The World Has Moved On, Chapter 10
Title: The World Has Moved On (10/?)
Author: phar_ahkmenrah (halfblood alchemist)
Genre/Pairing: Dean/Castiel, AU
Rating: NC-17 (for strong sexual content, blood and gore, violence and language)
Spoilers: None (AU)
Wordcount: WIP
Warnings: This fic will be riddled with strong sexual scenes, violent deaths, torture, graphic imagery, and scary scenes. Far far future fic, modeled after “the Gunslinger” series by Stephen King. NOT A CROSSOVER! (Has similar concept as the Supernatural series, but different presentation. *Character parallels, concept parallel etc*)
Summary: As a great author once said, too many years long since passed, “The world has moved on…”. Two brothers find themselves travelling across the lands of a world that time forgot, travelling to avenge the destruction of their village, and the death of their family and friends. On their journey they discover their destiny lies in the secret profession of their late father and find their world turned upside down when they discover a dark force is threatening to destroy mankind. Left to stop this devastation from wiping out their whole world alone, they find allegiance in the unlikeliest of partners: a young, inexperienced mage, renegade from his clan and rebellious to their arrogant, narrow-minded ways. This rag-tag trio of heroes holds the fate of the world in their hands… if they can face the truth.
~*~
Chapter 10
December 21, 2012
Downtown New York
Approximately 4 hours before the end…
Dean Smith shoved his way into the waiting bus, ignoring the snide remarks the other passengers shot him. He was on a tight schedule, dammit and Mr. Adler would fucking kill him if he was late again that week. He brushed off a hand on his arm, the close proximity of the jam-packed bus warming the air about him. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, already aware of the beads of sweat gather at the nape of his neck.
It had been a disturbingly balmy winter in New York that year. Meteorologists had no explanation for the intense heat that plagued them. It wasn’t just New York that felt the crushing warmth. The whole country was affected, December days reaching peaks of up to 88 F across the map. For some, the dramatic change was nothing of great import; others were more uneasy about this strangely arid winter. None voiced their concerns, hoping that the odd weather would right itself in the end.
Again, Dean tugged at his collar, growling in the back of his throat as he was elbowed in the small of his back. “Back off, bitch.” He hissed, glaring at the man behind him. The guy was fucking huge! He towered over Dean by a good four inches, the soft yellow polo doing nothing to hide frighteningly large biceps under the too-small sleeves. He, too, looked pissed off at the world, and glared down his nose at the man that had quite purposefully shoved himself into his limited space on the packed motor vehicle.
“Well maybe if you woulda just waited for the next fucking bus, we wouldn’t be so damn packed in here, jerk!” said adversary retorted, huffing in his ignorance. Nevertheless, he took as far a step back as the close proximity would allow, burying his face in the newspaper again. A look of worry crossed his features, brows knitted together at the words splayed haphazardly across the damp paper. He ran his hand through his hair, brushing the brown locks from his soft hazel eyes.
It was no wonder everyone seemed more on edge than normal in this day and age. The newspapers said it all; blaring almost daily about the deadlock world powers had gotten themselves into. It seemed that every nuclear weapon in each arsenal was armed and ready, waiting on a hair-breadth’s notice to trigger and blow the other countries away. Things had gotten bad; very bad, and everyone was terrified that the impasse would break and nukes would start flying.
Dean glanced at the paper, taking notice of the date scrawled across the top. December 21, 2012. “Fucking Mayans…” he murmured, turning his attention to the needlessly scalding hot cup of coffee in his hands. Personally, Dean didn’t believe in destiny, prophecy, the lot. Yeah, the whole World War III thing was freaky as fuck, but he didn’t believe that this whole thing was boiling down to a guess on an ancient stone slab some fucking Indians forgot to finish carving up. “Whatever…”
After a long, hot ride, the bus pulled up to Dean’s stop, and he clambered from the interior, bounding into what he hoped was blessed open air. It was nearly as hot outside as it was in the bus; stifling humidity bearing down on him in this strange winter day. “Dammit…” he growled, lugging his briefcase towards the office tower. He glanced down at his watch and swore. Looks like he would be late after all…
Approximately 3 hours and 7 minutes before the end…
Sam Wesson made his way through the busy work-day throng, pressing the elevator button with a bit more force than he intended. That guy on the bus had really irked him, and the raving articles in the paper did nothing to ease his mind. It was no secret: the whole Mayan prophecy had really gotten to him and with each impending day, his anxiety grew tenfold. He only hoped that when this blessed day was over, and he woke the next morning alive and well, he’d feel incredibly stupid.
Entering the elevator, Sam closed himself inside alone, and rode the way to his designated floor in silence. He took a few calming breaths, willing himself to not fuck up his first day in the IT department. He needed a new start; after a messy break-up with his girlfriend, he moved to New York in hopes to leave everything behind and start a new career with a clear head.
He had to avert his eyes when taking the cab to his new apartment from the memorial site. Eleven years later, and it still gave him the weebies.
After an all-too short ride, Sam found his floor and made his way through the halls, gripping his portfolio in a firm hand. He schooled a calm look on his face, heedless of the crushing heat inside the office tower. ‘Just because it’s mid-December, doesn’t mean you have to crank the fucking heat up…’ he thought to himself, smiling brightly at the manager as he was greeted for his first day on the job.
About 1 hour and 46 minutes before the end…
Dean pushed himself away from his desk, rubbing at his throbbing temples with frustrated gestures. He was getting no work done fast. The whole office tower was thrumming with pent-up agitation, as if everyone were waiting for something to happen. Something bad…
“God, fucking give it a rest…” he murmured to himself, ignoring the nervous chatter of the secretaries as they passed his office. It was bad enough the weather was fucked up; now he had a migraine. It seemed the whole day was just screwed. “When nothing happens, I’m gonna tattoo ‘I Told You So’ on my forehead.” He sighed, feeling his stomach give a protesting groan at that moment.
