Hello everyone! Here I am with my first multichapter Supernatural fiction (this is going to be a failure omg) So, first I have to say that all my story are written in Italian first (I'm Italian, yes yes!) then I translate them in English. If you notice any kind of mistake, I would really appreciate it if you let me know so I can improve my English! I'm actually still writing this story, so it will take some time for me to write it and update it, because I still have no idea how I want it to develop and how to be long.

The story is set in an indefined future (that maybe will be defined later) and it was born from my big big love for Radioactive by Imagine Dragons!

Please, I would really appreciate if you let me know what do you think of my first story in this site! :)

Arrivederci!

Chiara

I regained consciousness with a jolt, so sudden that my heart started thumping in my ears. I sat up abruptly, opening wide my eyes and breathing in gasps. I felt the air scratching my dry throat and my lungs swelling painfully against my rib cage. It felt like it was the first breath of my entire life.

That sudden spurt was not a brilliant idea: the head started spinning and the nausea went up from my stomach. My arms gave way and, almost without realizing it, I fell back. I banged my head against the asphalt and only then I realized about the throbbing pain that seemed to drill through the skull from side to side. It must have been there since before I fell to the ground. A retching made my stomach shake, but I couldn't throw up.

I turned to one side, while the keck made me cough like a desperate, squinting because of the dust that my breath lifted from the ground. As soon as I could breathe normally, I raised my head a few inches and spit on the ground a mixture of saliva and blood. My jaw ached.

Someone had given me a thrashing.

I inhaled and exhaled slowly to try to bring down the nausea. As the seconds passed, the pain expanded all over my body: as well as my head, now even my right leg hurt. I propped myself up on my elbows and checked the situation: my jeans were torn at the knee, and my own flesh was cut and blood attached the fabric to my skin like glue. The cut was deep about four inches long. I could almost see the bone.

What the fuck happened to me ?

I looked around. I was lying in the middle of the road and not a soul could be seen. The sky was cloudy and formed a warm and humid pall over my head. The scenery was desolate.

I turned on my left side and started to crawl, careful to keep the injured leg straight and far from the debris on the road. I dragged the weight of my body with my elbows and I pushed forward squinting, while my eyes were watering because of the dust rising from the asphalt. The whole street was covered of gray ash.

I got to the sidewalk and sat down on the edge, using all my strength to lift my body. My breathing was labored. My throat was dry and burning. The leg was hurting a lot, but the head was worrying me more. I touched the wound with my fingers through my hair, biting my lip when it began to throb. I looked at my hand. It was smeared with a sticky and russet substance.

Blood.

I sighed, trying to think positive: at least the blow to the head had caused no serious damage.

Or did it?

My name was Dean Winchester, my brother was Sam and my parents had been Mary and John. I didn't know what day it was, and that scared me. The last thing I remembered was Sam on a hospital bed... and before? A black sky exploded into thousands of fireballs, headed inexorably towards the Earth. I clearly remembered that I was staring at one of those comets and I saw an angel, whose wings fell off during the fall.

My heart skipped a beat. Where was Castiel? And Sam?

I looked around, analyzing every detail to try to get my bearings. The street was populated by the rusted carcasses of cars, many of them were dismembered and turned upside down. The walls of the buildings were gray and dirty and almost all the doors and windows had been boarded up with planks of wood.

The atmosphere was surreal. It seemed that the city had been hit by a radioactive wave. The more I looked around, the more I realized that I knew that scenario. I had already seen before.

The writing on the wall of the building across the street caught my attention. My flesh creeped when considering the idea that they didn't use red paint to do the writing.

Croatoan.

Son of a bitch...

The bile went up in my mouth and I forced myself to spit it out. I felt my runny nose and I cleaned it with my sleeve, that smeared with blood.

That gray and desolate landscape was quite familiar to me: I had spent there three days, that time Zachariah-the-son-of-a-bitch shot me in the future to see what the consequences would have been if I hadn't said the "big yes" to Michael. I remembered clearly, on that occasion, that I saw a "forbidden entry" sign hung to a network which had a date on it.

Two thousand and fourteen.

If I was in two thousand and fourteen, I did not remember anything of what had happened in the last six months or so. The blow on the head really made me lose my memory.

However, I knew what was the scenario that loomed in front of me.

The fucking apocalypse.

A thought was scratching the back of my mind, while the idea that there was something more that familiar in that scene appeared in my mind. It was not the awareness that I had been in that exact place many years before. It was something more recent, but indefinite, impalpable. Like when you wake up and you still feel the taste of the dream on your tongue, while it mixes with reality, and it confuses you for the first few seconds .

