Nameless, R, Supernatural
Title: Nameless
Rating: R
Pairing: Gen
Summary: What if, before one person said yes, another said no?
Warnings/Spoilers: Single instance of horror/gore
A/N: the idea came to me four years ago on Christmas Eve while at a Midnight Service. I really don't like going to church
Superbly beta'd by mad_jaks
People don't realise that, when you give something a name, you humanise it. Even the most terrifying name takes the edge off. Because then you have something to call, something to scream, something to beg and plead and reason with. How do you reason with something that has no name?
Everything has a name, except the things that don't. Those are the things you have to watch out for. They are either too old for names, or had them once, too long ago. Names that they left behind.
She had a name once. She convinces herself sometimes that she can remember it. Miriam. Rachel. Sarah. One of those names, because she was one of those. She's sure of it, even though the memory doesn't exist any more. All things fade given enough time, and she has had more than enough time.
While the memories are gone, the heavy ball of black still weighs her down. The knowledge is still there. The what, but not the why. She knows why, but can't remember. It is impossible to convey but it is still true.
It was other than this, once. She's not sure when because all of time has begun to blend into one. There is no past and certainly no future. There is only now, and not-now. But in the not-now, things were not as they are. She knows from where she came and more, worse, that she can not, can never, change. She waits, patiently, for the next now.
Sometimes she can use the minds of now to amplify, to imagine, to maybe remember? But is it her or the ball of black? Something tells her, speaks with now's voice, forces her to recall that she did this to herself. This was her choice.
She refused.
Refused the Angel, refused the Messiah, refused her God. She was born special, her and only one other, born for the greatest task. The most holy. And she refused. Filled with fear she begged the Angel to leave, not to make her, to leave her pure and untainted. Her family, her soon-husband, her people; who could look at her? She did not let the Angel explain, say whatever soft and beautiful words were said to- no, she would not, could not and will not give the other one her name. The black weighs down heavily and to mention her name causes it to rip her apart again.
But the woman, the woman listened where she did not. Was brave where she was not and was blessed where she was not.
No, she went on, married soon after, travelled for the census and gave birth herself. Her husband's child. A boy child. A beautiful boy. His eyes fell upon her and she felt as though she would collapse in on herself. His innocence, his agonising love like no other she has felt. The weight of his love pressed down on her, but she was filled with such joy that it strengthened her.
She had just enough time with her boy to see him smile. Her Zachariah. Her love. Her only. Then the men came.
The screams could be heard for miles. The news came that all the boys were dead and she cared nothing because she already knew. All were dead. Zachariah was dead.
Then as now, it was the same. She had no memory, but she knew. Knew that it was because of the woman. The one who said yes. The one who consented to the Angel and whose child, she knew deeper than her own soul, still lived.
She returned home, husband leading, and time passed all at once. She submitted to her husband but no more children were to be hers. She had had her love. She had had her chance. And now she must serve her penance. Her husband would not cast her out, barren and decrepit as she had become, and she resented him, wished that he would kill her and not force her to live. To watch as the woman's child grew, as Zachariah would not. Laughed, as he would not. Became a man, as he would not.
So it continued, time moving quickly and not at all in equal measure. Slowly, a new weight pressed down on her and there was no joy to push back. Hopelessness, pain, and bitterness slithered through her.
Small tendrils they began, but news spread of the boy from Nazareth. The woman's child who was the healer. But not a healer. A prophet, but not a prophet. A miracle worker, but not a miracle-worker. The Messiah. The blackness bound her heart like the tightest ropes choking her until she could not fight it. With a sip of dark liquid, she succumbed.
Whether she had hoped to be with her Zachariah, whether she had wanted to hear nothing more of the son she had refused to bear, or whether she had known what she would become, was lost. There was no reason to search for it, it made no difference.
Forever she had drifted from place to place. She could not remember a time when it had not been this way. Passing from person to person, waiting for not-now to become now. Whispering, always whispering. They would shake their heads, scream at her to stop, try to subdue her with their pills and potions. But she was always there, always waiting for the moment they were at her mercy. She was pleasured by their acts, their assaults, their murders. The things that they did of their own accord but with her guidance.