Deciding that he’d had enough for the morning, Dean grabbed his wallet and shucked his jacket onto the back of his seat. He closed and locked up his office, and made his way to the elevator. He’d wanted to try the new Bistro down the block anyway; why not start today? He smiled, feeling a bit better already. Now that he was moving about, he could think with a clearer head. It already seemed absurd.
But just as Dean stepped into the elevator and pressed the ‘close-door’ button, a hand shot in, stopping them. He looked up in time to see Big and Scary from the bus step inside the elevator. “Hey…” he murmured, feeling a blush creep up the back of his neck. He really shouldn’t have snapped on the guy earlier.
The man nodded to him, turning to face the door. “Main floor right?” he asked, gesturing to the button panel. At Dean’s affirmative, he pressed the button, and the two stood in companionable silence, the pings of passing floors the only sound in that quiet little haven.
After a moment, the man turned to Dean, and offered him a sheepish smile “So… sorry about earlier. I haven’t quite been myself lately…” he said, holding a hand out to him. “I’m Sam. Sam Wesson.”
“Dean Smith.” He responded, shaking his hand firmly. “And don’t worry about it. It’s been a trying morning. I was running late and couldn’t afford to wait for the next bus.”
“ I can see that now.” Sam dropped off, looking straight ahead again. “… Funny weather we’ve been having.”
“Mhm…”
Silence again filled the elevator, but this time the duration stretched just a bit farther. After a moment, Dean cleared his throat, looking up at him. “First day on the job huh…”
“Yeah.”
“Awesome. Well… if you’re on break now, there’s this new Bistro down the street. I can give you the in’s and out’s of the place. Just to get you acclimated around here.”
“Sounds awesome.” Sam answered, a smile playing across his surprisingly puppy-like features. For a big scary brute, he was almost adorable.
Dean smirked, nudging him slightly. “To the shop, it is then…”
~*~
Less than 45 minutes before the end…
Sam sighed contentedly, pushing his plate away. He smirked across the table at Dean, stretching his long legs out in a comfortable position. It was strange how quickly they got along, especially after such a rough morning. It was almost as if they had known each other all their lives. “So now I got the ins and outs of the place… tell me about yourself, Dean. What else do you do besides work?”
Dean smiled, leaning back in his seat. “I work on classics for fun. Got myself a beauty of a car at home that I work on all the time. It’s a 1967 Chevy Impala.”
Sam gave a low whistle. “Sounds like you got yourself an awesome hobby there.”
Dean nodded, crossing his arms. “What about you? There’s gotta be something else you do besides geek out on a computer all day.”
Sam shrugged, avoiding the question. He didn’t want to admit his conspiracy theory ideas to someone he’d just met. He didn’t want to go into detail about how he’d been tracking ancient prophecies for years. It was too weird a conversation starter. Besides, Dean was a straightforward guy. Even if many of the prophecies held validity, Dean wouldn’t be interested in hearing them. Just from this conversation alone, Sam gathered that Dean was a “live in the present” kind of guy. Ancient predictions were of little import to him. “… actually that’s kinda all I do.” He admitted weakly in the end.
Dean raised an eyebrow at him, frowning slightly. The nervous response struck him as odd. Already, he could read this guy like an open book. “… you one of those doomsday followers?”
Sam looked up, slightly scandalized. “No!...” he broke off, having the decency to look sheepish. “Not really…”
Dean snorted, pressing his elbows into the table top. “’Explains the newspaper this morning. The date’s probably got you all wound up, huh?”
Sam shrugged, fingering the napkin in front of him. “I don’t normally follow all the hype, but… for some reason, this one’s got me pretty spooked. It just… doesn’t feel right.” He looked up at Dean, his eyes a pleading shine. “And I don’t spook easily…”
Dean sighed, reading the worry in his eyes. “Look Sam… it’s… think of it this way. A lot of shit was ‘predicted’ that people got themselves worked up over. Granted, we got some tense situations right now with the nukes, but… we’re all gonna wake up fine tomorrow morning and life’s gonna go on. Just relax man.” Smirking, he punched Sam lightly in the shoulder.
Sam returned the smile half-heartedly. Secretly he hoped Dean was right. He sat up, pulling his wallet out to pay his half of the tab. “Ready to head back?” he asked, all too glad for a change in conversation.
Dean nodded, waving Sam’s cash off. “I got a card. Hit me back later, and we’re square, ok?”
Sam nodded, making his way over to the exit while Dean paid. As he stood by the glass doors drumming the handle in a light rhythm, he caught sight of a man in a long trench coat arguing with one of those mounted police officers. He smirked, stepping outside. He knew he shouldn’t pry, but his curiosity got the better of him and he inched closer to listen in.
“Look buddy, the sign clearly says ‘Thirty Minute Parking’. I’ve been working this street all day, and you’re over the limit.” The cop said, pulling his ticket book out.
Trench Coat Guy looked utterly pissed, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest. “Then your clock’s off because I put a timer on my phone so I WOULDN’T go over the limit! I still have five minutes..”
“Sorry, buddy; gotta follow protocol.”
Sam sighed, listening to the guy talk. He had a big mouth on him, despite the fact that Trench Coat Guy had at least two inches on him. He watched him push the visor back to expose a strand of dark brown hair hanging into his hazel eyes before grabbing his pen.
“Alright, I’ll need your name and registration please.”
Trench Coat Guy sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Fine… James Castiel Novak. Can I PLEASE get into my car so I can at least get the registration card and my wallet out?”
Sam lost interest in the conversation at this point, far too intrigued by the chestnut standing obediently behind the cop. The horse was gorgeous, a perfect white blaze running down its muzzle, stocking prints on its front hooves. The horse swished its tail languidly, nickering slightly at the man watching him.
