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what the hell
Lesson: I should not be allowed to watch season finales and then start typing without a clear idea of where the fuck I'm headed.
~
Your own footsteps pounding against the road: "Sam!" you yell into your cell, "Sammy!"
"Too late," says someone else's voice, and then they hang up just as you swerve around the corner of the building and bust the door open with your shoulder.
"Where --" But you stop, because you can see where.
"Too late," the vampire says again. Blood everywhere, too much blood, and your heartbeat resolves itself into a deafening chorus of dead dead dead dead.
Dead, dead, and you open your eyes to the demon's smile.
"You know," you say when your breath returns; light, conversational. "I think I want my money back. I really was picturing a lot more fire and brimstone."
"Dean, honey." Her hair falls against the skin of her shoulder like perfection and it's fucked, it's fucked, but you want her. You can't not. "Credit me with a little more imagination than that, please."
What you really want is to rip her apart. You want your fingers in her hair and you want to devour her. You want to see if what's under your feet is really concrete and if she'll gasp as you slam her down into it; you want to see if her mouth still tastes like a slow cigarette burn.
"It's not real." You laugh and it feels like gravel rumbling in your chest, fierce, constricting. "You can show me anything you want, you impotent bitch, but you're not touching him. Not really."
She makes a tutting sound in the back of her throat. "Them's not the rules of dreaming, sweetheart. You know that. Self-awareness isn't part of the deal."
Insert smart comment here: right now you're too angry to speak -- too scared to move -- and you're imagining fucking her and wrapping your hands around her neck.
"You're going to see them die, Dean," she says, and now it's Cassie standing in front of you. "You're going to see your father being torn apart from the inside, and you're going to hear your mother burning, and you're going to watch me slice off your girlfriend's fingers one. By. One." Folding down the digits of her slim brown hand in neat illustration. "And it's going to be very, very real."
You close your eyes, but it's Cassie's voice, Cassie's warm familiar voice, and you remind yourself that whatever she can throw at you, it won't make you regret a thing.
"And as for dear Sammy," she drawls, "well, we'll have to come up with a few hundred variations on betrayal, won't we? I think it'll be you. I think you're going to chain your little brother down and watch your knives glow orange in the fire, and you're going to watch him scream and beg you to stop because you promised you'd take care of him, you promised, and then you're going to set the metal against his skin and...well, Dean? It's your dream. Would you care to fill in the gaps?"
Of course it's your dream: it's every nightmare you've buried in the violence of your finger against the trigger of a gun and the growl of the Impala's engine. She's painting it on the inside of your eyelids, so you open them again, because even her face twisted into that sultry satisfaction is better than --
No.
"So that's it? That's all you can come up with?" As an experiment you lash out with your fist, but she catches your arm before the blow can land and then she flicks a look at you from under her lashes and you've got just enough time to think: this is gonna hurt.
And then she twists.
"Uh uh," she says, and she's not Cassie any longer and her eyes flash red; or maybe that's just you, coming down off the scream. Maybe that's just the blood, maybe that's just the bone of your wrist poking through the skin. "Now we're getting ahead of ourselves. Give it a few decades, Dean: a few decades of watching your family suffer and knowing that it's all your fault, and then we can move on to the physical pain." She bends closer. "Trust me," she murmurs. "By then you'll be begging for it."
In your head your daddy's saying, what's important is never to show them that you're afraid, and you're eight years old and the world is streaming past the car window and being swallowed by the night.
"Pity," and your lips burn as you smile at her. "I was hoping you'd be one of those succubus types, you know? Show a guy a good time while you devour his soul."
"Sorry, Dean, but no." She kisses you on the forehead, gently. "I'm going to make all of your dreams come true."
~
Your own footsteps pounding against the road: "Sam!" you yell into your cell, "Sammy!"
"Too late," says someone else's voice, and then they hang up just as you swerve around the corner of the building and bust the door open with your shoulder.
"Where --" But you stop, because you can see where.