But when that single day became now, she was strong. The black ball weighed its heaviest and she would force herself into the sacrifice, her chosen vessel, raise the arms like a puppet, grasp a knife and slice through skin, flesh, blood, bone. She delighted that the chosen one could see the horrified expressions, could hear the terrified screams, could feel the blood trickling and spurting as it covered her from head to toe, and yet could do nothing. She would feed from their pain. Just as her anguish had created her, theirs maintained her. She stored it, built it up and preserved it to maintain her until the now came again.
The trees are standing, the children near glowing with excitement as they are tucked in bed, and she knows it is almost now again. She can feel the ball grow heavier and scans for her new host. She is drawn, more so than ever before, to a victim. Older than she would normally choose. The naivety of the young has always been her choice. Their disbelief that such evil existed was an extra thrill. But this woman has a single child, almost grown, and many much younger ones around her, throughout this place. Perhaps it is time to taste maturity. To change. To feel the hysteria that killing your almost grown child would bring. After, of course, she has forced the daughter to watch mother slaughter the younger children. And there are others nearby, others who will witness and try to stop and be decimated themselves. For when she had a host, when it was now, there was no way to stop her. Not the angels themselves would dare to touch her. She was blessed by God, immaculate and pure. Black and broken.
The sky darkens and it is almost time. She circles the woman, and the ball is pulling away, as though unnaturally attracted to the woman, the chanting woman, saying words that she can almost hear and that draw her closer. The children sleep soundly in their beds - she can hear each heartbeat, each calm breath. They trust this woman. They will have little chance to learn not to.
The moon is high and the time is near. She positions herself behind the woman and waits for midnight. For the child's birthday, the holy day and celebration day all at once. They day the churches are full and people pretend piety.
Finally, it is now.
She rushes forward into the woman and suddenly, nothing. The woman is there, but running from the chair and then turning to face her. She pushes again but cannot move. She looks around her, above, below, scrabbling, desperate, she must feast and will not be restrained. But it is as though she is cocooned, contained within a strange circle on the floor. She is trapped.
A rushing sound overtakes her and she feels as if she is a river swelled by the rain. The black ball inside her is growing, pushing her from the inside out and she feels that she must surely burst her banks. She tries to listen, seek a way to gain her freedom but can hear nothing except words. They are her words, she knows and does not know it. From when she was Hannah. For she was Hannah once, blessed Hannah, first to be chosen as mother and the woman who said no. Cursed to be without love, to feed from the fear she showed and to roam the earth until...until now. Finally, more than ever, this is truly now. The now she has been waiting for. This is her freedom. The blackness explodes through her and just as she is lost, she whispers a last time.
"Amen"
**************************************************
"Wow," said Dean, apparently shocked
"It worked!" The adrenaline in Sam’s system mixed with the relief and he almost dropped the heavy book.
"Ix-nay on the orked-way,” Dean began, mumbling out of the side of his mouth but it was too late. Ellen stalked towards them.
“Worked?” Ellen asked, angrily.
“Oh hey, Ellen,” Dean laughed nervously. “Yeah. About that. Sam’ll explain.” Dean deflected the question like a pro and Sam struggled to work out what he could say that wouldn’t result in him losing the use of a limb.
Ellen beat him to the punch.
“You’ve never done this before.” It was a statement but Sam felt compelled to answer anyway.
“No.”
“You didn’t know it was going to work.” For someone so much shorter than him, Ellen had an uncanny way of making Sam feel small. And about five years old.
“We wouldn’t have asked if we weren’t sure-“
“But you didn’t know.”
Sam looked at Dean and both hung their heads. Ellen set her sights back on Dean.
“You ever, ever lie to me like that again, Dean Winchester, and God help me I will tear your balls off and smack you over the head with them."
"Hey, hey, it worked, it's fine.” Dean put his hands out defensively. “As sanctioned by Heaven." Dean smiled broadly at Ellen, and Sam wondered when Dean was going to realise that his trademark smile never worked on her.