Sam smiled, wanting to go over and run his fingers through the soft mane. There was no telling what would happen if he did but it still didn’t suppress the child-like urge to touch; to pet the creature in investigation.
But just when he felt he would give in to the urge after all, the radio clipped to the officer’s hip blared to life, a short alarm sounding. Just as quickly, the dispatcher began to shout into the walkie-talkie, catching his attention.
Both Sam and James watched in confusion as the cop scrambled to answer the incoming call, a frown marring his cheerful face. “What do you suppose is the matter?” James murmured, glancing over at Sam with a questioning head tilt.
Wouldn’t he like to know as well, Sam thought, turning to face the guy. “I have no clue…”
As he spoke, he heard a bell jingle behind him, the Bistro door swinging open forcefully. In the doorway stood Dean and he looked absolutely terrified.
“Sam! Get in here!” he shouted, waving them inside. As the two entered, he pointed to the Bistro television, his face paling at the images thrown up on the screen.
Already, patrons were crowding the counter, watching fearfully as a National Crisis watch flashed up on the screen. The anchor had a hard look on his face, but the nervous murmuring of the crowd drowned out his words effectively cutting off any hopes of enlightenment at this point.
“What happened?” Sam asked, glancing at his terrified co-worker. Panic gnawed at his insides, watching as the news anchor continued to speak to the camera and all subsequent watchers.
“The Stalemate’s over… Iran fired the first shot.” Dean murmured, his own voice betraying his worry. Hard, cold eyes remained glued to the screen before them, taking in as much information as he could over the growing roar of alarm in the Bistro.
The color drained from Sam’s face at the news, words stuttering from half-numb lips. “B-But… that-that means…”
Across the screen the National Crisis logo flashed one last time, a short siren blast echoing from the tiny speakers. Everyone fell silent, watching in horror as the logo changed before their eyes.
Global Crisis. It was full out war.
“Shit…” Dean breathed, his heart plummeting in terror. In horrifying realization, the world came to a momentary stand still. All the nuclear weapons that had been ready at a hair-trigger had been detonated in less than five minutes. The two year stand still the world had been holding its breath for came to a sudden and shocking end with the press of a button.
“Seek shelter immediately! I repeat, seek shelter IMMEDIATELY!”
With those eight simple words, all hell broke loose. Screams of terror filled the air, people shoving and running; looking for shelter that would offer no more protection than their current position within the flimsy walls of a corner eatery.
Dean and the man named James turned to flee as well, but James stopped, turning back for a moment. “Come on let’s GO!” he shouted to Sam, grabbing his elbow in a vice like grip.
“It’s happening… oh my God, it’s actually happening…” Sam murmured, shock rooting him to the spot. His eyes never left the television, warnings flashing across the faded screen before going black, snow static dancing erratically before his eyes.
“Sam, we don’t have time for this shit, let’s MOVE!” Dean screamed, dragging Sam with James at his side towards the already crowded streets before them.
Outside, the cop from earlier found himself surrounded by a throng of frightened New Yorkers, seeking any sort of comfort for the impending disaster.
“Just get to any kind of shelter! HURRY! The missiles have been aimed at every major city in the world, and we’re one of them. Just get to a fucking shelter NOW!” he shouted, dislodging a woman from his arm with great exertion. She began to sob hysterically at this action, but her companions dragged her off, running for their very lives.
Behind the officer, the chestnut horse brayed and bucked frantically, eyes rolling as the horse whinnied in fright of the commotion. The cop turned, offering a comforting hand on the horse’s blaze. He looked up to the skies, as if to look for the impending missiles before they struck. Eyes narrowed to the reddened skies, he heard it; the faint, discernable sounds of whistling, hissing speed of an impending missile cutting through the clear skies towards impact.
“Fuck!” he cried, grabbing the reins in a shaking fist. Mounting, he took off at break neck speed, threading his way through the thronging crowds. Screaming missiles, shouts and cries of the people filled his dread-addled mind as the instinct for flight took over any other coherent thought.
As they fled, Dean felt a jostle to his side, throwing him off balance. He toppled over a fallen bicycle, landing hard on the unforgiving ground below him. His jaw connected heavily with the pavement, splitting his chin wide open in a spray of blood on the ground. He struggled to get to his feet again, but his limbs felt heavy, clumsy in his efforts. He heard the sound of the missiles growing closer and he squeezed his eyes shut, tears running down his dirtied cheeks. “Oh God, oh god!” he whimpered, preparing for the blast that would lay him to his untimely death.
He wasn’t prepared for the hand that gripped him tight and lifted him from the ground. He yelped in pain, fingertips digging hard enough into his flesh to bruise. But his fears banished the moment he opened his eyes.
Before him stood the man from earlier, bright blue eyes locked on him as James dragged him along. Dean found himself momentarily stunned by the sight, lost in a sea of soft azure. For just a moment his heart stilled, forgetting the onslaught from the skies.
“Hurry!” James shouted, dragging the dazed man behind. They needed to find shelter and quickly. As James ran, he spied an ammunition shop to their right, stopping in the middle of the streaming people around him. “There!” With a shove, he forced Dean to make his way over to the ammunition shop, turning back in search of the tall one from the Bistro.
It didn’t take long to find him. There, on the other side of the street, Sam stood frozen, watching in horror as the missiles finally came in sight. A split second of thought had him turn the opposite direction from his shelter, shoved and tripped around in the middle of the car-strewn street.
Dean slammed into the door of the shop, whipping around to seek out his friend. He lost him in the shuffle, and he began to panic, looking for that familiar face. Instead, he caught sight of the cop, and screaming to him, began waving his arms frantically. “OVER HERE! THERE’S A SHELTER HERE!” he shouted, hoping anyone would listen to him. He would be damned if he didn’t help SOMEONE escape the impact.
