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The world had ended years ago.
Not in a single cataclysmic moment, but in increments of despair—streets overrun by Croatoan-infected people, society crumbling into chaos, and death waiting around every corner. The bunker, once a place of knowledge and security, had become more of a fortress than a home. Dean Winchester strode through its halls, his boots echoing against the cold concrete. His shoulders were straight, his face grim, but inside, he was hollow. Leadership demanded strength, and Dean carried it well, but each day weighed heavier than the last. In his office, maps and mission reports cluttered the desk. Dean leaned over them, rubbing at his temples as his vision blurred. The food rations were running low, their ammo reserves dwindling, and the number of infected zones was increasing. “You look like shit,” came a familiar voice, low and rough with amusement. Dean glanced up to see Cas leaning against the doorframe. Cas wasn’t the angel he used to be—grace gone, his humanity fully realized. He was a little stoned most of the time, his dark hair slightly unkempt, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. “Nice to see you, too,” Dean muttered, turning back to the maps. Cas stepped into the room, his gaze sharp despite the haze of smoke. “You haven’t slept in days,” he said, his tone soft but firm. “Can’t afford to,” Dean replied, brushing him off. Cas walked closer, exhaling a slow stream of smoke before stubbing out the cigarette in a tin ashtray on the desk. “Dean, you’re going to burn out.” Dean huffed a laugh, though it lacked any humor. “Kinda late for that.” The tension between them was palpable. Cas watched Dean with a mix of exasperation and concern, his arms crossed over his chest. “You think carrying all of this on your shoulders makes you strong,” Cas said, his voice steady. “But it’s killing you.” Dean stiffened, his jaw tightening. “What else am I supposed to do, Cas? If I don’t keep moving, people die.” “And if you collapse, who’s going to lead them?” Cas shot back. The words hit harder than Dean wanted to admit. He turned away, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. “I can handle it,” he said quietly. Cas sighed, stepping closer. He reached out, his hand brushing lightly against Dean’s arm. “You don’t have to handle it alone.” Dean’s throat tightened, but he didn’t pull away. The warmth of Cas’s touch was grounding, a reminder that someone cared—though Dean didn’t feel like he deserved it. Later that evening, they sat in the small living quarters they shared—a space far removed from the sprawling loneliness of the rest of the bunker. The air smelled faintly of cigarettes and whiskey, and the only light came from a flickering oil lamp on the table. Dean lay on the bed, his head resting on Cas’s chest as they shared a rare moment of peace. Cas smoked lazily, one hand brushing through Dean’s short hair, the other holding his cigarette. Dean plucked the cigarette from Cas’s lips, taking a quick drag before grimacing. “Tastes like crap,” he muttered. Cas smirked, taking the cigarette back. “And yet, you keep trying.” Without warning, Cas leaned down and kissed him—rough and demanding, the taste of smoke lingering between them. Dean gasped, the kiss catching him off guard, and Cas took the opportunity to deepen it. When Cas finally pulled back, Dean let out a shaky exhale, his breath mingling with the faint haze of smoke in the room. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, though there was no bite to his words. “And you’re beautiful,” Cas replied, his voice low and gravelly. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth before trailing down to his neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. Dean let out a quiet moan, his hands fisting in Cas’s shirt. For a brief moment, the weight of the world didn’t exist—only the warmth of Cas’s body, the steady beat of his heart, and the feeling of being wanted. The peace didn’t last. The next morning, reports of discontent among their group reached Dean’s ears. Supplies were scarce, and Dean’s leadership decisions were being questioned. Cas noticed the tension in Dean’s shoulders, the way his movements grew sharper and more rigid as the day went on. “You need to keep an eye on those mutineers,” Cas warned, his tone serious. Dean grunted in acknowledgment, though he didn’t say much. He couldn’t afford to let doubt creep in—not when the survival of their people depended on him. By nightfall, Dean was preparing for a routine patrol to check the perimeter of their territory. Cas hovered nearby, smoking his last cigarette of the day. “You sure you don’t want backup?” Cas asked, his voice casual but tinged with concern. “I’ll be fine,” Dean