The Hunter

by Lucky Gun

Response to Xenascully's ANCon challenge: In Dark Side of the Moon, Dean says Sam leaving for Stanford was the worst night of his life. Written to the literary "tune" of The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe. Enjoy.

Title: The Hunter

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Response to Xenascully's ANCon challenge: In Dark Side of the Moon, Dean says Sam leaving for Stanford was the worst night of his life. Written to the literary "tune" of The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe. Enjoy. :)

A/N: This is my favorite poem of all time. No infringement is intended; this is for entertainment purposes only. Ownership belongs to Eric Kripke. References, follows, and borrows heavily from the poem. It's appropriate, I think. May at first seem slightly slash. Totally not supposed to be! Please leave a review!

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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a sharp and careless thorns of thoughtless words,

While I sobbed, nearly loudly, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone painfully rapping, rapping at my bedroom door.

"It's not him," I whispered, "rapping at our bedroom door -

Never him – and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the peaked September,

And each separate dying tear wrought its fears upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow

From my rum surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Hunter -

For the smart and naïve brother who hated the title Hunter -

Hunter, never, for evermore.

And the drunken sad uncertain rumblings of our broken family

Killed me – filled me with frenetic guilt never imagined before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart – I stood repeating,

"It's not him, asking entrance at our bedroom door.

Never again him, asking entrance at our bedroom door; –

This is true, and nothing more."

Presently my drink grew stronger, inhibiting me no longer,

"Father," said I, "or sir, truly your absence I implore;

But the fact is I was drinking, and so loudly you came rapping,

And so angrily you came tapping, tapping at my bedroom door,

That I scarce could hear you swearing" – here I opened wide the door, –

Behemoth there, and nothing more.

Deep into his eyes peering, long I stood there, wondering, steeling,

Doubting, fearing fears no mortals ever should fear again;

But the anger was unbroken, and the humidity gave no token,

And the only words there spoken were the whispered words, "What have you done?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, "What have you done?"

Doubly this, and nothing more.

Back into the bedroom turning, all my tears within me burning,

Soon again I heard the rapping so much louder than before;

"Surely," said I, "surely there is something else to hit:

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore; –

Let my heart be still a moment and your actions we'll explore; –

'Tis your guilt, and nothing more."

Open here he flung his fists, when, with many a choke and groan,

In there flew a stately sign of the shadowed days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made I; not a minute stopped or stayed him;

But, with mien of demon and sinner, stopped my escape at the bedroom door –

Stopped my flight with a well placed kick at the bedroom door –

Growled, and spit, and nothing more.

Then my angered father sneered at my bloody face while snarling,

Marked by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance he wore.

"Though you fight me and the truth, you," I said, "art sure no innocent,

Bloodless hands and white knight wandering the supernatural world –

Tell me what my brother's name is to the ravaging supernatural world!"

Quoth my father, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this violent man to hear disowning so plainly,

Though his answer little meaning – little truth it bore;

For we could not help agreeing that no such innocent a being

Ever yet should be forced such as us beyond that bedroom door –

Son or brother should live beyond that bedroom door,

Though he said "Nevermore."

But my father, swinging blindly about my bruised face, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he snarled – just a fight he then continued –

Till I scarcely could more than mutter, "Other friends have flown before –

One by one they all leave me, as my dreams have flown before."

My father said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by his stoic and breathed reply,

"Doubtless," said I, "What you utter is all your heart can store,

Caught up in the unhappy master of tonight's unmerciful disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till your pain's burden bore –

Till the dirges of our family's death your melancholy bore

Of never – nevermore."

But my father still swinging his fists at my eyes shining,

Straight I flung myself from his grip towards the jamb and locked door;

Then upon the carpet sinking, I betook myself to weeping

Tear unto tear, thinking what my ominous wounds of yore –

What my physical, emotional, mind's and heart's wounds of yore

Could survive of my father's "nevermore."

This I laid engaged in crying, but no syllables expressing

To my father whose fiery eyes now burned into my soul's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my arms curled round my head protecting

On the carpet's plush lining that turned crimson in the the light,

And my brother's care to tend these wounds bleeding crimson in the light,

He shall give, ah, nevermore!

Then I thought the pain grew stronger, raising anew from unfelt horrors

Wrought by father whose footfalls pounded through the aged floor.

"Father!" I cried, "thy drink has lent thee – by those spirits it has sent thee

Anger – anger and fear, from thy guilt of your other Hunter:

Drink, oh drink and fight me, not your memories of your Hunter!"

Quoth my father, "Nevermore."

"Demon!" said I, "thing of evil – father still, if dead or drunken! –

Whether whiskey sent, or whether whiskey tossed your mind about,

Guilty yet undaunted, in your fear a land enchanted –

In our home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –

Is there – is there forgiveness in this? – tell me – tell me – I implore!"

Quoth my father, "Nevermore."

"Demon!" said I, "thing of evil – father still, if dead or drunken! –

By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both avoid –

Tell this son with sorrow laden if, within thy angered soul,

It shall clasp a defiant man whom the world fears as a Hunter –

Clasp your youngest and most defiant son whom the world fears as a Hunter."

Quoth my father, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, father or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting –

"Get thee back into thy bottle and don again they armor of white and gold!

Leave no spilt tears as a token to the lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit thy fight about my form!

Take thy knife out of my back, and take thy fight from about my form!"

Quoth my father, "Nevermore."

And my father, never quitting, still is fighting, still is fighting,

My brother, myself, the real and imagined horrors of the fight within that door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,

And hell's firelight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out of that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted – nevermore!