Libra
TITLE: Libra
AUTHOR: e313
SPOILER: the end of s3 for SPN
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: give and take
FEEDBACK: as you wish.
DISCLAIMER: No ownership. No profit. Damn.
Dean’s been running for a while now. He’s not sure how many minutes that ‘while’ translates into, but it’s enough for his lungs to have started burning, which is irritating. Damn demon, what’s he playing at?
It’s all a bit annoying really.
Dean wakes up today in a nice little motel at the outskirts of a nice little town. In the light of day the room is bright and pretty in an unexpectedly tasteful way. Spotless clean too! The TV, the air-condition and the fridge in perfect working order, the water pressure marvelous and the hot water more than plenty. It’s a welcome surprise all in all.
He spent a rough couple of weeks on the track of a werewolf that led to his sort of successful confrontation with a thankfully small ‘Cult of the Blood Moon’. Stupid people with no particular aversion to human sacrifice. Not exactly imaginative when it came to naming either. Dean cut the wolf down, beat the crap out of a couple of disciplines, was partly responsible for a minor explosion and managed to get out of town before the police even arrived at the scene.
When it’s all over, he’s bruised and sports a split lip. Also he’s bleeding. One of the morons had a gun. No idea how to shoot straight though. Eight feet away and the bullet only grazed Dean’s arm. Still, it stings. Dean makes sure it’s surface and tiny enough not to need stitches as soon as he gets to the car. Bandages it adequately enough (loooong experience doesn’t even cover it at this point) and drives through the rest of the night.
He doesn’t stop for coffee, what with having slept away most of the previous day and the adrenaline buzz he’s got going.
When he stops at the outskirts of this little town it’s because he’s almost run out of gas. The motel is right next to the gas station, the price low, he has to stop somewhere to clean his weapons, if not to rest, so why not here?
He falls asleep an hour before dawn.
It’s a bright, cheerful day he wakes up to. As he’s taking a walk around town, purely on a whim, he comes upon some sort of conference. The even itself is of no interest to Dean, but it must be their coffee break for there is a long table at one side of the shady pavilion loaded with cookies, pie, and miniature sandwiches of various filling. Fresh coffee brewing too. People are leisurely milling about forming small groups and chatting, drinking coffee. Dean heads straight for the coffee pot giving himself the equivalent of a mental shrug. This beautiful weather was such a distraction he left his motel uncaffeinated; it would be hard to resist the call now, and in such a gathering the possibilities of anyone noticing you don’t belong is less than zero. He’s stirring some sugar in his cap when a man bumps his elbow reaching for a cookie. Dean is about to offer a reassuring smile, but then the old man looks at him, stares, turns round and starts running. Away. From the table, his conference, Dean, out of the open gate and down the road away. Rather fast for a man his age. Too fast.
Five minutes later the ‘old man’ (both words in suspension for the moment) makes the mistake of turning into what proves to be a blind alley. Dean corners him there panting and pissed cuz his carefully prepared cup of coffee is left sitting on a table a few blocks away and he hadn’t had a chance of taking a single sip pre-running.
“I can’t tell you anything!”
“Huh?”
“You let me go and I’ll leave here right away.”
“Dude. Wha…”
Black smoke goes out of the man, who staggers and falls down gracelessly by some dumpsters. At which point Dean realizes that, yes, said guy is probably possessed. Was. Huh. A quick check finds a pulse. Quite recent a possession then. The victim is passed out but alive.
Dean turns back and leaves. Goes back to the hotel (grabs his cup of coffee, undisturbed at the table he left it on), sips at it for a while, thinks about it…thinks about calling Bobby….naaah. Lots of demons in hell…tis bound some of them to be wackoes.
Next few months are a breeze of recycled air. Couple of lost ghosts, a vamp or two, a voodoo case that leaves Dean with a bad taste in his mouth to rival his headache, a curse, some local legends coming true….
