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Sam sighed pointedly. Dean continued to ignore him.
It was a stupidly hot day. Naturally, their piece-of-crap car had broken down. Where, exactly, he couldn’t be sure. The asshole Sam called a brother had thrown their maps out the window, insisting they were wrong, and that if Sam would be so kind as to shut his cakehole, Dean would get them where they needed to go.
Which was, apparently, a dusty side road in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.
Thanks a lot, Dean.
On the upside, it was a flat area with good visibility in all directions. That meant they’d see a horde coming from a mile away. The last thing they needed on top of a bum car was a bunch of hungry undead freaks.
Sam scratched his chin, trying to remember the last time he’d shaved without using the car’s side mirror. About a week ago, they’d traded their last hand grenade for a crappy ’78 Lincoln Continental. It was slow, gaudy, and guzzled gas like a thirsty sailor on shore. A real bargain, according to the old hippie who’d sold it to them.
In those days, older cars were a hot commodity. Sure, they broke down constantly, but they had fewer pesky electronics and could generally be put back together with duct tape and some string. For that reason, Dean Winchester was currently sprawled out on his back, tinkering with the Continental’s innards.
Sam bravely resisted the urge to kick his brother in the shin. “Dude,” he said, after another long-suffering sigh, “at some point, even duct tape won’t be enough to hold this thing together.”
Dean grunted. “That’s quitters-talk, Sam.”
“All I’m saying is, we should probably start thinking about a more sustainable way to travel.”
“Such as?”
“Bicycles?” Sam suggested tentatively.
Dean stopped whatever he was doing under the car. For a long moment, there was only silence. Silence, and the carefully drawn breaths of someone trying very hard not to react in a way both of them would come to regret. Metal clinked softly as Dean let go of whatever tool he’d been holding. Sam couldn’t see his face, but he could feel the offense radiating off his brother like heat.
“How dare you,” Dean said at last, voice thick with righteous fury.
Sam rolled his eyes.
They’d been down this road before. Not this exact stretch of cracked asphalt, maybe, but close enough. After a few years of walking the end of the world, Sam had gotten used to the scenery. Lifting his face to the sky, he drew a deep breath, gathering the strength he’d need to argue with his bone-headed brother.
“Dean, I’m serious. We need to talk about this,” Sam said, turning to gaze out at the horizon. One of the dead was shuffling through the field in the distance, oblivious to their presence. “It’s not the car I’m worried about. It’s you.”
“Give it a rest, Samantha,” Dean scoffed, right on cue.
Sam leaned back against the car. “Just hear me out for a second–”
The Continental’s massive front dipped under his weight.
Dean yelped, kicking his feet. “Sam!”
Sam scrambled off the hood, startled. Its large front end popped back into place with a sound like a tired sigh.
“My bad,” he said sheepishly, digging a hand through his hair. He tried again, keeping his voice level. “I know you want to keep going. I get it, I do. But we can’t keep scraping by like this. We could use a break.” He paused. “Dean, you need a break.”
Under the car, Dean tore off another strip of duct tape. “What I need is for you to get off my ass.”
“I’m not saying settle down and plant a garden,” Sam added, trying to keep things reasonable. “Just a few days’ rest, some supplies… it would make a world of difference.” He shifted his weight, eyes scanning the horizon. “And who knows? Maybe we run into a community out here. It’d be nice to be around people again.”
“People,” Dean spat out the word like it was toxic, “are nothing but trouble. You know that.”
“That’s not true,” Sam argued, shaking his head. “Not everyone's gone bad.”
Dean barked a laugh. “That's hilarious.” He slid out from under the car and stood with a grunt, wiping his hands on his shirt. “Let me ask you something, do you remember the last groups we ran into? Like the swamp people, or that freaky goat cult down in Florida, remember them? How about the nutjobs in the skin suits? They were fun.” He rolled his eyes. “But sure, man. Let’s go knock on a few doors. That always ends so well.”
Sam felt a headache coming on. “You can’t just write off the whole world.”
“And you can’t? Seriously?” Dean shot back, incredulous. “Not even after that chick tried to eat your–”
“Can we maybe not bring that up every time–”
“I mean, Jesus, talk about long pig," Dean went on, hand hovering like a shield over his crotch. “I don’t ever wanna know what else she put in that friggin’ stew–”
Sam blanched. “Yeah, no, this is great,” he bit out sarcastically. “Please, let’s revisit more of my trauma while we’re at it. Really helps the healing process.”