It was what was happening to me. I had the impression that I just woke up and that my memories were only a dream. That the one that was in front of me was the reality I had lived my entire life in.

I shook my head, clearing my thoughts, and I focused on something more important. I had to find a way to get out of there , find out if there was still some form of civilization in those parts. But I couldn't even get up with my leg in that state.

I ripped the jeans with the switchblade I found in my pocket, freeing my calf, then lifted the fabric to uncover the knee, gritting my teeth when the wound pinched. A stream of blood flowed slowly through the clotted blood and dripped on the asphalt. I didn't touch the cut : my hands were dirty and I would have risked an infection.

I took off my shirt, remaining shirtless, and bent it to form a band. I placed it on the wound and tied the sleeves behind my knee. That wasn't a great bandage, but at least the wound wouldn't get dirtier.

I looked around, trying to understand where I was, but I hadn't the slightest idea where I was and where I could go. My glance stopped on a bus about seventy feet from where I stood. The writing on the side was faded but I could still read the words "County Jail". A bus for the transportation of prisoners. It was the only vehicle in sight that had all four wheels and that wasn't overturned.

I stood up supporting on my arms and holding my battered leg as straight as I could. I stood up cautiously, hoping not to be caught again by a retch. Once standing, I felt that my stomach was all good and I decided to move. I tried to shift my weight on the injured leg, but a sharp pain made my knee tremble. Bad idea.

I sighed. The only thing I could do was to hop up to the bus. It would have been a really long way.

After less than twenty feet, I was already tired. The left leg ached and I didn't know how much longer it could support my weight. I considered the idea of sitting on the ground for a few seconds, but I knew that if I did then I wouldn't be able to get back on my feet. I gritted my teeth and started to approach at the bus, hopping or bending down and placing my hands on the ground to walk on three legs.

After five minutes I reached the bus. The door was wide open and I dropped on the step. I stayed there for a couple of minutes, resting my left leg, which had borne all my hundred and eighty pounds. I felt a tingle going up from the toes to the thigh, a sign that the blood was circulating.

When I felt better, I went limping up the steps and sat on the driving seat. The keys were not inserted, nor were in any drawer or compartment - I didn't really hope for that - then I leaned over and pulled out two wires from under the dash, and I made them made contact. The engine alluded to start a few times, but nothing happened. After the fifth attempt it turned on and I sighed in relief.

I put the injured leg under the steering wheel and I settled in order to press the accelerator while keeping it straight. That position - sitting on the outer edge of the seat, keeping the leg in tension - was very uncomfortable, but I was hoping to reach some kind of life in a few minutes, so I could as well put up with it.

After the departure, I immediately realized that the brakes were not working just perfectly, so I continued to go at a speed of twelve miles an hour, keeping the driver's door wide open and stayed ready to jump off the bus if there was any need.

I had no idea where I could go, so I wandered for almost an hour, finding no one. During the trip I had some difficulties in the curves, which I faced too fast. A couple of times the bus leaned dangerously to one side and I was terrified that it flipped over, but the suspensions were able to keep it straight. In those occasions I felt the adrenaline invading my body and my heart beating wildly.

The leg continued to hurt like hell and the shirt I used as a bandage was now smeared with blood. Even if I found someone, I didn't know how they could medicate me. I'd had definitely developed an infection.

I had already lost hope when, along a straight, I noticed the silhouette of six people to a few hundred meters away. I began to slow down immediately, since the brakes worked very badly and it would have taken more space than normal to stop the bus.

When I was fifty yards closer, the group of men saw me - well, they saw the bus. A shot fired, and it made a perfectly round hole on the windshield and whizzed next to my ear. The second after I leaned down, while other shots exploded over me, breaking the glass. I pressed my foot on the brake as hard as I could, while the injured knee was throbbing so much that my sight began to blur, but I forced myself to stay bent.

The men stopped firing, probably thinking that they caught me . The bus walked his last few meters, then stopped completely. I could hear a whistle in my ears. I tried to change position because when I leaned down, I was forced to bend the injured knee and now I felt like throwing up because of the pain. The fragments of glass fell to the ground from my back while I gingerly got up a few inches.

A muffled sound of footsteps came to my ears, while my brain registered it with difficulty. "Shit," cried a voice that I couldn't recognize.

I sat up a little, turning to the driver's door. With my head spinning and the whistle in my ears, my mind couldn't recognize the man's face staring at me.

"It's Winchester!", I heard him cry out, before the ringing in my ears became more acute and made me pass out.