The Story that Could Have Been: Excerpts from Supernatural/Dark Angel Epic
Here's the beginning of my abandoned Dark Angel Big Bang, as well as my favorite scene. There's a hefty amount of words written for this thing, but the story itself took a left turn and got away from me. If I ever pick this thing up again, I'll have to do some major restructuring of plot, so what I do have down is all but useless to me at this point. Still, I think it was a cool idea, just poor execution on my part.
Disclaimer: I hold no rights to 'Dark Angel' or 'Supernatural' in any capacity. No profit is gained from this writing -- only, hopefully, enjoyment.
Prologue
He is unique, original, one of a kind. There is no one like him.
There never has been.
He feels, but what, exactly, is insignificant. Emotions are rarely useful. There is no point in analyzing them.
They don't matter.
He is strong; he is quick; he is smart; he is capable; he is no one's puppet.
He's his own man.
He is important. People listen to him. He is appreciated. People would miss him if he were gone.
They care.
He has a name. Someone gave it to him, just like everybody else gets theirs.
He's no different.
He is a human being.
He. . . is.
He is not a mistake.
He. . . isn't.
What lies exist, they tell him or he tells them. He never tells any to himself. He never keeps lies.
He does not.
He. . . doesn't.
He never does.
***
One
Waking up is hard to do, almost as much as falling asleep in the first place. He's good at staying under. It's everything else that's jacked.
Clean up. Dress. Eat something. Clean up. Close up. Head out.
***
He's out of there by eight, spinning down the streets to work, past the dirty, slow, weak, ignorant, hateful people, who look at him enviously, but if they knew the truth. . . they'd turn on him in a second flat. They'd try to rip him to shreds, and gleefully.
His thoughts are like the city. Everything's gray and dank, not sticky, but heavy and always around.
His thoughts are a lot like Manticore, actually. He is ambivalent about both, and, in the long run, neither will have mattered one fucking bit.
He stops the bike in front, and then wheels it inside with steady hands and precision step. It's not showing off if someone doesn't call him on it.
Greetings. Assignment. Package, package, package (package, package). Then it's back out into the world, this world, for another few hours of mindless activity.
***
Smooth sailing, all the way to the end. The last drop-off's only a couple blocks from where Joshua's hideout is, so it's easy to make the appropriate turn and wind up striding towards the front door.
Knock. Knock knock. Joke. Answer. Avoid hug. Enter. Sit. Stay awhile.
"What's this one called?" he asks after a few minutes of just watching Joshua paint.
"89," Joshua says, over-enunciating to the degree that it sounds like he's angry, but he's not. Guy's not like that, never holds a grudge, not even in the face of all the shitty things people have done to him.
***
Open. Up.
Stand. About-face.
Ahead. Never back.
Don't look down. Don't look inside.
Don't ask questions.
***
There's a shadow suddenly blocking the light from his eyes, and he looks up to see Joshua standing right in front of him.
"You like it?" Joshua asks him, and the paintbrush held in his huge paw-hand is dripping blood-red paint slowly onto the floor. Huge droplets, splatters of it, just falling and landing continuously. "Alec?" Joshua asks.
"Uh, yeah?"
"Big thoughts, huh?" Joshua huffs out, his voice loud but somehow settling as well.
He shakes his head in response, and waits for Joshua to look away so he can too. But the Big Guy never does, just keeps the eye contact steady and yet not overly intrusive.
A thought occurs to him then, and he asks, "Did you receive training, Joshua?"
Joshua nods, does his equivalent of a proud straightening of shoulders. "From Father," Joshua boasts. "Was first," he reminds him. Then the pride slides away, and Joshua's back to interested staring -- curious but cautious, like most of them are when they encounter each other, really. "Alec had more," Joshua says, and his voice is as quiet as it's ever been, "had many drills and hunts." He makes that half-bark sound, and adds, "More than Max, more than others."
There's nothing to say to that that isn't something he doesn't want to talk about, and so he keeps his mouth shut and his eyes up, always up. Best way to maintain advantage is to maintain awareness.
