Chapter Text
Transmission made: April 2024. Received by Dean Winchester on portable radio south of Kansas City.
Apocalypse Now, end of the line, World War Z, whatever the hell you want to call it—it’s happening. It was either this or a big meteor hurtling towards earth, folks, so I hope you packed your jerky. Stay off the highways, arm yourself to the TEETH, okay, the TEETH and I beg you do not under any circumstances get on a plane. Big metal tube flying through the air with possible infected people? Yeah, ‘cause that’s smart. Nowhere to fly to, anyway—Europe’s gone, Australia is probably in the middle of Mad Max 3 by now, anywhere south of the equator is donezo. Good news is that we’re on a huge continent that happens to have very rural places you can hide. So wherever you vowed you’d never go because it’s in the middle of bum-fuck-nowhere—go there. Now. That’s where I already was and now my cushy paranoid ass is sitting pretty on a year’s worth of rations and running water. And, of course, a radio to communicate to you, good people of the US of A, that we are well and truly fucked. But maybe we can outlast the infection, until we stumble on a cure or the infected just… die off. So there’s hope. Keep tuning into this channel to find some. Frank Devereaux, signing off for now.
The end of the world is more beautiful than Dean thought it’d be.
The sun shines brighter. The sky’s bluer. The water from running streams where Dean fills up his water bottle tastes sweeter. Even the air he breathes is cleaner.
It’s been four months since the infection first took over. Four months since everything went to shit. It’s enough time that Mother Nature’s staked her claim on the abandoned cars in the middle of the streets and on the houses that sit empty. Weeds and wildflowers grow through cracks in the road. Corn fields sway, untouched and unharvested.
Four months.
It doesn’t feel like that long.
Almost everyone Dean’s ever cared about or known is dead. Lawrence got bombed to hell soon after the infection started—the gas station that Donna and Jody owned included. Ash boarded a flight out of Kansas City that came down in a fiery crash right after takeoff. He found Bobby’s place burned down to the studs. And Sam—
Sam’s alive. Sam’s a fighter. If there was anyone other than Dean to survive this, it’s him. He’d do exactly what Dean’s been doing so far: lay low, stay off the streets, don’t follow the panicking crowd into the fire. Sam grew up with the same dad that Dean did: John Winchester, the most paranoid man in America. Their childhood was filled with rations squirreled away in the basement and monthly gun drills.
When Dean saw that first news report, something about an infection making people in New York City rabid, Sam was his first phone call. They agreed to the rendezvous point over the phone: rural Idaho, a halfway point for the both of them. Sam said something about getting Jess’s family to safety.
Dean tried to tell Sam to leave them behind. To just look out for himself. They were still arguing about it when the phone lines went dead.
So Dean’s moving forward—at a snail’s pace, granted, with all the infected out there. But there’s nothing else to do but move forward. There’s nothing to go back to.
Every day is the same, now: get up, clean the guns (a shotgun slung over his shoulder and a pistol attached to his belt), put the knives back into his boot and back pocket, eat a months-old protein bar from his rations for breakfast. Drink half his water bottle in hopes that he’ll find a running creek to get fresh water later.
And, as a fun bonus: stare at the faded flowers on the motel room wall while having a brief existential crisis.
Today, he takes the highway. He hasn’t seen anyone, normal or infected, for weeks; he’s far enough into rural Nebraska that everyone’s scattered. It’s the cities you have to be careful of.
Overgrown farm fields hug either side of him; instead of corn, tall heather stretches toward the clear blue sky, swaying gently in the breeze. Birds sing among the tall grass.
Dean has to notice the beauty that the now-unbridled nature brings because without something to hold onto, he would assuredly lose his mind.
He has to notice the wildflowers growing through cracks in the highways instead of the family decaying in their crumpled car. He has to feel the warmth of the sun on his cheeks instead of the warm blood of the infected on his hands.
Somewhere out there, Sam is surviving, too. He has to be. That’s what keeps his feet moving.
Moving forward, and leaving everyone behind.
The guilt rises like bile in his throat. Dean shakes out his shoulders and looks up at the optimistically fluffy clouds instead.
Then he hears it.
A scream, echoing across the field.
It’s like a bucket of ice-cold water got dumped down Dean’s spine. Instinct has him whipping out the pistol out of his thigh holster and pointing it in the direction of the sound.
Nothing moves in the tall grass. But then—
Another yell, this time with a word:
Help.
“Help me! Please!”
Carefully, Dean steps across the cracked concrete and closer to the tall grass, gun still poised. As he moves forward, he can see it across the field: an old and dilapidated barn, about a half a mile away.
