![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Dead Man Kinda Shambling
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kellifer_fic
Rating: G
Category: SPN Humor,Gen
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 1,298
Disclaimer All mistakes are mine. Everything else is owned by the creators of SPN.
Dean had had very specific ideas about what he and Sam would be doing when the inevitable zombie apocalypse happened.
Being dead though?
Nah, he hadn’t really counted on that one.
000
“Are bits just going to start dropping off?” Dean asks, one foot cradled in two hands, wiggling his toes back and forth. He’d really hate to lose any appendages and he’s heard it’s a bitch to balance if you don’t have a big toe.
“We don’t have leprosy,” Sam snorts from the other side of the motel room. Even though people are now few and far between, they both still bunker down in motels rather than actual houses. Some habits are hard to break.
“Well, it’s not like blood is circulating. Isn’t that gangrene?”
“Oh my god,” Sam groans, lying back on his bed and slapping a hand to his face. “You’re dead and a hypochondriac.”
Dean thinks it may just be worth popping off a toe just to see the look on Sam’s face if he hits him square in the forehead with it.
000
“So, all the zombie movies I’ve ever seen,” Dean starts, tone conversational. They’re sitting on the hood of the Impala, watching the sun go down. “The zombies are more… bitey.”
“You feel the urge to bite someone?” Sam asks, squinting at Dean in the dying light.
“Not particularly.”
“Well, then movies are full of shit,” Sam says, like he’s solving one of the great mysteries of the world.
“I am feeling a bit peckish, actually,” Dean amends. “But I’m more in the mood for a cheeseburger than brains.”
“You can’t eat,” Sam points out. “You can’t actively digest food anymore so it’ll just sit in your belly and rot and you’ll smell worse than you already do.”
“I’m willing to take that… hey!”
000
So, bits dropping off wasn’t the problem. He and Sam randomly knocking bits off had become more of an issue.
“We’ve gotta be more careful,” Sam says, looking up at the barbed wire fence they’ve just climbed over. Unfortunately, when Sam jumped down he left his right arm behind. Every now and again it waves at them a little too jovially.
“You go get your arm,” Dean says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the mall they’ve risked life and literal limb to gain access to. “I’m gonna see if I can find a nail gun.”
Sam opens his mouth, probably to protest about Dean’s chosen method of reattachment, pauses and scrunches up his forehead and then just shrugs. “Okay.”
“Awesome.”
000
“I feel stupid.”
Sam looks over the edge of the grave at Dean lying at the bottom. Every now and again they’ll try traditional ways to end the zombie existence, short of dismemberment because neither of them want to find out if they can survive that. Dean is currently flat on his back with a silver stake through his heart. Other than a hole in his single clean shirt, he doesn’t think it’s doing anything.
“Maybe it takes a little while.”
“That zombie-girlfriend who broke your wrist was out in two seconds,” Dean complains. Much to Sam’s annoyance, he always goes first in these circumstances. Partly because it would be a bitch to stick a stake into himself if it actually worked.
Mostly because he’s pretty sure he can only handle Sam being dead if he’s still up, making stupid jokes and walking around.
“Well I don’t know!” Sam snaps, his mouth firming down into a pissed off little line. “We can try lopping your head off while you’re down there.” Sam’s right arm is nailed onto his shoulder a little high and he now looks like he’s always half-shrugging. Dean’s pretty sure Sam is trying to find a way to settle the score.
“Nah,” Dean sighs. “I don’t want to have to carry it around or, you know, get a horse.”
000
They run into some people who are actually still alive outside of Kansas. The people look damn fascinated that they are driving a car, talking and seem mostly reasonable.
“You’re a little different to other zombies we’ve run into,” a woman who is forty and has her hair swept up into girlish pig tails says, eyeing them with her shotgun still well and truly levelled in their direction.
“More articulate and less with the homicidal tendencies?” Dean hazards and the group all nods. Dean looks at Sam and raises his eyebrows.
“What? I didn’t do anything,” Sam protests, guessing that Dean is going to blame this all on his freaky brain powers.
“It’s a nice change,” an older gent pipes up from the back of the group.
000
“You think we’re gonna start looking more… dead?” Dean asks, checking his face carefully in the rear vision mirror. His skin is a little grey and dry but other than that he looks pretty good, for someone who is no longer living.
Sam glances his way before going back to contemplating the hole in the knee if his jeans. “Dunno,” he says. “Maybe.”
Dean is starting to get a little worried. His brother was never particularly a chatter-box, Dean always more likely to fill the space between them with conversation, but he’s become downright monosyllabic with the passing weeks turning into months. Dean’s pretty sure Sam is blaming himself for their predicament.
