fic: Angel Radio (Supernatural; Dean/Anna; adult)
Angel Radio
Supernatural; Dean/Anna; spoilers through the promo for 4.10; adult; 2,545 words
"The world could end tomorrow."
Thanks to mousapelli for looking it over.
~*~
Angel Radio
i.
Anna believes in God in a vague way, maybe conflates him with her dad a little--the familiar scents of incense and candle smoke, the slightly sour taste of communion wine, the swell of organ music--they remind her of her father as much as they do church.
She's not prepared for the voices.
She's in class on Thursday afternoon, wondering if she should go to the bar that night with the girls, or go home to do laundry, when she hears a voice say, Dean Winchester is saved.
First, she thinks maybe she forgot to turn her iPod off, but it's in her bag, and anyway, she doesn't have anything but music on it. Then she wonders if she accidentally opened a pop-up when she was surfing the web instead of listening to her Investigative Reporting professor.
But there's nothing open on her laptop, and nobody around her seems to have heard anything.
She tries to concentrate on the lecture, shifts in her seat and leans forward a little, but after a brief silence, the voices are clamoring in her head, full of plans for this Dean Winchester, and his brother, Sam.
The class ends forty minutes later, and the document open on Anna's laptop is still blank, but her head is full of deep, rolling voices speaking of the apocalypse.
She tells herself it's just some kind of weird migraine. She's heard hormone fluctuations can cause them, and she's just gone off the pill.
She goes home, takes some extra-strength Excedrin, and slides into bed.
She dreams of the world ending in fire.
*
ii.
At first, she thinks it's worked. She feels fine the next day--a little headachy, a little sleepy--but better.
And then she sees the demon in her Public Affairs class. Well, she doesn't know yet that it's a demon, not until she's seen a couple and does the research, but she sees its hideous face and runs out of the classroom.
She doesn't stop running until she gets home.
Once she's seen one, she starts seeing them everywhere--behind the counter at Starbucks, on the treadmill at the gym, on line at the grocery store.
The only place she hasn't seen one is in church.
She sits in a pew, staring up at the rose windows, the dusty quiet of the place soothing after all the noise in her head.
She tries to pray, thinks maybe she can talk back to the angels, ask them to keep it down at the very least, but they never respond. It's a one-way transmission, and she's on the receiving end.
She knows what generally happens to people who hear God talking to them.
*
iii.
She's studying to be a journalist, so she knows how to do research, do more than a cursory Google search for the information she needs.
What she finds scares her almost as much as the voices do, because she's seeing proof, evidence, of the things she's hearing actually happening--a woman rushed to the hospital with her eyes burned out, a series of people being eviscerated in their own homes, a double murder on Halloween in a small town in Ohio--a roll call of death and defeat that the voices lay at the feet of a demon they call Lilith. The seals are being broken, and the angels can't seem to stop it.
Her father borrows her laptop and discovers she's got thirty-six tabs open about the occult, about mysterious deaths, about the serial killer named Dean Winchester, who died once in St. Louis and again in Colorado, and once more (for real this time) in Indiana, who was pulled out of hell to save the world ("That last part isn't in the newspapers," she tells her father when he asks what's going on).
Anna knows her parents love her, and they have her best interests at heart, so she tries to lie to the doctors and psychiatrists, but they all see right through her.
Her notebook is her only solace, the only thing that doesn't fight back, call her crazy. She draws everything she sees and hears, going through pencil after pencil, page after page of paper, trying to get it all out, because she has to tell someone, and no one will believe.
"'A prophet is not without honor, except in her own country,'" she says to her father, thinking he'll appreciate the reference. "Maybe you should have named me Cassandra," she tells her mother, knowing she won't.
*
iv.
She has to tell them, has to warn them all, they're all going to die in fire and pain and blood if she doesn't tell them.
Of course, they don't listen. It takes four people to bring her down, fear lending her strength, and the last thing she hears before the tranqs kick in is an angel saying, Dean passed the test.
