Fic: Second Wind
May. 19th, 2011 06:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
unikorentoTitle: Second Wind
Author:unikorento
Fandom(s): Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Characters: Crowley, John
Rating: G
Word Count: 1550
Notes: Sequel to Purpose, and will probably make more sense if read after that one. Set after 2x22, All Hell Breaks Loose: Part II. Assumes knowledge of later occurring characters. Many thanks totinypinkmouse and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lillannan for the beta and being five kinds of patient.
Summary: It was lucky the whole ward was full of coma-patients and the night nurse was dead, or else someone might have heard them and come in to check.
John sort of flickered.
Crowley decided to read it as a good sign. This disembodied, broken John wasn't much in the way of conversation (he'd almost been more fun in Hell, which was saying something, because John Winchester had never been anything less than a serious pain in the arse), but Crowley had been quick to figure out that that didn't mean that he wasn't communicating.
The spot in the air that he occupied - there wasn't really any other way to describe it - held a wide variety of frowns, glares, and growls. It was a little like talking to a particularly obstinate terrier. A man-shaped, mostly see-through terrier with only the faintest grasp of awareness, but still. He was present. And he listened if you coaxed him just so.
"It's a child," John said, the sound echoing a little unpleasantly in Crowley's ears.
He was staring down at the hospital bed, arms hanging loosely at his sides like they had been since Crowley had found him at the crossroads. John didn't try touching anything, and wasn't even very willing to move at all, unless Crowley expressedly told him to, and reminded him why he should.
It seemed like it took a lot of effort on John's part to string more than the most basic things together. He had a grasp of the big issues like a) he was dead, b) he was on the wrong plane of existence, c) he didn't want to go back to the right one, and - and this is what made John so phenomenally, uniquely, bafflingly exceptional - d) he wanted to not be evil. He barely even knew what the word meant anymore, but it seemed he just wouldn't pick the easy route for himself, not even after everything. Any mention of the not-so-wee Winchesters made John's shape sort of, well, quiver. He'd keep himself together just a moment longer, for whatever he remembered of them.
Crowley didn't know if there was a word for it. He'd tried "love", but it didn't stick. Love had never survived in Hell before, not for very long, and it had certainly never followed anyone out of it. "Obsession", maybe, but even that wasn't quite right. The best he could think of was that John was just stuck, and had been, long before Crowley had found him hanging on Alastair's wall.
"It's just a vessel," Crowley answered. "The boy isn't in there anymore. You can see that for yourself. The reaper took him before we even got here, they're going to unplug this husk and throw him in the ground any day now."
"It's not right," John said.
Crowley commended himself for his patience.
"Can you tell me why?"
John stayed completely still, watching the sleeping body with a frown.
It was a pale, gangly looking body, Crowley estimated it to be around 16 or 17 years old. Empty, as he'd said, and dying fast. There was damage to the brain for some reason or other, which had caused this current state, but the body was whole aside from that. Nothing to repair, nothing to force. It was breathing through a tube right now, but all it needed was a spark and it would be good to go. Brand new. It was perfect for rookie possession - didn't take that extra effort like it would to animate a corpse, and there'd be no pesky secondary consciousness around to keep out of the way.
The shape and size were admittedly less than ideal, but right now the thing that mattered was to contain John somehow, before he unraveled into just another mindless spirit. Crowley was fairly certain physical sensation would do the trick. It should remind John of the real world and give him a steady ledge to hold on to. At the very least, having an actual face would make it easier to understand him.
Most demons re-learned human interaction through the memories of the host they were riding, and there was no reason why John wouldn't experience that as well. The better he could express himself, the faster Crowley would know if this plan had any chance of working.
"John," he said again, urging him. "It's the only way."
John flickered again, bringing up a hand carefully, and Crowley felt how the temperature dropped in the room. The cold echoed in the torn, desperate set of John's face. He opened his mouth, and Crowley saw it move, but it seemed like John wasn't collected enough to make the sound reach him.
That was good.
"It won't hurt him," Crowley pressed softly, moving around the bed to stand just by the coldest spot. "It isn't wrong. And you'll remember, once you're in there. It'll be warm, John. It's the only way."
John flickered, and flickered again, and shimmered, and wasn't there anymore. It wasn't smoke that entered the boy, but Crowley could feel the immediate difference as the air was suddenly clean, and the boy's eyes flew open.
He flailed around in a panic, unable to breathe, and Crowley hurried to untangle him. He pulled out the intubation tube and the IV, and once now-John was done coughing, he pressed his hands hard over his mouth and chest, holding him down and keeping him quiet.
"Hush now," he told him, but it didn't help. A pair of wide brown eyes stared at him with all the fear he'd felt in the air before. The pale, frail skin of the face crumpled, and tears and sobs and strangled cries wrecked the little body, hard enough to make the back arch and the heels slide against the mattress in hapless kicks.
