[fic] the moon undoes it all.
the moon undoes it all, BTR verse but post Dean getting rifted into an "Abandon All Hope" setting. I DON'T KNOW IT'S ALL ALONA TAL'S FAULT FOR COMING BACK THIS SEASON IT MADE ME REALLY NOSTALGIC AND PUT THIS FUCKER'S VOICE BACK IN MY HEAD. also the tears, the tears, the tears, the tearrrrrrrrrrrrs. um. don't read this.
I came here out of common sense, the future enough behind me. And I stay here out of another sense, with the future enough in front of me.
He isn’t supposed to be here.
This isn’t his world, not anymore. His bones and blood are the same, the same smell of whiskey’s on his breath, and the Impala still runs like the best kind of wet dream - but he doesn’t belong here.
The Rift does what it will, though, twists and pulls bodies worse than a tornado, hurricane, flood - and here he is, right smack in the middle of the life he thought he’d dodged, trying to fight the devil.
Trying to fight hellhounds, first, and there’s only that three seconds of relief that Jo and Sam are here, that this place isn’t all shit - before it is again.
Hellhounds. Neither Sam ever really got the chance to warn him. Both of them were real careful when they talked about his death, if they talked about it at all. And Jo couldn’t have known -
‘Course she didn’t, his Jo was never on the receiving end of one of the bitches’ bites. His Jo took a lot of hits, fought with every five foot two inches of her - but she couldn’t have known.
It doesn’t make him feel any better remembering that, though, as he carries 90 lbs of her into an abandoned convenience store, willing the blood to stop pouring out of her, willing everything to pause for four fucking seconds so he can just - think.
But there’s no thinking, not really, for people like them. Just action, just violence, just blood and sweat and tears. All their words are curses and shouting, but Dean’s barely got the strength for that.
He does what’s expected of him. He calls Bobby, he talks to Sam, does everything he can to beat the devil - but it’s not enough to save Jo.
This isn’t the Jo he knows lying bleeding in front of him, not the girl who turns into a German Shepherd when she’s stressed or punches him right in the face when he says too much (or not enough). She’s never gone on late-night pizza runs with him, never gotten chased by mistletoe or attacked by faeries.
She’s never stayed up all night with him and a bottle of whiskey or said a damn word about his freckles. From what he’s getting out of his new memories, maybe she never wanted to.
This isn’t his Jo, but she’s just as stubborn, still fights him ‘til she wins, and before he leaves to kill the devil, to make it all worth it (even though, he knows, it never will be), he kisses her goodbye like he never had the chance to before.
I came here out of common sense, the future enough behind me. And I stay here out of another sense, with the future enough in front of me.
He isn’t supposed to be here.
This isn’t his world, not anymore. His bones and blood are the same, the same smell of whiskey’s on his breath, and the Impala still runs like the best kind of wet dream - but he doesn’t belong here.
The Rift does what it will, though, twists and pulls bodies worse than a tornado, hurricane, flood - and here he is, right smack in the middle of the life he thought he’d dodged, trying to fight the devil.
Trying to fight hellhounds, first, and there’s only that three seconds of relief that Jo and Sam are here, that this place isn’t all shit - before it is again.
Hellhounds. Neither Sam ever really got the chance to warn him. Both of them were real careful when they talked about his death, if they talked about it at all. And Jo couldn’t have known -
‘Course she didn’t, his Jo was never on the receiving end of one of the bitches’ bites. His Jo took a lot of hits, fought with every five foot two inches of her - but she couldn’t have known.
It doesn’t make him feel any better remembering that, though, as he carries 90 lbs of her into an abandoned convenience store, willing the blood to stop pouring out of her, willing everything to pause for four fucking seconds so he can just - think.
But there’s no thinking, not really, for people like them. Just action, just violence, just blood and sweat and tears. All their words are curses and shouting, but Dean’s barely got the strength for that.
He does what’s expected of him. He calls Bobby, he talks to Sam, does everything he can to beat the devil - but it’s not enough to save Jo.
This isn’t the Jo he knows lying bleeding in front of him, not the girl who turns into a German Shepherd when she’s stressed or punches him right in the face when he says too much (or not enough). She’s never gone on late-night pizza runs with him, never gotten chased by mistletoe or attacked by faeries.
She’s never stayed up all night with him and a bottle of whiskey or said a damn word about his freckles. From what he’s getting out of his new memories, maybe she never wanted to.
This isn’t his Jo, but she’s just as stubborn, still fights him ‘til she wins, and before he leaves to kill the devil, to make it all worth it (even though, he knows, it never will be), he kisses her goodbye like he never had the chance to before.