[100_tales] When They Come For Me
Title: When They Come For Me
Author: defy_n_gravity
Prompt: 100_tales: 036. Death
Characters: Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer
Rating: E
Words: 717
Disclaimer: No claim on Supernatural or any of it's characters. Just using for fun, and I mean no harm.
Warning: Post 316: No Rest For The Wicked.
Author's Notes: So much crack. This hit me and had to be written. Yes, there's a lot more to it. I had planned on making this longer, but I decided this was a good place to stop for now.
Summary: When Dean died he was prepared.
When Dean died he was prepared. He knew it was coming, and he was as ready as he ever would be. He wasn't ready for Hell. There was no way to be ready for that, especially when he couldn't fathom what it had in store for him. He didn't know much about Hell, but one thing he knew was that he wasn't there.
He died, and then he woke up. There was sunlight in his face, and he could hear bird chirping somewhere outside. He sat up slowly and rubbed his eyes as he tried to take a look around at where he was. A bedroom. Second story by the looks of things through the window.
He ran his hands over his arms. They were there, fully in tact. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and carefully stood up. Confusion was written all over his face.
“What is this, a joke?” He muttered to himself. He stepped across the room, the floorboards creaking underfoot, and looked out the window. There was farmland as far as the eye could see. He scratched the back of his neck and turned at the sound of someone coming down the hall. He glanced around for some kind of weapon to guard himself with, but only found an old pitcher's mitt and baseball. He picked the ball up, it would have to do.
As the door started to open Dean took a step back. He braced himself for anything.
“You're up,” a familiar voice stated.
Dean's eyes widened at the sight of Bobby, and he frowned. “Bobby?”
“How ya feelin'?”
“....alive,” Dean replied.
Bobby noticed the ball in Dean's hand. “Gonna go play ball?” Bobby asked it dryly, clearly asking for an explanation.
Dean looked to the ball in his hand, then back at Bobby, then dropped his hand to his side. His head tilted a bit. “What the hell's goin' on?”
“You don't remember?”
“Remember what? One second I've got hellhounds on me like white on rice, the next I wake up here.”
Bobby's face was blank as he asked his next question. Blank in a way that could never be faked. “What's a hellhound?”
“What's a...are you feelin' okay?”
“Dean...maybe you need to sit down,” Bobby nodded. “You're soundin' a little delerious.”
“I'm sounding delirious? This is some kinda dream. It's gotta be.”
Bobby sighed and adjusted the cap on his head. “Why don't you sit down and tell me exactly what you remember?”
Confused as he was, Dean did as Bobby told him to do. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at the older man. “You know...sold my soul, counted down my days, got torn up by some hellhounds and...well, I was expectin' I'd be on my way to Hell right now, but maybe this is some twisted version of it.”
Bobby's brow went up. “Hell?”
“Yeah...you know, where the bad boys and girls go,” Dean said with an eyeroll.
“That accident hit'cha pretty hard,” Bobby said, shaking his head.
“Accident?”
“Yeah. Well...so called. Not hard to tell who was behind it.”
“What accident?”
“The one where your car flipped three times off the side of the road. Couldn't get the story straight from you, and there weren't any witnesses, but I ain't buyin' jack. He's been after your hide for almost a year now. Not surprisin' the second you show up in town this so called accident happens.”
“Bobby....I have no idea what you're talkin' about,” Dean sighed. He really didn't. And if this was some crazy dream or faked reality to mess with his head, the best he could do was go with it. He paused. “Wait. Back up. The Impala?”
“Well yeah,” Bobby nodded.
Dean paled. “Is she okay?”
“'Course she is,” Bobby replied, almost offended. “You've been out over a week now. I've been fixin' her back up.”
“You coulda started with that.”
“Think I'm a little less worried about your head now,” Bobby said.
Dean was more worried about Bobby's, but he wasn't going to press it. “So...” He tried to sound casual. “Where are we?”
“You don't recognize it?”
Dean looked around, then shrugged his shoulders up and down before meeting Bobby's gaze again. “Nope.”
“You're at my house,” Bobby said. “In Smallville, Kansas.”
