Fic: Mot Juste
Title: Mot juste
Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.
Warnings: none; spoilers for Pilot, Devil's Trap and S4's premiere
Characters: John, Dean, Sam; Mary, Meg, Ruby
Rating: G
Wordcount: ~400
Summary: Prompt; This is the oath in their blood, the murmur in their veins.
A/N: This is for tigriswolf, terribly, terribly late and so very little versus what I wanted to give you.
Also? Written before 4x09, so... very slightly AU-ish?
Watching his house (life) burn, taking everything (everything) but their two tiny boys with it, something boiled and screamed and dwindled in his mind until it all crystallized into the words that came forth from the depths of his soul.
I'm going to kill every one of you, he thought, and it will be glorious.
He didn't know who it had been, but it didn't really matter; he'd find out. Sooner or later.
***
She stared up at him, defiant and dreadful, lies in her eyes and spite in her stained smile.
He'd never (always) been afraid. Of this, of something being able to do what she kept telling him. Not until that one night in Fort Douglas (everywhere), failure and fear flickering in his father's eyes as they'd fled.
It was there, inside his mind, too; far clearer than ever before, the same idea that had flashed through his mind every time his family's blood had been spilt, incarnate finally.
I'm going to kill every one of you, he thought, told her as much when she insisted that his father's dead. Sam stuttered, Latin polished and still falling, and she was smiling like there'd be a saviour.
I'm going to kill every one of you, he thought then, if he's dead. And it will be glorious.
He didn't know how, but the idea was there, indestructible and true, as thick as blood.
***
I'm going to kill every one of you, he thought, and it will be glorious.
Slowly, it became a mantra after New Harmony, the memory of what never happened threatening to drown him, making him slip. Leaving him bleeding at the feet of a demon without a back-up to summon; the words whispered through his blood, and he voiced them instead of an exorcism or a curse.
The fallen rose as smoke, fell as ashes, sulphur stinging in the blood.
He didn't understand it then. But Ruby looked at him with something new in her eyes when he next woke up, missing a day, stitches in his side murmuring of healing.
Writing's like a muscle; you don't exercise it, it's going to atrophy. I have to get back to my bunny calisthenics*. Badly. Because this isn't what I wanted to do with your prompt, love.
*And the porn. Gods, I miss the porn.