Dipper and Grunkle Stan sat side by side on the steps of the Mystery Shack, the humid summer air clinging to their skin as they silently took in the meandering clouds and rustling leaves around them.
The boy's thoughts rushed in to fill the void left by the area's quietness. It was nice, he reflected, to be here. It was nice to be able to actually sit on the patio rather than float above it, to get poked by the loose bits of wood sticking out from years of overuse and neglect, to guzzle down the off-brand sweets that his great-uncle wordlessly tossed to him every few minutes. In this peaceful moment, he could almost imagine that nothing had changed at the end of that strange summer (though his claws and fangs served as a constant reminder that things were not the same as before that time, that they never would be).
One question permeated the boy's mind, repeatedly disrupting the otherwise-smooth flow of his contemplation, and eventually he could suppress his curiosity no longer.
"Grunkle Stan?"
His great-uncle turned around, and Dipper started to grin as the two came face to face, relishing in the sensation of having somebody besides Mabel look straight at him rather than awkwardly in his general direction. "Yeah?"
"What does 'fuck' mean?"
The expression on Grunkle Stan's face was enigmatic, the emotion contained within one that the boy couldn't quite place. "Kid, where did you hear that word?"
And the answer came rushing back to him.
A summoning circle, small, roughly sketched, the chalk outline barely visible against the white tile floor-
A child bound and gagged and bloodied- no, not even a child, a toddler, barely able to comprehend what was happening, only just brought into the world and already forced to leave it-
A man in tattered jeans and a dark shirt, one he wouldn't have looked twice at if they'd passed by one another on the street, who stood tall and looked him in the eye and asked if the sacrifice was enough, asked if he was pleased-
And he smiled, the man just smiled and smiled as the child's struggles grew feebler with every passing moment until ceasing altogether-
Blood splattering, flying across the room, crimson droplets staining pastel walls-
A cry to the heavens, a prayer or curse that would forever go unanswered, devolving into a single bile-filled word spat out with each breath until the man could utter it no longer (he brought it on himself, the boy- the demon- mentally repeated as the cry grew weaker and the candlelight grew dimmer, that man brought it on himself)-
An eerie silence that the room's lone remaining occupant dared not break-
A powerful rush of energy the likes of which he had felt only a handful of times before, so wrong and yet so right-
And Grunkle Stan was still waiting for his response.
Dipper broke eye contact with his great-uncle, resolutely staring at a stray patch of grass.
"...nowhere."
