A/N: Thank you so so so much to toridw317 and ImpalaLove for reviewing! You guys are awesome. I just couldn't help but add a little bit of background to this - this chapter is mainly from Claire's POV, and what happened to her before she meets up with Dean. So, that said, we are going BACK in time. Hopefully it's not too confusing.
What Is And What Should Never Be
2.
For them, it starts with a tornado in the beginning of July.
It's the weekend of the Fourth, and they're all home.
Dad looks out the window. The sky is an unearthly greenish color. Trees rustle ominously. American flags sway all the way down the street.
"Get into the basement!" he orders, full-on Sergeant Shurley. "Go!"
Mom ushers her two adult children and one half-grown one towards the stairs.
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She had dreams about this, before. Dreams about a green sky. Dreams about a man in a white suit. She never knew what they meant.
They were just dreams.
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When they finally emerge from the basement, the upper story has been completely leveled.
The house was lovely, once – yellow with white trimming. Now, it's just an utter mess of debris, like all the others in the cul-de-sac. She steps over broken glass, torn photographs, the remains of the furniture, to walk into the driveway and down to the road. Even the blacktop is spotted with trash, spotted with stained fabric that was once red, white, and blue.
She turns around and stares at the unrecognizable remains of the home she grew up in. She thinks she ought to feel sad – maybe even distraught – but she just feels numb. She's in shock, in awe. And her family is all there, so she figures they're fortunate. She's certain people died.
Several other families are also standing outside, marveling at the biblical ruin, staring at the gradient sky to ascertain whether it's over at last. No one can be sure, not even Dad, not even the ones who've seen this before.
She hears injured neighbors groaning in the rubble. She hears water running from burst pipes, she hears dogs barking and whining frantically. She hears a drip drip drip, and all of a sudden Dad screams, "GET DOWN!" and everything goes whiter than the sun.
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Ryan is standing above her, five stitches above his right eyebrow.
He runs his hands over his military buzz-cut from back to front, belabored.
"Mom didn't make it," he says.
Claire tries to sit up, but feels like all her ribs are broken. Charlie's standing near the corner, looking like he's seen too much. Dad is nearby, expression completely unreadable. Both of them are scratched up, too. She's sure she is. She's aware of a scab somewhere on her cheek when she opens her mouth to speak.
"We have to go," Ryan says urgently.
"What?" she croaks. Her voice is dry and hoarse, and talking feels like swallowing razorblades.
Ryan tugs her arm with unprecedented force. "We have to go."
They're in a hospital. That, she can tell easily – the sterile sea foam-green color scheme is unmistakable.
"What's going on?"
"After the twister, there was a gas leak," Dad says, sounding faraway. "They took us here, but now-"
All of a sudden, there's a hideous screech from the hallway.
Ryan hauls her out of the hospital bed. "We have to go!"
Claire is up. She's wearing a hospital gown. They all are.
He's shepherding them out of the room and into the hallway, where the scream came from. It doesn't look at all like it should – lights are flickering, dislodged from their sockets, IV poles are toppled over and scattered, various other medical paraphernalia dots the floor like confetti. There are no people. Why aren't there any people?
And there's blood.
Splatters of it – not blood-drive blood, the type of blood you expect to see in hospitals.
She feels a pang in her chest, like something is deeply wrong, but they don't stop moving. Dad and Ryan get them out of there, and Dad hot-wires the nearest ambulance.
Outside, there is an unholy din. There are screams like the one they just heard – inhuman screams –, children crying, car alarms going off, engines revving.
The sound of people moving.
The sound of people running.
They speed away.
There are no windows in the back.
Claire's not sure if she wants to see, anyway.
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If Dad knows one thing, it's where to find guns.
If Dad knows one thing, it's how to survive.
One thing he didn't know? Vietnam was just the tip of the iceberg.
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She'll never forget the first one she killed.
It was an elderly man wearing a burgundy sweater, wispy-white hair caked in blood. He had the sort of wise, benevolent, wrinkled face you see from time to time, in the grocery store or at the doctor's office. He was probably someone's grandpa, once. He probably meant something to someone.
She knew right away that something was wrong. She saw it in his eyes, in the contorted kindness in his face.
He ran at her and she shot him, just like that.
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They say it's a virus.
That's why it was so bad at the hospital.
Chicago is swarmed in a matter of days – most cities are. You can't go near them. There are legions of… they don't really know what to call them. Charlie started calling them "infected," and it kind of stuck.
They can't really call them people. It's too hard to think of it like that. It's too hard to kill them when you think like that.
The suburbs are still okay though, for the most part.
On the road, they catch glimpses of the news. Fox is sold on the End of Days theory; CNN and MSNBC are leaning towards bioterrorism.
But the whole world is collapsing, not just the US. Pictures of bodies clogging the ancient canals of Venice, of the streets of Calcutta in utter chaos are constantly flashing across the screen.