“Wasn’t exactly a ball from my P.O.V. either,” Dean blathered on, gesturing wildly. “We really gotta work on your taste in girlfriends, man. It is, sincerely, terrifying. She stirred and smiled, Sam. Stirred and smiled–”
“Dean!” Sam snapped. Then, calmer, he said, “I know what you’re doing. Stop it. Stop trying to avoid the subject.” He sighed, shaking his head. “You need rest, Dean. I’m worried about you. I’m scared you’re gonna slip and I won’t be fast enough to catch you.”
Sam’s gaze flicked to Dean’s arm. Dean scoffed and yanked down his sleeve, hiding the edge of the bandage from view.
“Back off, Sam,” he said tightly.
“I’m not telling you to stop,” Sam said, keeping his voice gentle. “I’m just saying – don’t kill yourself in the process.” Deciding it was time to pull out the big guns, he added, softer, “Do you think Cas would want to see you like this?”
Dean’s expression darkened at the mention of the C-word. Sam sighed inwardly, bracing himself for another tirade. Dean had ninety-nine problems, and at least ninety-six of them were Castiel.
It had been hard enough to navigate Dean’s emotional state when he thought Cas was dead. Over the past year, they’d tried a dozen spells, rituals, and incantations – anything that might help them find him. They’d reached out to friends and enemies alike, desperate for even a whisper of Castiel’s whereabouts.
None of the locating spells ever worked, until suddenly, one of them did. Granted, it only worked when performed on hallowed ground and required anointing a magical compass with a lover’s blood. Dean’s arms were beginning to look like they’d been run through a cheese grater, but for the first time in ages, they had a lead on Castiel.
Naively, Sam thought Dean would be over the moon. Except no, Dean was angry. Which of course he was. Trust Dean Winchester to pick a fight with someone who wasn’t even there.
Sam loved his brother, he truly did. But he was also tired. All he wanted was a shower and a change of underwear. He did not want yet another rehash of:
“A year, Sam! It’s been a year! Not a ping, not a pang. Nada! We thought he was dead! And now he’s back – spells say he’s back, he’s most definitely back – and there’s not so much as a ‘hello, Dean,’ or some kinda explanation, or, I dunno, apology, y’know, for putting us through hell. For a year. We thought he was dead, Sam, and now he’s back doing who-knows-what with who-knows-who, and he, what – can’t even zap in to tell us he’s still alive?”
Dean always said “us” and “we” when what he truly meant was “me”.
Fortunately, for the moment, Dean only glowered at Sam and stalked off toward the Continental’s trunk, no doubt in search of another roll of duct tape.
Sighing, Sam rubbed his eyes. Dean’s anger didn’t slow him down, it only drove him harder. Sam knew they wouldn’t stop while the trail was hot, but maybe, just once, he could convince Dean to sleep more than two hours in a night.
His thoughts were interrupted when he spotted movement down the road.
“We’ve got company,” Sam called out.
“I see ‘em,” Dean replied. “I’m gonna pull a Hangover.”
“Got it.”
Sam turned to face the newcomers, raising his hands to show he meant no harm. He kept his posture loose, non-threatening, but his eyes tracked every movement as the truck rolled closer. Behind him, the Continental’s trunk slammed shut.
He hoped they were friendly, but it paid to be cautious. Out here, they had to assume the worst about everyone.
None of the men spilling out of the truck looked particularly friendly, except for the one who actually set Sam’s teeth on edge – a middle-aged guy with a mustache and a cocky lean. He wasn’t the most physically intimidating of the bunch, but he definitely carried himself like a leader. The man let out a low whistle as he gave Sam a slow once-over, thumbs casually hooked in his belt, a grin spreading across his face like he’d just spotted something interesting.
“Howdy,” the stranger said, amicably enough. “Something wrong with your ride?”
Sam forced a sheepish smile. “You can say that.”
The man clicked his tongue. “Well now, that’s no good. Not exactly the safest stretch of road, if you catch my drift.” He ambled closer, all casual ease. “Never know what sort of people you’ll run into.”
Sam slowly lowered his hands but kept them open at his sides, just in case the strangers got jumpy. “Pretty sure it’s the alternator,” he said, playing dumb. “Think you could give me a hand?”
One of the men scoffed. “We look like Triple A to you?”
The rest of the group laughed, but the leader shot them a cutting look, and they fell silent.
