FIC: Define Salvation
Title: Define Salvation
Author: me
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: Let's say strong PG-13, Gen
Characters: Dean, Ellen
Warnings: Character death
Prompt: we_take_five #18 here
A/N: So I get this sweet, lovely prompt...my mind doesn't do sweet and lovely. Just a heads-up.
Ellen was reaching for the rifle under her bed before her sleep-addled brain fully recognized the sound that had woken her - wood scraping wood, familiar in an everyday way. Someone pulling down one of the barstools.
The hands on the clock beside her read a little after 3:30 in the morning. She had kicked out the final bar patrons over an hour ago. Ash had crashed on the pool table again and wouldn’t be up until the sun peaked in the sky. Jo? Ellen’s heart clenched a little as she reminded herself yet again that her little girl was off doing her own thing.
No, there was no other explanation. Someone was in the Roadhouse.
She rose from her bed, thankful for a squeak-free bedspring, and fully pulled the rifle out from its hiding spot. Slowly, mindful of the loose floor boards, she made her way out of the living area and into the bar.
As she stepped through the swinging door, gun at the ready, the total darkness surprised her. Even when she shut down the bar for the night, there was usually still some glow from the jukebox and the signs around the bar. Now, only a weak ounce of moonlight came through the window, failing to cut the unusual darkness.
Risking taking one hand from her gun, she flicked the light switch she knew to be to her right. Nothing happened.
“Power’s out, Ellen.”
She redoubled her grip on the rifle and swung the barrel in the direction of the voice. The man sitting at the bar was practically unrecognizable in the dark, but his voice and the meager glint of moonlight off the amulet at his neck were all the clues Ellen needed.
“Dean Winchester, I could have shot your goddamn head off.” She lowered the gun and let it rest against the doorframe. Moving by memory alone, she maneuvered around the bar, slipping slightly as her socked feet found some liquid she failed to mop up after closing.
She pulled up next to Dean and squinted in an attempt to see him better. The oldest of John’s boys had his shoulders hunched, head bowed, and hands clasped on the bartop in front of him. Ellen could tell by his movements he was fidgeting with the silver ring on his right hand.
She rested her elbow on the bar and canted her hip. “You wanna tell me what exactly you’re doing here at this time of night? And where the hell is that brother of yours? Hiding in the kitchen to give me yet another heart attack?”
She regretted her words when she saw Dean flinch. “Sammy…” and the pain in his voice hit her right at her core.
Her knees went weak, and she grabbed at the counter for support. “Oh god, Dean. I -how did he die?”
He whipped his head in her direction. “He’s not dead.”
“Then what…” she trailed off in confusion.
“He-” Dean took a steadying breath, and his sigh sounded like it was torture. “The visions got to be too much. We didn’t know how much they were wearing him down, changing him, until…” Dean’s gaze fell back his hands. “I lost him, Ellen. He’s not Sammy anymore.”
Ellen instantly flashed to that evening when Sam told her his big secret, his words playing over again in her head. Yeah. Psychic ability. Me, I have, um, I have visions. Premonitions. I don't know, it's different for everybody. The demon said he had plans for people like us. She choked back the bile rising in her throat and focused on Dean. “So he’s…”
Dean nodded, her question unfinished. “Dad told me I’d have to save him or kill him. I can’t…I couldn’t kill Sammy.”
Ellen nodded. “I know, Dean. You don’t have to go through this alone. We’ll get Ash up, then we’ll contact everyone and tell them to keep an eye out for Sam. We’ll find him and figure something out.”
She watched his face turn toward her. “You would do that, wouldn’t you?” his voice sure and deadpan.
Ellen stepped just a little closer. “Of course. That’s what friends do.” She patted him gently on the cheek.
And flinched when her hands came away sticky. Her heart clenched in her chest. “Dean, are you bleeding? Did Sam hurt you?”
