SPN: What Gets Said (Bela)
Written in honor of halfamoon: 14 Days Celebrating Women.
Title: What Gets Said
Author: voleuse
Fandom: Supernatural
Character: Bela Talbot
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: The gods don't listen to reason.
Notes: Set after 3.15
The walls shook when the hounds arrived, and the door rattled in its frame. Bela was tempted to open the door and watch them bark, but that might disturb the lines she'd poured across the threshold, and there were those tales about the hellhound's gaze, besides.
She sat in the center of the room, fists clenched, and thought of other tales she'd heard whispered. Bodies ripped apart by violent swirls of air. Vicious hermits, withering away in their prisons of salt and iron and goofer dust. On a good day, she would have claimed the latter was worse, but today was the day she was supposed to die, and withering didn't sound so bad after all.
Things might get awkward when the week's rent ran out, especially since it wasn't her motel room in the first place.
Bela sat and listened to the hounds howl.
*
Underneath one of the beds was a duffle bag stuffed with large, worn T-shirts, a single flannel shirt, and two pairs of boxers. During the night, Bela stripped out of her worn clothes and pulled on one of the tees. She didn't allow herself to consider who wore it last.
She turned on the television and watched reruns of Sex and the City. She cleaned her pistol. She brushed her hair.
She wished she had brought more goofer dust, because the lines she had poured were too thin for her comfort. She twisted another ward together and hung it at the top of the window frame.
*
She called Bobby once, and he picked up on the fourth ring. He didn't say anything right away, but he cleared his throat and that was enough.
"Did the boys tell you I was already dead?" she asked.
"Let's just say they weren't filled with hope," he answered. "And can you blame them?"
She let loose a laugh. "Wouldn't you?"
"It was a bargain," he said, not laughing. "Nothing short of the demon itself can get you loose."
"Of course." Bela crossed her legs, stared at her bare feet, pale against the bedspread.
The silence stretched out. "I'm sorry," Bobby said. "You must have only been--"
"It doesn't matter," she interrupted. "Nice chatting with you, Bobby."
She cut off the call, and after a moment, turned the phone off.
*
On the second day, the hounds stopped baying. She knew better than to feel relieved--they were still out there, she knew.
The quiet was a relief, anyway.
*
On the third day, she was getting hungry, and that's when somebody knocked on the door. She reached for her gun and her wallet. If it was the motel manager, she could offer him a credit card in exchange for another week and the number of a pizza delivery service. If it wasn't the manager, the gun wouldn't help. It just made her feel better.
Another knock, and she paused to pull her trousers on, unwilling to face fate clad solely in a Hanes black tee.
She swung the door open, and a girl smiled up at her, eyes flashing dark. "Hello, Bela," the girl said.
Bela dropped the wallet, raised the gun with both hands. "You can't enter," she said.
"Because of this?" The girl laughed, and kicked the lines of salt and dust with her toe. "That's silly."
Bela bared her teeth, and it was nothing like a smile. "Come to collect me yourself, then?"
"Not exactly." The girl raised her hands, palms up, and tilted her head. "I've come to offer you new terms."
"Such as?" Bela's stomach growled, and she willed her arms not to tremble.
The girl reached over the threshold and knocked the gun out of Bela's hands. She stepped inside and stood on her tiptoes, and then she tapped Bela on the throat, on the lips, and between the eyes.
Bela breathed out, turned as the girl circled round. She folded her arms, and waited for the deal. And she knew she wouldn't refuse.
###
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Margaret Atwood's Daphne and Laura and So Forth. Link courtesy of breathe_poetry.
Linked on halfamoon.
Title: What Gets Said
Author: voleuse
Fandom: Supernatural
Character: Bela Talbot
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: The gods don't listen to reason.
Notes: Set after 3.15
The walls shook when the hounds arrived, and the door rattled in its frame. Bela was tempted to open the door and watch them bark, but that might disturb the lines she'd poured across the threshold, and there were those tales about the hellhound's gaze, besides.
She sat in the center of the room, fists clenched, and thought of other tales she'd heard whispered. Bodies ripped apart by violent swirls of air. Vicious hermits, withering away in their prisons of salt and iron and goofer dust. On a good day, she would have claimed the latter was worse, but today was the day she was supposed to die, and withering didn't sound so bad after all.
Things might get awkward when the week's rent ran out, especially since it wasn't her motel room in the first place.
Bela sat and listened to the hounds howl.
*
Underneath one of the beds was a duffle bag stuffed with large, worn T-shirts, a single flannel shirt, and two pairs of boxers. During the night, Bela stripped out of her worn clothes and pulled on one of the tees. She didn't allow herself to consider who wore it last.
She turned on the television and watched reruns of Sex and the City. She cleaned her pistol. She brushed her hair.
She wished she had brought more goofer dust, because the lines she had poured were too thin for her comfort. She twisted another ward together and hung it at the top of the window frame.
*
She called Bobby once, and he picked up on the fourth ring. He didn't say anything right away, but he cleared his throat and that was enough.
"Did the boys tell you I was already dead?" she asked.
"Let's just say they weren't filled with hope," he answered. "And can you blame them?"
She let loose a laugh. "Wouldn't you?"
"It was a bargain," he said, not laughing. "Nothing short of the demon itself can get you loose."
"Of course." Bela crossed her legs, stared at her bare feet, pale against the bedspread.
The silence stretched out. "I'm sorry," Bobby said. "You must have only been--"
"It doesn't matter," she interrupted. "Nice chatting with you, Bobby."
She cut off the call, and after a moment, turned the phone off.
*
On the second day, the hounds stopped baying. She knew better than to feel relieved--they were still out there, she knew.
The quiet was a relief, anyway.
*
On the third day, she was getting hungry, and that's when somebody knocked on the door. She reached for her gun and her wallet. If it was the motel manager, she could offer him a credit card in exchange for another week and the number of a pizza delivery service. If it wasn't the manager, the gun wouldn't help. It just made her feel better.
Another knock, and she paused to pull her trousers on, unwilling to face fate clad solely in a Hanes black tee.
She swung the door open, and a girl smiled up at her, eyes flashing dark. "Hello, Bela," the girl said.
Bela dropped the wallet, raised the gun with both hands. "You can't enter," she said.
"Because of this?" The girl laughed, and kicked the lines of salt and dust with her toe. "That's silly."
Bela bared her teeth, and it was nothing like a smile. "Come to collect me yourself, then?"
"Not exactly." The girl raised her hands, palms up, and tilted her head. "I've come to offer you new terms."
"Such as?" Bela's stomach growled, and she willed her arms not to tremble.
The girl reached over the threshold and knocked the gun out of Bela's hands. She stepped inside and stood on her tiptoes, and then she tapped Bela on the throat, on the lips, and between the eyes.
Bela breathed out, turned as the girl circled round. She folded her arms, and waited for the deal. And she knew she wouldn't refuse.
###
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Margaret Atwood's Daphne and Laura and So Forth. Link courtesy of breathe_poetry.
Linked on halfamoon.