She's strapped to a bed when she wakes up, her parents and a psychiatrist hovering over her. She can almost smell the fear coming off them--it's a familiar scent these days, one that's clinging to her skin like perfume, sharp and sour.
"There's no history of mental illness," her mother tells the doctor. "At least, not on my side."
Her father grunts and shrugs. "My mother and sister have suffered from depression, but that's a long way from schizophrenia."
"I'm not crazy," Anna insists, the same way she's insisted every day since she woke up screaming that the world was going to end unless Dean Winchester stopped it.
Mom starts crying again and Dad pats her hand gently. They've played this scene out repeatedly over the past few weeks, but this time, when her parents leave the hospital, they leave her behind.
She's locked in a white room, being pumped full of medication to turn the voices in her head into white noise.
She doesn't hate them.
But she knows she's not crazy.
*
v.
Anna doesn't know if she moved the dresser or if one of the angels did--she only knows that an invisible force moved through her and shoved that dresser into the demon--and she doesn't stop to find out.
Maybe it's obvious, but the one place she feels safe, the one place that maybe the demons can't reach--and yeah, okay, demons, that part is still a little weird (and a lot terrifying), but she figures the demons come along with the angels, which sucks, but that's life--is the church where her father works on Sundays.
She heads up into the attic, remembers him letting her play up there when he was getting down the Christmas decorations, the beautiful life-sized statues of Mary and Joseph, and the baby Jesus in the manger. The room smells of stale incense and wax and dust, and it makes her feel safe, makes her feel home, and she's able to sleep for a little while.
She sends up a silent apology to God (and Father Romero) for using the water in the baptismal font to wash and brush her teeth, and she wishes she had some extra clothes to change into, because the ones she's wearing are starting to feel kind of gross, but mostly she wishes she couldn't hear the angels talking about what to do next, about the losses they've taken. They argue about the Winchester brothers, and the noise makes her head hurt. She'd always thought angels were supposed to be good and kind and helpful, but these angels are militant and angry, and they scare her as much as the demons.
When Dean and Sam arrive, she thinks maybe she, too, has been saved, even though they bring the demons (and the angels) with them.
*
vi.
The angels want her dead, the demons want to torture her, and she just wants them all to leave her alone.
"Can't they just turn it off? Change the frequency?" she says to Dean, who's sitting on a bench, loading shells into shotguns. She likes watching his hands--he knows what he's doing, touches the guns like he loves them. Like they'll protect him. Her. All of them.
He laughs, eyes crinkling with it, and something warm blooms in her belly, in her chest.
"Or maybe they could take the memories? I wouldn't mind forgetting all of this." It's only partially the truth. She doesn't want to forget him.
"I don't think it works like that."
"I wish it did."
"Careful what you wish for," he mutters, wiping his hands on his jeans. She watches, distracted by the movement, by the shape of his fingers, the muscles of his thighs.
She looks around, but Sam and Ruby are in the front room of the cabin, keeping watch. She leans over and presses a kiss to Dean's lips. They're warm and soft and a little chapped.
"What was that for?" His eyes are really dark in the lamplight, but not black, not demonic. Human and tired and knowing.
She meets his gaze squarely. "Our last night on earth."
"Don't," he says. "Don't say that."
"We can't fight both heaven and hell, Dean."
"We can make them fight each other instead."
She's going to say something, she really is, maybe something witty about wishing for that kiss, but he leans over and kisses her, those strong, capable hands cupping her face gently, and his tongue licking at the line of her lips. She opens her mouth, touches her tongue to his, her breath hitching at the sensation. She can feel him smile against her lips, hear the little rumble of sound that would be a laugh if he had the breath for it, if he weren't breathing into her instead.
"Come here," he murmurs, pulling her close so she can straddle his lap. She reaches up and runs a hand through his hair; it's softer than she expected, and tickles her palm. She has to swallow hard, the low ache between her legs demanding attention as she kisses him again, one hand on his shoulder, the other sliding through the hair on the nape of his neck. He growls low, pleased, and she can feel it in her chest where they're pressed together.
