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apocalypsosTitle: Let Him Be Righteous Still
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,200 words
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just like playing with them.
Summary: There's a man going around taking names ...
Written for: You Gotta Have Cash ficathon, #23 -- "The Man Comes Around"
*****
Let Him Be Righteous Still
*****
1.
Death's got no need to come for Willis Clayton, not since they made an appointment to meet some hundred and twenty-seven years ago and missed each other on the trail.
Ain't no stopping him now, though, it seems. Ain't no stopping him worth a damn.
Willis paces through town with the bow-legged swagger of someone spent too many years propped up on the back of his horse. Misses his horse something awful at times like this, he does, but don't matter like it does that rumble behind the horizon he can sense like the warning hum of a steam engine far off in the distance.
Skin that ain't been there in years crawls along his old bones like it's got a mind of its own.
Coming, coming, coming.
He mutters, Aw, hell, and won't nobody appreciate his cussing they can't see him good and proper.
But they can and that's the problem, ain't it? He stalks along the streets of Piccadillo or whatever fancy name they've given it now, the horses gone and the wagons shiny and bright in the noon sun. When he passes them by, he sees his reflection for the first time in years, all foggy around the edges like being looked at through a window slathered in chicken fat. And he ain't the only one, 'cause for the first time in decades a fine-looking woman sees him.
The first thing she does is scream.
Wagons pass him by with the steady rhythm of drumbeats from inside. The sound grates at him, pounds at him like the fists of every cardsharp and hired gun from Mississippi to Arizona and back again.
Willis reaches out with hands that ain't there and squeezes, squeezes hard, and there's a choking sound from the next wagon to pass as it swerves off the road and slams into one of them poles they put up for telegraph lines.
Damn. Don't matter anyhow, Willis thinks, not with Death on his merry way.
And then he shows, and ain't that a sight?
Death traded in his pale horse for a glossy black steed that growls and stamps at the ground, scratching wide black marks in its wake.
Willis didn't never stand a chance against that. No, sir, he did not.
2
The boy hadn't meant anything by it, broken thing that he was. But the Reverend still held to his church, still kept a watchful eye over patrons who changed over the years in ways that he did not. The righteous were allowed their sweet revenge and this was his, staying and staying and staying, watching the broken boy grow into a broken man.
And he made damn sure the boy knew he was still there. That was righteous, too.
The Reverend shook the walls every Sunday for months, made them tremble and quake. He made the church shake so much he supposed even his long-dead bones felt the tremors in the shed out back. He pressed cold unseen hands to the boy's skin every time he dared to cross the threshold of St. Matthew's.
He held onto the boy who was now a man with every chance he got, and whispered in his ear gentle reminders of what he'd done, and he just waited for the boy to shatter.
Oh, the Reverend was patient, that he was.
Death had left him to his own business for so long, to engaging in the fair and beautiful wrath God allowed in him, that the Reverend had almost forgotten about him. Perhaps he'd just never expected Death to come to him, too busy culling others to take a good man such as he.
But then one day when the world is dark and quiet, Death comes to him.
Death finally comes, and my, how the years have changed him.
If he'd ever had a flaming sword or the like, he'd replaced it with a double-barreled shotgun full of rock salt a long time ago.
3.
The pack catches his scent on the wind every once in a while and that's the only time they move anymore. Jimmy wants to go to college and they need to stay in one place for that, settle down somewhere the right distance between city and woods for it to work. They need to give him time for things like letters of recommendation, college applications, touring campuses and the like.
They need not to run every time they catch that scent on the breeze anymore, to turn tail and hide in fear.
But after Paul, they figure, they're right to be cautious.
Megan's the only one who doesn't mind the running, the midnight escapes through overgrown fields. But she's a pup still, a redheaded slip of a thing who always bounds through their new home testing every scent like it's brilliant and fascinating.
Look, Daddy, she squeals, and drags Stanley deep into the woods where a den of rabbits lies safe and hidden in the underbrush.
They have the bunnies the next night, a celebratory midnight snack.
