Gold Chariot
Title: Gold Chariot
Author: 3rd_leg
Pairing: J2
Disclaimer: Oh yeah, sure...and I'm the next American Idol.
Summary: Events have Jensen thinking and dealing about what happens at the end.
A/N: This is not a happy fic. This is a possibly may need Kleenex fic, although that depends on the kind of person you are I guess. Also, I liberally used the song 'Jesus Christ' by Brand New. It's amazing.
Jesus Christ, that's a pretty face. The kind you'd find on someone that could save
If they don't put me away, well, it'll be a miracle.
He goes to St. Anne’s Cathedral the day after the call. The tears on his face wash into the dusty pew, and the old wood moans under his shoulder’s tremble, blending and covering his guttural keen. He’s grateful the sanctuary is drenched in reverent silence. Solitude to match the overwhelming surrealistic emptiness he’s drowning in.
The painted crucifix above the altar stares back at him. It feels as far away as the twenty-four thousand miles between here and home. He wonders if God minds he’s not even Catholic, or if that even matters because it’s been a long time since he’s bowed his knee to a holy ordinance. But then again, it’s been a long time since everything.
There’s nothing to be done, and maybe that’s why he cries out to deaf Heaven, or maybe it’s his own ears that refuse to hear a solemn reply to his incessant question. He sobs, a man broken, and waits until his knees stiffen and his fingers lose circulation in their interlocked plea for an exchange with God. He stumbles to a stand and trudges to the door, tinted eyes of the nailed Christ watching. He lifts his head to see the deep blue orbs of the priest before him, ignores the offered counsel. He doesn’t deserve to be heard by God or man. His cross is one that many have born and overcome. He doesn’t get why he just can’t seem to pick it up.
Do you believe you're missing out? That everything good is happening somewhere else? But with nobody in your bed the night's hard to get through.
They argue on a Friday. It’s all screaming, clenched fists, hurt expressions, and tears. And that’s just Jared.
Jensen can’t cry anymore. He’s tried countless times since that afternoon in the church, but nothing. He’s dried up, hollow, and doesn’t that just fit? Jared’s talking about time, precious time, and Jensen can’t process ahead of each ticking second, much less three weeks. He hasn’t called his momma in days. He probably should. Jensen thinks that might be part of why Jared’s yelling.
“This is getting ridiculous. You need to go. Fuck work and go home.”
Jensen looks up then, at Jared’s face-the tan cheeks he loves tinged red with fury, the soft lips taut with contained spite. His throat is dry, parched, and strained like someone took a grater to it. He can’t speak, but Jared wants him to.
He also thinks Jared wants him to say something to make the thunderous exit from the apartment stop. Jensen doesn’t. Instead, he curls up in bed, clad in his well-worn Tee that smells like two-day old sweat and waits for another call.
And I will die all alone. And when I arrive I won't know anyone.
The airport’s teeming with business men and scatterbrained moms with exhausted children. Jensen stands alone in the middle of the chaos and watches with empty eyes as they wash around him. He doesn’t exactly recall how he ended up here, but the ticket’s in his hand, and his momma claims it’ll make her happy.
His brother appears out of the churning mass, and Jensen can’t even breathe his chest clenches so hard under the desperate embrace.
“You’re here. Thank God.” It’s a whisper-- pained, soaked relief.
Jensen can’t reply to that.
Well, Jesus Christ, I'm alone again. So what did you do those three days you were dead? 'cause this problem's gonna last more than the weekend.
Jensen’s been home three days before his momma says anything. She calls and tells him to come pay his dad a visit, speak with him. He sits alone on the sofa, instead. The vacant family home is flooded with his rambling debates about calling Jared he addresses toward the ceiling.
He finally dials, but he’s met with a voicemail. It’s amazing how just hearing Jared’s voice calms his spirit and makes his crashing world slow down for a brief instant. He thinks he told the machine that, or maybe he just hung up. A few minutes pass, and he simply doesn’t remember.
