Bela Talbot (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
enjoythe_ride) wrote2007-12-01 06:28 pm
enjoythe_ride) wrote2007-12-01 06:28 pm
[ROTM] Write a prompt fic of your muse interacting with another muse in their life...
OOC Comments/Warnings: Sam (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
notantichrist) is used with permission of his mun. This is very dark and contains character death as well as Evil!Sam, and speculation for the future based on where Season Three is going, (so spoilers for what's been aired so far), so if that's not for you, click the cut at your own risk. Also, it's oh so long, but I, and Bela, would love if you read it anyway and left feedback.
It was always dark now.
Being the apocalypse and all, she probably should have expected it, but what she hadn’t expected was to live so long afterwards. She had figured that she would be on the first train down to hell, but that hadn’t been the case. She had been spared by some grace that wasn’t God’s, and at first she had considered herself lucky to still be alive, but now, now that she was still running ten plus years down the line, she wasn’t so sure it was luck anymore. Not with the way she had to live.
She stumbled into the abandoned building, glancing back and forth carefully, before ducking into the entryway. He had spies everywhere, sentinels who kept a watchful eye for certain people he kept alive for various reasons. She never knew expressly why she was chosen over others, but there wasn’t much she could do about that now. At the time when she first realized that he was keeping her alive, all that mattered was that she was alive, and she had plans to stay alive if that was what it took, but now—years down the line with no relief in sight, she wasn’t so sure if she felt the same way anymore. Now she was just tired, tired of never having anywhere to go, of always being on the run, of always being alone. She wanted him just to end it. She never thought she would be begging someone, let alone him, to put her out of her misery, but that was the way her life had twisted, and she was now regretting the day that she had ever pick pocketed the tall man in Black Rock, taking the rabbit’s foot that, even though it was destroyed, was still bringing her bad luck to this day.
She had mocked Gordon Walker when he told her that Sam Winchester was the Antichrist. She had a feeling that when she finally went to hell, Gordon would be there to mock her back for the rest of eternity.
She pushed herself away from the wall, hobbling further into the room. Her last encounter with the cat to her mouse had left her hobbling—a leg injury that didn’t quite heal the right way, and while she did her best to keep moving as fast as she could, he was gradually slowing her down, gradually cornering her in, until she had nowhere to go, nowhere left to turn. And she felt that to some extent, she might be letting him do so. She wanted it all to be over already, and as far as she was concerned, the sooner it happened the better. Making her way further inside, she discovered an old bed, collecting dust. The sheets and comforters were ragged and torn, but she had stopped caring about appearances a long time ago. She collapsed down on it unceremoniously, dragging her bad leg up onto it with her with a wince and a grimace, before settling and drifting off into a fitful sleep.
It was a few hours before she felt it. The distinct feeling of someone watching her sleep. She could feel the heavy breathing of someone leaning over her, the deep pant of a hunter who was studying his prey, waiting for the right moment to pounce. She dreaded opening her eyes, knowing that he was there, hovering over her, waiting for to see the look in her eyes when sleep cleared her brain and she realized she was caught. She tried her best to not let on that she was awake, but she knew he could tell the difference, that he could smell the fear rolling off her. She felt him lean in closer, his breath close to her ear.
“Wakey, wakey,” he growled, his fingers wrapping around her arm, fingers making it back to his thumb again, and he gave it a harsh twist. Sparks exploded in front of her eyes as there was the crack of her arm being pulled out of it socket, and her eyes flew open, meeting Sam’s predatory gaze over hers, staring back at her with a knowing glow that wasn’t anywhere near comforting.
“Boo,” he grinned, before bringing his hand back against her face hard, nearly snapping her neck with the blow and slamming her into unconsciousness.
***
When Dean died, Sam fell apart. It wasn’t that unexpected—they were freakishly close, even Bela could see that. That, along with the fact that Sam fought like hell to keep Dean alive, everyone expected for him to be not okay. It was mostly that they didn’t expect the world to fall apart with him.
