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anactoriaTitle: Take Me To The Bridge
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anactoria
Characters: Dean, Sam, Cas, OCs
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Animal cruelty.
Word count: 23,000
Summary: It’s supposed to be a routine hunt. A few farm animals mutilated, a few towns over. It sounds like the work of some two-bit demon—just another day at the office for two experienced hunters and an angel.
But this case is closer to home than it seems. Before long, Dean is in the clutches of a dangerous spirit, and Sam and Cas must try to end an ancient family feud before the whole town—and Dean—gets caught in the crossfire.
So long trapped in this place. So long in the dark.
When I was a child, my sister and I would ride in the mountains. We traveled for hours, sometimes days at a time. Our names opened doors, meant that we never wanted for a hot meal or a place to sleep. In the furthest corners of the kingdom, we were assured of a welcome. Nothing tied us down. The whole of the Island of the Mighty was our home.
I’d never felt so free before. Nor have I since.
The scrubby grass on the high ground; the yellow of the gorse and the purple of the heather; the white scuts of rabbits bobbing as they ran from the sound of hooves. Birds of prey wheeling overhead, their high, sharp calls so far above us that it felt like hearing voices from the otherworld.
The green shadows down in the valleys. The canopy of leaves above us dappled the floor with sunlight and sheltered us from rain. We could sit there for hours, until the creatures of the forest floor lost their nervousness and came to eat from our hands. They didn’t fear me then.
They loved my sister best, of course. Everybody did. She was dearer to me even than my twin; knew me in a way he never could. The deer would eat from her hand. The red squirrels climbed onto her shoulders, and the sparrows sang to her. And the ravens, drifting in her wake like shades. Always the ravens.
Once we pushed through a narrow gap in the bushes and into the larder of a grey shrike. It was winter, a little after the turning of the year. A clear day with wisps of white cloud frozen against the pale sky. It took me a moment to make sense of what I was seeing. The miniature corpse of a fieldmouse, skewered on a thorn. A robin, its red breast a startling spot of colour in the dead undergrowth. A small, leathery thing that I had to squint at before I realized it was a frog, dried out in the wintry air.
Other children might have screamed. Run away. My sister and I gazed in awe. We stood there for a long moment, our breath misting the air. By unspoken agreement, we backed away without a word, leaving the little mausoleum undisturbed. We rode on.
I was seventeen on the morning I rose early to meet her and found the stables deserted. Her white mare stood in her stall, regarding me with dark, placid eyes. Perhaps she had gone walking? I found her nowhere in the castle grounds.
I sought her indoors, then. Finally, I found her in counsel with our eldest brother. Brân would be king some day, and he started early, always thinking he knew what was best for us. My sister’s eyes brightened at my knock on the door, but he quelled her with a word and dismissed me with another. I slunk away, and did not ride that day.
That was the beginning of the end. Our travels grew less frequent as our lives wore on, as duty called.
My twin was good at everything. His lessons, the affairs of the court. People, more than anything. His smile could forge treaties and mend blood feuds. The faces of the girls shone when he walked by. His wit, quick but never cruel, made the young men laugh and vie for his friendship. That was the one thing I could never match him in. I had a talent, it seemed, for saying the wrong thing. The only smiles directed at me were dutiful ones, belied by their wearers’ eyes. When I tried to make conversation, quarrels inevitably followed.
In time, I learned to revel in it. I baited our other brothers, sowed discord wherever I found the chance. The world gave me no love, and I would give it misery in return.
My sister was the only one who understood. She was beautiful, wiser than her years—and as kind as one who understood the workings of the world could be. No wonder everybody loved her. But she never turned from me. She insisted that I had good in me. That all of us did, alongside the bad. She insisted that she could see it.
They took my sister from me. Brân, and duty, and all the rest. They married her to the king of another island. A man who didn’t know her, who would never understand her. By the time I heard of it, the deal was done, my sister whisked away across the sea. Who could blame me for my anger?
Foolish question. They all blamed me. My twin counseled peace and acceptance. Said we should extend the hand of friendship to those who wronged us. Pathetic.
My older brothers had arranged the match. Stood by and smilingly tore us apart. They would not listen.
So I burned it all down. The peace they had brokered. By then, I knew well how wars start, and I used the knowledge. I used my sword to give injury and my tongue to give insult, and I burned it down.
Even my sister turned from me in the end.
I never turned from her. When the foreign king blamed her for the conflict and she called for our help, I went with the rest of the company. Perhaps I thought that if she saw me ready to fight on her side, she would see that she belonged with us. With me. Perhaps, even then, I thought she would come back.
I hadn’t reckoned with the child. I knew, the moment I saw him in her arms. The softness of her face when she looked at him—no matter that he was the son of that Irish dog who’d plotted all our deaths. She would never be mine again. Not truly.
What I did then—
I acted out of rage. Out of sorrow. They were my native elements, after all. It was too terrible a thing to be undone. Its price could only be paid with my life, and so I gave it.
Death, though. Death is a mercy. My death would have been a kind of redemption. Perhaps the world could not allow that.
