Inspired by DID You by: Laryna6 and Faith No More's "The Cowboy Song"
A special thanks goes out to Shadow-of-Wolf and Mike Brown for helping me to convert this from a senior seminar project to a fan fiction and to anyone who lent me some kudos and faves when this story on DA and Archive of Our Own.

The Cowboy Song
Part I

A middle aged man sat in his plush, leather office chair. He produced a handkerchief from an inner breast pocket in his suit jacket. He shook out the cloth, giving an audible snap when he did. He spent a moment fiddling with his glasses, wiping away a speck on his lens. He placed his spectacles on his face once again, adjusting and readjusting them until they sat perfectly on the bridge of his nose. He tucked away the handkerchief before he brought his eyes up to acknowledge the presence of the young man who sat a mere five feet from him.

He set a voice recorder on a coffee table before him and picked up the blank, yellow legal pad next to. He pressed a couple of buttons before speaking. "Dr. Alois Rhinefeld. This is session eight and day fifteen with patient, Dante Sparda. Good evening, Dante."

The young man had taken up a comfortable position on a corduroy sofa. His arms stretched across the back of the couch and his left ankle hooked across his right knee. His fingers drummed across the surface. Impatience crept into his facial expression, but he continued to feign indifference.

"No. No, Doc, take your time. I am quite used to being ignored. It's not like you believe in this sort of thing anyhow."

The older man cleared his throat. "Believe in what?"

"Oh, Dr. Rhinefeld, you mean to tell me that with all your fancy degrees you can't put two and two together? Tch. I'm disappointed." The young man stood and paced the room, stopping to read the framed certificates on the wall. "Yale, Columbia…" He gave an impressed whistle. "Those are some pretty nice schools and they don't come cheap either. Where'd you get the money? Loans? Or were you a trust fund baby? I can't imagine scholarships carried you all the way through. I mean, you only graduated somewhere in the top half of your class. Well, fifty percent did worse than you did and nearly fifty did better. But then again, top is tops, despite your being average at best. Psychology must be so hard." The young man pressed his lips into a mock pout.

The doctor's face remained a stony, poker face despite his wondering of how the man before him knew such things about his standing. He had never before divulged his class rank.

"You'd be surprised what Google can turn up on someone." The man spoke again as if he were reading the doctor's mind. "It's okay, Doc." He leaned over and whispered in the older man's ear, "Your secret is safe with me."

"We are not here to debate my credentials. We are here for you and to talk about anything that has been bothering you." The doctor laid out the ground rules. "We are going to try to remedy whatever issues that you may have. With that said, we are not going to dwell on or project any past disappoints from previous psychologists you may have had. I know that you are probably upset about being at this hospital, but please understand that the staff and I are here to help you. You have people that are looking forward to your recovery. Can I count on you to be as committed to it as we all are?"

The young man nodded and took his seat again. "You should learn how to loosen up, Doc." He laughed. "Education is a beautiful thing, but not many people are fortunate enough to receive it. I wonder how'd Dante turn out of he had just gone to MIT instead of taking up the 'family business.' He got a full ride after all. Rightfully deserved, too. His IQ clocked in at around 190. The kid's a whiz with math and physics. Back in the day, it used to get crowded in here with his complex equations and algorithms." The young man tapped at the side head. "But, I was happy to be there, to be a genius by association. He didn't get to join their ballistics program, but I'm sure he could still figure out the angle and trajectory of a bullet if you were sniped right now. He'd know if it came from a rooftop or a window and which one it came from."

The young man pointed his thumb and forefinger, and then drew back on it as if he fired a gun. "Bang," he said. There was no inflection. His tone remained neutral.

"Are you threatening me?"

"Not at all. I'm not crazy," the young man answered, "Dante was a smart kid. Would have gone far too, if dear Daddy's mistakes hadn't crushed him. Not many knew he was college bound before Hell came a-knockin'. Since I kept your secret, I think he'd appreciate it if you said nothing about this to the girls. I think he's found his niche pretending to be some loveable idiot."

The therapist hadn't missed that the young man's family had been mentioned twice or sudden shift in his speech. He took note that he did begin to refer to himself in the third person. Possible delusional break from reality. Narcissistic personality. Rule out an identity disorder, the doctor wrote the message to himself on his pad.

