Title: The End of Days
Chapter One: The Garden
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel (No slash at the moment)
Spoilers: Post Season 4.22
Warnings: Post Apocalyptic; year 2036.
Beta: None
Summary: When their leader had fallen a quarter of a century ago, he had taken their dreams of Paradise with him. Daunted by the sudden lack of command, the angels had taken flight from the earth and relinquished it to Lucifer and his exiled. In atonement for his kind, the archangel Gabriel left with humanity a parting gift…a child born of his grace…a child whom would one day lead them to salvation.
Disclaimer: Supernatural and the characters don't belong to me; they are the creation of Eric Kripke and Co.
A/N: This is my first fan fiction and I apologise for the continual re-writes. I am still in the process of deciding where I want to take this story.
Character Age Notes: Dean's generation (anyone in their early twenties) is in this story born post-apocalypse.
Dean Winchester - 24 years
Sam Winchester - 20 years
Jessica Moore – 19-20 years
Chuck Shirley – late 50's or early 60's
Bobby Singer - 62 years
Jo Harvelle – 23 years
Ellen Harvelle – 50's
Ash Lindberg – early thirties.
The Present, July 2036
After a month's reconnaissance in the north west, the Winchester brothers were finally making their way back to Colorado.
'Man, isn't that a sight?' Dean announced excitedly as they crossed the border from Wyoming.
'Mm…yeah, Dean…sight,' Sam mumbled back in a barely coherent half-sleep. 'Ah, come on, Sammy,' Dean continued trying to coax his brother from the comforting arms of sleep, 'the sun is shining, the birds are chirping and we're on the homestretch.'
'Mm…dun…care,' Sam returned with his eyes still closed. He had steadfastly decided to see how long he could get away with this little indulgence. According to Dean apparently…not long.
'Rise and shine, sleepin' beauty!' his brother tried again and this time Sam winced as the speakers came to life blaring one Dean's favourite heavy metal tracks.
'Okay, I'm up! I'm up!' Sam cried, holding his palms up in a gesture of surrender and straightening up in his seat, 'turn the damn volume down!'
He watched with bleary eyes as his older brother threw him a grin before complying.
The brothers had started their routine scouting expedition with great eagerness and some maybe even say slight bravado, but in their month away from home they had found their spirits dampened by homesickness. It had been by mutual decision that they were now returning home for some much needed R&R.
It had been with this great eagerness that Dean had decided, bright mind that he was, that they could easily make their 12-hour trip in one go. 'Come on, Sammy,' he had said, 'we leave now and we could be home by mid-morning.'
Sam hadn't given it much thought at the time but he found himself cursing Dean's decision now. His whole body ached from the way he had slept hunched against the car door. Not to mention, he was now buzzing with restlessness at having been confinedto his seat for so long. Oh God, I don't know how much more I can take, Sam thought to himself as he blinked away the last vestiges of sleep.
'Hang in there, Sammy. We're almost there, 18 miles tops,' Dean announced hoping to placate his younger brother. In all their years together, Dean had found himself highly attuned to his brother's body language. From the corner of his eyes, he could tell his brother's gangly form was making it hard for him to sit still much longer.
Sam gave his brother a tired smile of appreciation. Dean had volunteered to pull an all nighter just so he could catch some much-needed sleep. Admittedly, he was feeling more refreshed despite the rude awakening. His spirit however, didn't seem nearly as good as Dean's. Even with a lack of sleep his brother seemed content in tapping away on the steering wheel in time to the music.
Once they were past the town of Boulder, Dean took the Impala into the mountains. As they climbed the narrow road, Sam found himself passing the time by taking in the natural sights. His brother really hadn't been lying when he'd said the sun was shining. It really was a beautiful day.
Together with the thinning of mountain pines, their last mile was punctuated by the bob of the Impala as sealed concrete gave way to unsealed gravel. He listened as the loose flecks kicked up and clinked against the Impala's low undercarriage and knew it would only a matter of time before Dean noticed.
As if on queue Sam heard his brother swear under his breath. He watched as Dean quickly dropped his baby down a gear and slowed her to an agonising crawl.