replied, pulling on his leather jacket. Cas stepped closer, his blue eyes searching Dean’s face. “Don’t do anything stupid.” Dean smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “When have I ever done anything stupid?” Cas didn’t laugh. Instead, he leaned in, pressing a kiss to Dean’s temple. “Be careful,” he murmured. Dean’s smirk softened, and for a brief moment, he let himself relax into Cas’s touch. “I’ll see you later,” he said, his voice quiet. But as he walked out the door, a flicker of unease settled in Cas’s chest—a feeling he couldn’t shake. The cold night air bit at Dean’s face as he walked the perimeter of their territory. His breath misted in front of him, and the silence of the Endverse pressed down on him like a weight. The world felt emptier now, the stars overhead distant and cold. He adjusted his leather jacket, his fingers brushing over the worn material. Cas had patched it once, sewing the ripped seam after a scuffle with an infected. Dean had grumbled at the time, but now, the jacket felt like a shield—a reminder that someone still cared enough to keep him together, even when the world fell apart. The path was familiar, a routine Dean had done a hundred times before. But something felt off tonight. Dean paused, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the dark forest around him. His hand hovered over his gun, the weight of the weapon reassuring. The crunch of leaves underfoot echoed in his ears, but it wasn’t his footsteps that sent a chill down his spine. There was someone else out there. “Show yourself,” Dean barked, his voice sharp as he drew his gun. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive. Then, a figure stepped out from behind the trees—a man Dean recognized as one of their group members. “Nick?” Dean frowned, his gun lowering slightly. Nick smirked, his hands raised in mock surrender. “Relax, Winchester. Just out for a walk.” Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You’re supposed to be on guard duty back at camp.” Nick shrugged, taking a step closer. “Thought I’d stretch my legs. Nothing wrong with that, is there?” Before Dean could respond, a sharp rustling behind him made him spin around. Another man appeared, then another—faces Dean recognized, but their intentions were clear in the cold gleam of their weapons. “You’ve been making some bad calls, Dean,” Nick said, his voice laced with venom. Dean’s grip tightened on his gun, his body tensing. “You wanna talk about this, fine. But drop the weapons.” Nick laughed, a harsh sound that echoed in the quiet forest. “Oh, we’re done talking. You’ve been leading us into the ground, and we’re not gonna follow you anymore.” The first shot rang out before Dean could react. Pain exploded in his chest as the bullet struck, knocking the air from his lungs. He staggered back, his hand pressing against the wound as warm blood seeped between his fingers. “You son of a bitch,” Dean hissed, his voice strained as he raised his gun and fired. The shot hit one of the men square in the shoulder, sending him to the ground. The others rushed him, their knives glinting in the moonlight. Dean fought back with everything he had, his vision blurring as pain coursed through him. He managed to land a punch, then another, but the strength was draining from his limbs. A hard shove sent him stumbling toward the edge of the cliff, his boots skidding on the loose rocks. The sound of rushing water below filled his ears, a deafening roar that drowned out the jeers of his attackers. Nick smirked, stepping closer. “You should’ve listened when we told you to step down, Winchester.” Dean’s chest heaved, his breaths shallow as he clutched his bleeding wound. “You’re gonna regret this,” he growled. Nick’s smirk widened. “Not likely.” With one final shove, Dean lost his footing. The world tilted as Dean plunged over the edge, the icy spray of the waterfall hitting his face as he fell. The pain in his chest flared with every rapid beat of his heart, and his vision blurred as the freezing water engulfed him. For a moment, everything was silent. The cold water stole the breath from his lungs, pulling him under as the current dragged him deeper. Dean’s body thrashed weakly, but his strength was fading fast. His mind raced with fragments of memories—Sam’s face before Lucifer possessed him, Bobby, Cas’s voice murmuring his name in the quiet of the night. “Not like this,” Dean thought, panic clawing at his chest as his body sank deeper. But the darkness was relentless, wrapping around him like a shroud. His chest burned, his lungs screaming for air, but there was none to be found. As the world slipped away, his last thought was of Cas. Back at the bunker, Cas sat alone in the dimly lit living quarters. The room smelled faintly