Title: The Walking Supernatural: A SPN/ Walking Dead crossover (1/16)
Author: daksgirl
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Zombies! Crossover fic of Supernatural meets the Walking Dead.
Pairings: Dean/Castiel overall none this chapter, brief mentions of Rick/Lori
Spoilers: SPN up to end of Season 5 , goes AU after that. Takes place roughly in WD Season 2 Episode 2 and follows the plot pretty closely, so avoid if you don't want to be spoiled!
Warnings: Violence, Decomposing corpses, Strong language, Adult situations
Word Count: 3,996 this chapter (WIP)
Summary: AU from 5x22 Swan Song, kind of an alternate Season 6. Shameless abuse of two very awesome tv shows that I thought might work well together. Zombies walk the earth and Dean Winchester is having a very bad day.

A/N: Oh god. This is my very first foray into writing for a fandom, and what do I do? I decided to write a fic involving TWO fandoms. WTF self. Way to start out small and improve. I already have some ideas planned out so might end up turning this into a verse of it's own because already my imagination has run away with me. That is if anyone actually finds this enjoyable! *facepalms* I plan to stick pretty close to the plot of The Walking Dead with the Winchesters thrown into the mix so will probably wait and see how the rest of the WD season goes and write accordingly, but I've already written a few more chapters. Please comment and even friend my journal if you like, like I said this is my very first fic (meep please be gentle) so let me know if you like it/ what I can improve etc! It's Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own. Oh and I don't own anything. Just playing yada yada.

...

The air was humid and close, echoing with the sounds of cicadas; a constant chorus that ebbed and flowed through the dry shifting grasses. It was the kind of place that reminded him of days long gone; long ago afternoons spent out in the sun playing in the grass, dirtying up his knees as he ran and tumbled and played. A glass of cold lemonade delivered by a lady with kind eyes, beads of condensation slowly forming and running down the side. Reminded him of a younger brother, laughing, and neither of them having a care in the world.

But those days were long gone, and Dean Winchester didn't have time for nostalgia.

"Dean come on…" Dean ignored the voice, shifting his duffle bag further up on his shoulder as he stalked forward. The contents clinked softly.

"Dean…" The voice continued, this time with a definite whine. Great. He could practically hear the puppy eyes his brother must be shooting at him, but he was NOT going to get off that easy.

He grunted and continued moving deeper into the fields. There were two of them; empty stretches of dry grass with no-one else around, flush green trees flanking the edges like a living fence. At one point in time this must have been a fertile place to make a living, but now...well now it hardly mattered anymore.

There was an annoyed huff behind him, and Dean finally turned his head slightly.

Sam was following behind, somehow managing, all 6 "4 of him, to look like someone had stolen his candy andkicked his puppy. His shoulders were hunched, and he looked at his brother with a sorrowful expression that could rival any bloodhound. His own duffel was hoisted on one shoulder with an arm curled protectively around it, his fingers pulling at some loose threads mindlessly. His hair was wild and disheveled, dark smudges forming under his eyes and dried blood smeared across one cheek. He looked like hell, and Dean felt a tiny bit of the all consuming rage that had fueled him for the past few miles, simmer down to a slight buzz.

Repressing the urge to sigh and roll his eyes, Dean slowed, turning to face his brother properly.

Goddammit Sam was actually pouting.

Sam came to a halt and for a moment both brothers just stared at each other. A minute, two, then Sam finally conceded, his eyes darting away to stare forlornly at the surrounding grass. He gestured helplessly with one arm, the movement jerking his over-long hair into his eyes.

"Look I said I was sorry. What more do you want me to say?" He asked.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Oh I dunno Sam, how about a 'Sorry I got us into this mess,' or a 'Hey man it was really stupid of me to pull that' or even 'Hello my name is Sam the STUPID'." If possible, Sam's pout only increased in magnitude and even managed to take on an angry scowl. He lifted his eyes from where they had been studying the dying grasses to lock onto Dean's, their bitch-mode fully activated.

