Night of the Living Dean

by geminigrl11

“You think this is my first zombie invasion, kid?”--Braaaaains, pyrotechnics, and an unforgettable night at The Winchester Tavern. A round robin with K Hanna Korossy, Tyranusfan, Phx and Yum.

NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAN

Our fourth round robin!

The players (in order of appearance): K Hanna Korossy, Tyranusfan, geminigrl11, Phx, and Yum.

The mission: we've taken on giant shrimp, monkeys, and kidnappers. It was time to tackle zombies (er, literally).

The time frame: I think we started this one back in June or July. Despite real life speed bumps and a little plot confusion we eventually untangled, we persevered. Thus, here is the finished product.

Disclaimers: Supernatural, Night of the Living Dead, Return of the Living Dead, and Die Hard do not belong to us. (But they sure were fun to play with).

Also, on a special note, today is K Hanna's birthday! Happy birthday, Kati! This one is for you!

--oo--oo--oo--oo--oo--

K Hanna

"'Let's go out,' you said. 'Have a few laughs.' Dude, have you not seen Die Hard?"

"I wasn't," Dean panted, "exactly expecting a zombie invasion, Sam—so sue me!"

"Maybe if we get out of this alive." Sam paused, chair in hand. "Of course, all I could get is the car and your sawed-off, so…"

"Hey, no dissing the car, dude!"

The door they were barricading gave a lurch, shoving open a little before crashing shut again under the combined weight of the pile of furniture and two startled Winchesters.

Sam turned to give Dean a pointed glare. Dean grinned sheepishly back at him. "At least it's zombies—that's kinda cool, right?"

"Yes, Dean. So cool, I'm gonna put it on your tombstone. If I survive this."

"If you two don't shut up and get back to shoring up our defenses, there won't be enough of any of us left to need a tombstone," a third voice growled behind them.

Sam glanced back, while Dean swung another chair up onto the pile. "Sorry, Bobby," they chimed together.

Bobby grumbled and turned away. "Barkeep's doing worse. Looks like he's gonna turn soon—I've got him tied up in the back."

Dean snorted. "Guess Romero got something right."

"Who?"

"Never mind," Sam said impatiently. "Bobby, you sure the back door's gonna hold?"

"For now, anyway. 'Course, that's not gonna help us much in the long run—sooner or later those things are gonna find a way in here. We can't keep playing defense all day here, boys."

"Yeah, well," Dean puffed out, dropping forward to lean against the small mountain of chairs now shoved against the door. "I don't know about you, but I'm fresh out of ideas." He glanced to the left, brow drawing together at the distant look in his brother's eyes. "Sam?"

"Bobby," Sam said slowly. "You think that thing still works?"

The other two followed his gaze to the rifle mounted above the front door.

Bobby's mouth twitched. "Kid, it ain't called the Winchester Tavern for nothing."

That was when the window behind Sam shattered, and a dozen undead hands reached inside to grab him.

Tyranusfan

12 hours earlier…

"Who did you say you were with again, Agent…?"

"Green. Sam Green, and we're with the National Wildlife Service, Dr. Zwiezic," Sam repeated calmly. They were used to people being uncertain during interviews, but Zwiezic was looking downright suspicious. Sam put on his best innocent investigator face.

"I thought your people had already been here yesterday. Why come back?" Zwiezic asked, frowning.

Sam nodded, playing along even though they hadn't known that. "We've been sent to ask just a few follow-up questions, Doctor. The reports had a few discrepancies in them, and Agent White and I were asked to go back over the material. I know this is an inconvenience, but if you could just go over everything one more time?"

The coroner sighed, looking annoyed, but left his desk and led them downstairs. Sam glanced back at Dean—who winked as the doctor turned away—then took in his surroundings. The Middlesex County Medical Examiner's office was an old, predominantly brick building that had clearly seen better days. The morgue was in the basement, next to a rather modern-looking glassed-in storage room that looked very out of place amongst the dank walls and weathered linoleum floors. The door read "Commonwealth of Massachusetts Department of Public Safety - No Admittance." Through the glass, Sam noted a stack of large metal drums with National Guard markings and a stenciled name: 2-4-5 Trioxin.

Sam frowned: that name sounded vaguely familiar. He silently opened his notebook and scribbled it down. He'd have to look it up later.

Zwiezic took no note of Sam's observations, leading them through a set of double doors into the chilly morgue. A young orderly was obliviously eating his lunch at a nearby work table. Dean eyed him, then his food, before turning back to watch the coroner unlatch the door to one of the coolers.

"So, this was reported as a wild animal attack, right?" Dean prompted.

Zwiezic nodded, but didn't look any happier to be helping them. "That's right. Lion, to be exact."

"Lion, huh?" Sam interjected. "That was conclusive?"

"What do you mean?" Zwiezic asked, blinking in confusion.

"I mean, you're sure it was a lion and not something else. There were no unusual teeth marks or hair samples left behind? Strange claw marks?"

Without a word, Zwiezic opened the cooler door and slid the victim's body out. The young woman's corpse was a mess of torn skin and blood, particularly around the neck and right arm. Sam suppressed a flinch as the tray holding the mangled body lurched to a stop right in front of him. He glanced up, noting that Zwiezic was smirking—obviously enjoying his reaction—and calmed himself.

"It was a lion. The bite radius, teeth marks, and attack pattern all match. We had the zoologist from the Southwick Zoo drive up last night to verify. Plus, animal control trapped and killed a missing lion from the same zoo late last night. What did you think it was going to be?"

Sam tried his best not to look at the corpse, focusing instead on the smug doctor. "We were told, well…we were told at the office it was something strange, that's all."

Zwiezic shook his head, pushing the body back into the cooler and frowning again. "Sounds to me like your buddies at the office are playing a little joke on you. I couldn't be more pleased to help, but, if you gentlemen will kindly excuse me, I was supposed to meet my wife for lunch half an hour ago. Can you find your way out?"

"Absolutely, doctor. Thank you for your time," Dean said cheerfully, nudging Sam's arm. They had clearly been dismissed. Zwiezic brushed past them, muttering under his breath, and disappeared back through the doors. Dean led the way out, pausing at the orderly's table again and indicating the food.

"Careful none of that gets into the embalming fluid. You know what a pain that can be."

Dean smirked and walked out, leaving the young orderly with an utterly blank look on his face, which he turned on Sam. Sam took note of the hamburger and fries, soda, and bottle of Worcestershire sauce, then glanced up at the kid and shrugged, speeding up to follow Dean out before anyone asked him to explain his brother's sense of humor.

——-

Dean stepped out into the rainy New England winter weather and shook his head. Sam and his wild goose chases….

The brother in question came up beside him, angling for the parked Impala. "What was that all about?"

