Characters: Dean. Well, just Dean. For now.
Genre: H/C, AU
Rating: PG 13
Spoilers: Upto Season 5.
Warnings: Graphic violence, zombies, general zombie crap, BRAINS. (Also, BIRDS)
Disclaimer: Wish I owned this but I don't.
Summary: A day ago, or maybe a week, or maybe it’s a year— who was keeping tabs anymore?—he didn’t know things about guns, nor words, nor anything. No name, no aim, no consciousness.
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The last radio station on earth broadcasts from a farm in Iowa. The radio jockey is manically cheerful and has two catchphrases he uses at least twice every thirty minutes. “They eat us alive, bitches” is one. “FUBAR is our middle name now” is the other. He keeps playing evangelical songs, as if maybe God will tune in. It’s not like God’s gonna have to choose between stations anyway.
What he knows is this.
A day ago, or maybe a week, or maybe it’s a year— who was keeping tabs anymore?—he didn’t know things about guns, nor words, nor anything. No name, no aim, no consciousness.
There was an endless chasm where his brain was, and there were things in the chasm screaming for food. And so he fed it. And with each feeding, the chasm became smaller, smaller—a gulf now, a crack, just a gap— and through the gap sometimes coherent stuff got out, words like monster and wrong and zombie. And he was fine with the words, words were good, words made him stronger and smarter than the others, if only it were ALL words, just words and no emotions.
He’s not even done with the girl before it hits him—like a fucking truck full of fucking concrete—that’s a human girl, dude, and you’re chewing on her brain—
And it’s gone again, gone in a second like lightning, but he’s up and shuffling away, wondering where’s he’s going, why he’s going wherever the fuck he’s going, what’s up with all the monster birds swooping to scavenge all he’s left behind.
Other things are slipping through too—this from the man, the man who smelled of sweat and gunpowder and faintly of gasoline—other things about people with too many guns and hard-edged gazes and brittle grips on sanity, and the name: the name Winchester.
Like the rifle, a memory chimes in. He’s leaning over a counter in some other life, the dead man is standing in front of him cleaning a gun, his name so vague (Klaus? Carl?) and he’s saying the words: Winchester. Like the rifle?
Yeah, he tells dead-man-Klaus-or-Karl.
(he’s smiling, he’s shaking hands, hullo, hullo)
(so this is a memory, and memories come from brains, brains are good for memories)
(he’s pushing someone else towards the counter, smacking the back of their head to make them look up from a thick leather journal)
...I’m Dean and this is...
Two shots ring out into the silence— awful, loud, everything is so loud in this world— and he’s so slow, food makes them all slow, but he twists off the road and into the woods, slipping on black blood, stumbling, falling, sliding down a slope. Twigs and sticks and stones and branches and centuries, centuries later, he slides to a stop and just lies there.
There’s no pain, though both bullets (bullets, know what a bullet is now, what a frigging genius) are lodged somewhere in his body. One in his leg, because his calf is a geyser of blood. The other in his hip, and when he stands, he has to walk funny to get anywhere.
...we gotta sew that up......blood poisoning, septicaemia, you could die, Dean....
Shut up, he tells the voice in his head.
The tabloids, before they stopped circulating because zombies didn’t remember how to write, called it The Lure.
The Undead wandered everywhere, feeding and infecting and feeding again, but like a group of cannibal trucks set to fucking auto drive or something they inevitably followed The Lure.
Maybe they were looking for something .
Or maybe something was looking for them
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