Ficlet Post
Title:memory
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Meg/Cas
Rating: T
Word Count: 740
Notes: Contains reference to past torture and demonic possession.
Summary: Meg really is helping Sam and Cas find Dean. Absolutely.
Meg has seen angels die before. She has killed angels before; pure blinding burst of light, screaming outwards, then silence. But she's never seen an angel die slow.
Lucifer burned his imperfect vessel out slowly, with tiny bursts of rot and blood, peeling skin back layer by layer to reveal the Light beneath. It was the vessel that gave, not the Archangel.
It's the same with Cas--except Cas is the burning out shell, with foreign Grace peeling him from the inside, leaving his skin hot as the Pit itself, with fevers dancing in his eyes. Angel sweat smells like human sweat, like human sick. Meg finds herself the only one awake; the bed is heavy with their exhaustion. Curled tight against her side, Cas is a furnace that bridges Sam and herself. The tips of Sam's fingers press hard into her meat, his face all sleep-twisted. Meg remembers his ravenous cold dreaming--the marble delicacy of Jess's face on the ceiling, the ash of Dean's smile as his heart gave way, the way the caffeine splattered when Sam dropped it.
His dreams now bring out the frowning forehead lines.
Meg could slip inside his skin; fit herself like caulking into his crevices--could make him sleep inside, undisturbed by dead and gone Dean, and dying and leaving Cas. Or maybe she could slide into Cas, pushing out the burning Grace, hold his skin together herself. But it might kill her to try.
She trails her fingers over the stubble of Cas's jaw.
Sam wakes for his books, slimming shoulders hunched over the table. Let me go Sammy, the note said, and Sam and Cas can't read those words, so they take to books they can read with a zeal her father would have appreciated. Puppy pleading, they turn her to the archives.
Reports and reports that read like things she’s done in Hell-they unwound a shifter piece by piece with a steel knife, then an iron one, then a silver one to see if it could regenerate its limbs. Then, for science--replicated the experiment.
People fighting for the greater good have done more work for Hell than its paid employees.
Meg sips decades old scotch from crystal as she hides away references to Hell Knights and anything Biblical in the old, dark places of the bunker Sam won't visit. Her memory is long, but not long enough to remember the sweet lies whispered to Cain; to remember his fingers curled red around the Blade.
But Hell has its stories as Heaven and Earth and Purgatory have theirs.
Even angels can't smite someone Marked by Cain--what Cain crafts, only he can unwind. Something about reaping what you sow, etc. etc.
Meg downs the last of the scotch. Whatever Sam and Cas are looking for, they'll find the Dean Meg likes best, the Dean Cas only glimpsed while the angel was a surge of bright in the dark, the Dean Sam believes he understands but can't until he's been beneath his brother's blade.
She finds Sam and Cas still pouring over books in the library; Meg stands behind Sam without announcing her presence. "Find anything?" asks Sam, tired eyes sluggish on the page.
"No. Unfortunately, there isn't a Dewey Decimal system for monsters." She lifts his book away and doesn't bother reading any of it. "Eye strain, ever heard of it?" she drawls into his greasy hair.
Sam shudders the same way he always does the first time she touches him, meat recoiling at the memory of her. The way he tried to when she used his finger to pull the trigger. Then he almost relaxes under the soft puffs of air from her mouth. She meets Cas's glassy eyes and smiles, even as his hands tremble with the energy his shell can't contain.
Cas is dying slow, and they're still dancing to Dean's drumbeat. For Dean gone worse than dead. There are places in Hell they don't even whisper about the Knights, even after most are dead. Meg gently rakes nails over Sam's nape and presses a kiss to his crown the way Jess used to. With a wheeze, Cas crosses to them. He wraps arms around Meg from behind and whispers, "We'll find him."
"No doubt about that, Clarence."
Hopefully, Dean doesn't come for them first. She tightens her hold on Sam. If it's one place she doesn't want to be again, it's under Dean's blade.
Title:New Bloom
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Kevin
Rating: T
Word Count: 800
Notes: Written for
balder12 Contains underage drinking.