They make out for a few minutes, and she's a little surprised--she's not sure what she expected (didn't really expect this at all, though maybe she'd hoped a little)--but he doesn't rush her, lets her set the pace.
She shoves the flannel shirt off his shoulders, wants to pull off his t-shirt too, get her hands on his skin. She wonders if he's got freckles all over, takes a few seconds to kiss the ones scattered across his nose, and the high planes of his cheeks.
"Anna." His voice is hoarse and low and it sends another little thrill through her. "You sure?"
"Yes," she says. "The world could end tomorrow."
His fingers are quick on her buttons, his hands deft as he eases her out of her shirt. He traces the lace at the edge of her bra with his thumb before rubbing it over her nipple. She gasps and rolls her hips, and he grins, confident and ridiculously hot.
"Okay, come on." He lowers her down onto the sleeping bags he and Sam had laid out on the floor earlier, the material soft and cool against her back. Her knees fall open naturally and he fits himself between them, hips flush against hers, heat palpable even through four layers of cotton and denim. He pushes the cups of her bra up, and she slides the thing over her head so they can be chest-to-chest, skin to skin.
He dips his head down to take one nipple into his mouth and suck, and she arches up against him with a low moan. "That's it," he says, lifting his head to blow cool air against her wet skin. "Tell me what you like."
She tries to concentrate, tries to get his jeans unbuttoned and unzipped while he's sucking on her nipples, but her hands end up clutching his shoulders, the feelings he's creating too good not to wallow in.
When he finally raises his head, his lips are shiny and pink and curved in a huge grin. She can't help but grin back and run a hand through his hair again.
He's thinking more clearly than she is--she won't think about how much more experience than her he probably has--and he's got her out of her jeans in no time, no fumbling with the buttons or zippers, her shoes already toed off to make things easier.
He curls his hand into the wet ache between her legs and she moans again, bucks up against it when he slides two fingers inside, stroking like he knows exactly what she wants, what she needs. He moves down her body to put his mouth on her, long swipe of his tongue against her cunt before he sucks on her clit, no teasing, just a relentless wave of need and pleasure that makes her gasp and cry out, broken little noises that want to be words but can't quite get it together. The wave breaks over her, and she comes hard, clenching around his fingers, white light sparking behind her eyelids.
She's still riding it out when he replaces his fingers with his dick. He's thrusting harder now, his amulet swinging in time with his ragged breathing, and she thrusts up to meet each stroke, delicious tension building inside her again. He's warm and solid and the only thing she can think about for the moment, the noise in her head banished by the sensations he's creating in her body.
He shifts her hips up and she wraps her legs around him, heels pressing hard against his ass, urging him to him fuck deeper, harder, into her. "Yes," she whispers, looking up at him, holding his gaze, not caring that she's begging. "Please, Dean. Please."
"You're so tight," he murmurs against her temple, soft lick of his tongue warm against the skin there. "So fucking hot, Anna."
She likes that he says her name, that he looks her in the eye when they're fucking, that he runs his thumb over her cheekbones and her lips. He reaches down between them to rub at her clit, and she comes apart again, the only thing she can hear the sound of her blood pulsing in her veins and his breathing loud in her ears.
He kisses her hard right before he comes, lets her swallow down his shout as his hips jerk against hers, and she hopes, with the small part of her brain that's actually working, that he likes it as much as she does.
He collapses on top of her when they're done, and she holds him close, even though the metal of his amulet is digging into her breastbone and she's going to have a bruise there in the morning. If she survives.
He must feel it when she tenses up, because he kisses her softly, runs a hand through her hair, down her side, then hugs her close for a second.
"It's gonna be okay, Anna," he says. "Sleep for a little while. We'll protect you."
And maybe she really is crazy, because even though she knows he's lying, for the moment, she believes him.
end
~*~
Note: I guess I just wanted to do it before canon did. Heh. I wanted to even before I saw the promo and found out it was going to happen in canon. Also, Anna quotes Matthew 13:57.
