[Fic] Omega (Supernatural/Dollhouse) for fictionalfemme
Title: Omega
Fandom: Supernatural/Dollhouse
Rating: PG
Category: Gen
Spoilers: Huge for the Supernatural Season 6 finale.
For: fictionalfemme
Disclaimer: Topher is, yes, my favourite character. SPN and Dollhouse do not belong to me.
The new god Castiel knows all the myriad manners mortal might use - magical and divine, demonic and mystical, esoteric and occult - to blaspheme and try and separate him from his ubiquitous power. He sets to work eliminating them one-by-one. One of the new voices in his ear was something known as an FBI statistician, and those words sound like an all-new magical spell to Castiel, and they work as if by magic - although Castiel knows point blank that no magic has been involved at all. He can see magic now, in every wavelength, ever colour, ever subtle scent change. There is no magic in this method, and Castiel thrills at the feel of it, as the information splays across his mind in ordered, efficient rows. He knows all the possibilities, and this FBI statistician re-orders them, puts them in the most likely order that his new enemies would go for. Castiel takes them out with an almost militant brutal quickness. He doesn’t wish to be a hurtful god; he wishes to be benevolent, within reason. But some lessons humanity had to learn quickly with the flat of his hand. This new culture of people, of his worshippers, needed that iron determination, those cast in steel decisions. They needed to know the rules, the lay of the land, the law of his power. Such as the last great betrayer, Castiel knows he will be a vengeful god.
When his end finally comes, it is not by magical means. So convinced of his eternal power, Castiel misses the pivotal part in his plans - that his enemies are mortal. Dean and Sam Winchester are not equal to his power, although of course they seek to claim it for themselves; all the beings he encounters are jealous for his power. Dean and Sam Winchester cannot cast spells (or, in Sam’s case, any useful spells - Ruby made sure only to teach him the weak incantations that have little use.) Dean and Sam Winchester only know one way to fight their impossible opponents - cold steel and mortal brains.
Castiel knew the mortals would use mortal means, but he did not bother to catalogue them; a mortal would have as much chance in a fire fight with him as- how did Dean put it? - a bug against a windshield. A mortal's business counted as trivial matters, nothing for him to waste brain cells over.
But he should have. What takes him down is a single bullet. He had protected himself against the Colt, becoming the new Seventh member of that elite Colt-defeating club, but he hadn’t bothered to protect himself against physical harm, because he was a god, and who could defeat a god?
It’s Sam that shoots him with his favorite Beretta. Castiel notes it, some inside part of him smiling, and then there’s darkness, which he hasn’t felt since his power came to him. When he wakes up, he’s restrained, sluggish, and a guy with a halo of scruffy blond hair looks at him nervously.
“This won’t hurt a bit,” the guy says, punching something near Castiel’s head. He will pay, Castiel thinks, listing his favorite methods of smiting in his head, but the floor beneath him sinks. He’s on a chair. It sinks down, and electricity flows like lightning through Castiel’s body.
They will all pay, he thinks, and the world goes blank.
- -
Topher Brink has had some odd clients in the past, and he definitely knows there’s something shady going on, the two ridiculously tall men with their serious expressions, and the man bundled between them. Perhaps they’ve kidnapped this man, but who is he to know one way or the other?
The new soon-to-be-Doll is convulsing in the chair. It won’t be long. When the machine indicates the man’s personality has been wiped, he ejects the tape, places it on the table to catalogue with the rest, and he turns back to the chair, only to find the shorter of the two guys is pushing the man down, and the taller one is forcing something down the man’s throat that looks like... was that blood?
“Hey!” Topher shouts, but the shorter one just twists on his heel, jabbing his elbow into Topher’s throat. The pain washes through him and he staggers back. He flails, tries to hit his security button, but he freezes as the man in the chair, his beautiful chair, explodes into light.
At least, that’s what it looks like on first glance. Brilliant, white orb lights streaming out of the guy’s mouth like a rainbow bursting free. The man convulses again, and again.
“What is that?” Topher manages, his voice sounding like it belonged to a crow.
“Souls,” the tallest one says, and smiles at him, tight and unamused.