Sam always hated this last mile. Every time they took this road he had the urge to scramble out with his backpacks and walk the rest of the way. All while wishing Dean well and telling him he'd meet him on the upside. However, being the consummate younger brother he was. He simply banished these thoughts from the forefront of his mind and endured. After all, what were brothers for if not the share in the price of each other's vanity?
After what seemed like forever, the road plateaued and the brothers were met with the sight an imposing, three-tiered settlement set in dark mountain stone. Two watchtowers extended from the top storey, allowing for unimpeded surveillance in both north western and south eastern directions. While he couldn't see them yet, Dean knew that an armed hunter manned a watchtower at all times. It was dictated in protocol. Dean could almost feel their sighted rifles following them as they approached.
As the unsealed road ended, Dean pulled the impala onto the dark driveway leading to the settlement. Once they were outside the great wooden doors of the sub-ground vehicle hold, he killed the engine and the brothers stepped out with their backpacks in tow. They were soon met by two rifled hunters; one was shorter and stouter, the other taller and lanky…not unlike Sam.
'My, my…if it ain't the Winchester brothers,' the taller one spoke as he motioned for Dean's keys with a wave of his fingers, 'welcome back to Eden, my friends.' Dean had always found the strongholds affectionate reference amusing. He wasn't sure who had originally coined the nickname but he was pretty sure it had started out as some sort of ironic joke that had, over the years, simply stuck. It was now know a reference in common use among its inhabitants.
The hunter leaned in closer and continued as if sharing a secret, 'you both must be dying for some R&R and between you and me, I'd personally love to let you guys go, but you know the drill.'
Dean dangled his keys over the hunter's open palm before dropping them into his hands. His green eyes stared on after his baby as she was driven down the steep slope, only leaving her when he could no longer follow her into the darkness of basement level.
With a forward nod, the remaining hunter motioned for them to proceed through the adjacent door on ground level. Its wooden panels were marked forebodingly with the word Quarantine. The hunter pulled the door back to reveal a heavy-set, secondary door. He beckoned them through again. 'Be over before you know it, boys. The nurse won't be too long, on her way now,' he stated before stepping out and pulling both doors shut behind the brothers. Inside they stood in almost complete darkness.
Quarantine was, as Dean liked describe it and rather aptly at that, essentially a 'glorified panic room.' It walls and internal door were made of darkened iron and decorated with demon traps and banishing sigils of every kind. If one had read about it in a text of any kind…it was there.
The extension had been completed eight years ago by non other than Bobby Singer and was, simply put, the most fortified room in Eden.
At the creak of iron hinges, Dean flicked his darkness-adjusted eyes in the direction they had come and watched as an influx of natural light followed the silhouette through the open door. He found himself hit with a temporary 'blindness' as his eyes struggled to adjust.
'You guys do know there are lights in here for a reason, right?' questioned the silhouette as they cross the open doorway to the adjacent wall.
As the ceiling lights flickered on, he found himself faced with the beautiful Jessica Moore.
'Sam…Dean,' she greeted as she paced around them, 'nice to see you boys back in one piece.'
Dean noted the extra smile she'd flicked Sam's way. He also noted the way his brother had returned her smile with a shy and half-awkward grin. He wasn't as blind as some would think. And right now he was thinking to himself that their not so subtle crushing was going to make him puke. His dork of a brother needed to ask her out already.
'Okay boys, have a seat. We'll start with Protocol first and do injuries later, got it?' Nurse Jessica dictated and motioned towards the low-profile infirmary bed against the wall, 'who wants to go first?'
Quarantine protocol was essentially the subjection of foreign or returning hunters to quick procedures that would allow other hunters to determine their possession status. It had been developed as a means of protection and thus, Sam and Dean willingly allowed Jessica to speak the customary Christo and splash them with holy water. The cuts by silver, however, they had to perform themselves. Having apparently passed, Jessica pronounced them unpossessed and clicked around their wrists a bright yellow wristband. One that was to be worn at all times within the settlement.
And so with the clearance he needed to precede into Eden, Dean farewelled his brother with a cheeky wink and left him alone with Jessica. Something better come of it, he thought as he passed through the main entrance.