“It’s not my blood, Ellen,” tone cold and calculated. His hand disappeared into his jacket and retrieved a small item. Her adjusted eyes could make out its familiar outline, and the moon’s pale light off a paper-fine edge confirmed her suspicions. Her stomach immediately turned to lead.
Dean flipped the knife along his knuckles, a lifetime of training allowing the sharp edge to pass harmlessly. “We were just outside Duluth when Sammy…” the knife paused in his hand and Dean took a sharp breath. “Those other bar flies didn’t know what to do when he walked in, but Jo, she was ready. Had him right in her sights too, you raised her well, Ellen.”
Ellen edged backwards, cursing herself for leaving the gun out of reach. If she could just…
“I couldn’t let her kill him. Dad always told me to protect Sammy. I have to save him or kill him.” Dean left his seat, clenching Bill Harvelle’s old knife in his hand. “I have to save Sammy.”
Ellen made a jolt for the rifle, but went down hard when her socks slipped in the puddle again. Her chin cracked against the ground as she collapsed, but her pain faded into the background when she recognized the sweet copper scent of the pool on the floor around her. She let her head fall to the right, regretting it instantly as she found herself face to face with Ash. His dead eyes peered at her from under his bloodstained hair, the gouge in his neck more than prominent up so close.
Strong hands flipped her onto her back, and she screamed as Dean pinned her shoulders beneath his knees. Forcefully, he covered her mouth with his hand and leaned in close. Now she could see the drying blood matting his hair, the streaks running down his face and splattering his leather jacket. His eyes, the ones John always said reminded him of his beloved Mary, were red-rimmed and manic. “I won’t have every hunter going after him. I can’t have you or Ash alerting them. I am so, so sorry, Ellen.”
He placed a chaste kiss on her forehead, and she believed she felt honest regret in those lips just before they went hard and cold. He then leaned back and raised the knife that once belonged to her Bill and her Jo. “But I have to save him.”
Additional A/N: Um...yeah, sweet and lovely prompt...
This is why I'm not allowed to listen to music while poking my muse with a stick. But I come bearing gifts: Save Yourself by Stabbing Westward *please right click-save as*
Author: me
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: Let's say strong PG-13, Gen
Characters: Dean, Ellen
Warnings: Character death
Prompt: we_take_five #18 here
A/N: So I get this sweet, lovely prompt...my mind doesn't do sweet and lovely. Just a heads-up.
Ellen was reaching for the rifle under her bed before her sleep-addled brain fully recognized the sound that had woken her - wood scraping wood, familiar in an everyday way. Someone pulling down one of the barstools.
The hands on the clock beside her read a little after 3:30 in the morning. She had kicked out the final bar patrons over an hour ago. Ash had crashed on the pool table again and wouldn’t be up until the sun peaked in the sky. Jo? Ellen’s heart clenched a little as she reminded herself yet again that her little girl was off doing her own thing.
No, there was no other explanation. Someone was in the Roadhouse.
She rose from her bed, thankful for a squeak-free bedspring, and fully pulled the rifle out from its hiding spot. Slowly, mindful of the loose floor boards, she made her way out of the living area and into the bar.
As she stepped through the swinging door, gun at the ready, the total darkness surprised her. Even when she shut down the bar for the night, there was usually still some glow from the jukebox and the signs around the bar. Now, only a weak ounce of moonlight came through the window, failing to cut the unusual darkness.
Risking taking one hand from her gun, she flicked the light switch she knew to be to her right. Nothing happened.
“Power’s out, Ellen.”
She redoubled her grip on the rifle and swung the barrel in the direction of the voice. The man sitting at the bar was practically unrecognizable in the dark, but his voice and the meager glint of moonlight off the amulet at his neck were all the clues Ellen needed.
“Dean Winchester, I could have shot your goddamn head off.” She lowered the gun and let it rest against the doorframe. Moving by memory alone, she maneuvered around the bar, slipping slightly as her socked feet found some liquid she failed to mop up after closing.