He hears about weird deaths in Nebraska. Possible demonic presence. It’s on his way. Sort of. Well, it’s more like a 100 miles of a detour but who cares? Dean doesn’t have much of a strict schedule to attend to and only himself to think about. Been like that for a long time now. Sure he had his father once upon a time, but last few years, he’s used to being alone. They split too often even back when his father was still alive.
He interviews relatives of the victims. Only four so far. Not that four isn’t a tragedy, but Dean thinks he smells of a summoning. The location the victims were found and the way they were killed. It could be part of a pentagram. Which means it’s not complete cuz there’s a fifth victim-to-be sooner than later and since Dean hit dead end, he’ll have to stake out the tip of the pentagram location and wait for his killer to come to him. Stake outs are boring. Even when one’s expecting a demon to show up. Dean finishes his thermos of coffee through the first part of the night and is getting more and more bored as dawn comes closer. The sun shows up punctual as ever. The killer doesn’t. Next day Dean takes a magazine on cars along. Might help pass the time. Four days later, there have been no more killings, nobody has shown up anywhere near Dean’s stalking area and all is fine in the world. It’s been a long time since he misjudged a case that bad. One of these days, he’s gonna trap a son of a bitch and force some answers out of it! Just so he knows what to look for next time. He spends the rest of the week investigating other angles but nothing pans out.
It’s not very often he has to leave cases unresolved, but Dean has to go when Saturday rolls by. A few disappearances a state over scream ‘lady in white’ and it reminds him of the case he stumbled into upon his father’s disappearance all those years back. It’ll be the fourth anniversary of his death in a few days. This is Dean’s way of mourning and honoring him both.
He runs onto Joe Harvelle somewhere in Kansas. She has a partner these days, Henry. He’s a bit of alright. Joe grew up to be a good hunter, too. Dean’s at a bar called ‘Purple’ nursing his second drink of what he’s not sure (strong and doesn’t taste foul is all he needs to know. The owner’s own recipe of a cocktail, has the colour to name the place and not a single fluffy umbrella in sight), when Joe walks in alone and orders a beer. Turns out, they’re taking a small sabbatical. Joe has a bandage under her shirt sleeve and Henry is a little worse for wear; has to stay in the hospital for a couple of days. Nasty encounter with a demon. Dean is surprised. Hasn’t fought any for…well, he doesn’t even remember when was the last time. Yellow Eyes maybe. He knows the danger alright; lost his father in that battle. They’ve sort of been scarce since. Show a distinct preference towards fleeing than fighting; must have hit them hard loosing their leader. Bad luck this then for Joe. Not many demons around to run onto.
Joe must be in a lot of stress. She cares for Henry, no matter how they spend half their time bitching at each other (if Dean remembers right. Hasn’t met them for months and only four-five times so far, always too soon to go their separate ways). Dean is not the most sociable sort, unless he’s pulling, or hustling, but Joe usually chatters away through a smile. Not this time though. Not lately. Her lips remain in a thin line. They sit friendly like by the counter sipping their drinks with only some ‘how are you?’ ‘fine. You?’ ‘doing okay’ and a ‘how’s hunting?’ ‘same all’ going back and forth. It’s a companionable silence nevertheless. When Joe goes, Dean sends his wishes for a speedy recovery to Henry. He finishes his drink fast and moves to the pool tables.
Bobby calls a week before Christmas to invite him over. It’s not any sort of tradition between them. In fact, last year, he only called Christmas day. Said he’d have sent a card, but… where to? And that he was sorry. Sounded a bit drunk. Bobby doesn’t ever get drunk so Dean had smiled in his phone and told him to take it easy with the holiday cheer.
This year it seems he’s determined they have a ‘proper’ Christmas. Dean arrives on the 21st. He helps around with the cars a bit. There’s good food, excellent beer. Bobby’s strive to embrace the holiday spirit translates into ‘no hunting talk for the day, lad!’ Dean’s okay with playing along. It’s peace and quiet and for a little while he’s not so lonely. Alone. He means alone. Dean is not lonely. He stays for New Year’s Eve and a few more days. It’s the fourth day of the new year, he has finished with all the impala needed and more, he had fun helping around with a few more engines, it’s time he goes now.