The cop whipped around in the saddle, seeing the man by the ammo shop. A stroke of genius, it seemed, and he urged his mount onward, guiding him over to the store front. “Get inside!” he yelled to Dean, dismounting quickly. As he shoved the suited man through the door, he guided the equine through the narrow passage, whispering calming words to the frightened creature. “Get in as far as you can!”
“GODDAMN IT, MAN! LEAVE THE FUCKING HORSE OUTSIDE!” Dean raged, surprised by the pressing heat of the animal at his back. The shop was relatively small, and the presence of the huge beast would only lessen the number of people able to fit in its small quarters.
“FUCK YOU, I AIN’T LEAVING HIM OUT THERE!” the officer retaliated, irrationality winning out over the practicality of space. As he shoved the animal inside, he turned to look for the other two, hoping anyone else would see the makeshift shelter before their eyes.
“Shit… they’re still outside!” he panted, turning to Dean. True enough, they could see Sam rooted to the spot, frozen in shock. At his side, James stood, yelling and pulling at his arm in vain. The larger man was just not easy enough to move from his rooted position.
“C’mon.. Sammy, move…” Dean urged quietly. The very world seemed to pause in anticipation, sounds drowning out in the throbbing, pulsing sounds of his pulse ringing in his ears.
He didn’t hear the impact of the missiles, but he sure as fuck felt it.
The ground rocked with the impact, throwing him from his feet. He heard the shrieking whinny of the horse behind him and the surprised outcry from the cop before the shockwave hit. The very waves of the convulsion nearly deafened Dean as he clamped his hands over his ears in agony. He didn’t know for sure, but he thought he felt the warm pulse of blood on his palms, still clasped tightly over his ears.
Struggling to sit up, he looked out to see the sky painted in angry red hues. A massive fireball glowed in the distance, growing closer in frightening speed. “FUCK!” Dean screamed, ducking back into the shop. WHERE THE FUCK WAS SAM AND JAMES?!
As he prepared to lock himself and the cop into the confines of the windowless shelter, he saw it: the two men running for the door in hopes of outrunning the veritable hellfire behind them.
“GO, GO, GO!” James cried, shoving Sam in front of him. He felt the growing heat behind him, singeing his hair, the frayed edges of his trench. Sam would at least beat the most of the blaze…
With a mighty effort, he dove, shoving Sam into the doorway before toppling in behind him. Just as he landed, the blaze reached their position, battling the titanic shove Dean forced on the heavy door. Flames licked at James’ coat. His clothes went up into flames, engulfing him almost instantly. James screamed in agony, writhing under the torturous flames he so desperately tried to put out with his own efforts.
“GODDAMN IT!” the cop yelped, grabbing the nearest fire blanket he could find and throwing it over the writhing man on the floor. He wrestled him into his arms, dousing the flames as quickly as he could. He only hoped no damaged had been done…
Dean struggled against the blaze to keep the door closed under the sheer weight of the explosion. He felt the hinges shiver and quake, the inferno seemingly fighting against his will. “SAM, HELP ME!” he screamed. His hands scorched under the white hot metal, the sounds near deafening. With relief, he felt a second pair of hands grab the knob, the two men pinning the door shut.
The explosion dragged on for what felt like ages; ages of a hell on earth trying so desperately to consume its intended victims within the gun shop. Dean cried out under the exertion, giving one final shove with his shoulder against the door. He only hoped his last effort would be enough to ride out the blast.
Finally, FINALLY, the roared died down to near silence. The door ceased shaking, but the heat continued to flare, the metal practically glowing in their scalded hands. Dean ripped his hands away with a hiss of pain, glancing at the angry red burns on his palms. He looked up at Sam, and winced to see the taller man’s skin. It was dark red, almost sun burnt in nature.
“Sam… you ok?” Dean panted, leaning over to press his ruined hands to his knees in support. Sweat beaded on his brow, the intense heat of the room almost overbearing.
“Yeah… I think…” Sam murmured, his reply hesitant. Silence once again filled the air, enveloping them all. “Should we… go outside?”
“Hell fucking no…” Dean answered too quickly, looking up at him with disdained surprise. “No FUCKING way I’m going out there… we just barely made it alive.”
“Barely’s right…”
Both Sam and Dean turned to the source of those words, watching the cop. He knelt over the prone figure, a new sense of horror streaking across his sweat-laden face. “I think we have a problem…”
Dean instantly dropped to his knees, pulling the fire-blanket away from the scorched victim lying on the floor. The trench coat was blackened, flaking cloth falling about James as he curled in on himself. He moaned in pain, twitching sporadically.
“Shit…” Dean breathed, pulling what remained of the trench coat and the blanket away from his slight frame. Small, pus-leaking blisters formed on his arms and over his right eye a vicious, bloody gash tore the tender flesh, oozing down the side of his face. But the worst of his injuries marred the once smooth skin on his back. Now the skin was bubbled and charred, pock-marked and leaking with blood and water.
The burns had eaten away at most of the skin, exposing flesh that should never see the light of day.
Dean swallowed hard, urging his gag reflex back down with effort. He reached out to stroke a gentle hand down James’ arm, urging him to make eye contact. “Hey.. hey look at me…”
James looked up at the man before him, his eyes glazed over in the overwhelming pain. “… d-did… we…” He gasped, trying to speak. The sheer effort of expanding his lungs enough to make a sound brought him into a fit of coughing, the jarring motions a cycled reaction of pain, choking on his own words."
“Shh… it’s ok. Don’t talk. You’re gonna be ok.” Dean promised, wishing he could believe the words himself. He didn’t miss the grateful smile James offered, taking his hand in his own. “We’re all here. We’re in this together.”
James nodded, squeezing his hand gently. “I know…”
Outside, the world burned, ravaging the landscape and wiping out the last of humankind’s achievements; destroying everything that had once made their world so great. But inside, in this small sanctuary, the four of them plus one horse remained alive, sustaining mankind within their four small walls.
