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apocalypsosTitle: Drive Until You Feel Daylight
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: about 1,000 words
Pairing: None (Gen)
Spoilers: "Devil's Trap"
Warnings: Character death
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just like playing with them.
Summary: The demon is positive he's won for all of ten seconds.
Author's note: Because I'm evil. Uh-huh. *nods solemnly*
*****
Drive Until You Feel Daylight
*****
The demon is positive he's won for all of ten seconds.
Hard not to, really, not with what's left of the Winchester clan slumped silent and still in the blood-splattered seats of their car. Through the windows, he can see Dean in the back seat awash in his own blood, John in the passenger seat as crushed and broken as the windshield.
Sam doesn't move or breathe. The only real loss, as far as the demon's concerned. The death of his power feels like an aching black hole sealing itself shut in the driver's seat.
Of course, there are others the demon can use. There are always --
The noises coming from the Impala, the hissing of air and the steady drip of something from underneath, cuts off in an instant.
It's like a vacuum drawing in sound, slicing away at the chorus of crickets and the whistling of the breeze until the only thing left is the anxious hitch in the breath of the trucker whose body the demon's child currently inhabits.
"Leave," he hisses to his son, and the coward can't go fast enough. It senses what he does -- something not right, something just off -- but at least the boy has the option of going. The demon has to see this one thing through to the end, has to see this particular nuisance finished and gone.
The trucker staggers at the loss of the creature who'd taken him over, the sudden regained control of his mind. He takes one look at the crumpled car pressed against the grill of his truck and lets loose a string of curses.
He takes one look at the thing standing beside the wreckage, the thing with yellow eyes that can't be real, and drops like a stone to the pavement.
"Pitiful," the demon mutters.
And that's when he hears it.
The renewed hiss of air refilling the tires.
Black rubber reinflates before his eyes, dented and stained chrome and steel popping back into place as if someone were crawling inside the body of the car fixing it in seconds from the center outward. The cracks in the windows dissolve like lines of sugar washed away in a sudden rain. The paint gleams like it's just been waxed.
The radio in the Impala crackles back to life, hissing and sparking before the song pours into the night air as smooth and easy as velvet.
The voice on the radio screams at him.
If you want blood, you got it.
It means nothing when the demon leaves before he can make sure the job is finished. After all, the Winchesters are dead. There's nothing more to worry about.
*****
The bodies of John, Dean and Sam Winchester were discovered in the parking lot of a hospital in Nebraska, their bodies broken beyond repair. As far as the doctors could tell, it looked as if they'd been in a terrible car accident that had taken all of their lives in one brief startling instant. The doctors were still trying to sort out a number of disturbing questions -- Dean Winchester being legally deceased long before his body was found, who hit them and run, why they'd had serious injuries even before the car they must have been riding in was struck.
A truck registered in the name of John Winchester was found abandoned with its tires slashed.
A car registered in the name of Dean Winchester was never recovered.
When one of the demon's many children contacts him with the information, he can almost hear a war begin again with the roar of an engine as a starter's pistol.
*****
Jill Baker is six months old today. She has soft dark curls and big brown eyes, and if you talked to her mama, she'd tell you Jill doesn't even have to cry for you to know there's something wrong. It's almost like she can let you know exactly what she's feeling just by looking into those big pretty eyes of hers.
But you can't ask her mother, not now, because Carrie Baker looks down on her daughter's crib from a curtain of flames and she won't be talking to anyone anytime soon.
When demon looks out the nursery window just before Jill's father races down the hallway to save his daughter, he sees the Impala parked at the curb just outside the house.
Its engine roars, and the demon wonders what it could possibly be threatening to do to him.
*****
The first time the demon senses the death of one of his children, he's sure it's a mistake.
When he stands over the crushed body of his daughter in the middle of the road, other people crying out for help as he watches her blood spill across the pavement, he's sure he can see the impact of it in her bones. The snap of her femurs where the grill had connected, the pattern of cuts on her face where the windshield had starred.
She shouldn't have died like this. She couldn't have died like this.
The demon does the math in his head, thinks of a devil's trap on the car and that damn Colt in the trunk and Sam's power leaving a dark vacant smear in the air, as if the boy's psychic abilities had slammed the door on their way out of existence with a shouted, "You think I can't? Well, just watch me."
He adds it together in his head and wonders if sheer force of will from the battered mind of a dying man can turn a car into a weapon.
Demons don't feel fear, not like this.
