Second time around 1claudiapriscusAugust 20 2009, 23:15:03 UTC
"Why, John, you're a sentimentalist," the demon purred. It paced. Cocky. Triumphant. "If only your boys knew how much their daddy loved them." "It's a good trade. You care a hell of a lot more about this gun then you do Dean." "Don't be so sure," it snapped, "he killed some people very special to me." It was too late, though. It'd already tipped its hand. "But still, you're right, he isn't much of a threat...and neither, of course, is your other son...you know the truth, right? About Sammy? And the other children?" John kept his face blank. He knew. And he'd guessed a hell of a lot more. He let it pace, let it revel in his defeat. Let it take the bait. Come on, you stupid bastard, he thought. Take it. Take it. "So, we have a deal?" "No, John, not yet. You still need to sweeten the pot." "With what." Not even a question. Couldn't give the game away. Come on, come on, almost there. And when the demon gave its terms, his heart began to sing. Gotcha, he thought. I win. His lips twitched with the urge to slide into a sly grin. But the demon lingered. Maybe it'd caught something as being off. Maybe it thought it was too easy. Maybe it just wanted a chance to twist the knife. "You know, John, I've met your precious boy before. I'm not so sure he's worth the price you've paid. And I don't give refunds." It twisted its features into a grotesque parody of a smile. John did nothing. The demon knew he wasn't going to change his mind, and he knew the demon wasn't going to let him go. "We have a deal?" he asked again. "Pucker up," it said, still gloating. John ignored it and pulled out his knife, and nicked the thumb of his left hand. He rubbed a line of his blood across his other palm and held it out to the demon. The demon grabbed his arm tightly by the wrist, and John did the same in return. "Anima meum ab sanguibus et jurationibus aligo." "Done!" The demon licked its lips and said, "And I had been so looking forward to the hellhounds." The demon threw back its head and left the poor bastard it was possessing in a torrent of vile black smoke. The others followed suit. The men crumpled to the floor. The janitor grasped weakly at his leg. John ignored them and said nothing. He was crashing, exhausted, no longer running on pure adrenaline. He walked out to the stairs and went to go see his sons.
Re: Second time around 2claudiapriscusAugust 21 2009, 07:36:58 UTC
~~~~ John stepped out of his son's hospital room and walked down the hall until he found an empty room. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose. Of all the things he'd ever done, he was going to hate himself the most for the last. Necessary, he told himself. Always necessity covering for a legion of his sins. What was one more after a lifetime? He'd been damned before his deal, damned by his choices. And here he was: redeeming himself by damning himself. There was some grand irony in that. He steeled himself and walked into the room. The demon was waiting. It quirked an eyebrow at him. He set the gun down. "Okay” The demon picked it up and grinned. "Were you ever in doubt? I'm a man of my word, as are you. Isn't it wonderful, how much we must have in common. You know, John, I like you. I really do. That was a nice little talk you gave your boy. So....righteous." It savored the word, and then gave him a look of mock pity. "But he's bound to fail, you know. I do.” John had been resigned to hearing whatever last taunts the demon wanted to get in, but given that these were his final moments... “Oh yeah?” A challenge. It wasn't like the demon could threaten him. Its eyes gleamed. It cocked its head and stepped forward, uncomfortably close. “It's destiny, John: I win.” John leaned forward, refusing to be cowed. “I don't believe in fate.” “Believe in it or not all you want. Does 'paradox' better suit you? Because I want you to know. It was over from the day I met your boy in 1973. He....caught my attention. Drew my eye to your sweet Mary.” The comment did not rile him as it might once have, but only mostly because the first part was such a non-sequitur. The demon caught his confusion and grinned its sickly grin. “You didn't remember. I understand. I'm sure death muddles the mind. I'll spell it out for you then: I first met him in 1973, trying to save your family. That boy has seen too many movies, I'm afraid. It must have given him ideas.” Its tone turned vicious, laden with sarcasm. “Even a naughty boy borne in the arms of the ever-looovvvving angels can't fight fate.”