"Aren't I talking to Dante?" Rhinefeld asked.

The young man chuckled. "He's not here with us, Doc. No está aquí. You haven't been talking to him for the last few sessions."

"So, Anthony Redgrave then?" Dr. Rhinefeld was familiar with the name. A name the young man's close friends had tossed around in a therapy session that excluded his patient; a name that his patient's ex-girlfriend claimed to have belonged to an alternate identity. The doctor was not convinced. People didn't just randomly have other personalities. There had to be other psychological forces at play.

A few of his colleagues would call it some kind of Multiple Personality Disorder or Dissociative Identity Disorder; whatever buzzword they were giving it these days. He didn't believe in a quick-fix diagnosis. To him, blaming delusions on a personality disorder was akin to buying into the whole depression phenomenon. Every teenager who had disagreements with his or her parents couldn't all be clinically depressed. By extension, that meant that every unhappy employee was also victim to similar circumstances. The whole thing translated to a macrocosm where at least eighty percent of a country's population can consider themselves depressed. That was too convenient. He believed that mood enhancers were doled out far too liberally by his colleagues. He was from an older school of thought where every one of life's problems couldn't be erased by a pill. Rhinefeld was sure the young man across from him had been a victim of these modern day pill pushers. He felt that he owed him a proper diagnosis.

"You sound disappointed. Is my company not good enough for you? Do I not entertain? Everyone wants to see and only hear him. Never mind me!" He threw his hands up in feigned annoyance. "I prefer Tony by the way."

The older man absently scratched his graying beard. "No. Not disappointed. Don't you think that Dante could benefit from therapy if he was here?"

"You can't have your cake and eat it too, Doc. This isn't couple's therapy and you can't have us both here at the same time. But, I'll be sure to relay your messages to him after screening them, of course."

"Why not give him the whole message? I'm sure that you are familiar with the oath I and anyone else in my field have taken. I will do no harm."

"It's all about the content, Dr. Rhinefeld. He's fragile and if he were stronger, he would have never gotten into this situation. He would have never been a sack of uselessness with a gun to his head. His friends wouldn't have needed to come to you for help. I have been in him since he was about eight or nine, it's true, but I didn't have to start taking over the reins until he was almost twelve. Keeping a half-demon in check is no easy task."

"Half-demon?"

"Yes. You heard me." Tony raked a hand through his shaggy, platinum-blond hair. "I'd wish Dante would cut this shit, maybe dye it. Maybe he enjoys the attention it brings him, not that he has to try hard to be a chick magnet. Oddly enough, he hates fielding questions about something as simple as his hair. Maybe it's because he's not sure why. Honestly, it could be anything from his lineage, a genetic abnormality, or some psychological trauma that sent him on his way to early graying. I highly doubt the trauma thing, because the same thing happened to his brother and they were still babies when the changes began. Whatever the reason, he both revels and reviles the attention it brings him, yet he won't lift a finger to buy some Clairol from the drug store." He laughed. "I share rent inside his head and even I can't figure him out. His hair wasn't always this color, you know. He started off a brunette. Or was it darker? It started changing strand by strand. It was unnoticeable at first, but then one day, he woke up with a head full of white hair."

Attention appears to easily deviate, Rhinefeld scrawled on his page.

The older man straightened himself in his chair. "You've completely changed the subject. What does this have to do with the 'half-demon' you mentioned earlier? Tony, do you believe that you are a 'half-demon'."

Tony gave a smirk and sat forward on the edge of the couch. "What's the point in spelling it out for you? Like I said before, you don't believe in this. Not in demons and certainly not in DID." Tony's smirked widened. "To answer your question: Am I a half-demon? …Yes and no. Let's say that I am by association."

Exhibits delusions of being some sort of demonic hybrid, Rhinefeld wrote.

"Demons are not real and Dissociative Identity Disorder is exceedingly rare, if it occurs at all. Both scenarios are easily misdiagnosed schizophrenia. Demons were the names given to previously unexplained mental illnesses. Demons and DID. It seems you are mixing your reality with fantasy, Mr. Redgrave. Both of these things are plot points in movies and literature, not widely accredited findings in medical and psychological journals. " DID, He thought and almost scoffed, we'll go with it, for now.