For their limbo.
“We could totally mess with the next living people we see,” Dean offers, raising an eyebrow. “Shamble, moan, the whole production. Then we could run at them really fast, freak ‘em the fuck out.”
“No thanks,” Sam says like Dean just offered him a donut.
000
Sam’s black mood breaks unexpectedly when Dean wakes up to Sam jumping up and down on his bed. He’s pretty sure sleep is just a habit like them staying in motel rooms but he seems to still be able to do it and he’s determined to hold onto as many normal everyday things as he can.
“Quit it!” Dean grouses, shoving Sam off his bed. “You wanna lose the other arm?”
Sam pouts, but there’s a smile forcing its way through it and Dean’s intrigued. “Have you found some dead-guy ecstasy or something?” Dean demands.
“Better,” Sam says and crosses to the other side of the room, laying flat on his belly and pulling something out from underneath his own bed. When he comes up his hair is completely mussed, he’s grinning wider than Dean has seen him in ages and there are two small, furry shapes clutched to his chest.
“What that hell?” Dean asks, rubbing knuckles into his eyes. “You adopting rats you giant freak?”
“Nah,” Sam says, holding out one of the furry shapes to Dean. It’s black and uncurls, fitting neatly into one of Sam’s giant paws. Dean can see ears and a small twitchy nose.
“Bunnies?” Dean asks incredulously.
“Zombie bunnies,” Sam clarifies, rubbing the one still held against him under his chin. “Totally not girly.”
“Fine,” Dean huffs, not willing to object to something that can make Sam smile like that. “But I get to name mine.”
000
“How long do you think we have?” Sam asks. They’re watching the sun rise over the desert. Sam has Reynaldo balanced on his knee and Dean’s holding Zeefer. Every now and again Reynaldo hops from one knee to the other, looking back at them both. Reynaldo had lost an ear somewhere and Dean had super glued a beer bottle cap in its place while Sam was sleeping. Sam had bitched at him for ages but hadn’t wanted to risk taking it off and Dean thought it made him look jaunty.
“No idea,” Dean says, hand scratching idly over Zeefer’s head. “But it’s not so bad.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, leaning back on his hands. “Not so bad at all.”
Author:
kellifer_ficRating: G
Category: SPN Humor,Gen
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 1,298
Disclaimer All mistakes are mine. Everything else is owned by the creators of SPN.
Dean had had very specific ideas about what he and Sam would be doing when the inevitable zombie apocalypse happened.
Being dead though?
Nah, he hadn’t really counted on that one.
“Are bits just going to start dropping off?” Dean asks, one foot cradled in two hands, wiggling his toes back and forth. He’d really hate to lose any appendages and he’s heard it’s a bitch to balance if you don’t have a big toe.
“We don’t have leprosy,” Sam snorts from the other side of the motel room. Even though people are now few and far between, they both still bunker down in motels rather than actual houses. Some habits are hard to break.
“Well, it’s not like blood is circulating. Isn’t that gangrene?”
“Oh my god,” Sam groans, lying back on his bed and slapping a hand to his face. “You’re dead and a hypochondriac.”
Dean thinks it may just be worth popping off a toe just to see the look on Sam’s face if he hits him square in the forehead with it.
“So, all the zombie movies I’ve ever seen,” Dean starts, tone conversational. They’re sitting on the hood of the Impala, watching the sun go down. “The zombies are more… bitey.”
“You feel the urge to bite someone?” Sam asks, squinting at Dean in the dying light.
“Not particularly.”
“Well, then movies are full of shit,” Sam says, like he’s solving one of the great mysteries of the world.
“I am feeling a bit peckish, actually,” Dean amends. “But I’m more in the mood for a cheeseburger than brains.”
“You can’t eat,” Sam points out. “You can’t actively digest food anymore so it’ll just sit in your belly and rot and you’ll smell worse than you already do.”
“I’m willing to take that… hey!”
So, bits dropping off wasn’t the problem. He and Sam randomly knocking bits off had become more of an issue.
“We’ve gotta be more careful,” Sam says, looking up at the barbed wire fence they’ve just climbed over. Unfortunately, when Sam jumped down he left his right arm behind. Every now and again it waves at them a little too jovially.
“You go get your arm,” Dean says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the mall they’ve risked life and literal limb to gain access to. “I’m gonna see if I can find a nail gun.”
Sam opens his mouth, probably to protest about Dean’s chosen method of reattachment, pauses and scrunches up his forehead and then just shrugs. “Okay.”