"First of all, you need better insults. Secondly, you are a GINORMOUS bitch, and thirdly…HOW is this my fault? I didn't put that walker in front of us, I didn't make the Impala skid into that damn truck and helloI wasn't the one driving! In fact YOU were driving, so if this is anyone's fault, it's YOURS."

Dean could feel a vein pulsing in his forehead, and the beginnings of a head ache from clenching his teeth together too hard.

"Whose idea was it to take that stupid case in South Carolina? Who thought getting out of the city was a good idea, who set that goddamn walker on fire in the first place and who then shoved it into my baby by flailing like an idiot!" His voice was starting to reach a pitch he had thought only Sam capable of when particularly scandalized about something girly. Couldthisdaygetanyworse?

Sam dropped his eyes again and shrugged sullenly with one shoulder. "In my defense it was already on fire…"

"Fuck you Sam!"

"Look," Sam held his hand up in surrender. "This isn't helping. I'm sorry ok? I'm sorry we're stuck out here without the Impala. But you being pissed at me isn't helping things. We have to find shelter before dark. You know as well as I do Dean, that getting caught out in the open, especiallyat night is a death sentence. Who knows how many walkers are around here, and god knows what else."

Dean sullenly cast a glance towards the tree line. Dammit he was right. They didn't know these woods or territory at all. Any maps they had possessed had gone up with the Impala.AndGoddidthathurttothinkabout. Could be anything from a Wendigo to a grumpy bear living in there. Knowing their freaking luck recently, maybe a demonically possessed bear. And here they were with no real weapons, thanks to a shuffling corpse with an unhealthy love of fire. Dean exhaled roughly, shoulders slumping.

"Alright. I get it, I do. It's just….we can't catch a break you know?" He shrugged helplessly. "Just one more layer of bad on top of a shit sandwich. And lemmie tell you, I'm pretty damn tired of being force fed it." Sam's eyes softened and he moved forward to clap a supportive hand on his brother's shoulder, squeezing gently.

"Yeah. I know." Dropping his hand, he hoisted the duffle bag further up his shoulder, striding past his brother. "But hey look on the bright side, at least the world is still here for us to complain about." Dean snorted, falling into step slightly behind.

"Yeah if you can call this a world."

...

It had all started a few months ago.

They had finally found a way to put the devil back in his cage once and for all, and it hadn't involved saying yes, or a sacrifice, or anyone dying. What it had involved was a whole lot of chanting and Latin phrases that Dean could never hope to understand; along with a shit-tone of magical assistance from a few sullen, ancient witches whom Cas had apparently blackmailed into helping them (man they still gave him the heebie jeebies, he kept far away from them fuck you very much). And they had done it. They had defeated the freaking devil. Lucifer was back in his cage, the angels had all fucked off back to heaven, sans one trench coated warrior, and everything was hunky dory. Status quo resumed and all that jazz.

At least…that's what they had thought.

They had been tracking an angry spirit out in South Carolina when Bobby had started hearing through the hunting chain of things happening.

It was in drips and drabs at first, a demon here, a skin walker there, but pretty soon it was happening all over. Demons and monsters were abandoning ship right left and center; leaving the country and skedaddling further North as fast as their little demon legs could take them. Dean hadn't believed it at first, until that group of them off Interstate 22. They were literally throwing themselves at the Winchesters and not even bothering to put up a fight, practically forming a line to get exorcised.

Creatures were hightailing it back to hell rather then stay around on earth, and that well....thatmade him damn nervous.

A few weeks after that the shit really hit the fan. Dead people started coming back to life. Dean would have laughed, if it wasn't all so fucked up. Of all the things to happen, of all the things they faced, it was fucking zombies.

Flashbacks of a very similar future he had witnessed danced before his eyes, and he had fearfully confided in Sam that maybe they hadn't really stopped anything at all. But this wasn't the Croatoan virus. These zombies were just that; zombies. Dead shambling corpses. They couldn't run, and though the fresher ones could move relatively quickly, it was nothing like the sprinting undead he had experienced in 2014.

