the inevitable zombie apocalypse (but never any zombies)
Title: the inevitable zombie apocalypse (but never any zombies)
Wordcount: 5000
Notes: This is the fic that ate my brain some time in early July and then wouldn't let go...although it fought me every step of the way. Luckily it was not rendered entirely AU by 6.01, which inspired me to finally finish it. Thanks goes to adrenalineshots for pushing me to post this and letting me bounce a bunch of ideas off her. She made some very good points and helped me see things in a different way. If I didn't follow her advice exactly, it's only because I wimped out.
Summary: It's on the news again, squeezed in between a cultural segment on Día de los Muertos and the weather report, but he's not going to think about it.
The inevitable zombie apocalypse (but never any zombies)
It's on the news again, squeezed in between a cultural segment on Día de los Muertos and the weather report, but he's not going to think about it. He changes the channel. “Just one of those MIA kind of things,” he tells Lisa, when he spots the question on her face. “Or mistaken identity. It's nothing.”
It's not nothing. There's that little tingle, down at the base of his spine- the one that makes his fingers itch and his brain go into overdrive- and he's trying to ignore it. There's nothing there for him. He ends up pacing silently in the dark, his hands curling into fists and his fingernails biting into his palms. He's unable to sleep, nothing new there, but now he's restless and there's that nagging, insistent little instinct... And so he'll pace all night, like he did the night before.
That doesn't happen. Lisa wakes. She wanders to the bathroom, half asleep. She doesn't hear him. He whirls on her in the dark, and her heart stops for a second, before the adrenaline sets it to racing. She's awake now.
“God, Dean,” she says. There's a quaver that wasn't there earlier. “You nearly gave me a heart attack. What are you doing?”
He forces himself to relax. He schools his face into something less predatory, less thwarted. “Nothing. It's nothing,” he tells her. He tries a smile. “Gonna have to work extra hard to keep in shape, the way you've been feeding me.” She's not buying it. He can see the rising pity in her eyes. He looks away, not wanting to see. She puts a hand on his shoulder and tugs gently, forcing him to look back at her. “Go take a walk if you need to. It's alright.”
He does, hunching into his coat, collar turned up against the cold. He can feel her watching as he walks away. He glances back when he's moved far enough into the darkness that she can't see. She's outlined against the open door, one arm braced against the door frame, the other splayed across her chest. It's the loose-limbed posture of the sleep-deprived. She's tired, and she's worried, and he's still restless. She steps back and shuts the door, hesitating long enough for one long glance back out into the night.
Pointless, he could tell her. The kitchen light is streaming through the window, illuminating the yard and little else. She can't see beyond its shadows. He turns and starts walking, past the many silent houses. Occasionally, there's a flicker from some late-night television, revealing the ghostly outlines of the interior.
Night has turned the neighborhood into something foreign to its own inhabitants, moonlight creating strange angles and unsettling reflections. It feels familiar. He glides from streetlight to streetlight. His shadow is born in each circle of light. He leaves it behind. It turns, watching him pass by.
His footsteps echo from up the street. He'd heard a story once about a man leading a woman up a steep and narrow road, hearing only the echoes of her footsteps behind him. Dean can't remember much more than that involved death and ended badly. Dean's only following himself, block after block. He's passed Lisa's house three times already, and none of it has killed the thrumming in his veins. He doesn't put a name to it. He picks up his pace, sliding into a jog for half a dozen paces before moving into the measured rhythm of a runner, the memories of a thousand early-morning laps humming in his bones. His footsteps still echo out in front of him. He's not following but giving chase. It's tortuously close to relief, and it sets his blood to singing.
Unbidden, fragments of news reports and overheard conversations steal their way into his brain, blurring together into a litany- into a never-ending prayer to his past, both urgent and profound. ...father thought dead in a 1989 drowning...police are investigating the reappearance of a woman who...Sally's brother, MIA all these years- I don't know what it means, it's a miracle - found alive- is hesitant to comment, saying only that the investigation is ongoing... He moves faster, running now, his feet hitting the ground so hard he feels it in his teeth, and his steps echo like gunshots across the empty street. It's useless. He can't outrun himself. There's a man, standing just next to a street light, looking out across the hood of a car and towards the light of a bedroom.