Summary: Kevin grows up the hard way.
Summer
The problem with the tablet is that it doesn’t come with diagrams. Kevin squints at the rock till he’s pretty sure he’d speak in tongues if he had anybody to talk to. Lights flash bright across his vision, forking like lightning, and the pain comes as the rolling thunder after. He lifts the spray paint can, fingers trembling. So-he starts with a circle?
Shit, he’d been a visual learner before this-reading instructions he only half-understands is not exactly helpful to creating whatever a Devil’s Trap actually is.
Sunlight cuts through the broken window, and he takes a steadying breath as he paints a circle around it. Feels a trouble-kid, like the ones that would paint obscenities on the churches back home. Feels like one of those kids his mom would say, “can’t wait for their court date,” under her breath about. His stomach clutches as he envisions his mom here-glad she isn’t, but the warmth of her arms, the easy “Kevin, we’ll be okay”-he shakes his head as he tries to remember what comes next.
Kevin swallows around the mother-sized lump in his throat. No-no. He has to keep going. No stopping.
Fall
The computer offers a different type of headache. Stabbing sharp like glass shards digging into his eyes. His stomach is aching and hollow, like it might finally quit and make him throw up everything he hasn’t eaten. Kevin scrunches his eyes shut, and takes a shuddering breath in this library where fucking adults can’t control their screaming kids.
He types in another few lines-he has to be better at this than pickpocketing. Has to be, or one he’ll starve, and two, Crowley will use his mistakes to track him. The memory of cologne is heavy in his nose, that horrible lilting voice-Kev. He checks the door on habit, then turns his fractured gaze back to the screen. Kevin needs money.
Kevin reaches up to rub at his eyes, winces at the sharp throb of the bruise. He pulls his fingers away from the black eye-shit, he is an awful pickpocket. But fake credit cards? Maybe this is better. This he can do.
No other choice, really, if he wants to eat. And if he wants enough paint to make new Devil’s Traps. His head aches again as he turns his gaze to the window. Winter is coming.
Winter
Whiskey isn't as warm as Kevin assumed it would be. Sure, it burns on the way down--makes him sputter and choke and the other vagrants laugh--but it doesn't banish the chill, the constant tremor since the midwestwinter started.
Doesn't make Kevin feel full, either. But the more he drinks, the more he forgets the gnawing in his stomach that is something between anxiety and hunger.
(It's stupid to let these people get him drunk. Could be informants for Crowley. Could be possessed. Could be creeps. But the world blurs around the edges and for the first time in months, Kevin smiles. Smiles so much his face hurts, and they are clapping him on the back, and he flinches from the first few touches, but then--then it feels good, the warmth. So he lets them, and drinks another and another and another.)
Kevin staggers back to his church, avoiding the worst of the ice only because of years in Michigan. He is a fucking expert ice-walker. That could be his superpower, if it weren't being Hell's biggest target and studying squiggles. Flopped onto the floor in the center of a Devil's Trap, Kevin still can't sleep.
Spring
He catches the plague as the birds start waking him in the morning. Okay, maybe not the plague, but everything hurts and he's cold all the time and what little appetite he still has evaporates like his funds always seem to. Sleep drags him spiraling down down, leaving him defenseless, and he dreams of Crowley--regardless of whether he's awake or asleep.
Kevin wakes to Crowley leering over the nest of blankets. All the air seizes in Kevin's chest and he runs and runs, scrambling out the door like the mad dog he's becoming, and the sunrise is orange and pink and beats down on his face sinisterly, and he can't--can't breathe as sweat plasters his hair to his face.
Where is he--?
"Hey, you okay?" A kid, girl, can't be more than thirteen examines him with furrowed brows.
God, she's going to call the cops, isn't she? But instead, she offers a tentative smile, and then she fishes in her spiderman backpack for--she hands him a small red soup canister. "You like you need this," she tells him, "Besides, dad knows I hate chicken noodle."
Kevin shouldn't--he shouldn't, shouldn't, but his eyes well with tears. "Thank you."