His first stop was the library on ground floor where he knew fellow hunter, surrogate father and 'forever grumpy, even when he's not grumpy' Bobby Singer was sure to be.
From the entrance of the great room, his eyes found Bobby with ease. It wasn't that hard with the older man rolling across the wall-length shelves on tall library ladder. Dean made sure he waited until the man had one foot set firmly on the ground before announcing his presence, 'hey Bobby.'
The only sign that he'd startled the older man was the slight hunch in his shoulder as he finished dismounting the ladder. Dean found himself thinking that it was an inner control that came with many years of practice.
With a slight turn, the older man regarded Dean carefully before returning his eyes to the ladder in his hands. No doubt the quick once over had been to check him for any apparent injury. 'About time you idjits got back,' Bobby spoke gruffly as he rolled the wall-length ladder to the next section of shelving, 'any longer and I'd have had to start worryin' 'bout ya's.'
The brothers had spent the last month travelling between known hunter's safe zones and checking on their progress. With some communication towers in disrepair, travel was the only other way for hunters to get word and warning to each other. Of course, the brothers had taken some time out to kill the odd exile or hell spawn that happened to cross their path.
'Coulda sent word you idjits were still alive,' the gruff voice continued rather grudgingly.
Dean knew the hunter wasn't one for open affection. His petulance was a concern in disguise and knowing this Dean found himself grinning like a spoilt Cheshire cat.
'Aw shucks, Bobby. If I didn't know you any better, I'd say it sounds as if you almost missed us idjits.'
Normally being called an idiot or idjit, would have struck a nerve in Dean but he had known Bobby all his life and with the term's recurrent use, it had become a term of endearment.
Dean heard the old man snort, 'you have a smart mouth, boy.'
'All the better to make up for the nothing going on in here,' Dean joked as he tapped the side of his head. 'Seriously though, we thought we were being followed so we decided it'd be better to lay low on communications for a while,' he explained as he made to steady the wooden ladder as the older hunter began ascending its rungs again.
'So, anything new spring up while we were gone?' Dean called after him.
The older hunter paused mid-climb and considered the question for a moment, before shaking his head. 'Don't think so. Although, that weird one…what's his name?' he clicked his fingers as if trying to ignite some internal memory wick. '…Chuck, that's it. Chuck's been pretty anti-social these days. Don't leave his quarters much...'
Dean raised his eyebrows at the information. Chuck had never been that social a person but even he had noticed in the days before he'd left, an increasing reclusiveness about the man. It was almost suspicious. He hadn't been that surprised that Bobby had picked it up on it too. The older hunter was more observant than he let on.
He made a mental note to check in on Old Man Chuck later.
'Thanks, Bobby. You gonna be right if I leave? Might head upstairs for a quick shower and then a grab quick bite from the mess.' He took Bobby's wave from above as an affirmative and took his leave.
***BREAK***
After a long awaited and thoroughly indulgent hotshower, Dean jogged down to the mess on ground level. Out in the hall he found himself stopping outside at the sight of something new hanging from the wooden doorframe, something that hadn't been there before he left.
There, hanging by a thick thread of twine was a rustic-looking piece of wood roughly two hands in length. Its length was smooth while its width was jagged, as if it had been roughly snapped from a greater whole. A dark inscription stared at Dean from beneath the glossy varnish, The Roadhouse.
Well that's new, Dean thought as he peeled his eyes away from the sign and entered 'The Roadhouse'.
What he saw floored him. The mess was all assbackwards.
The old wooden table that had once stretched the length of the room was gone. In its place were a greater number of smaller, round tables. Each with five wooden chairs set beneath them.
They must have massacred that old table, Dean thought as he observed the familiar grains in the 'new' furniture. The buffet module that had once spanned the wall furthest from the doorway was gone and in its place was a wooden serving counter and bar. It looked great and he couldn't wait to see the Sam's reaction.
'So? What do you think?' a feminine voice called out from somewhere behind the front counter. There in doorway, between the bar and back kitchen, was Jo Harvelle leaning against the wooden frame.
'Well?' She asked again and raised her eyebrows at him.
