Not mine, don't sue
A/N: Crossover with Stephen King's The Stand. Hopefully, this should make sense without previous knowledge of it, but if you *are* familiar with the story, then you'll probably notice shout outs. If you aren't familiar with the book (or TV series) GO, READ NOW! You'll be glad you did.
Enjoy.
wear my boots into the ground
John gets sick somewhere outside of Ogunquit the same day they check into a motel near the coast. By early evening he's sniffling and sneezing like almost everybody else around town. A cashier at the local pharmacy gives him a sympathetic smile.
"Flu's been going around these parts," she says. "Is this--" She sneezes, turning her face away. "Excuse me. Is this all?"
Dean nudges his dad in the shoulder as they leave, Tylenol in hand. "She was pretty cute, huh?" And, because he doesn't know how else to say it, "Maybe we should leave this for tomorrow, Dad. Leave the spirit for tomorrow."
"You heard her," John opens the pill bottle, fishing the cotton out with one finger, "Just the flu. We've got a job to do."
Four days later, Dean builds a funeral pyre and burns his dad's body. As he tries to make his way out of town, he passes the pharmacy. There's a closed sign still dangling in the broken window.
~*~
This is an automated voice messaging service. Sam Winchester is unable to come to the phone right now. Please leave a message after the tone.
Sammy…it's Dean. Look. I need you to call me, okay?
This is an automated voice messaging service. Sam Winchester is unable to come to the phone right now. Please leave a message after the tone.
Sam. Call me. I'm serious. It's about Dad.
Hi! You've reached (laughter) Stop Sam…Sam! (indistinct male voice) You've reached Jess and Sam! Leave a message and we'll get back to you!
This is, uh, a message for Sam. It's…this is Dean. You have my number. Call me back. It's important.
Your call cannot be completed at this time. Please hang up and try your call again.
~*~
"You're gonna havta turn 'round there, son," the guy tells Dean. "There's a major accid--" He breaks a moment to cough into his sleeve. "Accident. Ain't nobody gettin' through."
Dean nods obediently. It's been two days since John Winchester died and he's only just crossed the state line. More and more cars are piling up, abandoned in the middle of the street. Sometimes the drivers and families are still in them, rotting in the early summer sunshine. From the looks of him, Dean thinks that the cop who just stopped him will be joining them soon enough.
"Why are you still here?" Dean asks, his window down.
There are news reports on the radio that are distressingly clinical. Empty voices telling everybody not to panic even as they drop like flies. Stay in your homes, lock the doors, this will all be over soon. In the distance is the sound of gunfire. Short, controlled bursts denoting military weapons.
The cop smiles shakily, "Where else am I gonna go?"
~*~
He goes to Blue Earth because it's closer than South Dakota, and Bobby isn't answering his phone anyway. The further he moves out of the larger cities, the less cars there are. Part of him suspects that people didn't live long enough to make it this far. Occasionally he comes across bodies in ditches. At first he stopped to burn them, but after the fifth or sixth, he leaves them in the sun to rot.
Blue Earth is quiet. Most of the stores are closed, but there's no anarchy here. A couple of cars are parked to the side of the road, and he sees two people out walking. They're sick, but they're outside.
Dean runs to catch up to them. "Hey!"
Only one of them stops, a woman in her late forties. The discoloration is just starting around her glands and her nose is perpetually running. "Can I help you?"
"Where are you headed?"
"The church," she says. "Figure that's as good a place as any."
"Do you know the pastor here? Pastor Murphy?"
"Yes. Yes I do. He's been the one holding sermons."
"So he's still alive."
"As much as any of us."
He helps the woman to the church. She thanks him profusely. The smell that reaches him when he opens the door turns his stomach. It's the scent of sickness: of the dead and dying. From the back, the living and the dead in the pews are indistinguishable. Over that, trickling through the air is the hoarse voice of Pastor Jim. Dean would recognize it anywhere.
"And He will welcome us into His arms. There will be no more pain, no more sickness or death. And we will be at peace."
"Amen," someone wheezes.
~*~
"You're sick," is the first thing Dean says.
"You were often the observant one, Dean," Jim answers fondly. His voice is nothing but gravel, sheer will letting him speak. "Where's John?" When Dean doesn't answer, Jim squeezes his shoulder. "I'm sorry."