Sam’s anger and rage painted a trail of blood everywhere it went. Everything he touch died, every city he came through went to ruin, every person he came in contact with died, until there was nothing left, but him, the demons who subjected to him out of fear alone, and the few people he had left alive to play with and taunt with. He tried to move heaven and hell to get his brother back to him, completely consumed by whatever power it was that had been unlocked inside himself, but with every step he took, Dean was constantly just out of his reach. That was why he focused on his prey. When he got too frustrated in his search for Dean, he needed something he could play with. Something he could catch. And Bela happened to be one of those somethings. He would torture them to his satisfaction, let them writhe in pain under him until he had gotten out all of his own pain and anger, then release them again, and let them run some more.
At first he had had a partner—a small blond who egged him on over his shoulder, watching as the people writhed and screamed as he dragged knives over their body, drawing long red lines over their skin. Sometimes he would just twist limbs, break bones—anything to hear someone’s screaming over his own, have someone feel pain other than him. At first it was the same pattern over and over again, for the first five years it was the same thing every time—same method of kidnapping, same torture pattern. Bela learned to anticipate where the pain was coming from, and she braced herself so it didn’t hurt as much—the human way, after all, avoid the pain. Eventually he realized what she was doing, and the next time Sam caught her, the blond was gone, and it was just her and the monster of the man she used to know. It was back when she still tried and fight back, still tried to get to him even though she couldn’t stop him.
“Where’s your entourage? Leave you for the newest demon craze?”
“She was crushing my creativity,” he replied with a growl, lighting up as her body contorted as he drew the knife along the edge of her thigh. “She wasn’t necessarily so useful anymore.”
Sam Winchester didn’t discriminate. Demon or human, didn’t matter. They crossed him, and they were pretty much dead, which was what made him not only such a dangerous element of the unpredictable, but she guessed what made him the essence of the Antichrist as well—it was his mission to end the world, and he was going to do it brick by brick until he either got what he wanted or there was absolutely nothing left.
When she came to, he had her tied to a pole in the middle of a room. She looked around blearily for a minute, and then her eyes came to rest on him, leaning back in one of the chairs, balancing the blade of the machete on his fingers. “You don’t wake up as fast as you used to,” he said slowly, not looking up at her, but knowing she was awake all the same.
“Girl can only take so many beatings to the brain without feeling a thing,” she sniped back. It didn’t have any energy behind it though. No spark or sarcasm—they were just words that came out of her mouth, possibly intending to inflict harm but not necessarily succeeding.
Sam looked up at her through lidded eyes, studying her face as he got up and started to make his way closer. “What’s wrong, Bela? Not enjoying our little game anymore?”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?” she asked as he got in close, leaning over so that she could feel his breath on her face again.
“I can see it in your eyes. You’re tired. You don’t want to be doing this anymore.” He gave her his patented puppy dog look, but this time it had a bit of a sardonic twist to it, his eyes holding more malice than they should. “Are you not having fun?”
She anticipated the sharp edge of the machete digging into her skin, and when it didn’t happen she blinked in surprise. Something was off. Something wasn’t right—well, at least not ‘right’ in the twisted sense of the world they were living in.
“Being tortured by a grief driven psychopath isn’t exactly my idea of a good time, Sam,” she replied evenly, waiting for the blow to come from talking back. But again, it didn’t. Bela was confused, but she tried her best not to show it.
“Do you know why I saved you, Bela?” Sam asked, pulling away from her slightly and starting to pace around her a bit. She wanted to bite back, say something about that she didn’t actually consider this being saved, but she didn’t, swallowing and putting forth another answer instead.
“Was it because I shot you?”
“No, sweetie,” he said, his voice on the last word turning sickeningly sweet. “Not because you shot me—twice.”
“Second time I should have shot to kill.”
“Ahh—but you didn’t. And that’s not why I saved you anyway.”
She fought back the urge to scream at him Then why? She bit back the silent tears that were leaning just on the edge of breaking free and sat there, waiting for him to respond, and tell her why she had been deemed so special. He walked around her again, and once he got to her opposite shoulder he spoke up again.
“First I thought you would enjoy the game. You always were good at Cat and Mouse, I thought it might be fun for you to be the mouse for a change.” He then leaned in next to her, breath close to her ear again. “But then, I found out your dirty little secret.”