This entry was originally posted at http://mako-lies.dreamwidth.org/143062.html.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Meg/Cas
Rating: T
Word Count: 740
Notes: Contains reference to past torture and demonic possession.
Summary: Meg really is helping Sam and Cas find Dean. Absolutely.
Meg has seen angels die before. She has killed angels before; pure blinding burst of light, screaming outwards, then silence. But she's never seen an angel die slow.
Lucifer burned his imperfect vessel out slowly, with tiny bursts of rot and blood, peeling skin back layer by layer to reveal the Light beneath. It was the vessel that gave, not the Archangel.
It's the same with Cas--except Cas is the burning out shell, with foreign Grace peeling him from the inside, leaving his skin hot as the Pit itself, with fevers dancing in his eyes. Angel sweat smells like human sweat, like human sick. Meg finds herself the only one awake; the bed is heavy with their exhaustion. Curled tight against her side, Cas is a furnace that bridges Sam and herself. The tips of Sam's fingers press hard into her meat, his face all sleep-twisted. Meg remembers his ravenous cold dreaming--the marble delicacy of Jess's face on the ceiling, the ash of Dean's smile as his heart gave way, the way the caffeine splattered when Sam dropped it.
His dreams now bring out the frowning forehead lines.
Meg could slip inside his skin; fit herself like caulking into his crevices--could make him sleep inside, undisturbed by dead and gone Dean, and dying and leaving Cas. Or maybe she could slide into Cas, pushing out the burning Grace, hold his skin together herself. But it might kill her to try.
She trails her fingers over the stubble of Cas's jaw.
Sam wakes for his books, slimming shoulders hunched over the table. Let me go Sammy, the note said, and Sam and Cas can't read those words, so they take to books they can read with a zeal her father would have appreciated. Puppy pleading, they turn her to the archives.
Reports and reports that read like things she’s done in Hell-they unwound a shifter piece by piece with a steel knife, then an iron one, then a silver one to see if it could regenerate its limbs. Then, for science--replicated the experiment.
People fighting for the greater good have done more work for Hell than its paid employees.
Meg sips decades old scotch from crystal as she hides away references to Hell Knights and anything Biblical in the old, dark places of the bunker Sam won't visit. Her memory is long, but not long enough to remember the sweet lies whispered to Cain; to remember his fingers curled red around the Blade.
But Hell has its stories as Heaven and Earth and Purgatory have theirs.
Even angels can't smite someone Marked by Cain--what Cain crafts, only he can unwind. Something about reaping what you sow, etc. etc.
Meg downs the last of the scotch. Whatever Sam and Cas are looking for, they'll find the Dean Meg likes best, the Dean Cas only glimpsed while the angel was a surge of bright in the dark, the Dean Sam believes he understands but can't until he's been beneath his brother's blade.
She finds Sam and Cas still pouring over books in the library; Meg stands behind Sam without announcing her presence. "Find anything?" asks Sam, tired eyes sluggish on the page.
"No. Unfortunately, there isn't a Dewey Decimal system for monsters." She lifts his book away and doesn't bother reading any of it. "Eye strain, ever heard of it?" she drawls into his greasy hair.
Sam shudders the same way he always does the first time she touches him, meat recoiling at the memory of her. The way he tried to when she used his finger to pull the trigger. Then he almost relaxes under the soft puffs of air from her mouth. She meets Cas's glassy eyes and smiles, even as his hands tremble with the energy his shell can't contain.
Cas is dying slow, and they're still dancing to Dean's drumbeat. For Dean gone worse than dead. There are places in Hell they don't even whisper about the Knights, even after most are dead. Meg gently rakes nails over Sam's nape and presses a kiss to his crown the way Jess used to. With a wheeze, Cas crosses to them. He wraps arms around Meg from behind and whispers, "We'll find him."
"No doubt about that, Clarence."
Hopefully, Dean doesn't come for them first. She tightens her hold on Sam. If it's one place she doesn't want to be again, it's under Dean's blade.
Title:New Bloom
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Kevin
Rating: T
Word Count: 800
Notes: Written for
balder12 Contains underage drinking.