“Easy, boys. No need to make things tense.” He turned his attention to Sam, smile still in place. “We haven’t met, have we? I know I’d remember you.” A beat, then his eyes flicked up and down. “Buddy, no offense, but you’re a hard guy to miss.”
“I’m just passing through,” Sam said, not rising to the bait.
“Oh?”
“Sorry to trouble you,” he added, hoping they’d leave it at that, though he was already resigning himself to the inevitable. “I’ll get the car started and be out of your hair in no time.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble,” the man said smoothly, drawing a handgun and leveling it at Sam’s face. “Honestly? The pleasure’s all mine.”
Dismayed, Sam made a show of swallowing nervously. “You don’t have to do this. I’ve got nothing worth taking.” He took a small step back, bumping the car with his hip. “Guys, come on – there’s five of you and only one of me…”
A hulking man in a too-tight tank top stepped up and started patting Sam down with no regard for comfort. When he reached around Sam’s waist to relieve him of his handgun, his bald head accidentally knocked Sam in the chin.
“Sorry,” the giant said sheepishly, pulling away with Sam’s knife and handgun.
The leader, still holding Sam at gunpoint, sighed. “Don’t apologize to the man, Leroy. It ruins the vibe.”
"Sorry, Simon."
The leader, Simon, apparently, rolled his eyes before plucking Sam’s knife from Leroy’s hand. He furrowed his brow, turning the blade over in one hand while keeping the gun trained on Sam with the other.
“What’s all this?” Simon asked, squinting at the engravings along the blade.
Sam dropped his shoulders, trying to appear weak and scared. Despite his height, it was a move that worked for him about ninety percent of the time.
“I don’t want trouble,” he said, adding a slight hitch to his voice. “Take whatever you want, it’s not like I can stop you. Just let me go, please.”
“Easy, big guy,” Simon said with a light chuckle, eyes glinting. “We will, of course, relieve you of your earthly possessions. Thank you for offering – truly. Real neighborly of you.”
He let out a sharp whistle. Immediately, two of his men circled the car, opening its doors and crouching to inspect the undercarriage.
So much for meeting the locals, Sam thought in dismay.
“As for you…” Simon said, giving him a long, appraising look. “I’m still figuring out what to do with you. Honestly, I might just want to keep you.” He paused before clarifying, “I did not mean that in a sexual way.”
“Boss,” Leroy called out from the Continental’s backseat, interrupting. “There’s just a bunch of old books.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Why do you care about some books?” Leroy asked, sounding puzzled.
Simon let out an exasperated sigh. “I care because I am a goddamned intellectual, Leroy.” He turned to Sam, leaned in slightly, and whispered, “Dumb as a bag of rocks, that one, but he looks good standing around, so.” His smile stretched a little wider, and Sam fought the urge to step back. “You know, I could use another big guy like you on my team. And I’ve got a feeling you’re not all brawn.”
One of Simon’s men was struggling with the Continental’s trunk. “Piece of shit won’t open,” the man said, grunting. “I think it’s jammed.”
Sam gave an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, it does that.” He raised his voice. “Try giving it a good pull, both of you.”
Simon gave a sigh. “Gut him if he tries anything,” he huffed, gesturing for two of his men to step forward. He handed Sam’s knife to one of them, a heavyset man with an unfortunate underbite, then turned and made his way to the back of the car. “Move, let me see,” he grumbled. “You know, back in the day, I drove the sweetest ’69 Camaro. These old cars, you just have to show them you care. Alright, on three. One–”
The Continental’s trunk burst open, catching Simon and the other two by surprise. Not waiting for the buckshot that followed Simon’s cry of pain, Sam leapt into action.
With an ease honed over decades, he struck, punching the heavyset man in the throat and reclaiming his knife. He slashed the second man’s forearm, causing him to drop his handgun, then followed with a clean swipe to the throat. Ruby’s knife worked just the same on regular human beings.
The heavy man clutched at his throat, wheezing. A well-aimed punch knocked him off his feet, sending him crashing to the ground with a moan. His companion was already down, blood bubbling on his lips as he fought for breath. He was done for, so Sam knelt and finished the job.
Across the car, Dean was making quick work of the remaining three.
“‘Not everyone’s gone bad,’” Dean echoed a short time later as they finished tying up their would-be robbers. Three had survived the fight, including Simon and Leroy. “‘Can't write off the whole world,’” he added mockingly.
“Whatever, jerk.”
“Should put that on a T-shirt,” Dean said, climbing to his feet. His back gave an audible crack, and he groaned.