“Which one?” she said with a smirk, and that one earned her the smack she had been waiting for. Her cheek sparked and she waited, wincing at the pain and feeling her face start to throb.
“Don’t get smart with me now, Bela,” he said slowly. “You were being such a good girl.” Bela only glared back at him as he continued. “You know exactly which secret I’m referring to, and I can’t lay you to rest until I hear you say it.”
“Hear me say what?”
“You knew how to do it, didn’t you?”
She blinked for a minute. “Do what?”
“You knew how to save him,” Sam replied, moving so that he was in front of her again. “You could have kept him from going to hell, but you didn’t.”
“What?” she said, staring back at him in disbelief.
“You in all your occult knowledge and dealing in occult items, you knew that there was something that could save him, but you didn’t say anything. And you know why you didn’t say anything? Because you’re a selfish little girl, Bela. You’re a selfish girl—” That statement was punctuated with a slap to the face as he continued. “—who only looks out for you, and you knew that we couldn’t pay you.”
“I swear, Sam,” she said at first, looking up at him with eyes that were barely pleading. “There’s nothing that could have saved him.”
“Liar!” he growled, his hand coming across her face again, his mind too full of need and revenge to listen to what he was saying. The Sam she met once upon a time was long gone, and she didn’t know what she was supposed to do with the one she had. However, this accusation only ignited her own rage, something she thought was gone a long time ago, but somehow fought it’s way back to the surface.
“Even if there was something, how the hell was I supposed to know you needed it,” she said, dull green eyes sparking into a fire that hadn’t been there for a long time. All of the fighting, all of the running—it had all been for something that she didn’t even have, that he had no proof that she had, and now, for the first time in a long time, she was angry. “It wasn’t as though your brother was walking around, advertising that he had sold his soul and only had a year to live.”
“Would you have given it to us even if he had?” Sam asked, rolling the handle of the machete in her hand, and looking over at her. She stared back at him, face and eyes both defiant, no longer willing to just act the part anymore.
“Depends on your offer.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said slowly, before bringing the hand with the machete back to his shoulder. “You selfish bitch.” He brought the broadside of the machete across her face, the edge of the blade digging just so to the skin of her jaw, slicing slightly as he made his way across. Bela’s head dropped with the force of the blow, and it stayed that way for a while, staring as a small red trickle of blood slid down the edge of her jaw and started to pool in on her lap, staining her pants.
They both stood there, her watching her lap, and Sam watching her, and it was a long silence before Bela spoke up quietly, her breathing heavy. “What if I said that I did? That I knew of an object that would have saved him, but I didn’t say anything. Would you just kill me and be done with it?”
Something flickered in his eyes. Something she would have recognized if she had been looking, but she wasn’t. Something that would have reminded her of the Sam she used to know—the Sam who thought of a way to save her from the ghost ship when she was fairly certain that Dean would have rather seen her drown. When he spoke, his voice was still the same, cold and hard, but the words were a bit more gentle.
“Getting tired of the game, Bela?”
She closed her eyes, as she heard his footsteps move, and she sighed. “I’m just—tired, Sam. I’m just tired.”
There was suddenly a hand on her forehead, pushing her back against the post she was tied to, and the blade was there, pressed cold and merciless against her throat. When Sam spoke, his voice was close to her temple, and his voice was low, almost like a lover’s whisper.
“Before we say goodbye—you ever going to tell me who you killed, Bela?”
She smirked slightly at that, as she leaned back against the pole, taking comfort that even through all she had to go through, she was still coming to an end at Sam Winchester’s hands—even if it wasn’t the Sam she had met once upon a time. “Never.”
He chuckled softly, and moved his hand bringing the knife over to the far side of her throat as he prepared to deal the fatal blow.
“That’s what I thought.”
2639 words
notantichrist) is used with permission of his mun. This is very dark and contains character death as well as Evil!Sam, and speculation for the future based on where Season Three is going, (so spoilers for what's been aired so far), so if that's not for you, click the cut at your own risk. Also, it's oh so long, but I, and Bela, would love if you read it anyway and left feedback.It was always dark now.