'I like what you girls have done with the place,' he returned and sat down on one of the high stools at the bar, 'your mom's idea?'
'That obvious, huh?' She asked as she walked to the fridge located on the back wall. Opening the glass door she pulled out a bottle of what looked like unbranded beer, from within. She then set the dark bottle in front of Dean. 'Mom thought recreating a pre-apocalyptic roadhouse would give those who're old enough to remember normalcy…you know a bit of…well normalcy. Better for morale and all.'
She then motioned towards the beer, 'give it a try, it's Ash's newest creation.'
Dean's green eyes flicked his eyes towards the hand-written label on the bottle. 'Beer batch number five?' he read in question and gave the girl his age a dubious look. 'What happened to beer batches number one to four? I'm not gonna keel over, start twitching and die…am I?'
Jo let out a burst of laughter at the question, 'I assure you it's quite safe. Ash has gotten quite good at brewing. The numbers denote particular flavours. I think five is one of the better ones. Give it a go. I promise you won't keel over, start twitching and die.'
He plastered on a smile at her reassurance and picked up the dubiously named liquid, 'alright, only coz you promised.' And with that he brought the neck of the bottle to his lips and took a small sip and met Jo's curious glance with a small expression of surprise. Jo hadn't been lying when she said it was good. The liquid had a pleasant earthy quality and was neither too bitter nor too sweet.
'I actually like it.' He said and watched Jo's face light up at his approval.
Giving their surrounding a quick glance, she then motioned for Dean to lean in close with a small inward wave of her fingers.
'Ash has got quite a set up in the basement,' she whispered as if her mother were just around the corner. As far as Dean knew, they were the only two in the room. 'You should pay him a visit. He's got lots of weird and wonderful things growing down there. If you can keep a secret, he may just let you try some of it,' she finished with a secretive smile.
Dean laughed at this and wondered how much of his weird and wonderful stuff Jo had tried. It couldn't have been easy under her mother's watchful gaze.
'Actually, I was planning on stopping by the hydroponics bay once I stopped in and said hello,' Dean told her.
'Like hell you were,' she crossed her arms unbelievingly. Dean stood up and ruffled her hair affectionately, knowing that she would find the gesture annoying. 'Anyway I'm off, say hi to your mom for me.'
***BREAK***
From ground floor, Dean took the stairs down to basement level. He wasn't too fond of lifts. Sam liked to call it claustrophobia…Dean liked to call it as he saw it…'a non-fondness of lifts'. Basement level was essentially designed for storing hunting vehicles, however it also housed Eden's power generator and hydroponics bay.
The initial concept had been Ash Lindberg's bright idea and after he'd had the elders sold on the concept that 'a self-sustaining Eden was a more efficient Eden', they'd sectioned off a good-sized portion of space for his experimentation. Admittedly, Ash's hydroponic plants had indeed added to the quality of their diet. Of course Dean knew, as did Jo, that Ash also had his own private little projects on the side. Brewery was one of the less mind-bending pursuits the elders were aware of.
As Dean peeped in he couldn't help but admire Ash's set up. There were rows and rows of planters, each with their own set of HID lights. As Dean looked at the flourishing greens, he found himself wondering whether Ash ever mixed a little something in their food source to help them along.
'Yo, Dean. It's been a while,' a familiar drawl greeted from behind a waist-height planter. As the man straightened Dean could see he was puffing on a cigarette. The man's half-cast eyes followed Dean's curious gaze.
'I call this…Inspiration,' he explained as he raised the cigarette in the air. He then lowered his hand to his mouth and took another puff from the stick. 'Inspiration because it feeds my inner genius.' Dean found he had to bite his cheeks to keep from laughing. With his constant state of weirdness it was often hard to tell whether Ash was cracking a joke or being totally serious. Sometimes his friend seemed to be in a plane of existence all on his own…a plane perpendicular to everyone else's.
'That's great, man,' Dean smiled as he walked the length of the planter.
'Yep, found one of these weird looking plants in the woods outside. It looked interesting enough so I brought it back…profiled it against some of my other known hallucinogenic plants, decided it seemed of a closely related genus and then decided to smoke it. Couple of batches later and hey presto…Inspiration,' Ash explained of his process in his signature drawl.
