[fic] When it Ends
Autho ofolivesnginger
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None
Rating: PG13
Words: ~800
Summary: Some birds hold funerals for their dead.
Balthazar watches the earth with his eyes half lidded, and he moistens his lips. And then he turns around and says, “let’s go.”
The congregation behind him stirs a little. Comes sounds of the rustling of expensive suede chairs and velvet love seats. A heel hits the granite, an ash tray’s set down, and not much else. Balthazar tries to meet the eyes of every one of them slumped in their chairs and catches none. One takes a drag at a cigarette like he hadn’t just spoken the first words in three hours.
He looks to Hester, and she doesn’t budge. Beside her a young one’s got his neck pulled tight, and he looks around the room with a question, the whipping of his head the only movement in the picture. Then Gabriel stands, spews a curt “tsk”. The kid, Inias, Balthazar remembers, stands too.
“What’s going on?” Inias voice cuts the silence, note hanging. The guy with the cig exhales like he’s had to explain this one too many times.
They pack their bags, but they don’t change. Suits were only fashionable in the last Apocalypse, and they aren’t reapers, not here to take, just to give. Gabriel tugs at a few strands of Inias’ hair, dabs a tissue at his pinked cheeks soft with tears, whispers for him to hush. Inias sobs in his older brother’s lap while Balthazar ties his own shoes, and the man can hear them behind him, Inias going on about how big brother Cas was just playing hide and seek with him yesterday and Gabriel just says Shh to that, hide and seek’s different down there, just like time is up here.
When Gabriel comes over with Inias’ hand in his own, nobody is crying. Balthazar turns around, clears his throat. It’s gotten rusty. They’ve all gotten rusty.
And then he takes a step, first one in years, into 2014.
It’s not raining, but it looks like it might. They find Castiel’s body on the third floor of the building, dangling atop a windowsill and heating unit like a rag doll lying supple against the panes, waiting for her owner to come home. Gabriel doesn’t think about what that is on his shoulder. Balthazar takes him down from the wall and doesn’t think about what’s been holding him there. Inias’ eyes are shielded, but he bats the hands away.
They take him into a forest.
Gabe opens his bag and digs Cas a grave. Balthazar’s on his knees trying to peel blood crusted jacket off his brother without tearing off flesh alongside, and idly thinks they should have been there an hour or four years earlier, when the blood hadn’t yet dried. It doesn’t work, so he looks around the place, and comes upon a small clearing with a dead man lying face up in the dirt, green eyes as dry as the weed beneath his head. He stares at him for a long moment, stares with hooded eyes, and the dead guy stares back, face lax and lines pressed smooth. Then Balthazar kicks the body over and rips off his jacket, toe nudging into the dirt like they’re winding, preparing. But he grinds them down, and around, but not before spitting on the corpse.
Gabriel’s not looking at him when he comes back.
He tends to the fire, and Balthazar sits Castiel up so he can slide the jacket atop his own. He stuffs Castiel’s arms through the right holes, but leaves the buttons. He lays him back down again and notes how snugly the jacket fits around his brother’s shoulders. If only they’d found out before he was dead, he thinks with a bitter laugh.
It doesn’t rain, in the end. The clouds part and the sun hangs inappropriately bright above their shoulders. Balthazar doesn’t like that so he makes it rain, and Gabriel starts shouting “are you fucking-” but Balthazar looks over like he’s wondering how long it would take to dig another grave beside this, like he’s this close to shouting Lucifer’s name and Gabriel shuts up. The rain beats at the fire on their torches, falls upon Castiel’s cold complexion, falls upon the pair of entwined hands on his chest. “Castiel,” Balthazar says, voice rusty. “Born from a storm, you were.”
They don’t say prayers, because Cas wouldn’t have liked that. They don’t follow any parts of the ritual. They stand under the rain while it rolls down their eyelashes and Balthazar thinks little Inias is the only one crying but the kid clenches his fists and bites his lip until it bleeds. They don’t say anything, just stand and watch the droplets collect in pools in the hollows of Castiel’s eye sockets. The rain washes the dirt into the grave. The rain draws out the red beneath the dead man’s jacket. And then Balthazar takes a step forward.
When it ends, there is no holy oil.
