InsaneJournal

Who: Dean Winchester (of the Endverse) and John Druitt.
What: Dean wants Alastair Druitt to check out a knife he has. With his spleen.
Where: Training room of the crisis center.
When: Immediately following this exchange.
Rating: R for violence and language.
Status: Complete

When John Druitt said that he would be there in a moment, he meant it quite literally. Only seconds after sending his message to Dean, he was gone from his flat in a crack of red energy and appearing in the crisis center’s training room. Unlike younger teleporters, there was no unsteadiness or stumbling. John had a great deal of control. He was uncertain about this meeting, given the younger man’s earlier reaction to him, as well as his marked propensity for violence. But the elder Dean Winchester seemed to be extending a sort of olive branch, and it would hardly be right to ignore that. If there was a way to avoid the possibility of violence, he would most certainly take it.

Which brought him here and now, meeting with a bloke about a sword. There was an odd thrill of professional pride (as a swordsman not a serial killer) at his skill being noted, and he had to admit to a certain level of curiosity about whatever sword the Winchester boy possessed. “Mr. Winchester,” he greeted the younger man cordially, looking around the room. “I believe you mentioned a sword.” No point in dwelling on pleasantries that would only ring false. “I must admit that I was intrigued by your message.”

Dean flashed his calm, calculated smile. The smile that often marked his face when he was on a hunt. There was no joy, only calculated interest. He had Ruby’s knife, the sword in question, stashed on a nearby shelf. He kept himself well within reach of the blade, hopefully without calling attention to it until he took it in hand.

“I might have over exaggerated.” He held the blade by the hilt, and gave it an appraising look. He knew it didn’t look like much, but it wasn’t just any old knife. It was a proven demon killer. He’d killed Ruby and countless other demons, though the blade had failed to kill Alastair once before. So he’d just have to have a repeat performance, and do it himself this time. He was certain he could do it right, and get the job done.

Exaggerated, John thought to himself, was something of an understatement in this instance. He examined the knife with a critical eye, far from impressed by the blade. It seemed to be nothing more than a serrated hunting knife with symbols etched into the blade and a wooden handle. He had both seen and owned more interesting pieces in his considerable lifetime.

“That really isn’t the word for it,” he insisted. “If that is honestly your idea of a sword, I can only imagine your standards are terribly low and your definitions lacking.” He looked at Dean and raised an eyebrow. “Now,” he said, “as I hardly think you’re as much an idiot as you would have people believe, I sincerely doubt that the true purpose of this meeting was to show me a hunting knife. Why don’t you save us both some time and simply tell me what it is you want.”

Dean paced a few steps. He stopped a few feet from the other man. The fact he’d teleported into the room reminded Dean of his power, but not so much that Dean started to second guess his plan. No. he was committed to this, he was going to stand his ground and follow through.

“I know it doesn’t look like much.” Dean turned the blade in his hand, examining it from every angle. He shifted his gaze, eyes turned up to Druitt’s face. “But I got it from someone who claimed it was pretty powerful.” Dean ran a finger along the blade from tip to hilt, in a classic and over done iconic movie gesture. “Want to see what it can do?”

It took him all of two seconds to lunge forward, intent to imbed the blade in Druitt’s chest. He didn’t quite hit his mark. He managed to plunge the knife in to the man’s side. He’d just have to hit him again. And again, as many times as it took. Alastair was one of Hell’s most wicked demons, Dean knew that better than anyone. Dean also felt confident he could end him once and for all. Even if Ruby’s blade didn’t kill him, it would weaken him, and Dean could finish the job easily enough.

“Fuck!”

John was normally a better judge of these things, but the boy was quick, and there was suddenly a sharp burning pain in his side and a knife sticking out of him. He gave a choked gasp, but other than that, there was no unusual reaction. Ironically, Dean could have killed him with the knife if he had used it as simply a weapon rather than relying on its supernatural qualities. He also could have killed Druitt just a few months ago, when he had still been possessed by the abnormal that had made him a killer. But now he was just a man, and a knife wound had the potential to be fatal but wasn’t automatically so.

