Look at the Monster

The room is still and dark, dimly lit by fire burning in the fireplace. Sitting in a beaten up chair, staring at the dancing flame, is a large man. His hands- large and callous and covered in blood- cradle a glass of dark whiskey. His eyes- dark and cold and angry at everything- are empty, void of emotion that would hint at his long lost humanity. He is not an old man, compared to some though he felt it every single damn day, but neither is he young; he could never be that naïve again. The fire's light gleams off the silver band around his finger- a broken promise and another dead loved one. What kind of monster was he? Did he not learn that he couldn't keep those he love? Lifting the glass to his lips, he drinks deeply, the liquor burning his throat like fire, fire, fire, the screams of the innocent- of his brother- flooding his ears like the water Noah's ark sailed upon.

What could he do? He could not die because that shit faced being of light would only bring him back. He was already in hiding because he promised her that he wouldn't hurt anyone else, even that vile creature that was too cowardly to face him.

He could pass on the burden of this existence, pass it on to his descendants. But he wouldn't be any better than those creatures who claim to do the work of God. What kind of God would allow this? Allow His garden paradise to die, now home to the Old Ones. Allow his oldest winged children to kill each other, to kill humans. Allow them to tear apart lives of those they deem important in the so call Fated End. What kind of human is this God?

He starts to sing, words that are part of a language he alone now knows (those feather bastards don't care about human life, about their Soul). He sings to his dead. To his father and mother, wise and kind, who couldn't look at him after what he did; he could not bring himself to try and justify what he did. To his brother, intelligent and youthful, who loved him and who he betrayed to try and save him. To his wife, beautiful and strong, who was killed because he couldn't save her. To his descendants- to the son who jumped through time to save the world from that bitch. To his son whose wife was ripped from his arms as part as so called fucking Fate. To his daughter by marriage who only wanted to protect those she loved. To the oldest son who carries the Fate of having to kill a brother, to be the poster child of goodness for those jackasses. To the middle son who is hated for having to play the Fated king for those black eyed bastards. To the youngest son who is locked away with those two greedy, selfish asshole of so called brothers.

He can hear those sons of fucking bitches laughing, taunting his own Story. Look at the human who is covered in his Abe's blood. Look at the human who is shunned by his Adam and Eve. Look at the human who killed his Colette. Look at the human who couldn't save his Henry and John and Mary and Adam. Look at the human who can't save his Sam and Dean. Look at the human who shall never save himself. Look at the human who gave away his humanity. Look at the First Murderer. Look at the monster that history shall know as Cain.