sixwordstories | (no subject)

You're of course free to believe whatever you want, love, but did you really expect the person standing behind the counter of a shop called "Witch's Glen" to say magic isn't real?

[ Why did you even come in here, sweetheart? ]

I assumed it to be some hoax. [honest to a point, Dean frowns.]

Well, if it was, you think I'd just tell you?

[ She gives him a cheeky grin and runs a hand through the riot of red hair framing her face. ]

Not that it is. Magic is real, and I'm a witch, for all the good it does me.

[ The shop even has a talking skull, though Bob is staying silent on his shelf for the moment. ]

Of course not - that would mean a refund had I bought anything. [he remarks dryly. Disregarding the statement with a shrug, his folded jacket slipping over his arm so he adjusts it.]

Would it? Plenty of witchcraft shops sell stuff that don't do anything at all, far as I know. This isn't one of them, but that's sort of beside the point.

Jo raises a brow at him. "Really? You won't believe in ghosts, but you'll wear that ugly ass tie?" she asks. There is no God.

Excuse me? [he snorts at his little sister's words.] You bought me this, so I wore it!

"I didn't buy that. I'd never buy a tie that looked like that. The hell's the matter with you?" she asks, frowning as she settles her hands on her hips.

You sure about that?

...Yes. This is all in my head. Fuck. I need better pills. [anxiety, dieting, even. He's tried them all. Shit - side-effects?]

I think you're under the influence of enough shit. [He walks around him slowly]. So...this is what I'd look like if I were a complete tool, good to know I guess.

It has to be a miracle. People don't just get shot at point blank range in the chest and get up again - without a scratch.

I was dead. [ As if to emphasize his point, he pulls at the bullet-sized hole in the front of his shirt. ] How else can you explain that?

[he saw nothing...!] Look, man -- just back away from me. Please.

[ He looks down at his shirt again, as though deeply and spiritually thinking about that hole in his shirt. Methos likes it when he wakes up from death to mortals in complete and utter denial. No one pointing guns at him, no one with swords trying to chop his head off... this is good. He can work with this. ]

I need to calm down. [ He puts his hand to his forehead, swaying slightly and closing his eyes. ] I need - oh god. Okay, I think I'm in shock. I'm not making sense.