The real danger was that of losing control. While John was no longer controlled by a malicious entity, he still had over a century’s experience with violence and a long acquaintance with blood lust. So much of him was screaming to kill the other man, to eliminate the threat and have his vengeance for this attack. But he wasn’t a killer any more, and if he murdered the man in front of him, free of the compulsions of the parasite, then he was truly no better than the killer he had been. And he couldn’t give in to that. He was better than that, or he could be with great effort. It was a battle for self-control, a fight that he wasn’t sure if he could win. And, more than anything, he hated Dean Winchester for putting him in a position where he wanted so badly to fail.

He jerked away from the younger man, the knife pulling out and blood darkening the fabric of his shirt. He was a bit unsteady on his feet now, but he didn’t teleport away just yet. “It’s funny,” he said coldly. “You talk about the danger I am, but you’re the one they all need to worry about, aren’t you?”

“I’m not a fucking demon,” Dean hissed. The knife hadn’t killed Alastair immediately before. Sam had finished the job, after the knife had been plunged into Alastair’s chest. Sam wasn’t here to finish the job. Dean was going to have to do it himself. He drew his arm back, blood dripping off the knife. The scene mimicked something out of a bad cult horror movie, but the thought was fleeting. Dean jerked his arm down, seeking another hit.

There had been no crackle of energy, nothing to show that the knife was anything more than the hunting knife it appeared to be. But Dean hadn’t aimed for anything specific. he’d simply sunk the blade into Druitt’s skin. He attempted to land a more calculated hit. perhaps hitting the heart cavity would do the trick. Alastair wasn’t a common demon, Dean could only assume the knife needed to hit a vital organ to be effective on him.

John could have left, but he was honestly worried what Dean would do without a target for his aggression. Someone could get seriously hurt, or even killed, and he would have that on his conscience. Still, he wasn’t quite the sort of martyr who would allow himself to be killed just to placate a severely disturbed man. Luckily, he was still fast and managed to move quickly enough that the knife sank into his shoulder rather than somewhere more dangerous. It hurt like a bitch, but he would most likely survive.

Managing to jerk away again, he made a grab for the knife with his good arm, trying his best to disarm the man. Maybe then, he could make him see sense so that he stopped trying to murder him. It would be rather preferable to the current situation.

Blood had made the knife slippery, and Dean lost his grip. his fingers slid off the hilt, leaving the knife sticking out of Druitt’s shoulder. “Why aren’t you dead, you son of a bitch?” Dean growled. He attempted a grab at the knife, but missed it entirely. He frowned, hesitating just a second, possibly long enough to give Druitt a chance at getting the knife.

Dean took a step back. His plan had failed. The man was not dead. He was bleeding like a stuck pig, but he wasn’t on the ground gasping for breath. The demon in him hadn’t smoked out. The knife hadn’t worked, and now Dean was in a closed room with someone who had every right to be pissed off. Hell, maybe it’d be best if the bastard killed him right then and there, but Alastair wouldn’t do that. Dean was starting to think he’d made a huge mistake, and greatly miscalculated the effect of Ruby’s knife. He should have tried it out on Crowley first.

“Because you have bloody awful aim and have yet to hit anything terribly vital,” John told him tersely, pulling his good hand away from the wound at his side to grab the hilt of the knife and yank it out of his shoulder. It hurt, his shoulder screaming with pain, but he ignored it and tucked the into his belt, staggering slightly. He needed to find James or Nikola, someone who could help sort this mess out. At least without a weapon, they’d have some time to get Dean under control before he could hurt anyone else.

Perhaps he should have tried to at least knock the boy unconscious, but at this point he was barely steady on his feet and he didn’t want to risk Dean getting his knife back. “This is not the end of this,” he said quietly, before teleporting away.

Dean stood where he was, rooted to the spot. He felt as if his feet were made of lead, as if he couldn’t move if he wanted to. He stood there, blood on the floor, his hands, splattered on his clothes. None of it was his, the bastard hadn’t even tried to fight back. He just slipped away, and the only thing Dean could think to do was scream after him. “Bastard! Coward! Miserable son of a bitch!”

The insults kept spewing out of his mouth. He felt himself growing weaker, but it only made him want to keep going. He finally fell to his knees, there in the mess of Druitt’s blood. He covered his face with his hands, and forced himself to take deep breaths until his heart rate settled a bit.

He tried to haul himself back up to his feet, but slid on the slick floor. He growled and hit his knee hard on the concrete floor. He sneered and huffed and dragged himself over to the wall, and used the wall to support his weight in order to get to his feet. He left a bloody hand print on the door knob on his way out.