On top of that Sam wasn't dead or possessed, Bobby was alive and kicking and Cas wasn't a drugged, orgy addict. It seemed stupidly easy at first to brush it off; heck it was only a few zombies here and there, and it wasn't like they were challenging to kill. But then they were everywhere. It wasn't Night, Day or Dawn of the Living Dead. It was everysinglesecond of the living dead, and Dean bet George Romero was having a ball, the future-predicting bastard.

Cities started to overrun with the undead. People panicked and made things worse, creating bottlenecks of panicked mobs on the interstates where the infection of the undead spread through like wildfire. Reports came in of it happening in other countries, and any hopes that it was a small freak occurrence that had befallen select locations, was blown to pieces as the news broadcasted that it was happening everywhere. All over the world, from Nepal to Nebraska, zombies swarmed and killed and fed.

They had managed to divert one apocalypse but then suddenly found themselves slap bang in another one, and the Winchesters were pretty pissed about it. It was like, we just saved you goddammit, can't you stay out of trouble for one freaking minute?

Castiel had been barred from heaven by a pretty irrate Raphael, (who apparently was still sore about the whole holy oil thing), but even he knew that the angels didn't have anything to do with it. There was no hint of magic or anything supernatural around the zombies, just a horrible feeling of wrongness. Like this wasn't supposed to happen and even the supernatural creatures were freaked by it. Castiel had vowed to look into it further, and had flapped away to some dark corner of the earth. Last they had heard he had been in Russia investigating a potential lead, but shortly after that all the phones went dead, along with the power grid, and pretty much every other luxury known to man.

That had been nearly three weeks ago.

The Winchesters had been trying to make their way to Bobby's when they had hit a road block. Goddamn military had swash-buckled in, over-arrogant they could control the situation and the two brothers had been stuck in a small town just north of the Georgia/North Carolina border. Of course everything went to hell as it inevitably always did when the Winchesters were involved, and it was through sheer dumb luck they had managed to not only get themselves out when the military defenses failed, but also save a chunk of the population while they were at it.

It felt good, saving people again.

They had been invited to stay with the survivors who were moving north, headed for the cooler climate of Canada and beyond, where populations were smaller and terrain harder to travel for the undead masses. It was a good solid plan, and they would have been willing to try it if it weren't for the small fact that they apparently weren't done with being big damn heroes. If they were going to try and figure this out and save the world (again), then they had to get to Bobby's. The old crotchety bastard was family, and if that damn angel of theirs had any sense he would have immediately headed back to Casa de Singer the moment the shit hit the fan. Bobby's house was their goal, and they were going to get there. Zombies be damned.

They had been trying to keep to the smaller back roads, but they turned out to be worse than the main highways; panicked people trying to get anywhere but wherever they were. Empty cars littered the roads, twisted metal and spilt gasoline a very real fire hazard and random items just abandoned where they were dropped, strewn haphazardly across all lanes. It made travelling in the car difficult, but it was better then by foot. John Winchester had taught his sons well, and the brothers used their combined hunting knowledge to siphon gas, gather supplies and hell just survive.

They had finally made it into Georgia a few days ago after having to abandon South Carolina. The roads were too jammed full of abandoned cars and the undead. They had been making good time until this morning. This morning when they had lost the only home they had ever known, thanks to a stupid abandoned truck, a fat zombie, onfire, and no luck whatsoever.

...

Dean had decided, he hated Georgia. The forest they were now trudging through was nice enough, alternating between lush green and prickly bushes; here and there a bright burst of color as flowers attempt to break through the dense foliage. Dead leaves crunched underfoot, cicadas hummed peacefully, birds chirped in the trees and the sun winked at them from a blue sky with no cloud in sight. It was glorious really. But the goddamnheat….

"I'm sticky in places I didn't even know I had." He grimaced. Sam rolled his eyes, huffing.

"Gross Dean. I was trying NOT to think about it." They had abandoned their usual flannel shirts and coats for simple tees, but even wearing the thinner cotton hadn't helped, and both men were sweltering. Dean shifted uncomfortably, trying to pull the sodden material away from his skin. He could feel the warm damp line of sweat trickling down his back as he attempted to air the hot skin underneath the strap of his duffle.