But Death's still coming ... oh, that he is. They're in a good part of town, one geography has blessed with a spot downwind of anything and everything that could possibly be a threat. Stanley awakens every morning and tests the breeze, prays it's clean and empty. He sniffs around the perimeter. He catches the faint hint of gun oil and sweat and blood, and hopes it's nothing.
Jimmy feeds on a camper, and they worry.
Not about Jimmy, whose only problem might be a bad case of indigestion. Not about the humans, who prowl the woods with iron rounds looking for something to match too-large paw prints.
A boy in Megan's class vanishes, gone without a hint or a whisper, and Megan's too full to eat for a week.
Stanley spots the headlines in the local news the next day -- BOY MISSING, WOLF ATTACKS ON THE RISE -- and knows Death is on his merry way to Covington.
And when he arrives, none of them will make it out of this in one piece.
4.
The demon's heard the rumors.
Hard not to, the way the Winchester name spreads like wildfire among lesser creatures than he. They talk about John Winchester like he's the second coming of Death, and from men and beasts who've met with Death before and found him lacking, they're terrified of the man on levels that amuse the demon far more than it probably should.
He is not Death on a pale horse, and he has no flaming sword.
Winchester is just a man.
A man who's taken more of their kind than Death's ever been able to, but a man just the same.
The demon waits patiently, stays quiet and hidden. He plans his attacks. He watches John Winchester and knows that the man's weak spots aren't trick knees or old scars but a pair of boys grown strong and able at his side.
The demon wonders how you take down Death, and how much of a legend it makes you if you do.
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,200 words
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just like playing with them.
Summary: There's a man going around taking names ...
Written for: You Gotta Have Cash ficathon, #23 -- "The Man Comes Around"
Let Him Be Righteous Still
*****
Death's got no need to come for Willis Clayton, not since they made an appointment to meet some hundred and twenty-seven years ago and missed each other on the trail.
Ain't no stopping him now, though, it seems. Ain't no stopping him worth a damn.
Willis paces through town with the bow-legged swagger of someone spent too many years propped up on the back of his horse. Misses his horse something awful at times like this, he does, but don't matter like it does that rumble behind the horizon he can sense like the warning hum of a steam engine far off in the distance.
Skin that ain't been there in years crawls along his old bones like it's got a mind of its own.
Coming, coming, coming.
He mutters, Aw, hell, and won't nobody appreciate his cussing they can't see him good and proper.
But they can and that's the problem, ain't it? He stalks along the streets of Piccadillo or whatever fancy name they've given it now, the horses gone and the wagons shiny and bright in the noon sun. When he passes them by, he sees his reflection for the first time in years, all foggy around the edges like being looked at through a window slathered in chicken fat. And he ain't the only one, 'cause for the first time in decades a fine-looking woman sees him.
The first thing she does is scream.
Wagons pass him by with the steady rhythm of drumbeats from inside. The sound grates at him, pounds at him like the fists of every cardsharp and hired gun from Mississippi to Arizona and back again.
Willis reaches out with hands that ain't there and squeezes, squeezes hard, and there's a choking sound from the next wagon to pass as it swerves off the road and slams into one of them poles they put up for telegraph lines.
Damn. Don't matter anyhow, Willis thinks, not with Death on his merry way.
And then he shows, and ain't that a sight?
Death traded in his pale horse for a glossy black steed that growls and stamps at the ground, scratching wide black marks in its wake.
Willis didn't never stand a chance against that. No, sir, he did not.
The boy hadn't meant anything by it, broken thing that he was. But the Reverend still held to his church, still kept a watchful eye over patrons who changed over the years in ways that he did not. The righteous were allowed their sweet revenge and this was his, staying and staying and staying, watching the broken boy grow into a broken man.
And he made damn sure the boy knew he was still there. That was righteous, too.
The Reverend shook the walls every Sunday for months, made them tremble and quake. He made the church shake so much he supposed even his long-dead bones felt the tremors in the shed out back. He pressed cold unseen hands to the boy's skin every time he dared to cross the threshold of St. Matthew's.
He held onto the boy who was now a man with every chance he got, and whispered in his ear gentle reminders of what he'd done, and he just waited for the boy to shatter.
Oh, the Reverend was patient, that he was.
