Conversion - SN fic - PG13- gen
Jan. 19th, 2007 12:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tigriswolfTitle: Conversion
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Disclaimer: not my characters. Just for fun.
Warnings: AU, one would assume; pre-pilot
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 450
Point of view: dialogue
Notes: The Demon is bold-italized. Dean is italized.
Hello, son. My heir.
... what?
You hear my words and you comprehend them. You feel the truth, burning into your skin, branding you with my mark.
... what?!
On repeat, are you?
The hell you talkin’ ‘bout?
You know. You cannot escape the knowledge. It wreathes around you, branding the air you breathe, the liquid you sip, the words you exhale. Your fate.
Shut the fuck up and go back to Hell.
Such language. Shouldn't your mother have taught you better than that? Oh, wait—she didn't have the time.
I'm gonna kill you.
No. You're not. You're going to join me and be glad of it.
And why the hell'd I'd do that?
Because if you don't, young Samuel will come to a very sudden, very painful end. This is as inescapable as the sun gracing the world with light tomorrow. And quite foolish to fight.
You’re delusional. Or I am.
This is not a dream, hunter. Winchester. Nor a hallucination. You are in full control of your capacities. I have merely tired of waiting.
Waiting? For what?
Think, son. Remember what is in the back of your mind, all the thoughts you pretend do not exist.
Get out of my head. Now.
Or what? Think, Dean. What, exactly, can you do to me? Any move you make that can possibly be construed as threatening—will end your brother’s life. This I swear to you. And no matter how fervently you wish me dead… you will not kill your brother.
Fucking bastard.
You’re not the first to call me that. And you shan’t be the last. But I weary of words.
Then what do you suggest?
Sarcasm, child, is unbecoming.
I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming…
You’re not. I have trapped you here so that we may talk, nothing more. Your body is unharmed, your mind fully yours… it is not yet time. I gift you with twenty years.
What?
Twenty years to do whatever you want. To hunt, to live normally, to tell your father and brother goodbye, that you love them. But the price of this gift is that when the night comes, you look to the sky and agree to be mine. Forever after.
And if I die before then?
You won’t.
You can’t know that.
Yes… I can. Agree. Or Sammy dies tomorrow.
Twenty years?
Starting at dawn. Which gives you a total of thirty-five years with your family. And come what may, you owe me for that.
Okay.
Say the words, son.
In twenty years… I’m yours.
You will join me, Dean. And you will be glad of it, for all that I have given you.
… yes.
... what?
You hear my words and you comprehend them. You feel the truth, burning into your skin, branding you with my mark.
... what?!
On repeat, are you?
The hell you talkin’ ‘bout?
You know. You cannot escape the knowledge. It wreathes around you, branding the air you breathe, the liquid you sip, the words you exhale. Your fate.
Shut the fuck up and go back to Hell.
Such language. Shouldn't your mother have taught you better than that? Oh, wait—she didn't have the time.
I'm gonna kill you.
No. You're not. You're going to join me and be glad of it.
And why the hell'd I'd do that?
Because if you don't, young Samuel will come to a very sudden, very painful end. This is as inescapable as the sun gracing the world with light tomorrow. And quite foolish to fight.
You’re delusional. Or I am.
This is not a dream, hunter. Winchester. Nor a hallucination. You are in full control of your capacities. I have merely tired of waiting.
Waiting? For what?
Think, son. Remember what is in the back of your mind, all the thoughts you pretend do not exist.
Get out of my head. Now.
Or what? Think, Dean. What, exactly, can you do to me? Any move you make that can possibly be construed as threatening—will end your brother’s life. This I swear to you. And no matter how fervently you wish me dead… you will not kill your brother.
Fucking bastard.
You’re not the first to call me that. And you shan’t be the last. But I weary of words.
Then what do you suggest?
Sarcasm, child, is unbecoming.
I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming…
You’re not. I have trapped you here so that we may talk, nothing more. Your body is unharmed, your mind fully yours… it is not yet time. I gift you with twenty years.
What?
Twenty years to do whatever you want. To hunt, to live normally, to tell your father and brother goodbye, that you love them. But the price of this gift is that when the night comes, you look to the sky and agree to be mine. Forever after.
And if I die before then?
You won’t.
You can’t know that.
Yes… I can. Agree. Or Sammy dies tomorrow.
Twenty years?
Starting at dawn. Which gives you a total of thirty-five years with your family. And come what may, you owe me for that.
Okay.
Say the words, son.
In twenty years… I’m yours.
You will join me, Dean. And you will be glad of it, for all that I have given you.
… yes.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-19 07:08 pm (UTC)Oh, Dean.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-19 10:18 pm (UTC)