Fic: The world is spinning (but I'm not afraid)
Um, RANDOM. I came back from dinner and thought, "Hey, I want to write something." Um, so I did. I didn't intend to write this AT ALL, since I have a million other plotbunnies, but this is just what came out. I wrote straight on through and am now posting, so this is just the raw text, unedited. Maybe I'll pretty it up sometime.
Title: The world is spinning (but I'm not afraid)
Author: britomart_is
Category/Characters: Gen, outside POV. OC, Sam, Dean.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 864
Spoilers/Warnings: Nothing specific, but thematic spoilers for Season 3 so far. Warning for authorial experimentation - let me know how it worked out.
Too many treks across too many states, breathing in the dust of the Midwest, seeing too many lives falling apart-they've left their mark. The bus doors open grudgingly, with an arthritic creaking and a wheezing burst of air, stale inside rushing to meet crisp, cold outside. The blue-grey darkness of morning lingers, the world not quite ready to wake up yet.
The world-worn bus moans wearily away, leaving the young woman at the station, nothing but the clothes on her back, sensible shoes, and the canvas duffel slung over her shoulder, clutched to her body. She shifts her hands on the strap of the bag, stands by the side of the road, not quite ready to start walking yet.
She's … she's nervous. She spent the bus ride trying to define this foreign fluttering in her stomach, and some abstract knowledge tells her-this is nervous.
From Iowa to Idaho she sat elbow-to-elbow with a changing stream of passengers. Packed into busses and rest stops with the unwashed masses, all with their own problems, their own reasons for this journey. She studied the faces she could see, eavesdropped on conversations with ravenous curiosity. Most of these people, she thought, they aren't on this journey by choice-no, that's not it-more that this was their only choice. They take such pains to hide their desperation, and then hide behind such thin masks.
It doesn't have to be that way, she thinks. The desperation, suffering, the chaos. The world could be a better place. She knows it like she knows her own name. After all, look at her-her own chaos was not so very long ago. Uncertain, directionless, purposeless. The price of youth, she thinks.
She's thoughtful by nature. Likes to know the reasons behind the mad, pointless, reckless, self-destructive lives bumping up against each other. Insofar as it's knowable, that is-how can one find reason in the irrational?
Across the street there's a field. Beyond that, she can see a field of a slightly different color. The patchwork goes on, flat, until it runs up against distant trees. A truck roars by, scattering gravel, whipping up dust, and she takes it as her cue to back away from the edge of the road.
It's not that far from the bus depot into town, and it feels good to stretch these stiff limbs after too long in a seat. Sometimes when she's lost in her thoughts she forgets that she needs to get up and move so she won't suffer for it later. A truck comes along the road behind her, and as fast as it's moving she can't quite hear the obscene suggestions shouted through the window at her-she gets the gist, though. She knows their kind. Pathetic.
In town, she sees quickly that she's not alone here. So many different faces on the street, on park benches, at the tables outside shops-busier than usual for a place like this, an on-the-way-somewhere-else town.
None of the faces are familiar; she's never seen a one of them before. But it's effortless to pick out the ones who aren't just stopping for a coffee.
For them this is the endpoint-no, that's not it at all. It's the end of the pilgrimage, but that journey is eclipsed by the breathless knowledge of what's about to begin.
She can pick out the other pilgrims by their electric calm and manic energy. It's intoxicating; she feels a little dizzy now that she's surrounded by them, all here for the same reason.
They're going to change the world. That desperation and suffering and chaos? It's all going to be burned away. And she could cry with the thought of what comes after-it's going to be beautiful.
She knows it in her bones. Well, this body's bones, anyway.
See, she wasn't that different from all of those humans, breathing and sleeping and waking and eating and shitting and shouting and killing and grinding up against each other to forget the void inside-lost and pointless and pathetic. She can see that now.
But now, all her emptiness has been filled. Every part of her is filled by her overpowering joy, her devotion. Her eagerness to be a part of it-the purification, the better world to come.
She's a true believer now, irrevocably changed.
She walks right on past her brothers and sisters, not giving in to her urge to stop, to hesitate, to prepare herself. It's already been agreed; she'll represent them.
Her own nervousness churning in this girl's stomach is starting to irritate her. She looks forward to dumping the girl by the roadside and not having a stomach anymore. Makes things simpler.
Gaap already told her that it's room 19, but she would have known anyway. It's practically glowing. She wonders if the Light will open the door and blind them all instantly. It seems possible.
She already loves him so much. And she's about to meet him.
She knocks and can hear voices conferring (the brother), but He himself comes to the door, and his questioning look is laced with polite suspicion. The morning sun, just breaking over the horizon, lights His face-a beautiful face, strong.