"What the hell is this, Jim?"
"Rumours say the military started it."
"Military my ass. This is something bigger." He gets Jim a glass of water, has to hold it for him to drink. "I'm trying to get in touch with Sam. Have you heard from him?"
"No," Jim shuts his eyes tiredly. "But the phones have been down for awhile, now. I doubt he could've gotten through if he tried."
Something close to fear stirs in Dean's gut. He thinks of the dead in the streets. The ones left for the birds that the army never got to burn.
"You're going to…" he breaks into a coughing fit. "Going to find him. Aren't you?" Dean lays Jim down. The man is barely holding on.
"I've gotta. He's my brother."
Before he leaves, Dean refills the water glass and puts it on the nightstand within easy reach. Deep down, he thinks that Jim won't need it, but he feels better pretending he will.
He leaves Jim asleep and drives south-west towards Sam. Hours later, Dean dreams of cowboy boots with well-worn heels on the deserted streets of Blue Earth heading west. When he wakes up, he's clutching his gun to his chest, the air in the Impala hot and heavy. Although he's still exhausted, bone-deep weary as he's never been, Dean puts the car in drive. The tape in the player, something bought on a whim, asks him if he can dig his man. He's a righteous man.
~*~
A girl on the road flags him down two days after. She can't be more than sixteen. Her hair is crudely cut.
"Figure," she says as she leans in the window, "Nobody else to do it, right?"
"Aren't you afraid?" Dean asks when she's settled in the passenger seat.
She laughs. "What could there possibly be, to be afraid of now?" Leaning her head back, she says. "I'm Annie. You're the first car I've seen in weeks. It's nice."
They don't talk about where they're going. Annie plays Dean's tapes obsessively, like she's afraid of the silence without them. At gas stations, she helps Dean lift the gas tank covers. The first time, he tried to do it without her because of all the bodies.
"Came from a city," she tells him when she joins him. "Think you need to hide that shit from me?"
At night, Dean pretends to sleep by the side of the road, while Annie crashes on the backseat. She snores like this girl Dean once thought he would marry. Outside, the stars are brighter than they ever were before.
~*~
He's on a cliff and there's something dark and cruel towering in the distance. Behind him, a man that isn't really a man speaks.
"Sam's here, Dean."
He's not. Dean knows this. These things lie.
"You bet he's here, and he's waiting for you." There's a smile in its voice. "Just gotta say the word." The hand on Dean's back turns him. He looks so normal, just a guy like Dean in jeans and cowboy boots smiling a salesman smile. "C'mon, Dean-o, nothing beats coming home." If it weren't for his eyes, those horrible, glowing eyes.
"No," Dean whispers. "No."
The face twists into something else, something terrible and hands are reaching for him, pushing him off the cliff. Ahead of him, he can see the darkness rising higher and higher, a tower like he's never seen with his father and Jim and Bobby and Caleb and everyone else he ever knew winding their way up endlessly towards the top.
Dean wakes up with a scream on his lips.
~*~
Despite wanting to take the most direct route to California, he can't drive through the along the major highways. Part of the reason lies in wanting to keep the car and the little protection it, and the arsenal in the backseat offers. The cities and the outlying roads are full of cars, some abandoned, others simply tombs for those who didn't make it wherever they were going. Another part of him, a smaller part, isn't ready to see the devastation. Soon, he'll have to make his way through the dead streets of Palo Alto, but for now, he'll drive around the destruction as much as he can.
There's this horrible voice in the back of his head that asks him why he expects to find Sam untouched with the rest of the world dead around him. It's easier to believe than one would think, especially with Annie, so young and carefree against everything that's happened, sitting in the passenger seat, bright with energy.
~*~
Annie jerks forward when Dean suddenly stops the car. "Hey, what the fuck? What's going on?" She looks out the window like the reason he stopped is something visible. "Dean?"
He's been meaning to cut through Nevada but now, on the state boarder, he can't go any further. Can't even make his foot touch the gas pedal.
"Dean?"
"Shit. We need to go around."
"What are you talking about?" She asks. "We can just go through."
"No," Dean says, turning to look through the back window as he backs up. Habit, more than necessity these days. "We have to go around."
