Author's Note: This is one I've had saved on my laptop for ages, but was reluctant to post, although I'm not entirely sure why. It is the Winchester brothers' encounter with George Darrow in "Crossroad Blues". (He's the character that brought the demon to Lloyd's Bar in the first place.) His character has always been intriguing to me because he outright refuses to allow the boys to save him--or at least attempt saving him. Just as a memory refresher, this takes place kind of early in season two, meaning that Dean obviously hasn't made his deal, but John has already made the deal to bring Dean back. Also, it is written in Darrow's point of view, so there are gramatical errors, but they are intentional as this is how I imagine him thinking. Please review. Any suggestions, ideas, comments or concerns are always welcome! :)
Dedication: This one's for nevo. Thanks for the idea, but I still maintain that you should enter the world of fanfiction yourself. :p
Crossroad Blues: Darrow's Sorrow
It's funny. Instantly, it's funny to me. These two kids stroll in, meaning to save me.
It's a nice notion; part of me even appreciates it. But these boys are far too late and far too naïve. I wish I could give 'em somethin' to work with, but the truth is, I just don't want to. I know what I've done—I know what I owe—and that's more than most poor suckers can say.
The shorter one reminds me of myself and I have to resist the urge to lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder. I can tell he's thinkin' about doin' somethin' real bad; he might make a huge mistake and it'll hurt everyone involved. It might be tonight, but somethin' tells me there's a more worrisome deal farther off in his future. If he doesn't do it tonight, he will eventually. They've got their sites set on this kid, and they know how to pull his strings. I never woulda known a couple weeks ago, but I can feel it as sure as I can feel the intensity in the air. They'll get him. They haven't pushed the right button yet, but they will. He's gonna make that mistake—he's gonna make that deal. Hell, I oughta know. I did it ten years ago.
As my overwhelmed mind allows me a step back, I can tell they've decided to trust me. I can feel it in their bones and it pains me to see how connected they are, because I know they're gonna be forced apart. It's strange to know so much about them so soon, but there's so many unexpected perks goin' along with the jaunt to hell, all I can do is accept them. It'd be something to still be unsure of such evil, but lately, I can see it. I can feel it before it makes itself known and that scares me. I figure it's all part of the deal, but it scares me all the same.
Somethin's eatin' away at this kid's soul. I can only see it because of what I've become since the day my deal ran out. I can see them; I can feel them—the evil ones—the demons. I don't know if that's the right word, but as far as I'm concerned, it's my story and the words are mine. I'm a little surprised by how scared he is. Although there isn't much that could make me more afraid, these boys give me the chills. I know that's bad because I've felt fear deeper than most people could ever dream. So I know if this kid's eyes are enough to send shivers up my spine, he's part of something I'd rather steer clear of.
They want me to allow them to help me. Like I said, it's thoughtful; I can't say as though I don't appreciate the effort, but there just ain't no time for this kinda circus. I'm livin' on borrowed time already and they're simply a distraction. At least I've got a goal. After finishing this last painting, I'll be ready. I'll let the bloodstained hands of Lucifer drag me down himself, but this is what I paid for. Talent. And I'll be damned if I let them take me before my final, most passionate project is refined. After I'm finished, I'll swagger on with them into the terrifying darkness, black bells ringin', but I need this time to finish what I believe I was intended to create all along.
As I attempt to make it clear—the fact that I have no intention of solving my own sad case or helping them solve theirs—something suddenly pulls at the last shred of humanity I have. I may have sold my soul, but it's my heart that feels it.
Those eyes are what make me balk at my own stubbornness. He knows what a deal is worth. He knows what a deal can cost and his hazel eyes burrow into my very soul—the one I've already forfeited—as he nearly pleads for information. He don't talk like he's beggin', but I can feel that part of him. He needs to know and it means so much more to him because his life—or death—has already been affected by a deal.
He doesn't know it, but that's the look that finally convinces me to divulge what I know. As I speak, I can't help the familiar feeling of being misunderstood and underestimated. They'll think it's the liquor, and Lord knows I can't blame them. There's a dozen empty bottles lining the counter and another three on the end table next to me. They probably think I'm drunk—they probably think I've been drunk for weeks, and all the evidence more than proves it. But the sad truth is that I can't find it anymore. I wish I was drunk—I wish I could get drunk—but I can't even remember what 'drunk' is . . . that's why I try to access it, because the only thing I remember about it is that it makes it tolerable. But there is no more drunkenness for this old man. My grim smile reassures the young boys as I shake my head in resolve.
I try to explain away the fact that I doomed at least three other souls. Speaking of them makes it hurt more—it makes everything within me sting in regret—and I realize I've started takin' a sip between every sentence, attempting to dull the guilt. It doesn't work, but I didn't expect it to.
The taller one, bless his heart, protests the fact that I have to die. I can't say I don't understand him—that I don't wish he were right—but there's just no time. And, by God, I just don't have the desire to fight it. I think they're gonna save somebody—maybe more than one person—and that helps a little. I don't know how it came about, but part of me feels proud to have aided the only two men that may be able to stop it. I want to go with them and part of me is willing to exit my apartment and do as much as I can to stop my own fate from infecting others—to somehow help reverse the horror I unleashed ten years ago. But I can't. I deserve what I'm gonna get and I'll take it.
Suddenly my mind is experiencing a soft cloud and I wonder if I actually achieved drunkenness. I'll be damned, I think to myself, amused by the fact that it happened when I'd have least wanted it to, I'm drunk.
