A/N: This is my first go at a multi-part Supernatural. Anyone familiar with my work in other fandoms know that me posting a multi-part that I haven't yet finished is dangerous, but I'm tweaking the damned thing to death. And given that Chapters 1-4 are already pretty much ready to go, I thought I'd start posting for my own sanity. I am intending to post on Tuesdays and Fridays, but you know me better than that. I may slow down to once a week if the next few chapters don't cooperate as well.

This is an End-verse fic. It will be angsty. It is not a nice world they are in. The rating is pretty much guaranteed to go up to at least a 'T' eventually. There may or may not also be things happen off-camera that are potentially triggery in a few chapters time.

Enjoy?

It started in Chicago. Actually, the rumours say it started in Detroit, but for the residents of Illinois, it started in Chicago. The city went nuts suddenly, and the stories started flying about a zombie apocalypse. Of course, everyone ignored it, until the local news stations stopped broadcasting. Chicago dropped off the radar completely. The CDC investigated, but no-one ever heard from the team of doctors and epidemiologists again.

When the broadcasts stopped, her mom packed their bags. Joliet was too close to Chicago for comfort, and with talk coming in from Michigan about Detroit, they decided to head away from the security of the city, and back to Pontiac. They spent the next night in their old house, both of them curled up in the big bed, and in the morning, her mom loaded a salt shaker and a little bottle of holy water into her purse before they went out for groceries.

Possession had left its mark on both of them: given them a greater, unwanted understanding of the truth about the world around them. They both knew the apocalypse was nigh, they just never spoke of it, and instead armed themselves against the supernatural. They both knew how to combat demons, although killing one was beyond them. They didn't hunt, not like the Winchesters, but every door and every window in their houses was lined with salt. They regularly fed each other holy water to reassure themselves and each other they weren't possessed.

It was a crappy way to live, but it was what their lives had been reduced to.

They stocked up on groceries: mostly non-perishable items. Tins and the like that wouldn't go off, but they bought some bread to enjoy for now. Rock salt was another necessity. Then they rounded up everyone that would listen, everyone that didn't think that they were murderers, or protecting her dad. They persuaded them that whatever was happening was coming for them. Pontiac was too close: the newspapers were already reporting people acting strangely in Kenosha, Aurora and Joliet.

.oOo.

They started out as a motorcade, a rag-tag mob of church-goers in every kind of vehicle, packed to the gills with essentials. Some had tents and sleeping bags, enough to share. Some had guns and rifles. A lot had kids, who couldn't understand. Their parents were trying to make it like an adventure, but it wasn't easy, trying to hide their worry, lying about why they weren't at school. It was even more difficult with no fixed destination: they just wanted to stay ahead of whatever was coming for them, leaving tales of devastated cities behind them, trying to pick up anyone who would listen to them as they passed through towns.

Her mom nearly cried when the cell towers gave out, even though the number she had desperately been calling wasn't being answered. It was at that point she made a decision. The day their lives had changed again, they had been given an address, a man in South Dakota who would be able to help them. Hopefully, anyway. There were no stories coming in from Iowa, Nebraska or the Dakotas, although some of the south west coast was hit too with this mysterious disease. Bigger cities were worst hit. So, after some discussion, they decided to head to the state border. And that's where they were stopped. A road block stopped them crossing into Iowa, and the National Guard manning the block informed them that the whole of Illinois was under quarantine.

The adults convened for a meeting, a few miles back down the road. They all agreed they needed to get out of the state, before they too succumbed to whatever this disease was. They had been fortunate so far; leaving things behind them, but they were all aware they couldn't be that lucky. Something was bound to happen sooner or later, and the sooner they could put Illinois behind them, the later it would be. Hopefully after they were able to reach Sioux Falls.

Decisions were made in that meeting: there were enough people with common sense to be able to foresee what would happen eventually. There would come a time when they had to abandon their vehicles and continue on foot. It would make sneaking across state lines much easier. It wouldn't help them now, granted, given that Illinois' entire western border was the impassable Mississippi, but to cross from Iowa into South Dakota, if the border there was closed, it would definitely help. The eight miles from the border to Sioux Falls didn't seem insurmountable on foot, especially if they could cover the four hundred miles between here and there by car.

They spent the rest of the day doing whatever they needed to in order to prepare for their future on the run. They headed back into Monmouth and hit the camping goods stores. Those with working credit cards bought rucksacks and decent boots for anyone without. They bought maps and compasses and flashlights. They traded elderly tents for lighter, more portable ones. They hit up ATMs and withdrew as much cash as they could.

Then, after a quick discussion, they headed north. They weren't risking trying to cross at the same bridge, on Route 34: a smaller bridge seemed like a better plan. Heading to the next crossing was risky, rather than several away, but going any further put them back onto the highways, and into cities they would be better off avoiding.

.oOo.

All in all, the crossing into Muscatine, Iowa could have gone worse: they had taken the guards by surprise at night, and most of the vehicles had gotten through. Father McKinley, alone in his car, had volunteered to be at the back of the convoy, with next-to no supplies. He had gone into this pretty much knowing he was going to be captured. He and the Davenports weren't with them when they finally came to a stop five miles out of Muscatine. Pastor David and his wife Jane, who were friends from Pontiac, told them that Father McKinley had at least been alive when the guards had dragged him from his car. Pastor David quickly and efficiently changed the shot-out tyre for the spare, discarding the ruined rim at the side of the road: extra weight they couldn't afford to carry, space they could use for supplies instead.

In the morning, having camped in an isolated field, the radio announced that Des Moines was under quarantine. They adjusted their route to miss it by a good margin, but less than an hour later, Cedar Rapids was the same: cases of the mystery illness reported. Iowa took no chances and banned all vehicular movement except for emergency services across the state. It wasn't worth getting shot at again, they reasoned, and abandoned the cars, packing up everything they could take.

It was two days later they had their first encounter with what they would eventually come to know, along with the rest of the world, as 'Croats'.