fiction: Different Girl
Title: Different Girl
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/Characters: mentions of Bela/Dean
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: adult
Words: 1,161
Description: In Bela’s hell, the flames from the pit fire are muted behind the thick, fleshy wall of the people she has killed.
Warning: Spoilers through S3.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything. Thanks to the lovely faelescaloris for the beta.
In Bela’s hell, the flames from the pit fire are muted behind the thick, fleshy wall of the people she has killed. They crowd her, tear her limb from limb until her bone shines out slick white. Their dead faces are perfectly preserved. Her parents. The man from England she’d shot in face with a silenced semi-automatic for the key to his boss’s safe. The woman from Indiana who had run a cursed knife through her sister, and then herself. And Jennifer from New Jersey. And Samson from New York. And Dean, Dean, Dean.
In Bela’s hell, Dean is sometimes a child in the way that Bela is sometimes a child. Though where she’s gangly limbed, the Demon’s deal still pressed chaste and cool on her lips, Dean’s younger, paler and burnt from the flames that fall from a woman in a white dress ablaze above his head. And when Dean’s not old and tearing her flesh apart, he’s young and sometimes he sits hand in hand with Bela and whispers about the people that will come and save him.
He says, Dad will save me, Bobby will save me.
He doesn’t say Sam, never Sam. He says, Sam shouldn’t come here.
And sometimes he says to her, small and whispery, child’s hand cupped to her ear, I’d come back for you if you’d like. I’ll come back and save you, too.
She clings to that like she clings to his hand, until his fingers are torn off or her mouth is sewn so tight shut with barbed wire that she can’t make a sound through the blood and shredded skin.
But Bela’s hell isn’t always broken fingers and bleeding mouths. Sometimes it’s just boredom, dull and blunt and endless. You wouldn’t think eternity kept time, but it does. It’s counted down on black and white flipped numbers, like the clock in the last motel. Sometimes she’s left sitting on the cheap covers of the bed to watch the minutes click past over and over until her mind goes numb with it.
When she’s not watching the clock, she’s watching the ghosts.
Day after day the ghost of her mother in silk and pearls trips delicately out the dark, oak door of her childhood bedroom. Bela cries out, play with me for a little bit more, please, please play with me. Next to her an endless, shadowed line of other hells echo similar stories and the damned stand row upon row, crying as they watch mothers and sisters and brothers and lovers step carelessly out the door without a backwards glance. Dean stands by Bela’s side, hoarse and twenty-two and shouts, Sammy, come back, son of a bitch, son of a bitch.
But then again, sometimes, it is just broken fingers and bleeding mouths.
She fucks Dean against rocks and in burned-down buildings like some screwed up, apocalyptic movie cliché. Raw and cold at the same time in a way that makes her shiver and gasp. Angry sex, just as ordered. And one time, when she comes, digging half-moons into his shoulder blades, her pupils blow black and stay that way, smoky dark around the edges. Bela forgets what it’s like to be human long before Dean does. His eyes stay clear and green.
The day Bela sees the light in Dean’s eyes crumple for the first time, is a day like any other day counted down in black and white numbers as she’s ripped to pieces by hellhounds, a day like any other day until Dean’s little brother tears the flaming sky apart above them.
It’s sudden and jolting. One moment Bela is surrounded by black, jostling fur and the next she hears a sound; a sound that cuts through the noise of claws on her flesh, a sound that makes the dogs stiffen and then fade away into the red, shadowy darkness.
She gets shakily to her feet, sharply aware of the unnatural stillness around her. The ground doesn’t shake with screams and the crack of whips. Silence hums in her ears. She looks around. As far as the eye can see, bruised and blinded souls are mimicking her movement, getting to their feet and staring around shell-shocked.
Then there’s that noise again, that tearing, terrible noise and, as one, they look up.
Bela didn’t know how vast hell was until that moment, that very moment when Sam Winchester appeared blazing and golden above her and all the wretched and the damned, all nine circles of them, stood still and stared upwards. It was like light cracking through clouds, solemn and clear and with everything spread out before her.
