Apocalypse, my ass, McCoy thought when Kirk flipped the cellphone close.
"Guess we just gotta give up now." He sank into the nearby armchair which squealed under him in complaint. He had never felt so hopeless; even the brandy right out of the bottle tasted like shit.
"Angels, demons, Lucifer himself – that's way out of our league."
"As long as the Winchesters keep going, we'll keep going too," Kirk stated, eyes bright, jaw set.
"How long are they going to make it?"
"Well – at least they're back on the road together. And we're going to meet them in two days."
McCoy stared at him. "You're kidding, right? That's as good as hopping right into the frying pan!" He waved his hand, felt the ache from the last fight in his shoulder and the burn of the alcohol in his guts. One time in the past, he'd been a guy like everyone else, family man, country doctor, before the demons came and took his little girl. It had driven his wife into madness and him to join the hunters' league – something he regretted more every day.
Kirk, on the other hand, had never looked more determined than right now, and verified McCoy's assessment by saying, "If the world goes to hell – well, at least we can give it a great showdown."
That's easy to say for a man who lives every day as if it was his last one, McCoy thought. For a second, he was tempted to say fuck the hell off and I'm not coming with you.
But then Kirk packed his things, and damn if there was another place he could go. So McCoy rose from his armchair, pushed ache and frustration and hopelessness into the back of his mind, and buckled up to leave with his friend.