Dean wasn't as convinced, 'are you sure you should be smoking that thing? Shouldn't you be testing that on…I dunno…rats or something first?'
Ash shrugged and flicked the length of his mullet back with his free hand and gave Dean a half-sleepy gaze. 'Probably, but I've been smoking this stuff for over two weeks now and I seem fine.'
Dean gave the genius a dubious look and silently begged to differ. He watched as Ash extended the cigarette to him, 'wanna try?'
'Um…no thanks, maybe another time,' and with that he left his eccentric friend to his smokey endeavours.
***BREAK***
Chuck Shirley was, what others would consider, a recluse. He spent his days hiding in his room on the second floor with a pad of canvas paper in one hand and an oil pastel in the other.
Since Heaven's abandonment, two and a half decades ago, Chuck had not received a single divine word or vision. The archangel Raphael had up and left him that fateful day in May, all those years ago, and had never returned. His life, which had always consisted of eventful dreams by night and the urgency to record by day, had changed. For the last two and a half decades his life, even his dreams, had been his and his alone.
That was until now.
The first few times he'd had the dream he hadn't given it much thought. But with each sleepless waking, the sense of prophetic urgency had returned. In all the months he'd had the dream it never changed. It always began with a fractionated and apocalyptic-like chaos and ended with the stranger. The stranger with the tousled dark hair, skin of alabaster and near-unnatural blue eyes.
While he had had dreams familiar to these before, back in his hay day. These scenes playing out before him were different. They were of a different time. Was he once again seeing the future? And if so, why?
Heeding the 'call', Chuck had once again begun to record his dreams. At first he had started writing the details down as he had done in the past. But when he had found that words could no longer properly convey the events and the stranger, he turned to drawing. He hadn't been great at first but he had now, over the months, drawn the stranger enough times to render his face and form with realistic precision. In other words, the stranger had become his obsession. In his dream…those eyes…he could never escape those eyes. They always stared at him with such intensity that Chuck was often left thinking that he was trying to convey something to him but that he had not yet figured out how to work the medium of dream.
Chuck had a niggling feeling in the back of his mind that this individual was somehow important but he had no idea why. This unknown frustrated Chuck to no end.
A sudden rapping of knuckles on his door startles the former Prophet from his reverie.
'Who is it?' he doesn't get up from under the bedcovers; instead, he sweeps his hands across the surface in a quick attempt to set the drawings in a pile on his lap. Whoever it may be, he didn't want them to think he was any crazier than he already thought he was.
'Hey Old Man Chuck, it's me, Dean,' the young voice called back. Chuck didn't know why Dean insisted on calling him old man, he knew the young man didn't mean any disrespect by it but he was barely into his sixties. He was not that old.
'Dean, come on in. The door's not locked,' he announced and straightened his back a little against the headboard as Dean peeked in. He followed with bespectacled eyes as Dean stepped into the room and surveyed the disaster zone that was his quarters.
The older man looked around guiltily at the study table just a metre from the foot of his bed. Its surface was littered with books set upon loose sheets of paper, set upon books. There was a half-empty mug of cold coffee on the left side of his computer and two empty bottles of Ash's 'beer batch number five' on the other side. He'd forgotten to turn off his desk lamp in his haste to sketch and its light only served to illuminate the mess.
'Please forgive the mess, you caught me before a clean-up,' he lied.
He'd known the younger man wouldn't buy, 'since when do you ever clean up?' Dean stepped in slowly as if doing so any faster would upset the stacks of books and paper on his desk.
'Jeez, what happened to you?'Dean asked as he did a once over of the older man. Probably taking in the state of his unwashed hair, the stubble that shadowed the lower half of his face and darkened shadows under eyes that told of how he hadn't been sleeping too well. 'You look like you've been hit by a truck…twice...'
Chuck smiled at the probably accurate observation.
'And found on the side of the road by a hunter…' the young man continued with a quirk in his lips, '…buried in a shallow grave and somehow managed to claw your way out before the hunter had a chance to torch you!'