Being the apocalypse and all, she probably should have expected it, but what she hadn’t expected was to live so long afterwards. She had figured that she would be on the first train down to hell, but that hadn’t been the case. She had been spared by some grace that wasn’t God’s, and at first she had considered herself lucky to still be alive, but now, now that she was still running ten plus years down the line, she wasn’t so sure it was luck anymore. Not with the way she had to live.
She stumbled into the abandoned building, glancing back and forth carefully, before ducking into the entryway. He had spies everywhere, sentinels who kept a watchful eye for certain people he kept alive for various reasons. She never knew expressly why she was chosen over others, but there wasn’t much she could do about that now. At the time when she first realized that he was keeping her alive, all that mattered was that she was alive, and she had plans to stay alive if that was what it took, but now—years down the line with no relief in sight, she wasn’t so sure if she felt the same way anymore. Now she was just tired, tired of never having anywhere to go, of always being on the run, of always being alone. She wanted him just to end it. She never thought she would be begging someone, let alone him, to put her out of her misery, but that was the way her life had twisted, and she was now regretting the day that she had ever pick pocketed the tall man in Black Rock, taking the rabbit’s foot that, even though it was destroyed, was still bringing her bad luck to this day.
She had mocked Gordon Walker when he told her that Sam Winchester was the Antichrist. She had a feeling that when she finally went to hell, Gordon would be there to mock her back for the rest of eternity.
She pushed herself away from the wall, hobbling further into the room. Her last encounter with the cat to her mouse had left her hobbling—a leg injury that didn’t quite heal the right way, and while she did her best to keep moving as fast as she could, he was gradually slowing her down, gradually cornering her in, until she had nowhere to go, nowhere left to turn. And she felt that to some extent, she might be letting him do so. She wanted it all to be over already, and as far as she was concerned, the sooner it happened the better. Making her way further inside, she discovered an old bed, collecting dust. The sheets and comforters were ragged and torn, but she had stopped caring about appearances a long time ago. She collapsed down on it unceremoniously, dragging her bad leg up onto it with her with a wince and a grimace, before settling and drifting off into a fitful sleep.
It was a few hours before she felt it. The distinct feeling of someone watching her sleep. She could feel the heavy breathing of someone leaning over her, the deep pant of a hunter who was studying his prey, waiting for the right moment to pounce. She dreaded opening her eyes, knowing that he was there, hovering over her, waiting for to see the look in her eyes when sleep cleared her brain and she realized she was caught. She tried her best to not let on that she was awake, but she knew he could tell the difference, that he could smell the fear rolling off her. She felt him lean in closer, his breath close to her ear.
“Wakey, wakey,” he growled, his fingers wrapping around her arm, fingers making it back to his thumb again, and he gave it a harsh twist. Sparks exploded in front of her eyes as there was the crack of her arm being pulled out of it socket, and her eyes flew open, meeting Sam’s predatory gaze over hers, staring back at her with a knowing glow that wasn’t anywhere near comforting.
“Boo,” he grinned, before bringing his hand back against her face hard, nearly snapping her neck with the blow and slamming her into unconsciousness.
***
When Dean died, Sam fell apart. It wasn’t that unexpected—they were freakishly close, even Bela could see that. That, along with the fact that Sam fought like hell to keep Dean alive, everyone expected for him to be not okay. It was mostly that they didn’t expect the world to fall apart with him.
Sam’s anger and rage painted a trail of blood everywhere it went. Everything he touch died, every city he came through went to ruin, every person he came in contact with died, until there was nothing left, but him, the demons who subjected to him out of fear alone, and the few people he had left alive to play with and taunt with. He tried to move heaven and hell to get his brother back to him, completely consumed by whatever power it was that had been unlocked inside himself, but with every step he took, Dean was constantly just out of his reach. That was why he focused on his prey. When he got too frustrated in his search for Dean, he needed something he could play with. Something he could catch. And Bela happened to be one of those somethings. He would torture them to his satisfaction, let them writhe in pain under him until he had gotten out all of his own pain and anger, then release them again, and let them run some more.
