Chapter Text
Fall, 2015
In the end, it wasn’t the demons, or the angels, or even some new breed of monster. It was us.
Stupid, hairless apes—as Uriel had called us—caused the destruction of our own damn planet. And no, it wasn’t nuclear war that did us in but a goddamn infection.
Damn annoying is what it is. No bad guy to go after ... no spell to perform.
The whole friggin’ world brought down from an attempt to do good. Fucking figures! Someone should’ve told those lab coat wearing morons that playing God would only fuck things up.
It’s been over two years since shit hit the fan. The population remaining on earth is a big fat question mark. But if I had to guess, I’d say no more than a million or so. The infected are everywhere. And they’re nasty motherfuckers with a smell that could knock a man over. At first glance, you’d think they were dead, but nope.
Worst are the Raiders. Bands of “survivalists” that take Darwin’s words to the extreme. Those are the bastards that I enjoy putting down. Those fuckers deserve to live even less than the rage-infected drones tromping over the earth spreading their gangrenous disease. Goddamn selfish—
Like I said ... it’s been about two years.
Why I started writing it all down I have no damn clue. Boredom maybe? My brother, Sammy, seems to think it would be good to keep a record of things. So that one day when we’re nothing but ashes, some asshole will stumble upon this craptacular journal written in even more craptacular handwriting and wonder what happened to the bastard who wrote it. Well, reader, I can tell you I died a fucking awesome death. Probably wielding a machete or something. So don’t worry your newly-born Neanderthal brain about me.
I have this friend, Cas, he thinks we might make it. That we’ll end up living some decent life in the end. Maybe even make it to old age. He’s chipper that way. Weird guy actually. But truth be told—and I’ll kill you if you tell him—I don’t want it. Never did. The life I’ve led has left me with too many fucked up memories—nothing I would want creeping back through the haze and delirium of dementia or fucking Alzheimer’s.
And let’s be real for a minute, no man wants to glance down and see his sac dangling towards his busted kneecaps.
So, yeah ... Fuck old age. I’ll go down fighting the way I was meant to.
...
Dean Winchester slaps the loose notebook closed, cinches it around with a thick blue rubber band and shoves it into the front pocket of his hiking bag.
Good timing, too ... the infected are getting closer. The cloying smell hits him full-force and, holy damn, it’s like snorting rotten produce.
On the plus side, there’s nothing like a good stench to get your ass in gear.
Following his brother’s tall frame, Dean slinks around the scattered metal carcasses of cars clogging up the desolate highway. The herd of infected are shuffling two lanes over, close to the median ditch. The bouquet of nasty that slithers along like a convoy gives their gag reflexes a workout, but they need to keep quiet, so all five of them have raised their shirts over their noses in the hopes that it’ll help.
It doesn’t.
Sam, his giant of a baby brother, holds still on the side of a black Greyhound Bus, but Dean’s stuck beside a Tercel that’s weathered to the point you can almost hear the rust chomping metal.
Josh King, hunter extraordinaire, stops four cars ahead of the Greyhound, holding his knife close to his chest with his broad back wedged into the crevice by the wheel-well of a big black trailer. Above his head, the bold red and blue writing spells out Marco’s Heating and Cooling.
Even when the trailer starts to rock on its low wheels from bodies on the far side bumping against it, Josh doesn’t budge. Nerves of steel that guy.
Glancing straight ahead, Dean notices that Rayna's crossed the ditch to the forest edge.
Would'na been Dean’s first choice, but, quick decisions and all. He catches a glimpse of the tip of her sword glinting by the edge of knotted bark, the rest of her hidden.
Thinking he’s clear, Dean edges out his left leg to crab-crawl over to Sammy. Because after everything, his brother’s safety is his top priority and most acknowledged fear. A fear usually lessened by proximity and weapons.
Nothing says love like a loaded shotgun.
Seconds before he’s about to round the Tercel’s bumper, a hand latches onto him firm and decisive. Dean’s yanked back against the door panel, heart ramped up, to find a fierce-faced Castiel holding him back, a quick hand plastered over his mouth to stifle a gasp.
At that moment, one of the infected passes over their heads on the far side of the black compact. Dean can’t see it, but he can hear its shuffling and ragged breaths, and if he concentrates, he can faintly make out the reflection of the shabby, infected man in Cas’ eyes.
Two more stagger close by. And another. One long conga line of infected hairless apes not five feet from where he’s crouched.
Awesome.
Feeling every muscle strain for action, Dean forces himself to focus on the blue irises trained on the movements of the threat. Dean trusts the ex-angel enough to stay put until the guy says otherwise.
