Damon's bones creaked as he was slammed into the arch. No, not creaked. There was a sickening crunch. Well, even if his little jedi mind trick wasn't doing it for Damon, that hurt. He cringed, but as Sam lowered his arm and the vampire found his feet touching back on the ground, he cracked them back into place, unnecessarily reaching one hand up to pull his head to the side and crack his neck.
"You have really gotta work on that temper of yours, first of all," he chided with a patronizing kind of scowl -- he was chastising an infant for throwing a tantrum. Or, at least, it's what his voice sounded like, because inwardly he was just really fucking grateful that Sam was choosing to let up. Facing off with that many new experienced abilities -- abilities he'd never seen in the past hundred and fifty years -- was a million kinds of unsettling. He rolled his shoulders back, stretching and slowly moving to step away from the arch, just in case he spooked again.
"See, me? I'm not too hard to figure out. You, though," a slow, predatory smile curled up the corners of Damon's lips and he inhaled slowly, shaking his head in thoughtful amusement. "What are you?"
That was a question Sam would rather they both ignored, so he pretended he hadn't even heard it. As much as Damon wanted to pretend he was still sharply at the top of the snark heap, there was a shift in tone that implied he'd learned some kind of lesson from Sam's little display.
Sam hoped the lesson stuck.
"It doesn't matter. What matters is we're not staying here. Where are we, and how do we get back?" he demanded. He wondered how far they were from the city. If Dean had noticed he was gone yet.
And he still wondered whose orders this punk was acting under.
"Oh, it matters." It was rather unfortunate that Damon was a pitbull about these facts. He wasn't about to just give up that easily when he'd finally found something that interesting. This hell Bonnie had sent him to, wherever it was, it was getting better by the second. Things were going to get so fun with a monster like Sam around.
"It matters because we?" He used his pointer and middle finger to point to himself and then Sam and back, indicating that they were going to have so much fun together. "We're not going anywhere. I mean, getting you here, piece of cake. Seriously, you couldn't have made it a little bit harder? So disappointing. And after all those fun things I'd heard about you," he tutted, shaking his head and beginning to circle again. He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders some more to try and solve the discomfort he still felt in his gut from the threat of Sam's abilities.
"But, like it or not, I can't pull either one of us out of here." The annoyance in his expression was genuine, and all of that arrogant smirking dropped into a very flat, unamused look. "Better drop a note in the boss's comment box." Mostly, he wanted to know who Sam was so scared of. Who that boss might be, and if he pushed hard enough, taunted and interrogated right, he might just find out.
Sam's lip curled involuntarily when Damon said we, for a plethora of reasons. But his mentions of a 'boss' and the revelation that whoever said boss was had trapped the other here, just as much as Sam, caught his interest. Though it was hardly surprising that anyone who would be after Sam wouldn't exactly value the life of their subhuman underlings either.
So maybe even if this guy wasn't a demon, he was working for one.
That made a certain kind of twisted sense. But why had they brought him here to kill him instead of just doing it on the spot?
Sam's mind raced against that question. Maybe, just maybe, they'd wanted Sam to take this guy out, for some reason. Or maybe they needed him, alive, and this part was just a test.
He felt a bit like a labrat, and he wasn't a fan of the feeling.
"So where does that leave us?" he asked plainly, not in the mood to entertain any of the banter Damon seemed so determined to draw out of him.
Oh, this was going to be too much fun. Damon couldn't help the genuinely bemused smile that worked onto his lips at the begrudging use of 'us' as a personal pronoun of choice. Katherine, it was clear, had rubbed off on him and he'd taken a leaf out of her book in the past hundred and forty years. There was a game to be played with Sam Winchester, and he was just interesting enough to get Damon involved in it.
"That," he taunted, taking a step closer and no longer circling like a vulture. Instead, he offered a hand, choosing to use his right hand in the gesture of an olive branch that was the handshake and avoid displaying the gaudy, day-walking ring that he bore on his left. "Makes me your best and most trusted friend in this little wood of ours." The smile twitched up into a smirk.
"It's Damon, by the way, let's try to avoid making up names like you made up monsters, hmm?" He wondered faintly if the introduction was even worth it at this point -- like it would get Sam to return the favor. Now that he'd pretended he already knew him, it was going to be hard to actually discover his name, but that would just make it all the more interesting.
Sam stared at the hand with a mixture of uncertainty, revulsion, and defiance written across his features. Emotional subtlety was never really his strong suit. Taking it seemed a little too symbolic for his tastes, so he fought against the weird instinct that he was being rude to not take the extended hand of a monster, and just brought his eyes back up to Damon's.
At least he had a name now.
He was tempted to add that Rougarous were real, but decided to save himself the embarrassment of the inevitable snappy comeback from Damon.
Why did everybody he ever hung out with love spending three quarters of their time snarking at him?
Not that he was making plans to start pal-ling around with this guy, but his options for company right now were sort of severely limited, as Damon himself had so kindly pointed out.
"Yeah, fine. Damon," he said brusquely, spelling out clearly through his short tone that this was not an invitation to be his bestie. "I meant where do we go?"
