A/N: Help me, I think I've caught the fanfiction writing bug. I'm doomed.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Supernatural, I just own my words.
Prologue: Step 1- Let them know they're being conned
True trickery lies not in fooling others, but in fooling ourselves. And Loki was the god of trickery- the king of fools. People very rarely took the time to consider what that meant; if they had, perhaps they would have wondered a great deal about what lie Loki was hiding under that smiling mask of his. Perhaps none of this would have ever happened.
There are many tools in a con man's toolbox. Weapons of misdirection, not mass destruction. A con man has his face- and that's his first weapon. Earnest eye contact, smiles, and winks are his bread and butter. Of course, lies and deceit come second. Lies are what make a con man different from everyone else. He lies to other people, about the stupid stuff. A woman or a man cheated out of their money by the con man might disagree- they'd say "My earnings aren't stupid stuff!". But then they go home and lie to each other or themselves about the important stuff. About love, or family, about how they feel. A con man has no time for these lies, his life being filled with quite enough already.
Which brings us to the final weapon a con man uses.
The truth.
The simple truth is usually the punch line, the final stretch. You wrap someone in a web of deceit, and then you lock them in with the padlock of truth- something they cannot refute. If they accept that one truth from your lips, then they'll accept anything else that flows forth.
So, in a way, grifters are the most honest folks you'll ever find.
By that logic, I'll never tell you a lie. Would I do you wrong? You just sit back and let good ol' Raz tell you a dazzling tale- rest assured that everything happened exactly as I tell it.
The roar of death was indescribable.
It's all encompassing, it's all there is.
In this case, it was a train rushing by.
Almost every creature on this planet is lucky enough to be born, and end their lives in death. They cannot even remember the moment they came to be; that is how all birthings go.
Not this creature. First came death, and death was the first thing it remembered.
A broken, battered, and undeniably dead human form lay tangled by the train tracks. Miles of silence in all directions.
We see trains as chugging inconveniences that sometimes stop us on our way to work- we frequently forget that this is not the life of a train.
Trains live in the vast stretches between cities. The in-between places. There was nothing but trees on all sides, for miles.
The wretch was leaving death, edging into life, dragged like a secret into the light.
An in-between place.
Life is precious, life is colorful. Life is loving and hating and breathing.
Life is pain. This is the first thing the not-dead creature was to learn.
A wailing cry pierced the night, echoing along the green corridor the train had carved out for itself. It wasn't a cry of birth, but it was a cry of life. The sweet anguish of living.
A limb, shiny with rapidly drying blood, tried to move, and the twitching form took a brief, gurgling breath. Everything stilled once more.
Throughout the night, it died repeatedly- and was dragged back again and again by some grim, immutable force. This was not immortality, this was not life. This was an inability to leave the twilight between peace and pain.
But somewhere through the macabre spectacle of birthing and dying, the creature took shape.
The morning light revealed a being that was now mostly human- if something so blessed and so cursed with life could be called "human".
Consciousness was a mixed package- now it- she- was aware of the agony that had marked her entrance into the world. It made her aware of the sticky feeling of blood soaked clothes. Her new eyes and the sun teamed up against her to reveal her broken body- not nearly so broken as when this awful cycle started, but not healed enough.
She watched in grim fascination as a jagged spur of bone slowly crawled back into her arm, and flesh knitted over, leaving a pale, if bloodstained whole. It still looked so tiny and delicate- like a bone itself.
She lifted her remade hand to her stomach, where the worst of the damage was.
Before she could really come to terms with the fact that she was impaled on a piece of steel rebar, she was dead again.
The next time she came bubbling to the surface, she had decided to live. It seemed like she had no other choice. So with newfound resolve, she began the gruesome task of yanking the steel from her gut, inch by painful inch.
Inch by painful inch, she died into life.
When she could finally stand, living, whole, days had passed. She had been a human shaped animal for most of this time, but now a person was taking form. Her face, which had been mechanically blank when not contorted by pain, now showed signs of the personality developing beneath. Her small, thin mouth seemed ready to twitch into a sardonic smile- her green eyes seemed to take in the world around her with a cynical air.