The night before Bobby breaks open a bottle of scotch while they’re playing a game of cards. He gulps down a few shots too many. I mean, Bobby doesn’t drink. You don’t survive to this age in their line of work if you’re not always 100 % aware of your environment. Most times, not even then.
“I’m sorry Dean….so sorry, my boy.”
Dean pats his arm reassuringly as he helps him to the sofa. He lets him settle there but as he turns to go Bobby grabs his arm somewhat painfully so, strong fingers bruising Dean’s wrist.
“I’m really sorry lad…I…there’s nothing I could do….nothing I can….”
“Ssss, it’s alright Bobby. It’s okay.” Dean unclenches the fingers gently with a frown. He knows the man counted his father as a friend, but hadn’t suspected he carried the loss so heavily years after.
Dean walks up to his room to pack for an early morning departure. Bobby matters a name in his sleep but Dean’s half up the stairs and it was only a whisper. He doesn’t hear it.
Once upon a time there were two brothers. There was blood and pain and sorrow and anger cuz they moved in a world that few ever see. They tried to protect each other. Oh, how they tried. It’s hard to fight darkness though. Darkness and prophecies that tell you some day you’re supposed to be the prince of Hell. One day the younger man died. His elder brother hurt so much; the despair and rage a sharp shrill piercing his heart. He had to bring him back. He made a deal with something darker than death. You cannot take without giving, however, and he only had one thing to give.
Once upon a time the hour of payment came and what was darker than death came for his due. The elder brother was dragged to hell, there to dwell till time was no more. Burning ice was the mourning of the younger one left behind and he could not rest till he made things right again. He stormed into hell to retrieve whom had been taken from him. His journey is a story for another time. At the end of it, he did find his brother. But what is taken, leaves a hole and balance is everything.
The elder man walked the earth again.
The younger one stayed behind.
He makes sure that is the end of the story.
AUTHOR: e313
SPOILER: the end of s3 for SPN
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: give and take
FEEDBACK: as you wish.
DISCLAIMER: No ownership. No profit. Damn.
Dean’s been running for a while now. He’s not sure how many minutes that ‘while’ translates into, but it’s enough for his lungs to have started burning, which is irritating. Damn demon, what’s he playing at?
It’s all a bit annoying really.
Dean wakes up today in a nice little motel at the outskirts of a nice little town. In the light of day the room is bright and pretty in an unexpectedly tasteful way. Spotless clean too! The TV, the air-condition and the fridge in perfect working order, the water pressure marvelous and the hot water more than plenty. It’s a welcome surprise all in all.
He spent a rough couple of weeks on the track of a werewolf that led to his sort of successful confrontation with a thankfully small ‘Cult of the Blood Moon’. Stupid people with no particular aversion to human sacrifice. Not exactly imaginative when it came to naming either. Dean cut the wolf down, beat the crap out of a couple of disciplines, was partly responsible for a minor explosion and managed to get out of town before the police even arrived at the scene.
When it’s all over, he’s bruised and sports a split lip. Also he’s bleeding. One of the morons had a gun. No idea how to shoot straight though. Eight feet away and the bullet only grazed Dean’s arm. Still, it stings. Dean makes sure it’s surface and tiny enough not to need stitches as soon as he gets to the car. Bandages it adequately enough (loooong experience doesn’t even cover it at this point) and drives through the rest of the night.
He doesn’t stop for coffee, what with having slept away most of the previous day and the adrenaline buzz he’s got going.
When he stops at the outskirts of this little town it’s because he’s almost run out of gas. The motel is right next to the gas station, the price low, he has to stop somewhere to clean his weapons, if not to rest, so why not here?
He falls asleep an hour before dawn.