Sam rolled his eyes. “We gonna cut them loose?”
Dean shrugged. “Your call.” He wandered over to the pickup and leaned into the driver’s side. “Sweet. Check it out: full tank.”
The men tied at Sam’s feet were stirring. Simon groaned, his eyes scrunched tight. There was a nasty gash splitting his forehead, and his nose was starting to swell.
“Wha–?” Simon mumbled, his eyes slowly coming into focus. He blinked hard, his gaze locking on Sam as the reality of his restraints hit him.
“Don’t worry,” Sam said sarcastically, “I won’t keep you.”
Slowly, still blinking up with unfocused eyes, Simon’s mouth curved in a grin.
A vibrating buzzing noise came from the direction of the pickup truck. Sam pursed his lips in a grimace. “Dude,” he called out.
The buzzing stopped. “It’s just clippers, Sasquatch. Relax.”
Simon started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Sam asked, frowning.
“You idiots,” Simon laughed, slumping sideways in his restraints. “You have no idea what you’re up against.” His eyes gleamed. “Negan’s going to skin you alive.”
Holding a bag of Doritos, Dean sauntered back from the truck. “Is she hot?” he asked through a mouthful of chips.
Simon stopped laughing. “What?” he asked, confused.
Dean popped another chip into his mouth. “Megan,” he said, chewing thoughtfully. “She in charge around here, or what?”
Simon looked at Dean in bemusement. “Negan,” he repeated, blinking slowly. “I didn’t say Megan, I said Negan.”
“He did say Negan,” Sam supplied helpfully. “I’m pretty sure.”
The man tied to Simon's back woke up long enough to mumble, “We're all Negan.”
“Well, that’s just freaking lame.” Passing the bag of Doritos to Sam, Dean crouched down and made a show of licking the crumbs off his fingers with a loud smack of his lips. Then, smiling, he patted Simon’s cheek. “Tell me something, Simon, old pal,” Dean said with mock friendliness. “You always treat people this nice?”
Simon snorted, blood crusted at the corner of his mouth. “Stick around. You’ll see just how nice we can be.”
“Well, seeing as you fine folks are playing neighborhood watch, maybe you can help me out.” He gave a casual shrug. “I’m looking for someone. About six feet, trench coat, dark hair, blue eyes.” He tilted his head, smirking. “Devastatingly handsome. Ring any bells?”
Simon gave him a flat look. “No.”
Dean didn’t budge. “Think harder.”
“What’s the matter?” Simon asked mockingly, his mustache stretching with a nasty smirk. “Did your boyfriend run off and leave you?”
Dean went very still. Slowly, he rose to his feet, never taking his eyes off Simon. “Hey, Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Grab me those clippers, will you?”
“Dude, no.”
But of course, there was no stopping Dean once he’d made up his mind about something. Sam had protested, but he secretly took some satisfaction in leaving Simon with half a mustache and a line shaved across his head.
“Sorry about him,” Sam told a glowering Simon. He tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his smirk. If looks could kill, he’d have dropped dead on the spot. He left a pocket knife at their feet, then tossed the Continental’s keys into the field. “There’s some duct tape in the back,” he offered helpfully, turning to leave.
Maybe it was a mistake, but Sam didn’t have it in him to leave these men to die. They were douchebags, sure, but they were human douchebags.
“Negan,” Sam said some time later, long after the Continental had vanished from the truck’s rearview mirror. The name stuck with him, needling at the back of his mind. He looked over at Dean. “Does that sound familiar to you?”
Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Hmm.”
“We’ve heard that name before,” Sam said slowly. The more Sam thought about it, the more certain he became. “Don’t you think?”
Dean frowned. Then, a moment later, he snapped his fingers. “Old man Negan!” he declared, triumphant.
“Who?”
“Grizzly old guy, big white beard, eyepatch?” Dean mused, then shrugged. “You were probably too young to remember. He used to run with Dad in the early days, saved his ass more than once.” He chuckled lightly, a fond smile playing on his lips. “That old geezer. You know, I used to think he was a pirate.”
Sam frowned. “Think it could be him?”
“Nah.” Dean shook his head. “Dude’s gotta be pushing a hundred, if he’s still alive. There’s no way.”
“You’re probably right,” Sam said. He watched the open road, the sky turning orange with the approaching sunset. “Still… Negan’s not exactly a common name, is it?”
Dean shrugged. “Maybe he’s got kids.”