"Too late," the vampire says again. Blood everywhere, too much blood, and your heartbeat resolves itself into a deafening chorus of dead dead dead dead.
Dead, dead, and you open your eyes to the demon's smile.
"You know," you say when your breath returns; light, conversational. "I think I want my money back. I really was picturing a lot more fire and brimstone."
"Dean, honey." Her hair falls against the skin of her shoulder like perfection and it's fucked, it's fucked, but you want her. You can't not. "Credit me with a little more imagination than that, please."
What you really want is to rip her apart. You want your fingers in her hair and you want to devour her. You want to see if what's under your feet is really concrete and if she'll gasp as you slam her down into it; you want to see if her mouth still tastes like a slow cigarette burn.
"It's not real." You laugh and it feels like gravel rumbling in your chest, fierce, constricting. "You can show me anything you want, you impotent bitch, but you're not touching him. Not really."
She makes a tutting sound in the back of her throat. "Them's not the rules of dreaming, sweetheart. You know that. Self-awareness isn't part of the deal."
Insert smart comment here: right now you're too angry to speak -- too scared to move -- and you're imagining fucking her and wrapping your hands around her neck.
"You're going to see them die, Dean," she says, and now it's Cassie standing in front of you. "You're going to see your father being torn apart from the inside, and you're going to hear your mother burning, and you're going to watch me slice off your girlfriend's fingers one. By. One." Folding down the digits of her slim brown hand in neat illustration. "And it's going to be very, very real."
You close your eyes, but it's Cassie's voice, Cassie's warm familiar voice, and you remind yourself that whatever she can throw at you, it won't make you regret a thing.
"And as for dear Sammy," she drawls, "well, we'll have to come up with a few hundred variations on betrayal, won't we? I think it'll be you. I think you're going to chain your little brother down and watch your knives glow orange in the fire, and you're going to watch him scream and beg you to stop because you promised you'd take care of him, you promised, and then you're going to set the metal against his skin and...well, Dean? It's your dream. Would you care to fill in the gaps?"
Of course it's your dream: it's every nightmare you've buried in the violence of your finger against the trigger of a gun and the growl of the Impala's engine. She's painting it on the inside of your eyelids, so you open them again, because even her face twisted into that sultry satisfaction is better than --
No.
"So that's it? That's all you can come up with?" As an experiment you lash out with your fist, but she catches your arm before the blow can land and then she flicks a look at you from under her lashes and you've got just enough time to think: this is gonna hurt.
And then she twists.
"Uh uh," she says, and she's not Cassie any longer and her eyes flash red; or maybe that's just you, coming down off the scream. Maybe that's just the blood, maybe that's just the bone of your wrist poking through the skin. "Now we're getting ahead of ourselves. Give it a few decades, Dean: a few decades of watching your family suffer and knowing that it's all your fault, and then we can move on to the physical pain." She bends closer. "Trust me," she murmurs. "By then you'll be begging for it."
In your head your daddy's saying, what's important is never to show them that you're afraid, and you're eight years old and the world is streaming past the car window and being swallowed by the night.
"Pity," and your lips burn as you smile at her. "I was hoping you'd be one of those succubus types, you know? Show a guy a good time while you devour his soul."
"Sorry, Dean, but no." She kisses you on the forehead, gently. "I'm going to make all of your dreams come true."
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... AUGH.
*INCOHERENT FLAILING*
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(I've been poking around your LJ and now I think I have to friend you- hi!)
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASDFFGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHH
Re: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASDFFGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHH
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I always need more people who will rant about Shakespeare on my flist!
Re: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASDFFGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHH
I did write this, though. It didn't fit with the rest of the ficlet, so I didn't post it, but...it could be part of a less-horrible sequel? I don't know.
~
"Ooh," she breathes, and a smile breaks out on her face like she's just been handed an all-expenses-paid trip to go shoe shopping in Paris. Or whatever the fuck it is that makes demons smile. "Knock-knock."
"What?" you demand.