'It's nice to see you too, Dean. Ever so charming as you are,' he took off his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose in weariness.
The young hunter paced Chuck's quarters carefully, green eyes surveying the near-exclusive subject of Chuck's handiwork. 'These are really good. Who is he?' he questioned curiously as his fingers hovered above the picture. Hovered above it as if the mere action of touching it would somehow mar it.
'I don't know,' Chuck almost cringed as how dumb his answer sounded. He could see the younger man's confusion as he said it.
'But he's everywhere,' Dean observed aptly as he turned from the drawing to meet Chuck's gaze, 'do you want to talk about it?'
There had always been something about Dean that made it hard for him to refuse. Maybe it was his lack of judgement, maybe it was his constant search for that missing father figure or maybe…it was just some unnameable thing that was inherently Dean. Whatever it was, Chuck decided that maybe it was time to share in his burden. 'Do you remember how I once told you that I use to see things?' he started, 'back before the apocalypse began?'
He watched as Dean nodded quietly. His eyes looked upon him seriously and intently as if he knew he was being privy to something important, something that the older man had not yet divulged to the others. 'Well, I think I'm beginning to see things again. It feels…different…but nevertheless just as certain. Not whole events…just flashes of things.'
'Oh, I don't know…' he trailed off, somewhat embarrassed at not being able to better explain what was happening to him.
'Do you see him?' Dean continued on curiously, his eyes already returning to the stranger on the wall. Chuck found himself smiling softly at Dean's apparent fondness of the picture. He knew first hand how captivating the stranger could be.
'Only all the time,' he answered.
'Do you think he's real? That we're somehow meant to find him?' There was no judgment in Dean's voice, only a child-like wonderment. The question took Chuck by surprise. The realness of the stranger and the search for him had never once crossed his mind. In the past he had always been the passive voice of events. Never once had he interfered.
'The dreams feel real…' Chuck spoke in slight noncommittal. Did he now doubt himself after so many months of certainty? 'As for finding him,' he continued, 'I wouldn't know where to start…'
'Oh, that's a pity,' Dean spoke, his eyes never breaking from the picture. Apparently, the stranger had the same hold on him.
'You can take it if you like,' Chuck found himself offering. He had plenty more of them, albeit no two pictures were the same.
The young man's eyes widened in surprise, 'really, are you sure?'
'Sure, I've got a whole room full of his pictures. Go ahead,' he encouraged and watched as Dean gently plucked the picture off the wall with a soft 'thank you'. He held his hand up slightly and accepted the thanks. Apparently sensing the natural close in their conversation, Dean smiled and turned to leave.
As Chuck's eyes followed his retreating form, it was with one foot out the door that he found the younger man speaking again. 'You know,' he begun, his voice partially muffled by the partition, 'maybe we won't have to find him. Maybe…when he's ready…he'll come fine us.'
Chuck felt himself raising an eyebrow at Dean's thought. Somewhere under the younger man's exterior rough and tumble bravado, he had always sensed a softer and more caring core. Maybe his words were meant to lend hope to a reclusive old man but the reclusive old man felt better for it. 'Maybe,' he called out to the doorway, 'take care, Dean.'
'Seeya later, Old Man!' He heard Dean yell back from further down the hall. He found himself rolling his eyes at the endearment, but even as he did so, a smile found its way to his lips. Maybe he didn't mind it as much as he, internally, let on.
After getting up to close the door behind Dean, he found himself climbing back under the bedcovers and regaining his previous cross-legged position. As he settled his papers on his lap once again and looked down at the stranger, he found himself suddenly overcome with a spell of tiredness. He knew, that even as he fought against his heavy lids, that sleep would be the inevitable outcome.
And yet, still he fought until it was impossible to hold out against the heaviness any longer.
As sleep finally reigned in upon its chariot of unconsciousness, the former prophet found himself slumping slightly against the headboard in surrender. It didn't take long for those familiar dreams to materialise once again in his unconsciousness. The dreams proceeded the way they always did. Ever unchanging, he knew it wouldn't be long before he would find himself once again, looking upon the familiar stranger…the familiar stranger with the dark hair, alabaster skin and Caribbean blue eyes.