"Next time, let's get stranded in Alaska. Somewhere cold. Not the south." He grumbled.

Sam snorted, shaking his head. "No arguing here."

The shadows were beginning to lengthen, and as they trudged deeper into the forest the air began to thin and take on a slight chill.

Sam cast an anxious glance at the surrounding trees, hand straying towards the knife sheathed on his belt. The only weapons they had managed to get in the mad scramble from the Impala were what were already in their duffels; a few knives, two pistols and one sawed off shotgun. They had already used most of the ammo trying to escape from the highway, where it seemed the zombies liked to swarm along the shimmering asphalt. Gunshots only attracted more of the shambling horrors, so they had stowed the guns away in the bottom of Sam's duffle. Instead they opted for the knives and kept them close. It wasn't ideal having only short-range weapons, but it was better then nothing.

Dean stopped suddenly, Sam smacking into the back of him with a loud oof. He rubbed his nose where it had collided with the back of his brother's head, scowling.

"Dude what the hell-" They both heard it then, the familiar wet snuffling sounds of something was definitely not human.

There was a slight ridge in front of them, a big enough hill to hide any sort of creature, and they waited, hearts pounding, ears straining to pinpoint the sound. Nothing burst out at them, and after a moment of heavy breathing and listening they realized it was coming from a fixed direction and didn't seem to be moving.

Dean jerked his head in the direction of the noise, and Sam nodded tersely, slipping the knife free from it's sheath at his waist. Crouching low to the ground, they moved forward as one with practiced ease, the slight rustling of leaves the only indicator of their presence. As they crested the slight ridge and took in the scene before them, they paused, throwing each other a glance that clearly said: Whatthehellisgoingonhere?

Someone had been camping. A sturdy tent had been erected between two trees, a cooking pit directly in front of it and a few fold away chairs, haphazardly strewn around, lay on their sides nearby. Dean breathed out a slight whistle.

"Oh man. That is fucked up." Nearby, up a slightly taller tree, was the source of the snuffling. A heavy man dangled from a thick branch, a tight cord of rope digging into the swollen black flesh of his neck.

He had been dead a while.

The zombie noticed the two as they approached and started up its snuffling wheezing, hands jerking towards them. The mouth opened and closed; its tongue shiny and black, swollen with rot and insects.

Sam was the first to approach the thing, and stared at it with curious horror. "What..." Dean wrinkled his nose in disgust as the sickly smell of decomposition thickened the air, shifting the duffle bag to his other arm.

"Stupid son of a bitch tried to hang himself." Sam leaned forward, reading something on a small piece of paper nailed to the tree.

"Check this out: "Got bit, fever hit, world gone to shit, might as well quit."" Sam snorted. "Now if that isn't the best suicide note I've ever seen."

Dean chuckled lightly, but his stomach twisted as he watched the creature jerk and dangle. "Shakespear he aint."

The camper had obviously tried to kill himself before he turned; not fully comprehending that he'd turn anyways. Dean studied the thrashing corpse as it growled and slobbered; rotting arms reaching for him whilst the creature strained against the rope. The bony nubs of what was left of its fingers clutched the air, one rotten enough to come loose, falling to the ground.

Dean grimaced and moved a little further away. Sam, the gigantic freak, was fascinated by the morbid spectacle, and had even grabbed a dead branch to poke the dangling thing's legs. They were a mess of gleaming bone and putrid muscle, several sinuous fibers coming lose at Sam's prodding.

"Looks like other zombies came and used him as a dangling buffet," Sam's face was grim. "Stripped the flesh off his legs." Dean made a face, shaking his head in revulsion.

"Dude. TMI." Sam rolled his eyes, dropping the branch and wiping his hands absently on his thighs.

"Come on, there's nothing we can do now." A gunshot would only draw unwanted attention, and the thing was too high to reach with any knives. He'd just have to stay there, as distasteful as it was. Dean tried to imagine what it would be like, dangling from a tree, doomed to never break free and never die, stuck like that for all of eternity. He suppressed a shudder. Whatawaytogo.

