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avandell2007-10-02 04:44 pm
theladyscribe) wrote in avandell2007-10-02 04:44 pm
Entry tags:
Barricades of Heaven (Desolation Angels)
Title: Barricades of Heaven
Characters: Dean, OFC
Rating: PG
Word Count: 853
Summary: She asks him why and, as usual, he doesn’t give her a straight answer.
Notes: Fourth part of the Desolation Angels series. AU post-AHBL part one. Title is from the Jackson Browne song by the same name.
***
Feedback is cherished.
Lyrics to “The Barricades of Heaven” can be found here.
Characters: Dean, OFC
Rating: PG
Word Count: 853
Summary: She asks him why and, as usual, he doesn’t give her a straight answer.
Notes: Fourth part of the Desolation Angels series. AU post-AHBL part one. Title is from the Jackson Browne song by the same name.
Barricades of Heaven
She’d be a liar if she claimed he doesn’t scare her sometimes. She doesn’t understand, for instance, why he suddenly decides to teach her to shoot. He does it with almost manic fervor, adamant that she learn before they drive through Denver (which is probably as empty as all the other big cities they’ve been through).
She asks him why and, as usual, he doesn’t give her a straight answer. But after months on the road with him, she knows how to deal with his enigmatic half-answers, so she keeps pressing, keeps asking why, until he finally spits that she has to know so when he dies she can protect herself. It stops her short, leaves her unable to think beyond a gripping fear of this desolate world without him.
So she lets him teach her to shoot, tries to make light of it, as if it doesn’t sort of terrify her that they’ve been driving for eternity with enough weapons in the trunk to arm an entire military troop. And if her heart beats a little faster when they have target practice, maybe it’s just the knowledge of holding a loaded gun in her hands and not the way his hands seem to spread warmth wherever they fall along her body.
*
She likes to watch him while he drives, likes watching the sunlight glint off his hair, likes the way he relaxes into the seat of the car like it was made for him (and maybe it was).
He catches her watching one day and she asks him how old he is, not really expecting an answer. “I turned twenty-nine in January,” he says, and she has to admit she’s a little surprised. She thought he was younger, but then she’s never been a good judge of age.
*
In the dark of night, she worries. She worries she’ll wake in the morning and find him gone. She worries they’ll run out of food one day. She worries he’ll die and she’ll have to bury him (or she’ll die, and he’ll have to bury her).
It keeps her awake sometimes, counting the seconds between the light snores from across the room.
He gets angry with her when she doesn’t sleep. She wonders what he’d say if she admitted her fears to him. Instead, she lies, says it’s the heat or the cold or the lumpy mattress. She doesn’t think he believes her, but he never calls her on it.
*
They drive south and east in late spring, passing through Texas and Louisiana, crossing the Mississippi and driving until they reach the Atlantic coast just south of the Florida border. It’s the first time she’s ever been to the ocean, and he blinks and says, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
She doesn’t have an answer to that beyond the fact that she never really thought about requesting destinations – despite the fact that they’re completely free to do whatever they like, they still seem to have some boundaries. Like how they never talk about their pasts (not since that time when he told her about his brother), and how they never talk about the future beyond tomorrow, we’ll drive north.
*
They spend almost two weeks there – the longest they’ve spent anywhere – staying in a bright house right on the ocean.
Jamie wakes up with the sunrise every morning and goes out to the beach, reveling in the salt air and the cool water that dances around her ankles. Sometimes Dean joins her, but more often he stands on the deck of the house and stares off into the distant horizon.
*
The second week at the beach, Dean goes silent. He stops talking completely, and it takes all of her effort to just get him to eat.
It’s not until a few days later, when they’re driving north and toward the mountains, that she realizes: it’s probably May.
The world ended a year ago.
*
When they stop that night, Dean goes straight to bed. Jamie goes through the motions of her nightly ritual – quick shower in freezing water, jar of applesauce before she brushes her teeth. She pulls on her pajamas (a t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts he gave her the first week they were traveling together) and comes out of the bathroom.