Well, Jesus Christ, I'm not scared to die. I'm a little bit scared of what comes after
Do I get the gold chariot? Do I float through the ceiling?
His hero’s broken. It’s the only thing that comes to mind when Jensen breaks the threshold of the ICU room and is assaulted with the image of his father attached to monitors and infiltrated with multiple IVs. The steady beeps and clicks resonate in his ears as he sinks to rest by his father’s blanket covered feet.
Jensen studies his father’s face, smooth and pale, and wonders if it’s all a mask. He asks quietly if it hurts, wincing as tongue scrapes palate. He looks at his father, but speaks to the God his daddy walks alongside. Neither answers.
His hero’s dying.
Jensen wonders if God cares.
Do I divide and fall apart? 'cause my bright is too slight to hold back all my dark
It’s past visiting hours, but the nurse gives him a sympathetic smile, telling him to stay as long as he needs to. Jensen tells her that his dad’s eyes moved today when he spoke to him. The nurse doesn’t look as excited or hopeful as Jensen needs her to be at the news. Jensen’s fairly certain it has to do with the dangerously low blood pressure numbers and stuttering heart rate the monitor keeps dinging about constantly.
When she leaves, Jensen gets up and pulls the privacy curtain closed. He stutter-steps toward the bed and lets down the guardrail, crawling carefully into the small space between his father and the ventilator. Jensen rests his head on his father’s shoulder and hides his face in the hospital blanket.
It’s a stop-choke-start when the tears flow, but soon it’s a flood. Jensen doesn’t lift his water stained face when he tells his dad that it’s okay if he can’t fight anymore. It’s okay, even though it’s not. He doesn’t want it to hurt. Daddy doesn’t deserve it to hurt, and if he needs to let go, while Jensen swears his father never will disappoint him, he can’t promise to understand why this is happening.
And the ship went down in sight of land. And at the gates does Thomas ask to see my hands
Jensen’s holding on like a drowning sailor when the rapid screeching of the machines jolt him from the bed. His frantic gaze desperately searches for an answer only to rest on his father and linger in hopeless anguish.
It doesn’t take long for Jensen to be swept out of the room, pushed on the other side of the glass and far, far away. It doesn’t take long for him to find Jared’s number and collapse in the waiting room, sobbing gasps barely making allowances for his flood of apologies.
I know you're coming in the night like a thief, but I've had some time, O Lord, to hone my lying technique. I know you think that I'm someone you can trust, but I'm scared I'll get scared and I swear I'll try to nail you back up.
Jensen’s screaming hoarsely at the sky. This time he’s begging for it to stop-this ache. Mud stains the bottom of his jeans, and he’s sure his family is getting a show--the backyard may not have been the best logical choice. It makes it easy for Jared to find him though, a crumpled mess cursing a God he was brought up to love.
He lets Jared wrap his strong arms around him and place chaste kisses where tears have stained warm flesh. Jensen doesn’t hear most of Jared’s stream of reassurances, he doesn’t have to. Jared’s there, right beside him.
So do you think that we could work out a sign so I'll know it's you and that it's over so I won't even try
The day of the funeral, Jensen swears his daddy is there. He guesses his dad would like the coffin they picked out. It’s blue, navy really, and Jensen tries to focus on contemplating the difference in color instead of his mother’s trembling. It doesn’t work, because once Jensen decides it’s got to be the addition of red purpley mixture in the color combination, he’s still faced with the fact that his dad is gone. He’s gone.
Jensen doesn’t realize he’s fallen to his knees until Jared crashes down beside him. Calloused fingers swipe gently at the free flowing tears while family and friends struggle to maintain their own grief. Jensen thinks he tells Jared he can’t breathe, but he can’t be sure. Everything hurts, and yet he’s not sure he’s really feeling a damn thing.
“I’m here, Jensen. It’s gonna be okay. I’m here.”
Jensen, for once, doesn’t ask why.