His face is an open wound, gaping and raw. He startles as Dean passes by, but then his eyes latch on to Dean's. “Please- do you know-” he pleads, never quite finishing the question, as if he's as uncertain what he's asking as he is the answer. “Sorry buddy, can't help you,” Dean replies, turning his head away. It's not enough. He can still see the man in his peripheral vision. His hands are outstretched now, as if in supplication. “You're like me, ” the man says, hesitation turning into conviction. “I can see it.”
Dean keeps going and doesn't look back.
He goes back to Lisa's and rummages through the back of her cabinets until he finds a mostly-full bottle of bourbon. He sits on her sofa, bringing the bottle with him, but no glass. There'll be hell to pay in the morning. He drinks until he passes out face-first on the sofa.
That's how he wakes, his head shoved awkwardly under an arm, his nose deep in one of the creases of the leather. He rolls over and rubs his forehead and covers his eyes. The creases have left their marks printed on his skin. He knows they're already fading. He can't keep his scars. Lisa comes in carrying a cup of coffee.
This is it, he thinks, this is it. And then he waits for her to start speaking, to blast him for taking advantage of her hospitality, for stealing her booze, setting a bad example for her son, expecting her to put up with his shit because really, there are limits for what one person can be expected to take on the behalf of some random guy she met a decade ago.
She sits down on the other end of the sofa. Sets the coffee down on the table and slides it across to him. He makes the mistake of looking at her. There's nothing but understanding and sympathy and forgiveness in her eyes, in the turn of her mouth. He looks away, so angry he can't even breathe. He can't speak, so he grabs the mug, squeezing so tight he thinks it might just shatter in his hand. What the fuck is wrong with her, anyway, he thinks. She doesn't owe him anything. He's a legally dead fugitive with a drinking problem and forty years' worth of nightmares. He started the apocalypse and let his brother finish it. He's got no job, because anything permanent and not under the table wants job history and a social security number and a background check. And skills beyond death and dismemberment. (In his darker hours, he thinks about going to the Pentagon and offering to teach them some real tricks for their foreign prisons.) She shouldn't feel sorry for him. She had a kid to look after. He doesn't need another martyr to his fucked-up life.
She claims she's not. She talks about friendship and grief. He lets it all slip past him, slide right on by. It can't touch him; he's a ghost haunting somebody else's life.
He lets the day blur into a monotony of small chores. He feels watched, but he ignores it. Won't look up to see who might be there. There won't be anyone. He's used to this by now. He cleans out the gutters. Changes the oil in her car. Prunes the hedges. One after another after another until she sets her hand on his elbow and pushes him off to the shower.
Her neighbors filter in as dusk settles into the sky. Laughing as they shook off their coats, hearty and plastic smiles greeting Lisa, setting small offerings on her counter, pretentious microbrews and frou-frou finger foods. A few even make their polite hellos to him, and he nods and smiles and smiles and he shoves his hands into his pockets, keeping his posture loose and easy, so they won't see the way his fingers curl. He leans against the wall and watches.
A man comes up and offers him a beer and a hearty slap on the shoulder. He takes it and rubs his fingers around the neck, wiping off the condensation. The bottle has a bright orange marigold on its label, but it tastes fine. He clinks bottles with the man, who launches into some conversation about basketball and cars and can you believe the kids these days and Dean just lets him talk, lets it wash right over him until it loses all meaning. He's not watching his new friend. He takes a long pull off the beer. It's mellow and cold, but he's not really tasting it. He drinks it to the bottom and grabs another off the bar, and if Lisa's watching him with her dark eyes, he ignores it.