She looks at the two beds in the room – his is by the door, hers by the bathroom. He’s still awake, but he doesn’t even seem to notice her presence. She moves between the beds and then crawls in beside him, and he doesn’t push her away. She wants to say something comforting, but she doesn’t have the words. So she wraps her arms around him, closing her eyes as she waits for him to get up and leave her like the last time she tried to do this. But he doesn’t leave. He doesn’t do anything, and she takes what she can.
*
The next morning she wakes, and he’s sitting across from her, eating peaches out of a can. “Ever been to New England?” he asks, slurping down a slice of Georgia.
She’d be a liar if she claimed he doesn’t scare her sometimes. She doesn’t understand, for instance, why he suddenly decides to teach her to shoot. He does it with almost manic fervor, adamant that she learn before they drive through Denver (which is probably as empty as all the other big cities they’ve been through).
She asks him why and, as usual, he doesn’t give her a straight answer. But after months on the road with him, she knows how to deal with his enigmatic half-answers, so she keeps pressing, keeps asking why, until he finally spits that she has to know so when he dies she can protect herself. It stops her short, leaves her unable to think beyond a gripping fear of this desolate world without him.
So she lets him teach her to shoot, tries to make light of it, as if it doesn’t sort of terrify her that they’ve been driving for eternity with enough weapons in the trunk to arm an entire military troop. And if her heart beats a little faster when they have target practice, maybe it’s just the knowledge of holding a loaded gun in her hands and not the way his hands seem to spread warmth wherever they fall along her body.
*
She likes to watch him while he drives, likes watching the sunlight glint off his hair, likes the way he relaxes into the seat of the car like it was made for him (and maybe it was).
He catches her watching one day and she asks him how old he is, not really expecting an answer. “I turned twenty-nine in January,” he says, and she has to admit she’s a little surprised. She thought he was younger, but then she’s never been a good judge of age.
*
In the dark of night, she worries. She worries she’ll wake in the morning and find him gone. She worries they’ll run out of food one day. She worries he’ll die and she’ll have to bury him (or she’ll die, and he’ll have to bury her).
It keeps her awake sometimes, counting the seconds between the light snores from across the room.
He gets angry with her when she doesn’t sleep. She wonders what he’d say if she admitted her fears to him. Instead, she lies, says it’s the heat or the cold or the lumpy mattress. She doesn’t think he believes her, but he never calls her on it.
*
They drive south and east in late spring, passing through Texas and Louisiana, crossing the Mississippi and driving until they reach the Atlantic coast just south of the Florida border. It’s the first time she’s ever been to the ocean, and he blinks and says, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
She doesn’t have an answer to that beyond the fact that she never really thought about requesting destinations – despite the fact that they’re completely free to do whatever they like, they still seem to have some boundaries. Like how they never talk about their pasts (not since that time when he told her about his brother), and how they never talk about the future beyond tomorrow, we’ll drive north.
*
They spend almost two weeks there – the longest they’ve spent anywhere – staying in a bright house right on the ocean.
Jamie wakes up with the sunrise every morning and goes out to the beach, reveling in the salt air and the cool water that dances around her ankles. Sometimes Dean joins her, but more often he stands on the deck of the house and stares off into the distant horizon.
*
The second week at the beach, Dean goes silent. He stops talking completely, and it takes all of her effort to just get him to eat.
It’s not until a few days later, when they’re driving north and toward the mountains, that she realizes: it’s probably May.
The world ended a year ago.
*
When they stop that night, Dean goes straight to bed. Jamie goes through the motions of her nightly ritual – quick shower in freezing water, jar of applesauce before she brushes her teeth. She pulls on her pajamas (a t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts he gave her the first week they were traveling together) and comes out of the bathroom.
She looks at the two beds in the room – his is by the door, hers by the bathroom. He’s still awake, but he doesn’t even seem to notice her presence. She moves between the beds and then crawls in beside him, and he doesn’t push her away. She wants to say something comforting, but she doesn’t have the words. So she wraps her arms around him, closing her eyes as she waits for him to get up and leave her like the last time she tried to do this. But he doesn’t leave. He doesn’t do anything, and she takes what she can.
*
The next morning she wakes, and he’s sitting across from her, eating peaches out of a can. “Ever been to New England?” he asks, slurping down a slice of Georgia.
***
Feedback is cherished.
Lyrics to “The Barricades of Heaven” can be found here.