"What?" Dean asked, pulling his coat tighter.

"That stuff about embalming fluid."

Dean frowned at Sam, huffing. "Dude, South Park? The Worcestershire sauce hotline?" At Sam's blank look, he rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Geez. You're hopeless, Sammy. No appreciation for the classics."

Sam frowned back but just shrugged. "I guess this was a waste of time."

"Told you it would be."

"You're the one who said, 'find a hunt, any hunt.'"

"Because I was going stir crazy watching you and Bobby play cards!" Dean exclaimed as they climbed into the car.

"It's not my fault that Joshua is stuck in Pittsburgh! You said we needed to find a hunt, so I found one."

Dean picked up the newspaper article that had led them there. "You see a report about three adults and one child attacked by a wild animal—which the authorities flat out say is an escaped lion—and you assume it's a werewolf? That's just sloppy, Sam. I taught you better than that."

"The lunar cycle was right," Sam muttered defensively.

Dean detected a hint of embarrassment under the petulance and knew he had his little brother pegged. "Sam."

"It's better than what you came up with! 'Hey, Sammy, let's head out to the bar and see what falls in our laps.'"

"That was a good plan. Tried and true. And, since you led us out to the suburbs to chase a phantom werewolf, I think you owe me."

"I owe you? What do I owe you?" Sam snorted.

"We get to try my plan now. There's a tavern near the motel. We go back, grab Bobby, get some drinks, and see what happens."

"We're not going to find a hunt sitting in a bar," Sam said defensively, but Dean could tell he was close to surrendering.

Dean waggled his eyebrows. "That depends on what you're hunting, Sammy."

His little brother sighed, clearly wanting to end the conversation but not willing to concede yet.

Dean nudged him over the edge. "Come on, Sammy. Let's go out and have a few laughs."

Sam sighed dramatically, shaking his head in defeat. "Fine, we'll get Bobby and go out."

Dean clapped him on the knee. "That's my boy."

"Where is this place, anyway?"

"Two or three miles up the road from here. The Winchester Tavern. Sounds like our kind of place, doesn't it?"

Gem

Present

"Sam!"

Sam didn't need Dean's shout to tell him he was in trouble. Glass breaking all around him was a pretty good indicator, as were the rancid decomposing hands suddenly groping him. Which…ew on so many levels.

Thank God zombies moved slowly, though their nails were long, tearing at his shirt like feral cats'. Sam did a little shouting of his own, yelling for Bobby to throw him the Winchester. He caught it neatly and turned, hoping like hell it was loaded and grateful when the force of exploding buckshot sent the mass of zombies flailing. They didn't stay down long, though, already staggering to their feet and lurching toward the gaping hole where the window used to be.

Dean was next to him between one breath and the next, shoulder-to-shoulder and peering at him with typical exasperated concern. "Y'okay?"

Sam grunted an affirmative, barely noticing the way the floor seemed to undulate beneath his feet and the growing warm wetness down his lower back. Please don't be zombie slime, was about all he had time to think before the door nearly buckled under another resounding slam. It was only going to hold for another few moments at best. And that was their last line of defense.

"Bobby!"

Question and demand at once. Bobby's response was to heft a Molotov—one of several, based on the row of bottles he had lined up on the bar—and throw it at the window opening. The sound of more shattering glass was joined by a series of moaning wails that made the hair on Sam's neck stand up, even as the flames drove the crawling zombies back.

"Get out of here, you idjits! Head for the storage room!"

Dean protested, but it didn't stop him from wrapping fingers around Sam's collar and yanking. "We're not leaving you here alone!"

"You think this is my first zombie invasion, kid?"

Even pinwheeling backward from the loss of equilibrium, Sam was able to stare at Bobby, incredulous.

Bobby held the stare for a second, then dropped it so he could light the fuse of another homemade bomb. "Well, maybe it is. But that don't mean I can't handle it. Get on back there and start getting a plan together! We ain't got all night!"

Dean spun Sam, pushing him through the swinging door behind the bar. He tripped and went down, barely keeping his grip on the Winchester and gasping from the sudden flare of pain as Dean slid his hand to the small of his back, herding him toward the fireproof storage room. Cursing under his breath, Sam pushed himself up and forward, following Dean's impatient, "Go, go, go!"

The door handle kept slipping through his fingers, and Dean wasn't making things any easier, pressing right up against Sam in his haste. Pain shot up again, leaving no doubt that the warm wetness Sam felt was blood.

It slipped his mind completely, though, when the door finally sprang open, revealing the zombifying bartender Bobby had tied up earlier. Scratch that: zombified; gray-faced, blank eyes, bloated flesh, and the creepy pantomime of biting interspersed with unearthly groans. Great, just great.

It was Dean's turn to curse, now, and he did it loud and long. They slid down against the wall, shoulder-to-shoulder once again, panting as they asked the same question: "What the hell do we do now?"

Phx

"Coal chute!" Bobby hollered from the front.

"Coal chute?" Dean echoed, sharing a confused look with his brother. Sam actually looked a bit more than confused.

The zombie bartender gurgled, "Braaaaains…" his voice muffled by the closed door.

"The basement, you idiots! See if there's a coal chute leading down to the basement."

"Old bar." Sam had already put it together. "If we're lucky, the hatch they used to drop the coal down to the furnace might still be there—"

Dean started nodding; this could work. "We lure the 'night of the living dead' gang into the basement—"

"Escape up the shaft—"

God, Dean loved when they were in sync. "Drop a flare…"

"No more zombies!" they answered simultaneously, both grinning in spite of everything.

There was more thumping on the closed door; another muffled "Braaaaaains…"

Dean's mind went into overdrive. There were only a couple ways of killing zombies, but somehow he didn't think the fuglies would go along with just letting the hunters pour salt in their mouths and then stitching their lips, so they'd have to go with a headshot or try for total incineration. And Dean's inner pyro-child was certain that he could make it more than a little toasty for them with the amount of alcohol still sitting on the shelves behind the bar.

"Shit," Sam suddenly cursed. He turned a bleak look on Dean.

"What?"

"I think I know where the hatch is…"

"Well," Dean frowned, not really seeing the problem, "that's good, isn't it?"

"Uh, not really…" Sam gave him a significant look, than skewed a glance at the storage room. The storage room currently housing Mr. Not-so-Cocktail-anymore.

"Braaaaaaains…."

Dean sighed. He scratched the side of his neck. "Oh, man…you sure?"

Sam gave a little nod. He slouched back against the wall. "Yeah. Saw it just before we closed the door."

"Braaaaaains…"

Dean was really starting to get annoyed with all this.

"Boys?" The sound of another Molotov punctuated Bobby's urgency.