But they can sure as hell try to.
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: about 1,000 words
Pairing: None (Gen)
Spoilers: "Devil's Trap"
Warnings: Character death
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just like playing with them.
Summary: The demon is positive he's won for all of ten seconds.
Author's note: Because I'm evil. Uh-huh. *nods solemnly*
Drive Until You Feel Daylight
*****
The demon is positive he's won for all of ten seconds.
Hard not to, really, not with what's left of the Winchester clan slumped silent and still in the blood-splattered seats of their car. Through the windows, he can see Dean in the back seat awash in his own blood, John in the passenger seat as crushed and broken as the windshield.
Sam doesn't move or breathe. The only real loss, as far as the demon's concerned. The death of his power feels like an aching black hole sealing itself shut in the driver's seat.
Of course, there are others the demon can use. There are always --
The noises coming from the Impala, the hissing of air and the steady drip of something from underneath, cuts off in an instant.
It's like a vacuum drawing in sound, slicing away at the chorus of crickets and the whistling of the breeze until the only thing left is the anxious hitch in the breath of the trucker whose body the demon's child currently inhabits.
"Leave," he hisses to his son, and the coward can't go fast enough. It senses what he does -- something not right, something just off -- but at least the boy has the option of going. The demon has to see this one thing through to the end, has to see this particular nuisance finished and gone.
The trucker staggers at the loss of the creature who'd taken him over, the sudden regained control of his mind. He takes one look at the crumpled car pressed against the grill of his truck and lets loose a string of curses.
He takes one look at the thing standing beside the wreckage, the thing with yellow eyes that can't be real, and drops like a stone to the pavement.
"Pitiful," the demon mutters.
And that's when he hears it.
The renewed hiss of air refilling the tires.
Black rubber reinflates before his eyes, dented and stained chrome and steel popping back into place as if someone were crawling inside the body of the car fixing it in seconds from the center outward. The cracks in the windows dissolve like lines of sugar washed away in a sudden rain. The paint gleams like it's just been waxed.
The radio in the Impala crackles back to life, hissing and sparking before the song pours into the night air as smooth and easy as velvet.
The voice on the radio screams at him.
If you want blood, you got it.
It means nothing when the demon leaves before he can make sure the job is finished. After all, the Winchesters are dead. There's nothing more to worry about.
The bodies of John, Dean and Sam Winchester were discovered in the parking lot of a hospital in Nebraska, their bodies broken beyond repair. As far as the doctors could tell, it looked as if they'd been in a terrible car accident that had taken all of their lives in one brief startling instant. The doctors were still trying to sort out a number of disturbing questions -- Dean Winchester being legally deceased long before his body was found, who hit them and run, why they'd had serious injuries even before the car they must have been riding in was struck.
A truck registered in the name of John Winchester was found abandoned with its tires slashed.
A car registered in the name of Dean Winchester was never recovered.
When one of the demon's many children contacts him with the information, he can almost hear a war begin again with the roar of an engine as a starter's pistol.
Jill Baker is six months old today. She has soft dark curls and big brown eyes, and if you talked to her mama, she'd tell you Jill doesn't even have to cry for you to know there's something wrong. It's almost like she can let you know exactly what she's feeling just by looking into those big pretty eyes of hers.
But you can't ask her mother, not now, because Carrie Baker looks down on her daughter's crib from a curtain of flames and she won't be talking to anyone anytime soon.
When demon looks out the nursery window just before Jill's father races down the hallway to save his daughter, he sees the Impala parked at the curb just outside the house.
Its engine roars, and the demon wonders what it could possibly be threatening to do to him.
The first time the demon senses the death of one of his children, he's sure it's a mistake.
When he stands over the crushed body of his daughter in the middle of the road, other people crying out for help as he watches her blood spill across the pavement, he's sure he can see the impact of it in her bones. The snap of her femurs where the grill had connected, the pattern of cuts on her face where the windshield had starred.
She shouldn't have died like this. She couldn't have died like this.
The demon does the math in his head, thinks of a devil's trap on the car and that damn Colt in the trunk and Sam's power leaving a dark vacant smear in the air, as if the boy's psychic abilities had slammed the door on their way out of existence with a shouted, "You think I can't? Well, just watch me."
He adds it together in his head and wonders if sheer force of will from the battered mind of a dying man can turn a car into a weapon.
Demons don't feel fear, not like this.
But they can sure as hell try to.