"Ri-ight.”
Not today, obviously. He looked up as he heard Ellen sigh.
“I swear, you boys will be the death of me one day. I'm gonna go check the kids didn't wake up during the Grinch’s exorcism." Ellen walked off towards Jo and the dormitories, and both he and Dean breathed a sigh of relief.
"So, what sort of demon can’t be whacked until just before it takes a host?"
"It’s not unheard of,” Sam explained. “Some of the god-like spirits are vulnerable when they materialised before taking human form. And that...thing...was strong. Remind me to ask Castiel what it was."
"Yeah, and how he knew it would work.”
“And where he found a phonetic transcription of that Aramaic summoning spell.”
“Probably googled it.”
Sam was about to ask when angels started googling but stopped himself. He could see Dean had already prepared a response and was not in the mood to humor him. It had already been weird enough tonight without Dean making dirty jokes in a convent orphanage.
“Better clear this up,” he suggested instead, scuffing at the chalk circle with his boot. Dean’s face fell and he started to grumble something Sam couldn’t make out. He ignored his older brother and went to pick up the chair Ellen had knocked over as she ran from the spirit. Dean walked over and picked up the book as Sam started to consider what would have happened if it hadn’t worked. He shuddered, only to hear Dean shuddering too.
"Well,” Dean said, “one less apoca-bitch to deal with. We got any beer in the trunk?"
"Probably." Assuming you didn’t drink it all when I was driving, Sam thought. Again.
"Awesome.” Dean clapped his hands together. “Let's go try and get Ellen drunk enough that she won't kick both our asses for this."
Sam laughed and followed Dean out into the silent hallway. He turned to quietly close the door. The lights on the tree lit the room and reflected off the foil decorations hung from the ceiling. The circular smudge of chalk was the only faint reminder left of what had just happened. He shut the door, moving quietly, and smiled to himself.
"Dean." he called out, quietly.
"Yeah?" Dean looked back.
"Merry Christmas."
Rating: R
Pairing: Gen
Summary: What if, before one person said yes, another said no?
Warnings/Spoilers: Single instance of horror/gore
A/N: the idea came to me four years ago on Christmas Eve while at a Midnight Service. I really don't like going to church
Superbly beta'd by mad_jaks
People don't realise that, when you give something a name, you humanise it. Even the most terrifying name takes the edge off. Because then you have something to call, something to scream, something to beg and plead and reason with. How do you reason with something that has no name?
Everything has a name, except the things that don't. Those are the things you have to watch out for. They are either too old for names, or had them once, too long ago. Names that they left behind.
She had a name once. She convinces herself sometimes that she can remember it. Miriam. Rachel. Sarah. One of those names, because she was one of those. She's sure of it, even though the memory doesn't exist any more. All things fade given enough time, and she has had more than enough time.
While the memories are gone, the heavy ball of black still weighs her down. The knowledge is still there. The what, but not the why. She knows why, but can't remember. It is impossible to convey but it is still true.
It was other than this, once. She's not sure when because all of time has begun to blend into one. There is no past and certainly no future. There is only now, and not-now. But in the not-now, things were not as they are. She knows from where she came and more, worse, that she can not, can never, change. She waits, patiently, for the next now.
Sometimes she can use the minds of now to amplify, to imagine, to maybe remember? But is it her or the ball of black? Something tells her, speaks with now's voice, forces her to recall that she did this to herself. This was her choice.
She refused.
Refused the Angel, refused the Messiah, refused her God. She was born special, her and only one other, born for the greatest task. The most holy. And she refused. Filled with fear she begged the Angel to leave, not to make her, to leave her pure and untainted. Her family, her soon-husband, her people; who could look at her? She did not let the Angel explain, say whatever soft and beautiful words were said to- no, she would not, could not and will not give the other one her name. The black weighs down heavily and to mention her name causes it to rip her apart again.
But the woman, the woman listened where she did not. Was brave where she was not and was blessed where she was not.