"The point of therapy is to let the crazies talk out their problems, not argue with them, dear doctor. I will say while you discredit the existence of demons, they believe in you. Have you ever been alone somewhere, alone where it is not entirely well-lit and you swear you saw a shadow move out of the corner of your eye? You turn to look and nothing is there."

Rhinefeld pictured himself having been in his office parking garage two days ago. As Tony had described, he had seen a shadow move and turned fully to see nothing.

"Yes. But you have described is nothing but a trick of the eye coupled with fatigue." The doctor shrugged off Tony's point.

"Most demons are jealous of humans and it's kinda why they are so spiteful. They normally only play with humans, lurking and laughing at your expense. Others prey on one's emotions, which gets someone riled up enough to harm themselves or someone else. At least the most cunning do that. The brazen ones like to hunt humans for sport, to eat or eviscerate them because they can. There are some 'good' ones out there. They're demons that settle in the human world and try to fit in. They face each day with human masks or shift into something else. You'd probably see them on the subway and never know that they are what they are. They work, eat, and live like you and I."

"Oh?" Rhinefeld placed his elbow on an armrest and balanced his chin between his forefinger and thumb.

"Take Sparda for example."

"You mean the children's fairytale?"

"Exactly. Though, I don't think Dante will appreciate you calling his family history a fairytale." Tony sank back into his seat, inspecting his nails with a bored expression. "Then again, he really wouldn't want me spilling the beans. There's a reason why everyone thinks Sparda is a myth. "

"Sparda is an old legend. Are you really trying to tell me that Dante is related to Sparda?"

"Dante Sparda. Hence the last name, old man. It's not fair to say that he's just related. There's something more there."

"Like what?"

"Think about the story. A dark, demon knight tramples all over mankind, but begins to pity the humans. He turns on his kind and seals them and his powers in the Underworld. He lived among the humans until he disappeared into obscurity. His story evolved into a myth, but most people don't know that he married a human woman who bore him twin sons Vergil and –"

"Dante," Rhinefeld supplied.

"Bingo. Bouncing baby half-demon brats. I knew you were paying attention, Doc." Another smirk graced Tony's lips.

Asserts that he— or rather his 'other personality' is a child of a fairytale character, Rhinefeld scribbled.

Rhinefeld shook his head. "You must be confused. Virgil and Dante are characters in Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy."

Tony shrugged. "Hey, I never did say that their parents were being original in the naming department. Maybe they were fans of the classics. It is all a matter of coincidence."

"The story also says that Sparda saved the world over 2,000 years ago. By your logic, his sons would be hundreds of years old, if not a couple of millennia. The Dante I met isn't much over thirty."

"Again with your assumptions. I didn't say that he got some woman knocked up immediately after sealing away the demons. I said that he settled and laid low. He found his mate, Eva, some thirty years ago and died shortly after their children were born. His wife died in a demon attack when their children were about seven. Poor little Dante witnessed the whole thing. He watched sweet little Eva torn limb from limb. A whole neighborhood heard the screams and did nothing to help. Not even a call was placed to the police department. Dante's twin was snatched up by demons, spirited away and feared dead. He wandered around town; shell shocked for three days until someone picked him up and sent him to an orphanage. After the orphanage, was the foster system where he faced nothing but abuse until he ended up on the streets again. Not long after, he became a mercenary, a child-soldier. Dante was all alone in the world. But I helped him through it. I took on the burden, helping him to forget."

"Tony, you are smart enough to know that forcing Dante to repress memories is not healthy," Dr. Rhinefeld said.

"Like I said, he's fragile and he doesn't need that shit in his life right now. Remember that demon I told you about? It knows what Dante knows, so I partition information as best as I can. If Dante knew everything, how would I hold it back? His demon is already an asshole. Its self-preservation instincts are among the only reasons Dante is still alive. It takes over whenever it pleases, while Dante and I have a mutual agreement. I, at least, asked for permission. It belittles him when he chooses not to mow down some human caught in the middle of a battle. It chips away at his humanity and even sanity when it rears its head. Still, we tolerate it because it means survival for the both of us. I can explain it all until I'm blue in the face, but you are a man of science. Nothing is real to you without empirical evidence. Even then, I'm sure that you'd explain it all away."

