Counting Bodies - PG13, Gen, AtS/SPN (for the "Insane Set")
Title: Counting Bodies
Author: nevcolleil
Disclaimer: Much love to Joss and Eric.
Claim: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce/Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Author's note: This is for prompt # 99 (of prompt set 3) for joss100, betaed by the wonderful pen37 :) There are allusions in this one to my Wes-centric fic And Other Poison Devils, but you don't have to have read that to read this.
Summary: Wesley will never be through with death.
The first time that Wesley considered taking his own life, he was thirteen years old.
Not that he considered it in those terms - he didn’t want to die. On the contrary, he’d been wrestling with the concept of death and he didn’t want anything not to live.
Still, as he clutched his father’s forbidden spell book in his shaking hands - not for the first time - he knew, at last, the possible consequences of his actions. His father had punished him severely the last time Wesley had sneaked away to practice the ritual. And the day after that nightmare, when the tears and dry heaves had finally stopped and Wesley was no longer shaking, Father’d explained the harshness of his reaction with pictures of unfortunate fellows who had tried - and failed - the ritual before.
They’d died. All of them. Gruesomely, slowly - Father hadn’t said, but it was obvious in the twisted expression upon their features. They had wrestled with death, too, and they had lost, bringing only more dead into the world.
Wesley had stared at the pictures for hours and would remain capable of recalling every detail of each for years. But he still took the book. He still made the trip to the cemetery and he stood over his mother’s grave until sun-up, tears coursing down his face.
He could have done it. The tiny kitten - looking a bit weak and the worse for wear, but alive - that he’d given to the neighbor girl was proof of it. He had the knowledge to cheat death.
Unfortunately, he also had the wisdom not to try.
Wesley would hate his father for that lesson for a very long time.
The second time Wesley faced death at his own hands, he was twenty-five. And he walked into that bar fully intending never to walk out again.
He was an instant target, after all - human, fragile. He had the look of a hunter (a wary eye and careful stance) but not of a very good one. Stooped shoulders didn’t convey the memory of proud kills or of an experience with deadly battle. His lowered eyes spoke only of defeat and desperation, failure and futile self-pity.
Wesley had just ruined his life. He’d had the fruits of a lifetime of labor (lifetimes - his, his father’s, his father’s father’s) in the palm of his hand, a Slayer under his direction - no, two. And he’d let it all go straight to hell.
His Slayers didn’t want him. The Council didn’t want him. As soon as word got around, his father- Well, it didn’t bear thinking about what Father would want of him.
Wesley got his hands on all the hard malt liquor he could find (and afford) and drank himself silly, then he straightened his tie and grabbed his guns. He stuffed two into the waistband of his tailored trousers, two into the holster beneath his meticulously pressed jacket. He hefted a short sword and an axe - one in each hand - and waltzed into the roughest demon dive in the city where he happened to be.
He wore an almost self-satisfied grin. He wasn’t a complete imbecile - he knew how to locate and identify the deadliest of human-hating demons and although his life had turned out to be an utter waste, there was still the opportunity to make his death one hell of a bloody good showing.
But then something happened. Somehow, amidst all the hacking and the shooting and several fortunate strokes of good luck, Wesley forgot why he’d forgotten his will to live. Death is easily contemplated in the corner of a dark, dank motel room with nothing but remorse for company, but it isn’t so palatable when staring down the maw of an angry Keklan demon.
Wesley fought hard, and long, and somehow managed to extricate himself from the confrontation he had created more or less in one piece. He even managed to kill a couple of his adversaries along the way and win himself a rather fetching motorcycle.
In the end, he’d found a newfound outlook on life - a new idea of how to live it. He’d picked up the trail of a demon that was murdering demons for their mystical abilities and he followed it all the way to his destiny.
Three years later, he would wonder if he shouldn’t have left his weapons back in the room.
To be entirely honest, Wesley’s faced death in almost every stage of his life. He was a sickly infant, a reckless child. His mother was dying before he’d even reached the age to understand. He chose the profession the men of his family had always chosen - one that would possibly end with his young death upon foreign soil. Then he answered a calling that made him an enemy not only to the demons he hunts but to some of the same people he would have hunted beside had his tenure as a Watcher not come to an end.
