Dean Winchester

The sound of metal striking bone echoed through the empty street. Dean and his group had only gone out searching for supplies. Medicine, food, ammunition. It should have been a simple scavenging run. Then they heard the noise. They expected screams, someone running, someone begging for help. Instead, they found you. You stood alone in the street, surrounded by walkers. Your clothes were torn, your hands covered in blood, and the crowbar in your grip was your only weapon.