There is only fire.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None
Rating: PG13
Words: ~800
Summary: Some birds hold funerals for their dead.
Balthazar watches the earth with his eyes half lidded, and he moistens his lips. And then he turns around and says, “let’s go.”
The congregation behind him stirs a little. Comes sounds of the rustling of expensive suede chairs and velvet love seats. A heel hits the granite, an ash tray’s set down, and not much else. Balthazar tries to meet the eyes of every one of them slumped in their chairs and catches none. One takes a drag at a cigarette like he hadn’t just spoken the first words in three hours.
He looks to Hester, and she doesn’t budge. Beside her a young one’s got his neck pulled tight, and he looks around the room with a question, the whipping of his head the only movement in the picture. Then Gabriel stands, spews a curt “tsk”. The kid, Inias, Balthazar remembers, stands too.
“What’s going on?” Inias voice cuts the silence, note hanging. The guy with the cig exhales like he’s had to explain this one too many times.
They pack their bags, but they don’t change. Suits were only fashionable in the last Apocalypse, and they aren’t reapers, not here to take, just to give. Gabriel tugs at a few strands of Inias’ hair, dabs a tissue at his pinked cheeks soft with tears, whispers for him to hush. Inias sobs in his older brother’s lap while Balthazar ties his own shoes, and the man can hear them behind him, Inias going on about how big brother Cas was just playing hide and seek with him yesterday and Gabriel just says Shh to that, hide and seek’s different down there, just like time is up here.
When Gabriel comes over with Inias’ hand in his own, nobody is crying. Balthazar turns around, clears his throat. It’s gotten rusty. They’ve all gotten rusty.
And then he takes a step, first one in years, into 2014.
It’s not raining, but it looks like it might. They find Castiel’s body on the third floor of the building, dangling atop a windowsill and heating unit like a rag doll lying supple against the panes, waiting for her owner to come home. Gabriel doesn’t think about what that is on his shoulder. Balthazar takes him down from the wall and doesn’t think about what’s been holding him there. Inias’ eyes are shielded, but he bats the hands away.
They take him into a forest.
Gabe opens his bag and digs Cas a grave. Balthazar’s on his knees trying to peel blood crusted jacket off his brother without tearing off flesh alongside, and idly thinks they should have been there an hour or four years earlier, when the blood hadn’t yet dried. It doesn’t work, so he looks around the place, and comes upon a small clearing with a dead man lying face up in the dirt, green eyes as dry as the weed beneath his head. He stares at him for a long moment, stares with hooded eyes, and the dead guy stares back, face lax and lines pressed smooth. Then Balthazar kicks the body over and rips off his jacket, toe nudging into the dirt like they’re winding, preparing. But he grinds them down, and around, but not before spitting on the corpse.
Gabriel’s not looking at him when he comes back.
He tends to the fire, and Balthazar sits Castiel up so he can slide the jacket atop his own. He stuffs Castiel’s arms through the right holes, but leaves the buttons. He lays him back down again and notes how snugly the jacket fits around his brother’s shoulders. If only they’d found out before he was dead, he thinks with a bitter laugh.
It doesn’t rain, in the end. The clouds part and the sun hangs inappropriately bright above their shoulders. Balthazar doesn’t like that so he makes it rain, and Gabriel starts shouting “are you fucking-” but Balthazar looks over like he’s wondering how long it would take to dig another grave beside this, like he’s this close to shouting Lucifer’s name and Gabriel shuts up. The rain beats at the fire on their torches, falls upon Castiel’s cold complexion, falls upon the pair of entwined hands on his chest. “Castiel,” Balthazar says, voice rusty. “Born from a storm, you were.”
They don’t say prayers, because Cas wouldn’t have liked that. They don’t follow any parts of the ritual. They stand under the rain while it rolls down their eyelashes and Balthazar thinks little Inias is the only one crying but the kid clenches his fists and bites his lip until it bleeds. They don’t say anything, just stand and watch the droplets collect in pools in the hollows of Castiel’s eye sockets. The rain washes the dirt into the grave. The rain draws out the red beneath the dead man’s jacket. And then Balthazar takes a step forward.
When it ends, there is no holy oil.
There is only fire.