"We're working on it!" Dean yelled and then his eyes narrowed when Sam weaved where he sat. Reaching out and steadying his brother, he noticed how pale the kid was. "Sammy? What's wrong?"

"Braaaaaains…"

So help him God—

Dean snatched the Winchester rifle from his brother's grip, yanked open the storage room door, and fired before the stunned zombie could say more then "bra—" The look on the thing's face as its head was ventilated might have been funny in other circumstances.

"More like brained, asshole," he snorted, then turned back to his brother. Sam stared at him in wide-eyed shock. "What?"

Recovering, the younger man just shook his head, then closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

"Sam?" Dean knew they didn't have much time, but something was wrong with his brother, so the whole damn zombie invasion was just going to have to wait one moment.

Opening his eyes, Sam gave him a sheepish look. Oh, no, Dean mentally cringed, that can't be good. "My back—" That was all the older hunter needed before he had his brother turned around. He blanched. Holy shit; how had he missed that?

The back of Sam's dark-colored jacket was shredded, and as Dean fingered the gashes, he saw the blood darkening the material. Shit. Shit. Shit. "Were you bitten?" Barely bridled panic angered his tone. Dean didn't see anything that looked chewed on, but he wasn't taking any chances. "Sam?" he barked. This was important, dammit. "Did they bite you?" Pleasesaynopleasesayno…

"No."

Relief sagged Dean even as he pressed, "You sure?"

Sam nodded. "Scratched." His eyes started to close again, but Dean gave him a little shake. No nappy time for little brother, yet.

"Okay, scratches are good. Well, not good, but no one ever turned into a zombie from a scratch. Well, no one we know—"

"DEAN!" Bobby interrupted. He was probably getting low on ammo by now.

"Okay, okay." The wounds, while seeping, weren't a big danger yet. But if they didn't get this siege ended soon, infection and blood loss would become a real problem. Giving his brother's shoulder a quick squeeze in silent apology, Dean moved into the storage room to check the hatch, noticing for the first time an old boarded-up window. He chewed his lip thoughtfully a moment, then glanced back down at the floor.

Well, hallelujah, finally a beak. Not only was the old coal chute still in good repair, but Dean was petty sure that even if one of the zombies suddenly found his "speed" setting, there was no way the creatures would be able to crawl out.

So, now all they had to do was douse the basement in alcohol, lure the zombies in, close the door, and set fire to the room. Piece of cake, right?

Glancing back at his pale-faced sibling, Dean sighed. Yeah, right. Sam was a good hunter, so Dean knew that, even injured, the kid could pull his weight. They just needed to finish this before Sam passed out. No pressure at all then.

And then Sam opened his big mouth and didn't help anything.

"Scent of blood draws them. I'll be the lure."

Yuma

Despite how much he thought the plan sucked, it was the best plan. It was the only plan, so Dean listened to him.

Damn it.

It took a bit of wiggling, a bit of ignoring the stinging of the cuts and the blood dribbling down his back, his jeans, but with a couple of "cocktails" from Bobby, Sam was able to squeeze out of the window and take off. Luckily or unluckily, the zombies followed in a tangle of flailing limbs and jerky leg motions.

Just around the bar, Sam chanted to himself. Just long enough for Dean to soak the basement. Make use of those freakishly long legs of yours, Sammy, Dean had parted over his shoulder before ducking into the basement, hollering, "It's barbecue time!"

"Don't come back a zombie, boy," was Bobby's farewell bid along with the longsuffering face that came at Dean's whoop as he threw another cocktail. Sam could have sworn he heard Dean yelling, "Yahoo!" as he ran. Geez, bro, pyro much?

"Braaaains. Braaaains."

Wasn't that how mad cow got started, Sam thought and held back the weirdest urge to giggle as he skidded around the corner. He slammed up against the corner, lit one of the bottles he carried, and threw it the moment he saw an outstretched arm.

"Bra—"

Sam ducked as zombie…bits flew past him. He didn't wait to see how many he got. He ran.

Racing to the front of the bar, Sam spotted the tiny parking lot. Perfect! He poured on the speed, twisting away when one gnarled hand got too close.

When Dean and he were kids and bored of waiting for Dad to come back from one of his "business trips," the motel parking lot was the closest thing to a playground they dared venture to. Hide and seek among cars took hours.

Dean always found him, though.

Then again, the zombies weren't Dean.

Sam ducked behind a godawful lime green '66 Camaro—he hadn't thought they made that color—and watched through the driver's window across the lot at the group of straggling zombies lurching like half their bodies weren't working. They probably weren't.

"Braaaains…"

Geez, did becoming one of the undead reduce their vocabulary? Why brains? Why not hearts or livers? They were rich in iron. Although, Sam supposed, it seemed apt. The image of them wailing, "Cerebellum, cerebellum…" rose unbidden, and Sam clamped his mouth shut before he could burst out laughing. Christ, what was the matter with him?

Self-defense mechanism, Sam reasoned as he swallowed back a giggle: humor instead of hysteria. No, wait. That was more Dean's thing, although his big brother never got hysterical except for that one time Sam had placed a fake rat on his chest while he was sleeping during one of their prank wars. Their dad woke up and nearly shot Dean's head off at the shriek. That ended their prank wars pretty quickly.

Sam smirked to himself as he edged away from the Camaro and blinked at the tail lights of a yellow Hudson Hornet, a car both Dean and their dad mutually agreed was something that needed to be salted, burned, then buried. He made a face, agreeing, and crouched lower. He crawled until he reached a purple…Ford Pacer?

What kind of crap parking lot was this?

Sam scowled at the wire-spoke hubcap that gave him no clear view of where the zombies were. He could hear them as they sniffed, trying to find his scent past the burning bodies.

The parking lot wasn't big, but it was packed, and Sam wondered briefly if that was where all the zombies had come from. He peered under the car. He could see the uncoordinated feet dragging in the dirt five cars away. Great, that direction led back around the bar to his brother. There was no way he could pass them. Sam checked under the other car behind him and found more of the same.

The bottles of beer with soaked rags threatened to clink, so Sam tucked one by the car and held the other two in his fists. His back was aching, and he could hear Dean snickering at that. Somehow that made it better.

"Braaaains…"

Aw, man, shut up about the brains already, Sam thought, rolling his eyes. He cautiously peered above the driver's window…

And saw a zombie staring right back at him.

"Shit!" Sam threw himself back just as an arm crashed through the driver's window and grabbed him by the throat.

This zombie didn't chant about brains, but his garbled hissing and snarling wasn't much of an improvement. Sam grunted as he was yanked back, chin slamming into the top edge of the car, but the window was too small, he was too big, and Sam found himself face to face with a contorted greenish face.