The women eye him him speculatively and lob loaded questions his way, sharing wicked smiles with each other and glancing back constantly at Lisa. He's not sure of this game, but his reticence is taken as encouragement. His new friend shakes his head and laughs, then goes for a beer. The women turn their conversation elsewhere.
It doesn't matter. Dean slips away the moment the attention turns elsewhere, retreating to the front porch and the cool night air, clutching the bottle he'd grabbed on the way out. He can't open it, and it makes him feel naked. No ring, no keys, no knife. He rolls the bottle between his hands anyway, still restless. The door opens behind him. It's Lisa. She sits down on the step, her long legs stretching out and out down her walkway. One hand is closed. It's not quite a fist.
“How many beers have you had?” There's no accusation in it. It's just a question.
He looks down at the unopened bottle. “I'd be working on number three if I had anything to open it with.” And it's true.
She tilts her head and gives him a long sideways look, as if considering something. She doesn't ask why he didn't just go back inside. Her lips press together. She's come to a decision, and she turns to face him. She takes his hand and presses something into his palm. For a second he thinks it's still about the beer. But he opens his hand and finds a set of keys. “We're out of toilet paper,” she says.
It's bullshit, of course. He's gone with her to Costco. She'd put Chuck to shame. But he takes it as the offer it is and curls his hand around hers, the keys still pressed between their palms. It's thanks enough, and she slides back into the house, slipping out of his grasp, going back to her guests. Back to the party.
He gets into her crappy little car and drives out into the night, losing himself for a time in the pulsing of the highways and the empty intersections. He breaks free of the main roads, taking the exits that will lead him to the middle of nowhere. Eventually he finds one of those back road all-night convenient stores, the kind that shouldn't exist but somehow always loom out of the endless empty byways in the last places any sane person would expect. Midwestern mirages, promising bathrooms and gasoline and cheap shitty coffee.
A bell tinkles as he opens the door, stepping inside. It's so bright he has to blink a few times before his eyes adjust. He's not even sure what time it is. The clerk never looks up from his magazine.
Dean slips down the aisles, and pauses in front of the candy. Hesitates. He brushes a hand against the rack, his fingers hovering just over the brightly colored wrappers. Time feels far less substantial than it should, something just short of deja vu or maybe just beyond it. He pulls his hand back like a man burned and turns away.
He has to fight the urge to look up at the counter. This isn't a stop to stretch cramped legs. There's no one buying gas while he picks over the snacks, and while he knows this and he knows this, some part of him is still expecting to be told to move your ass, or go get your brother.
He moves further down the aisle, finally reaching the general supplies, when the door chime tinkles again. He looks up, habit more than anything.
There's a pretty blonde woman up at the front of the store, She's laughing. She turns to her companion, some fat older man, saying something Dean can't quite hear. She brushes the hair from her face. His heart clenches. He knows her. Her face is softer now, fuller, but her eyes are still serene. She looks happy.
“Dean!” she says. It seems like he blinks and there she is, just in front of him, her hand grasping his, far warmer and solid than it has any right to be. He shakes his head and swallows, his mouth too dry for speech.
“Hey,” she says, smiling. “Looks like we both got our miracle.”
“Layla!” calls the man in the front. “If we hurry, we might still make it.”
“Just a second,” she calls back. “I've got to go,” she says and her smile turns brilliant. It's a shock in the back of the grungy back-road gas station. She threads her fingers through his and squeezes his hand, then turns to leave. She slips out of his grasp as she hurries out the door after her companion. She looks back at Dean just as she exits. She's still wreathed in smiles.
Dean stumbles towards the front of the store on feet that no longer feel like his own.
“Friend of yours?” the clerk asks, flipping a page of his magazine. It's almost perfunctory. He doesn't even look up at Dean. Dean doesn't answer him. He pushes out through the door and back into the night. Lisa's car sits empty, strangely macabre under the orange sodium light.