But damn it stinks bad bein' this close. And it's not as if Cas smells a helluva lot better.
Fuck. Not that any of them do.
As they sit and wait for the infected to pass, Dean registers an itch of cowardice tapping at his ego. Logically, he knows there’s no way they can take on a herd this size—nearly three dozen strong, if not more. Even if they manage to come out on top, the chances of someone getting bit in the fray is way too high for his liking.
Damn, this world sucks.
The freaking diseased still have basic needs—sustenance at the top of that short list. They're more animals now than anything else; vultures or rabid dogs are the closest comparison. All of who they once were taken down to the basics: Eat and survive.
The infected are all about the chomp-chomp if they see ya. And the kicker is, they don’t seem to feel pain, making it that much harder to take them down. Higher-functioning is non-existent but their motor skills are decent.
Who knew you could take the bulk of lazy, desk-chair chained pencil-pushers and infect them with some Resident Evil mojo and WHAM, you’ve got yourself a physically capable mass of arms, legs, and teeth.
Awesome, right? Not.
And shit, if their gnarly teeth break skin? You’re basically fucked. Either you turn, bleed to death, or manage to survive. The latter a damn rarity. Even then, who knows how long your next run will last? The infection takes people over without rhyme or reason. Who turns and who doesn't? It's a damn mystery.
Dean’s thoughts are cut short by Cas sliding his hand away. A hand that’s sweaty and just as dirty as his own. Dean hurries to wipe his mouth, feeling the constant grit slough off from his lips and chin, smearing onto his palm—the damn thing already dirt-lined, curving lines of brown wedged into the crevices that mark his identity.
Why bother, he wonders. Dirt’s basically a second skin.
"All clear?"
Castiel cranes over Dean's head, flicks his eyes once to Sam and nods. "We’re good," he acknowledges, still squatted in front of Dean, eyes scanning the landscape.
Satisfied the coast is clear, the former angel sheathes his nearly two-foot blade at his left hip and stands, his knees cracking and popping from the stagnant crouch.
Shaking his head with a laugh, Dean thumps his friend on the shoulder as they walk over to Sam and the others.
"You’re such an old man now," he teases. "All rickety and shit. Just like my hot ass.” Stepping close, Dean jabs Cas in the ribs with his elbow.
Sporting a vapid expression, Cas turns to him. “If I could have any of your traits, Dean, an aging body is not the one I would have chosen.”
“Oh yeah, what would you have chosen, then?” he asks as they fall back in line with everyone else.
Dean flicks his eyes to Sam’s hazel ones. It’s only a second, and mostly unconscious—but it’s necessary. Call it an ingrained habit they've both gotten used to doing over the years. A kind of, ‘You’re solid, I’m solid. Cool let’s move on,’ deal.
"Your sparkling personality," Cas ribs back, his voice level. Dean catches the subtle lift at the corner of his mouth and he breaks into a laugh, clapping his friend on the shoulder.
“Sparkling personality, my ass,” Rayna quips from two steps ahead.
Dean snorts. “You’re one to talk, hard-ass.”
Eyeing her five-six frame, Dean’s drawn to the way the sword bumps against her leather jacket as she walks. Under all that cowhide she must be sweating something nasty. Of course that doesn’t stop him from doing a once-over on her. A sly trip from her stiff shoulders to the barely-there curve of her hips, all the way down to the stomp of her boots on the asphalt.
Ray often feigns indifference over the squalor of how they live but he’d bet good money she's wishing she had deodorant.
For that matter, so is he.
“Fuck you, Dean,” she snaps over her shoulder.
Arching the corner of his lip, Dean makes a face at the back of her head. Cas takes notice and smirks—their banter a constant form of amusement for the guy.
Rayna Krantz, or Ray as they call her, and he have what you’d call a tense relationship. Funny thing is, Dean knows it’s 'cause they’re the same damn person. She was a hunter before all this shit too. They’re both stubborn and excessively violent. Talk about a bad combination.
Dean can be a snide dick when he wants and she’ll always fight back with her own offensive arrogance.
Every now and again he feels bad for the others—getting trapped in the middle of their constant pissing match. If Dean says they should go south, she’ll counter with a vote for the north. But he’ll give her this much, she’s an utter badass in a fight. Wielding that sword like a damn knight if he’s honest.
It’s pretty hot, actually—smokin' hot. More than once he's caught himself picturing her while he's jacking off, despite the fact that he can’t stand her personality. And yes, he’s well aware of the irony.