Great, can't say anything beyond brains but they knew to hide in cars. Sam grit his teeth and dug his heels into the dirt, his knees braced hard against the driver's door. He couldn't break free, but the zombie can't get out either, not without letting go first.

The breaking glass, however, drew other zombies in their direction, and Sam realized the macabre tug-of-war had to stop. It was getting hard to breathe, too.

He had to let go of the slimy hand around his throat. He fumbled frantically behind him for the bottles of what Dean called "Piss beer." All he felt was broken glass, damn it, and he could see the reflection of more zombies on the backseat window, and he was seeing dots and—

The moment his fingers touched the still cool but broken neck of one bottle, Sam grabbed it, splashed the remaining unspilled beer on the zombie choking him, grabbed the other he had set down by the car, lit it, and threw it at the oncoming crowd.

The blast of heat made his captor let him go, and Sam threw his lighter into the car. A hand around his bruised throat, Sam watched with morbid fascination as the zombie inside the car howled and writhed, four other similar burning figures folded over the trunk of the car.

Sam coughed once, waited until the remaining zombies sighted him, then staggered away toward the back of the bar again.

It was time to end this.

Sam weaved crazily across the front of the building. His back hurt, his throat hurt, and the ground wouldn't stop moving. Sam wiped his hands on his jacket, suddenly very aware of the fact he had no lighter, no more bottles.

And that's when a hand dropped onto his shoulder.

Tyranusfan

Sam spun, ready to throw a punch.

Dean grabbed his wrist just before it connected with his jaw. "Whoa! Sammy, it's me!"

Blinking in confusion and dizzy from turning around so fast, Sam gaped. "Dean? What are you—?"

"You were taking too long, man. I thought that—" Dean broke off. Even faint from blood loss and oxygen deprivation, Sam knew how that sentence ended.

He nodded. "Almost."

A crowd was gathering around behind them. "Braaaains…"

Dean grabbed Sam and ushered him forward. "Talkative crowd."

Sam nodded, not really sure what Dean was talking about but unable to expend much energy on thinking about it either. "How did you—?"

"Came out the basement door. You know, the one you're supposed to be leading them toward? The door opened out. When I didn't see you and your buddies, I came looking. Dude, what's with all those shitty cars?"

Sam grinned. It took everything he had left to keep up with Dean, so he didn't waste anything on answering. The zombies were following them now, two being a better lure than one, apparently.

They reached the opposite corner of the bar, stopping to make sure their guests were still following. Boy, were they. The mass of decomposing spelling bee-rejects were practically falling all over themselves trying to chase after them. No, scratch that. They were falling all over themselves. Sam laughed outright. Dean looked at him like he was crazy.

"Come on! We're right here! Smell us?" Sam shouted. He glanced at Dean, who was wide-eyed.

"Dude, you need some juice or something…."

Sam ignored him, gathering his strength for another sprint. He cocked his head when he caught sight of one of the zombies making its way toward them. It took a moment to recognize the man, since half his face was bitten off.

"Dr. Zwiezic?"

"Who?" Dean asked, firing a few rounds from his 9mil into the crowd, keeping their attention.

"The doctor from the coroner's office? This morning. Remember?"

Dean followed Sam's pointing finger. "Huh. That's…funny. I guess."

Sam's mind was already turning, though. There was something he'd missed. Something…. Oh, shit! "Dean! I know what caused this!"

"Save it, Geek Boy! Time to go!" The zombies were only about a dozen feet away now.

Dean tugged Sam past the corner. They raced down the side alley, all but tripping down the stairs that led to the basement doors.

"Come on! Bobby's upstairs. We got a rope rigged in the chute for us to climb up," Dean shouted, stopping to unload a few more rounds into the slow-but-advancing crowd. He almost knocked Sam down when he turned to run. "Dude? What are you waiting for—get in!"

"Uh, Dean? I think we have a new problem," Sam muttered, pointing at the doors to the basement. The doors to the basement that opened out into the alley.

The doors to the basement that didn't have any handles on the outside.

K Hanna

"Okay. Next time I wanna go out for a few beers, shoot me," Dean said in exasperation, eyeing their newest obstacle while trying to ignore the zombie chorus behind them.

"Can I get that in writing?" Sam asked.

His voice sounded strange, though, faded and thin. Dean looked up at him just in time to see Sam's eyes flutter shut and his body buckle forward.

"Oh, no you don't!" he snapped, grabbing for his brother, one handful of jacket in front, fisting in the shirt collar in the back. "Don't you check out on me now, Barbara—this was your plan."

"Who?" Sam muttered, eyes still shut and head hanging.

"Never mind." Dean jostled him lightly. "You with me?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No."

"Then I'm here."

The first zombies were rounding the corner. They had maybe five seconds, tops.

Dean cursed, shoved Sam behind him and his gun into the back of his jacket, and raised his leg to kick the door, hard.

The old wood held on for three assaults but finally splintered on the fourth, the two panels slamming inward on their hinges.

Dean felt the slide of the weapon from his back the same moment Sam yelled, "Dean, down!" He dropped, the gun going off right above him.

The zombie nearly fell on him.

Swearing even more creatively, Dean lunged up and grabbed Sam by his jacket again, shoving him into the dark, alcohol-fumed basement. "Almost there, Sammy."

No response, but considering Sam was tripping over his feet, Dean wasn't too surprised. Moving slow enough that the zombies stayed in pursuit was no challenge; Dean doubted they could have gone much faster if they tried.

Finally, finally, the coal chute was a square of faint light ahead, Bobby holding it open up top. Dean shoved his stumbling brother that way.

"Okay, I'm gonna give you a boost, Sam."

"No, thanks," Sam mumbled, swaying into Dean. "I'm not hungry."

"Terrific," Dean muttered, and craned around to yell up to Bobby, "Sam's comin' up but he's gonna need some help."

An arm immediately reached down, hand open.

"Braaaaains," came the muted murmur of the zombies behind them.

"My back hurts, Dean," Sam shared plaintively.

"You comin' or what?" Bobby hollered down.

Dean grit his teeth, relieving Sam of the gun, then stretching his hand up toward Bobby's. As soon as he saw Singer had a good grasp of Sam, Dean grabbed him above the knees and hoisted up.

Sam slithered up the coal chute, legs kicking weakly in a vague effort to help, or maybe in protest. Dean didn't much care right now, as long as he was safe.

Besides, he thought as something brushed against his shoulder, he sorta had other things to worry about just now.

Gem

Bobby yelled something that sounded like an all-clear—at least, that was how Dean chose to take it. He scrambled up the coal chute after Sam, digging heels and knees into the wooden walls to claw his way up. Fingers closed around his ankle, but one solid kick threw them off, and by the time he saw light, Bobby was yanking on his jacket collar, dragging him the rest of the way up.

