(no subject)

[gavemea_45]

Talk about everything going wrong.

How could I be so fucking stupid?

Sam's slumped on a stool in the lab, staring glumly at the floor and ignoring the argument going on around him. The wound in his chest stings a little bit, but no worse than any other scratch or cut he's ever had. He can't feel the virus yet, but he knows it's in there.

Poisoning him.

It's not like I didn't know that anyone in the whole damn town could be infected -- but Pam was so scared, she hadn't shown any signs, I thought she was safe, so I let her get behind me...

Let my guard down for one fucking minute, and now I'm gonna die here.

A familiar metallic jingle gets his attention, and Sam looks up in shock as Dean tosses Mark the keys to the Impala.

"Get the hell outta here. Take my car. You two go with him."

"Dean, no--"

"You're not gonna get rid of me that easy, Sammy."

The others are already moving for the door. Dr. Lee hangs back for a second as Duane and Mark file out ahead of her.

"I'm sorry. Thanks for everything, Marshals."

Comments

[hopeitsworthit]

"Uh. Yeah. About that."

Dean takes a second, scrubbing his hand through his hair.

Wisecracks should be easy. He's done this sort of shit--

Okay, he's never had to do shit like this before, but who the fuck cares.

"We're not really Marshals."

The smile's fake and pretty damn plastic, but Dr. Lee doesn't seem to notice.

She does book it out pretty fast, though. Dean can't say he actually cares.

Now all he's gotta do is turn around and face Sam.

His little brother. The one who's gonna go crazy-violent and die.

Motherfucker.

[gavemea_45]

The click of the lock as Dean shoots the bolt home sounds pretty damn final, but he manages not to jump or flinch at the sound.

He can't keep the treacherous tears from welling up in his eyes, though, no matter how much he curses himself for it. Sam shakes his head once, fast, trying to clear his blurring vision so he can see his brother.

[hopeitsworthit]

Oh Jesus. Sam's--

Dean can't--

Fuck.

He grits his teeth, swallowing down--swallowing down every damn thing.

Except one.

"Wish we had a foosball table. Or a deck of cards. Something."

Anything that ain't medical. Anything that ain't related to this. Dean's--

Handling this isn't really something he's sure he can do. Especially not if Sam--

[gavemea_45]

"Dean. Don't -- don't do this."

The words are rough around the edges but clear, gaining determination as he speaks -- and as they do, the tears dry.

"Just get the hell out of here, okay?"

[hopeitsworthit]

The look, tight and pissed and just-this-side of exploding that Dean shoots him says, very clearly oh don't even start with that shit, man.

"Shut up."

[gavemea_45]

He shakes his head.

"Just give me my gun, and leave."

Save yourself.

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean starts moving toward Sam, away from the door. Except -- fighting isn't gonna do jack shit. Not this time.

He veers left, hands coming up to rub across his face.

"For the last time, Sam. No."

Hell no, even.

[gavemea_45]

"You don't have to stick around for this!"

Sam looks as stubborn as ever as he throws one hand out toward the door.

"Right there. Open that door, go to Milliways."

[hopeitsworthit]

"Yeah, and then what? You're gonna follow me like a good little puppy?"

Fuck.

This is so --

Breathe, dammit. Breathe.

[gavemea_45]

"Sure. I'll be right behind you."

He doesn't bother trying to make it believable; there's no point.

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean folds his arms across his chest, knuckles white where they grip his elbows.

Here's hoping to God that Sam can't fuckin' see that.

"Yeah. I know. 's why I'm sitting my ass down right here."

He leans back against the wall, crossing his legs at the ankles.

It's not doing much to convince anybody he's relaxed. Doesn't matter. That's not the point.

[gavemea_45]

He slams his hand down into the table beside him, cracking the taut silence of the room with the sound.

"This is the dumbest thing you've ever done!"

He can't-- he's breathing too fast, too shallowly, one quick rasp after another.

You don't have to die, Dean!

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean snorts. He can't help it, and maybe it'll get rid of some of this nervous tension.

Fat chance. Still.

"Nah. Pretty sure the highlight there was that waitress in Tampa. Remember her?"

The theatrical shudder he tries on for size is a lot harder to stop than he thought it'd be.

Shit.

[gavemea_45]

He plows ahead as if he hasn't even heard.

"I'm sick."

Bad enough he was a psychic freak before; now he's an infected psychic freak, tainted with a demonic virus.

The only thing worse would be turning into one of the monsters -- and with his brother looking on, to boot.

"There's no cure for this thing; we both know it."

[hopeitsworthit]

"So?"

He's not seeing where Sam's going with this bullshit.

Or maybe he just doesn't want to.

[gavemea_45]

"Even if there were, somewhere -- "

Like Milliways.

"-- we can't risk this spreading." Sam shrugs and glances up at Dean, looking oddly young... and certain.

"It's over for me, Dean. But it doesn't have to be for you."

[hopeitsworthit]

He wants to scrub his hands over his face, wants to pinch the bridge of his nose, wants to fucking punch something. But --

That ain't gonna do anything. What's the point?

"You sure about that, Sammy? You really sure?"

[gavemea_45]

"Yeah. I'm sure."

He tries to crack a smile, which wobbles a little but stays in place.

"I mean, it's not how we saw it coming, but--"

[hopeitsworthit]

"Maybe you didn't."

He's not looking at Sam as he says that.

He can't.

It's hard to say any of this shit out loud to begin with.

"I'm fuckin' tired, Sam."

[gavemea_45]

Something's -- well, everything's wrong, but still.

Sam stares blankly at Dean.

"What?"

[hopeitsworthit]

The fact that Sam's got no clue shouldn't be a surprise.

It shouldn't hurt. It's what Dean wanted this whole time, right?

Guess not.

Huh.

He buys himself time by pacing across the room, running his hand through his hair again, then setting his handgun down on a piece of shelving.





He still ain't ready. But--

"I'm tired of this, Sammy. This job, this life. All of it. I can't -- I'm pretty sure I can't carry it anymore, man."

Now he does look up, look over.

"You know?"

He's not sure if he wants Sam to say yes or no. He's not sure if it even matters.

[gavemea_45]

No. No.

He's already shaking his head in denial.

"So what, that's it? You're just gonna give up?"

[hopeitsworthit]

"Looks like."

He musters up a shit-eating grin, and damn but he's surprised he manages it.

"Not much you can do about it, is there?"

[gavemea_45]

"I can knock some sense into your thick skull, is what I can do," Sam snaps, getting to his feet.

Even if it's the last thing he does, which right now is beside the point.

"You're not gonna--"

A scratching noise from outside the door interrupts his tirade, and Sam's head whips around.

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean doesn't even have time to start saying 'I'm not gonna what?'

Because even if they're both fucked, he's not gonna go out one second before he has to. Neither is Sam.

Which is why he picks up his gun again before heading to the door and opening it very slo--

"Doctor Lee?"

What the --

But when the lady says there's something they've gotta see --

Hell, maybe she's right.








Especially because an empty town is really fucking freaky.