Then a voice calls out, echoing off rocks, but it doesn’t come from Sam.
Sammy? Dean says, his voice thin in the silence, Sam. You’re not supposed to be here.
And even from here Bela can see Dean’s face crumple and cave, even across the miles and miles of dead, she sees the light in his eyes jolt and fade in desperation.
I died so you wouldn’t die, he says. I died so you wouldn’t.
But Sam isn’t dead, though his face is freckled with blood and his eyes are solid white. His hand twists and forces its way through the tear in the flames. Among the swarm of silent and torn faces, Dean rises up suddenly, like a man writhing in water, his broken chest wrenched towards the light. His limbs hang, dragged down by hooks and demons, but he doesn’t cry out. His head is tilted up, gaze never leaving his brother’s face.
Sam speaks without moving his mouth, I’m saving you.
And just like that, the fight and the fear goes out of Dean and his limbs fall slack as the hooks and the hold of the demons’ breaks loose. But just before he reaches the tear in the flames, he turns his neck and his eyes find hers in the crowd.
Somehow in that instant he’s five and scared and twenty-two and sad and twenty-seven and dying, all those vulnerabilities, those hells flickering soft across the bones of his face and he says, I’ll come back for you. Sincere and golden bright in the blaze from his brother and the dim reflections of hell-fire. I’ll come back, he says. Stay here.
Then he’s gone.
Around her the world starts moving all at once. Demons flee upwards, screaming, furious, clawing at the place where hell had briefly touched earth.
Bela doesn’t move. She stares at the space where Dean had been, where his voice had bounced off rocks and his eyes had met hers. Her mouth contorts into a smile, lips stretched, eyes hollow. She’s standing in the shadow of her faceless father, his blunt clumsy fingers curled in the hair at the nape of her neck. She thinks of the Winchester boys, of their earnest broken faces and the smile twists into a laugh. She laughs and laughs and cannot stop.
Stay here, he’d said.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/Characters: mentions of Bela/Dean
Author: knittedshadow
Rating: adult
Words: 1,161
Description: In Bela’s hell, the flames from the pit fire are muted behind the thick, fleshy wall of the people she has killed.
Warning: Spoilers through S3.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything. Thanks to the lovely faelescaloris for the beta.
In Bela’s hell, the flames from the pit fire are muted behind the thick, fleshy wall of the people she has killed. They crowd her, tear her limb from limb until her bone shines out slick white. Their dead faces are perfectly preserved. Her parents. The man from England she’d shot in face with a silenced semi-automatic for the key to his boss’s safe. The woman from Indiana who had run a cursed knife through her sister, and then herself. And Jennifer from New Jersey. And Samson from New York. And Dean, Dean, Dean.
In Bela’s hell, Dean is sometimes a child in the way that Bela is sometimes a child. Though where she’s gangly limbed, the Demon’s deal still pressed chaste and cool on her lips, Dean’s younger, paler and burnt from the flames that fall from a woman in a white dress ablaze above his head. And when Dean’s not old and tearing her flesh apart, he’s young and sometimes he sits hand in hand with Bela and whispers about the people that will come and save him.
He says, Dad will save me, Bobby will save me.
He doesn’t say Sam, never Sam. He says, Sam shouldn’t come here.
And sometimes he says to her, small and whispery, child’s hand cupped to her ear, I’d come back for you if you’d like. I’ll come back and save you, too.
She clings to that like she clings to his hand, until his fingers are torn off or her mouth is sewn so tight shut with barbed wire that she can’t make a sound through the blood and shredded skin.
But Bela’s hell isn’t always broken fingers and bleeding mouths. Sometimes it’s just boredom, dull and blunt and endless. You wouldn’t think eternity kept time, but it does. It’s counted down on black and white flipped numbers, like the clock in the last motel. Sometimes she’s left sitting on the cheap covers of the bed to watch the minutes click past over and over until her mind goes numb with it.