Tony was again on his feet, this time making his way to Rhinefeld's desk. There was a pause before he settled himself, leaning against the desk.

"How does one prove that demons, in fact, exist?" Rhinefeld said. He looked over his shoulder, watching the young man make his way to his desk.

"Short of holding you down as bait, until they show up? There's nothing I can do. Besides, Dante would find that morally reprehensible. He would never let that fly, nor would he forgive himself if something like that ever happened to a human. But I guess I could prove that Dante's a half-demon," Tony said.

"Oh?" Rhinefeld arched an eyebrow, standing to fully face the young man.

"Why don't we start with the medications and sedatives? They have had little, if any effect on Dante. All you or your staff has managed to do is make him a little tipsy."

"Either the drugs were administered incorrectly… too little of a dosage. Or perhaps Dante has built a tolerance for the medication. This is more prevalent in individuals who have been addicted to drugs," the doctor mused aloud.

Tony crossed his arms, annoyance playing on his boyish face. "Sure, Dante dabbled in pot and maybe some E back when he was a teenager, but he's squeaky clean now. He knows doing that stuff in the field will get him killed. He's crazy, Doc, not stupid." There was another pause before Tony spoke again.

"I could say that Dante has an unearthly ability to consume junk food nonstop without gaining an ounce. Though, I'm sure you'd chalk that up to a fast metabolism. Summoning a demon to this office is out of the question. I'm not too keen on killing it or cleaning that shit up. But—" Tony trailed off as he eyed the doctor's desktop. "The simplest things are always front and center." He reached onto the doctor's desk and picked up a letter opener.

Tony tapped a finger on the point, testing the sharpness. The older man seethed and made a move to stop the younger man before he hurt himself. Tony promptly held the small knife to his own throat. "It may be dull, but I can still cut myself before you can clear that gap. I suggest you back up."

The doctor obeyed, fearing the worst and kicking himself for having left the knife out.

Tony relaxed and brought the letter opener away from his neck. He explained, "Dante has this accelerated healing thing going for him, which is probably why he can metabolize the food, drugs, and alcohol faster than any normal person. He can heal rather quickly from normal injuries, while the more serious stuff takes longer."

"Are you claiming that Dante is an immortal?"

"Hardly." Tony almost laughed. "Nothing lasts forever. He's a little harder to kill is what I'm getting at. However, if someone really tried and knew exactly what to do, Dante would be just as vulnerable as any regular human being. On the same token, if he was injured badly enough, he'd die. He could bleed out, but not as quickly a normal person. I could demonstrate if you could be so kind as to shut off your tape recorder."

Rhinefeld balked at the request. He couldn't let his patient harm himself. He began to talk Tony down and said the first thing that came to mind. "I can't. I need to have all sessions recorded for review and for legal reasons." He could have cringed at the lie— or really half truth. He knew there was a huge chance it wouldn't work. His charge was far too bright to eat the lie. He still prayed Tony would buy it.

"Hmm. And here I thought that you wanted someone to open up to you. I am giving you a chance. You need only to turn that off. " Tony pointed to the recorder that sat between the couch and office chair. "Trust me, you'll never forget what I'm about to show you."

Rhinefeld had never before faced such a dilemma. On the one hand, this was the beginning of the breakthrough he craved for his patient. He had earned enough trust that allowed for some information to be divulged, but he needed to know more. However, this gave his patient more leeway to do something radical. There was the very real chance that Tony would attempt suicide right in front of him. Then there was curiosity. He had to see and know what made this young man tick. They had come so far in these sessions; why not go a little farther? He weighed his options. The greed was winning. A once in a lifetime chance, he thought, Imagine the publications. Perhaps in his greatest moment of weakness, Rhinefeld did the unthinkable and allowed his curiosity to trump his professionalism as a therapist. He hesitated, but eventually did as he was told.

Tony spoke again, "Also, it would be great if you didn't mention this to any of your staffers or any students or interns you may take on. What goes on in this room, stays in this room."

