Chapter Text
Dean is twenty-six when it happens.
He's having lunch in a diner—burger and fries, the first in a while, and he'll remember the exact taste for the rest of his life.
The food isn't bad, the coffee is hot and the waitress smiles when he flirts with her. He's seen the ring, and she knows he doesn't mean anything. It's just a harmless bit of fun, a few minutes of human contact on his way to nowhere.
There are other people in the diner. An old couple, clearly still in love, are sharing a piece of apple pie in a booth closer to the door. A few regulars are sitting at the counter, loudly discussing football. A family is sitting in the booth across from Dean's, the kids just the right amount of unruly not to cause real trouble to anyone.
It's peaceful, just another day in middle-of-nowhere America.
Until it's not.
It's the cook who comes running out of the kitchen. His eyes are huge and worried, his face ashen.
"Turn on the TV," he tells the waitress.
She's in the middle of pouring Dean's coffee, but she immediately puts the carafe down. Only the kids make noise as she walks behind the counter.
"Which channel?" she asks. Her voice is barely shaking. None of them but the cook knows what's happening.
Not yet.
"Any," the cook says. His voice is shaking, hands wringing together, eyes already on the blank screen.
At first, Dean thinks the waitress put a Godzilla movie on.
Then he sees the scrolling text at the bottom.
They all watch as the monster swats at the San Francisco bridge and snaps the cables like so many twigs.
From this angle, the cars falling into the sea are no bigger than an ant.
Dean's first thought is, April Fool's. Must be. Like when they read War of the Worlds on the radio.
His second thought is, Sam. Sam is in Palo Alto. What if this thing doesn't—
"Jesus," the father across from Dean says. The old woman close to the door crosses herself, as do a couple of the men at the counter.
The remote clatters to the ground from where the waitress let it go to bring a hand to her chest.
"We're receiving word that the Air Force is mobilizing all available personnel. The Army is—"
Dean doesn't wait to know what the Army is doing. He throws whatever bills he has in his wallet on the table.
The kids are crying, a distant corner of his mind notes.
"Son, where are you going?" the old man asks when Dean throws the door open.
He doesn't answer. He barely spares a Sorry for Baby when her tires squeal out of the parking lot.
...
...
Dean should've waited to hear what the Army was about to do, because the answer was, "cordoning the entire Bay Area off."
Nobody gets in but the military.
On the other side of the highway, a river of vehicles is barely driving onward, away from the monster that's still rampaging through San Francisco.
Dean hasn't slept in more than a day. He's been listening to the news since he left the diner yesterday, trying to get some useful information on how to get a person out of the Bay Area.
Sam didn't answer his phone any of the dozens of times Dean called.
Ten hours ago, the cell coverage in the entire Bay Area failed.
Meanwhile, Dean has learnt every minute detail of nearly every other NATO member's arguments that an alien invader doesn't fall under Article 5. Only Canada has sent reinforcements—if the monster keeps heading North unimpeded, they're next.
No strike has had effect. For now, the military maintains. Dean is very skeptical that anything they can scrounge up would be able to pierce whatever that thing's got for skin.
The UN are trying to decide if an increasingly-less-hypothetical nuclear strike would count as an act of war, and eventually against whom.
Dean still has no idea where Sam is and how he'll get him away from the blast of an increasingly-more-probable atomic bomb.
...
...
One thing the military didn't consider when cordoning the Bay Area off was Dean's stubbornness.
That, and people hellbent on seeing the monster up close.
Fundamentalists are already calling it the Leviathan, herald of the Apocalypse. The name is catching on.
Dean couldn't care less about the Apocalypse. He just hitches his way behind its supporters sneaking behind the military guarding every access. He splits when they keep going closer to the Leviathan, towards Oakland.
Palo Alto is a ghost town. The monster didn't come close, so it's still mostly intact, but there's nobody on the streets.
Whoever could leave has left. Everyone else is praying the Leviathan doesn't come this way.
Dean parks in the middle of the road. He doesn't ring the doorbell, there's no point. Instead, he picks the lock on the apartment building's door and makes his way up the stairs.
He hopes Sam's not somewhere else. He knocks.
It's not Sam who answers the door.
"Is Sam Winchester here?" Dean asks her.
She nods, wary and frightened. From behind her, Sam steps in front of the door.
"Dean," he breathes. "What are you doing here?"
"Dad's on a hunting trip and he hasn't been home in a few days. What do you think I'm doing here, Sam?" he snaps. "I'm getting you out of here."
Sam frowns. The girl looks between the two of them, lips pursed, arms hugging herself. Sam unthinkingly puts an arm around her shoulders.
"They said to stay in place," Sam says.
Dean snorts. "They're preparing Enola Gay II as we speak. You want to see the next Little Boy up close?"
Their eyes widen. They look at each other, then at the apartment behind them.