She can't imagine that humans engineered something that could do this. She won't.
She wonders where the newscasters are hiding, how they're still able to broadcast. She wonders who's protecting them and why.
Churches across the country are overflowing. Before it gets really bad, people flock to them, turn them into fortresses. Claire thinks something about that is nice. She wishes she could have faith like that. Wishes they could stay in one place. Wishes…
They're moving south.
"We need to get to an island," Ryan reasons. "That's – I mean, that's what makes the most sense, right?"
He's driving. He turns to Dad, in the passenger seat. He's not looking at him.
"Yeah," he agrees distantly.
Claire sees a flicker of something tortured flash across Ryan's face, and he swallows hard.
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There's another virus that's taken the nation by storm, and no one's talking about it: mass suicide.
The first time she realizes what's happening, they're in Missouri. They come across an old Rite-Aid with parking lot chock-full of cars. Nowadays, Claire always starts looking at things from the ground up. So the first thing she notices is the cracked tarmac, the weeds, the cigarette butts and bubblegum. Nothing out of the ordinary.
The cars, though. They're full.
Whole families in them. Just dead. Like they couldn't even wait to drive home to do it.
There's a baby in one of the cars, strapped snugly into a car seat. Ryan looks at her in horror, making her feel like the elder sibling for the first time in a long time. Voice low, he chokes, "Who the fuck would do something like that?"
Dad puts his hand on the back of Charlie's neck.
"Don't look," he says.
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Most of the time, it's just quiet. Just the four of them on the road. Sometimes, it's even peaceful; at least they have each other.
Claire thinks back to the Rite-Aid a lot. She wonders how the churches fared.
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She notices cuts on Charlie's forearms, one day. She wouldn't think anything of it, normally. She can't remember the last time she saw a person whose skin wasn't littered with scratches and bruises.
But these cuts are straight, systematic, and don't quite blend in with the others.
At the campfire, when Dad and Ryan are cleaning up after a dinner of squirrel and baked beans, she grabs his wrist and studies the pale flesh.
The lines are thick. Some are scars, some are half-healed, some are fresh and barely scabbed over.
"What's this?" she demands.
Charlie peers up at her in a mixture of panic and fury, unshed tears dancing in the firelight.
"Mom's dead," he says, like he's the only one who knows it.
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They move so often, she doesn't really feel the loss. How can she? How can she mourn her the way she deserves to be mourned? If they stop moving, if they stop to think about it, they'll die.
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Dad isn't the same, after.
Ryan is doing everything he possibly can to keep them together.
She admires him. He's younger than she is, but he's so much better at this. They wouldn't be here, if it weren't for him.
So she hates to put this on him. She hates to, she hates herself for it. But she's running out of options.
They're camped on the top of a hill near the border of Missouri and Kentucky.
She says, "Charlie has been hurting himself."
Ryan looks at her in shock and alarm, blue eyes that are identical to hers flashing with pain.
"What do you mean?" he manages.
"After Mom…"
Ryan nods, like that explains it all, and stares at his folded hands in the dark.
There seem to be more stars in the sky, nowadays. Maybe it's because there's no more light pollution, no more electricity in the cities.
She says, "I… I tried talking to him. But he doesn't listen to me the way he listens to you."
He nods again. "I'll talk to him."
Claire rises from her knees and brushes several clumps of grass off her shins. Ryan stays on the hill, one leg bent towards his chest and the other spread out in front of him.
Dad and Charlie are around the fire, manically cleaning guns. She watches her father's weathered hands dance their way gracefully across the metal, watches the expertise in his movements. Charlie is watching him, too, trying to follow his example.
She goes to her rucksack and digs out a can of Swiss Miss they found a few towns back and have been rationing ever since. She fills a battered copper pot with water from her own meager supply, holds it over the flame for a few minutes. Once it comes to a boil, she stirs in the chocolate powder.
When she climbs back up the hill to bring some to Ryan, she sees his silhouette shuddering against the moonlit indigo backdrop of the night.
It's only when he brings his hands to his face that she realizes he's sobbing.
Quietly, she turns around and walks back down the hill.
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She dreams about a man who can save them.
She dreams about a black car.
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Something happens when they get to Arkansas.
By now, they've long since ditched the ambulance in favor of a far more pragmatic SUV.
The infected have leached into the suburbs and they travel in herds, like animals. They mostly just meander around brainlessly, unless you get too close or make too much noise. They avoid them rather than fight their way through them, but sometimes it's unavoidable.
They're running out of food and fuel, and they have to stop at a gas n' sip. This sort of supply run has become routine, by now.
Dad and Ryan go in.
And god, was it a mistake.
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"S-someone… Someone must have trapped them in there, I don't-"
"Ryan, what happened?" Claire demands, gripping his shoulders to keep him from trembling so violently.
