(no subject)
Sidestep. Duck. Resist a roundhouse kick, because it might shake up a vampire or a demon in corporeal form, but it won't do shit against a ghost. Doesn't seem fair, does it? A ghost can be corporeal enough to come after you with a rusty skinning knife, but it's not corporeal enough to kick. Hunters have two modes with pissed-off ghosts: "avoid" and "shoot". "Exorcise" also figures in there somewhere, but not when you're face to face with a scorned, rotting bride or mangled farmer.
Duck. Tuck and roll. The ghost in question, a backwoods trapper, shrieks in frustration and slashes at the air, where my face had been moments before. Sure, scars are attractive, but in a ruggedly handsome way, and I, personally, don't subscribe to that. Scrambling to my feet, I cover my head with my hands and dash out to the porch, where I'd left my duffel bag with - stupid, Jo, really stupid - all of my supplies.
How did I end up here, anyway, all alone with a brassed-off ghost? It's been weeks since I last sent a postcard to my mother. Since the episode with Sam, I just couldn't. It had taken me days just to get his voice out of my head. I'd keep telling myself, it wasn't Sam, it was the demon, and demons lie, but the demon's words had cut deep. It was just further proof that I couldn't have the Winchesters in my life. Their presence only brought more pain and danger. It just wasn't worth it.
Of course, Dean hadn't called.
My daddy shot your daddy in the head.
Which was probably for the best.
After that, I guess I kind of lost it. I'd kept it together long enough to make sure that Dean was safe, and that Sam would be okay, because dammit, they're bad news but they try. Then things started unraveling. For the first few days, I'd had nightmares, woke up sweating and tangled in the threadbare motel sheets. Then the memories dimmed and I moved on, inch by slow, painful inch. But I couldn't face anyone I knew. Couldn't even write my mother's name on a postcard. Like I was ashamed for trusting them, I guess. So I went off, and got kind of crazy, I guess. Took on dangerous jobs I should've known better than to do on my own, but I must be lucky because I walked away, every time.
This, though, looks like it's gonna shape up a little different.
Townspeople told me of a quiet haunting, glimpses and noises in the night that made their skins crawl, but there were no violent murders, no disappearances. I don't know why I bothered, except to rid the world of another dead bastard, I guess. And the dead bastard didn't like that so much. Got violent as he hadn't been known to do before and came after me for distrupting his peace. Nothing out of the ordinary, except this time I hadn't been prepared.
As the ghost roars after me, I duck outside of the decrepit shack and skid to a stop, on my knees, in front of my duffel bag. Rip through the zipper, luckily I always keep the salt gun on top, easy reach - turn around and aim just as I see the rusty, stained knife coming towards me. It's larger than life. Maybe I scream. But for damn sure I pull that trigger.
I expect to feel the knife slicing through me so much that I almost do, the pain is sharp in my head and I really scream this time, falling back against my duffel bag. The shot rings in my ears, but instead of physical pain, I feel cold, as if I'm drowning in a river at wintertime, sinking beneath the ice. There's a rushing sound in my ears. Clutching onto my bag, feeling sick and shaking from the cold, I squeeze my eyes shut.
It doesn't last long. The cold fades, the rushing fades, and I feel warm. Unusually warm, but I guess it's in contrast to that cold. Like being in a bathtub of ice, and just as fun. I guess the fucker went through me right as I shot him. Good timing.
Shivering, I open my eyes. But I'm not on the porch of that shitty old shack anymore. It's not nighttime. And it sure as hell isn't rural Oklahoma. It's warm. There's a gentle dawn breaking over the horizon. Over the ocean.
Over the fucking ocean.
Duck. Tuck and roll. The ghost in question, a backwoods trapper, shrieks in frustration and slashes at the air, where my face had been moments before. Sure, scars are attractive, but in a ruggedly handsome way, and I, personally, don't subscribe to that. Scrambling to my feet, I cover my head with my hands and dash out to the porch, where I'd left my duffel bag with - stupid, Jo, really stupid - all of my supplies.
How did I end up here, anyway, all alone with a brassed-off ghost? It's been weeks since I last sent a postcard to my mother. Since the episode with Sam, I just couldn't. It had taken me days just to get his voice out of my head. I'd keep telling myself, it wasn't Sam, it was the demon, and demons lie, but the demon's words had cut deep. It was just further proof that I couldn't have the Winchesters in my life. Their presence only brought more pain and danger. It just wasn't worth it.
Of course, Dean hadn't called.
My daddy shot your daddy in the head.
Which was probably for the best.
After that, I guess I kind of lost it. I'd kept it together long enough to make sure that Dean was safe, and that Sam would be okay, because dammit, they're bad news but they try. Then things started unraveling. For the first few days, I'd had nightmares, woke up sweating and tangled in the threadbare motel sheets. Then the memories dimmed and I moved on, inch by slow, painful inch. But I couldn't face anyone I knew. Couldn't even write my mother's name on a postcard. Like I was ashamed for trusting them, I guess. So I went off, and got kind of crazy, I guess. Took on dangerous jobs I should've known better than to do on my own, but I must be lucky because I walked away, every time.
This, though, looks like it's gonna shape up a little different.
Townspeople told me of a quiet haunting, glimpses and noises in the night that made their skins crawl, but there were no violent murders, no disappearances. I don't know why I bothered, except to rid the world of another dead bastard, I guess. And the dead bastard didn't like that so much. Got violent as he hadn't been known to do before and came after me for distrupting his peace. Nothing out of the ordinary, except this time I hadn't been prepared.
As the ghost roars after me, I duck outside of the decrepit shack and skid to a stop, on my knees, in front of my duffel bag. Rip through the zipper, luckily I always keep the salt gun on top, easy reach - turn around and aim just as I see the rusty, stained knife coming towards me. It's larger than life. Maybe I scream. But for damn sure I pull that trigger.
I expect to feel the knife slicing through me so much that I almost do, the pain is sharp in my head and I really scream this time, falling back against my duffel bag. The shot rings in my ears, but instead of physical pain, I feel cold, as if I'm drowning in a river at wintertime, sinking beneath the ice. There's a rushing sound in my ears. Clutching onto my bag, feeling sick and shaking from the cold, I squeeze my eyes shut.
It doesn't last long. The cold fades, the rushing fades, and I feel warm. Unusually warm, but I guess it's in contrast to that cold. Like being in a bathtub of ice, and just as fun. I guess the fucker went through me right as I shot him. Good timing.
Shivering, I open my eyes. But I'm not on the porch of that shitty old shack anymore. It's not nighttime. And it sure as hell isn't rural Oklahoma. It's warm. There's a gentle dawn breaking over the horizon. Over the ocean.
Over the fucking ocean.