Re: Second time around 3claudiapriscusAugust 21 2009, 07:37:58 UTC
John frowned, racking his memory for something, anything. The Impala. What was it? He must have seen Dean lounging around the car a million times. There was nothing special there. “You'll get it,” the demon purred, “eventually.” And there it was: the dim memory of a rough and intense man, back when he bought the car. Asking him about...jesus christ, fishing about sulfur and cold spots. That couldn't have been Dean. But his mind was fleshing out the image in his head with Dean's careworn grin, his wary stance, his pleading eyes. No. Not a memory, just his imagination. But the Dean in his head was older, older and so broken. He'd assumed the man in 1973 was freshly discharged from the war, shell-shocked and strange. He'd known so many like that, shattered by what they'd seen and never quite put together right again. And he was, and he'd had to have been. Nothing more. “Bullshit.” “Would I lie to you about this? Oh, no, not this. It's too perfect. It happened, it will happen, and you can't stop it. I'll succeed, he'll try to stop it, and he'll fail. Just another long list in those who've sworn their vengeance against me. And look what that's gotten you.” It stared, trying to pin him with its gaze. John had gone cold. A thought was tickling at the back of his mind, the memory of an old man who'd repaid a favor by reading their fortunes, god, ages ago. “Angels watch over him,” the man had rasped, and John had dismissed it. Just some random comment, hiding that he had nothing else to say. He'd needed intel on what the demon had planned for Sam, and the frail bastard had come through, just enough to give him some leads. It was an idea too terrible, too crazy. No. Oh, but his mind was already going there. He knew the demon had plans for Sam, plans that had to be kicked off by a very specific righteous man in hell. The demon thought it was him, and he knew why. But he'd lost his claim to righteousness along time ago. Damned by necessity. Always necessity, even now. No. This had to be enough. This had to be enough to save his sons. Demons lie. Angels. Absurd. He'd hold out long enough for Dean and Sam to live long, full lives. He had to. “You're wrong,” he said. The demon smirked. “We'll see.” It lashed out, hand against his forehead and then... It all went to hell.
Re: Second time around 3maychorianAugust 23 2009, 22:58:58 UTC
Oh, wonderful job. I loved how John thought the Dean in 73 was a shell-shocked soldier. Yeah, pretty accurate. You really had the YED characterization down, too.
Re: Second time around 3claudiapriscusAugust 24 2009, 06:15:23 UTC
Thanks :) It seemed like it would make sense, because I can see John-the-soldier seeing Dean's not-quite-rightness and disorientation and automatically categorizing him as someone who hasn't quite managed to come home from the war. He seemed kind of wary of Dean, but he didn't react as strongly as you might expect considering. Nor did he seem to find it remarkable (and thus memorable).
"It's a good trade. You care a hell of a lot more about this gun then you do Dean."
"Don't be so sure," it snapped, "he killed some people very special to me." It was too late, though. It'd already tipped its hand.
"But still, you're right, he isn't much of a threat...and neither, of course, is your other son...you know the truth, right? About Sammy? And the other children?"
John kept his face blank. He knew. And he'd guessed a hell of a lot more. He let it pace, let it revel in his defeat. Let it take the bait.
Come on, you stupid bastard, he thought. Take it. Take it.
"So, we have a deal?"
"No, John, not yet. You still need to sweeten the pot."
"With what." Not even a question. Couldn't give the game away. Come on, come on, almost there.
And when the demon gave its terms, his heart began to sing. Gotcha, he thought. I win. His lips twitched with the urge to slide into a sly grin.
But the demon lingered. Maybe it'd caught something as being off. Maybe it thought it was too easy. Maybe it just wanted a chance to twist the knife.
"You know, John, I've met your precious boy before. I'm not so sure he's worth the price you've paid. And I don't give refunds."
It twisted its features into a grotesque parody of a smile.
John did nothing. The demon knew he wasn't going to change his mind, and he knew the demon wasn't going to let him go.
"We have a deal?" he asked again.
"Pucker up," it said, still gloating.
John ignored it and pulled out his knife, and nicked the thumb of his left hand. He rubbed a line of his blood across his other palm and held it out to the demon. The demon grabbed his arm tightly by the wrist, and John did the same in return.