“Right,” Topher says. “Of course.”
The light ends then, and the room snaps back to its usual state, but everything seems so dark, and everything seems to cold.
“Can you put this back in him?” the short one asks after a moment. The man in the chair stares upwards, stunned, brainless. There’s a bundle of re-programming Topher has to do, the mental prompts to block in, but he doesn’t even know if the man’s brain will take it after all the trauma.
“I,” Topher says, and blinks, “maybe?”
“Right,” the short one says, and pulls out a sawed off. The taller one goes “Dean, no” and Topher crawls backwards, eyes flittering nervously between the shorter guy’s face and the remains of the shot gun, and the shorter one - Dean - says, tersely, “He could still take them. And if he remembers, he might still want them. I can’t stop him twice, Sam.” The tall one - Sam - nods, and Dean, with a look of blank regret, brings the handle of the gun down once, hard.
The tape splinters into four unequal pieces. Unuseable.
“You can still use him, right?” Dean says, and doesn’t wait for an answer from Topher. “Look after him.”
Topher nods, and Dean stalks off, looking really upset. Topher swallows, hard. He doesn’t know what on earth is going on, but he can recognise grief and regret when he sees it. The man in the chair is looking between them now, wide eyed like a baby. Which was pretty much what he was now.
“One of your handlers mentioned you had started to name them after the Greek alphabet, right?” Sam says, drawing Topher’s attention.
“We ran out of the phonetic ones,” Topher explains.
Sam has kind eyes, and Topher finds his fingers slipping even more away from the security button. “Trust me, and don’t name this one Omega.”
“Right,” Topher says, dazed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Sam nods, once, terse, and stalks out of the lab after his brother. Topher turns back to the chair, and, with his fingers wavering, he starts to push the wires back in. Another full wipe is the best way to make this doll functional, and without an intact personality, it seems this one will be permanent for the LA Dollhouse, until it’s time for the attic. Although… Topher remembers the light, streaming from the new doll’s mouth, and thinks, maybe, just maybe he’s the attic fodder out of the two of them.
But not yet. He’s got a functioning mind, and this doll needs fixing. The attic can wait. Topher has work to do.
Fandom: Supernatural/Dollhouse
Rating: PG
Category: Gen
Spoilers: Huge for the Supernatural Season 6 finale.
For: fictionalfemme
Disclaimer: Topher is, yes, my favourite character. SPN and Dollhouse do not belong to me.
The new god Castiel knows all the myriad manners mortal might use - magical and divine, demonic and mystical, esoteric and occult - to blaspheme and try and separate him from his ubiquitous power. He sets to work eliminating them one-by-one. One of the new voices in his ear was something known as an FBI statistician, and those words sound like an all-new magical spell to Castiel, and they work as if by magic - although Castiel knows point blank that no magic has been involved at all. He can see magic now, in every wavelength, ever colour, ever subtle scent change. There is no magic in this method, and Castiel thrills at the feel of it, as the information splays across his mind in ordered, efficient rows. He knows all the possibilities, and this FBI statistician re-orders them, puts them in the most likely order that his new enemies would go for. Castiel takes them out with an almost militant brutal quickness. He doesn’t wish to be a hurtful god; he wishes to be benevolent, within reason. But some lessons humanity had to learn quickly with the flat of his hand. This new culture of people, of his worshippers, needed that iron determination, those cast in steel decisions. They needed to know the rules, the lay of the land, the law of his power. Such as the last great betrayer, Castiel knows he will be a vengeful god.
When his end finally comes, it is not by magical means. So convinced of his eternal power, Castiel misses the pivotal part in his plans - that his enemies are mortal. Dean and Sam Winchester are not equal to his power, although of course they seek to claim it for themselves; all the beings he encounters are jealous for his power. Dean and Sam Winchester cannot cast spells (or, in Sam’s case, any useful spells - Ruby made sure only to teach him the weak incantations that have little use.) Dean and Sam Winchester only know one way to fight their impossible opponents - cold steel and mortal brains.
Castiel knew the mortals would use mortal means, but he did not bother to catalogue them; a mortal would have as much chance in a fire fight with him as- how did Dean put it? - a bug against a windshield. A mortal's business counted as trivial matters, nothing for him to waste brain cells over.
