Note- Dean is 22, Cas is 20 and Sam is 16.

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Chapter 1 – Hello Stranger, My Name is Dean Winchester.

Dean.

Dean found that it wasn't like it was in the movies – the days didn't all melt together into an endless blur, blended and crushed. In fact, he found that he was pretty sure how many days had passed (a little), and had a rough idea of the date (kind of). Then again, there was no really way to count anything anymore, so if he got the date wrong, Dean doubted that anybody would notice.

That, added to the fact that there was nobody alive to tell Dean that he was wrong.

Dean had seen the fall of Outpost 4 – had been there. It had been the last hope, the last group of survivors on the planet, banded together to keep the darkness out. And they had fallen. Dean would have been surprised if even an ant had made it out alive. He watched his home, his hope, burn. He watched it explode, like fireworks. The image was still printed on the insides of his eyelids. But that was nothing to mope about now, anyway. If his father could see him now, he'd tear Dean a new one for sitting around feeling sorry for himself.

Dean had gotten into a routine, now. Trees were the best places to sleep – but check them for termites or bees before you settle down. (Dean learnt that the hard way). Start moving before dawn – most of the things that would like to eat your entrails won't be interested in a snack at that time. When you walk, stick to the road, and walk in the middle. Don't worry – your chances of being in a car accident are pretty much zero.

That said, it would be suicide to let your guard down on the road… or any where. Dean's senses were hyper active; seeing every wave that passed through the grass, feeling every stone that moved under his feet, smelling the ash and dust that floated through the air, tasting the sweat that snaked down his face and ran onto his cracked lips, hearing…

One of Dean's hands flew to his gun, the other darting to the bag on his back. The infected would take your life, either by killing you outright or by using you to spread the disease that plagued and threatened humanity itself. The uninfected would steal supplies in half a second, put a gun to your head and pull the trigger if it meant they could survive for a little longer. He knew that they were just trying to survive, but he would die without his supplies, too. The only thing he would give a stranger to eat was a bullet.

The sound, a wailing, strangled cry echoed loudly from behind a burnt-out car. Dean approached cautiously, his gun pointed to the source of the noise as he crept round to try and catch a glimpse of the thing. The creature, the- the young man…?

Dean stopped, confused, and observed the huddled ball in front of him. His observations only perplexed him further. This man - practically a boy - looked like he was past the point of saving from the infection. His hair and eyes were bleached, his skin patchy and rough and dry. Yet simultaneously, he looked like he had only contracted the disease within the past couple of weeks. The man had scabs and sores that indicated months of the violent scratching that came as part of the disease's gift package, yet his eyes and hair (which should be as pale as milk if the disease had taken complete hold), were only slightly faded. The strange man's pale eyes suddenly flicked towards Dean as he registered Dean's presence.

"Please," he croaked. Dean's heart broke for the kid, really, but there was nothing he could do to help but put him out of his misery. The strange kid, amazingly, managed to surprise Dean again with what he said next. "I don't want to hurt you. Or infect you. Please. Go."

Well, mused Dean, that's new.

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As dusk rolled in, the small bundle of blankets by the tiny fire stirred, and a small head of patchy brown hair emerged from the warm cave of tattered rags. "Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey! Well, acorn paste and stale bread… close enough."

The pale-eyed boy sat up in confusion. "Either way, it's warm food," chimed Dean, wiggling his eyebrows from the other side of the small room and gesturing at the neat portion of food lying out for the kid. "Hey," he added, "What's your name anyway?" After the boy didn't answer for a few seconds, Dean shot him a deadpan look. "I carried your beanpole body all the way to an abandoned shed, the least you can do is tell me your name."

"Sam," croaked the bundle eventually, "do you have any water?"

Dean smiled and reached into his pack and lifted out the canteen as Sam sat up, the blankets falling from his shoulders revealing more scabs and scars. Dean reached forward and passed him the canteen, "Here you go Sammy!"

Sam took the flask, the last lingering limbs of sleep unfurling themselves from his mind. He looked from the flask to Dean and cocked an eyebrow. "Why are you helping me? Why aren't you running as far from me as you can get as you can as fast as you can?" he ventured inquisitively.

Dean straightened up and folded his hands in his lap. "It's simple - I'm immune. And you're half-gone. Which means you're still not completely one of them yet."

Sam took the canteen from Dean and took a cautious sip, his eyes lingering on Dean, full of uncertainty and curiosity. It was refreshing, Dean liked this kid. Reminded him a lot of himself, back when he'd first gotten to the Outpost. Plus, it would be nice to have some human company for a while. That is, until either Dean or the disease put an end to the boy. But hey, a half-gone is better than nothing. Dean knew that it was foolish to rush in with strangers, but he was going half mad on his own, and this was just a child. He looked barely over sixteen. He could floor him if needs be.

They ate and drank in silence then Sam sat staring at Dean, his eyes squinted as if he were trying to read Dean like a book, but couldn't quite make out the words.