He lay on the floor, panting for a second—who knew running from zombies could be such a workout?—before rolling over and pushing up, looking for Sam.

Who was nowhere to be found.

"Bobby, where the hell is—"

"Propane."

Great. Sam wandering off alone and wobbly-headed, to the back of the kitchen where the grills were, lugging around a twenty-pound container with his back all messed up. Sounded like a Winchester plan if Dean had ever heard one. He headed for the door, intending on catching up before Sam got himself in even worse trouble. But Bobby's cry brought him back.

One of the slimy little brain-suckers—looked like Dr. Zwiezic again, and how the hell had he moved so fast?—was pushing through the chute hatch, fingernails digging into Bobby's side.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean grabbed a stray push broom and brought it down hard, grinning in satisfaction when the zombie gave a yell and slithered out of sight. "You okay?" He reached for Bobby, hoping like hell their ragtag little bunch hadn't sustained yet another injury.

"Get off me. I'm fine. Go find that brother of yours."

The words were sharp, but Dean just breathed a sigh of relief. Grouchy Bobby was most likely Healthy Bobby, so he didn't feel as bad about leaving him behind.

"Sam!" Smoke still filled the hallway, the remnants of Bobby's Molotovs burning out slowly. Flames licked up the corner of main lounge, and it was clear that, regardless of what else happened that night, the Winchester Tavern wouldn't be left standing. Which seemed…oddly fitting. "Sam!"

He was halfway down the hall when Sam appeared, soot-covered and hands full of propane tank. As Dean watched, Sam stumbled and fell, landing heavily on a knee. He didn't drop the tank, though, and was up again before Dean had taken more than a couple of steps.

"Sammy!"

Sam didn't answer, lurching toward him like one of their zombie buddies. Not good, not good, not good. Dean reached out, hands itching to get hold of Sam, make sure he was safe, but instead, they were stuffed full of metal.

"Take it! Gotta…" Sam coughed, garbling the rest of the words. "…sure we get the others!"

"What? What are you—"

"Dean! I need some help here!"

Bobby again, and a quick glance back showed Dean three zombies advancing on him while he held them back with the broom. They were like freaking gremlins—add water and there was a hundred of them.

By the time Dean's attention shifted back to Sam, his brother was gone.

The smoky air was quickly littered with every curse word Dean could think of. He even invented a few new ones, just for the occasion. Bobby's zombies were shoved back down the chute in no time flat, the propane tank making almost as handy a brandishing weapon as it would a bomb.

"Sammy's still back there, man. I've gotta—" Dean broke off when a muffled shout filtered up the coal chute.

"Light it up!" Sam. How the hell was he already back in the basement? "Now!"

"You ready for this?" Bobby had the tank in front of him, halfway through the hatch.

No, damn it! Not with Sam out of sight, out of his range of protection.

"Hurry!" There was a panicked edge to Sam's voice now: they were out of time.

"Do it." Dean braced himself, clinging to Bobby's arm, ready to drag him out of harm's way. Bobby opened the tank's valve, dropped it down the chute, and tossed his lit Zippo after it.

The sound of the explosion was deafening.

Phx

Minutes earlier

Sam remembered a very brief conversation with Bobby after he'd been unceremoniously hauled out of the chute. He'd turned—well kinda weaved actually—toward the older man and grinned…and even that kinda weaved.

"Got flares?"

"No." Bobby always was a man of such eloquence, but at least his hand was steadying.

"Aww, shit…"

"Propane, Sam. Kitchen. Move!"

And that was how Sam found himself lugging a twenty-pound propane tank toward the storeroom for Bobby. It was either that or stay to help haul close to two hundred pounds of pure muscle out of a hole in floor. Dean really needed to cut back on the cheeseburgers…so propane tanks it was.

Sam remembered getting the first one, seeing his brother— who for the record didn't seem too pleased to see him, but that could have been fear. Sometimes with Dean it really was hard to tell— giving Dean the tank, then turning and going back for the other one he'd seen stashed under the sink…And that was that. By the time he actually got back to the kitchen, he couldn't remember why he was going anywhere, thoughts muddled and consciousness wavering.

He stood for a moment, the kitchen swinging in and out of focus around him, his head pounding in time with his seemingly sluggish heart. Shouldn't his heart be pounding? Sam blinked and tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing. It was something important.

The floor was distracting as it called to him and he wished it would just shut up.

We lure the "night of the living dead" gang into the basement…

Escape up the shaft…

Drop a flare…

No more zombies!

Zombie. Oh, yeah. Zombies.

Sam was supposed to lure them into the basement. That was the plan…wasn't it?

Turning away from the kitchen, Sam staggered toward the bar door, bumping against the wall and adding a bruised hip as an encore to his already messed-up body. His thinking was muddled at best as he clung to the idea of luring the creatures to their death. He just hoped Dean and Bobby had the flares ready, although something about that was wrong. But the exhausted hunter just couldn't put it all together anymore.

Don't you check out on me now, Barbara—this was your plan.

Dean's voice urged him on, even as Sam wondered who Barbara was. Wasn't there some chick in a B-horror movie named Barbara? If not, there should be…

Sam had to admit he was a bit surprised when he finally pretty much fell into the dank, alcohol-reeking room and saw that the zombies were already there. Huh? His injury-dulled mind couldn't come up with any explanation, so instead he yelled at his brother to "light it up," then clumsily lunged back out of the basement, throwing himself to the ground as the world behind him exploded.

Sam's head hit something hard, and his last precarious thought was, Ow.

——-

Dean wasn't sure how he and Bobby survived, but once he finally got his eyes open, he realized he had. The last thing he remembered was Bobby dropping his Zippo and then the two of them, moving as one, throwing themselves out of the way.

Groaning, he tried to move, limbs shifting aimlessly for a few moments as he cataloged injuries and tried to see just how badly he was hurt. Bruises. Bruises and, yup, what do you know? More bruises. A few cuts stung on his face as he blinked a trickle of blood out of his eyes from something that made his temple throb, but other than that, Dean Winchester was still alive. Okay, covered in bar debris and—yuk— burning zombie remains, but most definitely alive.

"B-Bobby?" he rasped, coughed weakly for a moment before he slowly pushed the smoldering wood off his body and sat up. "Bobby?" His voice was stronger this time.

"Yeah."

The shifting pile next to him finally revealed a singed and vexed-looking Bobby when Dean helped him slide what was left of the front door off. The imprint of the doorknob on the older man's forehead would be funny later.

"I hate when this happens." the gruff hunter growled, as if getting blown up in a zombie invasion was something that happened regularly. The two men started to grin, then Dean felt his blood run cold.

