Dean opened each cupboard door systematically searching for anything edible or useful. Most of them were empty but finally struck gold. He was frowning when he finally walked out of the kitchen, his only booty a small label-less tin that had been stuck to the shelf with an insidious looking black substance. He looked out the front window cautiously,
It would be suicide to let one of the see him. It wasn't that he couldn't take one, individually. They travel in packs, with sometimes hundreds of them in a pack, and once one of them let out their signature moan, the rest would come running. A pack of Croaks was much harder to deal with, especially since he only 5 shells remaining.
The street outside where his black impala was parked appeared deserted. He cocked his shotgun, just in case and slowly opened the door. Looking left and right, he jogged to the car as quietly as he could. As he opened the car door, feeling a bit of relief, he heard a low growling coming from behind him. He spun around just in time to spray the infected human directly in the chest. It was a deadly wound but the creature's scream went on. Dean wasted no more time. Out of breath and heart racing, he got into his car anrd quickly drove away.
Sweat dripped down his face as he sped along the deserted freeway. Although it was nearly ninety degrees out, he didn't dare to roll down the windows. Last time he had his windows rolled down, stopped to check a map, a stealthy Croat had surprised him and nearly taken a chunk out of his shoulder. Never again. He shook his head at the memory and tried to focus on driving. Maybe it was the heat, or the near miss in town, or the purple haze in the sky as the sun set on another day spent alone with death at every turn but his heart was hammering by the time he pulled onto the turn off. He had stayed out too late and now he would arrive home in the dark.
Stupid. He thought to himself as he turned off the headlights and slowly turned down the long driveway leading up to the abandoned farmhouse that he had been living in for the past month. Dean strained his eyes but it seemed deserted as usual. But still, it would be nearly impossible to be sure to secure his little hideaway in the dark. He got out of the impala cautiously, his shot gun ready and walked around the back of the house. Once he was satisfied that no one was outside, he opened the back door and checked the inside of the house. It was empty. He pushed the rusty old table in front of the door before retiring upstairs to the smallest bedroom where he would lay down on pile of dirty blankets until dawn.
The window in the room was busted but that didn't bother him. It would be easier to hear if someone tried to get in. He spent most of his nights awake, still and listening anyway. He tried very hard to listen. He had decided a long time ago that it was better to focus on surviving that to let himself think.
Or feel. It had been over a year since the Croatoan virus had spread to every major city in America. It had been days… months since he had seen anyone who was not infected. Months since Castiel had gone missing. Months since Sam… No. Don't go there.
He stared out the window and into the darkness. Soon they would come. The images. Their faces. His face. Those eyes, too blue to be natural and a hint of darkness. Suddenly like he'd taken a blow to the stomach, the pain came. Stop. He took a deep breath in.
Listen. It was harder to listen nowadays. There was only silence. The birds, the grasshoppers, they were all gone now. At least that made it easier to hear anyone, or anything sneaking up on him. It made listening a better distraction too, because you really had to strain yourself to hear anything. Not that there was usually anything to hear.
Dean let himself think about the last time he'd had a drink. He'd found one of those mini bottles of peppermint snaps in one of the desks in an office building. This town was really picked over. He knew he should move on, find someplace where there was still food left but he finding it so hard to stay motivated to survive. Everyone I know and love is dead.
So what's the point of going on? If he had to be without them, well, he wasn't doing so hot on his own and he lost his whole reason to fight. Four days since the last time he's eaten. Lying awake all night practicing the art of thinking about nothing.
"Dean. I need you." A deep, raspy voice whispered from behind him. He jumped up and looked around the room.
"Cas?" An involuntary tear dropped from one eye. He shook his head again. He hadn't been careful enough. He had let a thought creep in that shouldn't and now he was hearing voices again. His voice. He got up and paced the room, looked out the window and made a decision. Tomorrow he'd find a new place and new town, hopefully something to eat.
He laid awake for some time but didn't remember falling asleep when the blinding, unfiltered sunlight woke him the next morning. He looked out his window and saw no one coming so he braved opening the filthy tin he'd found yesterday. It was some kind of fish, brown and it had an odd odor coming from it but famished, he dug in and finished the whole thing in under a minute.
His stomach lurched unpleasantly. Probably should have eaten that slower. Probably should have rationed it just in case. He grabbed his gun and left.