"Dude," Annie says. "We're headed the same place, aren't we?"
"What?"
"West. To Vegas."
She has one eyebrow raised, her hands up in a motioning gesture. She's wearing a t-shirt of his and it wipes out the shape of her smaller frame; leaves her unnameable and dangerous. There are dark circles under her eyes as though she hasn't been sleeping. He wonders what type of dreams she's been having.
"Why Vegas?" he asks, but he already knows the answer. It rises sickeningly in his mind's eye, dark in the distance. Sam might be there. Vegas is a hell of a lot closer to Palo Alto than Boulder, Colorado.
"You know why," Annie says, her eyes burning with eagerness. "He's there. The man in the cowboy boots."
Not a man, Dean thinks. A chill runs down his spine. He shakes his head. "No. No. I'm not going to Las Vegas."
The next morning, he's not surprised to find Annie gone. She's taken his supplies as well. The fact that he hopes she dies in the desert is only merciful doesn't make him feel better about it. Dean turns the Impala northwards.
~*~
If there is anyone else left in the world, Dean doesn't meet them. He drives until he is exhausted, curling up in the backseat of the Impala to sleep. Sometimes the road is entirely blocked, and he has to retrace his steps two or three times before he finds a clear way. Other times, he spends hours moving cars out of the way, hoping that further on will be better.
Two weeks, three days since dad died. Less than a month ago when Dean last had sex. Two months since he and dad checked up on Sam in Palo Alto with his new girlfriend and his new apartment. Too much time since the apocalypse. Dean plays his tapes loudly, but they don't make him forget about the dead air on the radio, in the towns, on the road.
Outside a deserted house, Dean has a breakdown. He sits on the grass and cries. There's Jim who might still be in his bed, and Bobby God only knows where, and Dad who died saying he was feeling better. And underneath everything is Sam who Dean will probably never see again, who probably died of the flu, something so normal no one could have protected him from it. After he's cried, Dean yells, and then he fights, bare fists on the solid door of the house, on the rusted metal of a family car, on the padded earth of the lawn. When he's done, he raids the kitchen for supplies. All he finds are preserves, but he eats those with a spoon, suddenly ravenous. His tears have made his eyes burn. He rubs at them uselessly with his sleeve.
~*~
Dean reaches Palo Alto in late afternoon.
~*~
At the bottom of the stairs in Sam's apartment building, the screen door has fallen off its hinges. There's a body on the staircase, face bloated and mostly eaten by whatever came this way. It doesn't look human anymore.
The apartment itself is still neatly furnished. God only knows when the power went out, because Dean can smell whatever is in the fridge from where he stands in the doorway. Someone stripped in the living room, tossed a pair of jeans over the back of the couch, maybe after a long day of class. At the beginning when the sniffles were just the sniffles and the muscle aches were starting. In the back, Dean thinks absently, his hands on the jeans; the aches probably started in whoever's lower back. They came home and left these on their way to the shower.
A picture of John and Mary Winchester sits on a dresser, covered in dust. The windows are locked up tight and the bed is unmade. Nobody's been home for a long, long time.
When he leaves, Dean shuts the door. He knows if he had a key, he'd lock it.
~*~
Dean falls asleep and finds himself in front of a small, old one-story home. Around him, cornstalks reach desperately for the late evening sky. An old woman sits on the porch, a guitar held on her lap.
"Where am I?" he asks. "Who're you?"
"Hello, Dean," she says. When she smiles, Dean feels a little piece of himself fall into place. "I'm Abigail Freemantle, but you can call me Mother Abigail."
"Mother Abigail," he repeats. It tastes like the cookies his mom used to bake, warm from the oven.
"That's right," she says, smiling. "You come see me, now. In Boulder."
Dean shakes his head, "I can't." It hurts to say it. "I have to find my brother."
Mother Abigail nods like this is what she expected. "I know you do." Her gaze drifts away from him. "You be careful though, Dean." The corn grows outwards and upwards, surrounding him, blocking her from view. "The dark man's watching."
He wakes up to sun slanting through the window. The Impala is stiflingly hot. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, Dean tries to breathe. On the ground outside, a funeral of ravens eat the dead. It's time to move on.