The corners of his smirk twitched with annoyance when he realized Sam wasn't going to grab his hand, but he kept the ambivalent, jovial tone to his voice as he dropped his hand away and rolled his eyes like he was wordlessly calling Sam ridiculous for thinking he'd bite or something.
"Well, first, we might want to find you some manners." The exaggerated scoff in his voice made it clear he could honestly care less if Sam were comfortable shaking his hand or not, but it was worth it to pretend to be butthurt about it. It was all about maintaining appearances, and this particular appearance helped him seem like he cared about the fact that he had no idea where they were a whole lot less.
"Other than that, though, I'd say pick a direction and start walking, Big Guy."
Oh no. No way. Sam was not going on some kind of wilderness hike with a not-demon-but-not-human-either thing. Why did these things always happen to him?
Other than, you know, the whole Antichrist thing.
"Fine," he repeated. "But you'd better pick a different one." His Clint Eastwood routine was probably not overly convincing, but he still tried, and banked on carrying over some intimidation factor from the whole telekinetic throwdown still.
Without waiting for a snarky response, he turned on his heel decisively, as if he knew right where he was going, which was a total lie, and started marching. Away from this guy seemed like a solid direction for now, at least.
"You have really gotta work on that temper of yours, first of all," he chided with a patronizing kind of scowl -- he was chastising an infant for throwing a tantrum. Or, at least, it's what his voice sounded like, because inwardly he was just really fucking grateful that Sam was choosing to let up. Facing off with that many new experienced abilities -- abilities he'd never seen in the past hundred and fifty years -- was a million kinds of unsettling. He rolled his shoulders back, stretching and slowly moving to step away from the arch, just in case he spooked again.
"See, me? I'm not too hard to figure out. You, though," a slow, predatory smile curled up the corners of Damon's lips and he inhaled slowly, shaking his head in thoughtful amusement. "What are you?"
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Sam hoped the lesson stuck.
"It doesn't matter. What matters is we're not staying here. Where are we, and how do we get back?" he demanded. He wondered how far they were from the city. If Dean had noticed he was gone yet.
And he still wondered whose orders this punk was acting under.
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"It matters because we?" He used his pointer and middle finger to point to himself and then Sam and back, indicating that they were going to have so much fun together. "We're not going anywhere. I mean, getting you here, piece of cake. Seriously, you couldn't have made it a little bit harder? So disappointing. And after all those fun things I'd heard about you," he tutted, shaking his head and beginning to circle again. He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders some more to try and solve the discomfort he still felt in his gut from the threat of Sam's abilities.
"But, like it or not, I can't pull either one of us out of here." The annoyance in his expression was genuine, and all of that arrogant smirking dropped into a very flat, unamused look. "Better drop a note in the boss's comment box." Mostly, he wanted to know who Sam was so scared of. Who that boss might be, and if he pushed hard enough, taunted and interrogated right, he might just find out.
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So maybe even if this guy wasn't a demon, he was working for one.
That made a certain kind of twisted sense. But why had they brought him here to kill him instead of just doing it on the spot?
Sam's mind raced against that question. Maybe, just maybe, they'd wanted Sam to take this guy out, for some reason. Or maybe they needed him, alive, and this part was just a test.
He felt a bit like a labrat, and he wasn't a fan of the feeling.
"So where does that leave us?" he asked plainly, not in the mood to entertain any of the banter Damon seemed so determined to draw out of him.
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"That," he taunted, taking a step closer and no longer circling like a vulture. Instead, he offered a hand, choosing to use his right hand in the gesture of an olive branch that was the handshake and avoid displaying the gaudy, day-walking ring that he bore on his left. "Makes me your best and most trusted friend in this little wood of ours." The smile twitched up into a smirk.
"It's Damon, by the way, let's try to avoid making up names like you made up monsters, hmm?" He wondered faintly if the introduction was even worth it at this point -- like it would get Sam to return the favor. Now that he'd pretended he already knew him, it was going to be hard to actually discover his name, but that would just make it all the more interesting.
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At least he had a name now.
He was tempted to add that Rougarous were real, but decided to save himself the embarrassment of the inevitable snappy comeback from Damon.
Why did everybody he ever hung out with love spending three quarters of their time snarking at him?
Not that he was making plans to start pal-ling around with this guy, but his options for company right now were sort of severely limited, as Damon himself had so kindly pointed out.
"Yeah, fine. Damon," he said brusquely, spelling out clearly through his short tone that this was not an invitation to be his bestie. "I meant where do we go?"
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"Well, first, we might want to find you some manners." The exaggerated scoff in his voice made it clear he could honestly care less if Sam were comfortable shaking his hand or not, but it was worth it to pretend to be butthurt about it. It was all about maintaining appearances, and this particular appearance helped him seem like he cared about the fact that he had no idea where they were a whole lot less.
"Other than that, though, I'd say pick a direction and start walking, Big Guy."
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Other than, you know, the whole Antichrist thing.
"Fine," he repeated. "But you'd better pick a different one." His Clint Eastwood routine was probably not overly convincing, but he still tried, and banked on carrying over some intimidation factor from the whole telekinetic throwdown still.
Without waiting for a snarky response, he turned on his heel decisively, as if he knew right where he was going, which was a total lie, and started marching. Away from this guy seemed like a solid direction for now, at least.
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