"I—" Sam says.
"Sam," the girl says. Her voice is shaking.
Sam rubs a hand down his face. "Fine. Jess, this is Dean, my brother. Dean, this is my girlfriend. Do you have space for three people?"
"Who's the third?"
Sam and the girl step back inside the apartment, Dean behind them. A guy is standing in the small living room.
"Dean, Brady. Brady, Dean, my brother. He's getting us out of here."
"Hi, Dean," Brady says. "Thank you."
Dean shakes his head. "Just hurry up to pack. That's all the thanks I need."
They do. Fifteen minutes later, Dean closes Baby's trunk on whatever they could fit in the suitcases and duffle bags they had on hand.
Sam's sitting shotgun, his friend and girlfriend in the back.
Nobody speaks as Dean drives them out of town and back the way he came.
There's no one on the road until they get closer to the way Dean's made it past the military line
In the distance, they spy a whole column of trucks, a lot of them sporting some variation or other of the flag. Many of the people on them are probably drunk. All of them are definitely armed.
"Who are those?" Jess asks.
"Apocalypse groupies," Dean says, barely sparing the convoy a glance.
“Where are they going?” Sam asks, following one of the trucks with his whole head.
“Who cares?” Brady says.
“They want to see the thing up close,” Dean says. “Maybe shoot at it.”
Sam looks at him and frowns. “Seriously?”
“I don’t know, man. I just followed them past the military lines ‘cause they knew how to avoid patrols. Doesn’t mean I know what’s going on inside their head.”
...
...
A ping from Sam's phone alerts them to the fact that they're back under cell coverage. Jess and Brady immediately get to calling their families, reassuring them they're alive and they'll be home in just a couple days.
Ten minutes later, they all breathe a sigh of relief when they get past the theoretical line of the red zone.
Dean's grip on the steering wheel relaxes, and the yawn that tears its way from his throat makes him close his eyes for a moment.
"You want me to drive?" Sam asks, though it's not really a question.
Dean rubs a tired hand over his face. "Sure. Where are we going?"
Nobody speaks for a few moments, then, hesitantly, Brady says, "My parents live in Chicago."
Dean nods. "Chicago. We can do Chicago. Jess?"
"Chicago sounds great," she says. "Anywhere will be better than here."
Dean turns the radio on to keep himself awake.
"—has made land in Oakland," the news reporter is saying. "The UK has announced that they will send two squadrons of jet fighters to aid in the efforts to take down the Leviathan. Meanwhile, the President—"
...
...
Dean stops at a service station a few miles from the danger zone. There are a lot of other cars, and the four of them get out to stretch their legs as they wait for their turn at the gas pump.
There's a group standing aside, starkly different from the one Dean followed into the Bay Area both in countenance and attire.
When he ambles closer, on his way to get a cup of coffee to at least stay awake through refilling Baby, he hears them talk in hushed whispers of the Leviathan being distant enough, maybe South San Francisco is safe, people who couldn't leave are still there, at least the kids…
Dean considers the ratio of vehicles to people. A quick headcount gives just the driver for at least half of the cars, trucks and vans standing in line.
He wishes them well in their endeavor, but he's not going back. The person he wanted to save is already out of the blast zone.
...
...
Sam and Dean take turns driving to Chicago. Jess and Brady take a couple shifts, too, but mostly it's just the two of them behind the wheel.
Outside of California, traffic improves. It's even like there's no monster loose on the West Coast, except for the odd military vehicle speeding in the other direction.
By a tacit, mutual agreement, none of them press to spend the night at a motel.
Chicago is the end of their journey, and they're sleeping in the car until then.
...
...
They're one hour outside of Illinois when the radio crackles with static and the President's voice.
"I have consulted with our allies," he says, "and the General Assembly and Security Council of the United Nations have given their assent. Seeing the inefficacy of conventional weapons, I have authorized the employment of three tactical nuclear missiles to take down the foe that is currently tearing a path of destruction through the coast of California. I am instituting a mandatory evacuation for all civilians still inside the red zone, to be concluded before 12 p.m. tomorrow, Eastern time."
None of them speaks for a while.
Dean's knuckles on the steering wheel go white.
Desperate times, meet desperate measures.
But there won’t be enough time to get everyone out.
...
...
On November 2nd, three tactical nuclear missiles take the Leviathan down and kill most of the people still in Sacramento and the surrounding areas.
Estimates give the number of victims of the whole incident between 70,000 and 500,000. A lot more will likely suffer the effects of radioactive fallout.
Dean, Sam and Jess watch the strike live. They left Brady with his parents yesterday, after sleeping in the living room of their Chicago apartment.
This morning, at breakfast, Jess said she wanted to go home too. Dean and Sam looked at each other and nodded.
The whole diner is watching the news in silence.