Dean couldn't take it anymore. "OK, kid, what the Hell?" he snapped, "You've been staring at me like a creeper all night!"

"What do you want from me?" replied Sam slowly and forcefully. Dean waved his hands in the air in frustration.

"An answer, dumbass! Why are you staring at me?" he hissed. He was reluctant to yell, even if it seemed like they were alone.

"I told you, I'm staring at you to try and figure out what you want from me. I don't have supplies, I'm not immune - not fully at least - I don't ha-" listed Sam breathlessly before Dean interrupted him.

"Whoa, kid, chill. I just want to help you out. The only selfish motive here is companionship," explained Dean.

Sam turned stark white. "Look, just let me go and I'll-!"

"Jesus Christ! Hell no! Traveling buddy, you moron! It's safer to travel in groups!" The and 'less lonely' was silent, but not unheard. Sam slowly sat back down, lowering his eyes to the floor.

"You would be in danger from me though, every second of every day. You must know how sporadic and uncontrollable the fits are. You would-" Sam spoke quickly, concern and self loathing colouring his voice until Dean interrupted him.

"I carry a gun, kid, and I know how to use it," reassured Dean.

Sam's face softened, "Thank you." he whispered.

Dean cleared his throat. "Right, OK, let's not make this soppy. Go to sleep," he said in a gruff voice, before rolling over and letting the warmth of sleep and the dying fire seep into his bones.

0o0o0

Castiel set the needle down on the record and sat down on his cold, hard but precious camping bed to read through his old journals. His house - more of a shed - was bare, holding only some canned food, some flasks of water, his bed, his record player, a handful of records and his notebooks.

But it was home. It'd been four years since all of this had started, four years hiding in this tiny shed as the world fell apart around him. This place, no matter how shabby and no matter how plain, was Castiel's everything - the epicentre of his universe, around which spun the final, dusted stars of his hope.

'There is a house in New Orleans,' warbled the record player.

Flicking through his journals, Castiel sighed. The familiar sound of the track washed over him. It wasn't like Cas was likely to forget everything that happened to him, but it helped him keep track in order to keep moving forward. He had to always keep fighting, no matter what. Plus, it wasn't like the end of the world came with a plethora of free reading material for the lonely survivors.

'My mother was a tailor,
She sewed my new blue jeans,
My father was a gambling man,
Down in new Orleans,'

It wasn't just the events after the break out of the disease, it was before as well. When he had a family, friends, a real home and hope. The first few pages of the first journal were a map of the life he once lived, a trail of breadcrumbs through everything he used to know. Castiel's whole life was inked onto these pages, his will carved into the spines, and his wishes dotted into tiny stars on the tips of 'i's.

'Now the only thing a gambler needs,
Is his suitcase and his trunk,
And the only time that he'll be satisfied,
Is when he's all a-drunk.'

He had known for a while now that having a fixed point where he stored supplies and slept was dangerous. The common philosophy of the new world was, "Is it still illegal if there are no police and no government?" It was on this night that these 'philosophers' came; drunk, violent and hungry.

It all happened so fast - they poured in, ripping the fragile door the door that Castiel treated with so much care from it's rusted hinges. Two of them grabbed his supplies, laughing rowdily, while the other two threw him to the ground, breaking bones and records alike.

Castiel scrambled to his feet, blood pouring from his nose, and bolted into the cover of a nearby forest. He didn't stop running, didn't look back, until he heard the echoing roar of a fire and saw his home go up in flames. Only a single journal remained, clutched in Castiel's hand so tightly it bent. Everything else was gone.

'Well there is a house in New Orleans,
They call the rising sun,
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy,
And god, I know I'm one..."

The skyline was a mixture of reds, oranges and greys as smoke and flame tainted the inky night sky. Stunned, injured, helpless and alone, the ghost of a song slipping from his mind, Cas watched from the edge of the forest as the fire died out and the sky turned orange once more as the sun broke over the horizon. Castiel stood silently, blood, dirt and despair clinging to him in equal amounts as he began to wander aimlessly away from the only safety and happiness he had known for the past four years.

—-

Castiel shot up in bed, forehead thick with cold, clammy sweat as a surge of adrenaline sent his mind into overdrive. Closing his eyes tightly, Cas gritted his teeth, waiting for the last dregs of panic and fear to slip away before he opened them again.

Even after four long years, that nightmare never faded, never lost the sheer dread and hysteria and loss that followed it. Castiel didn't scream in his sleep (not anymore, anyway) - in fact, he barely made a sound nowadays. There were consequences for drawing attention in this world, consequences that had been hammered and rammed into his instincts until Cas abided by them.

Standing gingerly, Castiel looked around. Since that day, since the day that they burnt his home and everything he owned, Cas hadn't settled down. His journal was clutched in one hand as he wandered away from the rotting lodgehouse in which he'd slept that night, feeling the cold wind of early winter wrap around his body. He didn't flinch as more land disappeared behind him.

Cas' whole philosophy had changed - he had nothing left to leave behind, so instead he moved on.

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