At least for a little while longer…
Next Chapter (coming soon)
(Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9)
Author: phar_ahkmenrah (halfblood alchemist)
Genre/Pairing: Dean/Castiel, AU
Rating: NC-17 (for strong sexual content, blood and gore, violence and language)
Spoilers: None (AU)
Wordcount: WIP
Warnings: This fic will be riddled with strong sexual scenes, violent deaths, torture, graphic imagery, and scary scenes. Far far future fic, modeled after “the Gunslinger” series by Stephen King. NOT A CROSSOVER! (Has similar concept as the Supernatural series, but different presentation. *Character parallels, concept parallel etc*)
Summary: As a great author once said, too many years long since passed, “The world has moved on…”. Two brothers find themselves travelling across the lands of a world that time forgot, travelling to avenge the destruction of their village, and the death of their family and friends. On their journey they discover their destiny lies in the secret profession of their late father and find their world turned upside down when they discover a dark force is threatening to destroy mankind. Left to stop this devastation from wiping out their whole world alone, they find allegiance in the unlikeliest of partners: a young, inexperienced mage, renegade from his clan and rebellious to their arrogant, narrow-minded ways. This rag-tag trio of heroes holds the fate of the world in their hands… if they can face the truth.
~*~
Chapter 10
December 21, 2012
Downtown New York
Approximately 4 hours before the end…
Dean Smith shoved his way into the waiting bus, ignoring the snide remarks the other passengers shot him. He was on a tight schedule, dammit and Mr. Adler would fucking kill him if he was late again that week. He brushed off a hand on his arm, the close proximity of the jam-packed bus warming the air about him. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, already aware of the beads of sweat gather at the nape of his neck.
It had been a disturbingly balmy winter in New York that year. Meteorologists had no explanation for the intense heat that plagued them. It wasn’t just New York that felt the crushing warmth. The whole country was affected, December days reaching peaks of up to 88 F across the map. For some, the dramatic change was nothing of great import; others were more uneasy about this strangely arid winter. None voiced their concerns, hoping that the odd weather would right itself in the end.
Again, Dean tugged at his collar, growling in the back of his throat as he was elbowed in the small of his back. “Back off, bitch.” He hissed, glaring at the man behind him. The guy was fucking huge! He towered over Dean by a good four inches, the soft yellow polo doing nothing to hide frighteningly large biceps under the too-small sleeves. He, too, looked pissed off at the world, and glared down his nose at the man that had quite purposefully shoved himself into his limited space on the packed motor vehicle.
“Well maybe if you woulda just waited for the next fucking bus, we wouldn’t be so damn packed in here, jerk!” said adversary retorted, huffing in his ignorance. Nevertheless, he took as far a step back as the close proximity would allow, burying his face in the newspaper again. A look of worry crossed his features, brows knitted together at the words splayed haphazardly across the damp paper. He ran his hand through his hair, brushing the brown locks from his soft hazel eyes.
It was no wonder everyone seemed more on edge than normal in this day and age. The newspapers said it all; blaring almost daily about the deadlock world powers had gotten themselves into. It seemed that every nuclear weapon in each arsenal was armed and ready, waiting on a hair-breadth’s notice to trigger and blow the other countries away. Things had gotten bad; very bad, and everyone was terrified that the impasse would break and nukes would start flying.
Dean glanced at the paper, taking notice of the date scrawled across the top. December 21, 2012. “Fucking Mayans…” he murmured, turning his attention to the needlessly scalding hot cup of coffee in his hands. Personally, Dean didn’t believe in destiny, prophecy, the lot. Yeah, the whole World War III thing was freaky as fuck, but he didn’t believe that this whole thing was boiling down to a guess on an ancient stone slab some fucking Indians forgot to finish carving up. “Whatever…”
After a long, hot ride, the bus pulled up to Dean’s stop, and he clambered from the interior, bounding into what he hoped was blessed open air. It was nearly as hot outside as it was in the bus; stifling humidity bearing down on him in this strange winter day. “Dammit…” he growled, lugging his briefcase towards the office tower. He glanced down at his watch and swore. Looks like he would be late after all…
Approximately 3 hours and 7 minutes before the end…
Sam Wesson made his way through the busy work-day throng, pressing the elevator button with a bit more force than he intended. That guy on the bus had really irked him, and the raving articles in the paper did nothing to ease his mind. It was no secret: the whole Mayan prophecy had really gotten to him and with each impending day, his anxiety grew tenfold. He only hoped that when this blessed day was over, and he woke the next morning alive and well, he’d feel incredibly stupid.
Entering the elevator, Sam closed himself inside alone, and rode the way to his designated floor in silence. He took a few calming breaths, willing himself to not fuck up his first day in the IT department. He needed a new start; after a messy break-up with his girlfriend, he moved to New York in hopes to leave everything behind and start a new career with a clear head.
He had to avert his eyes when taking the cab to his new apartment from the memorial site. Eleven years later, and it still gave him the weebies.
After an all-too short ride, Sam found his floor and made his way through the halls, gripping his portfolio in a firm hand. He schooled a calm look on his face, heedless of the crushing heat inside the office tower. ‘Just because it’s mid-December, doesn’t mean you have to crank the fucking heat up…’ he thought to himself, smiling brightly at the manager as he was greeted for his first day on the job.
About 1 hour and 46 minutes before the end…
Dean pushed himself away from his desk, rubbing at his throbbing temples with frustrated gestures. He was getting no work done fast. The whole office tower was thrumming with pent-up agitation, as if everyone were waiting for something to happen. Something bad…
“God, fucking give it a rest…” he murmured to himself, ignoring the nervous chatter of the secretaries as they passed his office. It was bad enough the weather was fucked up; now he had a migraine. It seemed the whole day was just screwed. “When nothing happens, I’m gonna tattoo ‘I Told You So’ on my forehead.” He sighed, feeling his stomach give a protesting groan at that moment.