There's another round of righteously persuasive speech, but I feel every part of me scoffing at them. I wish I could allow them to save me—part of me knows they might even be able to—but I don't deserve it and I don't want it, which makes me simply a distraction from the good they could already be doing.
I really dipped my feet into it this time. I can see it on their faces. They may have been my last chance, but I find a certain satisfaction in the fact that they will not be my redemption. Somehow, somewhere, I feel like I was always doomed for a fate worse than death. The older one knows it; he feels it; and I feel sorry for him but he's lost. I can already feel it in him. He's gonna deal. I know I only feel it 'cause I've dealt before and can sense and see the evil that warps his world.
Feeling something explode within me, I'm suddenly on my feet, shouting at them. I already feel bad about it, but I continue to spout my confession. Everything that came from that night is on me. I don't understand why they think I'm worth savin' and they don't understand why I think I'm not. So I tell them. I vocalize the only thought that's been rollin' around this old brain of mine for the last few weeks, "I'm tired."
Immediately the shorter brother knows. He feels it too. I can see it in his face. He's seen so much and fought so long that sometimes the exhaustion of it clings to his body in the morning, makin' it damn near impossible to get outta bed. He's tired too; not as tired as me—not yet—but he will be.
I'd tell him what I thought he didn't already know, but when he deals, he'll know exactly what he's doin'. It's sad. It's sad because I could tell him about it, but he'd never believe me. He'd chalk it up to the booze or the pressure of my impending death. I'm more than a little afraid about this kid, despite the fact that I have no idea exactly what his fate is. I can feel something around him—somethin' I ain't never felt before. Both sides are bettin' on these two horses, which don't make sense to me. I don't know who's bettin' on which, but the feeling of it is somehow overwhelming. Since my hallucinations and 'abilities' started, I ain't never seen or felt nothin' like that yet and I'm sure I won't again.
The brothers give me the sort of nod that is meant to seem respectful, but really only comes off as necessary. As they back out of my apartment, I have to resist the urge to call them back. They can't possibly know it, but there was power rolling off of them in waves. They're gonna rock this world—they're gonna save it or kill it—yet neither of them is prepared for this information.
I coulda said everything I felt about them, but they'd never have believed it, and I don't' think I'd appreciate spending my last night bein' stared at as if I were the nut I fear myself to be.
As the door sweeps shut behind them, I check the line of goofer dust, making sure I'm secure for another night.
I approach the painting. It screams of rage, sorrow, hurt and knowingness; all of which I've felt plenty in the last few days. I know tonight's the night. I'm going to finish it. It will be done by dawn and I'll take another healthy pull of Jack before I intentionally disrupt the line of goofer dust.
They're close to puttin' the pieces together—they may even save a soul or two—but not mine. I can't allow them to save mine. It'd only cause more pain and regret than I already know. I deserve what I'm about to get and I can't help but smile sorrowfully as I turn back towards the canvas.
Taking another long pull from the bottle, I allow my brush to flow in a way I'd have never known, had it not been for the crossroad demon.
Three more strokes and I'd have her set. They may not know it for years—decades—but it's the best artistic work in the modern world. As the paint splatters itself across the canvas, my ears perk at the sound of distant howls. They're comin'—comin' for blood. I'd heard it before, having only been holding them off with old magic, but something about it satisfied me tonight. I was finally paying my penance.
As the last brush stroke glides across my masterpiece, I let my hand hang in the air, oddly satisfied with the fact that it's the end. I'm a little concerned about the future of this world. I know I'm not leaving it in tiptop shape, but something in those kids' eyes makes me even more apprehensive.
I've said it before and I can feel it now, clear as I ever felt anything. The kid's gonna deal, and I find myself wondering how bad that is and what it means. I'm well on my way to the fire pit, but that kid is gonna be on the same train—just a few cars back. I don't understand why I know, but I know.
Forcing these thoughts away, I take an unbelievably long pull from the bottle of liquor in my hand, welcoming the burning sensation that slides down my neck and heats my belly to the core. Opening the door, I gasp in horror, despite the fact that I'd prepared myself for the worst. It's hard to see much about them, but there's only one word prominate in my drunken mind: ugly. They're just plain ugly. Sighing in resolve, I squat down, forcing myself not to hesitate or change my mind. Then I slide the middle finger of my right hand through the line of goofer dust, allowing the hellhounds access and flipping them off at the same time.
They hesitate for a moment, slightly confused by the willingness of my sacrifice after having held them off intentionally. Then all at once the force rushes me and I display no defiant movement at first. My world becomes lost in razor-like claws, crimson blood and white-hot pain as I drift away from this life, vaguely musing as to whether or not I'll be seeing the older brother around—down there.
It fades so fast I can hardly contemplate it, but my soul is sailing away. I regard it with fondness, knowing that it wasn't worth the trade, yet somehow satisfied that I'd given the devil his due. At least I didn't shirk out; at least I paid my bill.
At the very last moment, I'm a little more defiant than I'd intended to be and I'm sure it was the Winchester brothers' visit that allowed me to produce resistance. Instead of aggressive opposition, it's only a smile on my face—so toothy, it's nearly sinful—but it's obnoxious enough to make them look, and that's what I wanted. As I'm dragged forward—downward—whatever the hell it really means, I'm not without thought, If this is hell, you better pucker up, cocksuckers. I saw someone who might be able to take y'all down. And I think he's headed this way.
Author's Note: Thanks so much for reading! Please do review. I absolutely loved Darrow's character because he believed he deserved hell, making him somewhat comparable to Dean in his tendancy for self-condemnation. Thanks again for clicking on my story! :)