~*~
Feedback would be lovely.
~*~
Supernatural; Dean/Anna; spoilers through the promo for 4.10; adult; 2,545 words
"The world could end tomorrow."
Thanks to mousapelli for looking it over.
~*~
Angel Radio
i.
Anna believes in God in a vague way, maybe conflates him with her dad a little--the familiar scents of incense and candle smoke, the slightly sour taste of communion wine, the swell of organ music--they remind her of her father as much as they do church.
She's not prepared for the voices.
She's in class on Thursday afternoon, wondering if she should go to the bar that night with the girls, or go home to do laundry, when she hears a voice say, Dean Winchester is saved.
First, she thinks maybe she forgot to turn her iPod off, but it's in her bag, and anyway, she doesn't have anything but music on it. Then she wonders if she accidentally opened a pop-up when she was surfing the web instead of listening to her Investigative Reporting professor.
But there's nothing open on her laptop, and nobody around her seems to have heard anything.
She tries to concentrate on the lecture, shifts in her seat and leans forward a little, but after a brief silence, the voices are clamoring in her head, full of plans for this Dean Winchester, and his brother, Sam.
The class ends forty minutes later, and the document open on Anna's laptop is still blank, but her head is full of deep, rolling voices speaking of the apocalypse.
She tells herself it's just some kind of weird migraine. She's heard hormone fluctuations can cause them, and she's just gone off the pill.
She goes home, takes some extra-strength Excedrin, and slides into bed.
She dreams of the world ending in fire.
*
ii.
At first, she thinks it's worked. She feels fine the next day--a little headachy, a little sleepy--but better.
And then she sees the demon in her Public Affairs class. Well, she doesn't know yet that it's a demon, not until she's seen a couple and does the research, but she sees its hideous face and runs out of the classroom.
She doesn't stop running until she gets home.
Once she's seen one, she starts seeing them everywhere--behind the counter at Starbucks, on the treadmill at the gym, on line at the grocery store.
The only place she hasn't seen one is in church.
She sits in a pew, staring up at the rose windows, the dusty quiet of the place soothing after all the noise in her head.
She tries to pray, thinks maybe she can talk back to the angels, ask them to keep it down at the very least, but they never respond. It's a one-way transmission, and she's on the receiving end.
She knows what generally happens to people who hear God talking to them.
*
iii.
She's studying to be a journalist, so she knows how to do research, do more than a cursory Google search for the information she needs.
What she finds scares her almost as much as the voices do, because she's seeing proof, evidence, of the things she's hearing actually happening--a woman rushed to the hospital with her eyes burned out, a series of people being eviscerated in their own homes, a double murder on Halloween in a small town in Ohio--a roll call of death and defeat that the voices lay at the feet of a demon they call Lilith. The seals are being broken, and the angels can't seem to stop it.
Her father borrows her laptop and discovers she's got thirty-six tabs open about the occult, about mysterious deaths, about the serial killer named Dean Winchester, who died once in St. Louis and again in Colorado, and once more (for real this time) in Indiana, who was pulled out of hell to save the world ("That last part isn't in the newspapers," she tells her father when he asks what's going on).
Anna knows her parents love her, and they have her best interests at heart, so she tries to lie to the doctors and psychiatrists, but they all see right through her.
Her notebook is her only solace, the only thing that doesn't fight back, call her crazy. She draws everything she sees and hears, going through pencil after pencil, page after page of paper, trying to get it all out, because she has to tell someone, and no one will believe.
"'A prophet is not without honor, except in her own country,'" she says to her father, thinking he'll appreciate the reference. "Maybe you should have named me Cassandra," she tells her mother, knowing she won't.
*
iv.
She has to tell them, has to warn them all, they're all going to die in fire and pain and blood if she doesn't tell them.
Of course, they don't listen. It takes four people to bring her down, fear lending her strength, and the last thing she hears before the tranqs kick in is an angel saying, Dean passed the test.