He’s wished for death many times. In that cemetery. In that bar. In his office, staring at his own words and the pages of books that are bloody when he dreams. Kneeling before a demon god or laughing with a demon friend, his hysteria - his hopelessness - mocked by the former and unseen by the latter.
Outside a church, watching his wife die.
And Wesley has caused death. He’s spilled blood, not all of it demon, and taught his sons to kill in his stead. He’s held a scroll in one hand, a pistol in the other, and pressed its barrel to the temple of a man he raised as his own. A man destined to lay waste to everything Wesley has fought for, lived for, died for in this world and every other.
Wesley’s trembled as he’s watched Sam sleep. Seeing the beaming boy who’d toddled around Mary’s feet the day she introduced them. The wide-eyed child who’d cried for his mother and clung to Wesley’s legs the day they laid Mary to rest. The man who’d accepted a diploma, a degree, a wedding ring in a stadium or an auditorium or a chapel - as Wesley smiled so hard it hurt. The man who’d wept into Wesley’s shoulder like a boy as they buried his wife next to his mother.
Wesley’s trembled and watched and cried, lowering his weapon finally - knowing that he’d rather turn it on himself several thousands times over than even consider using it like this.
And Wesley’s realized: life will be through with him before he is through with it. He’s accepted that - he’s stopped calling death to him to dispute it. But Wesley will never be through with death. He will dog its steps, keeping the hounds at bay from all he can, until finally Death turns and welcomes him.
He will sit at Sam’s bedside and stare at his son’s lifeless form. Feeling no relief for an apocalypse averted or even joy for a prophecy eluded. He will feel sorrow, soul-shaking grief and remorse unlike any he’s every experienced. When Sam wakes, Wesley will feel as much saved as destroyed. And he will wait until Sam is in the other room, oblivious, to weep for Dean.
By the time Dean and Connor return, Wesley will have dried his eyes, though Connor will be crying. Wesley will not say a word. He will wait until Sam is not looking and hold his eldest son the way he held Sam that morning months before - a pistol stashed inside the bedside table, a scroll burning in the bathroom sink.
Wesley’s realized also: parents teach more than they think.
[end.]
Author: nevcolleil
Disclaimer: Much love to Joss and Eric.
Claim: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce/Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Author's note: This is for prompt # 99 (of prompt set 3) for joss100, betaed by the wonderful pen37 :) There are allusions in this one to my Wes-centric fic And Other Poison Devils, but you don't have to have read that to read this.
Summary: Wesley will never be through with death.
The first time that Wesley considered taking his own life, he was thirteen years old.
Not that he considered it in those terms - he didn’t want to die. On the contrary, he’d been wrestling with the concept of death and he didn’t want anything not to live.
Still, as he clutched his father’s forbidden spell book in his shaking hands - not for the first time - he knew, at last, the possible consequences of his actions. His father had punished him severely the last time Wesley had sneaked away to practice the ritual. And the day after that nightmare, when the tears and dry heaves had finally stopped and Wesley was no longer shaking, Father’d explained the harshness of his reaction with pictures of unfortunate fellows who had tried - and failed - the ritual before.
They’d died. All of them. Gruesomely, slowly - Father hadn’t said, but it was obvious in the twisted expression upon their features. They had wrestled with death, too, and they had lost, bringing only more dead into the world.
Wesley had stared at the pictures for hours and would remain capable of recalling every detail of each for years. But he still took the book. He still made the trip to the cemetery and he stood over his mother’s grave until sun-up, tears coursing down his face.
He could have done it. The tiny kitten - looking a bit weak and the worse for wear, but alive - that he’d given to the neighbor girl was proof of it. He had the knowledge to cheat death.
Unfortunately, he also had the wisdom not to try.
Wesley would hate his father for that lesson for a very long time.
The second time Wesley faced death at his own hands, he was twenty-five. And he walked into that bar fully intending never to walk out again.
He was an instant target, after all - human, fragile. He had the look of a hunter (a wary eye and careful stance) but not of a very good one. Stooped shoulders didn’t convey the memory of proud kills or of an experience with deadly battle. His lowered eyes spoke only of defeat and desperation, failure and futile self-pity.
