Sparks Dancing in the Darkness
UPDATE 1/26/19: This little fic is now graced with some beautiful artwork, courtesy of twisted_slinky and the Matchmaker Challenge at quicky_bang. Check it out down below!
The sun is dying, and the survivors - witch, demon, angel, brothers, fading god - gaze into its thick light, the red-rose hue of a world covered in smoke.
The sun is dying, but the phones are still ringing in the Sioux Falls Sheriff’s Station. All of Jodi’s guys are patrolling, some on foot, and she and her receptionist are answering as many calls as they can. Jodi keeps her own phone at her elbow and glances at it in odd moments, but it remains silent. Alex isn’t at home, and Claire’s phone is lost somewhere behind a maze of jammed circuits. She sighs.
The sun is dying, and Cole Trenton packs up his wife and kid and two weeks-worth of camping gear into his jeep and takes the backroad out of town. He’s wasted too much time already, wasted half his life hunting the wrong man, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to waste whatever might be left.
The sun is dying, and the Father of Blood, his true name known only to time and himself, stands on a balcony above Chicago. He bares his white, white mouthful of sharp teeth in a smile for his children, all over the globe. “You must feed well tonight,” he tells them.
The sun is dying, but what the heck? Donna pauses in her work when Doug Number 2 passes by, and she takes a hold of his arm. He bends down, mustache twitching with worry, and woudn’cha think he expects her to take things one step further? Donna breathes deep, tasting his cologne on the back of her tongue, and wades on in, planting a smooch on his lips that quickly turns into something deeper.
The sun is dying, as Amelia Richardson wanders home through the haze, her veterinary practice closed up for the day. She holds tight to Riot’s leash as the brindled dog paces ahead. She thinks not of her husband, deployed again, but of the big mess of a man who clung to her, saved her, and left her behind. She hopes he’s good, wherever he is. A thousand miles away Lisa Braeden gazes up at the dusky light, and thinks of no man, her arm instinctively tightening around the tall back of her too-young son.
The sun is dying, and Garth Fitzgerald IV kneels in his father-in-law’s church, his bride at his side. They sing, "Oh Brother, let’s go down, c’mon down, don’t you want to go down-" even as the growls of “Ragnorok” begin to rumble from the back pews.
The sun is dying, so Claire is praying. She thinks, “Hey, Castiel, what’s happening? They dismissed classes and told us to go home, but everyone’s wandering around the quad and whispering really intensely, like that's going to help anything. I can help you if you need it. Just, you know, give me a sign or whatever. Hey, if the Winchesters are with you, tell Sam that I aced my Psych final. And tell Dean I watched his stupid movie, so now it’s his turn- he promised me a Happy Gilmore marathon, and I’m holding him to it. So tell them that, and-yeah-I’ll see you guys soon, right? Be safe. Okay?”
The sun is dying, and Linda Tran has turned off the television and closed her blinds. She sits in the dark and the quiet, sipping her tea at the kitchen table. By her saucer, sits Kevin’s ring - a thing now cold and empty - a meaningless rock. She’s already lost her son.
The sun is dying, and in Purgatory's perpetual gloom, monsters pause in their hunting - the Leviathans trembling in anticipation. Benny wipes his blade on the Victorian coat of his last opponent and squints up at the treetops. A black cloud hides the upper branches from his view, and it is sinking inevitably lower.
The sun is dying, and though the newscaster on Krissy Chambers’ radio doesn't say so, the fear in her voice speaks more plainly. Krissy and Aiden lay outside their tent, resting their heads on their backpacks, fingertips touching, staring up into the Australian night sky. The dwindling light of the brightest stars, Sirius and Canopus, is almost gone, but the pre-dawn light on the eastern horizon looks more like the purple-gray haze of twilight - no Morning Star appears on the horizon.
The sun is dying, though in the Empty, all is still. Metatron howls in helpless indignation, his cries echoing only in his head. In another endlessly dark place, Michael cowers, curling himself protectively around the flickering soul of his vessel. His brother is gone, but he swears he can hear Lucifer calling his name through the cracks in the Cage wall.
The sun is dying. It casts a sickly orange glow upon the stone walls of the garden, which reflects back on the man who suddenly appears on the miniature path. He blinks at the beauty surrounding him and begins to look for Her, his eyes roving past perfect columns, groomed grass and trained flowers. The light has become wan and stretched, yet he stands. The power of a hundred thousand suns writhes beneath his skin and burns into his own soul as he turns, seeking out his fate.
She will be unforgiving. The sun is dying.
Just a note: I think this is sort of a montage, rather than missing scenes. As I re-watched the season 11 finale, I found myself thinking of all of the characters we've come to love (or hate) over the years and some of these snapshots just started to form. I hope you like!
