up to being my guard dog or something?"
"I have always been your guard dog," Castiel said flatly, "Since I dragged you out of Hell. I am not going to stop now."
That cut Dean off, and he fell silent. He could still hate it, but there really wasn't much he could do, and Cas was – a good guy.
Even if Sam was unspeakably awkward around him.
They found him for another meeting that Dean fidgeted his way through, and he went right back to the edge of camp once it was over. Five and a half hours, and it was dark. Not pitch black, but dark, enough that navigating would be harder and everything that waited for nightfall would be out. Sam wasn't supposed to be back for another half hour, and Dean was pushing through worry into panic. "You can come with me if you have to," Dean said, "But if he isn't back – something's wrong. I can just tell."
"He's done this before." It was Chuck, this time, apparently trading off on 'watch-Dean' duty. "When it was worse. It's been quiet lately. Quieter, I mean."
"Yeah," Dean muttered. "That's kind of what freaks me out."
Twenty minutes. Fifteen minutes…ten.
"Dean! Winchester! Get your ass over here!" Someone – Mike, Dean summoned his name, was calling, and there was an expression on his face that said nothing good. Dean looked once more into the darkness, then jogged reluctantly toward the guy. "What," he said, not quite flatly. "Is it an-"
"Sam's back," Mike said, but there was something-
Dean's stomach dropped. "Where?"
~.~
Sam had staggered in on the other side of the camp, and then collapsed. There was already a huddle marking the spot, so Dean found it before Mike even had time to lead, and all it took was one "get out of the way," for everyone to clear several feet.
It must have been the voice.
God. God. He'd known that something would go wrong. He'd had a bad feeling about this-
Sam was crumpled like a piece of paper, in an awkward heap. His clothes were torn and he didn't have his coat anymore. There was blood on his clothes and some in the dirt, smeared and splotched, so it wasn't just old or from someone else. It wasn't warm outside, and he should have been shivering, but he was too limp, too still. Shit, Sammy, Dean thought, and reached carefully to shift Sam, try to get a better look at his injuries.
Sam made a small noise of protest in the back of his throat, but his eyelids fluttered a little too. His face was – bruised, but it didn't look too bad. Dean was more worried about the protective way Sam was curled in around his chest and stomach. "Sam," Dean said, tapping an unbruised cheekbone, "S'me. I need to take a look at you –"
"I can go get a doctor," said someone in a hushed voice, but Dean didn't bother to answer, busy trying to take in what was wrong with his brother. Sam's face squeezed up as Dean tried to shift him to his back and his eyes fluttered open to slits.
Never should have let him go!
"Hey," Dean said, as steadily as he could manage. Sam stared blearily at him.
"Didn't-" He made an unhappy, pained sound in his throat and a cough rippled through his body. "—make it. Sorry-"
"Sam," Dean informed him tightly, "Don't be a dumbass. What's hurt?"
Unfortunately, having delivered his (entirely useless) message, apparently Sam had checked out again. And there were people crowding too closely, worriedly, and Dean just wanted all of them to go away because Sam was hurt and that was his business to deal with. Dammit. He didn't want to move Sam, in case there was something wrong that he couldn't see (and there weren't any hospitals to retreat to for something like that, not anymore) but he was going to have to do something, and sooner rather than later-
"All right," he said, "Okay." He was going to kill Sam. As soon as he was all right.
"Sir," someone was saying into his ear, a little too close, "A doctor's coming, we've found-"
Dean's tolerance, riding on a razor's edge, tipped over. "Would everyone just back off," he snarled, "And let me handle this?"
They backed.
Well, that was minorly gratifying.
Dean refocused on his priority. "Sam," he said, and then a bit more urgently, giving his brother a tiny shake. "Sam. I need to know if I can move you."
Sam's eyes dragged open again, and he blinked once, blearily. "M'fine," he slurred, voice thick and heavy and tight with pain that Dean didn't know how Sam thought he couldn't hear. "Don't worry."
"Sorry," Dean said roughly, "No can do."
~.~
The doctor seemed exasperated by Dean's refusal to relinquish Sam. He hovered while Dean checked expertly for broken ribs (maybe one or two) and internal injuries (none, thank god). His final conclusion: it looked worse than it was.
Oh yeah, other than the broken ankle. That Sam had apparently walked all the way back on. Oh, and the stab wound in his shoulder that had left an alarmingly large bloodstain on Sam's back.
Fucking Croats.
