Hell's Greatest Weapon

Chapter 7: Confrontation

It was only about a week of pre-Winchester life before you were summoned back in.

You had been in the pursuit of one of the several eternals you had decided to take control over when the ringing began in your ears, followed immediately by the echo of “Gragnis” in your mind.  It was easy to identify the sensation that followed as one that suggested you were being summoned, but there was something more powerful about this particular summoning than you were used to.

The hairs on your arms stood on end and began to tug, causing the normal gooseflesh to become more dramatic and slightly uncomfortable; you felt your stomach tug toward your back while each of your bones suffered from a similar experience.  Even your mind yelled to you that you were being called, that someone was very strongly demanding your presence.  You hadn’t planned to answer the summoning, originally electing to simply wait it out at first, until you heard the prayer echo in your mind.

(Gragnis, I need to talk to you.)

You had been walking down an Ann Arbor sidewalk when you got the call, which stopped you dead in your tracks.  The voice echoed once again, a deep and familiar voice that you had not been anticipating hearing again in quite some time, this time with more urgency.  You saw what the man was seeing for a moment before you answered the summoning—he was in a cement room with no windows or decorations of any kind, a bowl sitting in front of him that was filled with flames and, apparently, your blood; you immediately recognized the room as being one of the many dungeons of the bunker.  Without considering who might have been watching you on the nighttime, Ann Arbor street, you answered the call and, within an instant, found yourself standing in the basement of the bunker.

Turning on a heel after realizing that your back was to the man that had summoned you, you crossed your arms over your chest and somehow kept yourself from inhaling as sharply as your body seemed to be demanding.

Dean Winchester stood in front of you with jean-covered legs shoulder-width apart, a grey T-shirt covered with an opened button-down shirt, his arms crossed across his chest.  His head was angled down, slightly, but it was enough for the shadow from the light on the ceiling to darken a good portion of his face, adding to his already-menacing features.  There was a small cut on his cheek and the bottom, right hand corner of his lip was split and swollen, likely two injuries from the same fight, but these wounds only increased his looming-factor.

You noticed that his face was especially dark, something that you had initially credited to the lighting, but after a second’s observation you saw that the shadow was not being projected across his face but was projecting from his face.  It gathered below his eyes, giving them a more sunken appearance, made the area around his nose dark as though it was bruised, even made his closed mouth seem darker.  One more step of logic brought you to the conclusion that it was the Mark and the demon within him affiliated with it that you were seeing.  Lurking beneath the surface.

Dean kicked a foot out and pushed the bowl he had used to summon you to the side in order to take a step closer to you.  His arms stayed folded across his chest and his face kept the downward angle, even as he spoke.

“I figured it was about time we had a little chat.”

You nodded and crossed your hands over your chest to mirror Dean, your eyes fixed on the darkness that seemed to be emitted from his features.  He raised his eyebrows and nodded back to you before taking a few steps back and narrowing his eyes, never once looking any place except at you.

Now seven or so feet in front of you, Dean finally blinked. 

“Sam told me he pushed you away.”

“He did.”  You said, your voice more casual until you added on the “Rightfully so.”

“Oh, I’m not going to argue with that.  He had every right to.”