John's tears, John's fear, John's panic, John's 100 years, contained and allowed expression without the risk of literally falling apart. And Crowley was there to witness it, memorize it. He gathered him up, quickly, before he had a chance to damage the new body, and embraced him so John's arms were pinned between them and his cries were muffled against Crowley's chest. He spasmed against him, breathing fast and panicked, and Crowley held on. A few moments later the full-on spasms subsided into debilitating tremors, but John's hoarse wailing went on forever. Crowley relaxed his grip enough to rock him gently.
It was lucky the whole ward was full of coma-patients and the night nurse was dead, or else someone might have heard them and come in to check.
Still, it was risky business. Not because he wouldn't have been able to handle whoever came through the door, but because reminding John of violence wasn't part of the plan at this point. That would come later, and it wouldn't involve Crowley having to do so much as lift a finger, if everything went as it ought to.
John wouldn't stop shaking, but Crowley pulled away once he was silent enough. The eyes he looked into seemed more animal than man, and if Crowley was the type to give up easily, he would have walked away right then.
"Alright," he said evenly, holding the boy by his shoulders. "Look at me."
A heartbeat, and then another passed. The face of the boy seemed frozen in a mask of terror, his eyes darting blindly all over the room. Crowley gave him a little shake.
"Hey," he said, sharper, a threat riding on the tone of his voice, and this time he was rewarded by a sort of protesting sound. It was a growl rather than a whimper, which was a good sign. There was still fight in him.
"Hey," he said again. "Look at me."
And John stilled. And looked.
"You have a name," Crowley growled. "Tell me what it is."
The expression on his face made Crowley instinctively want to pull back his hands for fear of getting bitten, but he didn't back down.
"Who are you?" he hissed, squeezing the skinny shoulders hard. Not enough to crush, but enough to hurt.
And it paid off. The animal retreated as the anger rose, until John blinked once and his jaw ticked, and Crowley saw the familiar, dead-set expression slide into place.
"John," John croaked. "Winchester."
Crowley let go.
"Good," he nodded. "It's a good start."
But it was more than that, because John closed his eyes and breathed in a deep, calming breath. His smaller hand went to rest on Crowley's wrist and held on to it hard, and Crowley could see his lips start to move.
Names had power, Crowley knew that better than most, but speaking the name Winchester apparently carried more meaning than he'd been prepared for. At first John's whisper was just barely audible, but the words he spoke dug into Crowley's gut and pulled.
They were barely more than a low hiss, as John's new vocal chords protested against being used so soon after the tube, but the low volume did nothing to take away the strength of the actual words. And suddenly he recognized the chant. The exorcism.
"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas..."
Crowley didn't let him get further than that. He hit John hard over the face, and pressed his little body back against the pillow, clamping his mouth shut with one hand.
Crazy hunter would damn them both. This was going to be harder than he thought.
Author:
unikorentoFandom(s): Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Characters: Crowley, John
Rating: G
Word Count: 1550
Notes: Sequel to Purpose, and will probably make more sense if read after that one. Set after 2x22, All Hell Breaks Loose: Part II. Assumes knowledge of later occurring characters. Many thanks to
tinypinkmouse and lillannan for the beta and being five kinds of patient. Summary: It was lucky the whole ward was full of coma-patients and the night nurse was dead, or else someone might have heard them and come in to check.
John sort of flickered.
Crowley decided to read it as a good sign. This disembodied, broken John wasn't much in the way of conversation (he'd almost been more fun in Hell, which was saying something, because John Winchester had never been anything less than a serious pain in the arse), but Crowley had been quick to figure out that that didn't mean that he wasn't communicating.
The spot in the air that he occupied - there wasn't really any other way to describe it - held a wide variety of frowns, glares, and growls. It was a little like talking to a particularly obstinate terrier. A man-shaped, mostly see-through terrier with only the faintest grasp of awareness, but still. He was present. And he listened if you coaxed him just so.
"It's a child," John said, the sound echoing a little unpleasantly in Crowley's ears.
He was staring down at the hospital bed, arms hanging loosely at his sides like they had been since Crowley had found him at the crossroads. John didn't try touching anything, and wasn't even very willing to move at all, unless Crowley expressedly told him to, and reminded him why he should.
It seemed like it took a lot of effort on John's part to string more than the most basic things together. He had a grasp of the big issues like a) he was dead, b) he was on the wrong plane of existence, c) he didn't want to go back to the right one, and - and this is what made John so phenomenally, uniquely, bafflingly exceptional - d) he wanted to not be evil. He barely even knew what the word meant anymore, but it seemed he just wouldn't pick the easy route for himself, not even after everything. Any mention of the not-so-wee Winchesters made John's shape sort of, well, quiver. He'd keep himself together just a moment longer, for whatever he remembered of them.
Crowley didn't know if there was a word for it. He'd tried "love", but it didn't stick. Love had never survived in Hell before, not for very long, and it had certainly never followed anyone out of it. "Obsession", maybe, but even that wasn't quite right. The best he could think of was that John was just stuck, and had been, long before Crowley had found him hanging on Alastair's wall.
"It's just a vessel," Crowley answered. "The boy isn't in there anymore. You can see that for yourself. The reaper took him before we even got here, they're going to unplug this husk and throw him in the ground any day now."
"It's not right," John said.
Crowley commended himself for his patience.