Light it up!

Sammy.

Oh, God, his brother had been in the basement. His injured brother—

"SAM!" Dean was on his feet and pounding through the debris, his heart refusing to accept what his mind was telling him. Maybe the kid hadn't moved fast enough to get away from the explosion—

No! He refused to believe that. Sam had to be alive. He had to be.

Bobby was steps behind him and they fanned out, instinctively starting a grid pattern search of the area around the basement. There was just so much damage, the bar now reduced to its foundation in rubble, and it made the search agonizingly difficult. Sam could be underneath any of that crap.

And then Dean saw an arm. An arm sticking out from beneath a Sasquatch-sized smoking pile.

"BOBBY!"

Yelling at the other man to help, Dean started to heave burning pieces of wood off Sam, trying to ignore the stillness of the long body pressed beneath them. "You're okay, you're just fine," he rambled, kneeling next to his brother in his frantic search for a pulse.

Sam was facedown, his arms sprawled out in front of him like he'd been trying to crawl, his legs pulled up in an unconscious attempt to protect his midsection. And, yes, there was a pulse. "Oh, thank God," Dean whispered, letting himself breathe again and not even realizing he'd stopped. Probably sometime around seeing that arm… Closing his eyes, Dean rested his hand palm down on his brother's broad back for just a moment. This had been too close. Way too fucking close.

"Here." Bobby was holding out a blanket, and for one long moment Dean just blinked dumbly at him wondering where he'd gotten it from but not really caring enough to ask. "I called for an ambulance." When Dean continued to stare at him, Bobby shifted awkwardly. "Kid isn't walking out of here," he defended himself, and while Dean wanted to argue, the older man was right. After all, Sam had already been injured before he was blown up.

Man, this day just plain sucked.

Taking the blanket, Dean nodded. "Yeah." He spread the threadbare material over his brother and carefully checked Sam's back, wincing at the scratches. Deep, bloody, and painful. Lovely. He sighed heavily. "Man, Sammy, can't you ever do anything halfway?"

"D'n?" The slurred voice startled Dean, a pleasant surprise that had him grinning. Bobby moved around behind them, clearing a path for the ambulance crew, Dean guessed.

"Hey, bitch." Warmth flooded the words as he leaned closer to his brother's face. "How you doing?"

Sam scrunched up his nose and tried to shift his head, but Dean put a hand on his neck, stilling the movement. "Take it easy, Sammy…a tavern fell on you."

His brother froze, his face twisted as he slowly opened his eyes a slit. "Tav'rn?"

"Yup. The Winchester Tavern— woulda been real cool too if we weren't, you know, running for our lives and everything." Dean gently squeezed Sam's neck and repeated, "How you feeling, Sammy? Where's it hurt?"

"Bar fell…on me…every…thing hurts…jerk." Then Sam mumbled something like "'least…no damn…monkeys this time…" and passed out cold.

Dean stared at him for a moment and then started to laugh, not caring if he sounded half-crazed. His little brother had a very good point. At least there were no freaking monkeys…or giant shrimps this time. Just good old-fashioned zombies…and how messed up were their lives when they preferred the undead to Natural Planet?

Which brought him back to a very sobering question: just what the hell had happened here, anyway?

Tyranusfan

Sam was processed through the ER in record time. Blood loss, lacerations, and a concussion seemed to be the winning combination for speedy service. The doctor had him stitched up in a little less than an hour, despite Sam's obstinate protests that he didn't need to be there. Dean figured that—the total disregard for his own well-being—was the worst thing Sam could have inherited from their dad. Figured Sammy would choose the most irritating parts.

He and Bobby were waiting in the lounge after getting checked out by doctors themselves. They and Sam were the only three survivors of the tragic propane explosion that demolished the historic Winchester Tavern, which had claimed almost thirty other lives, including the owner, Terrance Winchester III.

Dean planned to be long gone by the time the fire marshals started investigating.

One of the nurses who had ushered Sam back while Dean handled the cops stepped out into the waiting area. "Mr. Yeager? Dean Yeager?"

Dean stopped pacing. "Yeah? Is Sam all right?"

"He's fine, sir. The doctors have repaired the damage to his back, and we're monitoring his concussion. They told you he needed a transfusion?"

"Right." Dean nodded. The doctor had stuck his head out earlier and given him a quick rundown of what they needed to do to fix Sam.

"Well, I'm about ready to hook your brother up, but he insists on seeing you first."

Frowning, Dean followed her back through the swinging doors. Sam was on a bed inside one of the curtained-off cubicles, obviously struggling to stay awake against whatever they'd doped him up with. "Sammy?"

Sam brightened a little, recognizing Dean, but he wasn't smiling. He looked frantic. "Dean? Dean! Dean, listen to me—"

Dean stepped up to the bed, placing what he hoped would be a calming hand on his brother's shoulder. "Hey, take it easy, man. What's wrong?"

Close up, he could tell that Sam was drugged up pretty thoroughly. The kid's eyes were glazed over, dilated a little, either from the concussion or painkillers. Sam's comprehension seemed to slip in and out, with him obviously trying to keep his bearings, sometimes losing his tenuous grasp on the situation from one blink to the next.

Loopy or not, Sam apparently still had the presence of mind to look around before speaking. Dean did the same. There was no one within earshot.

"I know…um, I know…what started it."

"The zombies?" Dean offered, lowering his voice and leaning closer when Sam nodded. "Okay, shoot."

"In the— At the coroner's, remember? Downstairs— Not the sauce…it wasn't the sauce…."

Dean frowned, trying to remember what— Oh, yeah, the Worcestershire Sauce. Okay. He suppressed a laugh. "Yeah, I figured it wasn't, Sammy."

Undeterred, Sam pressed on, despite his eyelids starting to droop. "In the journal, Dean…toward the front…Tri— Trioxin…."

Hmm. Dean patted Sam's cheek lightly. "Okay, got it. I'll check it out. You did good, little brother."

Sam seemed satisfied at that, smiling faintly as his eyes drifted shut. "'kay…"

Dean straightened, noticing the nurse behind him coming in the room. He cleared his throat self-consciously, but it didn't seem as though she had heard any of their conversation or his show of affection. "You ready?"

"We'll take care of him, Mr. Yeager."

——-

"Trioxin?"

Dean glanced at Bobby while flipping through John's journal. "That's what he said. And something about the basement at the coroner's office."

Bobby huffed, rocking back on his chair in the waiting room. "The same coroner you said was trying to climb up that chute at the tavern?"

"Yeah," Dean muttered distractedly. "Hey, this might be what Sam's talking about."

