Summary- Apocalypse AU - The end of the world wasn't what everyone expected it to be. And quite frankly, it was overrated. Dean carries the weight of protecting his younger brother, Sam, and their friends from the infamous Croats. But when he meets a mysterious blue-eyed man with amnesia, things begin to get complicated. Can this rag-tag group stop then End? Destiel
Warnings - Desitel ( Dean / Cas, MxM ), may get a bit gory, Ooc-ness, death and destruction, possible smut in future chapters, posted from an iPod so there may be errors. I don't (obviously) do not own Supernatural. Rated T for the moment.
A/N - So this will be my first Destiel fanfic. ;u; I'm aware the characters may slip in and out of character, but hey, give me a break here- it's the end of the world. xD
This first chapter is a bit slow, but I needed to establish some stuff before it gets rolling. Can you catch all the parallels?
I would appreciate reviews, they keep me motivated! Feel free to suggest anything you'd like to see or comment on anything, just try not to bash me, please. ^-^"
I'm considering Sabriel as a side paring - tell me what you think?
Quick thank you to my irl friend V. for beta reading. :D
Without further ado, the story!
The end of the world wasn't what everyone expected it be. It didn't end in some big bang that eradicated all life, the sun didn't expand and engulf the Earth in its burning fires that rivaled that of hell's. No aliens breached the atmosphere to enslave mankind. Jesus wasn't resurrected and God didn't walk the Earth. What did happen was both unexpected and overrated.
It started off as a drug, dubbed as Croatoan. It seemed harmless at first, a simple vivid pink powder. It brought about the usual experiences of drugs - the rush, the 'flying high', the addiction - all without the deadly effects. It was great to help the drug abusers and addicts move on from their usage of classic drugs. Then came about an unexpected discovery; Croatoan helped boost personal health, making it a key agent in vaccinations and cancer research efforts. For once, amidst the war and the poverty, there was something good for the world to celebrate. But nothing stays good for long, and the popular drug was too good to be true.
The first case appeared in Lawrence, Kansas. A family were driving home from a football game after the mother complained she felt sick. It only took six hours until she tried chomping off her son's head. The doctors were confused; The women had been stable, both physically and mentally. She showed no signs of insanity, depression, or anxiety leading up to the incident, although the family reported she had explosive anger and apparently hallucinated moments before the attack. Baffled, the case went unsolved when the mother died only days after her admitting of a psychiatric ward.
New cases began cropping up all across the country. Husbands were devouring wives, mothers were decapitating and dining on their children. They all showed signs of the Kansas case; Anger, hallucinations, but no anxiety or depression. All patience died within days to weeks of their episode. The doctors had no explanation, and the only connection the authorities could make was each had been a user of the popular Croatoan substance for some reason or another.
The attacks were far from the scariest thing for the families, thought. What scared them the most..
Was when the dead came back.
One by one, then by the dozens, the dead began to walk again. Not all came back to the world, though. Only those who once used Croatoan were spotted mingling with - rather, munching on - the living, which very well could have been all the recent dead. They didn't recognize their loved ones, and their general appearance had deteriorated. Rabid yellow eyes that blazed with an intense anger, torn skin still oozing blood. In some cases, limps were held together only by small strips of flesh and muscle, other times whole internal organs sloppily hung out like mutilated roadkill. They all seemed to have one purpose: Kill.
It wasn't long for things to go downhill. It was too late after the first few cases came to pass. By then, almost everyone world wide used Croatoan at some point, whether for drug use or through a vaccination. It killed quickly, and people waited no time to dub the event as a 'zombie apocalypse'. Those who rose from the abyss to snack on friends and family were named Croats.
And, boy, the zombie apocalypse was nothing like they thought it would be.
Four Years Later
"C'mon, Sammy!" Dean cranked up the radio, loudly blaring one of his favorite AC/DC songs as he sang along terribly. One hand was lazily gripping the steering wheel of his beloved Impala, the other flailing above his head in a weak imitation of drumming. He grinned widely when his brother let out hysteric laughter from where he sat in shotgun, his head thrown back and body shaking with the effort. The brothers were having a particularly good day. They managed to let some steam out on a bunch of clueless Croat bastards and discover a rich stash of food, enough to feed their friends back at the Bunker for a couple of weeks.
Dean was going well over the speed limit, but he couldn't pretend he cared. "It's the end of the world, Sammy." He once replied when his younger brother nervously asked him about it nearly three years ago, and Sam hasn't argued the issue since. Snapping back to reality, Dean slammed on the breaks, the car skidding to a halt and kicking up dust in front of a run down warehouse facility. He grinned at Sam's disapproving glare and yanked the key from the ignition, hopping out and slamming the door shut.
"Ash!" Dean greeted the man as he approached. Ash had been to hell and back, but he stayed the same. Casual, with his self-proclaimed 'business up front, party in the back' hairstyle. "Winchester," Ash drawled, leaning against the Impala. "Hope you boys managed to drag back somethin' good." Sam was already at the trunk, popping open the lid. A low whistle slipped from Ash's lips and he greedily stared at the contents. It was mostly junk food, much to Sam's displeasure, with a few packs of meat that were carefully wrapped in plastic and paper.
"I'll take care of the load, you should head on inside." Ash suddenly looked uncomfortable and refusing to meet Sam or Dean's gaze. "Ellen's got some news for the two of ya." The brothers shared a confused, worried look but agreed nonetheless. 'News' around here was never a good thing.
The Bunker ( as they called it ) was silent when they entered. The place was spacious and respectably clean... for being the end of the world, that is. When they first holed up in the place, Bobby made it his personal mission to make the place feel more like a home than, well, an abandoned building. It was nothing to him, and with the help of the Winchester brothers and Ash, a second floor and small sectioned-off rooms had been made. Tables and chairs were set up on the left hand side with the makeshift kitchen ( wood burning stove, tub of water, and coolers holding the majority of the food rations ). Jo, Ellen, and Andy occupied three of the folding lawn chairs, the women trying not to look amused at a joke Andy had made.
