Choice

Blue Earth, Minnesota -- 1990

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus..."

The Latin echoed through the church basement, my seven-year-old voice carrying more authority than it should. Ancient texts and religious artifacts surrounded me, their presence both comforting and oppressive.

A wooden crucifix watched from the wall, its shadow stretching across the stone floor in the late afternoon light.

"...omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii..."

Each word felt like fire and ice on my tongue. Sometimes, when I practiced alone, the words made the demon blood in my veins burn. Today was one of those days.

"...omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica..."

Pastor Jim's hand rested steady on my shoulder as I recited. The basement smelled of old parchment, blessed oil, and something older – something holy that made that hollow space inside me ache.

"Excellent pronunciation, Samuel," Pastor Jim praised as I finished. "You have a gift for this. Most children your age struggle with basic Latin, let alone the more complex rhythms of exorcism rites."

If only he knew why. In my past life, I'd watched this show for years. Now, living it, every scrap of knowledge felt like both a blessing and a curse.

"Again," he instructed, "but this time, I want you to feel the power in the words. An exorcism isn't just about memorization – it's about faith, about authority."

I nodded, turning back to the ancient tome before me. The leather-bound book was massive, its pages yellow with age.

Upstairs, I could hear Dean and Dad discussing different types of ammunition, their muffled voices a reminder of the normal hunter training I should be doing.

"Exorcizamus te..."

As I recited, I felt it again – that wrongness inside me. That vessel-shaped void calling out to an angel who was currently locked in the deepest pit of Hell.

The words of the exorcism seemed to echo in that empty space, making it pulse like a wound.

I stumbled over the words, my small hands trembling. This body is really effecting me in ways, that make me more childlike than I like, yet still need.

"Samuel?" Pastor Jim's voice was gentle but concerned. "What's wrong?"

I closed the book, trying to find words to explain feelings that no seven-year-old should have. "Pastor Jim... can we talk?"

He pulled up a chair beside me, his kind eyes studying my face. The basement was quiet now, save for the distant sounds of Dean and Dad upstairs and the soft ticking of an old clock on the wall.

"Of course, my boy. What's troubling you?"

I silently stared at my hands, so small in this new life. I need to talk about this, to somebody, at least a little bit. 

"Do you... do you ever feel like something's wrong with you? Like you're not... complete?"

Jim was quiet for a moment, considering his response. "What do you mean by 'not complete'?"

"It's like..." I struggled to explain without revealing too much. "Sometimes I feel hollow inside. Like there's this space that's supposed to be filled with something, but it's empty.

And when I say these words, when I practice these rituals, it feels... it feels like the emptiness gets bigger."

Pastor Jim leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. "Samuel, many people feel empty sometimes. It's part of the human condition. But I sense there's more to what you're experiencing."

I nodded, feeling tears prick at my eyes. "Sometimes... sometimes I feel like I was made wrong. Or maybe made right, but for something terrible."

"Look at me, Samuel," Jim said softly, waiting until I met his eyes. "What makes you think you were made for something terrible?"

The question hit too close to home. Images flashed through my mind – Lucifer wearing my body, destroying the world, hurting Dean. I shuddered.

"I have these dreams," I whispered, offering a partial truth. "About fire and darkness. About something... something huge and bright wanting to fill up all my empty spaces.

And in the dreams, it feels right, and that scares me more than anything."

Pastor Jim was silent for a long moment, his face serious. "Samuel, do you know why I became a man of God?"

I shook my head.

"Because I felt something similar once. An emptiness, a calling. But instead of letting that hollow space frighten me, I chose what to fill it with."

"But what if you can't choose?" I asked, my voice small. "What if you're made for something specific?"

Pastor Jim's eyes narrowed slightly. "Samuel, you're speaking as if you know something. As if you've been told..."

"No!" I said quickly – too quickly. "Just... feelings. And dreams."

