A Supernatural Parody, Birthed Via Text Message
"Dean," said Sam with a resounding sigh. "Could you please leave the pie alone and focus on the zombies?"
Dean paused mid-bite, fork suspended in front of his open mouth. He looked at the piece of apple pie that was wedged in his fork, then turned his attention to the slobbering zombie that was trying to headbutt its way through the Diner's window.
What an ugly thing, Dean thought.
"Nah."
Dean ate the pie, his taste buds finding bliss as the hard crust and fruity sweetness filled his mouth.
"Dean. Zombie. There."
Dean hummed, scooping up another piece of pie.
"Let the military take care of these ugly sons of bitches, Sammy."
Sam would've commented on how his name WASN'T Sammy, but Sam, but he was too busy staring at the Zombie outside. It was munching on a dead squirrel, yellow eyes focused on Sam as the animal's blood dripped from its chin.
Ugh. Disgusting.
Dean—who was sitting on a high chair on the bar side of the old 50's Diner place—finished up his pie and dabbed his lips with a napkin. He turned to the bartender, a young man of 20 who looked about ready to faint.
Thirty minutes prior to this scenario and one hour after the out brake overflowed the National news, the man had begged the Winchester Brothers to take him with them. After all, he had seen enough apocalypse movies to know what would happen.
Dean ushered the man to come closer, as if he had a secret to share. The man leaned over, probably hoping for the elder to tell him the secret of zombie-slaying. Dean looked at him seriously. "Got more pie?"
Sam face-palmed.
Two zombies scratched at the glass windows. A third, fourth, and fifth zombie joined in.
Dean looked at them, eyebrows raised.
"Wonder what will happen if I mowed them over with that truck," Dean mused out loud.
Sam, who had buried his face into his hands in a bout of annoyance towards his brother, suddenly perked up.
The 20-year-old what's-his-face raised his hand, as if in class. "A big blobbly mess of entrails?" he supplied.
They ignored him.
"What made you change your mind?" Sam asked.
Dean threw the piling zombies outside a withering look.
"They're annoying the crap outta me."
They heard a loud crash.
The Winchesters exchanged a look.
"Great. I guess we've been assigned cleaning duty," Dean mumbled with a sigh.
Sam took a gun out from his waist.
The guy-who-is-nameless squeaked, face paling. "Y-you ha-ha-have a gun!" he stuttered, jumping against the wall. "I thought you were the good guys!"
Sam stared; "Dude, it's the Second Amendment. The right to bear arms? I'm surprised that no one shot the first three zombies; it's technically within their rights if the person-err, thing, is trespassing onto private property."
"And self-defense!" Dean called, taking a shot of whiskey.
"And self-defense," Sam imputed.
A zombie stumbled into the Diner practically from out of nowhere. It was wearing a military garb, and was missing quite a large chunk of its leg.
Dean stared.
"What the hell?" his brow scrunched up, face confused. "How did—why—what—HUH?"
The soldier hobbled towards them, gasping and groaning, until it stumbled and fell face-first to the ground.
It started crawling towards the bartender.
The bartender with no name screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
The zombie wasn't even halfway there, crawling at an unbearably slow pace.
The bartender kept screaming his lungs out, this high pitched scream that sounded like nails on a chalkboard.
This was ridiculous.
Dean did the only reasonable thing; he walked to the slobbering thing and stabbed the zombie in the face with the fork.
Blood splattered, skull cracking like an egg.
The bartender kept screaming.
"Would you SHUT UP?" Dean snapped. The man silenced. His poor ears. Dean sighed; why did he always have to deal with idiots? And speaking of idiots, what's the deal with that soldier? Zombies aren't that hard to kill! Sure, in large numbers they were deadly, but come on! The military had machine guns, tanks, helicopters, bombs, airplanes, and whatnot. The soldiers didn't even need to come into contact with the zombies!
It didn't make any sense! The human race wasn't stupid. It wasn't.
Or was it?
'The creatures have taken over the country, increasing in numbers by the hour,' a female voice came from the radio.
"Second Amendment! Military!" Dean exclaimed.
"Uh, Dean?" Sam said warily.
'Scientists are still trying to uncover what these creatures are, but some are calling them "walkers," as dead bodies walk back to life.'
"No shit Sherlock, they're ZOMBIES!"
"Does Dean know that he's yelling at an inanimate object?" the bartender asked in a stage whisper.
"I don't know, kid. I really don't. Weirder things have happened."
'Scientists also- OMG BREAKING NEWS BREAKING NEWS; THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES HAS DIED! I REPEAT, THE PRESIDENT HAS DIED FROM A BITE!'
Dean gaped at the radio.
"WHAT THE HELL?" He bellowed, angry at mankind's stupidity. "THE WHITE HOUSE IS ONE OF THE MOST FORTIFIED PLACES IN THIS COUNTRY HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE!?"
"DEAN!" Sam yelled, "Calm down!"
Dean spluttered a bit and made a few silent hand gestures, incredulity rolling off him in waves.
Dean sulked for some time, glaring at everyone and everything in the establishment.
Six pies and one angry rant later, he finally calmed down.
Because really, he was Dean friggin' Winchester. He's been to Hell, Heaven, died a few too many times, battled everything from the Buggy Man to Werewolves, and survived a bunch of Biblical apocalypses.
So really, what's one more?
Dean grinned from ear to ear, making his dimples stick out.
"Hey Sammy, wanna go kill the Zombie-President?"
END
"I need to go warn the Winchesters," Castiel stated gruffly.
"Aww come on!" Misha Collins whined. "One more Double Selfie!" he exclaimed brightly, making yet abother silly face for the camera.
As Castiel was forced to comply with the other's demands, only one lone thought crossed his mind.
Damn AUs.
A/N: So I was texting with my friend, we sort of goofed off a bit by 'speaking British'—we are fans OK, and the English/Scottish/Australian way of speaking is fun and their insults amazing don't judge OK—and one thing led to another, my friend despaired over slow internet and how they were burying a zombie, and that sort of set it off.
Friend's reaction to being texted the long fic can be found below.
Friend: What is this crack fic? This is more crack than the one with the reindeer and the condoms filled with syrup
((Also, I'm seriously risking my identity by publishing this as my friend is a frequent FFN reader—so review to make up for it plz!))
I REALLY should be doing NaNoWriMo right now . . . it's the last day, after all. Geez, talk about procrastination.