Dean showed him a page with a scribbled notation about a third of the way into the book, partially hidden behind a stapled newspaper article. Trioxin. Talked to Deacon. He says it was real. Dean read it out loud to Bobby.

"What was real?" Bobby asked, looking confused.

"Let's find out," Dean replied, pulling out his phone and dialing. It took a moment for anyone to pick up. "Deacon. It's Dean. Yeah, listen, sorry to call you so late, man, but we have a problem."

Dean quickly gave Deacon the rundown on what had happened and the lead Sam had discovered. He nodded a few times, listening while ignoring Bobby's increasingly anxious and questioning looks. "Okay. Yeah. Really? Wow. Hmm. Well, then how can we—? Oh. Yeah, we can get some. Okay. Right. Yeah, thanks man, I'll call you back."

"Well?" Bobby asked impatiently.

Dean blinked once before shaking his head in disbelief. "You ever seen Night of the Living Dead?"

Bobby blinked back. "Um, yeah. Not a very realistic depiction of zombies. What about it?"

Dean grimaced, pocketing the journal and motioning for Bobby to follow him outside. Once in the parking lot, Dean continued. "Turns out the Romero movie was based on a real event."

"Hang on," Bobby interrupted, catching up to Dean near the Impala. "Wasn't that like a…radiation thing? Some kind of probe from Venus or some crap?"

Dean sighed, stopping before ducking into the car. "Yeah. Romero knew about the zombies in Pittsburgh in '66, but didn't know the cause. His writing partner managed to find something about fifteen years later from some contact he had in Washington. The outbreak in Pittsburgh was actually caused by some Army nerve gas called Trioxin that got spilled. The writer went and made Return of the Living Dead based on what he'd found. The Army ignored it and so did everyone else. No one believed the movie was actually telling the truth."

"Okay." Bobby crossed his arms. "So what? You think that's what happened here?"

"Sam saw something marked Trioxin in the coroner's basement this morning. And then the coroner tried to eat us for dinner."

"Christ," Bobby breathed. "Does Deacon know what we can do about it?"

"Yup, we need some gas masks and some more matches. We gotta torch the stuff."

"Is that safe?"

Dean shrugged. "He said the stuff only affects live people through fluid contact…saliva, you know? As long as no zombies bite us, we should be okay…but he said we should get the masks just in case. No one he knows has actually seen this stuff in real life."

"But these don't act like any zombies I've seen. And didn't you and Sam have to nail that one back into its grave bed a while back?"

"Yeah, but I don't know. Maybe these aren't the same kind of zombies. I mean, they were reanimated by science, not necromancy. Maybe the rules are different."

Bobby shrugged and climbed into the Impala's passenger seat. Dean stayed standing for a few moments, and Bobby heard him dialing his phone again.

"Joshua? Yeah, where the hell are you? Yeah. Good. I need you to come to Framingham Union Hospital, near Ashland, and watch over Sammy. Yeah. How long—? No, that's perfect. Keep your eye on him until I can get back. We need to get some supplies. Yeah, me and Bobby will be back here as soon as we can. Huh? No, zombies. Don't ask, man, it's a long story. Okay. Thanks."

——-

Dean headed back into town, passing the still-burning tavern and their motel along the way. No brain-eating stragglers, it seemed. Good.

The stretch of road leading back to the coroner's was a different story. The street was clogged with emergency vehicles and fire trucks. Several stores along the way were burning, others looking ransacked. Dean slowed, glancing at Bobby, who was looking out at the devastated neighborhood as well.

A police officer waved them down as they reached an intersection. Dean rolled his window down.

"I'm gonna have to ask you to leave this area, sir. We need the road clear for rescue workers."

"What happened here, Officer?" Dean asked as casually as possible.

"Some crazy, drugged-up mob came through, busted up everything. Killed a few people. Bunch of sickos. We're locking the area down."

"Have anything to do with that burning bar we passed?" Dean asked, trying to look innocent.

"Yeah, I think so," the cop replied distractedly. "They were reported heading that way earlier. Do you have business here?"

Dean pointed up the road. "Yeah, I was interviewing the docs at the coroner's office a few miles up the road this morning, and I left my…uh, tape recorder."

He finished with a sheepish smile. A rescue worker was trying to get the overwhelmed patrolman's attention, so the man fortunately wasn't listening too closely.

"All right, go on through. Just make sure you don't come back this way. We don't know where that mob made off to."

"Will do, sir." Dean nodded. He smirked as he rolled the window back up. "Don't worry, that mob is toast."

Minutes later, he pulled the car into the coroner's parking lot. It was dark now, and the streetlights cast long shadows over the building, obscuring the view through the glass doors. Dean picked up one of the masks and a few guns. Glancing over, he saw Bobby watching the darkened building warily.

"You ready? We gotta get downstairs and torch those chemicals before the cops start heading this way."

Bobby looked at him, then back at the office building. "No, but let's get this over with."

Yuma

It was disorienting to wake up alone in the hospital after finally getting used to a few years of waking up to a face inches from his—gave him the creeps sometimes—or to Dean's boots propped up by the foot of his bed. Sam blinked a few times before it sunk in he really was alone in his room.

This was new. Sam didn't like it.

Sam raised his arm. He made a face at the thin, red-stained tubing that snaked out of his inner elbow up to a flightless crimson balloon.

Great. Transfusion. Dean was probably happy when the doctors told him.

"Oh, you're awake."

Dropping his arm, Sam smiled politely at the petite woman in green scrubs. If Dean was here, she wouldn't have been able to get that close to the bed for a lot of reasons, one of which was she was kind of cute. Dean had a thing for brunettes.

"I'm Leigh. I'll be your night nurse tonight, Mr. Yeager."

Sam resisted rolling his eyes at Yeager. Dean and his names. "Is my brother here?" he asked. He whispered even though his voice was strong enough to be louder. Never hurt. Sam stared past her shoulder. "Is he outside?"

Leigh looked puzzled. That was answer enough. "Visiting hours will be over in a few minutes," she said in a way of apology. "Do you want me to call him?"

Sam shook his head because it was hard to speak around the lump in his throat.

"Well, maybe he'll be by soon." Leigh didn't look like she believed it though and there was nothing worse than an aw, poor thing face. "The remote for the TV is here if you want to watch some. The call button is next to it. I'll come by with your meds in an hour."

Sam was polite so she wouldn't linger. He stared at the empty doorway for a moment before he fumbled for the remote and searched for the local news.

It was more the clip of an inferno that made the sky orange despite the early hour that made him stop, rather than the realization he'd found the right station. Sam stared at what used to be a somber-looking building. Recognition nibbled in the back of his mind. The words from the reporter gradually filtered in.