No, scratch that, Dean thought, as he carefully shifted Sam to his side to clean out the damn stab wound while Sam was still safely out, because he doubted it was clean and peroxide always hurt like a bitch, that wasn't the worst. The worst was the fact that Sam had lost weight. It was impossible to tell without the layers, but without-
He knew what Sam was supposed to look like, and it wasn't this.
Dammit, Sam…
He kicked the protesting doctor out before he started working on the stab wound, splashing it out with hydrogen peroxide twice before he was satisfied. "You're grounded," he muttered under his breath, even if Sam was clearly not listening, because it made Dean feel better; less like a miserable failure, anyway. "Maybe permanently. You know better than this. What do you think, starving yourself is going to stop the end of the world? Because all it's doing right now is pissing me off-"
"Not starving," he heard, faintly, and stopped halfway through a stitch. Sam sounded unbearably out of it. Dean realized that the shoulder he was working on was now trembling very minutely.
"Ah, crap," Dean said, "Sammy- I'll go get you some painkillers."
"S'okay," Sam said, panting a little, the liar. "Not that…bad."
Which Dean was aware was probably only because Sam knew, even better than Dean did, just how limited that supply was. "Dumbass," Dean said again, grimacing. There was a familiar ache low in his stomach. "You got the things. No one's going to begrudge you a little pill-popping."
Sam's eyes drifted towards closed. "Not starving," he repeated, "Just – not hungry."
Dean heard the exasperated sound in his own throat before he decided to make it. "Sam," he said, feeling a little bloom of anger, but Sam had cheated and passed out again. Dean got back to work. The bleeding was sluggish now, but even a little more blood lost was too much.
They were both so screwed, Dean thought bleakly. So…painfully screwed. And he'd have to go back to watching Sam's food intake, and that wasn't a task he had missed when Sam had insisted he could stop, it was fine –
And Dean had believed him, because there were so many other things to keep track of.
Goddammit. This has to stop.
"You can stop making up for shit now, Sammy," Dean said as he finished the stitches. "No one's paying attention."
Sam wasn't listening. Dean still had to figure out a way to say the words when his brother was conscious. It hadn't happened yet.
He let the doctor back in to set Sam's ankle and slipped out to breathe a little, feeling bleak and tired and hopeless and – a little scared, maybe. It didn't take Cas long to find him; it never did. "Is Sam all right?" he asked.
"Does it matter?" Dean asked. "He's not dead. And I don't think he's going to stop taking himself apart until he is."
"Probably not," Castiel agreed, and Dean only didn't punch him because he liked Castiel, and he was pretty low on people he actually liked.
~.~
Dean managed to get Sam to swallow two Tylenol, once he was conscious again.
It wasn't enough to get him to sleep, not even enough to steady his breathing out of the pained, truncated panting that told the tale of broken ribs and bruises and that ankle. "I'm sorry," Sam said, eventually, to Dean, who was watching over him. "They caught up with me before I got anywhere and I – stepped wrong. Fucked up my ankle – I couldn't go any farther. I didn't bring back anything."
Dean wanted to snap at Sam, yell at him even, but he didn't think that would get him far. "You came back with you," he said, managing to keep his voice level. "More or less." Sam didn't answer that, and Dean cleared his throat. "So…you know you're grounded, right?"
Sam made a sound that was like an attempt at a laugh. "Yeah, I kind of figured. I couldn't get far like this."
Dean frowned. "I don't just mean because of your ankle. This just proves it: it's too dangerous, even for you. I thought the Croats didn't go after you."
"Croats?" Sam seemed startled. His eyes were slightly unfocused as he turned them on Dean. "It wasn't Croats, Dean."
"What, then?" Dean said, his stomach clenching. Demons? They wouldn't have – Sam wouldn't have made it back. Unless he'd somehow-
"People," Sam said, after a moment. "They were people." His expression, what Dean could see in the dark, was confused and bewildered, lost, and Dean's heart sank. "Just…people."
Nowhere's safe, Dean thought bleakly, and squeezed his eyes closed. "Don't go out again, Sam. Please. For me, if that's what you need."
There was a long silence, and Sam shifted, barely, painfully. "All right," Sam said finally. "Whatever you want, Dean." Which was probably the best he was going to get. Sam's eyes closed slowly. "I just wanted to help," he said, even more blearily.
"You do," Dean said, finally. "You did. You help me."
And dammit, that was enough for Dean, and it had better be enough for Sam.
Who was already out again. Dean sighed, and settled in to watch. Like he had, for his whole life.
He didn't begrudge it now, not when it reminded him that there was someone still to watch.