I found the gate to the Otherworld closed. Was it the stain of sin on my spirit that kept me out?
Whatever the reason, I was exiled. I wandered the earth alone while my brothers and my sister lived and died, passing on one by one to the world beyond this one. I had sacrificed myself in search of redemption, and redemption failed me. It left me alone and rootless, married only to my rage.
I watched aeons pass. The Christian God rose in the west, and the gods and heroes of my blood faded from memory. We became a story, locked away in obscure corners of dusty libraries.
I left my mark—our mark—on the earth in the only way I knew how. In blood. I started wars; spilled oceans of it. When sailors crossed the sea to the west and invaded the land they found there, I went with them. A new continent on which to wreak havoc. The frontiers were violent places. I spent decades there.
That was before the man from the old country came. He knew the old tongue, and he used its words to bind my spirit here, in this mutilated little wooden thing.
A wanderer no more. A prisoner, now.
Now, I wait.
Now, I hear voices.
Footsteps.
The lid above my prison is lifted, and I see light for the first time in centuries. Artificial light; but light nonetheless.
Careful hands lift my prison from its box, and I feel like a flower turning its face to the sun. A figure looms over me, frowning curiously. A young man still, but one with the weariness of long years at war behind his eyes. He brushes hair out of his face and studies my prison intently.
A noise somewhere behind him.
The young man starts. My prison falls from his hand, clatters onto the hard floor.
Breaks.
It’s enough.
I hear voices arguing—somewhere above me, and then somewhere below me.
“Dude,” the first voice says. I think it belongs to the serious-faced young man. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“Hey, man, I’m sorry, okay? I was just looking for that spellbook.”
“Spellbook?”
“Yeah. You know. The one with the engravings?” The other speaker smirks and waggles his eyebrows. He wears his humor like armor. “I wanna see Cas’s face.”
“You know you’re gross, right?”
“Yup.” The second voice sounds unfazed. “Hey, what’s that thing?”
“The thing you just made me break, you mean?”
The second speaker stoops and picks up my prison. From the outside, it is such a small thing. A simple wooden figurine; not even a very good likeness of a horse. He examines the misshapen face, the missing ears. The stumps worn smooth by years. “Looks like it was broken already. We’ll sweat it if something evil happens. C’mon, you’ve been down here for hours. Beer o’clock.”
I don’t listen to the rest of it.
I spiral away on the air, unseen and unheard.
I am free. For the first time in centuries, I am free. And I will be alone no longer.
Now, I call my brothers and my sister. Now, I call them back to me. Now, I call in blood.
Chapter 1
Author:
anactoriaCharacters: Dean, Sam, Cas, OCs
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Animal cruelty.
Word count: 23,000
Summary: It’s supposed to be a routine hunt. A few farm animals mutilated, a few towns over. It sounds like the work of some two-bit demon—just another day at the office for two experienced hunters and an angel.
But this case is closer to home than it seems. Before long, Dean is in the clutches of a dangerous spirit, and Sam and Cas must try to end an ancient family feud before the whole town—and Dean—gets caught in the crossfire.
So long trapped in this place. So long in the dark.
When I was a child, my sister and I would ride in the mountains. We traveled for hours, sometimes days at a time. Our names opened doors, meant that we never wanted for a hot meal or a place to sleep. In the furthest corners of the kingdom, we were assured of a welcome. Nothing tied us down. The whole of the Island of the Mighty was our home.
I’d never felt so free before. Nor have I since.
The scrubby grass on the high ground; the yellow of the gorse and the purple of the heather; the white scuts of rabbits bobbing as they ran from the sound of hooves. Birds of prey wheeling overhead, their high, sharp calls so far above us that it felt like hearing voices from the otherworld.
The green shadows down in the valleys. The canopy of leaves above us dappled the floor with sunlight and sheltered us from rain. We could sit there for hours, until the creatures of the forest floor lost their nervousness and came to eat from our hands. They didn’t fear me then.
They loved my sister best, of course. Everybody did. She was dearer to me even than my twin; knew me in a way he never could. The deer would eat from her hand. The red squirrels climbed onto her shoulders, and the sparrows sang to her. And the ravens, drifting in her wake like shades. Always the ravens.
Once we pushed through a narrow gap in the bushes and into the larder of a grey shrike. It was winter, a little after the turning of the year. A clear day with wisps of white cloud frozen against the pale sky. It took me a moment to make sense of what I was seeing. The miniature corpse of a fieldmouse, skewered on a thorn. A robin, its red breast a startling spot of colour in the dead undergrowth. A small, leathery thing that I had to squint at before I realized it was a frog, dried out in the wintry air.
Other children might have screamed. Run away. My sister and I gazed in awe. We stood there for a long moment, our breath misting the air. By unspoken agreement, we backed away without a word, leaving the little mausoleum undisturbed. We rode on.
I was seventeen on the morning I rose early to meet her and found the stables deserted. Her white mare stood in her stall, regarding me with dark, placid eyes. Perhaps she had gone walking? I found her nowhere in the castle grounds.