There was a long pause, but the old man nodded in agreement.

Tony took a deep breath and grasped the knife in his right hand. "This is going to hurt like a mother," the young man muttered.

He allowed Rhinefeld to move closer for a better view. He held out his left hand and sent the letter opener through it. He dug in, twisting the blade to make the wound visibly wider. Tony did all he could to keep himself from crying out in pain. It was the old man who didn't fare as well. He nearly vomited and passed out all at once at the sight of the blood.

"Oh, my God," Rhinefeld shouted. He scrambled about his office looking for tissues or anything he could use to staunch the bleeding. I allowed this to happen. What was I thinking, he kicked himself.

"Dr. Rhinefeld, it's okay," Tony said.

"What do you mean it's okay?! That's definitely not okay!"

"Hey, Doc, willya stop for a sec and look?"

Rhinefeld slowed down long enough to see Tony withdraw the knife. He gagged at seeing a glimpse of the burgundy and green carpet through the young man's hand. Then something happened. The wound repaired itself before the doctor's fascinated eyes. The doctor reached out and grasped Tony's hand. He stared into the wound to make sure he wasn't seeing things. He watched as nerves and blood vessels stitched themselves back together, then as the muscle fibers and skin latched onto their adjacent counterparts and knitted themselves closed. Hesitant at first, the doctor probed where the wound used to be with a finger and felt no scar. He sat back in his chair, awestruck.

"Enjoyed the show," Tony asked, clenching and unclenching his hand.

The doctor made no response, still in shock and still trying to process what happened.

"Good, because I won't be doing that again."

The doctor quietly reevaluated his stance on DID and the supernatural and vowed that he would not doubt whatever else Tony had to say.

"You can turn the recorder back on."

"Huh? Oh. Right. Yes. "

The doctor gathered up his notes that got tossed in the confusion. The recorder was on again and Tony took his seat as well.

"The point is that Dante is half-demon, but he makes it his business to hunt down and kill the things that destroyed his family," Tony continued, breaking yet another long pause.

"He identifies more with his human side and developed a strong sense of duty in relationship to his mother's death and his brother's disappearance, taking up his father's mantle," the old man surmised.

The young man nodded. "Something like that. Dr. Rhinefeld?"

"Yes, Tony?"

Tony gave a faint smile that faded and contorted into a solemn expression, something Rhinefeld hadn't seen at all during the current session. He was somewhat taken aback by it.

"What is it, Tony?"

"I don't know what's gotten Dante so twisted. I mean, sure he's been depressed before… who wouldn't be if they lived his life? He had been 'suicidal' even, but he realized the pointlessness of it. That or I've talked him down. But the other week was scary. I had never heard every last thought screaming the same thing before. It was just a cacophony, of 'end it all' over and over again. He drank until he couldn't see straight. He got the gun and— there was no talking him down this time. I think he tuned me out. That was the first time I ever thought, if he kills himself, then he takes me with him. That's some sick, fucked up, selfish bullshit, huh? He was suffering and there I was thinking about myself. I had never feared for my life before like that night. I had never prayed before, but suddenly I was practically on my knees appealing to every deity. I was praying that someone would come along and save him."

"No. Don't ever think of yourself as selfish. It's natural to be afraid in a situation like that. I can't imagine the suffering you both had gone through, but you must know that suicide is never the answer." Doctor Rhinefeld's expression matched the young man's. "I am glad that you are here today, speaking with me."

"Tell him that. I can still hear him milling around up here." Tony tapped his head again. "Right now, he's wondering if you've got aspirin in your desk drawer. He hopes that there's enough in there to finish him off. It's tiring dealing with these thoughts. It's tiring discerning his thoughts from my own. Sometimes I wonder where I end and he begins. There's too much noise and those emotions carry over. I feel them and then I start to believe them. I'd reach for a knife, and then I'd have to tell myself to stop. I have to remind myself that I'm not him. Scary, yeah?"

"How have you been holding everything together?"

"A wing and a prayer, if you would pardon the cliché." A bitter chuckle escaped Tony's mouth. "It's like pulling teeth, but I remind him that there are others that depend on him, that he has business partners… and Patty."