At first he had had a partner—a small blond who egged him on over his shoulder, watching as the people writhed and screamed as he dragged knives over their body, drawing long red lines over their skin. Sometimes he would just twist limbs, break bones—anything to hear someone’s screaming over his own, have someone feel pain other than him. At first it was the same pattern over and over again, for the first five years it was the same thing every time—same method of kidnapping, same torture pattern. Bela learned to anticipate where the pain was coming from, and she braced herself so it didn’t hurt as much—the human way, after all, avoid the pain. Eventually he realized what she was doing, and the next time Sam caught her, the blond was gone, and it was just her and the monster of the man she used to know. It was back when she still tried and fight back, still tried to get to him even though she couldn’t stop him.
“Where’s your entourage? Leave you for the newest demon craze?”
“She was crushing my creativity,” he replied with a growl, lighting up as her body contorted as he drew the knife along the edge of her thigh. “She wasn’t necessarily so useful anymore.”
Sam Winchester didn’t discriminate. Demon or human, didn’t matter. They crossed him, and they were pretty much dead, which was what made him not only such a dangerous element of the unpredictable, but she guessed what made him the essence of the Antichrist as well—it was his mission to end the world, and he was going to do it brick by brick until he either got what he wanted or there was absolutely nothing left.
When she came to, he had her tied to a pole in the middle of a room. She looked around blearily for a minute, and then her eyes came to rest on him, leaning back in one of the chairs, balancing the blade of the machete on his fingers. “You don’t wake up as fast as you used to,” he said slowly, not looking up at her, but knowing she was awake all the same.
“Girl can only take so many beatings to the brain without feeling a thing,” she sniped back. It didn’t have any energy behind it though. No spark or sarcasm—they were just words that came out of her mouth, possibly intending to inflict harm but not necessarily succeeding.
Sam looked up at her through lidded eyes, studying her face as he got up and started to make his way closer. “What’s wrong, Bela? Not enjoying our little game anymore?”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?” she asked as he got in close, leaning over so that she could feel his breath on her face again.
“I can see it in your eyes. You’re tired. You don’t want to be doing this anymore.” He gave her his patented puppy dog look, but this time it had a bit of a sardonic twist to it, his eyes holding more malice than they should. “Are you not having fun?”
She anticipated the sharp edge of the machete digging into her skin, and when it didn’t happen she blinked in surprise. Something was off. Something wasn’t right—well, at least not ‘right’ in the twisted sense of the world they were living in.
“Being tortured by a grief driven psychopath isn’t exactly my idea of a good time, Sam,” she replied evenly, waiting for the blow to come from talking back. But again, it didn’t. Bela was confused, but she tried her best not to show it.
“Do you know why I saved you, Bela?” Sam asked, pulling away from her slightly and starting to pace around her a bit. She wanted to bite back, say something about that she didn’t actually consider this being saved, but she didn’t, swallowing and putting forth another answer instead.
“Was it because I shot you?”
“No, sweetie,” he said, his voice on the last word turning sickeningly sweet. “Not because you shot me—twice.”
“Second time I should have shot to kill.”
“Ahh—but you didn’t. And that’s not why I saved you anyway.”
She fought back the urge to scream at him Then why? She bit back the silent tears that were leaning just on the edge of breaking free and sat there, waiting for him to respond, and tell her why she had been deemed so special. He walked around her again, and once he got to her opposite shoulder he spoke up again.
“First I thought you would enjoy the game. You always were good at Cat and Mouse, I thought it might be fun for you to be the mouse for a change.” He then leaned in next to her, breath close to her ear again. “But then, I found out your dirty little secret.”
“Which one?” she said with a smirk, and that one earned her the smack she had been waiting for. Her cheek sparked and she waited, wincing at the pain and feeling her face start to throb.
“Don’t get smart with me now, Bela,” he said slowly. “You were being such a good girl.” Bela only glared back at him as he continued. “You know exactly which secret I’m referring to, and I can’t lay you to rest until I hear you say it.”
“Hear me say what?”
“You knew how to do it, didn’t you?”
She blinked for a minute. “Do what?”
“You knew how to save him,” Sam replied, moving so that he was in front of her again. “You could have kept him from going to hell, but you didn’t.”
