Fic: bells
Title: bells
Author: Mary (stillxmyxheart)
Beta: Lindsay (rowofstars)
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst
Word Count: 1047
Characters: Dean, Tessa
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize? Ain't mine.
Summary: It's the end of the world. Again.
A/N: Written for damalur's Write for Relief prompt: Dean/Tessa, bells. I hope you like it!
Empty storefronts line the deserted street, glass from shattered windows glittering dully on the sidewalks. They occasionally flash fire as he moves, the sunlight glinting off the broken panes, seeming to mark his progress down the sidewalk.
There are cars parked at drunken angles all along the road, and he frowns.
Whatever happened here must have happened fast.
"End of the world," he mutters, kicking a broken chunk of asphalt with the toe of his boot and listening to it skitter across the pavement.
Everything has gone to Hell - quite literally - over the past several months. If someone asked him what happened, he wouldn't be able to say with any certainty. It was just a gradual decline into chaos that he and Sam had been helpless to stop.
He thinks about Sam now, off in some other town, probably looking at a similar scene of destruction. They would meet up later tonight at whatever bar they could find that was still open and compare notes. Castiel might join them if he had news, but it wasn't likely.
Dean sighs as he continues up the road, sharp eyes scanning for movement, shotgun held firmly in his hands. He's not expecting to find anybody alive, but there might be something he can use, either a weapon or some clue as to what he and Sam can do to stop all of this.
He realizes quite suddenly that there are footsteps behind him and he slows his pace just slightly, listening intently. He reaches the end of the sidewalk, stopping just before his feet hit the side street, and whirls around, shotgun held high.
The dark-haired woman behind him merely raises her eyebrows and he frowns, lowering the gun slightly.
"Tessa?" he says in disbelief.
"Hi, Dean," she replies, the corner her mouth lifting slightly.
He lowers the shotgun to his side and stares at her a moment longer.
"Oh, shit," he says, his shoulders slumping. "Am I dead?"
He doesn't know when it could have happened, but it might not be his fault. His death never seems to be his fault, not directly at least. Consequences, cause and effect, action and reaction, the click of the dominoes falling; he may sometimes be at both the beginning and the end, but all the shit in between is out of his hands. He's never died a normal death.
Her smile widens and she shakes her head.
"No, you're not dead."
They continue down the sidewalk and she sighs.
"The lines are blurring," she murmurs, her gaze passing over the scene in front of them. "You don't have to be dead or in limbo now to see Reapers."
They reach the center of the small town, a circular patch of grass with brick walkways laid like a cross, leading to the church directly in front of them and to the sidewalks on either side. It might have once been beautiful, but the grass is dead and brown now, the brick walkways crumbling, the park benches worn and falling apart.
They settle side by side on the only bench that's still intact, facing the church.
"It's all over, Dean," she says softly. "I don't think we can get out of it this time."
He shakes his head, sweeping his thumb over the butt of the shotgun that now rests in his lap.
"It's not over," he replies. "We've gotten out of it before, we can again."
Her smile is a little sad as she glances at him.
"I don't remember this particular brand of optimism on you."
He shrugs. "Better than giving up. It's better to go out fighting than just laying down to die."
"Can't argue with that."
They fall silent, listening to the oppressive quiet that blankets the town. The sky is still somehow a vibrant blue, puffy white clouds drifting lazily by, the sun a blazing coin high overhead. It's almost mocking.
"Are you ready to die, Dean?" she asks after a few minutes.
"Suppose you kind of have to be."
She looks over at him again, one eyebrow raised.
"I may be optimistic, but I'm not stupid," he says, meeting her gaze. "Besides, when you've died as many times as I have, the shock wears off after a while."
A quiet laugh escapes her lips as she nods.
"Where do you think you'll go?"
His shoulders rise in a shrug. "Dunno."
"Where do you want to go?"
He heaves a sigh, turning his face towards the sky. "I've been to Heaven, and I've been to Hell. I don't know which is worse."
"If you had to choose," she presses, and he can feel her gaze on his face, sharp and intense.
"Heaven, I guess," he says quietly after a moment. He pauses and then adds cynically, "If something doesn't just drag me back again. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to just stay dead."
There's an edge of bitterness to his voice, and he finds he's almost envious of those who get to just pass on, just leave the fucking mortal coil once and for all without angels and devils clawing at the ground to bring them back.
"It must be peaceful," he murmurs, unaware he's spoken out loud.
She looks at him curiously but doesn't ask what he means, and silence falls once again.
The church bell begins to toll.
Neither of them reacts except to look up, perhaps because there's already so much wrong here that it doesn't seem at all strange.
"What do you think it is?" she asks softly.
"Dunno," he replies, just as softly.
He looks down when he feels her fingers on the back of his hand and she wraps them around his, giving them a squeeze.
"Are you afraid, Dean?"
He frowns at their hands and then turns his gaze to her face, green eyes meeting brown.
"Should I be?" he asks, his eyebrows knitting together just slightly.
"I think so," she replies, and then more decisively: "Yes."
He stares at her for a moment. The clang of the church bell echoes and reverberates all around them, within them
and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls
it tolls for thee
and then he shakes his head.
"No," he says, and squeezes her fingers. "I'm not afraid."