of smoke, the ashtray on the table overflowing with discarded cigarettes. He frowned, his fingers tapping against the edge of his glass of whiskey. Something wasn’t right. Dean should’ve checked in by now. Cas pulled out his radio, his voice steady but tinged with worry. “Dean? You there?” The static that greeted him sent a chill down his spine. Cas tried again, his voice sharper this time. “Dean, answer me.” Nothing. Cas’s stomach twisted, and he stood abruptly, grabbing his coat and weapons. He stormed through the bunker, his boots echoing against the cold concrete as he approached Chuck’s room. The prophet looked up from his desk, startled by Cas’s sudden entrance. “What’s going on?” Chuck asked, his brow furrowing. “Where’s Dean?” Cas demanded, his blue eyes blazing. Chuck hesitated, glancing at the stack of notes in front of him. “I… I don’t know. He was on patrol, wasn’t he?” Cas’s jaw tightened, and he grabbed Chuck by the front of his shirt, pulling him close. “You’re the damn prophet. If anyone knows where he is, it’s you.” Chuck swallowed hard, his gaze flicking nervously to the radio still clutched in Cas’s hand. “The forest,” he said quickly. “Near the waterfall.” Cas released him, his expression dark as he turned and strode out of the room. The journey to the waterfall was a blur of panic and determination. Cas moved quickly, his gun in hand as he scanned the forest for any sign of Dean. When he reached the edge of the waterfall, his heart stopped. Dean’s leather jacket lay near the water’s edge, soaked in blood. “No,” Cas whispered, his voice trembling. He dropped to his knees, his hands shaking as he picked up the jacket. The sound of rushing water filled his ears, but it couldn’t drown out the panic clawing at his chest. He scanned the area desperately, his voice breaking as he called out. “Dean!” Cas’s world narrowed to the sound of the waterfall and the bloody leather jacket in his hands. His chest felt tight, his throat closing as his mind raced. Dean was here. He had to be. “Dean!” Cas shouted, his voice echoing over the roar of the water. There was no answer, only the unrelenting crash of the falls. Cas’s fingers trembled as he scanned the area, his sharp gaze darting to every shadow and ripple in the water below. His eyes burned with unshed tears, but he refused to give in to panic. Then, through the spray of the falls, he spotted something—a figure caught in the shallows, unmoving. Cas’s breath hitched, and without hesitation, he scrambled down the rocky slope, his boots slipping on the slick stones. The water was icy as it seeped into his clothes, but he didn’t care. His focus was solely on the lifeless form lying half-submerged in the river. “Dean,” Cas murmured, his voice breaking as he reached him. Dean’s face was pale, his lips blue, his body unnaturally still. Blood seeped from the bullet wound in his chest, staining the water around him. “Come on, Dean,” Cas muttered, his hands trembling as he grabbed Dean under the arms and dragged him onto the riverbank. The weight of Dean’s body didn’t faze him—the desperation coursing through him made Cas stronger than fear. He laid Dean flat on the grass, his own breathing erratic as he checked for signs of life. He pressed his fingers to Dean’s neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing. Cas’s stomach twisted, but he didn’t stop. He leaned down, his ear hovering over Dean’s mouth and nose, waiting for the faintest sign of breath. Silence. “No,” Cas whispered, his voice trembling. “No, no, no.” Cas moved with urgency, placing his hands on Dean’s chest. His fingers interlocked, and he pressed down hard and fast, his movements precise despite the panic coursing through him. “One, two, three…” Cas counted under his breath, his voice breaking. The sound of chest compressions filled the air, punctuated by Cas’s labored breathing. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold, his muscles burning as he fought to bring Dean back. After thirty compressions, Cas tilted Dean’s head back, pinched his nose shut, and pressed his lips to Dean’s. He exhaled, willing air into Dean’s lungs. “Come on,” Cas murmured, his voice raw. He pulled back, watching Dean’s chest for any sign of movement. Nothing. Cas resumed compressions, his hands pressing down with renewed determination. “You don’t get to leave me,” he growled, his voice fierce. “Do you hear me, Dean? You’re not allowed to give up!” As Cas continued CPR, his sharp eyes caught the blood pooling beneath Dean’s body. The bullet wound in Dean’s chest was still bleeding, and every compression only worsened it. “Damn it,” Cas muttered. He tore off his own jacket, balling it up and pressing it firmly against the wound. The blood soaked through almost immediately, but Cas didn’t