The thing had started human, but now she was becoming a person. The human had been a thing of pain and instinct- the person found herself to be calculating, curious.
She took in her surroundings, then looked down at herself, assessing, itemizing.
She stared at her hand without recognition. It was small, and smooth. Not used for work then. Using her hand, she grabbed a fistful of hair to bring before her face. It was short, shoulder length. It stuck out of her hand like a clump of tentacles caught mid-writhe. She crinkled her nose- it was plain, brownish-blonde color. Boring.
"My name."
It was like a death rattle, but backwards. A birth rattle, perhaps. She croaked again, this time confused.
"My name?"
But that's not the story I wanted to tell. That part is an ugly truth. The story I want to tell has to do with what happened next.
It started, as the best lies do, with a dramatic bang- a loud bang. It started with a crash.
A 1967 Chevrolet Impala weighs around 3,500 pounds; unlike modern cars it is not made out of fibreglass, but is instead all metal. All this means nothing when it is at rest, but when it is moving, even a little, this means very much. The equation for force involves three integers- mass, momentum, and acceleration. When you plug the mass of an Impala from the sixties in there, you can easily get up to over 30,000 Newtons of force. It only takes 4,000 Newtons to break a human femur- the hardest bone to break.
Solve this word problem and you will get extra credit on tomorrow's test:
At around 45 mph, on a Sunday in the middle of winter, a 3,500 pound Chevy Impala crashes into a girl who was crossing the street at around 2 mph.
What happens next?
A bang, and then a crunch, and all too soon I have landed on my back, gasping for air. I can feel that both my femurs have fractured in multiple places- but the pain hasn't hit me yet. It may never hit- shock is great like that. It will take me a moment before I can get up and walk. Two car doors slam and two pairs of footsteps are running towards me. The shock is wearing off, and I allow myself to start crying out in pain. My voice is weak and wheezy. A little voice in the back of my mind tells me that I have three snapped ribs, one of which has pierced a lung. I lay it on nice and thick-
"Help! Help me!"
"Oh my god, Dean, what did you do?" Came one panicked voice from far above me, too far, it seemed. An equally terrified voice responded to him, all gravel and leather.
"I dunno man, she came out of nowhere!"
"This is bad Dean, we were going fast enough to kill a full grown man. This girl is tiny!"
The pain and the shock had worn off, dissipated, never to return. I was annoyed at the comment about my height, but in a distant way. You grow up with it enough, and it stops getting to you, really- but I could tell from how far away the voice was that the speaker was tall. Stupid tallies.
"Ugh." I whimpered "Can someone help me up?"
There was a long pause, and I started to crack my eyes open. Two blurred figures stood above me, frozen.
"What are you?" Well, that was unexpected- these people just hit me with their car, and now the short one sounded like he wanted to kill me! Not the usual reaction I got from car crashes. I frowned and tried to move, but everything was still broken. My body convulsed in pain.
"Dean, she looks like she's just a girl. Look at how her legs are lying- they're broken Dean. This isn't the time! Call Cas!"
"Please!" I coughed, not knowing who Cas was. "Please, call an ambulance first!" I gripped the taller- gentler- one's pant leg.
When the ambulance arrived, I already felt better. The ambulance drivers were well-payed to stay quiet about my frequent visits. The tall one- Sam, had covered me in a ratty old blanket from their ridiculous death trap. The short one with the gravelly voice had given me once over- a flash of green- then wandered off to lean against his car. Not a word left his mouth, but from Sam's mouth spewed all kinds of reassurances. If I had been anyone else, they would have meant nothing, not to the pain, not to the injury- but it was me, and I heard them. Just because I wasn't hurt didn't mean they weren't nice things to say. I didn't hear nice things often.
They followed behind the ambulance once the EMT crew had loaded me up. One of them rolled their eyes when our marks weren't looking. It was nearly time to leave for a new town, this crew was clearly getting sick of the same old shtick. Bored people ask quqestions, questions I couldn't afford to answer.
