A Long Way Down
Title: A Long Way Down
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: I wish I could take credit for it, but I can't. All hail Kripke and Warner Brothers.
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: Serious spoilers for 5x04. You are warned.
Summary: There are some things worse than bullets that leave wounds that never heal.
Castiel stepped inside the abandoned church. It was empty, or should be, the entire town having been swept clean by a swarm of croats at some point in the recent past. And like locusts the swarm had passed on, newly infected subsumed into their ranks.
The church was less desecrated than many he’d entered; a few overturned pews and some crude graffiti sprayed above the altar. Bird shit covered the granite floor on the other side of the chapel where parts of the roof had been stripped away and the room was open to the sky. It was quiet in there, and strangely peaceful. It almost reminded him of home.
He wished with all that was left of his soul that he wasn’t drawn to churches, that he could just leave it all behind and forget who and what he’d once been. He was tired of faith, it had never gotten him anywhere but here.
Movement clicked to his right and he spun, no thought, gun up. There was a woman sitting in one of the pews, her own gun pointed straight at him. She grinned a little, lowered her shotgun, and turned back towards the altar. Light from the ruined ceiling bounced off of disturbed dust motes, creating a strange corona around her head.
She was one of those cat people, the ones who had shown up in a truck full of canned food, toiletries, and nearly feral cats. He hadn’t minded when they had stayed at camp, they were entertaining to watch: the one who fed her cat with a baby spoon and the other who always looked like she knew a joke that she'd never tell. They amused him with their constant twittering and their unrepentant mocking of their fearless leader.
One or the other had become a regular on scavenging missions. They seemed to have a sixth sense for where people had hidden their reserves or illicit hoards. The amount of toilet paper alone that they’d discovered while out with search parties justified their continued presence in camp, if nothing else did.
He sat down in the pew behind her, drawn forward against his will. God, he was tired of the ember of hope that wouldn’t go out, the faith that just wouldn’t die.
“It’s perfect in its one, long eternal whole; the beauty and the destruction,” he said because that’s what he did, he filled up the silence.
Sarah (her name was Sarah) looked over her shoulder, her mouth quirked. “You are so full of shit.”
Castiel threw his head back and laughed. Because she was right, he was full of shit; shit, shit, shit, all the way up to his eyeballs.
When he finally calmed she had turned in the pew and was looking straight at him. Humor glimmered around the edges of her mouth but her eyes were serious and direct. He was way too sober to handle the weight of assessment in her gaze.
“Righteous and steadfast, true and honest. Doing God’s work without question or critique, faith not fear, devotion not doubt.” One side of her mouth lifted in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You’re not the only person who’s ever felt abandoned by God.”
Anger flared in him. “Don’t presume-” He shut his mouth with a click, biting the end off of the sentence. He pulled a pill bottle out of his pocket and flipped open the cap, downing one of the capsules with reflexive grace. Life was so not worth getting worked up over.
“You’re a lot cuter when you keep your mouth shut,” he said as he slid the bottle back into his coat pocket, the sneer on his face one of the many things he’d learned from Dean.
She grinned a little and shook her head. “Most people think so,” she replied, glib and bitter.
She grabbed her gun and pushed herself out of the pew. “Have fun not praying,” she threw over her shoulder as she walked away, boots only a scuffle over the broken stones.
Castiel remained where he was, the chill seeping into his bones. He didn’t pray.
~~~
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: I wish I could take credit for it, but I can't. All hail Kripke and Warner Brothers.
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: Serious spoilers for 5x04. You are warned.
Summary: There are some things worse than bullets that leave wounds that never heal.
Castiel stepped inside the abandoned church. It was empty, or should be, the entire town having been swept clean by a swarm of croats at some point in the recent past. And like locusts the swarm had passed on, newly infected subsumed into their ranks.
The church was less desecrated than many he’d entered; a few overturned pews and some crude graffiti sprayed above the altar. Bird shit covered the granite floor on the other side of the chapel where parts of the roof had been stripped away and the room was open to the sky. It was quiet in there, and strangely peaceful. It almost reminded him of home.
He wished with all that was left of his soul that he wasn’t drawn to churches, that he could just leave it all behind and forget who and what he’d once been. He was tired of faith, it had never gotten him anywhere but here.
Movement clicked to his right and he spun, no thought, gun up. There was a woman sitting in one of the pews, her own gun pointed straight at him. She grinned a little, lowered her shotgun, and turned back towards the altar. Light from the ruined ceiling bounced off of disturbed dust motes, creating a strange corona around her head.
She was one of those cat people, the ones who had shown up in a truck full of canned food, toiletries, and nearly feral cats. He hadn’t minded when they had stayed at camp, they were entertaining to watch: the one who fed her cat with a baby spoon and the other who always looked like she knew a joke that she'd never tell. They amused him with their constant twittering and their unrepentant mocking of their fearless leader.
One or the other had become a regular on scavenging missions. They seemed to have a sixth sense for where people had hidden their reserves or illicit hoards. The amount of toilet paper alone that they’d discovered while out with search parties justified their continued presence in camp, if nothing else did.
He sat down in the pew behind her, drawn forward against his will. God, he was tired of the ember of hope that wouldn’t go out, the faith that just wouldn’t die.
“It’s perfect in its one, long eternal whole; the beauty and the destruction,” he said because that’s what he did, he filled up the silence.
Sarah (her name was Sarah) looked over her shoulder, her mouth quirked. “You are so full of shit.”
Castiel threw his head back and laughed. Because she was right, he was full of shit; shit, shit, shit, all the way up to his eyeballs.
When he finally calmed she had turned in the pew and was looking straight at him. Humor glimmered around the edges of her mouth but her eyes were serious and direct. He was way too sober to handle the weight of assessment in her gaze.
“Righteous and steadfast, true and honest. Doing God’s work without question or critique, faith not fear, devotion not doubt.” One side of her mouth lifted in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You’re not the only person who’s ever felt abandoned by God.”
Anger flared in him. “Don’t presume-” He shut his mouth with a click, biting the end off of the sentence. He pulled a pill bottle out of his pocket and flipped open the cap, downing one of the capsules with reflexive grace. Life was so not worth getting worked up over.
“You’re a lot cuter when you keep your mouth shut,” he said as he slid the bottle back into his coat pocket, the sneer on his face one of the many things he’d learned from Dean.
She grinned a little and shook her head. “Most people think so,” she replied, glib and bitter.
She grabbed her gun and pushed herself out of the pew. “Have fun not praying,” she threw over her shoulder as she walked away, boots only a scuffle over the broken stones.
Castiel remained where he was, the chill seeping into his bones. He didn’t pray.
~~~