Deciding that he’d had enough for the morning, Dean grabbed his wallet and shucked his jacket onto the back of his seat. He closed and locked up his office, and made his way to the elevator. He’d wanted to try the new Bistro down the block anyway; why not start today? He smiled, feeling a bit better already. Now that he was moving about, he could think with a clearer head. It already seemed absurd.
But just as Dean stepped into the elevator and pressed the ‘close-door’ button, a hand shot in, stopping them. He looked up in time to see Big and Scary from the bus step inside the elevator. “Hey…” he murmured, feeling a blush creep up the back of his neck. He really shouldn’t have snapped on the guy earlier.
The man nodded to him, turning to face the door. “Main floor right?” he asked, gesturing to the button panel. At Dean’s affirmative, he pressed the button, and the two stood in companionable silence, the pings of passing floors the only sound in that quiet little haven.
After a moment, the man turned to Dean, and offered him a sheepish smile “So… sorry about earlier. I haven’t quite been myself lately…” he said, holding a hand out to him. “I’m Sam. Sam Wesson.”
“Dean Smith.” He responded, shaking his hand firmly. “And don’t worry about it. It’s been a trying morning. I was running late and couldn’t afford to wait for the next bus.”
“ I can see that now.” Sam dropped off, looking straight ahead again. “… Funny weather we’ve been having.”
“Mhm…”
Silence again filled the elevator, but this time the duration stretched just a bit farther. After a moment, Dean cleared his throat, looking up at him. “First day on the job huh…”
“Yeah.”
“Awesome. Well… if you’re on break now, there’s this new Bistro down the street. I can give you the in’s and out’s of the place. Just to get you acclimated around here.”
“Sounds awesome.” Sam answered, a smile playing across his surprisingly puppy-like features. For a big scary brute, he was almost adorable.
Dean smirked, nudging him slightly. “To the shop, it is then…”
~*~
Less than 45 minutes before the end…
Sam sighed contentedly, pushing his plate away. He smirked across the table at Dean, stretching his long legs out in a comfortable position. It was strange how quickly they got along, especially after such a rough morning. It was almost as if they had known each other all their lives. “So now I got the ins and outs of the place… tell me about yourself, Dean. What else do you do besides work?”
Dean smiled, leaning back in his seat. “I work on classics for fun. Got myself a beauty of a car at home that I work on all the time. It’s a 1967 Chevy Impala.”
Sam gave a low whistle. “Sounds like you got yourself an awesome hobby there.”
Dean nodded, crossing his arms. “What about you? There’s gotta be something else you do besides geek out on a computer all day.”
Sam shrugged, avoiding the question. He didn’t want to admit his conspiracy theory ideas to someone he’d just met. He didn’t want to go into detail about how he’d been tracking ancient prophecies for years. It was too weird a conversation starter. Besides, Dean was a straightforward guy. Even if many of the prophecies held validity, Dean wouldn’t be interested in hearing them. Just from this conversation alone, Sam gathered that Dean was a “live in the present” kind of guy. Ancient predictions were of little import to him. “… actually that’s kinda all I do.” He admitted weakly in the end.
Dean raised an eyebrow at him, frowning slightly. The nervous response struck him as odd. Already, he could read this guy like an open book. “… you one of those doomsday followers?”
Sam looked up, slightly scandalized. “No!...” he broke off, having the decency to look sheepish. “Not really…”
Dean snorted, pressing his elbows into the table top. “’Explains the newspaper this morning. The date’s probably got you all wound up, huh?”
Sam shrugged, fingering the napkin in front of him. “I don’t normally follow all the hype, but… for some reason, this one’s got me pretty spooked. It just… doesn’t feel right.” He looked up at Dean, his eyes a pleading shine. “And I don’t spook easily…”
Dean sighed, reading the worry in his eyes. “Look Sam… it’s… think of it this way. A lot of shit was ‘predicted’ that people got themselves worked up over. Granted, we got some tense situations right now with the nukes, but… we’re all gonna wake up fine tomorrow morning and life’s gonna go on. Just relax man.” Smirking, he punched Sam lightly in the shoulder.
Sam returned the smile half-heartedly. Secretly he hoped Dean was right. He sat up, pulling his wallet out to pay his half of the tab. “Ready to head back?” he asked, all too glad for a change in conversation.
Dean nodded, waving Sam’s cash off. “I got a card. Hit me back later, and we’re square, ok?”
Sam nodded, making his way over to the exit while Dean paid. As he stood by the glass doors drumming the handle in a light rhythm, he caught sight of a man in a long trench coat arguing with one of those mounted police officers. He smirked, stepping outside. He knew he shouldn’t pry, but his curiosity got the better of him and he inched closer to listen in.
“Look buddy, the sign clearly says ‘Thirty Minute Parking’. I’ve been working this street all day, and you’re over the limit.” The cop said, pulling his ticket book out.
Trench Coat Guy looked utterly pissed, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest. “Then your clock’s off because I put a timer on my phone so I WOULDN’T go over the limit! I still have five minutes..”
“Sorry, buddy; gotta follow protocol.”
Sam sighed, listening to the guy talk. He had a big mouth on him, despite the fact that Trench Coat Guy had at least two inches on him. He watched him push the visor back to expose a strand of dark brown hair hanging into his hazel eyes before grabbing his pen.
“Alright, I’ll need your name and registration please.”
Trench Coat Guy sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Fine… James Castiel Novak. Can I PLEASE get into my car so I can at least get the registration card and my wallet out?”
Sam lost interest in the conversation at this point, far too intrigued by the chestnut standing obediently behind the cop. The horse was gorgeous, a perfect white blaze running down its muzzle, stocking prints on its front hooves. The horse swished its tail languidly, nickering slightly at the man watching him.
Sam smiled, wanting to go over and run his fingers through the soft mane. There was no telling what would happen if he did but it still didn’t suppress the child-like urge to touch; to pet the creature in investigation.