Joshua's not one to back down, though, not normally. The two of them remain like that, just staring and assessing each other, for another minute, and then Joshua smiles and slowly backs up across the floor to resume his position in front of the easel and canvas. He never takes his eyes away.
Joshua had training too, after all.
Never trust anyone but the commanding officer. In the field, everyone's a possible liability, threat, or deterrent. Manticore is the CO. Nothing and no else holds authority.
He shakes his head and blinks, but Joshua's already back to painting. He's not looking over here anymore.
***
The day goes dark again 36 hours later, but he's close enough to the messenger service at that point in his run to put it into high gear and get inside before the real Anomalies flood the streets, alleys, and leftover parking lots en masse.
Max is sitting on a chair next to Original Cindy, and when he makes it inside just before they close and lock the gate, the look on Max's face isn't what he'd anticipated. She looks relieved, nods at him distractedly before turning back to look at Normal and some of the other guys as they make sure the building's sealed up tight. The salt around the inside perimeter of the main floor is still solid in its iron trough, and as he takes a seat himself, he again has to hand it to Normal for making one hell of a stronghold here in this bike messenger service. Who knows how much all that iron and salt cost the guy, but if the result is a fortified bunker against the Darkness, it's probably more than recouped whatever Normal shelled out for it back in the day. The guy's been in business, or so he says to anyone who shows even the slightest interest in hearing it, since two years post-Pulse. Iron's not cheap now, but it was much worse right after the Pulse, and salt today costs a pretty penny. Only people like Maxie's guy Logan have the means to get any real effective amount of salt anymore by legit means. Everyone else is stuck with a just capful and their prayers to protect them.
That's one thing he misses about Manticore: the knowledge that no matter what happened, at least while he was inside the complex he was safe from the Darkness. He was a second generation X-5. The experimentation Manticore had done in the early days with the critters and possession, that was long over by the time he and his kind rolled off the assembly line.
***
Cut to: Several weeks down the rabbit hole. . . with cameos by our two favorite brothers.
***
At first, he sees it as a huge tower of light just skyrocketing up through the clouds.
Then, something flies past him towards it, fast, too fast for him to make out anything about it, save that it's black and not human and there are more where it came from.
Demons.
Then, almost like birds, bats, but frayed around the edges, nebulous, hundreds of them, thousands maybe, they're all coming closer. A flying sea of demons rushes past him.
They're being pulled in. The tower of light is drawing the dark forms closer, dragging them, sucking them inside, like some kind of black hole or Tower of Babel type vacuum.
He himself isn't affected, the pull that brings him closer only the need to figure out what exactly is going on.
He does, eventually. It is the single most terrible and courageous act he's ever witnessed.
He reaches the center, or close enough as makes no difference. Up on a small hill made of nothing but dirt, there are two figures. They're low on the ground, one lying down, and the other sitting hunched over the first.
A tower of light, like something out of a fairy tale, and it's coming from the chest of one of the men up there. It had been blinding before, purest white, but as the dark things are dragged into it, the tower dims. It darkens steadily, now a swirling mass of deepest blue, black, and purple.
Demons, a tower of demons, dragged in and trapped in a prison of light, and the foundation is the chest of a single man.
He doesn't even need to guess who that one man is, or who sits cradling him on that hill.
He just walks and walks, moving closer with every second, every breath, every thought.
Step. Step. Climb and climb and climb.
There is sound, noise actually, too much of it in fact, but even it is drowned out by the emotion filling the air. Feeling crackles like electricity, lifting the hair on his arms, hitting him like a punch to the gut, setting his teeth on edge.
Sadness, he would call it, but it's devotion wrapped in love wrapped in desperation wrapped in relief wrapped in resolve, and it's everything in the world right now.
This is the center of the universe. In this moment, at this exact place in time, the entirety of existence is comprised of these two men on this very hill and no one and nothing else.
Stand. Stare.
"I'm here, Sammy," Dean is saying, over and over. He pets Sam's hair with one hand as his whole body seems to cradle him. "I'm here, Sammy. I'm here.
"Sam.
"Sammy, I'm not going anywhere.
"I'm here. I'm not leaving you. Not leaving you, Sam.