He catches a glimpse of tail lights heading back out onto the road and then they're gone, disappearing around a bend in the highway. The itch in his fingers is back. He clenches his hands and takes deep breaths, trying to ease the ache that's built up in his chest. It feels like dread but it tastes like hope.
He won't think about it. He gets in Lisa's car and peels back out into the night. He heads for the freeway. He's heading East and she was heading West. It feels like fleeing.He pushes the car, watching the RPMs go up and up, the needle quivering as it spins higher. It's all the way into the red zone. The car's engine is screaming and the wheel is vibrating hard under his hand. The whole car is rattling before he lets his foot off the gas. It slows immediately. Piece of shit can't take it. Not that it matters. It's not goddamn NASCAR.
He goes easy on the car the rest of the way back. It's not like he's going anywhere, and he's not in a rush to find out how long he's been gone. It feels like forever, almost.
A he gets closer to the city, the traffic picks up. It's the middle of the night, but the flow of cars down the asphalt remains as steady as a heartbeat. Red lights flash ahead. It's almost rhythmic as the cars around him keep speeding up until they're right on someone else's bumper before slamming on the brakes again. It's a waste of gas, he'd tell them. Not that they'd care.
He drifts across the lanes and down the off-ramp. He's coasting down it, almost on auto-pilot. It's a mistake. He slams on the brakes. The off-ramp is backed up, and all he can see are the flashing orange lights that tell him that something's up. Roadwork or an accident, maybe. Lisa's car comes to a stop inches from the back bumper of the car in front of him. The driver behind him wasn't so cautious and isn't so lucky. There's a screetching sound and then there's a sickening lurch as his car is hurtled forward into the next car like some two-ton domino. The airbags deploy. It's a familiar hurt. Piece of shit, he thinks, and then...
Lights out.
***
“Sir? Sir? Can you hear me?” The words are urgent, but the meaning doesn't register. Dean blinks, and it's harder than it should be. A hazy awareness of his surroundings creeps in. Crumpled metal, shattered glass. He's trapped. Pinned.
He struggles to twist free but there's only pain. There's an orange light flashing, casting strange shadows. He lifts his head, blinking, trying to see. His eyelashes clump together. There's sticky with something. Something's trickling down the side of his face. He ignores it and keeps staring. There's an empty seat next to him. He's not sure what it means.
“Sir, sir,” says the voice again. “What...?” Dean manages, but no more. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. “What...?” If anyone answers, it doesn't register. Someone shines a light into his eyes, and he recoils, still trying to clear his head.
“We need to get him out of there,” says a voice, a different one this time. It's too much to decipher. Dean closes his eyes again. The voices keep up their urgent patter, but it all blurs together. He's too tired to figure it out.
Sleep beckons. He doesn't fight it.
***
This isn't waking.
He's slowly become aware of the beeping of machines and footsteps and distant voices, but it doesn't mean anything yet. It's a space without memory, without urgency, and it's a heartbeat away from dissolving into dreams. There's pain, but it's so familiar it feels like memory. Maybe it is. There's something else, too- the touch of a hand; gentle fingers drifting across his face. Then it's gone, nothing more than a phantom memory. There are voices, and movement. Flashes of light through his eyelids.
“Dean,”someone says, and he's yanked into full consciousness by another touch on his head. Castiel removes his hand, and regards Dean with the same impassive curiosity of a scientist presented with a new and strange specimen. “You need to be more careful,” he says. “Your death would not go unnoticed.”
“Cas.” It almost feels like a lifeline. He sits up and glances around the room. The bed is surrounded by disconnected cords and free hanging lines, but the machines remain silent. “How did you- why are you here?” He's unsettled by his surroundings. He can't get his thoughts in order.
“Things are- unquiet,” Castiel answers. It's not much of an explanation. But in his other hand he's holding something, which he passes to Dean. It's his phone and his wallet, but not his clothes. “What do you mean, unquiet?” he asks, sliding out of the bed. He pulls the blanket with him, using it as an impromptu robe, then adds: “Where are my clothes?”