When she’s not watching the clock, she’s watching the ghosts.
Day after day the ghost of her mother in silk and pearls trips delicately out the dark, oak door of her childhood bedroom. Bela cries out, play with me for a little bit more, please, please play with me. Next to her an endless, shadowed line of other hells echo similar stories and the damned stand row upon row, crying as they watch mothers and sisters and brothers and lovers step carelessly out the door without a backwards glance. Dean stands by Bela’s side, hoarse and twenty-two and shouts, Sammy, come back, son of a bitch, son of a bitch.
But then again, sometimes, it is just broken fingers and bleeding mouths.
She fucks Dean against rocks and in burned-down buildings like some screwed up, apocalyptic movie cliché. Raw and cold at the same time in a way that makes her shiver and gasp. Angry sex, just as ordered. And one time, when she comes, digging half-moons into his shoulder blades, her pupils blow black and stay that way, smoky dark around the edges. Bela forgets what it’s like to be human long before Dean does. His eyes stay clear and green.
The day Bela sees the light in Dean’s eyes crumple for the first time, is a day like any other day counted down in black and white numbers as she’s ripped to pieces by hellhounds, a day like any other day until Dean’s little brother tears the flaming sky apart above them.
It’s sudden and jolting. One moment Bela is surrounded by black, jostling fur and the next she hears a sound; a sound that cuts through the noise of claws on her flesh, a sound that makes the dogs stiffen and then fade away into the red, shadowy darkness.
She gets shakily to her feet, sharply aware of the unnatural stillness around her. The ground doesn’t shake with screams and the crack of whips. Silence hums in her ears. She looks around. As far as the eye can see, bruised and blinded souls are mimicking her movement, getting to their feet and staring around shell-shocked.
Then there’s that noise again, that tearing, terrible noise and, as one, they look up.
Bela didn’t know how vast hell was until that moment, that very moment when Sam Winchester appeared blazing and golden above her and all the wretched and the damned, all nine circles of them, stood still and stared upwards. It was like light cracking through clouds, solemn and clear and with everything spread out before her.
Then a voice calls out, echoing off rocks, but it doesn’t come from Sam.
Sammy? Dean says, his voice thin in the silence, Sam. You’re not supposed to be here.
And even from here Bela can see Dean’s face crumple and cave, even across the miles and miles of dead, she sees the light in his eyes jolt and fade in desperation.
I died so you wouldn’t die, he says. I died so you wouldn’t.
But Sam isn’t dead, though his face is freckled with blood and his eyes are solid white. His hand twists and forces its way through the tear in the flames. Among the swarm of silent and torn faces, Dean rises up suddenly, like a man writhing in water, his broken chest wrenched towards the light. His limbs hang, dragged down by hooks and demons, but he doesn’t cry out. His head is tilted up, gaze never leaving his brother’s face.
Sam speaks without moving his mouth, I’m saving you.
And just like that, the fight and the fear goes out of Dean and his limbs fall slack as the hooks and the hold of the demons’ breaks loose. But just before he reaches the tear in the flames, he turns his neck and his eyes find hers in the crowd.
Somehow in that instant he’s five and scared and twenty-two and sad and twenty-seven and dying, all those vulnerabilities, those hells flickering soft across the bones of his face and he says, I’ll come back for you. Sincere and golden bright in the blaze from his brother and the dim reflections of hell-fire. I’ll come back, he says. Stay here.
Then he’s gone.
Around her the world starts moving all at once. Demons flee upwards, screaming, furious, clawing at the place where hell had briefly touched earth.
Bela doesn’t move. She stares at the space where Dean had been, where his voice had bounced off rocks and his eyes had met hers. Her mouth contorts into a smile, lips stretched, eyes hollow. She’s standing in the shadow of her faceless father, his blunt clumsy fingers curled in the hair at the nape of her neck. She thinks of the Winchester boys, of their earnest broken faces and the smile twists into a laugh. She laughs and laughs and cannot stop.
Stay here, he’d said.