No, she went on, married soon after, travelled for the census and gave birth herself. Her husband's child. A boy child. A beautiful boy. His eyes fell upon her and she felt as though she would collapse in on herself. His innocence, his agonising love like no other she has felt. The weight of his love pressed down on her, but she was filled with such joy that it strengthened her.
She had just enough time with her boy to see him smile. Her Zachariah. Her love. Her only. Then the men came.
The screams could be heard for miles. The news came that all the boys were dead and she cared nothing because she already knew. All were dead. Zachariah was dead.
Then as now, it was the same. She had no memory, but she knew. Knew that it was because of the woman. The one who said yes. The one who consented to the Angel and whose child, she knew deeper than her own soul, still lived.
She returned home, husband leading, and time passed all at once. She submitted to her husband but no more children were to be hers. She had had her love. She had had her chance. And now she must serve her penance. Her husband would not cast her out, barren and decrepit as she had become, and she resented him, wished that he would kill her and not force her to live. To watch as the woman's child grew, as Zachariah would not. Laughed, as he would not. Became a man, as he would not.
So it continued, time moving quickly and not at all in equal measure. Slowly, a new weight pressed down on her and there was no joy to push back. Hopelessness, pain, and bitterness slithered through her.
Small tendrils they began, but news spread of the boy from Nazareth. The woman's child who was the healer. But not a healer. A prophet, but not a prophet. A miracle worker, but not a miracle-worker. The Messiah. The blackness bound her heart like the tightest ropes choking her until she could not fight it. With a sip of dark liquid, she succumbed.
Whether she had hoped to be with her Zachariah, whether she had wanted to hear nothing more of the son she had refused to bear, or whether she had known what she would become, was lost. There was no reason to search for it, it made no difference.
Forever she had drifted from place to place. She could not remember a time when it had not been this way. Passing from person to person, waiting for not-now to become now. Whispering, always whispering. They would shake their heads, scream at her to stop, try to subdue her with their pills and potions. But she was always there, always waiting for the moment they were at her mercy. She was pleasured by their acts, their assaults, their murders. The things that they did of their own accord but with her guidance.
But when that single day became now, she was strong. The black ball weighed its heaviest and she would force herself into the sacrifice, her chosen vessel, raise the arms like a puppet, grasp a knife and slice through skin, flesh, blood, bone. She delighted that the chosen one could see the horrified expressions, could hear the terrified screams, could feel the blood trickling and spurting as it covered her from head to toe, and yet could do nothing. She would feed from their pain. Just as her anguish had created her, theirs maintained her. She stored it, built it up and preserved it to maintain her until the now came again.
The trees are standing, the children near glowing with excitement as they are tucked in bed, and she knows it is almost now again. She can feel the ball grow heavier and scans for her new host. She is drawn, more so than ever before, to a victim. Older than she would normally choose. The naivety of the young has always been her choice. Their disbelief that such evil existed was an extra thrill. But this woman has a single child, almost grown, and many much younger ones around her, throughout this place. Perhaps it is time to taste maturity. To change. To feel the hysteria that killing your almost grown child would bring. After, of course, she has forced the daughter to watch mother slaughter the younger children. And there are others nearby, others who will witness and try to stop and be decimated themselves. For when she had a host, when it was now, there was no way to stop her. Not the angels themselves would dare to touch her. She was blessed by God, immaculate and pure. Black and broken.
The sky darkens and it is almost time. She circles the woman, and the ball is pulling away, as though unnaturally attracted to the woman, the chanting woman, saying words that she can almost hear and that draw her closer. The children sleep soundly in their beds - she can hear each heartbeat, each calm breath. They trust this woman. They will have little chance to learn not to.
The moon is high and the time is near. She positions herself behind the woman and waits for midnight. For the child's birthday, the holy day and celebration day all at once. They day the churches are full and people pretend piety.
Finally, it is now.
She rushes forward into the woman and suddenly, nothing. The woman is there, but running from the chair and then turning to face her. She pushes again but cannot move. She looks around her, above, below, scrabbling, desperate, she must feast and will not be restrained. But it is as though she is cocooned, contained within a strange circle on the floor. She is trapped.