But he should have. What takes him down is a single bullet. He had protected himself against the Colt, becoming the new Seventh member of that elite Colt-defeating club, but he hadn’t bothered to protect himself against physical harm, because he was a god, and who could defeat a god?
It’s Sam that shoots him with his favorite Beretta. Castiel notes it, some inside part of him smiling, and then there’s darkness, which he hasn’t felt since his power came to him. When he wakes up, he’s restrained, sluggish, and a guy with a halo of scruffy blond hair looks at him nervously.
“This won’t hurt a bit,” the guy says, punching something near Castiel’s head. He will pay, Castiel thinks, listing his favorite methods of smiting in his head, but the floor beneath him sinks. He’s on a chair. It sinks down, and electricity flows like lightning through Castiel’s body.
They will all pay, he thinks, and the world goes blank.
- -
Topher Brink has had some odd clients in the past, and he definitely knows there’s something shady going on, the two ridiculously tall men with their serious expressions, and the man bundled between them. Perhaps they’ve kidnapped this man, but who is he to know one way or the other?
The new soon-to-be-Doll is convulsing in the chair. It won’t be long. When the machine indicates the man’s personality has been wiped, he ejects the tape, places it on the table to catalogue with the rest, and he turns back to the chair, only to find the shorter of the two guys is pushing the man down, and the taller one is forcing something down the man’s throat that looks like... was that blood?
“Hey!” Topher shouts, but the shorter one just twists on his heel, jabbing his elbow into Topher’s throat. The pain washes through him and he staggers back. He flails, tries to hit his security button, but he freezes as the man in the chair, his beautiful chair, explodes into light.
At least, that’s what it looks like on first glance. Brilliant, white orb lights streaming out of the guy’s mouth like a rainbow bursting free. The man convulses again, and again.
“What is that?” Topher manages, his voice sounding like it belonged to a crow.
“Souls,” the tallest one says, and smiles at him, tight and unamused.
“Right,” Topher says. “Of course.”
The light ends then, and the room snaps back to its usual state, but everything seems so dark, and everything seems to cold.
“Can you put this back in him?” the short one asks after a moment. The man in the chair stares upwards, stunned, brainless. There’s a bundle of re-programming Topher has to do, the mental prompts to block in, but he doesn’t even know if the man’s brain will take it after all the trauma.
“I,” Topher says, and blinks, “maybe?”
“Right,” the short one says, and pulls out a sawed off. The taller one goes “Dean, no” and Topher crawls backwards, eyes flittering nervously between the shorter guy’s face and the remains of the shot gun, and the shorter one - Dean - says, tersely, “He could still take them. And if he remembers, he might still want them. I can’t stop him twice, Sam.” The tall one - Sam - nods, and Dean, with a look of blank regret, brings the handle of the gun down once, hard.
The tape splinters into four unequal pieces. Unuseable.
“You can still use him, right?” Dean says, and doesn’t wait for an answer from Topher. “Look after him.”
Topher nods, and Dean stalks off, looking really upset. Topher swallows, hard. He doesn’t know what on earth is going on, but he can recognise grief and regret when he sees it. The man in the chair is looking between them now, wide eyed like a baby. Which was pretty much what he was now.
“One of your handlers mentioned you had started to name them after the Greek alphabet, right?” Sam says, drawing Topher’s attention.
“We ran out of the phonetic ones,” Topher explains.
Sam has kind eyes, and Topher finds his fingers slipping even more away from the security button. “Trust me, and don’t name this one Omega.”
“Right,” Topher says, dazed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Sam nods, once, terse, and stalks out of the lab after his brother. Topher turns back to the chair, and, with his fingers wavering, he starts to push the wires back in. Another full wipe is the best way to make this doll functional, and without an intact personality, it seems this one will be permanent for the LA Dollhouse, until it’s time for the attic. Although… Topher remembers the light, streaming from the new doll’s mouth, and thinks, maybe, just maybe he’s the attic fodder out of the two of them.
But not yet. He’s got a functioning mind, and this doll needs fixing. The attic can wait. Topher has work to do.