Wesley had just ruined his life. He’d had the fruits of a lifetime of labor (lifetimes - his, his father’s, his father’s father’s) in the palm of his hand, a Slayer under his direction - no, two. And he’d let it all go straight to hell.
His Slayers didn’t want him. The Council didn’t want him. As soon as word got around, his father- Well, it didn’t bear thinking about what Father would want of him.
Wesley got his hands on all the hard malt liquor he could find (and afford) and drank himself silly, then he straightened his tie and grabbed his guns. He stuffed two into the waistband of his tailored trousers, two into the holster beneath his meticulously pressed jacket. He hefted a short sword and an axe - one in each hand - and waltzed into the roughest demon dive in the city where he happened to be.
He wore an almost self-satisfied grin. He wasn’t a complete imbecile - he knew how to locate and identify the deadliest of human-hating demons and although his life had turned out to be an utter waste, there was still the opportunity to make his death one hell of a bloody good showing.
But then something happened. Somehow, amidst all the hacking and the shooting and several fortunate strokes of good luck, Wesley forgot why he’d forgotten his will to live. Death is easily contemplated in the corner of a dark, dank motel room with nothing but remorse for company, but it isn’t so palatable when staring down the maw of an angry Keklan demon.
Wesley fought hard, and long, and somehow managed to extricate himself from the confrontation he had created more or less in one piece. He even managed to kill a couple of his adversaries along the way and win himself a rather fetching motorcycle.
In the end, he’d found a newfound outlook on life - a new idea of how to live it. He’d picked up the trail of a demon that was murdering demons for their mystical abilities and he followed it all the way to his destiny.
Three years later, he would wonder if he shouldn’t have left his weapons back in the room.
To be entirely honest, Wesley’s faced death in almost every stage of his life. He was a sickly infant, a reckless child. His mother was dying before he’d even reached the age to understand. He chose the profession the men of his family had always chosen - one that would possibly end with his young death upon foreign soil. Then he answered a calling that made him an enemy not only to the demons he hunts but to some of the same people he would have hunted beside had his tenure as a Watcher not come to an end.
He’s wished for death many times. In that cemetery. In that bar. In his office, staring at his own words and the pages of books that are bloody when he dreams. Kneeling before a demon god or laughing with a demon friend, his hysteria - his hopelessness - mocked by the former and unseen by the latter.
Outside a church, watching his wife die.
And Wesley has caused death. He’s spilled blood, not all of it demon, and taught his sons to kill in his stead. He’s held a scroll in one hand, a pistol in the other, and pressed its barrel to the temple of a man he raised as his own. A man destined to lay waste to everything Wesley has fought for, lived for, died for in this world and every other.
Wesley’s trembled as he’s watched Sam sleep. Seeing the beaming boy who’d toddled around Mary’s feet the day she introduced them. The wide-eyed child who’d cried for his mother and clung to Wesley’s legs the day they laid Mary to rest. The man who’d accepted a diploma, a degree, a wedding ring in a stadium or an auditorium or a chapel - as Wesley smiled so hard it hurt. The man who’d wept into Wesley’s shoulder like a boy as they buried his wife next to his mother.
Wesley’s trembled and watched and cried, lowering his weapon finally - knowing that he’d rather turn it on himself several thousands times over than even consider using it like this.
And Wesley’s realized: life will be through with him before he is through with it. He’s accepted that - he’s stopped calling death to him to dispute it. But Wesley will never be through with death. He will dog its steps, keeping the hounds at bay from all he can, until finally Death turns and welcomes him.
He will sit at Sam’s bedside and stare at his son’s lifeless form. Feeling no relief for an apocalypse averted or even joy for a prophecy eluded. He will feel sorrow, soul-shaking grief and remorse unlike any he’s every experienced. When Sam wakes, Wesley will feel as much saved as destroyed. And he will wait until Sam is in the other room, oblivious, to weep for Dean.
By the time Dean and Connor return, Wesley will have dried his eyes, though Connor will be crying. Wesley will not say a word. He will wait until Sam is not looking and hold his eldest son the way he held Sam that morning months before - a pistol stashed inside the bedside table, a scroll burning in the bathroom sink.
Wesley’s realized also: parents teach more than they think.
[end.]