She's strapped to a bed when she wakes up, her parents and a psychiatrist hovering over her. She can almost smell the fear coming off them--it's a familiar scent these days, one that's clinging to her skin like perfume, sharp and sour.
"There's no history of mental illness," her mother tells the doctor. "At least, not on my side."
Her father grunts and shrugs. "My mother and sister have suffered from depression, but that's a long way from schizophrenia."
"I'm not crazy," Anna insists, the same way she's insisted every day since she woke up screaming that the world was going to end unless Dean Winchester stopped it.
Mom starts crying again and Dad pats her hand gently. They've played this scene out repeatedly over the past few weeks, but this time, when her parents leave the hospital, they leave her behind.
She's locked in a white room, being pumped full of medication to turn the voices in her head into white noise.
She doesn't hate them.
But she knows she's not crazy.
*
v.
Anna doesn't know if she moved the dresser or if one of the angels did--she only knows that an invisible force moved through her and shoved that dresser into the demon--and she doesn't stop to find out.
Maybe it's obvious, but the one place she feels safe, the one place that maybe the demons can't reach--and yeah, okay, demons, that part is still a little weird (and a lot terrifying), but she figures the demons come along with the angels, which sucks, but that's life--is the church where her father works on Sundays.
She heads up into the attic, remembers him letting her play up there when he was getting down the Christmas decorations, the beautiful life-sized statues of Mary and Joseph, and the baby Jesus in the manger. The room smells of stale incense and wax and dust, and it makes her feel safe, makes her feel home, and she's able to sleep for a little while.
She sends up a silent apology to God (and Father Romero) for using the water in the baptismal font to wash and brush her teeth, and she wishes she had some extra clothes to change into, because the ones she's wearing are starting to feel kind of gross, but mostly she wishes she couldn't hear the angels talking about what to do next, about the losses they've taken. They argue about the Winchester brothers, and the noise makes her head hurt. She'd always thought angels were supposed to be good and kind and helpful, but these angels are militant and angry, and they scare her as much as the demons.
When Dean and Sam arrive, she thinks maybe she, too, has been saved, even though they bring the demons (and the angels) with them.
*
vi.
The angels want her dead, the demons want to torture her, and she just wants them all to leave her alone.
"Can't they just turn it off? Change the frequency?" she says to Dean, who's sitting on a bench, loading shells into shotguns. She likes watching his hands--he knows what he's doing, touches the guns like he loves them. Like they'll protect him. Her. All of them.
He laughs, eyes crinkling with it, and something warm blooms in her belly, in her chest.
"Or maybe they could take the memories? I wouldn't mind forgetting all of this." It's only partially the truth. She doesn't want to forget him.
"I don't think it works like that."
"I wish it did."
"Careful what you wish for," he mutters, wiping his hands on his jeans. She watches, distracted by the movement, by the shape of his fingers, the muscles of his thighs.
She looks around, but Sam and Ruby are in the front room of the cabin, keeping watch. She leans over and presses a kiss to Dean's lips. They're warm and soft and a little chapped.
"What was that for?" His eyes are really dark in the lamplight, but not black, not demonic. Human and tired and knowing.
She meets his gaze squarely. "Our last night on earth."
"Don't," he says. "Don't say that."
"We can't fight both heaven and hell, Dean."
"We can make them fight each other instead."
She's going to say something, she really is, maybe something witty about wishing for that kiss, but he leans over and kisses her, those strong, capable hands cupping her face gently, and his tongue licking at the line of her lips. She opens her mouth, touches her tongue to his, her breath hitching at the sensation. She can feel him smile against her lips, hear the little rumble of sound that would be a laugh if he had the breath for it, if he weren't breathing into her instead.
"Come here," he murmurs, pulling her close so she can straddle his lap. She reaches up and runs a hand through his hair; it's softer than she expected, and tickles her palm. She has to swallow hard, the low ache between her legs demanding attention as she kisses him again, one hand on his shoulder, the other sliding through the hair on the nape of his neck. He growls low, pleased, and she can feel it in her chest where they're pressed together.