About three hours later I was in a hospital bed, talking tearfully to one Doctor Jim Bones. Casts enveloped both of my legs, and my ribs were bound. Small as I was, I made a pitiful sight.
Jim Bones wasn't really his name, I just call him that. His real name was Jim Sartre. But I'd been a Star Trek fan for as long as I could remember- which admittedly was not very long.
Jim was shaking his head and clucking his tongue, and shooting glares at Dean- the driver who'd hit me with his car.
"This will cost a lot of money to fix, Miss...?" He trailed off, as though searching for my last name. He knew, of course, just as he knew he'd be getting a cut of whatever these boys paid to help with my 'medical bills'.
"Just Raz. Like the berry."
It was the first thing I ate, don't judge.
Bones pretended to cluck his tongue disapprovingly at my lack of last name.
"Well, your injuries were extensive, and your bill is going to be... quite large. I'd like to talk to you about setting up a payment plan..."
My eyes widened- it was time for the real show to start. I wheezed in 'panic'.
"I don't have any money! I can't pay this bill!"
I hammed it up- gotta milk the crowd for what they're worth. After a long pause, Bones sighed, maybe a little at my over acting, but mostly for show.
"Well, it is our duty of care to fix you up... " He pretended to squint at my chart for my name, like he'd forgotten it already. "Raz. But this will go on your credit rating- it will severely impact your ability to find a home or a job." He gave me a critical, practiced once-over- taking in my ragged clothes and dirty hair. "Of course, I imagine that won't be a concern." I gave him my own practiced glare.
"Don't look down on me like that! I'm going to turn my life around one day and pay this bill, and I WILL have a home!" Bones scoffed and was about to continue our little charade- plucky young street urchin vs. Big Mean Doctor, part 2- before Sam- the tall one- spoke up.
"We can help pay the bill. I don't think we can pay for all of it, but we have some cash. Something to lessen the cost, at least." He shifted uncomfortably on his feet and looked to his brother, who was staring at both my leg casts intently. The guilty ones always had that look. After a moment he shrugged and nodded curtly. Clearly the go-ahead to get the money. Sam spared me one last pitying look before leaving for their car. I guess that's where they kept their cash. They looked like the kind of dudes who used cash.
Dean was still staring at my casts. It was a weird stare, like the way a bird of prey looks at a mouse. I was beginning to think that maybe it wasn't the guilty sort of stare. He looked more constipated than ashamed, truth be told. I shot a panicked glance at Bones but he didn't notice, too pleased to be getting some cash, no doubt. He pretended to look at his watch.
"Excuse me." He said, and my stomach dropped. "I have a patient waiting in the other room."
And then he was gone. The room was quiet for a moment, as Dean and I stared each other down. Well, I stared him down, while he stared holes into my casts. I tried to break the ice.
"Thanks for helping, man." He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving my legs. He stayed quiet, but moved from the wall to the chair by my bed. I finally made eye contact with him. His eyes were surprisingly hard for a face that pretty.
"I've been in a lot of casts, you know." His voice, something I hadn't heard since the car crash, startled me. It was gravelly, and rough. It was stern, too.
"Oh?" I stuttered, wondering where he was going with this.
"Yeah. It's my job, you see." He smiled now, but it didn't seem so friendly. It seemed threatening. I felt scared.
"What's your job? Are you a cop?" I asked, suddenly suspicious. That earned me a genuine chuckle, and he shook his head.
"Sorta. I hunt bad things down."
"A bounty hunter, then?" I tried. Another chuckle, another shake of the head.
"I hunt."
After that he fell silent, watching me, looking for some sign of recognition, maybe. It was weird. Unconsciously, I shifted in my bed before trying to break the silence. I felt like a kid who'd been called to the teacher's desk. I felt like I was in trouble, and I didn't know why- he said he wasn't a cop, but he sure made me feel guilty like one!
"What do you hunt?" I asked in a small voice- it came naturally, now. Another pause, while his eyes searched my face, then, suddenly, he put his hand on my cast and squeezed. The thin film of plaster easily broke- Bones had long ago said he would not waste actual plaster on someone who wasn't going to stay hurt long enough to need it.
"I hunt monsters."