He relaxes his shoulders, gun pointing down toward the ground. Someone must have gone into that barn for shelter and run into some stray Croats. Unfortunate, but… that’s why you check your corners.
Dean stands there, uncharacteristically indecisive about it. His stomach rumbles around empty space, his pathetic little granola bar already digested and gone. Helping would mean expending energy. Helping would mean a potential Croat bite and game over. Helping would mean—
“Help me!” the voice yells again—a man’s, desperate and cracked. “Please—is there anyone out there?!”
Dean’s breath sticks in his throat.
Is anyone out there?
It’s what his own mind has been screaming on a reel for days, weeks. As the miles stretched on and on, with him staying in his own personal solitary confinement despite all the space around him. Nobody to talk to, nobody to see.
For all Dean knows, him and whoever is screaming in that barn could be the only living and sane people left on this continent. On this planet.
Keep moving forward: that’s the rule. It hasn’t failed him so far.
The voice shouts again. Desperate, in pain.
“I’m gonna regret this, aren’t I?” Dean grumbles. He checks the magazine in his pistol before taking off into a sprint through the field.
The grass keeps him hidden as he approaches the barn, but he stays crouched under the windows just in case. The gray and rotting door is open just a crack, enough for Dean to peer into.
No one’s there.
“HELP!” comes the voice again, making Dean jump out of his skin. It sounds like whoever it is, they’re up in the rafters somewhere.
“Who’s there?” he yells back. His voice cracks and is even deeper than usual from disuse. “Hello?”
“Help me, please! I need help!”
Whoever’s up there is frantic, panicking. Dean lets loose a rough sigh before pushing the rest of the door open, his pistol still poised.
Nothing.
No Croats, no animals, no people—nothing.
“Hello?” Dean calls again.
There’s movement up above him, the creaking of wood. He whips his pistol up to meet the sound.
Something hard and heavy hits him in the back. His spine explodes in pain.
He manages to land on his side to at least keep his gun pointed up toward his attacker. The win is short-lived when a foot stamps down on his wrist. He yells, short and sharp, before kicking his own leg into his attacker’s knee.
He could have had a chance in the fight if another set of hands hadn’t grabbed each of his arms, pinning him down on the ground. Dean fights against it the best he can, punching and bucking every which way, but it’s no use. He’s beaten, overtaken, a cooked goose.
He’s survived the end of the world this long only to let Croats get the jump on him. In a freakin’ barn. What a goddamn joke.
But no bite comes. And now that he really listens—there’s no typical guttural snarling that comes with a Croat attack.
He stops struggling long enough to take stock of his surroundings and see just who the hell is pinning him on the ground.
Two women, one with a shock of red hair and another with black—both pinning each of his arms. The guy whose knee he kicked in, on the ground and hissing in pain. And another guy with a patch over a missing eye and a lazy smile on his face, standing above Dean, a gun pointed right at Dean’s face.
There’s no madness in any of their eyes. Just clear, uninfected skies.
People. Not infected people— actual people.
Above him, the voice he first heard calls out again: “Help me! Please, god—is there anyone out there?!”
Dread settles and makes a home in Dean’s gut. It’s the same words he heard, with the same exact inflection.
Shit .
“Turn that off,” the one-eyed man says to someone at his shoulder, jerking his head up at the rafters.
A recording. It was a recording .
“What,” Dean grits out between clenched teeth, “the fuck .”
The eye-patched guy gestures his gun to Dean’s backpack, which skittered across the floor in the scuffle. “Get that. His shotgun, too.”
That’s all of his stuff. His food, his bullets, his first aid kit. Everything he needs to survive.
“Hey,” Dean begins, frantic, “wait a goddamn second, just—”
His words are cut off as a fist slams into his mouth, then his cheekbone. He spits blood, limp from the pain, as his shotgun is tugged roughly off his shoulder, along with his jacket. One of the women throws the jacket at the one-eyed man, who catches it midair.
“Thank you, darling,” he drawls. He digs around in one of the pockets, face brightening as he finds Dean’s last granola bar. He plucks out John’s old hunting knife from the other pocket, twirling it in the air. “Nice.”
“Get your hands off that,” Dean growls. He doubles over with a wheeze as one of the women’s boots slams into his stomach.
He coughs and desperately tries to catch his breath. This is it, his bones know, deep in the marrow. This is the end.
“It’s nothing personal, you know,” the man sighs as pockets the knife. “We’re all just surviving out here, best we can. Right?”
Dean spits out another glob of blood. His face throbs in time with his rapid heartbeat. Anger swirls and sours his gut.
