"I would not if I could undo my past." (ficlet for spn_30snapshots)
What You Don't Know About Me Could Fill a Book. Theme 15; Prompt 30.
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that Sam has grabbed me, holding me still as his ass of a brother comes at me with my own knife. He is, after all, a Hunter. The enemy. I tricked him, and, yeah, maybe I rubbed it in his face a little. He has every reason to hate me. Every reason to want me dead.
So why, as Dean began to charge me (I could have gotten out of the way if I had wanted, or killed him on the spot; it would have been easy), did I turn my back on Sam as if he could be trusted? Why does his betrayal cause me to hesitate for this one crucial second between when I should have slammed Dean through the floor and now, as the blade enters my body?
It's not as if I let myself have any illusions. My only-good-demon-in-Hell act was just that: an act. Sam was a means to an end. The sex (hot as it was) didn't mean anything. The blood-drinking (even hotter) was never anything more intimate than a junkie getting his fix. I played Sam; he didn't play me.
But maybe, without realizing or meaning to, I let my guard down around him. Sometimes. It's impossible not to do when you spend that much time with a person. Sam has been my whole world since I got out of the Pit, and yeah, that's only because he was my mark, but still. Sometimes I let myself believe that he would have wanted me even if he hadn't been broken, desperate, and pathetic. Sometimes I even cared about him in the way that a scientist cares about the rat she's dropped into a maze.
So yeah, maybe I'm just a little surprised. A little hurt. A tiny bit heartbroken. Mostly though, spitting mad and disappointed that I won't be around to see the glorious result of all my hard work. That really burns.
But even now, milliseconds from death, I can still hold onto my sense of satisfaction. I won. I won, and that makes it all worth it, even death. Not Dean nor Sam nor God himself can take that away from me.
And if I could go back, I'd do it all exactly the same.
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that Sam has grabbed me, holding me still as his ass of a brother comes at me with my own knife. He is, after all, a Hunter. The enemy. I tricked him, and, yeah, maybe I rubbed it in his face a little. He has every reason to hate me. Every reason to want me dead.
So why, as Dean began to charge me (I could have gotten out of the way if I had wanted, or killed him on the spot; it would have been easy), did I turn my back on Sam as if he could be trusted? Why does his betrayal cause me to hesitate for this one crucial second between when I should have slammed Dean through the floor and now, as the blade enters my body?
It's not as if I let myself have any illusions. My only-good-demon-in-Hell act was just that: an act. Sam was a means to an end. The sex (hot as it was) didn't mean anything. The blood-drinking (even hotter) was never anything more intimate than a junkie getting his fix. I played Sam; he didn't play me.
But maybe, without realizing or meaning to, I let my guard down around him. Sometimes. It's impossible not to do when you spend that much time with a person. Sam has been my whole world since I got out of the Pit, and yeah, that's only because he was my mark, but still. Sometimes I let myself believe that he would have wanted me even if he hadn't been broken, desperate, and pathetic. Sometimes I even cared about him in the way that a scientist cares about the rat she's dropped into a maze.
So yeah, maybe I'm just a little surprised. A little hurt. A tiny bit heartbroken. Mostly though, spitting mad and disappointed that I won't be around to see the glorious result of all my hard work. That really burns.
But even now, milliseconds from death, I can still hold onto my sense of satisfaction. I won. I won, and that makes it all worth it, even death. Not Dean nor Sam nor God himself can take that away from me.
And if I could go back, I'd do it all exactly the same.