A rushing sound overtakes her and she feels as if she is a river swelled by the rain. The black ball inside her is growing, pushing her from the inside out and she feels that she must surely burst her banks. She tries to listen, seek a way to gain her freedom but can hear nothing except words. They are her words, she knows and does not know it. From when she was Hannah. For she was Hannah once, blessed Hannah, first to be chosen as mother and the woman who said no. Cursed to be without love, to feed from the fear she showed and to roam the earth until...until now. Finally, more than ever, this is truly now. The now she has been waiting for. This is her freedom. The blackness explodes through her and just as she is lost, she whispers a last time.
"Amen"
**************************************************
"Wow," said Dean, apparently shocked
"It worked!" The adrenaline in Sam’s system mixed with the relief and he almost dropped the heavy book.
"Ix-nay on the orked-way,” Dean began, mumbling out of the side of his mouth but it was too late. Ellen stalked towards them.
“Worked?” Ellen asked, angrily.
“Oh hey, Ellen,” Dean laughed nervously. “Yeah. About that. Sam’ll explain.” Dean deflected the question like a pro and Sam struggled to work out what he could say that wouldn’t result in him losing the use of a limb.
Ellen beat him to the punch.
“You’ve never done this before.” It was a statement but Sam felt compelled to answer anyway.
“No.”
“You didn’t know it was going to work.” For someone so much shorter than him, Ellen had an uncanny way of making Sam feel small. And about five years old.
“We wouldn’t have asked if we weren’t sure-“
“But you didn’t know.”
Sam looked at Dean and both hung their heads. Ellen set her sights back on Dean.
“You ever, ever lie to me like that again, Dean Winchester, and God help me I will tear your balls off and smack you over the head with them."
"Hey, hey, it worked, it's fine.” Dean put his hands out defensively. “As sanctioned by Heaven." Dean smiled broadly at Ellen, and Sam wondered when Dean was going to realise that his trademark smile never worked on her.
"Ri-ight.”
Not today, obviously. He looked up as he heard Ellen sigh.
“I swear, you boys will be the death of me one day. I'm gonna go check the kids didn't wake up during the Grinch’s exorcism." Ellen walked off towards Jo and the dormitories, and both he and Dean breathed a sigh of relief.
"So, what sort of demon can’t be whacked until just before it takes a host?"
"It’s not unheard of,” Sam explained. “Some of the god-like spirits are vulnerable when they materialised before taking human form. And that...thing...was strong. Remind me to ask Castiel what it was."
"Yeah, and how he knew it would work.”
“And where he found a phonetic transcription of that Aramaic summoning spell.”
“Probably googled it.”
Sam was about to ask when angels started googling but stopped himself. He could see Dean had already prepared a response and was not in the mood to humor him. It had already been weird enough tonight without Dean making dirty jokes in a convent orphanage.
“Better clear this up,” he suggested instead, scuffing at the chalk circle with his boot. Dean’s face fell and he started to grumble something Sam couldn’t make out. He ignored his older brother and went to pick up the chair Ellen had knocked over as she ran from the spirit. Dean walked over and picked up the book as Sam started to consider what would have happened if it hadn’t worked. He shuddered, only to hear Dean shuddering too.
"Well,” Dean said, “one less apoca-bitch to deal with. We got any beer in the trunk?"
"Probably." Assuming you didn’t drink it all when I was driving, Sam thought. Again.
"Awesome.” Dean clapped his hands together. “Let's go try and get Ellen drunk enough that she won't kick both our asses for this."
Sam laughed and followed Dean out into the silent hallway. He turned to quietly close the door. The lights on the tree lit the room and reflected off the foil decorations hung from the ceiling. The circular smudge of chalk was the only faint reminder left of what had just happened. He shut the door, moving quietly, and smiled to himself.
"Dean." he called out, quietly.
"Yeah?" Dean looked back.
"Merry Christmas."