Author: defy_n_gravity
Prompt: 100_tales: 036. Death
Characters: Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer
Rating: E
Words: 717
Disclaimer: No claim on Supernatural or any of it's characters. Just using for fun, and I mean no harm.
Warning: Post 316: No Rest For The Wicked.
Author's Notes: So much crack. This hit me and had to be written. Yes, there's a lot more to it. I had planned on making this longer, but I decided this was a good place to stop for now.
Summary: When Dean died he was prepared.
When Dean died he was prepared. He knew it was coming, and he was as ready as he ever would be. He wasn't ready for Hell. There was no way to be ready for that, especially when he couldn't fathom what it had in store for him. He didn't know much about Hell, but one thing he knew was that he wasn't there.
He died, and then he woke up. There was sunlight in his face, and he could hear bird chirping somewhere outside. He sat up slowly and rubbed his eyes as he tried to take a look around at where he was. A bedroom. Second story by the looks of things through the window.
He ran his hands over his arms. They were there, fully in tact. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and carefully stood up. Confusion was written all over his face.
“What is this, a joke?” He muttered to himself. He stepped across the room, the floorboards creaking underfoot, and looked out the window. There was farmland as far as the eye could see. He scratched the back of his neck and turned at the sound of someone coming down the hall. He glanced around for some kind of weapon to guard himself with, but only found an old pitcher's mitt and baseball. He picked the ball up, it would have to do.
As the door started to open Dean took a step back. He braced himself for anything.
“You're up,” a familiar voice stated.
Dean's eyes widened at the sight of Bobby, and he frowned. “Bobby?”
“How ya feelin'?”
“....alive,” Dean replied.
Bobby noticed the ball in Dean's hand. “Gonna go play ball?” Bobby asked it dryly, clearly asking for an explanation.
Dean looked to the ball in his hand, then back at Bobby, then dropped his hand to his side. His head tilted a bit. “What the hell's goin' on?”
“You don't remember?”
“Remember what? One second I've got hellhounds on me like white on rice, the next I wake up here.”
Bobby's face was blank as he asked his next question. Blank in a way that could never be faked. “What's a hellhound?”
“What's a...are you feelin' okay?”
“Dean...maybe you need to sit down,” Bobby nodded. “You're soundin' a little delerious.”
“I'm sounding delirious? This is some kinda dream. It's gotta be.”
Bobby sighed and adjusted the cap on his head. “Why don't you sit down and tell me exactly what you remember?”
Confused as he was, Dean did as Bobby told him to do. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at the older man. “You know...sold my soul, counted down my days, got torn up by some hellhounds and...well, I was expectin' I'd be on my way to Hell right now, but maybe this is some twisted version of it.”
Bobby's brow went up. “Hell?”
“Yeah...you know, where the bad boys and girls go,” Dean said with an eyeroll.
“That accident hit'cha pretty hard,” Bobby said, shaking his head.
“Accident?”
“Yeah. Well...so called. Not hard to tell who was behind it.”
“What accident?”
“The one where your car flipped three times off the side of the road. Couldn't get the story straight from you, and there weren't any witnesses, but I ain't buyin' jack. He's been after your hide for almost a year now. Not surprisin' the second you show up in town this so called accident happens.”
“Bobby....I have no idea what you're talkin' about,” Dean sighed. He really didn't. And if this was some crazy dream or faked reality to mess with his head, the best he could do was go with it. He paused. “Wait. Back up. The Impala?”
“Well yeah,” Bobby nodded.
Dean paled. “Is she okay?”
“'Course she is,” Bobby replied, almost offended. “You've been out over a week now. I've been fixin' her back up.”
“You coulda started with that.”
“Think I'm a little less worried about your head now,” Bobby said.
Dean was more worried about Bobby's, but he wasn't going to press it. “So...” He tried to sound casual. “Where are we?”
“You don't recognize it?”
Dean looked around, then shrugged his shoulders up and down before meeting Bobby's gaze again. “Nope.”
“You're at my house,” Bobby said. “In Smallville, Kansas.”