ben braeden-winchester. (littlepimp) wrote in parabolical, @ 2009-11-15 20:48:00 |
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From one corner of the city to another, forces were at play, changing the very concept of 'real' as memories changed and lives shifted to accommodate those memories. Other forces were at play, scrambling to undo what was being done, reforming memories and dealing with the changes around them. For some, it worked entirely. For some, it worked partially. For some, it did not work at all. And for one little boy, it worked for him but not the space around him. Ben woke up screaming at the phantom sensation of fingers on his body, tugging him back someplace, but it was a sensation that faded upon waking. Faded, to be replaced by an expression that could only be described as 'what the fuck', for his surroundings failed to be the right ones. There was no Jack hogging the whole bed. His dad's jacket was gone, but Ben clearly recalled waking up earlier to find it wrapped around him because he'd passed out on top of the covers. His pajamas were actual pajamas, rather than t-shirts and track shorts and stuff like that. And the room. Holy crap, the room. It was like waking up inside a PBS series. There were bright primary colors and smiling Sesame Street characters on the walls and toys that were way too lame for him and nothing of those things he loved, from video game consoles to hunter paraphernalia he was allowed access to in order to know how to use it all. Ben had no idea what kind of mind had come up with this, but clearly it was Lilith-level evil. It had to be. There was one thing he did know, and that was a reaction to being kidnapped again that Ben was sure was happening in his house right now. "Dad is going to kill me," he breathed. Ben waited, his arms crossed stiffly over his chest as he glared at the blonde woman before him, the one who seemed set on thinking she was his mother. But he'd shown her, he'd called her number and laid everything out on the table so she knew it wasn't just some normal kid her and her goons were dealing with a Winchester. They would be toast if she didn't cooperate. "That's nice, honey," the woman said distractedly. "Nice?" The glare changed to open shock as Ben did a doubletake. She hadn't even been listening, had she? Crazy bitch. "Hunters are not NICE. Slayers are not NICE. And I'm telling you, there's probably gonna be a whole army of people on your freaking doorstep-" "Language, dear." "Whatever. ON YOUR DOORSTEP, unless you let me go right now." He'd have gone already, but these people had some kind of security system that he hadn't been able to figure out when he'd tried to climb out the bedroom window. Yet. But he had plans. Plans aplenty, but he was hoping this chick would just listen to him, realize the error of her ways and let him use the phone. That hope would soon prove to be in vain. "Benjamin Anthony Ma-" "STOP IT. JUST FUCKING STOP IT. THAT IS NOT MY FUCKING NAME-" Ben's face was nearing a purplish color with the force of his upset, a horse voice and wet cheekbones the tell-tale signs of how stressful the last three hours had been on top of the time between waking up and finding other people in the house. There had been no phone he could get access too – what were these people, Amish? – and once the woman gained a reinforcement, he hadn't even been able to leave the damn kitchen where he was arguing his case over and over. And they kept treating it like it was all some silly story, like he was making it all up. These people were absolutely, positively, totally batshit crazy. He was done with this. "-AND YOU ARE NOT MY FUCKING MOM, YOU CRAZY BITCH!" Smack. The woman calling himself his mother smacked him before Ben could even duck away from the action. He didn't even hesitate to respond – so he missed her eyes widening in horror at what she'd done and how they immediately filled with tears – just screamed in incoherent rage and barreled into her. Or tried. It was prevented, though, as he found himself dangling a good foot above the floor by the scruff of his foreign pajamas – cartoon trains? Really? Come on – courtesy of the built-like-a-wrestler man calling himself his dad. This was so not working for him. "PUT ME DOWN, ASSHOLE!" he screamed, kicking back. He'd been trained in self-defense by hunters and Slayers and many more, which was very clear in this instance because one foot nailed the guy in the groin and the other in the exact spot on his stomach to push his diaphragm in the wrong direction and knock some or all of the man's air out of him. It also nearly knocked Ben's out of him as he bellyflopped on the linoleum. But he was free, gloriously free, so he scrambled to his feet like an awkward puppy and ran. As fast and as hard as he could, out the unsecured kitchen door and across the yard and into the woods at the back of the house, toward freedom. Most people would have preferred finding a highway, but the field near a regular road was perfect for what Ben needed. He wanted to be the only living thing within hundreds of feet, so there would be no confusion. He'd gotten his breath back from his frantic run and the scrapes from foresty things and the blooming bruise on his cheek were put aside as he focused on the task at hand. "OKAY, GOD," he yelled, face upturned toward the sky. "AND CAS. AND EVE. 'CAUSE YOU BOTH BETTER BE OUT THERE. OKAY, GOD, THIS REALLY FUCKING SUCKS AND SINCE YOU TRICKED ME INTO THINKING YOU WERE A HOMELESS SKEEBALL CHICK – YEAH, I KNOW ABOUT THAT, THANKS TO DOUCHE ME – YOU KIND OF OWE ME RIGHT NOW." He paused, then bit his lip, yell also subsiding briefly. "Or maybe not owe owe, but you did lie and that's just not on, so you just really need to fix whatever just happened to me and then we'll be even." Still looking up at the sky, Ben sighed. "I need a freaking Angelsignal. CAS. CASTIEL. EVEEEEE. ANGEL NINE-ONE-ONE." This would work. It had to, because he had no clue what to do if screaming himself hoarse for Castiel, Eve or God didn't get him anywhere. |