They make out for a few minutes, and she's a little surprised--she's not sure what she expected (didn't really expect this at all, though maybe she'd hoped a little)--but he doesn't rush her, lets her set the pace.
She shoves the flannel shirt off his shoulders, wants to pull off his t-shirt too, get her hands on his skin. She wonders if he's got freckles all over, takes a few seconds to kiss the ones scattered across his nose, and the high planes of his cheeks.
"Anna." His voice is hoarse and low and it sends another little thrill through her. "You sure?"
"Yes," she says. "The world could end tomorrow."
His fingers are quick on her buttons, his hands deft as he eases her out of her shirt. He traces the lace at the edge of her bra with his thumb before rubbing it over her nipple. She gasps and rolls her hips, and he grins, confident and ridiculously hot.
"Okay, come on." He lowers her down onto the sleeping bags he and Sam had laid out on the floor earlier, the material soft and cool against her back. Her knees fall open naturally and he fits himself between them, hips flush against hers, heat palpable even through four layers of cotton and denim. He pushes the cups of her bra up, and she slides the thing over her head so they can be chest-to-chest, skin to skin.
He dips his head down to take one nipple into his mouth and suck, and she arches up against him with a low moan. "That's it," he says, lifting his head to blow cool air against her wet skin. "Tell me what you like."
She tries to concentrate, tries to get his jeans unbuttoned and unzipped while he's sucking on her nipples, but her hands end up clutching his shoulders, the feelings he's creating too good not to wallow in.
When he finally raises his head, his lips are shiny and pink and curved in a huge grin. She can't help but grin back and run a hand through his hair again.
He's thinking more clearly than she is--she won't think about how much more experience than her he probably has--and he's got her out of her jeans in no time, no fumbling with the buttons or zippers, her shoes already toed off to make things easier.
He curls his hand into the wet ache between her legs and she moans again, bucks up against it when he slides two fingers inside, stroking like he knows exactly what she wants, what she needs. He moves down her body to put his mouth on her, long swipe of his tongue against her cunt before he sucks on her clit, no teasing, just a relentless wave of need and pleasure that makes her gasp and cry out, broken little noises that want to be words but can't quite get it together. The wave breaks over her, and she comes hard, clenching around his fingers, white light sparking behind her eyelids.
She's still riding it out when he replaces his fingers with his dick. He's thrusting harder now, his amulet swinging in time with his ragged breathing, and she thrusts up to meet each stroke, delicious tension building inside her again. He's warm and solid and the only thing she can think about for the moment, the noise in her head banished by the sensations he's creating in her body.
He shifts her hips up and she wraps her legs around him, heels pressing hard against his ass, urging him to him fuck deeper, harder, into her. "Yes," she whispers, looking up at him, holding his gaze, not caring that she's begging. "Please, Dean. Please."
"You're so tight," he murmurs against her temple, soft lick of his tongue warm against the skin there. "So fucking hot, Anna."
She likes that he says her name, that he looks her in the eye when they're fucking, that he runs his thumb over her cheekbones and her lips. He reaches down between them to rub at her clit, and she comes apart again, the only thing she can hear the sound of her blood pulsing in her veins and his breathing loud in her ears.
He kisses her hard right before he comes, lets her swallow down his shout as his hips jerk against hers, and she hopes, with the small part of her brain that's actually working, that he likes it as much as she does.
He collapses on top of her when they're done, and she holds him close, even though the metal of his amulet is digging into her breastbone and she's going to have a bruise there in the morning. If she survives.
He must feel it when she tenses up, because he kisses her softly, runs a hand through her hair, down her side, then hugs her close for a second.
"It's gonna be okay, Anna," he says. "Sleep for a little while. We'll protect you."
And maybe she really is crazy, because even though she knows he's lying, for the moment, she believes him.
end
~*~
Note: I guess I just wanted to do it before canon did. Heh. I wanted to even before I saw the promo and found out it was going to happen in canon. Also, Anna quotes Matthew 13:57.
~*~
Feedback would be lovely.
~*~