And she can tell already, Sam is everything she's hoped for and more.
The new day shines so brightly.
Title: The world is spinning (but I'm not afraid)
Author: britomart_is
Category/Characters: Gen, outside POV. OC, Sam, Dean.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 864
Spoilers/Warnings: Nothing specific, but thematic spoilers for Season 3 so far. Warning for authorial experimentation - let me know how it worked out.
Too many treks across too many states, breathing in the dust of the Midwest, seeing too many lives falling apart-they've left their mark. The bus doors open grudgingly, with an arthritic creaking and a wheezing burst of air, stale inside rushing to meet crisp, cold outside. The blue-grey darkness of morning lingers, the world not quite ready to wake up yet.
The world-worn bus moans wearily away, leaving the young woman at the station, nothing but the clothes on her back, sensible shoes, and the canvas duffel slung over her shoulder, clutched to her body. She shifts her hands on the strap of the bag, stands by the side of the road, not quite ready to start walking yet.
She's … she's nervous. She spent the bus ride trying to define this foreign fluttering in her stomach, and some abstract knowledge tells her-this is nervous.
From Iowa to Idaho she sat elbow-to-elbow with a changing stream of passengers. Packed into busses and rest stops with the unwashed masses, all with their own problems, their own reasons for this journey. She studied the faces she could see, eavesdropped on conversations with ravenous curiosity. Most of these people, she thought, they aren't on this journey by choice-no, that's not it-more that this was their only choice. They take such pains to hide their desperation, and then hide behind such thin masks.
It doesn't have to be that way, she thinks. The desperation, suffering, the chaos. The world could be a better place. She knows it like she knows her own name. After all, look at her-her own chaos was not so very long ago. Uncertain, directionless, purposeless. The price of youth, she thinks.
She's thoughtful by nature. Likes to know the reasons behind the mad, pointless, reckless, self-destructive lives bumping up against each other. Insofar as it's knowable, that is-how can one find reason in the irrational?
Across the street there's a field. Beyond that, she can see a field of a slightly different color. The patchwork goes on, flat, until it runs up against distant trees. A truck roars by, scattering gravel, whipping up dust, and she takes it as her cue to back away from the edge of the road.
It's not that far from the bus depot into town, and it feels good to stretch these stiff limbs after too long in a seat. Sometimes when she's lost in her thoughts she forgets that she needs to get up and move so she won't suffer for it later. A truck comes along the road behind her, and as fast as it's moving she can't quite hear the obscene suggestions shouted through the window at her-she gets the gist, though. She knows their kind. Pathetic.
In town, she sees quickly that she's not alone here. So many different faces on the street, on park benches, at the tables outside shops-busier than usual for a place like this, an on-the-way-somewhere-else town.
None of the faces are familiar; she's never seen a one of them before. But it's effortless to pick out the ones who aren't just stopping for a coffee.
For them this is the endpoint-no, that's not it at all. It's the end of the pilgrimage, but that journey is eclipsed by the breathless knowledge of what's about to begin.
She can pick out the other pilgrims by their electric calm and manic energy. It's intoxicating; she feels a little dizzy now that she's surrounded by them, all here for the same reason.
They're going to change the world. That desperation and suffering and chaos? It's all going to be burned away. And she could cry with the thought of what comes after-it's going to be beautiful.
She knows it in her bones. Well, this body's bones, anyway.
See, she wasn't that different from all of those humans, breathing and sleeping and waking and eating and shitting and shouting and killing and grinding up against each other to forget the void inside-lost and pointless and pathetic. She can see that now.
But now, all her emptiness has been filled. Every part of her is filled by her overpowering joy, her devotion. Her eagerness to be a part of it-the purification, the better world to come.
She's a true believer now, irrevocably changed.
She walks right on past her brothers and sisters, not giving in to her urge to stop, to hesitate, to prepare herself. It's already been agreed; she'll represent them.
Her own nervousness churning in this girl's stomach is starting to irritate her. She looks forward to dumping the girl by the roadside and not having a stomach anymore. Makes things simpler.
Gaap already told her that it's room 19, but she would have known anyway. It's practically glowing. She wonders if the Light will open the door and blind them all instantly. It seems possible.
She already loves him so much. And she's about to meet him.
She knocks and can hear voices conferring (the brother), but He himself comes to the door, and his questioning look is laced with polite suspicion. The morning sun, just breaking over the horizon, lights His face-a beautiful face, strong.
And she can tell already, Sam is everything she's hoped for and more.
The new day shines so brightly.