stop. He kept one hand on the compress, holding pressure, while his other resumed compressions. “Stay with me, Dean,” Cas murmured, tears spilling down his face. “I’m not losing you. Not like this.” After the minutes stretched unbearably long, Dean’s body jerked violently beneath Cas’s hands. Cas froze, his breath catching as Dean’s chest heaved, a weak, gurgling cough breaking the silence. Water spilled from Dean’s mouth, and Cas quickly turned him onto his side, his hand rubbing firm circles on Dean’s back to help him breathe. “That’s it,” Cas said softly, his voice shaking with relief. “Breathe, Dean. Just keep breathing.” Dean’s coughing subsided into weak, shallow breaths, his body trembling in Cas’s arms. Before Cas could feel any sense of relief, Dean’s body went slack again, his head lolling against Cas’s shoulder. “Dean?” Cas shook him gently, his heart pounding. “Stay with me.” Dean didn’t respond. His skin was pale, his breathing ragged. The blood loss and hypothermia were taking their toll. Cas clenched his jaw, determination hardening his features. He scooped Dean into his arms, his strength fueled by desperation, and began the arduous climb back up the slope. The trek back to the bunker felt endless. The weight of Dean’s unconscious body pressed heavily against Cas, but he didn’t falter. Every step was a struggle, his boots slipping on the uneven terrain, but the thought of losing Dean kept him moving. “Just hold on,” Cas muttered, his voice raw. “We’re almost there.” By the time Cas reached the bunker, his own body was trembling with exhaustion. He kicked open the door, his breath ragged as he carried Dean inside. Cas worked with quiet efficiency as he treated Dean’s gunshot wound. The bullet had lodged dangerously close to Dean's heart, the flesh around it raw and swollen. Each tug to remove the bullet sent tremors through Dean’s unconscious form. “Hold on, Dean,” Cas whispered, his voice hoarse. His trembling hands were stained with blood, and the sight of Dean so still, so vulnerable, made his chest ache. The cabin was dimly lit by an oil lamp, its flickering glow casting shadows across Dean’s pale, sweat-slicked skin. Cas finally extracted the bullet with a pained grunt, tossing it into a metal bowl. Blood welled around the wound, and Cas pressed a cloth firmly to the gaping hole. “This will hurt, but you’re going to live,” Cas murmured, as though speaking would will Dean to stay. He cleaned the wound with antibiotics, wrapping it tightly with bandages scavenged from their meager supplies. Dean remained unconscious, his breathing shallow but steady—a small mercy. Cas sat back, exhaustion weighing him down, but he didn’t dare leave Dean’s side. He cradled Dean’s hand in his own, his thumb brushing over calloused knuckles. “You’ve survived worse,” Cas said quietly, though his voice faltered. “But I need you to wake up, Dean.” It had been a week since Cas had dragged Dean from the river, patched him up, and stayed by his side day and night. The gunshot wound to Dean’s chest was healing—slower than Cas liked, but healing nonetheless. He had managed to remove the bullet, sterilize the wound, and wrap it tightly in fresh bandages every day. Dean even managed to joke occasionally, his trademark smirk shining through the pain. But this morning was different. Cas was brewing the last of their coffee ration when he heard it—a rattling, wet cough that echoed down the hall. His mug clattered against the counter as he rushed to Dean’s room. Dean sat hunched over the side of the bed, his hand pressed to his mouth. When he pulled it away, Cas’s heart dropped. Blood streaked his palm. “Dean,” Cas said, his voice sharp with worry. Dean looked up, his face pale and drenched in sweat. “Don’t freak out,” he rasped, but the hoarseness of his voice only made Cas more frantic. Cas was at his side in an instant, pressing a hand to his forehead. “You’re burning up,” he muttered, already moving to grab the med kit. Dean groaned, leaning back against the pillows. “I’m fine,” he said, though his labored breathing told a different story. “No, you’re not,” Cas snapped, his voice uncharacteristically harsh. “You’re coughing up blood, Dean. That’s not fine.” Dean tried to smirk, but it fell flat. “You’re cute when you’re bossy.” Cas ignored him, his hands trembling as he checked the gauze around Dean’s chest wound. It wasn’t the source of the blood—at least not directly—but it was clear that something was very, very wrong. “You’re not cute when you’re dying,” Cas muttered, pulling the blankets up around Dean’s shivering frame. It didn’t take long for Cas to realize the truth. Dean’s coughs grew deeper, his fever higher, and his breathing more labored with each passing hour. The infection from the gunshot wound had