When Hell's Bells Toll For Thee
This is Hell?
What were you expecting, John? Fiery pits? Screaming souls in torment? Or maybe an episode of Oz complete with some horned monstrosity making you it's bitch in the showers?
Not something I've ever really thought about.
Lying's supposed to be my job, John. Isn't it about time you stopped? Isn't it about time you just... let the afterlife happen for you? Or can't you? You can't, can you? You can't just be dead like anyone else. You're John Winchester, aren't you?
You going to get to your all-fired 'torture', or is the speech here supposed to do the trick?
You've gotten impatient. Where's my favorite tactician?
I'm dead.
That's no reason to be grumpy.
You wanna try it? I'm sure one of my boys'll be happy to help you with that.
Not really on the agenda, unfortunately.
Never woulda expected that.
'Sarcasm: the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded.' Rather appropriate, don't you think?
What're you waiting for?
Oh, we're almost there... don't be so impatient. You know, they say stress is a killer.
You fuckin'--
It's his house.
It's his house and Mary's house. Their house. It's their house as it had been, as they'd had it before--
His vision trembles as if he'd been hit by something around waist height but he can't feel it, he can't feel anything even as he looks down at the little blonde head.
"Daddy!"
He hears his own voice speak even if he can't feel the words in his mouth, he can't feel the little arms around his waist.
"Hey, buddy." He watches as Dean, his son, Dean is slung into his own arms. He can't feel it, but he can see it. It's almost like he can feel it. Almost like he can smell it. Almost like it's real but he's watching a movie and everything familiar is missing the most important pieces. "So what do you think? You think Sammy’s ready to toss around a football yet?"
He looks up and there's one of the big ones. His heart breaks, right then and there, and if he had eyes to do it or hands to wipe he'd be sobbing fit enough to shame a monsoon. Mary, her hair not as blond as he remembered and her eyes not as bright but fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck it's her. It's her and she's there and he wishes he could smell her and taste her on the air because she's there, she's real. She's holding Sam and everything, right now, is all right.
And he knows that it won't be. He knows he only has a few minutes and then it won't be.
"No, Daddy."
"Let's leave. Let's go to a hotel. Let's go now, right now. Please."
Maybe if he changes one thing, maybe he can change everything.
But John doesn't say anything. John smiles; he can see the tilt in the angle from when he gives her a crooked grin.
"No," he hears himself say.
"Please. Please, don't. Please, no."
"You got him?" She says and it's her voice. It's not a recording or a memory or the whispers from an old house picked up on a tape recorder as an EVP.
It's her.
"I got him. Sweet dreams, Sam"
"NO! Don't go, you fuckin' moron! Don't GO!"
And then he watches as John Winchester tucks in his son, kisses him on the head, and walkes down the stairs to watch TV.
What were you expecting, John? Fiery pits? Screaming souls in torment? Or maybe an episode of Oz complete with some horned monstrosity making you it's bitch in the showers?
Not something I've ever really thought about.
Lying's supposed to be my job, John. Isn't it about time you stopped? Isn't it about time you just... let the afterlife happen for you? Or can't you? You can't, can you? You can't just be dead like anyone else. You're John Winchester, aren't you?
You going to get to your all-fired 'torture', or is the speech here supposed to do the trick?
You've gotten impatient. Where's my favorite tactician?
I'm dead.
That's no reason to be grumpy.
You wanna try it? I'm sure one of my boys'll be happy to help you with that.
Not really on the agenda, unfortunately.
Never woulda expected that.
'Sarcasm: the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded.' Rather appropriate, don't you think?
What're you waiting for?
Oh, we're almost there... don't be so impatient. You know, they say stress is a killer.
You fuckin'--
It's his house.
It's his house and Mary's house. Their house. It's their house as it had been, as they'd had it before--
His vision trembles as if he'd been hit by something around waist height but he can't feel it, he can't feel anything even as he looks down at the little blonde head.
"Daddy!"
He hears his own voice speak even if he can't feel the words in his mouth, he can't feel the little arms around his waist.
"Hey, buddy." He watches as Dean, his son, Dean is slung into his own arms. He can't feel it, but he can see it. It's almost like he can feel it. Almost like he can smell it. Almost like it's real but he's watching a movie and everything familiar is missing the most important pieces. "So what do you think? You think Sammy’s ready to toss around a football yet?"
He looks up and there's one of the big ones. His heart breaks, right then and there, and if he had eyes to do it or hands to wipe he'd be sobbing fit enough to shame a monsoon. Mary, her hair not as blond as he remembered and her eyes not as bright but fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck it's her. It's her and she's there and he wishes he could smell her and taste her on the air because she's there, she's real. She's holding Sam and everything, right now, is all right.
And he knows that it won't be. He knows he only has a few minutes and then it won't be.
"No, Daddy."
"Let's leave. Let's go to a hotel. Let's go now, right now. Please."
Maybe if he changes one thing, maybe he can change everything.
But John doesn't say anything. John smiles; he can see the tilt in the angle from when he gives her a crooked grin.
"No," he hears himself say.
"Please. Please, don't. Please, no."
"You got him?" She says and it's her voice. It's not a recording or a memory or the whispers from an old house picked up on a tape recorder as an EVP.
It's her.
"I got him. Sweet dreams, Sam"
"NO! Don't go, you fuckin' moron! Don't GO!"
And then he watches as John Winchester tucks in his son, kisses him on the head, and walkes down the stairs to watch TV.