I sought her indoors, then. Finally, I found her in counsel with our eldest brother. Brân would be king some day, and he started early, always thinking he knew what was best for us. My sister’s eyes brightened at my knock on the door, but he quelled her with a word and dismissed me with another. I slunk away, and did not ride that day.
That was the beginning of the end. Our travels grew less frequent as our lives wore on, as duty called.
My twin was good at everything. His lessons, the affairs of the court. People, more than anything. His smile could forge treaties and mend blood feuds. The faces of the girls shone when he walked by. His wit, quick but never cruel, made the young men laugh and vie for his friendship. That was the one thing I could never match him in. I had a talent, it seemed, for saying the wrong thing. The only smiles directed at me were dutiful ones, belied by their wearers’ eyes. When I tried to make conversation, quarrels inevitably followed.
In time, I learned to revel in it. I baited our other brothers, sowed discord wherever I found the chance. The world gave me no love, and I would give it misery in return.
My sister was the only one who understood. She was beautiful, wiser than her years—and as kind as one who understood the workings of the world could be. No wonder everybody loved her. But she never turned from me. She insisted that I had good in me. That all of us did, alongside the bad. She insisted that she could see it.
They took my sister from me. Brân, and duty, and all the rest. They married her to the king of another island. A man who didn’t know her, who would never understand her. By the time I heard of it, the deal was done, my sister whisked away across the sea. Who could blame me for my anger?
Foolish question. They all blamed me. My twin counseled peace and acceptance. Said we should extend the hand of friendship to those who wronged us. Pathetic.
My older brothers had arranged the match. Stood by and smilingly tore us apart. They would not listen.
So I burned it all down. The peace they had brokered. By then, I knew well how wars start, and I used the knowledge. I used my sword to give injury and my tongue to give insult, and I burned it down.
Even my sister turned from me in the end.
I never turned from her. When the foreign king blamed her for the conflict and she called for our help, I went with the rest of the company. Perhaps I thought that if she saw me ready to fight on her side, she would see that she belonged with us. With me. Perhaps, even then, I thought she would come back.
I hadn’t reckoned with the child. I knew, the moment I saw him in her arms. The softness of her face when she looked at him—no matter that he was the son of that Irish dog who’d plotted all our deaths. She would never be mine again. Not truly.
What I did then—
I acted out of rage. Out of sorrow. They were my native elements, after all. It was too terrible a thing to be undone. Its price could only be paid with my life, and so I gave it.
Death, though. Death is a mercy. My death would have been a kind of redemption. Perhaps the world could not allow that.
I found the gate to the Otherworld closed. Was it the stain of sin on my spirit that kept me out?
Whatever the reason, I was exiled. I wandered the earth alone while my brothers and my sister lived and died, passing on one by one to the world beyond this one. I had sacrificed myself in search of redemption, and redemption failed me. It left me alone and rootless, married only to my rage.
I watched aeons pass. The Christian God rose in the west, and the gods and heroes of my blood faded from memory. We became a story, locked away in obscure corners of dusty libraries.
I left my mark—our mark—on the earth in the only way I knew how. In blood. I started wars; spilled oceans of it. When sailors crossed the sea to the west and invaded the land they found there, I went with them. A new continent on which to wreak havoc. The frontiers were violent places. I spent decades there.
That was before the man from the old country came. He knew the old tongue, and he used its words to bind my spirit here, in this mutilated little wooden thing.
A wanderer no more. A prisoner, now.
Now, I wait.
Now, I hear voices.
Footsteps.
The lid above my prison is lifted, and I see light for the first time in centuries. Artificial light; but light nonetheless.
Careful hands lift my prison from its box, and I feel like a flower turning its face to the sun. A figure looms over me, frowning curiously. A young man still, but one with the weariness of long years at war behind his eyes. He brushes hair out of his face and studies my prison intently.
A noise somewhere behind him.
The young man starts. My prison falls from his hand, clatters onto the hard floor.
Breaks.
It’s enough.
I hear voices arguing—somewhere above me, and then somewhere below me.
“Dude,” the first voice says. I think it belongs to the serious-faced young man. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“Hey, man, I’m sorry, okay? I was just looking for that spellbook.”
“Spellbook?”
“Yeah. You know. The one with the engravings?” The other speaker smirks and waggles his eyebrows. He wears his humor like armor. “I wanna see Cas’s face.”
“You know you’re gross, right?”
“Yup.” The second voice sounds unfazed. “Hey, what’s that thing?”
“The thing you just made me break, you mean?”
The second speaker stoops and picks up my prison. From the outside, it is such a small thing. A simple wooden figurine; not even a very good likeness of a horse. He examines the misshapen face, the missing ears. The stumps worn smooth by years. “Looks like it was broken already. We’ll sweat it if something evil happens. C’mon, you’ve been down here for hours. Beer o’clock.”
I don’t listen to the rest of it.
I spiral away on the air, unseen and unheard.
I am free. For the first time in centuries, I am free. And I will be alone no longer.
Now, I call my brothers and my sister. Now, I call them back to me. Now, I call in blood.