“What?” she said, staring back at him in disbelief.
“You in all your occult knowledge and dealing in occult items, you knew that there was something that could save him, but you didn’t say anything. And you know why you didn’t say anything? Because you’re a selfish little girl, Bela. You’re a selfish girl—” That statement was punctuated with a slap to the face as he continued. “—who only looks out for you, and you knew that we couldn’t pay you.”
“I swear, Sam,” she said at first, looking up at him with eyes that were barely pleading. “There’s nothing that could have saved him.”
“Liar!” he growled, his hand coming across her face again, his mind too full of need and revenge to listen to what he was saying. The Sam she met once upon a time was long gone, and she didn’t know what she was supposed to do with the one she had. However, this accusation only ignited her own rage, something she thought was gone a long time ago, but somehow fought it’s way back to the surface.
“Even if there was something, how the hell was I supposed to know you needed it,” she said, dull green eyes sparking into a fire that hadn’t been there for a long time. All of the fighting, all of the running—it had all been for something that she didn’t even have, that he had no proof that she had, and now, for the first time in a long time, she was angry. “It wasn’t as though your brother was walking around, advertising that he had sold his soul and only had a year to live.”
“Would you have given it to us even if he had?” Sam asked, rolling the handle of the machete in her hand, and looking over at her. She stared back at him, face and eyes both defiant, no longer willing to just act the part anymore.
“Depends on your offer.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said slowly, before bringing the hand with the machete back to his shoulder. “You selfish bitch.” He brought the broadside of the machete across her face, the edge of the blade digging just so to the skin of her jaw, slicing slightly as he made his way across. Bela’s head dropped with the force of the blow, and it stayed that way for a while, staring as a small red trickle of blood slid down the edge of her jaw and started to pool in on her lap, staining her pants.
They both stood there, her watching her lap, and Sam watching her, and it was a long silence before Bela spoke up quietly, her breathing heavy. “What if I said that I did? That I knew of an object that would have saved him, but I didn’t say anything. Would you just kill me and be done with it?”
Something flickered in his eyes. Something she would have recognized if she had been looking, but she wasn’t. Something that would have reminded her of the Sam she used to know—the Sam who thought of a way to save her from the ghost ship when she was fairly certain that Dean would have rather seen her drown. When he spoke, his voice was still the same, cold and hard, but the words were a bit more gentle.
“Getting tired of the game, Bela?”
She closed her eyes, as she heard his footsteps move, and she sighed. “I’m just—tired, Sam. I’m just tired.”
There was suddenly a hand on her forehead, pushing her back against the post she was tied to, and the blade was there, pressed cold and merciless against her throat. When Sam spoke, his voice was close to her temple, and his voice was low, almost like a lover’s whisper.
“Before we say goodbye—you ever going to tell me who you killed, Bela?”
She smirked slightly at that, as she leaned back against the pole, taking comfort that even through all she had to go through, she was still coming to an end at Sam Winchester’s hands—even if it wasn’t the Sam she had met once upon a time. “Never.”
He chuckled softly, and moved his hand bringing the knife over to the far side of her throat as he prepared to deal the fatal blow.
“That’s what I thought.”
2639 words
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This it beautiful. I want to hug Sam, but I'm terribly afraid he'll kill me. Eep? And poor Bela, so tired and defeated, but she still came out on top by not telling Sam who she killed.
Touche Bela, touche.
A+
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I really have no idea where this came from. At first I was thinking something between Bela and Dean for this prompt, but she came out of nowhere with this whole dark, twisted evil!Sam bit, and I can't resist evil!Sam. He's like a drug.
I'm glad you liked it.
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Jo Vs. Bela would be hysterical to me, by the way. I'm such a weirdo.
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I'm glad you liked it.
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I'm glad you liked it.
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I know I read something that said getting Dean back would not be easy. Which makes me just ache for both of them. Sam would lose it if Dean died. Totally and completely.
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Dean just doesn't understand how much Sam needs him, and he doesn't want to, because he doesn't want to feel the guilt on his conscience. Which is what causes all the fights. And breaks my heart every. single. time.
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