But c'mon, that smooth light brown skin, long, wavy dark hair. Ray’s hot and she's got mad skills. Dean doesn't stand a chance when it comes to his wayward thoughts when his hand's wrapped around his cock.
Not that he ever has before, he reminds himself. Fuckin' brain has a mind of its own. Clearly, so does his dick.
“How much longer, Sammy?” Dean asks twenty minutes later when the sound of their boots on the gravel shoulder starts to irritate him.
“We’ll get to Fulton by dusk,” replies Sam, adding, “I hope,” under his breath. Whether Sam’s eagerness is because the timing incites the potential for more threats, or because his little brother's sick of Dean and the others at this point, he’s not sure. Probably the latter.
They’ve been trekking from Arkansas. Heard through the CB some ways back that there were pockets of survivors there and moved on to lend a hand.
In a nutshell, that seems to be their newfound purpose; travelling through the country as they once did. Not in search of monsters but survivors. And they had to leave his Baby parked at the bunker and hoof it instead.
A freaking tragedy if you ask him.
Poor Baby; silent as the grave and gathering dust. God, some days he craves the feel and smell of that car. Unfortunately, too many damn roads have become parking lots full of abandoned vehicles and dead bodies, making it nearly impossible to navigate. And, sadly, the car is too loud. No matter how badass that might be they can't risk being tracked by Raiders. Oh, not to mention that the world ending and everything really killed resources for gas and functioning wheels.
In the rare instances they need quick transport, it requires some of Dean’s ill-acquired mechanic skills, sucking from a dirty hose, and then nearly retching as the burning swill of unleaded hurtles towards your throat.
Because, naturally, the cars that still have a hope in hell of starting are usually bone dry.
Did he mention how awesome things are? So awesome.
God, what was he thinking about anyway? Right, right. Arkansas.
Dean’s mind reels back to that sweltering day; the sunlight blinking through the leaves of the forest, a thread of hope giving air to his steps, taking him quickly into the depth of the thick landscape. It’s not often that he gets it in his head that a certain day will be a good one.
But that day he had. What a fucking mistake.
By the time the five of them had made it west of Lake Ouachita, tracking the location of survivors holding on to some semblance of life, they were too goddamn late.
Whether it was the infected or Raiders was hard to say. Too much ruin to decipher anything worth knowing.
Dead bodies were dead bodies. No two ways about it.
Amidst the torn tents, neglected corpses, garbage, and bloodied clothes, Dean had found a fucking doll. One of those cabbage-patch things with big fat cheeks and hair made of yarn. The sight of it smeared with blood hit him two-fold in the chest.
Squatting on the ground, Dean stared at the thing for a long minute before he picked it up and held it in his dirt-stained hands. Something about it caused a tear in his heart.
Of all the hells he’s seen in his life, including the real-deal, he realized that day that the new world order was something else.
Something graver.
Dean isn’t sure what prompted him to do it, but he’d dusted the damn thing off and stuffed it into the bottom of his back-pack. No one knows he took it, and he doesn’t care for that to become anyone else’s business but his own.
How would you even explain something like that? Yeah, man, so I saw this doll and just had to have it. Fuck. No.
But still, it's there. Even now, as they walk and he hits rewind on the memory banks, it adds a little weight at the bottom of his bag, unseen and undefined. Twice he'd gone to toss the stupid thing and ended up sidetracked on some other mundane task. As though his life’s so filled with errands nowadays.
Riiiight...
Leaving Arkansas, coming up between state borders, they'd run into three men moving through the lands same as they’d been doin’. None of them were former hunters, but definitely military by the looks of their crew cuts and gear. The one big guy was a real Tom Skerritt lookin’ dude, and Dean, being the Top Gun lover that he is, went ahead and asked them right-off to join their merry-band of fighters. All three men had politely declined. And wasn’t that a downer after all that hope of finding some non-infected friends.
The strange thing is that not once before that, or since, has anyone said no to tagging along. Course they all died except for Ray and Josh but that’s not the point. Red flags went up, but what the fuck was he gonna do about it? It’s not as if he would’ve dragged their beefy asses by the feet or anything.
Needless to say, they went their separate ways.
Ray, of course, was pleased as fucking pie. “Don’t need any more macho dick-heads—one's more than enough,” she’d said. Dean had thrown her a beatific smile, adding a wink for good measure.
Man, he loves busting her lady balls.
Catching up to the present, Dean wonders if they’ll ever see those dudes again—something about them had left a bad taste in his mouth. Shoving the worry down deep, Dean lets his brain drift to more pleasing territory.
Hmm, mental replay of Top Gun? Oh yeah.
