Title: Hail Mary
Author: Still Waters
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.
Summary: Jo is dead. The hellhounds have arrived. And in those final moments, a grieving Ellen's silent last words…. are from one mother to another. Set during 5x10, Abandon All Hope.
Notes: I was blown away by Samantha Ferris in "Abandon All Hope." Her portrayal of Ellen in this episode was astounding – raw, emotional, and true. The idea for this piece started with the prayer - I could hear Ellen reciting the Hail Mary in those final moments, and using it to bring up her own doubt, anger, and grief with all that had happened. I then re-watched that final scene several times to flesh out the rest of the story around that conversation. I truly hope I was able to do the character and emotions justice. The initial line is taken directly from the episode. I chose to italicize the Hail Mary and write Ellen's responses or actions as new paragraphs underneath them – the POV may occasionally shift, from an outside description of Ellen's actions, to her own internal dialogue in this section – I apologize for the shift, but found it necessary to maintain the emotional rhythm of the story. Thank you for reading.
"I will always love you, baby."
Gas filled the room as the harsh call of regrouping hellhounds turned her head, punctuating the hiss of propane, the ragged breathing of death's shadowed grasp.
Then…..silence.
And suddenly, Ellen Harvelle was cradling the cooling body of her brave, eviscerated daughter, whose final exhalation had been tainted, inaudible under the feral rumble of impending darkness.
There were no angels to soothe her broken heart.
No "be not afraid."
No peaceful, fatherly presence as God led a child home.
Just the cold floor, the cold hand of her daughter's in her own, and the icy button Ellen was determined they would both press, raining fire upon the frigid jaws of hell.
So, she kissed Jo's head, reassured them both, struggled to control her sobs. Forced herself to believe the breathless, desperate "it's okay" gulped through ragged hitches. It's okay - you can rest now. It's okay - you weren't alone. It's okay - you were so brave. It's okay - I love you. And then Ellen looked around the room, at her explosively orchestrated death, at the doors banging open on the eager cries of bastardized canine glee, at the chill of hell whipping around an increasingly airless room…..and she almost laughed at how not okay it all was. This whole town, this whole world, this whole end…it was anything but okay.
Yet this was it. They were hunters - they knew the risks. But they were also family, and Ellen's heart was crushed by the still form at her side. She had been around hunters a long time – she could strategize, drink, fight, and cuss with the best of them, but she had never subscribed to the macho crap. One of the things she loved about those Winchester boys – they weren't afraid to show their grief, their fear of being alone, one devoid of the other. She had seen the trained, efficient hunter drown under a flood of familial devotion, when all else washed away and it was just Sam and Dean, two brothers trying to stay together in an exceedingly stormy world. And so, even as her finger tightened around the weapon of her final hunt, that same hunter was stripped away – and she was just Ellen Harvelle, mother of Joanna Beth, a grieving parent, one arm wrapped around the unspeakable anguish of loss.
God, Lucifer, heaven, hell, angels, demons….with all she had seen, with the world ending on the ashes of the Bible's misguided hope…. Somehow it was here, at the end of all things, that Ellen found herself praying.
Not to God – hadn't seen him in a long time.
It was another parent's ear she sought.
Prayer, conversation, and confession.
Her final words.
From one mother to another.
Hail Mary
Are you listening?
Full of grace
Could you spare some? 'Cause we're feelin' a mite graceless down here right about now.
The Lord is with thee.
That where he is? 'Cause he sure as hell ain't 'round here – not with those damned, devoted Winchesters, the last breaths of the Harvelles, paralyzed, faithful Bobby, this doomed town drowning in Reapers, the impending release of Death, the ashes of the Roadhouse, the fractured, floundering host of angels…
Blessed art thou amongst women
She glanced at Jo, another ragged, desperate sob wrenched from a throat raw with grief and gas. Did you feel blessed at the foot of the Cross? In the tomb with your child's blood stiff across your shaking hands? What about those of us without the hope of resurrection, where the only divine presence are angels too uncertain and afraid themselves to even think of reassuring us?
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Jo was pale and cold in her protective embrace, dried tear tracks a bare shine at the edge of a neck marred by crimson spatter. Ellen swallowed desperately. Why not the fruit of my womb?
Holy Mary, Mother of God
I'd sure like to have a talk with that boy of yours.
Pray for us sinners
A bitter laugh. Is this suicide? Is suicide even a sin if its real purpose is saving other lives and banishing hell's maulers? Would half our sins even be sins if you'd all just wake the hell up?
Now
Yes, especially now.
And at the hour of our death.
A whisper of cold, evil breath against her ear.
She smiled.
Our death.
Ellen glared into the invisible, feral eyes of Jo's murderers.
Her finger moved, one final act of defiance, strength, love.
They all burn.
Glass shattered, metal impaled and eviscerated, flesh seared, surprised yelps silenced as hell dragged its own down under the crackling of angered flame, the choking burn of gas, the muted ringing in the wake of an anguished mother's silent, explosive scream.
It was a cacophonic chorus.
Thick black ash, churning with the charred remains of human-made destruction and divine-made corporeal free will; it stretched vainly for heaven's hand, sank to the concrete and earthen barrier of hell's torment, and echoed through the limitless wind.
It was triumph, rage, anguish, devotion…the sum of a life's final moments in crumbling gray dust.
And a single, resounding voice.
Amen.