Raising his head, he aims a sharp grin at the man. Might as well get his last blows in before they shoot him into early retirement. “Some of us are trying to survive. Some people, like your ugly mug—well, buddy, I don’t think you deserve to survive at all.”
Dean feels a sting of satisfaction when that smug little smile drops off the man’s face. He takes a step forward, raising his pistol again, the cold barrel pressed against Dean’s forehead. Dean closes his eyes, briefly giving in to the fear, then opens them again to stare at his fate.
He made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t go gently into that good night, and he’s not about to start now.
“Trust me,” the man says as his gun presses harder against Dean’s temple, “I’m doing you a favor.”
“You just keep tellin’ yourself that, you fucking bastard,” Dean growls.
The one-eyed man cocks the pistol. Dean sends out an apology to his little brother, wherever he is, that he couldn’t do better.
A sound cracks into the air. But it isn’t from the gun pressed to Dean’s forehead.
It’s the barn door slamming open as the wind rattles the barn’s very bones.
Every head turns. And through the blood dripping into his eye, Dean sees a dark-haired man, sawed-off shotgun raised high, his blue eyes electric with fury.
The man holding the pistol to Dean’s head scoffs. “What, you? Didn’t we kill you back at—”
The shotgun rings out, sharp and short. Dean blinks in shock as the one-eyed man crumples in a spray of blood.
There’s a moment of stunned silence, then—
Chaos.
The redheaded woman flanking Dean’s side sprays bullets toward the barn door, but the dark-haired man is already gone, diving behind a crate. Bullets from above pepper the floor, kicking hay up into the air.
Dean takes this golden opportunity to scoop up his fallen pistol and shoot the person closest to him: the dark-haired woman in a camo jacket. She falls to the ground with a cry, clutching her leg. Her screams cut off as he shoots another bullet into her skull.
The redhead cries out in anguish as she sees her friend go down, swinging her gun toward Dean, but Dean’s faster: his bullet slices through her neck.
More bullets from above kicks up the dirt by Dean’s feet. He dives behind a few hay bales and points his gun up toward the rafters. But his work is done for him; with a few more punctuated shots, the men above fall like dead weight and go silent.
Dean crouches behind the hay, breathing hard and fast. Whoever this guy is, he’s a good shot. And on top of that, he’s pissed and out for blood.
More shots ring out; then everything goes silent.
Cautiously, Dean peeks up over the hay. The dark-haired man is already striding to one of the fallen women, not paying Dean any mind. Dean watches as the man digs through her pockets, huffs in frustration, then moves on to the redhead. He goes to his knees and rifles through her jacket pockets.
Now or never. Pistol still level with his shoulder, Dean walks out from behind the hay bale. A floorboard creaks under his foot.
The man whips around and aims his shotgun at him, crouched like a snake about to strike. Heart in his throat, Dean responds in kind, his pistol poised. The man’s eyes widen a fraction. Whether it’s because of the state Dean’s in or the fact that the man now has a gun in his face, Dean doesn’t know.
They stare at each other, long and hard, both assessing their next move. And if Dean’s honest—he doesn’t know what the hell his next move is.
“Put down the gun,” the man says, and— Jesus , it sounds like he just gargled gravel.
Dean smiles, the movement stretching his busted lip. “You first.”
Those blue eyes narrow. “I know that you’re not part of their group, so I won’t hurt you. But I can’t trust that you’ll grant me the same courtesy.”
Fair enough, Dean thinks. He nods his head at the fallen bodies. “Friends of yours?”
The man glares at him like Dean insulted him. “Of course not.”
“So who were they?”
“Poachers. They got the jump on me a few days ago. I’ve been tracking them.”
Dean raises his eyebrows incredulously. “ Tracking them? Who are you, Aragorn?”
“It wasn’t difficult. They’re loud and ridiculous.”
“Well.” Dean shrugs a shoulder, the one not holding the gun upright. “Were.”
The man stares at him. Then, slowly, and incredibly, given the situation: a grin tugs at a corner of his lips. “Were,” he agrees.
Dean swallows the heartbeat in his throat, assessing the guy more closely: gray dress shirt that’s seen better days, black mud-speckled boots, a leather jacket that hangs ill on his shoulders. There’s that fire in his eyes, but unlike the people who were just about to kill him, Dean doesn’t see malice—just survival at any cost. The same sort of look he sees in himself when he catches his reflection in the mirror.
Of all the threats Dean’s encountered… this guy doesn’t seem like one.
“Name’s Dean,” he finally says. He raises his eyebrows expectantly when the man’s face just drops back down into that stern frown. “This is usually where you offer up yours.”