The End
Author: 3rd_leg
Pairing: J2
Disclaimer: Oh yeah, sure...and I'm the next American Idol.
Summary: Events have Jensen thinking and dealing about what happens at the end.
A/N: This is not a happy fic. This is a possibly may need Kleenex fic, although that depends on the kind of person you are I guess. Also, I liberally used the song 'Jesus Christ' by Brand New. It's amazing.
Jesus Christ, that's a pretty face. The kind you'd find on someone that could save
If they don't put me away, well, it'll be a miracle.
He goes to St. Anne’s Cathedral the day after the call. The tears on his face wash into the dusty pew, and the old wood moans under his shoulder’s tremble, blending and covering his guttural keen. He’s grateful the sanctuary is drenched in reverent silence. Solitude to match the overwhelming surrealistic emptiness he’s drowning in.
The painted crucifix above the altar stares back at him. It feels as far away as the twenty-four thousand miles between here and home. He wonders if God minds he’s not even Catholic, or if that even matters because it’s been a long time since he’s bowed his knee to a holy ordinance. But then again, it’s been a long time since everything.
There’s nothing to be done, and maybe that’s why he cries out to deaf Heaven, or maybe it’s his own ears that refuse to hear a solemn reply to his incessant question. He sobs, a man broken, and waits until his knees stiffen and his fingers lose circulation in their interlocked plea for an exchange with God. He stumbles to a stand and trudges to the door, tinted eyes of the nailed Christ watching. He lifts his head to see the deep blue orbs of the priest before him, ignores the offered counsel. He doesn’t deserve to be heard by God or man. His cross is one that many have born and overcome. He doesn’t get why he just can’t seem to pick it up.
Do you believe you're missing out? That everything good is happening somewhere else? But with nobody in your bed the night's hard to get through.
They argue on a Friday. It’s all screaming, clenched fists, hurt expressions, and tears. And that’s just Jared.
Jensen can’t cry anymore. He’s tried countless times since that afternoon in the church, but nothing. He’s dried up, hollow, and doesn’t that just fit? Jared’s talking about time, precious time, and Jensen can’t process ahead of each ticking second, much less three weeks. He hasn’t called his momma in days. He probably should. Jensen thinks that might be part of why Jared’s yelling.
“This is getting ridiculous. You need to go. Fuck work and go home.”
Jensen looks up then, at Jared’s face-the tan cheeks he loves tinged red with fury, the soft lips taut with contained spite. His throat is dry, parched, and strained like someone took a grater to it. He can’t speak, but Jared wants him to.
He also thinks Jared wants him to say something to make the thunderous exit from the apartment stop. Jensen doesn’t. Instead, he curls up in bed, clad in his well-worn Tee that smells like two-day old sweat and waits for another call.
And I will die all alone. And when I arrive I won't know anyone.
The airport’s teeming with business men and scatterbrained moms with exhausted children. Jensen stands alone in the middle of the chaos and watches with empty eyes as they wash around him. He doesn’t exactly recall how he ended up here, but the ticket’s in his hand, and his momma claims it’ll make her happy.
His brother appears out of the churning mass, and Jensen can’t even breathe his chest clenches so hard under the desperate embrace.
“You’re here. Thank God.” It’s a whisper-- pained, soaked relief.
Jensen can’t reply to that.
Well, Jesus Christ, I'm alone again. So what did you do those three days you were dead? 'cause this problem's gonna last more than the weekend.
Jensen’s been home three days before his momma says anything. She calls and tells him to come pay his dad a visit, speak with him. He sits alone on the sofa, instead. The vacant family home is flooded with his rambling debates about calling Jared he addresses toward the ceiling.
He finally dials, but he’s met with a voicemail. It’s amazing how just hearing Jared’s voice calms his spirit and makes his crashing world slow down for a brief instant. He thinks he told the machine that, or maybe he just hung up. A few minutes pass, and he simply doesn’t remember.
