"I am. I'm Benjamin Stone. I was born in Dedham, Massachusetts in 1839," the man said, and this was Dean's cue to laugh – make a joke. To not believe. He didn't do any of those things. He just...listened, a little shiver going down his spine.
"You're almost one hundred and seventy years old," Sam breathed, and Dean felt that prickling again – a sort of horripilation of the flesh. Nothing should live that long – nothing could live that long naturally. Except maybe some turtles or something – tortoises. He'd have to ask Sam later.
Hah—great use of 'tortoise' and 'horripilation', and yes, this is Dean, wigged, but willing to let Sam work his magic, even if he doesn't necessarily agree with the good-cop routine.
The phrase “curiosity killed the cat” comes to mind when Dean trying to sum up Dean's hunting philosophy =D
"Yes. Almost." The man – Benjamin – flicked the butt of his cigarette with his thumb, sending ash tumbling to the polished wood of the floor. "My father was a school teacher and I was going to be, too, until the war." Benjamin looked up from studying the glowing tip of his cigarette, sending a little sideways grin at Sam. "That put rather an end to all that. To...a lot of things."
I love the way he speaks. The antique-y, melancholy air about him.
"Oh – very. Worthless, really. They all presume on the idea that man can transcend himself. Become something finer." Benjamin drew in a lungful of smoke and tilted his head back, his eyes tracking the flickering wisp high above him. It seemed to be circling directly above Stone. "But man cannot, and therefore, the spells fail."
Yes . . . I like him. He has an interesting feel to him. If you were to write fic about Benjamin's life, you'd have an avid reader in me.
"So what's your secret?" Dean asked. Impatient and unhappy with this extended conversation. He just wanted to get the job done – get out. Get out of Seattle, really. The salt air wasn't good for his girl.
He really loves his car. It really is family to him—a daughter or niece, maybe.
"Who is that?" Dean clarified, and Benjamin took a shaky pull of his cigarette, running his hand back through his hair. A few ashes drifted down, catching in the dark strands. The pale shadow was circling lower now, about chest level and it flashed past Dean with a low sort of keening, all tatters and wisps, more air than substance.
"That's...one of them. My own sort of...haunting, you might say." Benjamin looked back and forth between Dean and Sam – made a sort of gesture, half-sketched bow. "I present Deryn Maddox, late of Dedham and Llansantffraed." The thing keened louder – spun faster, its edges becoming more solid – actual features emerging before blurring away. Benjamin leaned against the upright of the nearest pew, watching it. Sam watched it too – shot a puzzled look at Dean over Benjamin's head. Dean shrugged back. He had no idea why some dead Welsh guy would be haunting some should-be-dead New Englander. He didn't actually care.
Curiosity killed the cat. Shoot 'em all, and let God sort 'em out.
It was in Union blue, long hair and a full beard, mud on its boots. Blood on its face, and a hole torn through its chest that gleamed with the sick white of bone laid bare. Its mouth worked for a moment, soundless, and then it spoke in a voice that was like the groan of an old tree limb, rubbed raw by the wind. "Ay, an' only yoor sweet Ma calls thee tha' name, Benji-boy, nai?"
"Oh, man, this is just too weird," Dean muttered, and Sam made a sort of 'hold on' motion with his hand.
"Can you tell me why you're here?" he asked, and the spirit flickered – shattered and reformed, like smoke under a strong wind. It jumped from here to there and snarled, mere feet from Sam.
"Thou moidersome pup!" it growled. Lifted insubstantial fists, making a grab. Sam lifted the shotgun on pure reflex and the thing shattered apart again. There was a flat bar of pure iron welded to the underside of the gun barrel. Little trick Caleb had taught them.
Okay—this thing protects Benjamin, and doesn't like murderers, which it thinks Sam is. Admittedly, it doesn't seem to like Benjamin, either. . . .
no subject
"You're almost one hundred and seventy years old," Sam breathed, and Dean felt that prickling again – a sort of horripilation of the flesh. Nothing should live that long – nothing could live that long naturally. Except maybe some turtles or something – tortoises. He'd have to ask Sam later.
Hah—great use of 'tortoise' and 'horripilation', and yes, this is Dean, wigged, but willing to let Sam work his magic, even if he doesn't necessarily agree with the good-cop routine.
The phrase “curiosity killed the cat” comes to mind when Dean trying to sum up Dean's hunting philosophy =D
"Yes. Almost." The man – Benjamin – flicked the butt of his cigarette with his thumb, sending ash tumbling to the polished wood of the floor. "My father was a school teacher and I was going to be, too, until the war." Benjamin looked up from studying the glowing tip of his cigarette, sending a little sideways grin at Sam. "That put rather an end to all that. To...a lot of things."
I love the way he speaks. The antique-y, melancholy air about him.
"Oh – very. Worthless, really. They all presume on the idea that man can transcend himself. Become something finer." Benjamin drew in a lungful of smoke and tilted his head back, his eyes tracking the flickering wisp high above him. It seemed to be circling directly above Stone. "But man cannot, and therefore, the spells fail."
Yes . . . I like him. He has an interesting feel to him. If you were to write fic about Benjamin's life, you'd have an avid reader in me.
"So what's your secret?" Dean asked. Impatient and unhappy with this extended conversation. He just wanted to get the job done – get out. Get out of Seattle, really. The salt air wasn't good for his girl.
He really loves his car. It really is family to him—a daughter or niece, maybe.
"Who is that?" Dean clarified, and Benjamin took a shaky pull of his cigarette, running his hand back through his hair. A few ashes drifted down, catching in the dark strands. The pale shadow was circling lower now, about chest level and it flashed past Dean with a low sort of keening, all tatters and wisps, more air than substance.
"That's...one of them. My own sort of...haunting, you might say." Benjamin looked back and forth between Dean and Sam – made a sort of gesture, half-sketched bow. "I present Deryn Maddox, late of Dedham and Llansantffraed." The thing keened louder – spun faster, its edges becoming more solid – actual features emerging before blurring away. Benjamin leaned against the upright of the nearest pew, watching it. Sam watched it too – shot a puzzled look at Dean over Benjamin's head. Dean shrugged back. He had no idea why some dead Welsh guy would be haunting some should-be-dead New Englander. He didn't actually care.
Curiosity killed the cat. Shoot 'em all, and let God sort 'em out.
It was in Union blue, long hair and a full beard, mud on its boots. Blood on its face, and a hole torn through its chest that gleamed with the sick white of bone laid bare. Its mouth worked for a moment, soundless, and then it spoke in a voice that was like the groan of an old tree limb, rubbed raw by the wind. "Ay, an' only yoor sweet Ma calls thee tha' name, Benji-boy, nai?"
"Oh, man, this is just too weird," Dean muttered, and Sam made a sort of 'hold on' motion with his hand.
"Can you tell me why you're here?" he asked, and the spirit flickered – shattered and reformed, like smoke under a strong wind. It jumped from here to there and snarled, mere feet from Sam.
"Thou moidersome pup!" it growled. Lifted insubstantial fists, making a grab. Sam lifted the shotgun on pure reflex and the thing shattered apart again. There was a flat bar of pure iron welded to the underside of the gun barrel. Little trick Caleb had taught them.
Okay—this thing protects Benjamin, and doesn't like murderers, which it thinks Sam is. Admittedly, it doesn't seem to like Benjamin, either. . . .