Castiel ignores his first question. “Destroyed. I need to go.”
“Wait!”
Castiel does, his expression unreadable.
"I need to get out of here- you gotta help me out here, man.” Dean waves a hand at his hospital-gown. “They're gonna notice if a patient goes wandering out of the goddamn ICU.” Castiel's in front of him before he can even finish speaking. There's a flutter of wings and then-
He's in a parking lot. He spins around. The hospital entrance is behind him. “Goddamn it,” he says. There's no answer. But as he turns his head, he catches sight of a sleek black gleam just a few parking places away, under a circle over orange light. He doesn't breathe. He'd know those flowing lines anywhere, and they shouldn't be here. He stumbles forward like a man possessed. He's waiting for the illusion to dissolve into some other car, someone else's car, but it doesn't.
He runs a hand down the steel. He feels as if he might still be dreaming. Everything's just a little off, a little too fluid. But the asphalt is rough and freezing under his bare soles and the car remains. He puts a hand on the hood. It's still warm to the touch.
He puts his hand on the handle and opens the door, sliding into the seat. It's an action so ingrained that his body moved before his mind could follow. The door clicks closed as he swings it shut.
He leans his head forward on the steering wheel. The air is stale, closed in, a reminder of past sins. It should be strange, but it isn't. She's always been there when he's needed her, after all.
So. The car's here, and- Oh, he thinks. He was driving Lisa's car. Her only car, the one that's almost certainly totaled beyond all repair. Of course. He lifts his head and stares out the window. They called her, and she came. She's here-
And she's going to want to make sure he's alright. He can't go back in. There are too many questions can't exactly answer- a problem considering they've got a real-ish name for him, one attached to a permanent address. And whatever they don't already have, they soon will as Lisa fills out insurance forms and guesses at medical history.
He supposes he owes Cas something on the last one- his original medical history was long and varied and brought a lot of uncomfortable questions. Though on the other hand, dealing with doctors would all be a hell of a lot less complicated without the inexplicable rib art.
Fuck. He's pretty sure he'd had a set of broken ribs there- they probably took x-rays.
Distantly, he hears the tap-tap of footsteps across the pavement. He glances over, still trying to process the degree to which the night has gone FUBAR on him. There's a woman. She's striding with a purpose out away from the big ER doors and around, towards the back parking lot. She's headed away from him, and he watches her. There's something familiar about the way she walks. She rounds the corner, and just for a second, the light falls halfway across her face, illuminating a wide mouth and broad cheekbones.
His breath catches in his throat.
No. He won't let himself think it. And then she's gone, disappeared around the corner.
He lays his head back down on the steering wheel and breathes in deep. He thinks about Castiel's warning, that things are unquiet, and as much as he'd like to pretend he doesn't know what that means... This is his madness, not that he's hallucinating, but that he isn't.
He curls his fingers around the bottom of the wheel. It's not a life preserver, but it's what he's got. He glances down at the seat, at the phone Cas liberated for him. Why did he liberate it, anyway, he thinks. The angel doesn't worry about the mundane details- hell, he was ready to leave him to a fate as the miracle medical mystery.
He picks it up and looks at it again. He could call Lisa, tell her he's out here...but that might draw more attention. He's better off waiting. Instead, he brings up his recent call history, and solves a small mystery.
Somewhere in the hospital, there's a nurse or intern or something who is lying on the floor, out cold. And all because he hadn't changed the In Case of Emergency number on his phone.
It's maybe an hour later when Lisa comes out, sooner than he expects, telegraphing exhausted rage from across the lot. He can see her frantic indecision as she loiters in front of the doors. He can see it in the way she walks to the car, stumbled steps as if her feet themselves of are two minds.
He opens the door before she reaches the car. “Lisa.”
“Dean- what-” she says, and stops, seemingly tongue-tied. She's staring like she's seen a ghost, all slack-jawed and gaping and frozen, unsure how to respond.
He has that effect on people.
