Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. I wish I did but I don't.

Author's Note: I will own inspiration from a love of Shaun of the Dead and The Walking Dead. And also a lot of lonely-Dean, hurt-Dean and awesome-hero-saving-people-Dean with a lot of family Winchester love thrown in. So basically, I thought it would be awesome to see Dean and the Winchesters/Hunters fighting a zombie apocalypse with a bunch of pop culture references thrown in. And I quite liked the idea of Jess being around and a zombie apocalypse derailing the best laid plans of angels and demons and this is what I get – an AU Season 1 story with Dean at the zombie ground zero. (I might have gotten a bit too excited about Helix as well.)

Read and review: I know this opening chapter isn't particularly funny but it will get funnier and Dean's shit-eating grin will definitely make multiple appearances. Until we get to those bits, tell me what you loved and hated about this, or whatever you were indifferent about. At least tell me how to improve my writing.

Dean Winchester At Zombie Ground Zero

'When I do good, I feel good; when I do bad, I feel bad, and that is my religion.'

Abraham Lincoln

I

Dean hated himself right now, hated his tenacity and stubbornness, hated the way he knew his father and knew how to work him, hated his independence and that he liked saving people because right now, he'd just killed more than a dozen fucking people. How sick was that?

Jesus, he'd been in California just a few weeks ago, checking on Sammy and making sure his baby brother was doing alright. He'd met his dad for a hunt a little ways north, and then he'd cajoled his dad into letting him take a hunt by himself a little ways more north. And then there'd been another hunt that Dean hadn't told his dad about, taking him a little further, and another that he'd talked his dad into letting him do because Caleb was around for back-up. He'd enjoyed it, the freedom, the independence, feeling like he was all grown up.

What a joke.

Right now, he felt four years old again, wanting his daddy to hold him tight the way he had, whispering promises that he'll never let him go as they'd watched their house (his mum) burn. His dad was gonna kill him if he got the chance to see him again.

If. The word left a sickening feeling (or it could be the smell of rotting flesh) but Dean, for all that he was an optimist, he was also a realist and he knew there was a very good chance he wouldn't be getting out of this alive, at least in the traditional sense.

When he'd gotten close to Maine, there'd been jokes more than anything but his curiosity had been spiked. Where there were jokes, there were rumours, and where there were rumours, sometimes there were fuglies to kill so he'd made his merry way to Maine. And there had been rumours, rumours of small hermit-like lone farms going silent, then small villages. Probably a power line; probably.

He should've known better than to go into a radio-silent area. Well, he had known better, had gone prepared. The big cities had no idea about any of this, the smaller towns in the north-east had jokes, and the bigger villages had rumours.

It was a small step to go from a big village to a smaller one that had gone silent. He'd decided on the stealthy approach, usually the safer option when going in blind. He'd started driving in the dark through the winding routes, surrounded by tall foliage that hid much of the moonlight. It must be why he didn't see anything travelling.

He'd reached the village and it hadn't taken him long to find blood and guts on the ground – literal blood and guts with a smell that was begging him to hurl. It looked eaten and he'd taken silver bullets out immediately, mentally preparing himself for werewolves or wendigos. It wasn't quite the right time for werewolves and not quite the right method for wendigos but better to be over-prepared than under; in the end, he had been ridiculously under-prepared.

He'd stopped the car completely, finding the roads full of corpses and carcasses, including children. God, he just couldn't get used to seeing innocent children dead. He'd made his way on foot, ears on the alert for the slightest sounds, fingers ready on the trigger and a flame-thrower in his pocket. The small village boasted of one inn, so small that Dean suspected there was room enough only for two, maybe three guests at the most.

Eyes had darted up and down the street, everything deathly quiet, eerily still. He'd knocked on the door, loudly, and then turned the handle to enter when he didn't get a reply. He'd blinked, once, twice, several times over too many seconds taking in the ridiculous sight in front of him. And he nearly threw up when he realised it was real. Zombies, around a couple dozen, all walking towards him, hands outstretched, ready to kill him and mouths hungry. It looked like it did in every horror movie he'd seen and comic books he'd read. Bodies were decomposing, clothes were torn, tattered, covered in blood and bile and sometimes more solid-ish body parts. What they all failed to illustrate was the overpowering smell, a million times worse than a coroners office, like burning a wendigo but amplified, a smell so disgustingly powerful that he could taste it in his mouth, practically feel the peeling skin grazing his own.

And awesome hunter that he was, the first thing Dean did, once he actually believed what he was seeing, was he vomited. Long and hard until he didn't even have any bile left to throw up. He'd had brains enough to back away; one thing the movies did get right was the slow movement of the zombies. But despite backing away, when he'd looked up, wiping his mouth, there were a couple pairs of arms mere inches from his face.

Yelping in surprise (he'd deny any fear till the day he died – potentially any time now), he'd jumped back a couple feet and automatically shot for the head. All three shots were hit but he had the foresight to observe them closely. After all, vampires weren't particularly affected by garlic and they definitely weren't shimmery, so pop culture could have gotten this wrong too.

They hadn't. He'd sighed in relief and then debated. In the end, he'd moved forward and shot each and every one of them in the head. The less zombies, the better the chances of survival, he'd reasoned. He'd legged it back to his Impala, relieved to find her beautiful bodywork as shiny and clean as before he'd realised zombies existed.

