Chapter 3: It Has to End

Dean tightens his arms around my middle and I snuggle deeper into his chest. He's so warm, and it's so cold in here. Strange, because it was just fine when we finally fell asleep again. I scoot just a bit to get even closer as he does the same. We are both still, both suddenly aware at the same time that something is not quite right. I open my eyes to a too bright room. Too bright because the curtains should be blocking the morning sun. They're not.

"What the hell?" I hear Dean say in shock. He sits up, pulling me along. "Where's the mattress?"

No mattress. No curtains. No covers. No sign that this is the room in which we fell asleep aside from the arrangement. The run-down, dusty, cobwebby furniture is all in the same position as when we collapsed in the dark, early hours. The peeling paint is new, though.

"Dean? What's going on?" I don't know why I'm asking him that. It's obvious he has no more idea than I do. I'm just so used to looking to him for the answers in these kinds of situations. He cuts his eyes at me, silently acknowledging the dumb question, then begins to lift himself off of the bed springs.

We slept heavily after that phone call. I know I did, and Dean's puffy eyes make me think I'm right about him, too. We were just so . . . worn out? Worn out by the conversation. Dean was crushed at having to tell Sam no; it's not something he's ever been really good at. I felt the weight of guilt because I was happy he did. Selfish, I know. So selfish. But things have been better without him. I hate myself for that truth. We sat in that chair together for twenty minutes. Light kisses, quiet reassurances, just the closeness helping a little. Smoothing his hair one last time, I crawled out of his lap and led him to bed.

And we wake up to this clusterfuck. Not exactly what we were anticipating.

He reaches a hand back to me when he finally frees himself from the medieval torture device that our bed has become and helps me up. Putting my feet on the warped and splintered wood of the floor, it hits me that instead of being carelessly nude, we are both completely dressed. Boots, jackets, weapons, everything. We did NOT go to bed that way. Watching Dean reach into his waistband to check his gun, I know we are on the same wavelength.

"What the fuck, Jay?" It's my turn to give him the stupid question look.

"I don't know. I don't like it."

"Yeah, me neither."

We start looking around, hoping to find some clue as to just what exactly is going on here. There is no good explanation. At least, no solution presents itself under the bed or in the bathroom. Nothing in our bags, either, since they seem to have disappeared. I'm not quite ready to open the door. All I have, it seems, are the things I always have on me: my gun, my knife, my lockpick, my bobby pin, and my phone. I dial Bobby with my fingers crossed.

"What the hell?" Dean begins to dial Sammy, I'm sure, then is standing in the window, a sudden look of complete disbelief on his face, phone forgotten. It takes a lot to surprise my man, even more to shock him. This room set him on edge, but this is the first time he's looked like that since we got up. Whatever he sees right now has him stunned, and I'm not sure I want to see it. He turns back to face me, beckons me to the window, and eyes the phone in my hand. "That thing working?"

"No," I answer, slowly going to his side.

"I'm not surprised."

Finally getting a glimpse of the world beyond this room, I understand why.

Devastation. Total annihilation of the cityscape. It's like a scene from a zombie movie. Garbage piled in the street, fires in the near distance, buildings in decay, nobody walking around, but no bodies on the ground, either. Small blessings, I guess.

"Oh, my God."

"I don't think this was Him, babe," Dean says, encircling my shoulders from behind. I didn't realize how much I need his comfort until I feel him against my back.

"Can you call Castiel down here?"

"I'll try, but maybe you should give it a shot. I'm sure he'd fly right in."

"Dean? Jealous of the angel?" Now it's my turn to be shocked. Maybe not the most appropriate time, but still, he's the one who wanted us to get along! Men.

"No," he grunts aggessively, which, of course, means yes.

"Don't be. Not of him. Not of anyone who isn't you. Not ever. Got it?"

"Okay. Look around one more time, gather any of our stuff that you can find. I'm gonna 911 Cas and then we're outta here.

My search turns up exactly what we thought it would. Nothing. We have only what's on our backs. Not really heading into this latest unknown situation completely prepared, but we'll make it work. We always do.

"No luck?"

"No. Cas is not picking up. It's just us."

"We can handle it."

"Time to head out, then. Don't wander off."

"What, are you suddenly the Doctor?"

"You are really not as funny as you think you are."

"You're just jealous because I'm funnier than you."

"Jay, " he begins, taking me in his arms, making me feel small and protected. "This is making me a little nervous. Just stick close to me, okay? We get through this together. Same as always."

"Together," I promise, tilting my head to look up into the face I love so much.

It's worse once we get outside. From our window above, it almost looked calm. Down here, on street level, it is chaos. Cars covered in ash, windows blown out by the force of the fires that torched them. Paper everywhere, garbage, glass. There are carts and crates and wire and fence, telling the story that whatever happened here did not happen uncontested. Everything wears the air of abandonment and decay.

We push farther into the city center, and the graffiti becomes more frenzied, more voices left behind in splashes of paint. Dogs of Peace and HEDZ DED appearing more than once.

"What happened here?" I whisper into the still, heavy silence.

"Oh, babe, I don't know." He slows his walk to a stand still, and I meet him, grabbing his hand. "Whatever it was, this is the aftermath, not the battle."

"Dean, over there." I point down the alley to our left. Movement. Is it? It's a -

"It's a kid!" he exclaims

"Little girl," he says soothingly as he approaches the dirty, rag-clothed child. He is so great with kids. Another dream this life makes impossible. "Are you hurt?"