Author: Mary (stillxmyxheart)
Beta: Lindsay (rowofstars)
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst
Word Count: 1047
Characters: Dean, Tessa
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize? Ain't mine.
Summary: It's the end of the world. Again.
A/N: Written for damalur's Write for Relief prompt: Dean/Tessa, bells. I hope you like it!
Empty storefronts line the deserted street, glass from shattered windows glittering dully on the sidewalks. They occasionally flash fire as he moves, the sunlight glinting off the broken panes, seeming to mark his progress down the sidewalk.
There are cars parked at drunken angles all along the road, and he frowns.
Whatever happened here must have happened fast.
"End of the world," he mutters, kicking a broken chunk of asphalt with the toe of his boot and listening to it skitter across the pavement.
Everything has gone to Hell - quite literally - over the past several months. If someone asked him what happened, he wouldn't be able to say with any certainty. It was just a gradual decline into chaos that he and Sam had been helpless to stop.
He thinks about Sam now, off in some other town, probably looking at a similar scene of destruction. They would meet up later tonight at whatever bar they could find that was still open and compare notes. Castiel might join them if he had news, but it wasn't likely.
Dean sighs as he continues up the road, sharp eyes scanning for movement, shotgun held firmly in his hands. He's not expecting to find anybody alive, but there might be something he can use, either a weapon or some clue as to what he and Sam can do to stop all of this.
He realizes quite suddenly that there are footsteps behind him and he slows his pace just slightly, listening intently. He reaches the end of the sidewalk, stopping just before his feet hit the side street, and whirls around, shotgun held high.
The dark-haired woman behind him merely raises her eyebrows and he frowns, lowering the gun slightly.
"Tessa?" he says in disbelief.
"Hi, Dean," she replies, the corner her mouth lifting slightly.
He lowers the shotgun to his side and stares at her a moment longer.
"Oh, shit," he says, his shoulders slumping. "Am I dead?"
He doesn't know when it could have happened, but it might not be his fault. His death never seems to be his fault, not directly at least. Consequences, cause and effect, action and reaction, the click of the dominoes falling; he may sometimes be at both the beginning and the end, but all the shit in between is out of his hands. He's never died a normal death.
Her smile widens and she shakes her head.
"No, you're not dead."
They continue down the sidewalk and she sighs.
"The lines are blurring," she murmurs, her gaze passing over the scene in front of them. "You don't have to be dead or in limbo now to see Reapers."
They reach the center of the small town, a circular patch of grass with brick walkways laid like a cross, leading to the church directly in front of them and to the sidewalks on either side. It might have once been beautiful, but the grass is dead and brown now, the brick walkways crumbling, the park benches worn and falling apart.
They settle side by side on the only bench that's still intact, facing the church.
"It's all over, Dean," she says softly. "I don't think we can get out of it this time."
He shakes his head, sweeping his thumb over the butt of the shotgun that now rests in his lap.
"It's not over," he replies. "We've gotten out of it before, we can again."
Her smile is a little sad as she glances at him.
"I don't remember this particular brand of optimism on you."
He shrugs. "Better than giving up. It's better to go out fighting than just laying down to die."
"Can't argue with that."
They fall silent, listening to the oppressive quiet that blankets the town. The sky is still somehow a vibrant blue, puffy white clouds drifting lazily by, the sun a blazing coin high overhead. It's almost mocking.
"Are you ready to die, Dean?" she asks after a few minutes.
"Suppose you kind of have to be."
She looks over at him again, one eyebrow raised.
"I may be optimistic, but I'm not stupid," he says, meeting her gaze. "Besides, when you've died as many times as I have, the shock wears off after a while."
A quiet laugh escapes her lips as she nods.
"Where do you think you'll go?"
His shoulders rise in a shrug. "Dunno."
"Where do you want to go?"
He heaves a sigh, turning his face towards the sky. "I've been to Heaven, and I've been to Hell. I don't know which is worse."
"If you had to choose," she presses, and he can feel her gaze on his face, sharp and intense.
"Heaven, I guess," he says quietly after a moment. He pauses and then adds cynically, "If something doesn't just drag me back again. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to just stay dead."
There's an edge of bitterness to his voice, and he finds he's almost envious of those who get to just pass on, just leave the fucking mortal coil once and for all without angels and devils clawing at the ground to bring them back.
"It must be peaceful," he murmurs, unaware he's spoken out loud.
She looks at him curiously but doesn't ask what he means, and silence falls once again.
The church bell begins to toll.
Neither of them reacts except to look up, perhaps because there's already so much wrong here that it doesn't seem at all strange.
"What do you think it is?" she asks softly.
"Dunno," he replies, just as softly.
He looks down when he feels her fingers on the back of his hand and she wraps them around his, giving them a squeeze.
"Are you afraid, Dean?"
He frowns at their hands and then turns his gaze to her face, green eyes meeting brown.
"Should I be?" he asks, his eyebrows knitting together just slightly.
"I think so," she replies, and then more decisively: "Yes."
He stares at her for a moment. The clang of the church bell echoes and reverberates all around them, within them
and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls
it tolls for thee
and then he shakes his head.
"No," he says, and squeezes her fingers. "I'm not afraid."