Dad is groaning in pain, clutching his left wrist to his chest.
Ryan heaves a deep breath and says, "They bit him."
Charlie's eyes widen to saucers and he cries, "No, that can't-"
"You… You have to shoot me," Dad says, like it's no big deal.
"Are you crazy?!" Claire questions hysterically. "Why the hell would you say something like that?!"
"You have to, honey, I'm gonna turn," he laments.
"No. No no no no," Ryan chants, pacing back and forth. He runs his hands over his grown-out hair from back to front. "No."
Claire cannot accept this, either. "There has to be something – there's got to be-"
"You know there isn't," says Dad.
Tears forging rivers down Charlie's face, making his complexion ruddy. He hugs his father tightly around the middle.
Dad clears his throat, getting choked up, and puts his good hand on the top of his son's shaggy head.
"We don't have all day," he warns.
To be honest, they have no idea how long the infection takes to spread. They've never seen anyone turn before.
Claire takes Ryan aside, leading him by his elbow.
"What do we do?"
Ryan is shaking his head feverishly. Even after all they've been through, she's never seen him like this.
"I don't…" is all he says.
Claire feels something hot and oily in her stomach. Thank god she hasn't eaten anything all day, or surely she would chuck it back up right about now.
She asks, "Do you want me to-"
Ryan looks at her suddenly, lucidly. "No," he states. "I'll do it. It should be me."
She has no idea why it should be him, but she's not sure if she even could do it, so she's not about to argue.
"Do you want me to come?"
"No," he repeats.
He storms back to the others and tears Charlie away from their father, roughly. It's the first time he's ever seen hatred in his little brother's eyes – pure, ugly hatred.
He leads their father far, far away, down to a riverbed.
The last thing Dad says to him is, "I'm proud of you, son."
Claire and Charlie can hear the gunshot from the car.
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Ryan never comes back.
They wait all night.
They don't know what happened to him.
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Claire and Charlie wander around Arkansas on their own for a couple of weeks, not really knowing what to do.
Do they keep going south?
Do they try to find others?
Do they just stop?
At night, Claire imagines all the ways they might die. As they're lying in the back of the SUV, an infected might come and break through the windows and that would be it. It would all just end right there, like that. Or maybe it will end tomorrow, or the day after. But sooner or later…
It feels like they're biding their time, like all they're doing is waiting. Like all they can do is wait.
She wants to stop moving. What's the point? What's the point of any of it?
It's so lonely. Charlie hasn't spoken a word since.
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She dreams about a church, and the next day they cruise by it.
"We should go in," she says. "We have to go in."
Charlie just looks at her blankly, but follows nevertheless.
Claire takes the hunting rifle with her, because she's not stupid. Charlie doesn't take anything. Part of her is glad for it, but the other part is stricken.
They enter the priests' chambers, quiet as mice. Inside, there is no food, and her stomach is aching at the mere memory of what it felt like to be full. Their last meal… Wow, she can barely remember it. Probably that rabbit they caught a couple of days ago.
But there is water, which is much more important.
They guzzle holy water. Is it safe? Is it sanitary?
She doesn't know. All she knows is it remedies the sandpaper lining of her esophagus, and damn, if it kills her, this would be a great way to go.
After a few minutes, they hear voices in the nave, and her whole body goes rigid. Infected don't speak. People speak, and she doesn't know what people would do to them.
The sound of a woman's voice makes her feel more at ease, but only slightly.
She looks at Charlie, whose face has gone white in terror.
They're not going to make it on their own. They're just… not.
She thinks about food. She thinks these people don't sound like they're starving to death. She thinks her stomach is trying to digest itself. She thinks she's not just responsible for herself.
"C'mon," she hisses, grabbing his wrist and pulling him along.
Charlie plants his feet, shaking his head viciously.
"C'mon," she insists. "They could help us. They sound okay. They sound like good people."
He still looks wary, and snatches a plank of wood that's come away from the wall.
This time, when she pulls him he complies.
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She knows the moment she lays eyes on him that he's the type of man they need. The type of man like Ryan, like their dad.
The type of man who sets things in motion, who doesn't just wait, who doesn't just bide his time.
He is a leader.
And something about him is familiar.
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He sits with them in the back of the jeep on the way to the camp, assessing them. The windows are blacked-out. Probably so they can't find their way back to wherever it is they're going.
He scrutinizes their bodies unabashedly, and suddenly it dawns on her: he's searching for bite marks. There's no way he doesn't notice Charlie's wrists.
"We're not infected," she assures him.
He tilts his chin up slightly and leans back, like it wouldn't really matter if they were.
"What's your name?" he asks flatly.
"Claire," she answers. "And this is my brother, Charlie."
She watches him expectantly, waiting for him to return the favor.
"I'm Dean," he says finally.
A/N: There might be more to this, idk. Never say never. Thanks for reading!