It’s a bright, cheerful day he wakes up to. As he’s taking a walk around town, purely on a whim, he comes upon some sort of conference. The even itself is of no interest to Dean, but it must be their coffee break for there is a long table at one side of the shady pavilion loaded with cookies, pie, and miniature sandwiches of various filling. Fresh coffee brewing too. People are leisurely milling about forming small groups and chatting, drinking coffee. Dean heads straight for the coffee pot giving himself the equivalent of a mental shrug. This beautiful weather was such a distraction he left his motel uncaffeinated; it would be hard to resist the call now, and in such a gathering the possibilities of anyone noticing you don’t belong is less than zero. He’s stirring some sugar in his cap when a man bumps his elbow reaching for a cookie. Dean is about to offer a reassuring smile, but then the old man looks at him, stares, turns round and starts running. Away. From the table, his conference, Dean, out of the open gate and down the road away. Rather fast for a man his age. Too fast.
Five minutes later the ‘old man’ (both words in suspension for the moment) makes the mistake of turning into what proves to be a blind alley. Dean corners him there panting and pissed cuz his carefully prepared cup of coffee is left sitting on a table a few blocks away and he hadn’t had a chance of taking a single sip pre-running.
“I can’t tell you anything!”
“Huh?”
“You let me go and I’ll leave here right away.”
“Dude. Wha…”
Black smoke goes out of the man, who staggers and falls down gracelessly by some dumpsters. At which point Dean realizes that, yes, said guy is probably possessed. Was. Huh. A quick check finds a pulse. Quite recent a possession then. The victim is passed out but alive.
Dean turns back and leaves. Goes back to the hotel (grabs his cup of coffee, undisturbed at the table he left it on), sips at it for a while, thinks about it…thinks about calling Bobby….naaah. Lots of demons in hell…tis bound some of them to be wackoes.
Next few months are a breeze of recycled air. Couple of lost ghosts, a vamp or two, a voodoo case that leaves Dean with a bad taste in his mouth to rival his headache, a curse, some local legends coming true….
He hears about weird deaths in Nebraska. Possible demonic presence. It’s on his way. Sort of. Well, it’s more like a 100 miles of a detour but who cares? Dean doesn’t have much of a strict schedule to attend to and only himself to think about. Been like that for a long time now. Sure he had his father once upon a time, but last few years, he’s used to being alone. They split too often even back when his father was still alive.
He interviews relatives of the victims. Only four so far. Not that four isn’t a tragedy, but Dean thinks he smells of a summoning. The location the victims were found and the way they were killed. It could be part of a pentagram. Which means it’s not complete cuz there’s a fifth victim-to-be sooner than later and since Dean hit dead end, he’ll have to stake out the tip of the pentagram location and wait for his killer to come to him. Stake outs are boring. Even when one’s expecting a demon to show up. Dean finishes his thermos of coffee through the first part of the night and is getting more and more bored as dawn comes closer. The sun shows up punctual as ever. The killer doesn’t. Next day Dean takes a magazine on cars along. Might help pass the time. Four days later, there have been no more killings, nobody has shown up anywhere near Dean’s stalking area and all is fine in the world. It’s been a long time since he misjudged a case that bad. One of these days, he’s gonna trap a son of a bitch and force some answers out of it! Just so he knows what to look for next time. He spends the rest of the week investigating other angles but nothing pans out.
It’s not very often he has to leave cases unresolved, but Dean has to go when Saturday rolls by. A few disappearances a state over scream ‘lady in white’ and it reminds him of the case he stumbled into upon his father’s disappearance all those years back. It’ll be the fourth anniversary of his death in a few days. This is Dean’s way of mourning and honoring him both.