Well, Jesus Christ, I'm not scared to die. I'm a little bit scared of what comes after
Do I get the gold chariot? Do I float through the ceiling?
His hero’s broken. It’s the only thing that comes to mind when Jensen breaks the threshold of the ICU room and is assaulted with the image of his father attached to monitors and infiltrated with multiple IVs. The steady beeps and clicks resonate in his ears as he sinks to rest by his father’s blanket covered feet.
Jensen studies his father’s face, smooth and pale, and wonders if it’s all a mask. He asks quietly if it hurts, wincing as tongue scrapes palate. He looks at his father, but speaks to the God his daddy walks alongside. Neither answers.
His hero’s dying.
Jensen wonders if God cares.
Do I divide and fall apart? 'cause my bright is too slight to hold back all my dark
It’s past visiting hours, but the nurse gives him a sympathetic smile, telling him to stay as long as he needs to. Jensen tells her that his dad’s eyes moved today when he spoke to him. The nurse doesn’t look as excited or hopeful as Jensen needs her to be at the news. Jensen’s fairly certain it has to do with the dangerously low blood pressure numbers and stuttering heart rate the monitor keeps dinging about constantly.
When she leaves, Jensen gets up and pulls the privacy curtain closed. He stutter-steps toward the bed and lets down the guardrail, crawling carefully into the small space between his father and the ventilator. Jensen rests his head on his father’s shoulder and hides his face in the hospital blanket.
It’s a stop-choke-start when the tears flow, but soon it’s a flood. Jensen doesn’t lift his water stained face when he tells his dad that it’s okay if he can’t fight anymore. It’s okay, even though it’s not. He doesn’t want it to hurt. Daddy doesn’t deserve it to hurt, and if he needs to let go, while Jensen swears his father never will disappoint him, he can’t promise to understand why this is happening.
And the ship went down in sight of land. And at the gates does Thomas ask to see my hands
Jensen’s holding on like a drowning sailor when the rapid screeching of the machines jolt him from the bed. His frantic gaze desperately searches for an answer only to rest on his father and linger in hopeless anguish.
It doesn’t take long for Jensen to be swept out of the room, pushed on the other side of the glass and far, far away. It doesn’t take long for him to find Jared’s number and collapse in the waiting room, sobbing gasps barely making allowances for his flood of apologies.
I know you're coming in the night like a thief, but I've had some time, O Lord, to hone my lying technique. I know you think that I'm someone you can trust, but I'm scared I'll get scared and I swear I'll try to nail you back up.
Jensen’s screaming hoarsely at the sky. This time he’s begging for it to stop-this ache. Mud stains the bottom of his jeans, and he’s sure his family is getting a show--the backyard may not have been the best logical choice. It makes it easy for Jared to find him though, a crumpled mess cursing a God he was brought up to love.
He lets Jared wrap his strong arms around him and place chaste kisses where tears have stained warm flesh. Jensen doesn’t hear most of Jared’s stream of reassurances, he doesn’t have to. Jared’s there, right beside him.
So do you think that we could work out a sign so I'll know it's you and that it's over so I won't even try
The day of the funeral, Jensen swears his daddy is there. He guesses his dad would like the coffin they picked out. It’s blue, navy really, and Jensen tries to focus on contemplating the difference in color instead of his mother’s trembling. It doesn’t work, because once Jensen decides it’s got to be the addition of red purpley mixture in the color combination, he’s still faced with the fact that his dad is gone. He’s gone.
Jensen doesn’t realize he’s fallen to his knees until Jared crashes down beside him. Calloused fingers swipe gently at the free flowing tears while family and friends struggle to maintain their own grief. Jensen thinks he tells Jared he can’t breathe, but he can’t be sure. Everything hurts, and yet he’s not sure he’s really feeling a damn thing.
“I’m here, Jensen. It’s gonna be okay. I’m here.”
Jensen, for once, doesn’t ask why.
The End