510 Coda [Gen, PG]
I wrote something. It's not Sam and Dean, because I'm still entirely broken in that regard, but at least it's something. I've been sitting on it since this morning because it's been so long since I've written Supernatural fic and I'm really not feeling all that sure about it, and also: longest day EVER, but I just have to do it right?
So this is the tiniest story ever, a coda to 510. Untitled for now. The Dead Praise Not the Lord [Gen, PG] Summary under the cut due to 510 spoilers.
The Dead Praise Not the Lord [Gen, PG]
Jo: Ever heard of a door handle? Castiel: Of course I have. Jo and Castiel and Tessa: there are no angels in Heaven; reapers gather at its walls with souls bleeding out in their hands and Castiel does what he can.
The Dead Praise Not the Lord
There are no angels in Heaven.
At its walls, reapers gather, souls cradled in the reverent slope of graying, timeworn hands: trembling specks of light clutched to still and silent breasts. Vigil and hush in the level pitch of every milky gaze and still, no rampart shakes, no doorway opens.
No army’s force will fell an empty fortress.
They are frailty in numbers, forsaken. They are legion and Castiel walks alone amongst them.
“I know you by another face,” he says when he finds the one he seeks. “The one you show to hunters.”
He covers the reaper’s hands with his own and ashen flesh blushes tender and young.
“You shouldn’t spy on private conversations,” she says.
All around, light is dying: flickering and fading, bleeding through gaps between tight clenched fingers.
“What happens to the ones that slip away?” Castiel asks.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
When Castiel pulls away, her palms are washed in pallid, wavering light. They tremble, and she draws them in against her chest.
“Look away,” he says.
Against the bulwark, he slices his sacrifice into his outstretched palm and bleeds out a shape that carves his allegiances into the deepest part of him, and the walls of Heaven crack open.
He turns, cradles her palms again. His blood is slippery on her skin and the fading light in her hands glows pink.
“Look,” he says. This is everything he can offer to the spark in her hands: a door handle, a chance.
“What happens in there now?” she asks.
There are no angels in Heaven. He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
###
So this is the tiniest story ever, a coda to 510. Untitled for now. The Dead Praise Not the Lord [Gen, PG] Summary under the cut due to 510 spoilers.
The Dead Praise Not the Lord [Gen, PG]
Jo: Ever heard of a door handle? Castiel: Of course I have. Jo and Castiel and Tessa: there are no angels in Heaven; reapers gather at its walls with souls bleeding out in their hands and Castiel does what he can.
The Dead Praise Not the Lord
There are no angels in Heaven.
At its walls, reapers gather, souls cradled in the reverent slope of graying, timeworn hands: trembling specks of light clutched to still and silent breasts. Vigil and hush in the level pitch of every milky gaze and still, no rampart shakes, no doorway opens.
No army’s force will fell an empty fortress.
They are frailty in numbers, forsaken. They are legion and Castiel walks alone amongst them.
“I know you by another face,” he says when he finds the one he seeks. “The one you show to hunters.”
He covers the reaper’s hands with his own and ashen flesh blushes tender and young.
“You shouldn’t spy on private conversations,” she says.
All around, light is dying: flickering and fading, bleeding through gaps between tight clenched fingers.
“What happens to the ones that slip away?” Castiel asks.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
When Castiel pulls away, her palms are washed in pallid, wavering light. They tremble, and she draws them in against her chest.
“Look away,” he says.
Against the bulwark, he slices his sacrifice into his outstretched palm and bleeds out a shape that carves his allegiances into the deepest part of him, and the walls of Heaven crack open.
He turns, cradles her palms again. His blood is slippery on her skin and the fading light in her hands glows pink.
“Look,” he says. This is everything he can offer to the spark in her hands: a door handle, a chance.
“What happens in there now?” she asks.
There are no angels in Heaven. He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
###