New SPN Fic: Prayers to Summon the Destroying Angel
I seem, kind of bizarrely and completely accidentally, to have ended up with a 'verse, which I suppose I should get around to naming, at some point. Anyway, um. More. Though you don't really need the other stories and there isn't really slash and I don't really know what more to say beyond that this kind of wrote itself without a lot of active participation from me.
Prayers to Summon the Destroying Angel
SPN Dean-centric
660 words
Notes: Takes place immediately after Devil's Trap. Down to the End 'verse, but there's no overt slash in this installment. Unbetaed.
It's been three days, four hours and six minutes since Dean woke up.
Three days, four hours and five minutes since Sam, looking haggard and pale, whispered, "I'm sorry," when Dean forced "Dad?" through his cracked, raw throat.
Three days, four hours and five minutes since Dean's world came crashing down.
***
There's pain and there's nausea and there's simple, pure exhaustion. Dean's room smells like piss and disinfectant and everyone is old and sick and dying. The bed is too small and the food sucks and Sam sits by his bed with an expression of sympathy so profound it’s agonizing. It's worst when Sam talks, on and on until his voice gives out or Dean turns his face away, and it's worst when he says nothing, and it's worst of all when he's not there.
It's been four days, eight hours and twelve minutes, and it was easier when Dean was dying.
***
Dad's in a box on the table.
Dad's in a box on the table, and he'll never be anywhere else.
He's never going to hunt again, or laugh, or yell, or clap Dean on the back and call him "Son." He's never going to look at Sammy, fierce pride in his eyes, when Sammy isn't looking at him. He has no eyes. He has no face, he has no voice. It's all been burned away. He's in a box on the table, and this is where his story ends.
It's been six days, ten hours, and nineteen minutes, and Dean finally understands what lost means.
***
The ash doesn't look like anything. Just an unformed gray mass, gritty and weirdly solid until it hits the wind. Sammy is crying, really crying like he hasn't since he was too young to know better, tears running down his face and sobs wracking his body, and if Dean were a better man, he wouldn't make Sam do this on his own. If he were a better man, he'd take the cheap, ugly cardboard from Sam and help lay their father to rest.
But there's not enough air and it's too dark to see even though the sun is shining, and it takes everything Dean has just to keep standing. So Sam cries and scatters the dirty heap of nothing that used to be Dad, and Dean looks at the ground and tries not to fall.
It's been eight days, three hours and forty-seven minutes, and this is all there is.
***
The bed is hard and the sheets are scratchy and he can't sleep and he doesn't want to. There are dreams he can't remember and he wakes up shaking, empty and cold. Sam's arms are around him, and he hates Sam a little, hates him for his pity, his compassion, his love. Hates how Sam held him, rocked him like a child, when the last of Dad was gone and Dean's legs couldn't bear his own weight. Hates that Sam keeps trying to put the pieces back together when there's not enough left to make a whole.
It's been eight days, nineteen hours and twenty-three minutes, and Dean's throat is full of ashes.
***
The corpse of the Impala is in Bobby's back yard, and Sam is poking at it. He wants to resurrect the dead. But dead's forever, dead means no second chances, and Dean's touched the empty shells of things he used to love enough for one lifetime.
It's been nine days, two hours and fifty-two minutes, and Dean wants the world to stop.
***
There's sun and there's wind and there's the South Dakota landscape, empty and flat, stretching forever outside Bobby's gate. There's Bobby, gruff and gentle, who offers his flask and never tries to make Dean talk. There's Dad's truck and Bobby's pup and enough weapons to build an army. There's Sam, quiet and relentless, moving forward like there's still somewhere to go.
It's been ten days, four hours and seven minutes, and Dean's still trying to breathe.
Companion piece:
The Sky Will Fall, We Will Rise
Prayers to Summon the Destroying Angel
SPN Dean-centric
660 words
Notes: Takes place immediately after Devil's Trap. Down to the End 'verse, but there's no overt slash in this installment. Unbetaed.
It's been three days, four hours and six minutes since Dean woke up.
Three days, four hours and five minutes since Sam, looking haggard and pale, whispered, "I'm sorry," when Dean forced "Dad?" through his cracked, raw throat.
Three days, four hours and five minutes since Dean's world came crashing down.
***
There's pain and there's nausea and there's simple, pure exhaustion. Dean's room smells like piss and disinfectant and everyone is old and sick and dying. The bed is too small and the food sucks and Sam sits by his bed with an expression of sympathy so profound it’s agonizing. It's worst when Sam talks, on and on until his voice gives out or Dean turns his face away, and it's worst when he says nothing, and it's worst of all when he's not there.
It's been four days, eight hours and twelve minutes, and it was easier when Dean was dying.
***
Dad's in a box on the table.
Dad's in a box on the table, and he'll never be anywhere else.
He's never going to hunt again, or laugh, or yell, or clap Dean on the back and call him "Son." He's never going to look at Sammy, fierce pride in his eyes, when Sammy isn't looking at him. He has no eyes. He has no face, he has no voice. It's all been burned away. He's in a box on the table, and this is where his story ends.
It's been six days, ten hours, and nineteen minutes, and Dean finally understands what lost means.
***
The ash doesn't look like anything. Just an unformed gray mass, gritty and weirdly solid until it hits the wind. Sammy is crying, really crying like he hasn't since he was too young to know better, tears running down his face and sobs wracking his body, and if Dean were a better man, he wouldn't make Sam do this on his own. If he were a better man, he'd take the cheap, ugly cardboard from Sam and help lay their father to rest.
But there's not enough air and it's too dark to see even though the sun is shining, and it takes everything Dean has just to keep standing. So Sam cries and scatters the dirty heap of nothing that used to be Dad, and Dean looks at the ground and tries not to fall.
It's been eight days, three hours and forty-seven minutes, and this is all there is.
***
The bed is hard and the sheets are scratchy and he can't sleep and he doesn't want to. There are dreams he can't remember and he wakes up shaking, empty and cold. Sam's arms are around him, and he hates Sam a little, hates him for his pity, his compassion, his love. Hates how Sam held him, rocked him like a child, when the last of Dad was gone and Dean's legs couldn't bear his own weight. Hates that Sam keeps trying to put the pieces back together when there's not enough left to make a whole.
It's been eight days, nineteen hours and twenty-three minutes, and Dean's throat is full of ashes.
***
The corpse of the Impala is in Bobby's back yard, and Sam is poking at it. He wants to resurrect the dead. But dead's forever, dead means no second chances, and Dean's touched the empty shells of things he used to love enough for one lifetime.
It's been nine days, two hours and fifty-two minutes, and Dean wants the world to stop.
***
There's sun and there's wind and there's the South Dakota landscape, empty and flat, stretching forever outside Bobby's gate. There's Bobby, gruff and gentle, who offers his flask and never tries to make Dean talk. There's Dad's truck and Bobby's pup and enough weapons to build an army. There's Sam, quiet and relentless, moving forward like there's still somewhere to go.
It's been ten days, four hours and seven minutes, and Dean's still trying to breathe.
Companion piece:
The Sky Will Fall, We Will Rise