The Loudest Silence You’ve Ever Heard, a Supernatural fanfic

Title: The Loudest Silence You’ve Ever Heard

Summary: Soon, everyone Mason’s come in contact with, since his grandmother was buried, has died. The scientists call it ‘a plague of unknown causes’, except the only symptom they have in common is Mason. An accidental brush on the subway or split-second eye contact is enough to doom millions. Slash.

Rating: PG-13

Standing at the edge of the gaping grave as his grandmother’s coffin is lowered in slowly, all Mason can think of is her last words: a rasping warning about a curse on their family, death filling them. Mason’s father looked nervous, telling Mason that she was old, babbling and paranoid. When Mason asked why everybody in their family had died except the three of them occupying this room, his father’s hands clenched around the glass he was holding so hard it shattered.

Mason didn’t mention it again.

Now, looking over across the open grave at his father, head down and hand bandaged, Mason notices that he looks a tad unwell himself. Looking around, he notices that, in fact, everybody looks a bit ill. He shuffles forward to drop his handful of dirt on the coffin with a thunk, and writes it off to it being the result of his grandmother dying. Everybody always feels a bit ill at a funeral.

Five days and three more occurrences later, Mason can’t explain this away anymore. He doesn’t believe in this many coincidences stacked up. He does the only thing he can think of: go to his father’s house.

After thirty minutes of idle chit-chat, he notices his father looking sicker and sicker. Mason gets to the point. Leaning forward, he asks, ‘What did Grandma mean by a ‘family curse? And what exactly did she say about death?’

His father jumps, spilling tea all over himself. He hastily exclaims, ‘Well, it was very nice catching up with you, but I’m an old man, and us old men need to catch their sleep wherever they can!’, as he all but pushes Mason out the door.

Standing on the doorstep, Mason demands ‘What’s going on? I have a right to know, you know!’

But his father doesn’t open the door again. After a few minutes, he gets in his car and drives away.

A few hours of troubled driving later, he finds himself downing caffeine like it’s going out of style, with his phone vibrating against his hip in missed calls.

He pulls out his phone as he thanks the waitress for the check. She looks unwell, too. He frowns as he starts listening to the messages. The one from Seth goes as follows:

‘Hey, Mason, you there? …Guess not. It looks like I’ll be done with this cursed business trip on Tuesday, so I should be back by Wednesday. If you supply the movies, I’ll bring the food. Love you. Bye.’

Mason smiles fondly as he clicks the other message, an unknown number.

‘Mr. Anderson? This is Officer Evans, of the West Side Police Department. I’m sorry to inform you that your father was just discovered dead an hour ago. When you get this, please contact us at…’

The smile slips slowly off his face he the pale waitress collects the check. He stands up slowly and walks out into the rain.

He buries his grandmother, dead of a stroke, one week, and his father, dead of a heart attack, the next. He can’t help but think how poetic that is.

Walking into the nearby supermarket to pick up some milk on the way back home after the funeral, he notices that everyone’s pale and worried, nobody speaking, all rushing to gather their things and leave. For a brief, bizarre second, he thinks that everybody’s mourning his father, and then he realizes that that can’t be the case.

Checking out, his gaze falls onto the rack of almost – gone newspapers right at arm’s level, and he picks one up, face paling as he reads the title.

“WAITRESS DIES IN CAFÉ, REST OF WORKERS AND CUSTOMERS FOLLOW.”

Mason throws a wad of bills down on the conveyer belt, leaving the milk behind, shaking hands clutching the paper until it tears as he runs out to his car.

Soon, everyone Mason’s come in contact with, since his grandmother was buried, has died. The scientists call it ‘a plague of unknown causes’, except the only symptom they have in common is Mason. An accidental brush on the subway or split-second eye contact is enough to doom millions.

The only thing Mason has to be thankful for is that they’ve stopped all flights, so Seth can’t come home.

Mason’s never been so glad of his absence.

Mason’s thinning down - almost all his bones are visible now. He looks like a walking skeleton.

He looks like the old painting of death he found in his grandmother’s attic when he was young, turned against the wall.

He covers all the mirrors in his apartment.

Surrounded by Seth’s pictures, the ache in Mason’s chest feels like he’s dying slowly from the inside out.

He figures that’s only another side effect of being death.

Every day, more and more people die.

He covers the windows, too. It doesn’t seem to help.

His door sounds like it’s being hammered down, as Mason jerks out of a dream full of oceans of blood and empty cities and silence. It’s so quiet now, both in his dreams and awake.

‘Mason, honey, are you in there? I was finally able to drive back into town. Honey? Oh God, please be okay…’

To the litany of the familiar voce, Mason croaks ‘I’m here, Seth. Come in.’

The lock clicks as Seth, sobbing with relief, fumbles with the key. Mason lies back down again and closes his eyes.

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