"Right here, Sammy. I'm right here with you.
"It's okay. It's okay. I'm here, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere.
"I'll never leave you. Never leave you again. It's okay, Sam.
"It's okay.
"We'll be okay."
***
Disclaimer: I hold no rights to 'Dark Angel' or 'Supernatural' in any capacity. No profit is gained from this writing -- only, hopefully, enjoyment.
Prologue
He is unique, original, one of a kind. There is no one like him.
There never has been.
He feels, but what, exactly, is insignificant. Emotions are rarely useful. There is no point in analyzing them.
They don't matter.
He is strong; he is quick; he is smart; he is capable; he is no one's puppet.
He's his own man.
He is important. People listen to him. He is appreciated. People would miss him if he were gone.
They care.
He has a name. Someone gave it to him, just like everybody else gets theirs.
He's no different.
He is a human being.
He. . . is.
He is not a mistake.
He. . . isn't.
What lies exist, they tell him or he tells them. He never tells any to himself. He never keeps lies.
He does not.
He. . . doesn't.
He never does.
***
One
Waking up is hard to do, almost as much as falling asleep in the first place. He's good at staying under. It's everything else that's jacked.
Clean up. Dress. Eat something. Clean up. Close up. Head out.
***
He's out of there by eight, spinning down the streets to work, past the dirty, slow, weak, ignorant, hateful people, who look at him enviously, but if they knew the truth. . . they'd turn on him in a second flat. They'd try to rip him to shreds, and gleefully.
His thoughts are like the city. Everything's gray and dank, not sticky, but heavy and always around.
His thoughts are a lot like Manticore, actually. He is ambivalent about both, and, in the long run, neither will have mattered one fucking bit.
He stops the bike in front, and then wheels it inside with steady hands and precision step. It's not showing off if someone doesn't call him on it.
Greetings. Assignment. Package, package, package (package, package). Then it's back out into the world, this world, for another few hours of mindless activity.
***
Smooth sailing, all the way to the end. The last drop-off's only a couple blocks from where Joshua's hideout is, so it's easy to make the appropriate turn and wind up striding towards the front door.
Knock. Knock knock. Joke. Answer. Avoid hug. Enter. Sit. Stay awhile.
"What's this one called?" he asks after a few minutes of just watching Joshua paint.
"89," Joshua says, over-enunciating to the degree that it sounds like he's angry, but he's not. Guy's not like that, never holds a grudge, not even in the face of all the shitty things people have done to him.
***
Open. Up.
Stand. About-face.
Ahead. Never back.
Don't look down. Don't look inside.
Don't ask questions.
***
There's a shadow suddenly blocking the light from his eyes, and he looks up to see Joshua standing right in front of him.
"You like it?" Joshua asks him, and the paintbrush held in his huge paw-hand is dripping blood-red paint slowly onto the floor. Huge droplets, splatters of it, just falling and landing continuously. "Alec?" Joshua asks.
"Uh, yeah?"
"Big thoughts, huh?" Joshua huffs out, his voice loud but somehow settling as well.
He shakes his head in response, and waits for Joshua to look away so he can too. But the Big Guy never does, just keeps the eye contact steady and yet not overly intrusive.
A thought occurs to him then, and he asks, "Did you receive training, Joshua?"
Joshua nods, does his equivalent of a proud straightening of shoulders. "From Father," Joshua boasts. "Was first," he reminds him. Then the pride slides away, and Joshua's back to interested staring -- curious but cautious, like most of them are when they encounter each other, really. "Alec had more," Joshua says, and his voice is as quiet as it's ever been, "had many drills and hunts." He makes that half-bark sound, and adds, "More than Max, more than others."
There's nothing to say to that that isn't something he doesn't want to talk about, and so he keeps his mouth shut and his eyes up, always up. Best way to maintain advantage is to maintain awareness.
Joshua's not one to back down, though, not normally. The two of them remain like that, just staring and assessing each other, for another minute, and then Joshua smiles and slowly backs up across the floor to resume his position in front of the easel and canvas. He never takes his eyes away.
Joshua had training too, after all.