He runs onto Joe Harvelle somewhere in Kansas. She has a partner these days, Henry. He’s a bit of alright. Joe grew up to be a good hunter, too. Dean’s at a bar called ‘Purple’ nursing his second drink of what he’s not sure (strong and doesn’t taste foul is all he needs to know. The owner’s own recipe of a cocktail, has the colour to name the place and not a single fluffy umbrella in sight), when Joe walks in alone and orders a beer. Turns out, they’re taking a small sabbatical. Joe has a bandage under her shirt sleeve and Henry is a little worse for wear; has to stay in the hospital for a couple of days. Nasty encounter with a demon. Dean is surprised. Hasn’t fought any for…well, he doesn’t even remember when was the last time. Yellow Eyes maybe. He knows the danger alright; lost his father in that battle. They’ve sort of been scarce since. Show a distinct preference towards fleeing than fighting; must have hit them hard loosing their leader. Bad luck this then for Joe. Not many demons around to run onto.
Joe must be in a lot of stress. She cares for Henry, no matter how they spend half their time bitching at each other (if Dean remembers right. Hasn’t met them for months and only four-five times so far, always too soon to go their separate ways). Dean is not the most sociable sort, unless he’s pulling, or hustling, but Joe usually chatters away through a smile. Not this time though. Not lately. Her lips remain in a thin line. They sit friendly like by the counter sipping their drinks with only some ‘how are you?’ ‘fine. You?’ ‘doing okay’ and a ‘how’s hunting?’ ‘same all’ going back and forth. It’s a companionable silence nevertheless. When Joe goes, Dean sends his wishes for a speedy recovery to Henry. He finishes his drink fast and moves to the pool tables.
Bobby calls a week before Christmas to invite him over. It’s not any sort of tradition between them. In fact, last year, he only called Christmas day. Said he’d have sent a card, but… where to? And that he was sorry. Sounded a bit drunk. Bobby doesn’t ever get drunk so Dean had smiled in his phone and told him to take it easy with the holiday cheer.
This year it seems he’s determined they have a ‘proper’ Christmas. Dean arrives on the 21st. He helps around with the cars a bit. There’s good food, excellent beer. Bobby’s strive to embrace the holiday spirit translates into ‘no hunting talk for the day, lad!’ Dean’s okay with playing along. It’s peace and quiet and for a little while he’s not so lonely. Alone. He means alone. Dean is not lonely. He stays for New Year’s Eve and a few more days. It’s the fourth day of the new year, he has finished with all the impala needed and more, he had fun helping around with a few more engines, it’s time he goes now.
The night before Bobby breaks open a bottle of scotch while they’re playing a game of cards. He gulps down a few shots too many. I mean, Bobby doesn’t drink. You don’t survive to this age in their line of work if you’re not always 100 % aware of your environment. Most times, not even then.
“I’m sorry Dean….so sorry, my boy.”
Dean pats his arm reassuringly as he helps him to the sofa. He lets him settle there but as he turns to go Bobby grabs his arm somewhat painfully so, strong fingers bruising Dean’s wrist.
“I’m really sorry lad…I…there’s nothing I could do….nothing I can….”
“Ssss, it’s alright Bobby. It’s okay.” Dean unclenches the fingers gently with a frown. He knows the man counted his father as a friend, but hadn’t suspected he carried the loss so heavily years after.
Dean walks up to his room to pack for an early morning departure. Bobby matters a name in his sleep but Dean’s half up the stairs and it was only a whisper. He doesn’t hear it.
Once upon a time there were two brothers. There was blood and pain and sorrow and anger cuz they moved in a world that few ever see. They tried to protect each other. Oh, how they tried. It’s hard to fight darkness though. Darkness and prophecies that tell you some day you’re supposed to be the prince of Hell. One day the younger man died. His elder brother hurt so much; the despair and rage a sharp shrill piercing his heart. He had to bring him back. He made a deal with something darker than death. You cannot take without giving, however, and he only had one thing to give.
Once upon a time the hour of payment came and what was darker than death came for his due. The elder brother was dragged to hell, there to dwell till time was no more. Burning ice was the mourning of the younger one left behind and he could not rest till he made things right again. He stormed into hell to retrieve whom had been taken from him. His journey is a story for another time. At the end of it, he did find his brother. But what is taken, leaves a hole and balance is everything.
The elder man walked the earth again.
The younger one stayed behind.
He makes sure that is the end of the story.