Work Text:
Cat bones. Graveyard dirt. Yarrow. A coin. A burned match.
Your own photograph.
You put it all in the box.
You dug the hole with a trowel, because you don’t trust your hands, already a little stiff with early onset arthritis. Just like your mom’s, decades ago. Just- just like Kevin’s will be.
You smooth it over with your palms, and you wait. You don’t have to wait long.
She’s definitely tall. You look up at most people, but you look up at her. Thick hair tumbles down her shoulders. Sharp nails clutch her hip. Dramatic eyes sweep down your body and leave behind them a sense that she is dissatisfied with something deep within you, underneath your skin. You set your jaw against the urge to quail.
“Well, isn’t this a little joke,” she says. Smiles. “The Winchesters’ little birdie. The King’s old suit. I see now why my Father, in all his benevolence, allowed me to be hauled up here to play shop clerk. What can I get for you, birdie?”
Your mouth is dry. She’s fiddling with the choker around her neck, and underneath it, you see… something.
Red and irritated. Scabbed over. Stitched.
Her mouth twists.
“Well, what is it? Money? Power? Revenge? Or do you want a set of hot new tits, get rid of all the sag?” She cups your breasts over your shirt, lifting them and letting them fall. “Or maybe Crowley’s head on a plate?” She grins, tongue running over her teeth.
“I want…” Your voice is shaking. “I want my son back.”
“Ugh,” she rolls her eyes. “Humans. So predictable. One boy, ten years, one eternity of torture, is that it? Sure I can’t convince you to go for something a little more interesting?”
She begins to turn away from you, but you reach up. You grab her hair in a silky handful, and you wrench her head towards you.
Her eyes widen. Her mouth tastes like rotten eggs.