Summary: Kevin grows up the hard way.
Summer
The problem with the tablet is that it doesn’t come with diagrams. Kevin squints at the rock till he’s pretty sure he’d speak in tongues if he had anybody to talk to. Lights flash bright across his vision, forking like lightning, and the pain comes as the rolling thunder after. He lifts the spray paint can, fingers trembling. So-he starts with a circle?
Shit, he’d been a visual learner before this-reading instructions he only half-understands is not exactly helpful to creating whatever a Devil’s Trap actually is.
Sunlight cuts through the broken window, and he takes a steadying breath as he paints a circle around it. Feels a trouble-kid, like the ones that would paint obscenities on the churches back home. Feels like one of those kids his mom would say, “can’t wait for their court date,” under her breath about. His stomach clutches as he envisions his mom here-glad she isn’t, but the warmth of her arms, the easy “Kevin, we’ll be okay”-he shakes his head as he tries to remember what comes next.
Kevin swallows around the mother-sized lump in his throat. No-no. He has to keep going. No stopping.
Fall
The computer offers a different type of headache. Stabbing sharp like glass shards digging into his eyes. His stomach is aching and hollow, like it might finally quit and make him throw up everything he hasn’t eaten. Kevin scrunches his eyes shut, and takes a shuddering breath in this library where fucking adults can’t control their screaming kids.
He types in another few lines-he has to be better at this than pickpocketing. Has to be, or one he’ll starve, and two, Crowley will use his mistakes to track him. The memory of cologne is heavy in his nose, that horrible lilting voice-Kev. He checks the door on habit, then turns his fractured gaze back to the screen. Kevin needs money.
Kevin reaches up to rub at his eyes, winces at the sharp throb of the bruise. He pulls his fingers away from the black eye-shit, he is an awful pickpocket. But fake credit cards? Maybe this is better. This he can do.
No other choice, really, if he wants to eat. And if he wants enough paint to make new Devil’s Traps. His head aches again as he turns his gaze to the window. Winter is coming.
Winter
Whiskey isn't as warm as Kevin assumed it would be. Sure, it burns on the way down--makes him sputter and choke and the other vagrants laugh--but it doesn't banish the chill, the constant tremor since the midwestwinter started.
Doesn't make Kevin feel full, either. But the more he drinks, the more he forgets the gnawing in his stomach that is something between anxiety and hunger.
(It's stupid to let these people get him drunk. Could be informants for Crowley. Could be possessed. Could be creeps. But the world blurs around the edges and for the first time in months, Kevin smiles. Smiles so much his face hurts, and they are clapping him on the back, and he flinches from the first few touches, but then--then it feels good, the warmth. So he lets them, and drinks another and another and another.)
Kevin staggers back to his church, avoiding the worst of the ice only because of years in Michigan. He is a fucking expert ice-walker. That could be his superpower, if it weren't being Hell's biggest target and studying squiggles. Flopped onto the floor in the center of a Devil's Trap, Kevin still can't sleep.
Spring
He catches the plague as the birds start waking him in the morning. Okay, maybe not the plague, but everything hurts and he's cold all the time and what little appetite he still has evaporates like his funds always seem to. Sleep drags him spiraling down down, leaving him defenseless, and he dreams of Crowley--regardless of whether he's awake or asleep.
Kevin wakes to Crowley leering over the nest of blankets. All the air seizes in Kevin's chest and he runs and runs, scrambling out the door like the mad dog he's becoming, and the sunrise is orange and pink and beats down on his face sinisterly, and he can't--can't breathe as sweat plasters his hair to his face.
Where is he--?
"Hey, you okay?" A kid, girl, can't be more than thirteen examines him with furrowed brows.
God, she's going to call the cops, isn't she? But instead, she offers a tentative smile, and then she fishes in her spiderman backpack for--she hands him a small red soup canister. "You like you need this," she tells him, "Besides, dad knows I hate chicken noodle."
Kevin shouldn't--he shouldn't, shouldn't, but his eyes well with tears. "Thank you."
This entry was originally posted at http://mako-lies.dreamwidth.org/143062.html.