Ellen's smile dropped from her face the second Sam and Dean sauntered over to the table. She murmured a quick apology to Jo and Andy before she slid away from the table, beckoning the brothers to follow with a sharp flick of her hand. Dean stood next to Ellen, slumped forward with uneasiness and trying his damned hardest not to show his anxiety. Sam, on the other hand, stood tall and stiff, fists clenched at his side. "Ellen," he acknowledged his friend with a curt nod, so opposite from his brother's casual drawl.
"Hey Ellen, what's up?" Dean's bright green gaze bore into Ellen's expression, searching for any sign of what she was about to say. She looked nervous, and Dean was sure he saw pity momentarily flicker through her eyes. That's unusual. "Well.." She hesitated, glancing around with a heavy sigh. The women locked gazes with Dean, then Sam. "Your daddy left before you two took off on a shopping spree." Dean felt himself stiffen and his heart speed up. He knew John would be back by now with Rufus and Gordon, his buddies that accompanied him to take out a couple of Croats in the next town over. "Yeah? What about it?" Ellen flinched at his defensive tone.
"He hasn't been back in a while."
The voices were persistent, too jumbled and disorienting to comprehend. Hands were shoving and squeezing and only added to the confusing chaos. And the pain, gosh, the pain. He should be dead now, but he wasn't. He was dragging his abused and bloody body, frantically kicking away the fingers curling around his bruised ankles and dragging him back. "No!" The screech sounded foreign to his ears, and it took him a moment to realize it was own broken voice that called out in fear and desperation. His chest heaved with the stress of his ragged breathing. Those hands finally let go and he scrambled forward, far away from the snarling, snapping, disgusting creature. Once, that familiar face had been smooth, beautiful even, but now it was reduced to crumbling heap of shredded flesh and chunky blood.
This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real.
But it was. After all, this wasn't Wall Street, this was Hell.
Castiel stared down at his reflection in the rippling mud water. The person staring back was a stander to him; Heavy dark bags weighed down his emotionless blue eyes. His face was covered in dirt, hiding his naturally soft features. Although he did his best to keep his hair ( facial and otherwise ) reasonably short, it was growing out again. His dark hair was tousled about his head. Bothersome stubble was growing along Castiel's jawline, and the man mad a mental note to keep an eye out for something sharp to use as a razor.
Castiel looked down at his clothes. He was wearing his favorite tan trench coat, which was filthy and tattered, but he refused to leave it behind. Under it, he wore an equally shabby white dress shirt and muddied dark dress pants. He could use a change of clothes, but finding fitting garments in better condition than the ones currently encasing his slim frame wasn't easy.
Castiel found himself bitterly sinking into his mind. Three years ago, the man woke up so find, surprise!, it was the apocalypse. He had no memory of what happened, or who he was. Only two words held at the tip of his tongue, and he'd come to realize it was his name. Castiel Novak. He was lost and wandering the ghost town neighborhood in search of answers, but so far, nothing could answer his burning questions. Castiel occasionally found himself dreaming of a man being brutally torn apart by a mother-turned-Croat. Right before he took his last horrified, gasping breath, Castiel would wake with a start and refuse to shut his eyes again.
A loud bang and clatter sent the skittish man diving for cover. He peered out from behind the car, his blazing stare scorching a path as he searched for the source of the sound. Just ahead, he spotted movement. A man had his hand clutched around his stomach, and he struggled to drag himself forward. He left a vivid red trail as he inched onward and grunted with the effort. Castiel contemplated coming to the stranger's rescue, but he quickly shoved the idea away when a Croat barreled down on the man, snapping and tearing at the flesh. Castiel flinched, feeling guilty, but not willing to risk his life for a dying man. He watched the short lived struggle and couldn't help the surprise from creeping into his expression when he saw the man end the Croat with a quick swing of a machete to the neck.
Deeming it safe, Castiel crept forward. The creature didn't get back up and the stranger was still on his back, heaving and shaking. With a slight gulp, Castiel slid closer to the man. He was African American, dressed in a slashed red and black plaid shirt and soiled blue jeans. Before Castiel managed to react, the man gave one last shudder and heave of breath before he stilled, glassy hazel eyes glaring up at the sky and lips pulled back in a permanent snarl. Castiel crouched beside the man and searched him for a pulse to no avail. He busied himself with searching the man's pockets, tugging out a nearly empty lighter, piece of folded paper, and an old drivers license.
The license was faded, but enough legible ink remained on the paper for Castiel to make out the now dead man's stoic face. Next to it read a name that vaguely sounded familiar. "Gordon Walker," Castiel read the name but didn't bother to linger any longer. He tucked the identification card back into Gordon's pocket, but kept the paper and lighter to himself. The sound of a car engine had Castiel back on his feet and taking cover in the nearest building - a small grocery store. The man wasted no time ducking behind the shelves and scoping the area for the best hiding spot, praying that whoever ( or whatever ) that was in the car didn't see him.
Castiel watched two men emerge from the vehicle. He couldn't see them very well , only able to make out one tall and one slightly shorter . It was getting dark now, and the sun fled behind the horizon, shrouding everything in a freezing grip of shadows. The two shapes stumbled and jerked around, arms flying accusingly at Gordon Walker's body, leaving Castiel to believe they were locked in an argument. Probably deciding who gets the first bite, He thought bitterly. He wasn't going to stick around long enough to find out. There was someone back 'home' he needed to get to. The man carefully scrambled over the rubble of bottles and plastic littering the ground and slipped out the back entrance.