Written for the prompt: Dean and Cas are both about to die so one makes a deathbed love confession. When they miraculously survive things are awkward between the two of them, the confessor not thinking the other feels the same way; angst with a happy ending.
Zombie apocalypse. That’s actually how Dean’s going down.A fucking zombie apocalypse.
The thing that pisses him off is: zombies are easy.
Bullet to the brain and they’re down for the count. Again. But yet, here he is, trapped in a damn storage closet with a
graceless Castiel at his side, and one bullet sitting in the magazine of his
"How the hell did we get here?" Dean mutters
mostly to himself. He lets his head fall back against the hard cement wall
behind him and tries to block out the sounds of the incessantly moaning dead
just outside the door.
"Through the mess hall," Castiel states
Dean heaves a sigh.
“Rhetorical question, Cas.” He glances around the empty storage closet, rubbing
at his eyes and trying to force himself to think. He doesn’t get
into jams like this. He just doesn’t.
Yet here he is.
As they sit, waiting for their inevitable death - what
else can they do, really - part of Dean hopes the zombies will get tired of
waiting for them, wander off to harvest somebody else’s brain. And it sounds
wild, but hope’s all he’s got left at this point; that’s how fucking bleak the
When the door handle starts to wiggle, moans seeping
beneath the door and creeping into the storage room, Dean comes to the
conclusion hope is for suckers.
The wiggling becomes more incessant and is quickly accompanied
by heavy fists pounding on the door, and Dean and Castiel are on their feet,
breathing shallow and shoulders taut.
"They’re not strong
enough to break in, right?" Dean asks and despite already knowing the
answer he needs Castiel to say no.
"Yes, with enough force they could break the
"Fuck." Dean mutters. He looks at his gun
again, that one bullet not even enough to buy them some extra time, and then at
Cas who’s watching him with calculated eyes.
"We can’t hold them off for long." Castiel says.
Dean snickers, shakes his head. “Fuck, Cas, aren’t you
quite the optimist.”
The door clangs loudly and Dean’s head snaps up and
towards the sound. The grotesque faces of the dead are peering through the
small window on the door, their jaws working jerkily as they groan.
They’ve double, tripled almost, in numbers, and they’re
crowding around the door, pounding decaying flesh covered hands against the
This is it. Last episode,
folks, no To Be Continued.