A quick search of the campsite didn't reveal anything useful; only a few discarded empty beer cans. There was a cooler, but the food inside it had long since decomposed, and a swarm of ants had staked their claim on it. An old rusty 4x4 truck was slowly being reclaimed by nature, and the vehicle was in too sorry a state to really consider attempting to drive. The doors hung off it at jagged angles and Dean stared at it for a moment, idly wondering what could have done that before deciding he didn't want to know.

"Hey." Sam said suddenly, pointing a little ways away from the tent. "Looks like our friend the poet left us a trail to follow. He must have driven up here from a road or something. If we follow the wheel tracks we might find somewhere or something to shelter in."

Sure enough, the faint imprints of a 4x4 were dented into the long grass. It must have been a few weeks since the poor bastard had come up here, but the tracks were still good. Dean grinned.

"About time for some good news. Lead on McDuff."

...

Rick Grimes looked out over the quiet field from his spot by the window. Outside, evening had descended over the farm, and the last few rays of the sun could just be seen stretching across the horizon behind the line of trees. The air was cooler, less close than during the day and someone had started a small fire in the middle of their makeshift camp, a few yards from the main house.

The flames cast small flickering shadows across the hulking bulk of the RV, and Rick spared a slight smile for what had been their home for almost a month. Dale was reclining on the roof, eyes scanning the fields and trees for any sign of danger. A shotgun was clasped loosely in his hands across his lap, hat jammed low on his head. Rick watched the others moving around the fire, and heard a slight laugh filter through the air to him. Sounded like someone had finally managed to get Carol to smile.

He sighed heavily as he felt delicate hands press against his sides, then slide under his shirt. A feminine body pressed up along his back, and he closed his eyes, relishing the familiar feel of Lori against him. The thrumming of insects washed over him and for a moment he could pretend the world wasn't ending. He could pretend it was all a bad dream and he'd wake up to a normal world where he could go to work, sit in the car with Shane laughing about old girlfriends and eating greasy burgers from Joe's across the street. He'd come home in the evening to an excited Carl telling him about his day, a hot meal on the table and Lori making those eyes at him that promised he wouldn't get too much sleep that night. God if only-

"Carl's sleeping." Her voice was quiet; her breath warm against his ear, but it was enough to break the calm spell he had managed to lull himself into. Rick opened his eyes, breathing a sigh.

"Spoke t' Shane today." He murmured. Lori was silent, running her fingers gently over the muscles of his stomach that twitched and jerked in response.

"About what?" Her voice was carefully neutral. Rick shook his head slightly, squeezing the hands that had stilled on his stomach. Her hands had always felt so small compared to his work-worn ones. He ran the pad of a finger over her delicate knuckles.

"She's been missing for close to 4 days now Lori. We been searchin' and searchin' and all we find is more trouble. Someone's gonna get bit, or fall down a hill and break somethin'…." He trailed off, focusing on the flickering fire of the campsite, choosing his words carefully.

"Shane thinks we've done enough. Gotta start thinking about what's best for us, the group, for…for Carl…" Gentle hands turned him to face his wife.

Lori searched his eyes carefully, hands sliding to hold her husband's face. His eyes were moist, and gently she brushed her fingers along his cheek.

"What if it wasn't Sophia? What if it was our sonout there in those woods all alone? Would you give up on him Rick?" He didn't need to say it; she could read the unspoken devastation in his eyes.

She slowly pulled away, hands dropping to her sides. She felt so tired.

"I thought I had lost Carl when I saw him on that bed in there. I thought, this is it, it's all over." She looked away, jaw clenched. "The walkers aren't hell Rick, not really." She looked back at him, eyes hard. "Losing your child is the real hell. And I won't be the one to go and tell Carol we're giving up on her daughter. Not now, not ever."

She turned, looking back through the doorway where Carl lay sleeping. "You tell Shane that." Rick remained silent, watching her as she walked towards the door. She paused in the doorway, head tilted but not looking back at him.

"In the morning, we'll try again. Set up a grid on that map Hershel mentioned. And we'll comb this god-forsaken land one inch at a time until we find her. Then we can talk about the good of the group."