No, she's not hurt. She's fucking crazy, murderously insane and stabby, but she's not hurt. Dean jumps back with reflexes he usually only has to use in the face of the monsters in whose company we often find ourselves. I step into the space he leaves and cold cock the little killer. I don't get there before she cuts Dean with a broken shard of mirror. She was way too fast.

"You okay?" I ask, pulling on his jacket, checking the damage. I've never wanted to hurt a kid before.

"Oh, shit," he says.

"That bad? Dean, I don't see anything that bad." I run my fingers over the bloody spot on his t-shirt.

"No, no, not me. That," and he points to the wall at the end of the alley.

CROATOAN

"Oh, shit," I breathe.

The red paint used to leave the word as a warning ran like blood before it dried. It's fitting, because the word means death. It mean viciousness and fear and death. It means people at their most feral and bloodthirsty. It means we better run.

A little less than three years ago found my gang of three in Oregon, chasing one of Sammy's visions. We had no idea what we were walking into. We walked into a nightmare. A demonic virus, laced with sulfur even at the microscopic level, had overtaken a small town. Its effect was simple, nothing fancy. Get the virus, become a crazed murderer. No one was safe. I almost lost both my boys in that town that sanity forgot. And then it was gone. Just vanished, even in the petri dishes. Gone.

Until today.

I don't know if the crowd, the mob, the herd of Croatoan-infected people coming around the corner heard us, or smelled us, or if our luck is just that bad. Doesn't really matter. They know we're here now.

"RUN!" Dean yells, and we take off. Down alleys, up the main street, around corners, just barely keeping ahead of the rabid but fast infected people behind us. Dean never stops; he slows to let me catch up, but not often. I'm not slow and I keep up pretty well. We run and run and run until a fence gets in our way. Before we can even grab the first link to haul ourselves into a climb, a new arrival stops our plans.

Machine guns, a tank, and a Motown song. Our pursuers are mown down with the beat. It's little comfort, however, because the guys firing the machine guns are shooting in our direction, too. And enjoying it a bit too much if the soundtrack is any indication. We run again. I turn down a smaller alleyway, Dean hot on my heels, and we hunker down for a while. Running and hiding is not our usual style, and I'm already over it. Fear is turning to frustration. We need to get a handle on this.

"We need to get to Bobby's," I whisper, not wanting to attract the attention of anyone we've encountered this morning. I don't want to run anymore.

"I agree. Give it a few, and I'll go look for a car that might still be running."

"I'm going, too."

"Jay, stay here and I'll be back."

"You really think that would work?" I ask, eyebrow raised to maximum sarcasm.

"Hell, no, but I thought it was worth a shot. I just want you safe."

"Dean, we're not safe anywhere. I'm coming with."

Waiting until nightfall, we finally move, finding a high fence with just enough of a gap for Dean to get through. Good thing; the top is barbed wire. There's sufficient light from the moon to read the sign attached to it.

"Croatoan virus hot zone. No entry by order of acting regional command," I read outloud.

"That says August 2014. Why does that say August 2014?"

"We were in a quarantine zone. Quarantine, Dean!" I start looking at my hands and my clothes, moving fabric to look at the skin underneath. "Quarantine!"

"Hey, hey, hey, now, calm down. Remember how it spreads? Remember? Body fluids, Jay. Jane, we don't have it." He pulls me to him and spends time we don't have comforting my panic. How I wish I could get this under control. So many insecurities, I am afraid I will never completely regain the strength I once had. Seems so long ago now, when I was so confident in being able to take care of myself. Sometimes I see it. Sometimes I even think I can take care of Dean. But right now, I'm freaking out.

We don't have to go far from the hot zone to find a car. I keep a lookout while he hot wires it, and we take off in the direction of Bobby's house. It's a long drive, Missouri to South Dakota, and we're just hoping to be able to get gas along the way. Guess we'll be siphoning, if we find enough cars. There's nothing on the roads. The radio doesn't pick up anything but static. We're alone.

Well, that is, until Zachariah pops up inside the car, reading horrific headlines from a paper like he belongs in our backseat. He confirms our suspicions. Croatoan destroys the future.

"How did you find us? You're not supposed to be able to find us," I ask with more conviction than I feel.

Barely sparing me a glance in the rear view mirror, he replies, "Afraid we had to tap some unorthodox resources of late. Human informants. We've been making inspirational visits to the fringier Christian groups. They've been given your image, told to keep an eye out."

"The Bible freak outside the motel. He, what, dropped a dime on us?"

" He recognized Jane. Seems her face stuck in his mind," he admits with a derisive snort. "Onward, Christian soldiers."

"Okay, well, good, great. You have had your jollies. Now send us back, you son of a bitch."

"Oh, you'll get back. All in good time. We want you to marinate a bit."

"Marinate?" I ask. I don't like the sound of that.

"Three days. That's all. Three days to see where this course of action takes you, Dean."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean glances at me. We both know exactly what the angel is talking about.

"It means that your choices have consequences. This is what happens to the world if you continue to say "no" to Michael. Have a little look-see. See what happens to you, and to Sam. And to Jane."

With one more look at me in the mirror, Zachariah vanishes as quickly as he appeared.

"Get me to Bobby, Dean," I whisper.

He grips my hand tightly and steps on the gas.

A/N: Meh.