Fic: Hell Is
Title: Hell Is
Fandoms: Supernatural, Joint Body (you know, the movie that just came out two days ago. Mark P's in it. So... go watch it. It's on Netflix and iTunes. Go watch it now.)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for Joint Body. Train-of-thought narrative, sorta.
Summary: His name is Nick, but it isn't. He has a wife named Sarah, named Jane. A child so like him that she is the only one able to contain him. And Michelle, his brother and constant companion, now there to help him Fall. Oh, and Dean. Don't forget about Dean. Floating out on the river, their lives blend together into a single narrative, jumbled and confused, pieces of a puzzle that he doesn't dare solve.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or Joint Body. I don't own the characters or the plot lines, but I'm pretty sure that the movie's writer is secretly a Supernatural fan. I mean, come on. I'm reaching here, but not that much.
His name was Nick. Nick Burke. He was trapped.
His wife’s name was Sarah, except it wasn’t. It was Jane. She visited him sometimes in his dreams, talked into a phone, through some glass. She was very real, sitting on the bed next to him, on the seat across from him.
She told him about their son. Their daughter. An infant in her teens, a crib drenched in blood and smelling of baby powder, happy and healthy and on the soccer team. Well-adjusted. Dead.
He was trapped, but then he wasn’t. Thousands of years passing by in seven, sins counted off on his fingers as he waited. Ink on skin, protection carved into ribs, and he was lost.
He was alone. Standing on the road, a new town, probation. Freedom. He had a plan.
Honest work. Dirt and grime and blood on his hands, a mass grave and a welding mask. Seven years, and he had so much work to do. So little time to do it.
It played out like a movie. Fumbling for his keys, groceries held in his arms, the wind playing games with the front gate, slow creeping sounds and the feeling of being watched. A stretcher. A baby swing. A young woman he knew but he didn’t.
Her name was Michelle.
Coffee. That was the plan. Coffee. But there was a man, a powerful man, and he played with her thoughts and made her think that he was right and that was wrong and Nick fired the first few shots, but Michelle fired the last one. That was the one that hurt. The one that carved its way through flesh and blood and bone and buried itself deep inside of his Grace. His soul. Festering for a thousand years, for a single day.
She came to see him, after. Brought him things and told him things and said he was wrong. That she was right. That it was for the best and that Danny, that Daddy wouldn’t have hurt her. That he knew best. That everything would be ok.
But it wouldn’t. Because they blamed him, they always blamed him, this was the first time they blamed him. And he was cast out, back into the lonely cold, into the dark, but this time he wasn’t alone. This time he took Michael with him.
And they ran. They ran to Dean. Dean who had shot first, who had fallen hard, who had given him the gun. Dean who was so like a brother to him. It was all Dean, his obedience to the law, his refusal to see. Dean wouldn’t cooperate, but Dean would help. Would shelter them. Nick and Michelle, inseparable now. Trapped.
And they ran again, away from Dean, from his apple pie, his life, his wife, the family and the baby. Ran to run, like always, one step ahead and falling fast.
When Michelle sang it sounded like a choir, and so he left. He didn’t belong in a place where people were happy and angels were singing. She had told him that long ago, before the prison, seven long years.
He ran, and she caught him. Like she had promised. Like she had said.
For a moment, it was like freefall. Like bliss. Tangled together and crashing into the darkness, they fell.
And then he left.
He went to find his daughter, his son, his vessel, his Sam. Nicole. Same name, same walk, same face. Destiny bound by blood and seven years. Seven long years.
He saw her, and he left. Too short, too soft, too young. Too different. Something not right and nagging at his brain as he felt the chasm close and swallow up his brother. His Michelle. Trapped in a cage, locked behind bars. Her screams echoed in his head, loud and deep, as if she was there. Right there. Watching him lose his mind.
He went to the lake. He climbed in his boat. He stared into the waters, into the river Lethe.