Jim studied me for a long moment, then stood and walked to an old wooden cabinet in the corner. He returned with two cups of hot chocolate I hadn't even seen him prepare.

The warm, sweet scent helped ground me in the present.

"Let me tell you a story," he said, settling back in his chair. "There was once an angel – the brightest of them all – who was made for a specific purpose. To bring light, to serve God. But this angel chose differently. He chose pride, chose rebellion."

My hands tightened around the warm mug. He was talking about Lucifer – my supposed future occupant.

"The point, Samuel, is that even beings made for the most divine purpose can choose differently. Being made for something doesn't mean you have to become that thing."

If only he knew how relevant his words were.

"But what if..." I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. "What if the empty space inside you is shaped like something specific? Something that calls to you?"

Jim's expression turned more serious. "Samuel, are you having thoughts about... dark things?"

"No!" I said quickly. "Not like that. It's more like..." I struggled to explain. "Like being a puzzle piece that knows what picture it's supposed to fit into, but wanting to be part of a different puzzle instead."

Understanding dawned in Jim's eyes. "Ah. You're worried about destiny."

I nodded, relieved he'd given me the word I'd been dancing around.

"Your father's told me about your nightmares, about your... sensitivity to certain things." Jim took a sip of his hot chocolate. "Some would say that's a gift."

"It doesn't feel like a gift," I whispered. "It feels like a trap."

"Then perhaps that's your answer." Jim leaned forward. "If it feels like a trap, then it's your duty to find another way. God gives us free will for a reason, Samuel. Even if we're made for one purpose, we always have the choice to serve another."

The irony of his words almost made me laugh. If he only knew he was basically advising Lucifer's true vessel to rebel against destiny.

"But how?" I asked. "How do you fight something that feels written into your bones?"

"With knowledge," Jim gestured to the books around us. "With faith. With family. And most importantly, with choice. Every day, every moment, you choose who you want to be."

He stood again, moving to the locked cabinet in the corner. "Which is why," he pulled out a silver flask of holy water and a bag of salt, "I'm going to teach you everything I know about protection.

Your father might not approve of teaching you so young, but..." he smiled slightly, "I think you're ready."

The next few hours passed in a blur of protective sigils and purification rituals. Jim taught me how to draw devil's traps, how to bless water, how to create barriers no demon could cross. With each lesson, I felt that hollow space inside me not shrink, but feel less... beckoning.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows through the basement windows, Jim paused our lesson. "Samuel, can I tell you something?"

I looked up from the devil's trap I was practicing. "Yes, sir?"

"In all my years teaching young hunters, I've never seen anyone take to this as naturally as you do. It's like..." he paused, his eyes distant. "It's like you were born for this."

The irony hit hard, but I managed a small smile.

"But remember," he continued, kneeling to meet my eyes, "knowledge without wisdom is dangerous. Power without purpose is hollow. These words, these rituals – they're tools, not answers. The real strength comes from here." He touched my chest, right over my heart.

"And Samuel?" he added softly. "That empty space you feel? Maybe it's not waiting to be filled. Maybe it's space you need to grow into something new – something of your own choosing."

Later that night, lying in the guest room of Pastor Jim's house, I practiced the exorcism under my breath while Dean snored in the next bed. Each Latin word felt like a small act of rebellion against what I was meant to be.

The hollow space inside me pulsed with each word, like something far away was listening. Waiting. But for the first time, it didn't feel like a void hurting to be filled.

Thunder rolled across the cloudless night sky, and somewhere, in the deepest pit of Hell, an archangel stirred in his cage, dreaming of a vessel that was learning to be try to be something entirely different.

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(Author note: Hello everyone! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter!

Tell me how did you find the conversation between Sam and Pastor Jim? How do you find the pacing?

I wish to go slower in this rewrite and wish to try a new style of writing for this book. I wish for it to mostly be from I perspective and only sometimes the author's pov.

This desire may change, but for now is how I want it.

Well, do please comment and review, and I hope to see you all later,

Bye!)