“Awesome.”
“I feel stupid.”
Sam looks over the edge of the grave at Dean lying at the bottom. Every now and again they’ll try traditional ways to end the zombie existence, short of dismemberment because neither of them want to find out if they can survive that. Dean is currently flat on his back with a silver stake through his heart. Other than a hole in his single clean shirt, he doesn’t think it’s doing anything.
“Maybe it takes a little while.”
“That zombie-girlfriend who broke your wrist was out in two seconds,” Dean complains. Much to Sam’s annoyance, he always goes first in these circumstances. Partly because it would be a bitch to stick a stake into himself if it actually worked.
Mostly because he’s pretty sure he can only handle Sam being dead if he’s still up, making stupid jokes and walking around.
“Well I don’t know!” Sam snaps, his mouth firming down into a pissed off little line. “We can try lopping your head off while you’re down there.” Sam’s right arm is nailed onto his shoulder a little high and he now looks like he’s always half-shrugging. Dean’s pretty sure Sam is trying to find a way to settle the score.
“Nah,” Dean sighs. “I don’t want to have to carry it around or, you know, get a horse.”
They run into some people who are actually still alive outside of Kansas. The people look damn fascinated that they are driving a car, talking and seem mostly reasonable.
“You’re a little different to other zombies we’ve run into,” a woman who is forty and has her hair swept up into girlish pig tails says, eyeing them with her shotgun still well and truly levelled in their direction.
“More articulate and less with the homicidal tendencies?” Dean hazards and the group all nods. Dean looks at Sam and raises his eyebrows.
“What? I didn’t do anything,” Sam protests, guessing that Dean is going to blame this all on his freaky brain powers.
“It’s a nice change,” an older gent pipes up from the back of the group.
“You think we’re gonna start looking more… dead?” Dean asks, checking his face carefully in the rear vision mirror. His skin is a little grey and dry but other than that he looks pretty good, for someone who is no longer living.
Sam glances his way before going back to contemplating the hole in the knee if his jeans. “Dunno,” he says. “Maybe.”
Dean is starting to get a little worried. His brother was never particularly a chatter-box, Dean always more likely to fill the space between them with conversation, but he’s become downright monosyllabic with the passing weeks turning into months. Dean’s pretty sure Sam is blaming himself for their predicament.
For their limbo.
“We could totally mess with the next living people we see,” Dean offers, raising an eyebrow. “Shamble, moan, the whole production. Then we could run at them really fast, freak ‘em the fuck out.”
“No thanks,” Sam says like Dean just offered him a donut.
Sam’s black mood breaks unexpectedly when Dean wakes up to Sam jumping up and down on his bed. He’s pretty sure sleep is just a habit like them staying in motel rooms but he seems to still be able to do it and he’s determined to hold onto as many normal everyday things as he can.
“Quit it!” Dean grouses, shoving Sam off his bed. “You wanna lose the other arm?”
Sam pouts, but there’s a smile forcing its way through it and Dean’s intrigued. “Have you found some dead-guy ecstasy or something?” Dean demands.
“Better,” Sam says and crosses to the other side of the room, laying flat on his belly and pulling something out from underneath his own bed. When he comes up his hair is completely mussed, he’s grinning wider than Dean has seen him in ages and there are two small, furry shapes clutched to his chest.
“What that hell?” Dean asks, rubbing knuckles into his eyes. “You adopting rats you giant freak?”
“Nah,” Sam says, holding out one of the furry shapes to Dean. It’s black and uncurls, fitting neatly into one of Sam’s giant paws. Dean can see ears and a small twitchy nose.
“Bunnies?” Dean asks incredulously.
“Zombie bunnies,” Sam clarifies, rubbing the one still held against him under his chin. “Totally not girly.”
“Fine,” Dean huffs, not willing to object to something that can make Sam smile like that. “But I get to name mine.”
“How long do you think we have?” Sam asks. They’re watching the sun rise over the desert. Sam has Reynaldo balanced on his knee and Dean’s holding Zeefer. Every now and again Reynaldo hops from one knee to the other, looking back at them both. Reynaldo had lost an ear somewhere and Dean had super glued a beer bottle cap in its place while Sam was sleeping. Sam had bitched at him for ages but hadn’t wanted to risk taking it off and Dean thought it made him look jaunty.
“No idea,” Dean says, hand scratching idly over Zeefer’s head. “But it’s not so bad.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, leaning back on his hands. “Not so bad at all.”
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Where the hell did Sam find those bunnies?I want me one of those.
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