Hell is forgetting who you are.
Fandoms: Supernatural, Joint Body (you know, the movie that just came out two days ago. Mark P's in it. So... go watch it. It's on Netflix and iTunes. Go watch it now.)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for Joint Body. Train-of-thought narrative, sorta.
Summary: His name is Nick, but it isn't. He has a wife named Sarah, named Jane. A child so like him that she is the only one able to contain him. And Michelle, his brother and constant companion, now there to help him Fall. Oh, and Dean. Don't forget about Dean. Floating out on the river, their lives blend together into a single narrative, jumbled and confused, pieces of a puzzle that he doesn't dare solve.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or Joint Body. I don't own the characters or the plot lines, but I'm pretty sure that the movie's writer is secretly a Supernatural fan. I mean, come on. I'm reaching here, but not that much.
His name was Nick. Nick Burke. He was trapped.
His wife’s name was Sarah, except it wasn’t. It was Jane. She visited him sometimes in his dreams, talked into a phone, through some glass. She was very real, sitting on the bed next to him, on the seat across from him.
She told him about their son. Their daughter. An infant in her teens, a crib drenched in blood and smelling of baby powder, happy and healthy and on the soccer team. Well-adjusted. Dead.
He was trapped, but then he wasn’t. Thousands of years passing by in seven, sins counted off on his fingers as he waited. Ink on skin, protection carved into ribs, and he was lost.
He was alone. Standing on the road, a new town, probation. Freedom. He had a plan.
Honest work. Dirt and grime and blood on his hands, a mass grave and a welding mask. Seven years, and he had so much work to do. So little time to do it.
It played out like a movie. Fumbling for his keys, groceries held in his arms, the wind playing games with the front gate, slow creeping sounds and the feeling of being watched. A stretcher. A baby swing. A young woman he knew but he didn’t.
Her name was Michelle.
Coffee. That was the plan. Coffee. But there was a man, a powerful man, and he played with her thoughts and made her think that he was right and that was wrong and Nick fired the first few shots, but Michelle fired the last one. That was the one that hurt. The one that carved its way through flesh and blood and bone and buried itself deep inside of his Grace. His soul. Festering for a thousand years, for a single day.
She came to see him, after. Brought him things and told him things and said he was wrong. That she was right. That it was for the best and that Danny, that Daddy wouldn’t have hurt her. That he knew best. That everything would be ok.
But it wouldn’t. Because they blamed him, they always blamed him, this was the first time they blamed him. And he was cast out, back into the lonely cold, into the dark, but this time he wasn’t alone. This time he took Michael with him.
And they ran. They ran to Dean. Dean who had shot first, who had fallen hard, who had given him the gun. Dean who was so like a brother to him. It was all Dean, his obedience to the law, his refusal to see. Dean wouldn’t cooperate, but Dean would help. Would shelter them. Nick and Michelle, inseparable now. Trapped.
And they ran again, away from Dean, from his apple pie, his life, his wife, the family and the baby. Ran to run, like always, one step ahead and falling fast.
When Michelle sang it sounded like a choir, and so he left. He didn’t belong in a place where people were happy and angels were singing. She had told him that long ago, before the prison, seven long years.
He ran, and she caught him. Like she had promised. Like she had said.
For a moment, it was like freefall. Like bliss. Tangled together and crashing into the darkness, they fell.
And then he left.
He went to find his daughter, his son, his vessel, his Sam. Nicole. Same name, same walk, same face. Destiny bound by blood and seven years. Seven long years.
He saw her, and he left. Too short, too soft, too young. Too different. Something not right and nagging at his brain as he felt the chasm close and swallow up his brother. His Michelle. Trapped in a cage, locked behind bars. Her screams echoed in his head, loud and deep, as if she was there. Right there. Watching him lose his mind.
He went to the lake. He climbed in his boat. He stared into the waters, into the river Lethe.
Hell is forgetting who you are.