SPN FIC: "angels fall like rain"
TITLE: "angels fall like rain"
PAIRING, RATING: This piece is Gen, but it is about Dean and Castiel.
WARNINGS: not so much, except it is written as a prose poem and does not divide evenly into 100 word chunks :) angst, light literary allusion, heavy use of consonants.
SPOILERS: for situation through 4.20
NOTES: This fic is for roguebitch , who bit when I offered the Demand a Drabble meme. However, this Fic is Not a Drabble. It is an experimental prose/poem form. The title is from "Ghost in You" by Psychedelic Furs, a beautiful, serene, and celestial song, very different from this angsty fic. Thanks Cassie! hope you like it!!
COMMENTS: strongly desired -- also, Demand a Drabble!
DISCLAIMER: do not own; no money made; this is a transformative work.
dean/castiel: "angels fall like rain"
I.
In a landscape as vast as America,
a powerful car is one thing a man can't do without.
Little towns, maculate on the map,
blots of ink, each hold their hidden darknesses,
and a hero's gotta have resources:
a sidearm, a blade, a flask of something strong,
flesh to press against to ward off the cold, love to give away.
The papers lie: human interest clips like thumbs in a dike.
Everywhere, the good in things runs thin and trickles dry,
while blood pours black down corporate walls, court rooms,
living rooms, schoolrooms, hell, even pool halls.
The gun is oiled and ready, but where is the target?
The blade is scalpel sharp, but the host drops before the rot is cut.
The brother he loved, locked away in cold iron,
has gone, and he won't follow.
Rain pours down, blood and baptism.
One by one, the angels fall.
Dean lies awake at night, listening
to the pounding, the thunder,
hoping for the flap of wings.
II.
Dean's love for his car is almost like a joke, except for how it's totally not.
Old days, he used to run six miles every morning, calisthenics, laps if there was a pool.
Those days, he learned to keep the Impala clean, inside and out,
top-notch lube, clean oil, clean filters, replace every part at the first sign of wear.
By now Dean's held every bit of his baby, greased up, cleaned and
greased again, in his own, filthy, oil-stained hands.
He's taken her apart and put her back together.
His fingerprints are inside her, deep where no one else can see.
Of everything he'd done with his life, the car has been his masterpiece.
He loves her like he's never loved himself.
She's the legacy he'd given his dad to give back to him,
the home he'd made for his baby brother there in the backseat, and shotgun later on.
Now Sammy is gone. Cold iron replaced hot steel,
and Sammy ran, like Sammy knows so well how to do.
Dean presses down. His baby roars, devours the miles, a race to one battle picked at random from the shotgun spray. It ends sad or bloody, but not without a fight.
III.
The network of hunters is thinning.
No shotgun, Dean drives twelve, fourteen, eighteen hours some days.
He hears his brother's scream from behind iron, the coldness in an Angel's voice.
He sees a door slamming closed, blue eyes gone steel.
He drives, and fights, and drives again. Sometimes, he steals a few hours' sleep on the shoulder.
IV.
So many have fallen that now something gives.
Sometimes, now, he is fighting, and suddenly, he hears the swoop of wings.
Together, they are vicious, unstoppable -- grim and silent -- vicious, but victorious.
The Angel marks out Dean's road before him, and Dean, nothing else to choose, drives.
They begin to fight together more often, and fighting together, hold the line.
V.
Fight, drive, sleep by the side of the road: rinse, lather, repeat.
Little by little the void in the passenger seat blurs, relents.
The blare of metal quiets day by day.
One night, a rainstorm slickens the highway, but her tires don't skid,
and someone's riding along with Dean, not all of a sudden, but at last.
"Where to," Dean asks. He's not giving orders.
The silence is softer, and Dean glances over.
Under a lifted brow, a blue gaze meets his, and an Angel responds.
"You know the road better than I do, Dean."
They drive on, warrior, shotgun, a war to win.
PAIRING, RATING: This piece is Gen, but it is about Dean and Castiel.
WARNINGS: not so much, except it is written as a prose poem and does not divide evenly into 100 word chunks :) angst, light literary allusion, heavy use of consonants.
SPOILERS: for situation through 4.20
NOTES: This fic is for roguebitch , who bit when I offered the Demand a Drabble meme. However, this Fic is Not a Drabble. It is an experimental prose/poem form. The title is from "Ghost in You" by Psychedelic Furs, a beautiful, serene, and celestial song, very different from this angsty fic. Thanks Cassie! hope you like it!!
COMMENTS: strongly desired -- also, Demand a Drabble!
DISCLAIMER: do not own; no money made; this is a transformative work.
dean/castiel: "angels fall like rain"
I.
In a landscape as vast as America,
a powerful car is one thing a man can't do without.
Little towns, maculate on the map,
blots of ink, each hold their hidden darknesses,
and a hero's gotta have resources:
a sidearm, a blade, a flask of something strong,
flesh to press against to ward off the cold, love to give away.
The papers lie: human interest clips like thumbs in a dike.
Everywhere, the good in things runs thin and trickles dry,
while blood pours black down corporate walls, court rooms,
living rooms, schoolrooms, hell, even pool halls.
The gun is oiled and ready, but where is the target?
The blade is scalpel sharp, but the host drops before the rot is cut.
The brother he loved, locked away in cold iron,
has gone, and he won't follow.
Rain pours down, blood and baptism.
One by one, the angels fall.
Dean lies awake at night, listening
to the pounding, the thunder,
hoping for the flap of wings.
II.
Dean's love for his car is almost like a joke, except for how it's totally not.
Old days, he used to run six miles every morning, calisthenics, laps if there was a pool.
Those days, he learned to keep the Impala clean, inside and out,
top-notch lube, clean oil, clean filters, replace every part at the first sign of wear.
By now Dean's held every bit of his baby, greased up, cleaned and
greased again, in his own, filthy, oil-stained hands.
He's taken her apart and put her back together.
His fingerprints are inside her, deep where no one else can see.
Of everything he'd done with his life, the car has been his masterpiece.
He loves her like he's never loved himself.
She's the legacy he'd given his dad to give back to him,
the home he'd made for his baby brother there in the backseat, and shotgun later on.
Now Sammy is gone. Cold iron replaced hot steel,
and Sammy ran, like Sammy knows so well how to do.
Dean presses down. His baby roars, devours the miles, a race to one battle picked at random from the shotgun spray. It ends sad or bloody, but not without a fight.
III.
The network of hunters is thinning.
No shotgun, Dean drives twelve, fourteen, eighteen hours some days.
He hears his brother's scream from behind iron, the coldness in an Angel's voice.
He sees a door slamming closed, blue eyes gone steel.
He drives, and fights, and drives again. Sometimes, he steals a few hours' sleep on the shoulder.
IV.
So many have fallen that now something gives.
Sometimes, now, he is fighting, and suddenly, he hears the swoop of wings.
Together, they are vicious, unstoppable -- grim and silent -- vicious, but victorious.
The Angel marks out Dean's road before him, and Dean, nothing else to choose, drives.
They begin to fight together more often, and fighting together, hold the line.
V.
Fight, drive, sleep by the side of the road: rinse, lather, repeat.
Little by little the void in the passenger seat blurs, relents.
The blare of metal quiets day by day.
One night, a rainstorm slickens the highway, but her tires don't skid,
and someone's riding along with Dean, not all of a sudden, but at last.
"Where to," Dean asks. He's not giving orders.
The silence is softer, and Dean glances over.
Under a lifted brow, a blue gaze meets his, and an Angel responds.
"You know the road better than I do, Dean."
They drive on, warrior, shotgun, a war to win.