“Lisa- it's okay,” soft. Gentle. That's how you talk to civilians. “Do you have my keys?”
She blinks at him and doesn't move. But her natural pragmaticism returns as he watches. She shakes free of the paralysis and moves towards him, grabbing his hand and pulling him out of the car. She picks at the hospital gown, smoothing it down. “We need to get you back inside-”
“I'm fine- let's just go,” he says.
She's shaking her head again. “You were in a car accident,” she says, just as gently as he's been talking to her. “You may not remember-”
He shakes her off and pulls the blanket tighter around him. “I know. I'm sorry about your car- the insurance should cover it, some idiot rear-ended me-”
She swipes a hand roughly across one cheek. Her voice is rough. “You fucking bastard. I don't care about the damn car. They told me you- they were preparing me for your death. And then- then it was like you didn't exist, never had, didn't know what I was talking about, and... I thought you were dead, that you must have died, because what the hell else was I supposed to think?”
“Look at me,” he says. She's too stubborn to just go with it, not when she's had all the time to hear the litany of his injuries from the hospital. She'd drag him back inside if she thought he needed it. “Just look. No cuts. No bruises.” He presses her hand against his chest, so she can feel his heart beating. “I'm fine. We need to go before they start asking questions neither of us can answer.”
“What questions?” she asks, and he's startled at her bitterness.. “As far as they're concerned, you were never there. One minute, they're giving me little updates, the next- the next they look at me like I'm nuts- and....” she closes her eyes and clenches her fists. “Dean, what the hell is going on?”
Cas has been working his mojo, that's what's going on. There won't be any awkward questions... except these.
He shakes his head. “It's a long story-” he holds up a hand defensively against argument- “I'll explain, I will- I just... I'm fine. I'll make it up to you, I swear. We'll get you a new car. But I've got my ass hanging out here and I just want to go- home.”
It's a low-blow. She's still sensitive about it, that he feels like a guest who's far outstayed his welcome, and he can see her soften. But she's not convinced. Not entirely. She's tired and she's upset and these aren't how things work in her world. It's not even the mystery, because she's already had the Truth Is Out There speech, even if she isn't something she deals with regularly. No. It's this: You don't skip out on the ER- not when there's any question. She's worried, despite his assurances, that there's something wrong. That he's just too stupid or stubborn to get help. But the night has kept her just off-balance enough that she'll go against her better instincts.
She insists on driving. He doesn't fight her on it. He just watches her, watches her long fingers drumming on the wheel. She's wired and worried. She's thinking about turning back.
He almost wants to reassure her. Tell her it's the right thing. That it'll work out. That this isn't his first trip to the rodeo. He could tell her that it usually involves a lot more blood and pain and fear- fear that this time, you've misjudged the dosage, that the bleeding won't stop, that you might be fucking your knee up permanently, but if you don't people are going to die. But that was back when death was still a coy thing, peeking out from behind corners and hoarding its secrets. Before life became the lesser of three evils.
Sentenced to life, he thinks, and turns away.
Outside the window, the street lights flicker by. There's a figure standing next to one, under the orange light. It watches the Impala as it glides past, cutting through the night. Dean catches sight of it again in the side-view mirror. It fades into the distance of all the road behind them.
He lets it go.
Dean glances back at Lisa. She's focused on driving, but she catches his gaze and gives him a tired smile. She's not said a word since they left, but it's been a pensive silence, not a tense one.
She takes one hand off the wheel and takes his hand. He looks down at her hand, resting on the seat between them, and sees her fingers threaded through his own. She turns back to the road, but she doesn't pull away.
It's better than anything he deserves. He thinks of Layla in the gas station, radiant and smiling, and of looks like we both got our miracle.
He closes his eyes and sinks deeper into the Impala's familiar leather. Maybe he'll actually be able to sleep tonight. Maybe it'll finally be enough.
He opens his eyes again as he feels the car slow, and looks over at the mirror. The freeway fades behind them.
They're headed home.
The End.