She pulled up next to Dean and squinted in an attempt to see him better. The oldest of John’s boys had his shoulders hunched, head bowed, and hands clasped on the bartop in front of him. Ellen could tell by his movements he was fidgeting with the silver ring on his right hand.
She rested her elbow on the bar and canted her hip. “You wanna tell me what exactly you’re doing here at this time of night? And where the hell is that brother of yours? Hiding in the kitchen to give me yet another heart attack?”
She regretted her words when she saw Dean flinch. “Sammy…” and the pain in his voice hit her right at her core.
Her knees went weak, and she grabbed at the counter for support. “Oh god, Dean. I -how did he die?”
He whipped his head in her direction. “He’s not dead.”
“Then what…” she trailed off in confusion.
“He-” Dean took a steadying breath, and his sigh sounded like it was torture. “The visions got to be too much. We didn’t know how much they were wearing him down, changing him, until…” Dean’s gaze fell back his hands. “I lost him, Ellen. He’s not Sammy anymore.”
Ellen instantly flashed to that evening when Sam told her his big secret, his words playing over again in her head. Yeah. Psychic ability. Me, I have, um, I have visions. Premonitions. I don't know, it's different for everybody. The demon said he had plans for people like us. She choked back the bile rising in her throat and focused on Dean. “So he’s…”
Dean nodded, her question unfinished. “Dad told me I’d have to save him or kill him. I can’t…I couldn’t kill Sammy.”
Ellen nodded. “I know, Dean. You don’t have to go through this alone. We’ll get Ash up, then we’ll contact everyone and tell them to keep an eye out for Sam. We’ll find him and figure something out.”
She watched his face turn toward her. “You would do that, wouldn’t you?” his voice sure and deadpan.
Ellen stepped just a little closer. “Of course. That’s what friends do.” She patted him gently on the cheek.
And flinched when her hands came away sticky. Her heart clenched in her chest. “Dean, are you bleeding? Did Sam hurt you?”
“It’s not my blood, Ellen,” tone cold and calculated. His hand disappeared into his jacket and retrieved a small item. Her adjusted eyes could make out its familiar outline, and the moon’s pale light off a paper-fine edge confirmed her suspicions. Her stomach immediately turned to lead.
Dean flipped the knife along his knuckles, a lifetime of training allowing the sharp edge to pass harmlessly. “We were just outside Duluth when Sammy…” the knife paused in his hand and Dean took a sharp breath. “Those other bar flies didn’t know what to do when he walked in, but Jo, she was ready. Had him right in her sights too, you raised her well, Ellen.”
Ellen edged backwards, cursing herself for leaving the gun out of reach. If she could just…
“I couldn’t let her kill him. Dad always told me to protect Sammy. I have to save him or kill him.” Dean left his seat, clenching Bill Harvelle’s old knife in his hand. “I have to save Sammy.”
Ellen made a jolt for the rifle, but went down hard when her socks slipped in the puddle again. Her chin cracked against the ground as she collapsed, but her pain faded into the background when she recognized the sweet copper scent of the pool on the floor around her. She let her head fall to the right, regretting it instantly as she found herself face to face with Ash. His dead eyes peered at her from under his bloodstained hair, the gouge in his neck more than prominent up so close.
Strong hands flipped her onto her back, and she screamed as Dean pinned her shoulders beneath his knees. Forcefully, he covered her mouth with his hand and leaned in close. Now she could see the drying blood matting his hair, the streaks running down his face and splattering his leather jacket. His eyes, the ones John always said reminded him of his beloved Mary, were red-rimmed and manic. “I won’t have every hunter going after him. I can’t have you or Ash alerting them. I am so, so sorry, Ellen.”
He placed a chaste kiss on her forehead, and she believed she felt honest regret in those lips just before they went hard and cold. He then leaned back and raised the knife that once belonged to her Bill and her Jo. “But I have to save him.”
Additional A/N: Um...yeah, sweet and lovely prompt...
This is why I'm not allowed to listen to music while poking my muse with a stick. But I come bearing gifts: Save Yourself by Stabbing Westward *please right click-save as*