Tag: spn: the rising son

Shave and a haircut…

mittensmorgul:

obsessionisaperfume:

…Two

Now I know why the knocking on the door bugged me so much.

Did you feel uncomfortable when “Donatello” knocked on the door, before Sam told him to come in?  Did something itch under your skin?

That’s because the knock was a call and response, and Asmodeus didn’t finish the response.

Anybody remember Roger Rabbit?  There’s a scene in it where the bad guy finds Roger, who’s hiding, by rapping shave and a haircut on the bar, because a Toon is physically incapable of leaving that call unanswered.  I guess a more modern example is the Red Robin jingle– REEEEEEEED Robin! (Yum!)

You hear the first part, the call, and your brain supplies the response automatically.  When you don’t hear it, or it’s incomplete, as the knock on the door was in this episode, something feels off, even if you don’t know what it is.

That’s exactly what this was– silent storyelling (well, not silent, but yannowutimeen) is letting us know that something isn’t right here. 

Dunno if that was scripted or a directing decision or what, but it was BRILLIANT.

I noticed when I rewatched this scene yesterday that Donasmodeus does eventually give the correct “two knocks” response… AFTER he gets the information he’d been fishing for from Sam, he knocks twice on the table. There was your two bits.

pantheonofdiscord:

The Long Game – 13×02 coda, ~800 words, angst

The beer’s almost empty, which is annoying.

The bottle dangles in one hand, the knife in the other, and Dean
stalks down the hall, heading back to the kitchen. He should tell Sam, let him
know the stupid kid’s gone all stab-happy-Bukowski. Then Sam can rush in with
his Dr Phil crap and smother the kid in stupid platitudes about rock bottom and getting through it. The two of them will probably have a good cry,
listen to some fucking Enya, then start moving
on, in all the ways that Dean can’t.

There’s nothing to move on to. Dean’s future is lost in gritty, greasy, black smoke.

Dean stops, braces a hand on the cold, stone wall, and chugs
the last of the bottle. Screw telling Sam. He’ll figure it out. Kid wears his
damn heart on his sleeve, like an idiot.

He’ll learn.

The beer’s gone now, and Dean’s already had four, but they’re
not really doing anything. Big surprise. He’ll have to make a detour to his stash
in the library on his way to his room.

Mercifully, there’s an unopened bottle on the little table in
the corner. It’s cheap-ass whiskey, and it’s probably not gonna do much either,
but it’s what he’s got. He grabs the bottle by the neck and turns to go, but
the corner of the table catches his eye.

Two sets of initials, carved with a pocketknife, only a few
weeks ago. Feels like a decade.

The bottle thunks down on the table and Dean pulls back a
chair. He collapses, slumps back, and then realizes he’s still holding the
knife.

There’s a lot of things he could do with the knife. But he’s
a coward – always has been – so he drops it on the table and starts sucking
down the whiskey.

Gotta give Jack props on that score. He at least tried –
just went for it.

Given the option though, Dean will always choose the slow
suicide.

He swallows, swig after swig, 40-proof burning the back of
his throat like the acrid smoke of the pyre.

He’d wanted to fling himself onto it. How fitting it would’ve
been, to end their story the way it had begun: one of them diving headfirst
into fire, searching for the other.

But he hadn’t moved, couldn’t summon the energy. And before
he knew it Sam was there, using the same tone he always used with grieving
widows, the bastard.

It’s been a half hour and the bottle’s half-empty. He tries
to focus back in on the table, but his vision’s a little blurry. He can’t
decide if it’s his head or his eyes that are swimming.

Probably both. Score one for the slow suicide.

Dean’s always played it slow, though. Always assumed there’d
be time.

Time to talk, work it all out together. Time to finally spit
out the words, instead of making a dumbass mixtape and hoping Cas has a decoder
ring for Dean’s cryptic fucking feelings. Time for Cas to carve his own initial
into the table next to Dean’s.

The knife’s in his hand in he next instant, the point
digging into the wood. It’s too large, unwieldy, and it’s still covered in Jack’s
drying blood.

Dean only gets halfway through a squarish-looking ‘C’ before
it slips, slicing into the meat of his palm.

“Fuck.” His hand
flies to his mouth and he sucks on the cut. But it’s not too deep, and the
booze is dulling the pain, so he just leans across the table and yanks a few
tissues from the box. He crumples them in his fist, squeezing tight, then looks
up at the library’s high ceiling.

“You can’t hear me. I know you can’t. ‘M not trying to
pretend.” Dean’s keeping his voice low, but in this space, it still sounds too
loud. “‘Kay, maybe I am.”

He takes another pull from the bottle, then picks the knife
back up to keep carving.

“But I prayed to God, to Chuck, and that was stupid. When
has he ever actually answered one of our goddamn prayers? I shoulda prayed to you. You always hear me.”

The ‘C’ is finished now. Dean didn’t do a good job; the
lines are jagged and rough. He probably should’ve waited until he was sober.

“I need you to come home. I can’t do this. I’m trying, and I
can’t. I just – I can’t. So come back to me.”

The knife drops from his hand again, clattering against the
table. He’d gotten halfway through the ‘W’ without even realizing what he was
doing.

He stands abruptly and reaches for the bottle, but it’s empty
now. Maybe this suicide’s not that slow after all.