"…trucks from other counties. The fire shows no sign of stopping. Sources from the fire department has confirmed that chemicals stored in the coroner's office may have caught fire, creating the secondary and tertiary explosions that tore through the entire building. Neighboring residents and businesses have been evacuated due to concerns about the air quality. Police have ruled out arson and have confirmed two bodies have been pulled out. There has been no identification found and it may be possible that they were from the morgue…"

When Leigh came back with Sam's meds, the bed was empty, the TV still on and the trail end of the IV bleeding out onto the floor.

K Hanna

They were halfway back to the hospital when Dean's cell rang. Bobby watched him answer, then pale before flushing red.

"Where'd he go? He was hooked up to a friggin' IV… Well, start looking for him. We'll be right there." Dean shoved the phone back into his pocket and sped up, fuming as he stared out at the windshield.

Bobby sighed. "Sam?" he guessed.

"Joshua just got there—Sam's gone. Looks like he just took off, and nobody's seen him."

"Great. Anybody ever tell you you Winchesters are more trouble than you're worth?"

Dean threw him a grim smile. "You mean, besides you about once a day?"

Bobby just grunted. They both had other things on their mind than making fun just then.

The radio, tuned until then to a local rock station, took a break for a news flash. Bobby was only half-listening, knowing just plenty about the morgue explosions, thank you very much, when Dean suddenly cursed and swung the car around.

Bobby frowned at him. "Boy, what—?"

"They pulled two bodies from the morgue fire. Wanna bet Sam's headed there?"

Understanding dawned, and Bobby's eyebrows rose. "Your brother was beat to Hell—you think he—?"

Dean just threw him a pointed glance. Yeah. He thought. And with a moment's reflection, Bobby couldn't help but agree. Ain't nobody been able to keep those two apart when one thought the other was in trouble, as far back as a six-year-old Dean planting himself defiantly between Bobby and his crying toddler of a brother.

They had to return a different way they'd come, the emergency vehicles having relocated now to a loose circle around the burning morgue. Dean cut to the east, came up around and behind the building on a back road through the woods, both he and Bobby craning to check out any dark shapes against the bright backdrop.

Bobby still hadn't seen anything when Dean suddenly slammed on the brakes, muttered something under his breath, then was flying out of the car. By the time Bobby got out, Dean had detached a tall, hunched shadow from beside a tree on the morgue's perimeter—just how he'd seen Sam there, Bobby had no clue—and was hanging on to it with both hands.

Bobby made a quick call to Joshua as he watched Sam's own hands come up to grip Dean's jacket, and the two exchange a few words before Sam slumped forward against his brother. Even as Singer shoved his phone in his pocket and hurried forward to help, Dean briefly embraced the limp figure, then crouched down to let Sam tip over his shoulder. He went over like a rag doll, clearly unconscious.

Bobby shook his head, changing direction to the other side of the car. Stupid, stubborn Winchesters. Really were too much trouble. He opened the back door, then reached in the front for Dean's keys and went back to the trunk to find a blanket.

By the time he dug one out—who arranged their arsenal like that, really?—Dean had Sam laid out in the back and was wrapping a handkerchief around his elbow. The idjit probably hadn't even bothered to take his IV out right. Like he had any blood to spare.

Bobby handed in the blanket, watched Dean spread it over the curled, lax body, noted the folded leather jacket under Sam's head. "He okay?" he asked gruffly.

Dean shook his head as he backed out, but his face had eased from the tense lines it'd had when they'd been searching. "Probably lost all the blood they gave him, but yeah, I think he's just beat now." He paused, half-turning toward the burning building. "He thought we got caught in there."

Bobby snorted. "Probably would've swiped a fireman's outfit soon and gone in to look."

Dean made a face, still shaking his head in frustration. But Bobby saw him curl his hand briefly around his brother's ankle before shutting the door after him.

He turned back to Bobby, gave him a bright, fake smile. "So, wanna get him settled and go out for a drink, have a few laughs?"

He didn't even duck when Bobby hit him with his cap.

——-

It was really a freaking shame he wasn't a scriptwriter. Because you couldn't make up stuff this good.

In all, thirty-four bodies had been pulled from the tavern and morgue wreckage, in addition to the ones already in cold storage at the latter. The state of the bodies—besides the fire-damage—and prompted an area quarantine while the authorities tried to figure out what was going on. Then the Army showed up, and the whole thing suddenly disappeared from the news, the quarantine soon lifted.

Dean observed it all with amusement and some satisfaction from two towns over.

Sam had woken up shaking and sweaty a few times from nightmares about zombies swamping him or Dean caught in a fire—it was always fires with them, wasn't it?—but besides still looking like a tall, shaky ghost, he was mending fast. Just the night before, he'd snapped at Dean to turn the TV down, and that was a good sign in Dean's book. He'd celebrated by blasting the volume until Sam threw a pillow at him.

Sometimes, though, he really wished he could write a book about all this. Romero, eat your heart out.

"Nobody would believe it."

Dean turned back lazily to watch as Sam shuffled out onto the porch of the small cabin they were staying at for a few days while they—well, mostly Sam—healed up. Dean took a swallow from the bottle he was holding and leaned back against the stairs. "That supposed to make sense? 'Cause I think you skipped the first part."

"The whole zombie invasion." Sam winced as he eased himself down into the Adirondack chair. It was so low, Dean had to pull him out of it every time he sat down, but that hadn't stopped him. "No one would ever believe it."

Dean smiled, not too surprised Sam had been on the same wavelength. "Would still make a sweet movie, dude."

Sam huffed. "Yeah, except we all survived. Isn't it supposed to be just the hero who gets away?"

Dean stretched to grab the blanket folded on the other chair and toss it at Sam, who wrapped it around himself. It gave Dean a chance to hide his reaction. Being the last man standing had never been his notion of a happy ending. "I thought we were all the heroes? I mean, maybe Bobby's getting a little long in the tooth…"

Sam laughed. "You better not let him hear you say that."

Dean leaned against the railing post again, sipping at his beer. "The hero's usually the virgin, so I guess that'd be you."

Sam kicked out at him, a glancing blow off his arm that only made Dean smile again.

He took a breath, staring out at the greenery around him. There were a lot worse places to be, worse endings to heroes' tales than theirs. He gave a small shrug. "Doesn't matter if anybody knows. We still did good."

"Yeah," Sam breathed out slowly behind him.

Dean slid back to lean against the side of his brother's chair, nodded up at him. "You know I've got Night of the Living Dead loaded up on the laptop?"

Sam groaned. "You're not serious."

"Oh, yeah. Make some popcorn, have a few more beers—root beer for you—make fun of what they got wrong…"

"You're wrong," Sam sniped. But he was smiling.

Dean sat back, mouth curling around his beer. Yeah, not a bad ending at all.

Fin