mimblexwimble | the mercy of the fallen [spn][one-shot]

Title: The Mercy of the Fallen
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: OCs, mentions of Sam and Dean.
Word Count: 1200
Rating: PG
Warnings: Post-Apocalypse. Assume the worst.
Summary: They have saved the world, but not for themselves.
Notes: Title from here. Beta'd by

paxlux

It ends.

With a breath and heartbeat, after decades, years, months, seconds, too long, too quick, taking life and hope and love and all that’s worth fighting for –

It ends.

It leaves the earth blackened, with soot and fear and destruction. Everything burnt away, shriveling underfoot. The sky is dark, clouds slowly gathering, pushing into one another, fighting for room, to see who has survived and who has not. There’s a river nearby and it’s filled with blood. The taken, the lost, the missing, the presumed-dead, the possessed. The air carries the stench of death, and the echoes of screams that have long since died out, and a fine spray of red that sprinkles onto dead earth and skin.

The dying go silently, the living hardly dare to breathe, to believe that they, they of all people, have escaped.

Everything is quiet now.

The wind lifts slowly, and carries a secret to the clouds.

It spreads through the heavens, and what is left of the trees shake with the whisper and the living lie on their potential death beds and watch in awe as light flashes through the clouds, as it becomes clear what has happened.

The heavens part, silent as ever.

They weep for the fallen.

(the heroes, the hunters, the brothers)

The fallen.

**
They plow.

They plow, and they bend, and they scratch at the earth. They press seeds into holes, and cover everything with soil.

They flock and work together as a soft breeze lifts their hair and their tattered clothes and their hopes. The children help, and when they grow tired, they stand at the edge of the field and stare into the distance. They can see for miles, across flat ground, past the shoulders of the settling survivors, and the peripatetic families, still looking for a place to make home. Past the trunks of the hardiest trees, past the peeping heads of the luckiest prairie dogs, to the hills that appear in the distance, caped in fog and mist, still looking green and alive, a promise of better things to come.

And the older children ask each other what happened, and why, but there are no answers, only gossip, rumors, the beginnings of myth. Sometimes the story starts with hate, and sometimes with anger, and sometimes with a misunderstanding. Sometimes it starts with love, and sometimes with a miracle, and sometimes with a deal that encompasses all other beginnings.

And sometimes it just starts like this:

See, there were these two brothers…

**
A man visits the fields, his trench coat tattered at the lapels and at the seams, with compassion and mercy and power in his eyes. He says very little. Just smiles at the budding crops and casts a look of satisfaction at the haphazard homes and tilts his head at curious toddlers.

He arrives without notice, and leaves the same way, but he always brings a feeling of blessing.

**
The crops grow, and the houses become sturdier each passing day. The fields are filled with the comfort of soft chatter and smiles, vestiges of life almost snatched away. The world is quieter than before, and some think it will always be that way. Humbleness muffles.

But there are still sounds: the twittering of birds, and the quiet hopping of rabbits and the pattering of feet chasing scavengers away from the stalks of corn. Crows scream their disapproval at this habit, but even that noise is softer, lighter, more forgiving.

When they have a need for water, the rains come. When they have a need for sun, it shines bright.

The crops grow fast and sweet, tomatoes and potatoes and wheat and cabbages and apples on their trees. Little is lost, less is wasted.

It’s a miracle, says someone into the humidity of the night.

It’s the mercy of the fallen, says someone else.

The North Star glints above them, in agreement.

**
A truck drives past one day, and everyone stops to watch this almost-forgotten contraption. It brings back memories, what was and what could have been, and how far they had progressed and how far back they’ve gone.

The distant hum of music can be heard as heads rise and conversations are cut short.

How’s it running? someone wonders.

Who is it? asks someone else.

The driver stops nearby and sticks his head out the window and asks, You folks doing okay, here?

He’s wearing a baseball cap and day-old scruff. His face is weary, but his eyes carry a glint of determination.

Nothing strange? Out of the ordinary? he asks.

Some of them flinch at this, muscles tensing automatically, and wish they didn’t know what he is talking about. But there is no going back, and they shake their heads and say everything’s been fine. Mercifully fine.

(thank the fallen)

The man nods and raises a hand, and then drives away, onto another settlement.

He leaves a prickling fear that someday, things might go bad again.

That night, they dream. Some relive pain and torture and loss. Some relive the feeling of killing against their will. Some relive that moment before the end, when a young man’s eyes burned black, and they thought, This is the end.

It wasn’t.

Not in the way that they’d thought.

Not for them.

**
They sit around their fires and think about how they’ve changed and talk about how they haven’t. They listen to stories told by travelers with death in their eyes (a blonde girl and her mother, a dark-skinned woman with knowing eyes, a man who tells the tales as if he’s written them).

Names fall off their lips.

Always two, always together.

(brothers)

They say, hell is empty and heaven is brimming. But that’s alright – we’re alive.

It’s all uphill from here.

And the dreamers amongst them imagine a day when they will see people on every corner, and buildings that touch the sky, the fruits of endless intelligence. And others lie in the grass and are grateful for their lives and what they have. They remind themselves of a day no one wants to talk about, when everything fell apart. And then the day when it was all put back together again.

By the fallen.

**
Nobody believes that they are safe forever. Evil will return someday and it will start with humanity, like it did before. But that day is far and difficult to envision, when everything continues to fall into place, and they are given all that they demand.

All because of the mercy of the fallen.

**
The first legend takes only six weeks to spread, until every child, teen and adult knows it.

They say that if you wait for the days when the moon is full and large in the sky, and watch until it’s about to dip behind the hills, you’ll be able to the silhouettes of two men, standing on the tip of the knoll.

They say, they’re watching over us, unasked as before, hidden in shadow.

They say they’re the Fallen, not dead, but not alive, the ones who saved us all.

They say they’re together (always) and the day one of them leaves is the day everything will end.

They say that and more, but after all – that’s just a legend.

**
End