Five Times You Stayed... (Max)
Follows this, followed by this
Technically, she didn't have to use the Ouija board. It was easiest to focus with it when all she needed was a couple yes/no answers and a name, but it wasn't necessary. For this, she almost wanted a full seance. But after the last time...
She pulled out the old black mirror from the top of the bookshelf where it had been sitting on a plate bracket for at least five or six years and dusted it off. It had been a while since she'd used this particular technique. Somewhere between the limited nature of the board and the total openness of the seance was the scrying bowl, the scrying mirror, whatever tool you wanted to use as long as it reflected and allowed you to concentrate. This one had been a present to her from Stephen, her first teacher, years ago. She was a little surprised it wasn't broken yet.
A few deep breaths, curtains closed. Candles lit. Pam slipped into focus as easily as breathing, with barely a twinge of nerves considering the last time she'd done this. She had a picture of Max, and some idea of what had happened to the boy. She had had to work and wheedle for it, but she had it.
Actually, she had a lot more now that word had gotten around the spirit world that she was inquiring on behalf of the Winchesters. Max had been one of the first to talk to her, though not the last.
It was why she was starting with him.
Her fingertips rested lightly on her knees, shoulders back, neck as straight a curve as it could be when she was looking down at the mirror. Whispered words, ritual words, I invoke thee. I invoke thee.
Poor, scared boy. His image blurred the fog of the mirror at first, then came into focus. His eyes, tired and sad and scared, as they'd been ever since she'd met him. Of course, he'd already been dead then. She waved a little to him in the mirror, smiling her best reassuring older figure smile.
"I need to know about the yellow-eyed demon."
Max, it turned out, didn't know much of anything. He didn't know why he had powers, why he could move things with his mind. Why his mother had died or why any of it, but he did remember dreaming about a man, an older man, kind of like Peter Fonda in Ghost Rider he said. Which made her smile, a little. That was the most benign description she'd heard of Azazel, the yellow-eyed demon, yet. She'd have to remember that for future reference.
Not that she intended to dumb him down or cuddle him up any, but it would keep spirits who didn't know about the demon who'd gifted their with their powers from freaking out.
Max. Max remembered dreaming about the man, although it became less and less clear whether or not he'd been asleep at the time. It was, Pam realized quickly, far too easy to get ahold of Max. Just tell him what he needed to do to make the beatings stop. Give him some kind of approval or some kind of show of paternal affection and he would be eating out of your hand. He was too malleable, and he hadn't learned anything from the demon. Not even beyond saving himself from his family; he'd shot himself before the demon had gotten to that part.
Pamela stayed with him a little while after she was done asking. Just because. He wasn't a terribly violent ghost, too upset and scared of his own shadow to be violent or to move on, but he was desperately lonely. Just wanted someone to talk to him. Not that she could do much else, but she could talk. And she did, for a little while.
Around ten o'clock she blew out the candles and put the mirror back up and left the blinds closed, because it was night time by now. Stretched, because four hours sitting in one position was not good for your legs at all. Water, bathroom, food, all those good things. She hadn't learned much, but it was at least a place and a way to start looking, and one that probably wouldn't get her in trouble the way she had with that last seance.
On the other hand, she thought to herself, listening to the water boil for her tea and wrapping her hands around her mug in anticipation of a hot cuppa. On the other hand, even with the sheer boneheaded stupidity she'd displayed last time, it had turned out all right. Which was a literal miracle. And she had met new people. Dean and Sam, adorable boys they were. Castiel. A real and true angel. Probably the best ally she could have at a time like this.
The kettle whistled and she poured out the water for tea and smiled as she wrapped her hands again around the now-warm mug. Smiled at the thought of her angel, or at least, her friend the angel. Those poor boys, but still alive now and still fighting. And her abilities, none too shabby herself, helping out. They weren't done yet. It was far from over.
Technically, she didn't have to use the Ouija board. It was easiest to focus with it when all she needed was a couple yes/no answers and a name, but it wasn't necessary. For this, she almost wanted a full seance. But after the last time...
She pulled out the old black mirror from the top of the bookshelf where it had been sitting on a plate bracket for at least five or six years and dusted it off. It had been a while since she'd used this particular technique. Somewhere between the limited nature of the board and the total openness of the seance was the scrying bowl, the scrying mirror, whatever tool you wanted to use as long as it reflected and allowed you to concentrate. This one had been a present to her from Stephen, her first teacher, years ago. She was a little surprised it wasn't broken yet.
A few deep breaths, curtains closed. Candles lit. Pam slipped into focus as easily as breathing, with barely a twinge of nerves considering the last time she'd done this. She had a picture of Max, and some idea of what had happened to the boy. She had had to work and wheedle for it, but she had it.
Actually, she had a lot more now that word had gotten around the spirit world that she was inquiring on behalf of the Winchesters. Max had been one of the first to talk to her, though not the last.
It was why she was starting with him.
Her fingertips rested lightly on her knees, shoulders back, neck as straight a curve as it could be when she was looking down at the mirror. Whispered words, ritual words, I invoke thee. I invoke thee.
Poor, scared boy. His image blurred the fog of the mirror at first, then came into focus. His eyes, tired and sad and scared, as they'd been ever since she'd met him. Of course, he'd already been dead then. She waved a little to him in the mirror, smiling her best reassuring older figure smile.
"I need to know about the yellow-eyed demon."
Max, it turned out, didn't know much of anything. He didn't know why he had powers, why he could move things with his mind. Why his mother had died or why any of it, but he did remember dreaming about a man, an older man, kind of like Peter Fonda in Ghost Rider he said. Which made her smile, a little. That was the most benign description she'd heard of Azazel, the yellow-eyed demon, yet. She'd have to remember that for future reference.
Not that she intended to dumb him down or cuddle him up any, but it would keep spirits who didn't know about the demon who'd gifted their with their powers from freaking out.
Max. Max remembered dreaming about the man, although it became less and less clear whether or not he'd been asleep at the time. It was, Pam realized quickly, far too easy to get ahold of Max. Just tell him what he needed to do to make the beatings stop. Give him some kind of approval or some kind of show of paternal affection and he would be eating out of your hand. He was too malleable, and he hadn't learned anything from the demon. Not even beyond saving himself from his family; he'd shot himself before the demon had gotten to that part.
Pamela stayed with him a little while after she was done asking. Just because. He wasn't a terribly violent ghost, too upset and scared of his own shadow to be violent or to move on, but he was desperately lonely. Just wanted someone to talk to him. Not that she could do much else, but she could talk. And she did, for a little while.
Around ten o'clock she blew out the candles and put the mirror back up and left the blinds closed, because it was night time by now. Stretched, because four hours sitting in one position was not good for your legs at all. Water, bathroom, food, all those good things. She hadn't learned much, but it was at least a place and a way to start looking, and one that probably wouldn't get her in trouble the way she had with that last seance.
On the other hand, she thought to herself, listening to the water boil for her tea and wrapping her hands around her mug in anticipation of a hot cuppa. On the other hand, even with the sheer boneheaded stupidity she'd displayed last time, it had turned out all right. Which was a literal miracle. And she had met new people. Dean and Sam, adorable boys they were. Castiel. A real and true angel. Probably the best ally she could have at a time like this.
The kettle whistled and she poured out the water for tea and smiled as she wrapped her hands again around the now-warm mug. Smiled at the thought of her angel, or at least, her friend the angel. Those poor boys, but still alive now and still fighting. And her abilities, none too shabby herself, helping out. They weren't done yet. It was far from over.