"Can you tell me why?"
John stayed completely still, watching the sleeping body with a frown.
It was a pale, gangly looking body, Crowley estimated it to be around 16 or 17 years old. Empty, as he'd said, and dying fast. There was damage to the brain for some reason or other, which had caused this current state, but the body was whole aside from that. Nothing to repair, nothing to force. It was breathing through a tube right now, but all it needed was a spark and it would be good to go. Brand new. It was perfect for rookie possession - didn't take that extra effort like it would to animate a corpse, and there'd be no pesky secondary consciousness around to keep out of the way.
The shape and size were admittedly less than ideal, but right now the thing that mattered was to contain John somehow, before he unraveled into just another mindless spirit. Crowley was fairly certain physical sensation would do the trick. It should remind John of the real world and give him a steady ledge to hold on to. At the very least, having an actual face would make it easier to understand him.
Most demons re-learned human interaction through the memories of the host they were riding, and there was no reason why John wouldn't experience that as well. The better he could express himself, the faster Crowley would know if this plan had any chance of working.
"John," he said again, urging him. "It's the only way."
John flickered again, bringing up a hand carefully, and Crowley felt how the temperature dropped in the room. The cold echoed in the torn, desperate set of John's face. He opened his mouth, and Crowley saw it move, but it seemed like John wasn't collected enough to make the sound reach him.
That was good.
"It won't hurt him," Crowley pressed softly, moving around the bed to stand just by the coldest spot. "It isn't wrong. And you'll remember, once you're in there. It'll be warm, John. It's the only way."
John flickered, and flickered again, and shimmered, and wasn't there anymore. It wasn't smoke that entered the boy, but Crowley could feel the immediate difference as the air was suddenly clean, and the boy's eyes flew open.
He flailed around in a panic, unable to breathe, and Crowley hurried to untangle him. He pulled out the intubation tube and the IV, and once now-John was done coughing, he pressed his hands hard over his mouth and chest, holding him down and keeping him quiet.
"Hush now," he told him, but it didn't help. A pair of wide brown eyes stared at him with all the fear he'd felt in the air before. The pale, frail skin of the face crumpled, and tears and sobs and strangled cries wrecked the little body, hard enough to make the back arch and the heels slide against the mattress in hapless kicks.
John's tears, John's fear, John's panic, John's 100 years, contained and allowed expression without the risk of literally falling apart. And Crowley was there to witness it, memorize it. He gathered him up, quickly, before he had a chance to damage the new body, and embraced him so John's arms were pinned between them and his cries were muffled against Crowley's chest. He spasmed against him, breathing fast and panicked, and Crowley held on. A few moments later the full-on spasms subsided into debilitating tremors, but John's hoarse wailing went on forever. Crowley relaxed his grip enough to rock him gently.
It was lucky the whole ward was full of coma-patients and the night nurse was dead, or else someone might have heard them and come in to check.
Still, it was risky business. Not because he wouldn't have been able to handle whoever came through the door, but because reminding John of violence wasn't part of the plan at this point. That would come later, and it wouldn't involve Crowley having to do so much as lift a finger, if everything went as it ought to.
John wouldn't stop shaking, but Crowley pulled away once he was silent enough. The eyes he looked into seemed more animal than man, and if Crowley was the type to give up easily, he would have walked away right then.
"Alright," he said evenly, holding the boy by his shoulders. "Look at me."
A heartbeat, and then another passed. The face of the boy seemed frozen in a mask of terror, his eyes darting blindly all over the room. Crowley gave him a little shake.
"Hey," he said, sharper, a threat riding on the tone of his voice, and this time he was rewarded by a sort of protesting sound. It was a growl rather than a whimper, which was a good sign. There was still fight in him.
"Hey," he said again. "Look at me."
And John stilled. And looked.
"You have a name," Crowley growled. "Tell me what it is."
The expression on his face made Crowley instinctively want to pull back his hands for fear of getting bitten, but he didn't back down.
"Who are you?" he hissed, squeezing the skinny shoulders hard. Not enough to crush, but enough to hurt.
And it paid off. The animal retreated as the anger rose, until John blinked once and his jaw ticked, and Crowley saw the familiar, dead-set expression slide into place.
"John," John croaked. "Winchester."
Crowley let go.
"Good," he nodded. "It's a good start."
But it was more than that, because John closed his eyes and breathed in a deep, calming breath. His smaller hand went to rest on Crowley's wrist and held on to it hard, and Crowley could see his lips start to move.
Names had power, Crowley knew that better than most, but speaking the name Winchester apparently carried more meaning than he'd been prepared for. At first John's whisper was just barely audible, but the words he spoke dug into Crowley's gut and pulled.
They were barely more than a low hiss, as John's new vocal chords protested against being used so soon after the tube, but the low volume did nothing to take away the strength of the actual words. And suddenly he recognized the chant. The exorcism.
"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas..."
Crowley didn't let him get further than that. He hit John hard over the face, and pressed his little body back against the pillow, clamping his mouth shut with one hand.
Crazy hunter would damn them both. This was going to be harder than he thought.
