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Micro Meme!

Give me ten fic categories/prompts and a pairing.
I will write ten fics each fic ten words or less for that pairing.
Supernatural, ST or HP preferred,
if you'd like something else, ask!

Comments

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He's barely awake when he reaches to the night table, stiff fingers questing for the spiral bound notebook and the pen folded between the pages. There's a nightlight, in the plug beside the bed, and it casts a pale blue light into the room. Chuck's not afraid of the dark - no, he's learned better than that. The light's there for him to see, so when he swings his torso over the side of the mattress to use the floor as a tabletop, Chuck can barely make out the scribble of his pen as he writes what he saw.

It's muddled, an introduction, like a flash of images creating a backstory for him - what he used to think was inspiration, Athena crawling out of his skull and dropping along his arm onto the page. Now it's nothing, not him. Just the latest parcel from heaven.

Unearthed dirt, a man crawling out, blond and pale, quietly neutral, looking up at Lucifer with familiarity. There's a sense of deep betrayal, somewhere hidden in the depth of his eyes, but he casts it now upon the Devil. It is older, a seeping wound, cut into him by the actions of a distant figure, looming strong in his memories. His long hair is a curtain between them, and the man unfolds from the dug hole, peering out at the reapers gathered, unsurprised and surveying.

"Hello, Death," the devil says.

The Horseman says nothing, doesn't need to say anything, and though the ruler of hell stands and smiles up at the towering frame of the silent man, there's a collective whisper as the death collectors bow before him.

This is Death, a horseman of the apocalypse. Only one reaper grins broadly, calls out, 'Heya Thanatos', and Death pays him no mind.

Uprooted from the soil and freed from imprisonment, he licks his lips once and nods. He and Lucifer vanish away.

There are other things that occur after that, and it's not until a few nights later that Chuck circles back to the subject of Death. Same routine, same sleepy half-awareness as he writes in the glow of the night light.

The prophet's own personal brush with Death, feeling afraid, but ready, because death means it's over and he can finally stop being afraid of dying. The man towering over him is a wall, his calm utterance of honesty offered so plainly, and his presence a sheild in the wake of angels. For all that he has Seen, it is startling to find a strong kindness, the certain balance of power and control in the very thing that all humans fear - the ending of life, the representation of the brief flickers of humanity.

Yet, there is a quietness between them, the prophet's thoughts a veiled privacy, unlike in the presense of angels. It is safety that the prophet feels, and knowledge that he cannot be taken before it's time. He finds relief and comfort, in so startling a place as the companionship of Death.

And as the apocalypse progresses, Chuck finds Thanatos scribbled across more and more of his notebooks.