Never trust anyone but the commanding officer. In the field, everyone's a possible liability, threat, or deterrent. Manticore is the CO. Nothing and no else holds authority.
He shakes his head and blinks, but Joshua's already back to painting. He's not looking over here anymore.
***
The day goes dark again 36 hours later, but he's close enough to the messenger service at that point in his run to put it into high gear and get inside before the real Anomalies flood the streets, alleys, and leftover parking lots en masse.
Max is sitting on a chair next to Original Cindy, and when he makes it inside just before they close and lock the gate, the look on Max's face isn't what he'd anticipated. She looks relieved, nods at him distractedly before turning back to look at Normal and some of the other guys as they make sure the building's sealed up tight. The salt around the inside perimeter of the main floor is still solid in its iron trough, and as he takes a seat himself, he again has to hand it to Normal for making one hell of a stronghold here in this bike messenger service. Who knows how much all that iron and salt cost the guy, but if the result is a fortified bunker against the Darkness, it's probably more than recouped whatever Normal shelled out for it back in the day. The guy's been in business, or so he says to anyone who shows even the slightest interest in hearing it, since two years post-Pulse. Iron's not cheap now, but it was much worse right after the Pulse, and salt today costs a pretty penny. Only people like Maxie's guy Logan have the means to get any real effective amount of salt anymore by legit means. Everyone else is stuck with a just capful and their prayers to protect them.
That's one thing he misses about Manticore: the knowledge that no matter what happened, at least while he was inside the complex he was safe from the Darkness. He was a second generation X-5. The experimentation Manticore had done in the early days with the critters and possession, that was long over by the time he and his kind rolled off the assembly line.
***
Cut to: Several weeks down the rabbit hole. . . with cameos by our two favorite brothers.
***
At first, he sees it as a huge tower of light just skyrocketing up through the clouds.
Then, something flies past him towards it, fast, too fast for him to make out anything about it, save that it's black and not human and there are more where it came from.
Demons.
Then, almost like birds, bats, but frayed around the edges, nebulous, hundreds of them, thousands maybe, they're all coming closer. A flying sea of demons rushes past him.
They're being pulled in. The tower of light is drawing the dark forms closer, dragging them, sucking them inside, like some kind of black hole or Tower of Babel type vacuum.
He himself isn't affected, the pull that brings him closer only the need to figure out what exactly is going on.
He does, eventually. It is the single most terrible and courageous act he's ever witnessed.
He reaches the center, or close enough as makes no difference. Up on a small hill made of nothing but dirt, there are two figures. They're low on the ground, one lying down, and the other sitting hunched over the first.
A tower of light, like something out of a fairy tale, and it's coming from the chest of one of the men up there. It had been blinding before, purest white, but as the dark things are dragged into it, the tower dims. It darkens steadily, now a swirling mass of deepest blue, black, and purple.
Demons, a tower of demons, dragged in and trapped in a prison of light, and the foundation is the chest of a single man.
He doesn't even need to guess who that one man is, or who sits cradling him on that hill.
He just walks and walks, moving closer with every second, every breath, every thought.
Step. Step. Climb and climb and climb.
There is sound, noise actually, too much of it in fact, but even it is drowned out by the emotion filling the air. Feeling crackles like electricity, lifting the hair on his arms, hitting him like a punch to the gut, setting his teeth on edge.
Sadness, he would call it, but it's devotion wrapped in love wrapped in desperation wrapped in relief wrapped in resolve, and it's everything in the world right now.
This is the center of the universe. In this moment, at this exact place in time, the entirety of existence is comprised of these two men on this very hill and no one and nothing else.
Stand. Stare.
"I'm here, Sammy," Dean is saying, over and over. He pets Sam's hair with one hand as his whole body seems to cradle him. "I'm here, Sammy. I'm here.
"Sam.
"Sammy, I'm not going anywhere.
"I'm here. I'm not leaving you. Not leaving you, Sam.
"Right here, Sammy. I'm right here with you.
"It's okay. It's okay. I'm here, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere.
"I'll never leave you. Never leave you again. It's okay, Sam.
"It's okay.
"We'll be okay."
***