yes is yes is yes - Supernatural fic thing
I tried to write other things today, but there was this instead. Typos tended to by dafnap, so blame her.
yes is yes is yes
Supernatural, pre-series
Claire, Castiel
Gen, PG
Summary: She is a small human being up in a tree.
Six years old and Claire is laughing. Thanksgiving and all the kids from every house are in the street where there's the finest film of snow, where it's being elided and greyed by their galoshes. Claire jogs past Marjorie and Bradley who are enticing everyone to their backyard for sledding that will never work, it's just not slick enough anywhere. Claire runs four blocks to the chain-link-fenced field where the grass is high almost as her head, and the lock is the size of both her fists. She laughs and says Castiel, come on.
He is there like he's always there, a part of the November mid-afternoon, silvered and limpidly light as the clouds in the sky, sharp like the crisp breeze blushing her cheeks, present as the leaf that catches in-between the pleats of the braid of her hair.
When she reaches the gate, the lock is hanging open. Claire smiles. She ducks her head. It's safe, he tells her. I've made sure of that. She opens it just wide enough to slip through.
Her coat is red, bright red, redder than her lips, than her cheeks, redder than the sight behind her eyes when she shuts them hard enough to check that he's still nearby. It collects droplets and spent seed husks as she zigs, she zags into the field. She's never been inside it before. Bradley climbed the fence three weeks ago, but he just stood on the other side, he didn't go out of sight. Eventually he sat down and waited for his brother to find him. But Claire, Claire isn't alone. Castiel says, This way. Castiel says, Yes, this way. And she knows where they're going.
The tips of the grass touch the trailing edge of her eyelashes so that drops of water sparkle down along them and onto her face, right down her cheek.
Cas, she says. Stop messing around. The wind sighs right above her head.
There is one tree in the field. You can only see the top of it from the street outside. Claire comes upon it like an unexpected cabin in the woods in a story. Although Castiel scolds her, This is just a tree, he also says, Would you like to climb it? We can see the roof of your garage from up there.
When you're six years old and live in Pontiac, Illinois, seeing the roof of your garage from a vantage point in the lower branches of a tree in an abandoned field is as exciting as the first grade ever gets.
Claire is careful, she always takes care. She wraps her hands around every branch, every round nook, before placing her weight there. The tree has no leaves left. It is mottled and blackening in the shape of the penciled outline of a brussels sprout. Soon enough she is above the grass, and then among the arms, and she has found a spot to perch. She divides her feet between two branches, and her front is leaned up against the trunk. She is a small human being up in a tree.
Is this good? Castiel inquires. She doles out a smile for him and nods in the direction of her family's garage.
She is very high up. She can see over the grass and over the fence, into six different back yards. She can see a man standing at a window inside a house she's never noticed. He is looking at his hands that rest on the sill. She can see the spire of a far-away church, one she's never been to. She can see three ravens on a roof.
This isn't bad, she thinks.
There's more, he says. Do you trust me? Claire, do you trust me with your very blood?
Claire does. She lets go with her arms and crashes back to the ground. The grass catches her softly.
Of course, of course! She says. Let's run as fast as we can! And she's off.
yes is yes is yes
Supernatural, pre-series
Claire, Castiel
Gen, PG
Summary: She is a small human being up in a tree.
Six years old and Claire is laughing. Thanksgiving and all the kids from every house are in the street where there's the finest film of snow, where it's being elided and greyed by their galoshes. Claire jogs past Marjorie and Bradley who are enticing everyone to their backyard for sledding that will never work, it's just not slick enough anywhere. Claire runs four blocks to the chain-link-fenced field where the grass is high almost as her head, and the lock is the size of both her fists. She laughs and says Castiel, come on.
He is there like he's always there, a part of the November mid-afternoon, silvered and limpidly light as the clouds in the sky, sharp like the crisp breeze blushing her cheeks, present as the leaf that catches in-between the pleats of the braid of her hair.
When she reaches the gate, the lock is hanging open. Claire smiles. She ducks her head. It's safe, he tells her. I've made sure of that. She opens it just wide enough to slip through.
Her coat is red, bright red, redder than her lips, than her cheeks, redder than the sight behind her eyes when she shuts them hard enough to check that he's still nearby. It collects droplets and spent seed husks as she zigs, she zags into the field. She's never been inside it before. Bradley climbed the fence three weeks ago, but he just stood on the other side, he didn't go out of sight. Eventually he sat down and waited for his brother to find him. But Claire, Claire isn't alone. Castiel says, This way. Castiel says, Yes, this way. And she knows where they're going.
The tips of the grass touch the trailing edge of her eyelashes so that drops of water sparkle down along them and onto her face, right down her cheek.
Cas, she says. Stop messing around. The wind sighs right above her head.
There is one tree in the field. You can only see the top of it from the street outside. Claire comes upon it like an unexpected cabin in the woods in a story. Although Castiel scolds her, This is just a tree, he also says, Would you like to climb it? We can see the roof of your garage from up there.
When you're six years old and live in Pontiac, Illinois, seeing the roof of your garage from a vantage point in the lower branches of a tree in an abandoned field is as exciting as the first grade ever gets.
Claire is careful, she always takes care. She wraps her hands around every branch, every round nook, before placing her weight there. The tree has no leaves left. It is mottled and blackening in the shape of the penciled outline of a brussels sprout. Soon enough she is above the grass, and then among the arms, and she has found a spot to perch. She divides her feet between two branches, and her front is leaned up against the trunk. She is a small human being up in a tree.
Is this good? Castiel inquires. She doles out a smile for him and nods in the direction of her family's garage.
She is very high up. She can see over the grass and over the fence, into six different back yards. She can see a man standing at a window inside a house she's never noticed. He is looking at his hands that rest on the sill. She can see the spire of a far-away church, one she's never been to. She can see three ravens on a roof.
This isn't bad, she thinks.
There's more, he says. Do you trust me? Claire, do you trust me with your very blood?
Claire does. She lets go with her arms and crashes back to the ground. The grass catches her softly.
Of course, of course! She says. Let's run as fast as we can! And she's off.