spread to his lungs, and now pneumonia was tightening its grip. “Cas,” Dean wheezed one night, his voice barely audible. “You’ve gotta let me go. You can’t... can’t keep dragging me back from the brink.” Cas leaned closer, his hands cradling Dean’s face. “I won’t let you die,” he said fiercely. “Not now. Not ever.” Dean’s lips curved into a faint smile, even as his chest heaved with the effort of drawing breath. “Stubborn bastard.” “You’re one to talk,” Cas shot back, but his voice wavered with emotion. The turning point came in the middle of the night. Cas had dozed off in the chair beside Dean’s bed, his hand resting on Dean’s arm. He was jolted awake by a harsh, rattling sound—Dean struggling for air. “Dean!” Cas was at his side in an instant, shaking him gently. Dean’s eyes fluttered open, panic flashing in their green depths as he clawed at his throat. “Can’t... breathe,” Dean gasped, his voice barely a whisper. Cas’s heart raced as he scrambled to prop Dean up, his mind racing through everything he’d learned from first-aid manuals and experience. He grabbed the oxygen mask they’d scavenged weeks ago, pressing it to Dean’s face. “Breathe, Dean,” Cas urged, his voice trembling. “You have to breathe.” But Dean’s body convulsed, his head lolling to the side as the monitor Cas had rigged up let out a shrill, warning beep. “No,” Cas whispered, his hands shaking as he pressed his ear to Dean’s chest. The faint rhythm of his heartbeat was slowing—too much. Cas’s hands moved on instinct, interlocking as he began chest compressions. “Stay with me, Dean,” he growled, his voice breaking. “You’re not leaving me. Not like this.” He tilted Dean’s head back and pinched his nose, sealing his lips over Dean’s to deliver a breath. “Come on,” Cas pleaded, his voice cracking as he repeated the cycle. After what felt like an eternity, Dean jerked, coughing violently as he sucked in a ragged breath. Cas sagged in relief, his forehead pressing against Dean’s damp hair. “You’re okay,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. By morning, Dean’s condition had stabilized, but Cas knew it wouldn’t last. He needed a solution—something stronger than the half-expired antibiotics and scavenged oxygen tanks he had on hand. He pulled Chuck aside. “You said there was a clinic a few miles west,” Cas said, his voice urgent. Chuck nodded hesitantly. “Yeah, but it’s risky. The Croats hit that area hard.” “I don’t care,” Cas said firmly. “Dean doesn’t have time for me to be cautious.” Chuck sighed, but he didn’t argue. “Be careful, Cas. He’ll need you when this is all over.” Cas returned hours later, battered and bruised but victorious. He’d managed to find a stash of experimental antivirals and a portable ventilator. “This better work,” he muttered, setting up the equipment with shaking hands. Dean was barely conscious as Cas inserted the tubing, his blue eyes fluttering open briefly. “Cas?” “I’m here,” Cas said, his voice trembling. “Just hold on, Dean. I’ve got you.” The machine whirred to life, delivering oxygen to Dean’s failing lungs. For a while, it seemed to help—until the second crisis struck. The alarms blared again, and Cas’s heart dropped as he saw Dean’s heart rate spike on the monitor. “No, no, no,” Cas muttered, rushing to his side. Dean’s body convulsed, his lips tinged blue as the ventilator failed to keep up with his needs. “Don’t you dare,” Cas growled, climbing onto the bed. He started chest compressions again, his hands moving with desperate precision. “Breathe, Dean!” Cas shouted, his voice raw. “Come back to me!” He tilted Dean’s head back and delivered another breath, his tears falling freely now. “You’re not leaving me,” Cas whispered, his forehead resting against Dean’s. “I won’t let you.” Suddenly, Dean’s body jerked, and he gasped, coughing violently as his lungs filled with air. Cas let out a sob of relief, pulling Dean into his arms. “I can't lose you, Dean.” he whispered, his voice shaking. Dean’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “You'll never lose me, Cas.” Over the next few days, Dean’s condition stabilized, though his recovery was slow. Cas stayed by his side, coaxing him to eat and drink, and keeping him comfortable as his strength returned. One evening, as they sat together in the dim light of the bunker, Dean reached for Cas’s hand. “Thanks for not giving up on me,” he said softly. Cas met his gaze, his blue eyes filled with quiet determination. “I never will.” Dean smiled faintly, leaning into Cas’s touch. “Guess that makes us both stubborn bastards.” Cas chuckled, pressing a kiss to Dean’s forehead. “That it does.” For the first time in weeks, Dean felt like he could breathe again—not just because of the oxygen, but because of the man who had fought to keep him alive.