Death had left him to his own business for so long, to engaging in the fair and beautiful wrath God allowed in him, that the Reverend had almost forgotten about him. Perhaps he'd just never expected Death to come to him, too busy culling others to take a good man such as he.
But then one day when the world is dark and quiet, Death comes to him.
Death finally comes, and my, how the years have changed him.
If he'd ever had a flaming sword or the like, he'd replaced it with a double-barreled shotgun full of rock salt a long time ago.
The pack catches his scent on the wind every once in a while and that's the only time they move anymore. Jimmy wants to go to college and they need to stay in one place for that, settle down somewhere the right distance between city and woods for it to work. They need to give him time for things like letters of recommendation, college applications, touring campuses and the like.
They need not to run every time they catch that scent on the breeze anymore, to turn tail and hide in fear.
But after Paul, they figure, they're right to be cautious.
Megan's the only one who doesn't mind the running, the midnight escapes through overgrown fields. But she's a pup still, a redheaded slip of a thing who always bounds through their new home testing every scent like it's brilliant and fascinating.
Look, Daddy, she squeals, and drags Stanley deep into the woods where a den of rabbits lies safe and hidden in the underbrush.
They have the bunnies the next night, a celebratory midnight snack.
But Death's still coming ... oh, that he is. They're in a good part of town, one geography has blessed with a spot downwind of anything and everything that could possibly be a threat. Stanley awakens every morning and tests the breeze, prays it's clean and empty. He sniffs around the perimeter. He catches the faint hint of gun oil and sweat and blood, and hopes it's nothing.
Jimmy feeds on a camper, and they worry.
Not about Jimmy, whose only problem might be a bad case of indigestion. Not about the humans, who prowl the woods with iron rounds looking for something to match too-large paw prints.
A boy in Megan's class vanishes, gone without a hint or a whisper, and Megan's too full to eat for a week.
Stanley spots the headlines in the local news the next day -- BOY MISSING, WOLF ATTACKS ON THE RISE -- and knows Death is on his merry way to Covington.
And when he arrives, none of them will make it out of this in one piece.
The demon's heard the rumors.
Hard not to, the way the Winchester name spreads like wildfire among lesser creatures than he. They talk about John Winchester like he's the second coming of Death, and from men and beasts who've met with Death before and found him lacking, they're terrified of the man on levels that amuse the demon far more than it probably should.
He is not Death on a pale horse, and he has no flaming sword.
Winchester is just a man.
A man who's taken more of their kind than Death's ever been able to, but a man just the same.
The demon waits patiently, stays quiet and hidden. He plans his attacks. He watches John Winchester and knows that the man's weak spots aren't trick knees or old scars but a pair of boys grown strong and able at his side.
The demon wonders how you take down Death, and how much of a legend it makes you if you do.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-07-01 05:20 pm (UTC)For this one, I did.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-01 07:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-01 07:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-01 08:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-01 11:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-02 12:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-02 01:25 am (UTC)Damn. Don't matter anyhow, Willis thinks, not with Death on his merry way.
And then he shows, and ain't that a sight?
Death traded in his pale horse for a glossy black steed that growls and stamps at the ground, scratching wide black marks in its wake.
Willis didn't never stand a chance against that. No, sir, he did not.
Gives me the shivers, this. Perfectly brilliant.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-02 03:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-02 04:18 am (UTC)But it was all good. Bravo!
no subject
Date: 2006-07-02 09:37 am (UTC)*squees* Oh my god, that's so cute. And the bit with Megan is creepy. And the last line is keen. :)
no subject
Date: 2006-07-02 07:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-03 12:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-03 03:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-03 04:43 am (UTC)A wonderful spread of voices, a chilling ending, and an epic view of Papa Winchester -- nothing, as they used to say, but net.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-03 10:10 am (UTC)Then I realised - oh, yeah. It's hers. *giggle*
loved the idea of that Willis dude seeing the Impala itself as Death - very apt, really. I bet the Metallicar's almost as much a legend as the Winchesters themselves (as it should be!).
no subject
Date: 2006-07-03 12:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-01 05:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-01 10:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-08 01:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-31 12:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-21 04:06 am (UTC)