No Rest For The Wicked
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Skins or Supernatural characters, they belong to Jamie Britain/Eric Kripke respectively.
Enjoy this crossover and please R&R!
PROLOGUE
„What 'ave you done?" Foster smiles. Chuckles even. Raising his eyes to look straight into Cooks.
"Don't be stupid Cook. She told me all about you too. There was much to correct in that girl." He pauses.
"I almost managed it… Perhaps I still can," giving Cook an almost concerned, understanding smile.
"You?" Lowering his eyes, focusing on Foster. Anger slowly building up in him. His finger pointed accusingly at Freddie's blood stained shirt.
"You did sumfin' to my frie-"
"This is wasting time," Foster cuts him off calmly. A calm that only lets waves of hate erupt from Cooks brain. Waves that start to manifest in his fists. They're itching.
"Would you kneel down please." Again a smile.
Now Cook understands. Now everything makes perfect sense. Freddie's diary, the only piece left from his best friend, was burning hot in his back pocket.
"Mr. Foster…" he says disgusted, looking down and up again, mockingly.
"Doctor Foster, actually." Foster doesn't blink once during the entire conversation. Like swords or needles, his creepy, empty blue eyes pierce into Cooks flesh.
"Kneel down please," he repeats, now with a certain demand and authority in his voice. As Cook just shakes his head, a sharp pain fills Cooks stomach and throws him back. Foster, holding the baseball bat tight in his hand, steps closer, preparing for another blow. Gasping for air, Cook stands up again, uncontrollable laughter now escaping Cooks mouth. Ravaging, evil, demonic laughter. Shaking his head in mere disbelieve that somebody could be as stupid and hurt his best friend.
"I don't fink you know what I am mate…" Foster leans forward.
"I think I do. You're nothing. You don't deserve that girl, you know… But I do." Smiling devilishly, his blood almost boiling, adrenaline and anger flowing through Cook like narcotics. He thinks back to his time with Freddie. What they fought about. Laughed about. How their friendship was destroyed. How they build it up again. And now before him was this funny-looking pumpkin face. Pumpkin… a rotten pumpkin that deserved to be smashed, because one couldn't use it for Halloween anymore. And nodding Cook says:
"I'm a fucking waste of space... Just a stupid kid... I got no sense... A criminal? I'm no fucking use... I am nothing...so please... please... get it into your... you know... into your bonce... That you killed my friend..." The anger is overpowering him, his calmness being nothing more than a fake ass facade.
"And..." he shrugs, making the fact look like something a 5-year-old would understand from the start.
" ... I'm Cook."
Foster tilts his head as though to belittle something cute.
" I'M COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOK!"