They’re strolling along a few minutes later when Dean starts bobbing his head, humming, and turns to look at Cas. With a smirk, he starts off in a low but building cadence, “Revvin’ up your engine, listen to her hoooowlin’ roar!”
Sam laughs and claims the next line without pause. “Metal under tension, begging you to touch and go!”
Both Dean and Sam round back to flash Josh with matching grins, baiting him.
Josh, normally quiet, surprises them by throwing his thick muscular arm around Ray and sings loud and rough against her ear, “Highway to the danger zone! Riiiiiide into the danger zone!”
Hiding a chuckle, Ray smacks Josh away from her. Cas’ deep laughter reaches Dean’s ears, but the joy doesn’t last. A couple infected stumble across their path and it kills the Top Gun montage they had going.
Can’t get five damn minutes of fun, he thinks.
Hours later, on the edge of dusk, the sunlight dims as the day winds down. They’re still on Route 54, keeping close to the long grass and trees on the east side in case they need fast cover. He hopes they won't; he's tired and there's a fucking rock in his shoe that he's too lazy to take out.
And the fact is, if he sits down now, he ain't getting back up.
To his right, Cas is taking several gulps from his water-bottle. Before the water has dried from his lips, he's already inattentively handing it off to Dean, knowing without having to verbalize anything that he'll take it.
Dean chugs down the lukewarm wetness, wishing it were the burn of alcohol. Handing the bottle back, he shoots Cas an expression of blatant yearning. The former servant of God shakes his head with a muted laugh, knowing how Dean craves past luxuries.
“Perhaps we can raid a liquor store in town,” his friend suggests, adjusting the weight of his pack. Dean reaches over to tighten the two shoulder straps, shifting the mass higher on the guy’s back. The yellow and grey hiking bag's getting worn and he makes a mental note to remind Cas to get a new one next town they hit.
“God, that’d be good, huh? I’d give my left nut for a fifth of whiskey, a beach, and a non-diseased naked woman right now.”
Cas laughs in a low chuckle, the sound befitting of the lowering sun. “Dean, I very much doubt you’d be thinking of sex if you’d been recently half-castrated.”
“Fucker,” Dean mutters before they fall quiet again.
It’s not as if there’s much need for conversation or abstract chit-chat. Every now and then one or all of them voices certain wishes for particular items or pastimes they all used to take for granted.
Ray misses her motorcycle, and man, can Dean can relate. There's a big, metaphoric hole in his heart where a sleek hulk of metal used to be. Josh misses a calm lifestyle, or so the guy says. This world seems suited to him. Josh King, a former legit hunter (animals, not monsters) used to build log homes.
Fucking log homes, man!
Dean’s always fancied himself a man's-man, but next to this guy he's practically a Disney Princess—not there’s anything wrong with that of course. The man never complains, not one for talk, and tends to look content more than any of them.
Sammy, of course, misses the bunker and the research ‘cause he’s a giant nerd. But their efforts in this decaying afterlife have purpose enough for the little bro.
And Cas? Well, Cas mostly misses his wings, his abilities. He never mentions it outright, but Dean knows. At odd moments, he'll see Cas shift his back in a peculiar way, and the guy’s face falls, and the pain is there, darkening his normally bright eyes. It's like a kick in the gut to see it.
As for Dean? Honestly, other than readily available food and booze, and the occasional bar and warm body to sate some needs, there isn’t much he gets reminiscent over. Although, working toilets and beds are pretty high up on the list, too.
It's not the least bit funny that the entirety of Heaven abandoned them. Especially after all their bullshit over the years. Dean's hollered his round of fuck you’s to Heaven's dick squad numerous times. He can’t help it.
The fucking hypocrites.
Cas consistently and repeatedly reminds him that the angels are gone, leaving the world to its ruin. Sometimes he wonders why Cas didn’t go with them. Shit, he would've understood. Getting out when the angel could’ve. He sure as hell wishes Sam had gotten out somehow. Kid's been through enough.
More than enough, Dean amends.
When the infection hit, Sam had been arms deep in the trials to close the gates of Hell and so damn close to that finish line. It had taken a long time for him to get better. So long that Dean had begun to question if he ever would. Cas had been certain he’d heal.
But even now, Sam’s prone to getting sick easier than the rest of them. Whatever the trials had done had weakened his systems bad. Dean worries about the kid even more than he used to, which is hard enough to believe as it is.
Frigging monsters all running amok, infected groaning and shuffling around, no working angels to speak of, and the frequency of living outdoors don’t exactly mesh with Sam’s less than one-hundred percent status.
But, Dean concedes, it’s getting better.