"Patty? The little blonde I saw just before the last session?"

"Yep. That would be her. She's an orphan who sort of fell into Dante's care. Some greedy, rich people got her caught up in some assassination plot because she has the same name as some long-lost heiress. The poor girl was almost killed until Dante stepped in to save her. The softie. I had always said that he had a soft spot for children, especially orphans. He grew to be something like a big brother, mainly because he claims he could never handle being someone's parent. They've been together ever since then."

"He's considered leaving a child in the balance?"

Tony nodded. "He planned everything to a 'T'. He put together a safety deposit box for her downtown. He reasoned that his friends and associates would take care of her and he left enough money to take care of all her finances."

"Did he not know the ramifications of leaving an orphaned child alone? She's already lost her parents and Dante's death would have meant that yet another caregiver gone." Rhinefeld was understandably disturbed by what Tony had told him. He decided that he needed to talk to Dante for himself. But talk was something Dante refused to do. The doctor could attest to the man's stubbornness. It took nearly three sessions before he finally said something other than two monosyllabic words to the doctor.

"He knew. It was rather unfortunate that she was the one who walked in on him holding a gun to his head. He wanted to die so badly. I could feel it boiling inside. He calmly told Patty to turn around, cover her ears, and walk away. She refused and screamed for help. It took three of his partners, Lady, Trish, and Morrison to wrestle him to the ground. He managed to bring the barrel to his temple and pull the trigger anyway." Tony gave a mirthless laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"No. Not funny. More… ironic. The bullet jammed in the chamber. A misfire, despite that he cleaned his gun the night before. He laughed and tried to scramble for another weapon. The last thing I remember is seeing Morrison's fist flying right at me. The little chicken-shit switched out at the last second. I woke up later, dressed in white scrubs and strapped to a gurney. A nurse happened along, took my vitals and told me that I was at Saint Andrew's Psychiatric Hospital under a thirty-day involuntary hold. And then here we are. Honestly, that was the best thing anyone could have done for either of us. But something tells me that Dante doesn't feel the same way. Obviously, there'd be some betrayal among other emotions, which are not something he lets out on a regular basis. Emotions are something Dante bottles up and hides behind jokes and sarcastic remarks."

The doctor fidgeted in his seat for a moment, unsure of what recourse to take.

"I know, I know. It all comes down to defensive mechanisms. I guess my spilling my guts here is a cry for help. He used to be so easy. A few words of encouragement here and there. A pat on the back. A bowl of strawberry ice cream Now, I don't know what I am dealing with anymore. I am seriously at my wit's end. I'd ask for a handful of happy pills and be on my merry little way. But what would that help? Maybe he's too far gone and I was too stupid to see it before to do anything about it."

"Would it work?" the doctor asked. "I would prescribe something for the depression and anxiety, but it may prove ineffective. Ultimately, there is nothing I can do if Dante chooses not to speak for himself."

Tony sat back into the couch with limbs relaxed as if he were a marionette that had its strings cut. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"Are you okay, Tony?"

"Seems like you'll get your wish sooner than later, Doc." Tony's voice was thick with exhaustion. His head lolled to the left and his breathing became slow and even, as if he had simply gone to sleep during the session.

"Tony?"

The doctor cautiously approached the young man on the sofa. He put a hand on his shoulder and shook him, attempting to rouse the young man.

"Tony," Rhinefeld repeated.

The young man's eyes flew open, revealing a pair of cold cobalt staring back at the doctor. He righted himself on his perch.

Rhinefeld sensed a change in the young man. Those eyes were the same but there was something different there, something that had not been there during the previous conversation. Those eyes were as frigid as ice cubes. Those eyes peered at him as if they were lancing his soul, as if they knew his inner thoughts. Tony was another being, another entity, another person inhabiting the same body that he spent the last half hour speaking to. Who was this man? Where had Tony gone?

He knew that this person was someone else.

"Tony?" He cringed, testing the waters. He wanted to see a reaction, but he also almost dreaded what it would be.

The young man shrugged off the doctor's hand. "Tony, Doc? No. Not by a long shot." He finally spoke with his voice in a deeper baritone than Tony's.