Her fingertips stroke down your cheek, and with the other hand she presses the piece of paper into your palm. "Raincheck, sweetheart," she says. "I've just got to take this call."
You blink and she's gone. You blink again and your fingers are feeling the photo gloss of the scrap, and maybe Hell's enough to make anyone a little psychic but in the next instant you know, and by the time she returns you've torn the thing into pieces so that you don't have to see Sam's face.
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And damn you because I have not the TIME to write but now I think I may have to try for a companion piece to this, one from Sam's point of view.
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*looks downthread*
Huh. *thoughtfully* I wonder if that idea I've been toying with would work.
*goes away to scrawl notes*
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Yeah, that's it. It's fucked up and perfect and FLAIL.
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Now I can work on my other fics without feeling a great need to compensate for my sadism.
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You should read Spider Bites On All My Lovers (http://untrue-accounts.livejournal.com/68121.html).
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Even if this has given me ideas of my own. Not for SPN, but Once Upon a Time in Mexico *points at icon* like so.
...ooh, I think I just might.
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Tempest icon! Ooh. I have a rather serious Tempest fixation.
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I am kind of crazily in love with every single one of your icons, btw. I now feel that my own collection is SADLY LACKING in Shakespearean ones.
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I am now in a mood to write something twisted and beautiful and fucked up and sadistic, and I blame you and your ficlet and your link of brilliance.
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As for icons, do you find yourself looking at your own icons every so often, just because they're that pretty? I admit to oggling yours in return... ;)
OH FUCK THIS.
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I am deeply attached to every one of my icons *grins*.
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SAM WILL SAVE DEAN. I'm just not sure how. Surely other people can write me out of this hole I have created.
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I HATE HOW SPN MAKES ME COMPROMISE MY ACADEMIC AND RATIONAL THOUGHT WITH well, they're pretty and i want them safe and possibly snuggling and who cares about all the other issues?
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I KNOW, RIGHT?
And yeeeah, I didn't actually realise (having been spoiled for the finale pretty much forever) that John got out for good. Because surely even if Dean does go to Hell, Sam will just repair the railroad Devil's Trap and then let out a whole bunch more demons in order to give Dean a chance to climb out.
(Not that I think that's at all likely, because there's still a mortality hurdle, but it's made the Impending Doom less doom-like.)
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OH WINCHESTERS.
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You piece together the clues and you drink coffee and run over the facts, you look people in the eye and just lie, lie, lie so that when you grab the torch and the gun you know what to do. You look evil in the eye and pull the trigger and laugh off the shakes.
On her first hunt, Jo had screamed with fear.
On her first night back home, she found herself craving it.
And that's what Ellen never understood. Jo that left wasn't the same as the Jo who came back. The boys had rescued her, not saved her. Joanna Beth Harvelle came out of the murderer's box with a piece of darkness in her soul.
And this is the thing of the dark, it's seductive. It lies there and whispers and goes that felt good, didn't it? you felt alive, yes, heart beating harder than sex, fear like liquid fire and you were alive. She would serve the hunters and listen to their stories and her heart would beat alive, even shouting in bravado and it felt good to stab him, didn't it? It felt so fucking good c'mon, girl,
She would clean the tables and know exactly where that shotgun was, and in her head would be her own voice whispering, whatcha waiting for.
And Ellen said, not under my roof.
So Jo said, fine.
*sighs* well, she'll GET evil. I have that and maybe her running into a demon (cross-roads?), and nothing else, and damn this is going to turn into a fic, isn't it?
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Dean: BITCH, WHAT WAS THE POINT OF THAT?
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I hate you.
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The one scene that gets me genuinely excited in Tempest is with Caliban's 'Be not afeard, the isle is full of voices'. I did a project for a class once where I imagined directing the scene- I got to plan sets and costumes and did a detailed line breakdown for the best bits. I saw my first production of the play last summer and it was like they slipped the actor playing Caliban all my notes- it was so perfect I wanted the play to end right there.
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