"Anima meum ab sanguibus et jurationibus aligo."
"Done!" The demon licked its lips and said, "And I had been so looking forward to the hellhounds." The demon threw back its head and left the poor bastard it was possessing in a torrent of vile black smoke. The others followed suit. The men crumpled to the floor. The janitor grasped weakly at his leg.
John ignored them and said nothing. He was crashing, exhausted, no longer running on pure adrenaline. He walked out to the stairs and went to go see his sons.
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John stepped out of his son's hospital room and walked down the hall until he found an empty room. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose.
Of all the things he'd ever done, he was going to hate himself the most for the last. Necessary, he told himself. Always necessity covering for a legion of his sins. What was one more after a lifetime? He'd been damned before his deal, damned by his choices. And here he was: redeeming himself by damning himself. There was some grand irony in that.
He steeled himself and walked into the room. The demon was waiting. It quirked an eyebrow at him.
He set the gun down. "Okay”
The demon picked it up and grinned.
"Were you ever in doubt? I'm a man of my word, as are you. Isn't it wonderful, how much we must have in common. You know, John, I like you. I really do. That was a nice little talk you gave your boy. So....righteous." It savored the word, and then gave him a look of mock pity. "But he's bound to fail, you know. I do.”
John had been resigned to hearing whatever last taunts the demon wanted to get in, but given that these were his final moments... “Oh yeah?” A challenge. It wasn't like the demon could threaten him.
Its eyes gleamed. It cocked its head and stepped forward, uncomfortably close.
“It's destiny, John: I win.”
John leaned forward, refusing to be cowed. “I don't believe in fate.”
“Believe in it or not all you want. Does 'paradox' better suit you? Because I want you to know. It was over from the day I met your boy in 1973. He....caught my attention. Drew my eye to your sweet Mary.”
The comment did not rile him as it might once have, but only mostly because the first part was such a non-sequitur. The demon caught his confusion and grinned its sickly grin.
“You didn't remember. I understand. I'm sure death muddles the mind. I'll spell it out for you then: I first met him in 1973, trying to save your family. That boy has seen too many movies, I'm afraid. It must have given him ideas.” Its tone turned vicious, laden with sarcasm. “Even a naughty boy borne in the arms of the ever-looovvvving angels can't fight fate.”
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“You'll get it,” the demon purred, “eventually.”
And there it was: the dim memory of a rough and intense man, back when he bought the car. Asking him about...jesus christ, fishing about sulfur and cold spots. That couldn't have been Dean. But his mind was fleshing out the image in his head with Dean's careworn grin, his wary stance, his pleading eyes. No. Not a memory, just his imagination. But the Dean in his head was older, older and so broken. He'd assumed the man in 1973 was freshly discharged from the war, shell-shocked and strange. He'd known so many like that, shattered by what they'd seen and never quite put together right again. And he was, and he'd had to have been. Nothing more.
“Bullshit.”
“Would I lie to you about this? Oh, no, not this. It's too perfect. It happened, it will happen, and you can't stop it. I'll succeed, he'll try to stop it, and he'll fail. Just another long list in those who've sworn their vengeance against me. And look what that's gotten you.” It stared, trying to pin him with its gaze.
John had gone cold. A thought was tickling at the back of his mind, the memory of an old man who'd repaid a favor by reading their fortunes, god, ages ago. “Angels watch over him,” the man had rasped, and John had dismissed it. Just some random comment, hiding that he had nothing else to say. He'd needed intel on what the demon had planned for Sam, and the frail bastard had come through, just enough to give him some leads.
It was an idea too terrible, too crazy. No.
Oh, but his mind was already going there. He knew the demon had plans for Sam, plans that had to be kicked off by a very specific righteous man in hell. The demon thought it was him, and he knew why. But he'd lost his claim to righteousness along time ago. Damned by necessity. Always necessity, even now. No. This had to be enough. This had to be enough to save his sons. Demons lie.
Angels. Absurd. He'd hold out long enough for Dean and Sam to live long, full lives. He had to.
“You're wrong,” he said.
The demon smirked. “We'll see.” It lashed out, hand against his forehead and then...
It all went to hell.
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