But just when he felt he would give in to the urge after all, the radio clipped to the officer’s hip blared to life, a short alarm sounding. Just as quickly, the dispatcher began to shout into the walkie-talkie, catching his attention.
Both Sam and James watched in confusion as the cop scrambled to answer the incoming call, a frown marring his cheerful face. “What do you suppose is the matter?” James murmured, glancing over at Sam with a questioning head tilt.
Wouldn’t he like to know as well, Sam thought, turning to face the guy. “I have no clue…”
As he spoke, he heard a bell jingle behind him, the Bistro door swinging open forcefully. In the doorway stood Dean and he looked absolutely terrified.
“Sam! Get in here!” he shouted, waving them inside. As the two entered, he pointed to the Bistro television, his face paling at the images thrown up on the screen.
Already, patrons were crowding the counter, watching fearfully as a National Crisis watch flashed up on the screen. The anchor had a hard look on his face, but the nervous murmuring of the crowd drowned out his words effectively cutting off any hopes of enlightenment at this point.
“What happened?” Sam asked, glancing at his terrified co-worker. Panic gnawed at his insides, watching as the news anchor continued to speak to the camera and all subsequent watchers.
“The Stalemate’s over… Iran fired the first shot.” Dean murmured, his own voice betraying his worry. Hard, cold eyes remained glued to the screen before them, taking in as much information as he could over the growing roar of alarm in the Bistro.
The color drained from Sam’s face at the news, words stuttering from half-numb lips. “B-But… that-that means…”
Across the screen the National Crisis logo flashed one last time, a short siren blast echoing from the tiny speakers. Everyone fell silent, watching in horror as the logo changed before their eyes.
Global Crisis. It was full out war.
“Shit…” Dean breathed, his heart plummeting in terror. In horrifying realization, the world came to a momentary stand still. All the nuclear weapons that had been ready at a hair-trigger had been detonated in less than five minutes. The two year stand still the world had been holding its breath for came to a sudden and shocking end with the press of a button.
“Seek shelter immediately! I repeat, seek shelter IMMEDIATELY!”
With those eight simple words, all hell broke loose. Screams of terror filled the air, people shoving and running; looking for shelter that would offer no more protection than their current position within the flimsy walls of a corner eatery.
Dean and the man named James turned to flee as well, but James stopped, turning back for a moment. “Come on let’s GO!” he shouted to Sam, grabbing his elbow in a vice like grip.
“It’s happening… oh my God, it’s actually happening…” Sam murmured, shock rooting him to the spot. His eyes never left the television, warnings flashing across the faded screen before going black, snow static dancing erratically before his eyes.
“Sam, we don’t have time for this shit, let’s MOVE!” Dean screamed, dragging Sam with James at his side towards the already crowded streets before them.
Outside, the cop from earlier found himself surrounded by a throng of frightened New Yorkers, seeking any sort of comfort for the impending disaster.
“Just get to any kind of shelter! HURRY! The missiles have been aimed at every major city in the world, and we’re one of them. Just get to a fucking shelter NOW!” he shouted, dislodging a woman from his arm with great exertion. She began to sob hysterically at this action, but her companions dragged her off, running for their very lives.
Behind the officer, the chestnut horse brayed and bucked frantically, eyes rolling as the horse whinnied in fright of the commotion. The cop turned, offering a comforting hand on the horse’s blaze. He looked up to the skies, as if to look for the impending missiles before they struck. Eyes narrowed to the reddened skies, he heard it; the faint, discernable sounds of whistling, hissing speed of an impending missile cutting through the clear skies towards impact.
“Fuck!” he cried, grabbing the reins in a shaking fist. Mounting, he took off at break neck speed, threading his way through the thronging crowds. Screaming missiles, shouts and cries of the people filled his dread-addled mind as the instinct for flight took over any other coherent thought.
As they fled, Dean felt a jostle to his side, throwing him off balance. He toppled over a fallen bicycle, landing hard on the unforgiving ground below him. His jaw connected heavily with the pavement, splitting his chin wide open in a spray of blood on the ground. He struggled to get to his feet again, but his limbs felt heavy, clumsy in his efforts. He heard the sound of the missiles growing closer and he squeezed his eyes shut, tears running down his dirtied cheeks. “Oh God, oh god!” he whimpered, preparing for the blast that would lay him to his untimely death.
He wasn’t prepared for the hand that gripped him tight and lifted him from the ground. He yelped in pain, fingertips digging hard enough into his flesh to bruise. But his fears banished the moment he opened his eyes.
Before him stood the man from earlier, bright blue eyes locked on him as James dragged him along. Dean found himself momentarily stunned by the sight, lost in a sea of soft azure. For just a moment his heart stilled, forgetting the onslaught from the skies.
“Hurry!” James shouted, dragging the dazed man behind. They needed to find shelter and quickly. As James ran, he spied an ammunition shop to their right, stopping in the middle of the streaming people around him. “There!” With a shove, he forced Dean to make his way over to the ammunition shop, turning back in search of the tall one from the Bistro.
It didn’t take long to find him. There, on the other side of the street, Sam stood frozen, watching in horror as the missiles finally came in sight. A split second of thought had him turn the opposite direction from his shelter, shoved and tripped around in the middle of the car-strewn street.
Dean slammed into the door of the shop, whipping around to seek out his friend. He lost him in the shuffle, and he began to panic, looking for that familiar face. Instead, he caught sight of the cop, and screaming to him, began waving his arms frantically. “OVER HERE! THERE’S A SHELTER HERE!” he shouted, hoping anyone would listen to him. He would be damned if he didn’t help SOMEONE escape the impact.