The man just narrows those blue eyes and adjusts his grip on his pistol all the tighter, his knuckles whitening.
“All right—suit yourself, Blue Eyes.” Dean grins when that just seems to make the guy’s hackles rise even more. “I’m gonna lower my gun now, ‘cause I got no beef with you. But you gotta lower yours at the same time.” He clicks his tongue, shrugging a shoulder. “Unless you want this to turn into fun times at the O.K. Corral, the sequel.”
Blue Eyes nods, short and sharp. “All right. Deal.”
Dean nods in return. Slowly, he lowers his gun, just an inch to see if the man follows his lead—which he does. Like a mirror image, they both slowly lower their weapons until Dean’s pocketing his, and the man’s slinging his shotgun over his shoulder. With both guns gone, Dean breathes a sigh of relief, shaking out his tight shoulders.
“Peachy. Now—”
In a blur of movement, the man’s snapping his hands back up. He’s holding yet another gun, this time a 9 millimeter from the looks of it, pulled out from his back jeans pocket. He points it directly at Dean’s center mass.
Dean groans at the ceiling. “ Jesus, dude! What is your problem ?”
The man just stares at him, impassible and solemn. “I need the bag that is three feet to your left.”
Dean follows Blue Eyes’ line of sight to the discarded neon orange backpack by the hay bales, blood splashed across it like a demented watercolor painting. “What, the poacher’s?”
“It’s mine ,” the man snaps. “I want you to kick it toward me.”
“I can kick it to you without a freakin’ gun pointed at—”
“ Now ,” the man insists.
Dean holds up his hands. “Fine. Just relax.” He walks sideways until his heel nudges against the backpack. With a solid kick, it goes skittering across the dirt floor to the man’s feet. Gun still held up, he bends down to snatch it up.
The man gestures with his gun to a rotting vertical wood beam. “Stand against that with your hands behind your back.”
That same familiar dread from before settles in Dean’s stomach. If he gets tied up, he’s vulnerable. Any Croat could come and get him. And if this guy takes his stuff—
But he won’t let his panic show. Instead, Dean waggles his eyebrows. “Usually I get someone to buy me dinner before getting kinky.”
“Do it, or walking is going to become very difficult for you.” The man points the barrel of the gun at Dean’s knee to emphasize his point.
Dean sighs, long and suffering, to hide the way his heartbeat anxiously stutters. “Anybody ever tell you that your funny bone’s broken?”
The man waits until Dean’s back is against the wood beam, his hands clasped behind and around it. He grabs a fallen piece of rope next to a hay bale and approaches Dean, the gun still high. “My sense of humor is fine. I just don’t laugh at unfunny jokes.”
Dean huffs out a chuckle, despite himself. The man does a little gesture with his finger—the universal sign to turn around. With a put-out sigh, Dean shimmies around the wood beam until his back is to Blue Eyes.
The man’s dry and calloused hands roughly tie the rope around Dean’s wrists. Dean holds back a grunt as the man ties a knot, the rope digging into his skin.
“You know,” Dean says, deciding to shoot his last shot, “if these poachers got the jump on you and are part of a larger gang like you said, they might go after you again.”
“Your point?” the man asks impatiently at Dean’s ear.
“Maybe teamin’ up is the better idea,” Dean says with a breezy shrug. “Safety in numbers, that kind of thing.”
“Why, so you can help me? The man who fell right into their trap?”
Dean’s smile drops. And, well—he can’t argue with that logic. “Why tie me up, if I’m not a threat?”
“So you won’t follow me.”
“Why the hell would I follow you? To steal from you, like they did?” When the man doesn’t answer, anger flares hot in Dean’s chest. “Why even take the time to do this? Why not just kill me?”
The last knot is tied a little tighter than the rest, almost like a period at the end of a sentence. “I’m done,” the man says softly, instead of replying to Dean's questions. “I kept the knots loose enough that you’ll be able to get out in an hour or so, if you try hard enough. That’ll put enough distance between us.”
Dean rolls his eyes at the dilapidated barn ceiling. “Bit of a paranoid guy, aren’t you?”
“It’s the end of the world. I think we’re all entitled to a little paranoia.” The man’s warm breath ghosts against Dean’s neck. “I am sorry for this next part, though.”
Dean’s body tenses. “What next part?” When he doesn’t get an answer, he tries to twist around and see what’s going on. “Hey? You still there, man?”
Silence. Then, softly: “My name is Cas.”
The world goes black as the butt of a gun slams against the back of Dean’s head.