He'd driven back the way he'd come, trying to come up with the ideal game plan. He knew he'd have to do the first bits of it solo – chances were low that there were hunters in the nearby area and this was a time-sensitive matter, not only in terms of innocent lives lost but also in terms of increasing numbers of zombies. He'd settled on calling Bobby, telling him what he knew and calling in for reinforcements to contain the zombified area. His plan was then to go back and check for any survivors, killing as many zombies as he could. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth – easy enough to say that he'd kill the zombies but killing something that had clearly been somebody's five year old baby girl was a whole different matter. It was hard to wrap his mind around the fact that these were people, hours or days ago, people who had probably done nothing to deserve any of it.

It didn't take him too long to reach the town he'd been staying in. He'd gone equally slowly and quietly on the return trip, not anxious to attract any zombies that might be nearly. That thought alone sent his heart beating horrendously fast. He'd parked his car and popped up his trunk, quickly assessing how many bullets he had left and how many knives. He knew off-hand that he had at least long bladed knives (just in case Dad and Sammy were ever short of one) and he thanked a god he was far from believing in that he had them. There was definitely safety in distance and he hadn't worked out whether the zombie transmission was by bite alone or whether scratches could do it. For that matter, he had no clue what the fuck caused this, so really, his one and only bet was getting in touch with Bobby.

He let himself into the motel with his key, his mind distracted with ideas and plans but his ears on the alert for any suspicious sounds. He didn't spy any blood or guts, only the usual stains that had made him wrinkle his nose with a little bit of disgust the first time he had entered it, and made his way to his bed with no mishap and no screams alerting him to an incoming zombie apocalypse.

His fingers fiddled with the numbers on his phone, debating whether it was too early to call Bobby or not. By this time, it was past five but knowing Bobby, anything before ten in the morning was unseasonably early. In the end, he darted off a quick text to his dad to let him know he was case-filing some funny stuff in Maine (too much of a chicken to call him) and he'd dialled the number to Bobby's before he could chicken out.

Funny that he always found it easier turning to Bobby for help.

After the third ring, the familiar raspy voice came across the phone with a very annoyed, 'What the hell do you want this early in the morning, idjit?'.

Letting out a somewhat relieved chuckle after the things he'd come across that night, strange even for a hunter, he decided the blunt approach would be the best. 'Hey to you too, Bobby. Don't suppose you've ever hunted zombies, have you?'

Any hope he held that Bobby might know something died quickly with his snappy response. 'Not been eating too many stale cheetos before sleeping, have you?', with a snort for added effects.

It didn't take long to tell the myriad of rumours and the tiny amount of knowledge he held, despite interruptions and multiple exclamations from Bobby. Dean could practically see him take off his baseball cap and scratch his head at times. There was a silence once he'd finished but Dean waited, having had first-hand experience of smacks upside his head any time he tried to rush Bobby.

'Well,' the old hunter said finally, taking care with each word. 'I'll round up any free hunters to head your way. You need to stay put,' he said sternly. 'I know your instinct is telling you to run gung-ho and save anyone – if there's anyone left; doesn't sound like there is. But getting yourself killed is gonna be a waste of time and a waste of a chance. You need to do this cleverly, to maximise the people you can save. And to do that, you need at least one other hunter to watch your back, you got it?'

Dean reluctantly acquiesced, more out of tiredness than anything else. Twenty-four hours without sleep was hardly the longest he'd gone without but it did make his reflexes slower, his thinking just a bit more muddled than it would otherwise be. After promising to call Bobby before doing anything – 'stupid or otherwise, kid' – he fell into his bed into a deep sleep, which even troubled dreams of the Dawn of the Dead variety did little to disturb.

It was approaching dusk when muffled screams jerked him awake. His hands had found his gun, his finger on the trigger and he had already scouted the entire room before his brain woke up sufficiently to tell him that the screams were coming from outside. A quick look outside the window made him pinch himself, hard, just to make sure it wasn't a dream.

His stomach churned and despite having it empty, Dean found it within himself to vomit once again, this time bile only. The roads were overrun with zombies, the kind of visual that would have made AMC proud. People were screaming, getting into cars and crashing into people, building, zombies, as panic spread faster than a common cold. And as far as he could tell, not a damn gun in sight. Fucking democrats, he though as his hands found a couple of knives and tucked one in each of his socks. He had time enough to drop Bobby a call.

'Bobby, things are going to hell. Zombies have entered the town, and I'm going out to see who I can save, do what I can do to kill as many of the zombies as I can.' He wasn't sure if the entire message had gotten through to Bobby's phone before it cut out. Distantly, he could see doors caving in from the weight of the zombies bearing down on it as screams resonated throughout the small town. He watched the scenes unfold on the streets, could see the zombies chomping down on people as they screamed and he still couldn't quite work out how it spread – by bite, scratch, bodily fluids (the last one made him dry heave).

He waited a couple more seconds and dashed out of his room. He didn't have time to go Discovery Channel on the zombies. For now, it would be all about saving as many people as he could and killing as many zombies as he could. He knocked on all of the doors on his floor, none of them opening as he ran downstairs.

The owner was dead, eaten and not become a zombie, Dean noted, before stabbing the handful of zombies standing inside the entrance of the motel in the head. All dead, he paused to make sure. He took one last look around the room before taking a deep breath and going outside the building, where mayhem reigned.

Should've dropped a line to Sammy, was his last thought before the overpowering stench of death and walking corpses filled his mouth, eyes watering and ears bleeding from the desperation and desolation that rang in them.

Time to kill some zombies and save lives; he raised his hands, long-bladed knife held in both and ventured into a world that was as alien to a hunter as to a regular person, and shit if he liked the odds of that!