The cop whipped around in the saddle, seeing the man by the ammo shop. A stroke of genius, it seemed, and he urged his mount onward, guiding him over to the store front. “Get inside!” he yelled to Dean, dismounting quickly. As he shoved the suited man through the door, he guided the equine through the narrow passage, whispering calming words to the frightened creature. “Get in as far as you can!”
“GODDAMN IT, MAN! LEAVE THE FUCKING HORSE OUTSIDE!” Dean raged, surprised by the pressing heat of the animal at his back. The shop was relatively small, and the presence of the huge beast would only lessen the number of people able to fit in its small quarters.
“FUCK YOU, I AIN’T LEAVING HIM OUT THERE!” the officer retaliated, irrationality winning out over the practicality of space. As he shoved the animal inside, he turned to look for the other two, hoping anyone else would see the makeshift shelter before their eyes.
“Shit… they’re still outside!” he panted, turning to Dean. True enough, they could see Sam rooted to the spot, frozen in shock. At his side, James stood, yelling and pulling at his arm in vain. The larger man was just not easy enough to move from his rooted position.
“C’mon.. Sammy, move…” Dean urged quietly. The very world seemed to pause in anticipation, sounds drowning out in the throbbing, pulsing sounds of his pulse ringing in his ears.
He didn’t hear the impact of the missiles, but he sure as fuck felt it.
The ground rocked with the impact, throwing him from his feet. He heard the shrieking whinny of the horse behind him and the surprised outcry from the cop before the shockwave hit. The very waves of the convulsion nearly deafened Dean as he clamped his hands over his ears in agony. He didn’t know for sure, but he thought he felt the warm pulse of blood on his palms, still clasped tightly over his ears.
Struggling to sit up, he looked out to see the sky painted in angry red hues. A massive fireball glowed in the distance, growing closer in frightening speed. “FUCK!” Dean screamed, ducking back into the shop. WHERE THE FUCK WAS SAM AND JAMES?!
As he prepared to lock himself and the cop into the confines of the windowless shelter, he saw it: the two men running for the door in hopes of outrunning the veritable hellfire behind them.
“GO, GO, GO!” James cried, shoving Sam in front of him. He felt the growing heat behind him, singeing his hair, the frayed edges of his trench. Sam would at least beat the most of the blaze…
With a mighty effort, he dove, shoving Sam into the doorway before toppling in behind him. Just as he landed, the blaze reached their position, battling the titanic shove Dean forced on the heavy door. Flames licked at James’ coat. His clothes went up into flames, engulfing him almost instantly. James screamed in agony, writhing under the torturous flames he so desperately tried to put out with his own efforts.
“GODDAMN IT!” the cop yelped, grabbing the nearest fire blanket he could find and throwing it over the writhing man on the floor. He wrestled him into his arms, dousing the flames as quickly as he could. He only hoped no damaged had been done…
Dean struggled against the blaze to keep the door closed under the sheer weight of the explosion. He felt the hinges shiver and quake, the inferno seemingly fighting against his will. “SAM, HELP ME!” he screamed. His hands scorched under the white hot metal, the sounds near deafening. With relief, he felt a second pair of hands grab the knob, the two men pinning the door shut.
The explosion dragged on for what felt like ages; ages of a hell on earth trying so desperately to consume its intended victims within the gun shop. Dean cried out under the exertion, giving one final shove with his shoulder against the door. He only hoped his last effort would be enough to ride out the blast.
Finally, FINALLY, the roared died down to near silence. The door ceased shaking, but the heat continued to flare, the metal practically glowing in their scalded hands. Dean ripped his hands away with a hiss of pain, glancing at the angry red burns on his palms. He looked up at Sam, and winced to see the taller man’s skin. It was dark red, almost sun burnt in nature.
“Sam… you ok?” Dean panted, leaning over to press his ruined hands to his knees in support. Sweat beaded on his brow, the intense heat of the room almost overbearing.
“Yeah… I think…” Sam murmured, his reply hesitant. Silence once again filled the air, enveloping them all. “Should we… go outside?”
“Hell fucking no…” Dean answered too quickly, looking up at him with disdained surprise. “No FUCKING way I’m going out there… we just barely made it alive.”
“Barely’s right…”
Both Sam and Dean turned to the source of those words, watching the cop. He knelt over the prone figure, a new sense of horror streaking across his sweat-laden face. “I think we have a problem…”
Dean instantly dropped to his knees, pulling the fire-blanket away from the scorched victim lying on the floor. The trench coat was blackened, flaking cloth falling about James as he curled in on himself. He moaned in pain, twitching sporadically.
“Shit…” Dean breathed, pulling what remained of the trench coat and the blanket away from his slight frame. Small, pus-leaking blisters formed on his arms and over his right eye a vicious, bloody gash tore the tender flesh, oozing down the side of his face. But the worst of his injuries marred the once smooth skin on his back. Now the skin was bubbled and charred, pock-marked and leaking with blood and water.
The burns had eaten away at most of the skin, exposing flesh that should never see the light of day.
Dean swallowed hard, urging his gag reflex back down with effort. He reached out to stroke a gentle hand down James’ arm, urging him to make eye contact. “Hey.. hey look at me…”
James looked up at the man before him, his eyes glazed over in the overwhelming pain. “… d-did… we…” He gasped, trying to speak. The sheer effort of expanding his lungs enough to make a sound brought him into a fit of coughing, the jarring motions a cycled reaction of pain, choking on his own words."
“Shh… it’s ok. Don’t talk. You’re gonna be ok.” Dean promised, wishing he could believe the words himself. He didn’t miss the grateful smile James offered, taking his hand in his own. “We’re all here. We’re in this together.”
James nodded, squeezing his hand gently. “I know…”
Outside, the world burned, ravaging the landscape and wiping out the last of humankind’s achievements; destroying everything that had once made their world so great. But inside, in this small sanctuary, the four of them plus one horse remained alive, sustaining mankind within their four small walls.
At least for a little while longer…
Next Chapter (coming soon)
(Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9)