SPN Fic: Now Done Darkness (Dean/Castiel, Dean/Sam)
I read aesc's just beautiful Dean/Castiel artfic Apocalypse for Beginners (please go look and drool and be awed now, if you have not already), and then watched nearly two seasons of Supernatural in a week so obviously this happened. It started off as a bit of Dean/Castiel fluff and then turned into a what-if apocalypse scenario. I only wish I were surprised at myself. Spoilers for the big arc of Season 4 and the pilot, but nothing else specific. Very abstract Dean/Castiel & Dean/Sam.
I'm also happy to be linked to Dean/Castiel and Dean/Sam.
now done darkness
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
Gerald Manley Hopkins, ‘Carrion Comfort’
Castiel does not touch Dean; Sam notices this early on. Castiel does not touch Sam either, but then he also has the slightest sort of sneer on his face whenever he catches sight of him. Castiel angles himself in the room so that Sam will be just at the corner of his eye and he won’t have to look directly at the impure-blooded brother of his messiah. But with Dean it’s more a product of deliberation and hesitation. Even when the two touch it’s through fabric, through trenchcoat sleeves or leather jacket, and it’s weird because Dean is all hands and in-your-face when he’s pissed, and Castiel is constantly almost wringing his hands like he wants to circle his fingers around Dean’s wrists. (Sam should know.)
;
When Castiel finally does touch Dean-- an occasion that feels at the time innocuous but in hindsight momentous-- Dean notices because all of a sudden the landscapes around him go richer and realler. Dean’s been walking around with his eyes filtered on posterize ever since he got out of hell but when Castiel touches him the world flattens and deepens and quietens and hell stops ringing in his ears. It’s a screaming as familiar as the pumping of the blood in his veins, and so when it stops he stumbles for a moment, and that’s enough to break their contact and for it all to come rushing back. It is an occasion that seems innocuous but Dean remembers it and remembers stopping his hands in mid-air as they are grasping automatically for angel-flesh. He remembers the look on Castiel’s face when it happens, half-sickened and half-stricken, inasmuch as his white-stone features can show those things.
“Dean,” he says, and puts just enough heavenly rumble in it for Dean’s fingers to curl up into fists as his arms drop.
“My mistake,” he says, taking an over-dramatic step back. “Angels like their personal space, I can dig that.”
;
The second time Castiel touches Dean it is not accidental; he lets out a slow, shuddering exhalation just before even though he’s an angel, he doesn’t need to breathe. His eyes are kind and something else altogether. Dean looks into those eyes and knows that when they touch, Castiel hears hell pounding against the inside of his skull, and if Dean could lock it away in that serene and pure place he would.
Dean starts to hear the whisper of feathers when Castiel moves, the crackle of the hard tips mixing into music as they slide across the floor.
To touch, Castiel must take hell inside of himself; he does so, willingly, and is not outwardly touched. This repulses and attracts Dean in equal measure. If Castiel knows his, he does not say.
;
When they fight battles in cemeteries or near Devil’s Gates or any crossroad where the demarcation between Hell and Earth is thinning Castiel stands behind Dean with his wings spread, sword in one hand and the other splayed against the skin of the small of Dean’s back so that Dean can lead his armies in silence.
The demarcation seems thin almost everywhere they go these days.
;
Hell on earth isn’t so bad. For the first time the noises inside Dean’s head match the ones on the outside. Sam hears the blood-tide and they chink together their beers over the continuous roar. “It’s here,” he says, and Dean grins back, “Yeah, but we are too.”
;
Castiel is leading flights of angels to battle; gigantic storms that rage across the ruined skies and leave behind only a whirl of black smoke and feathers. He blinks in and out of their war-plan like an unrestful spirit, stinking of sulphur with not a mark on him. He is no longer their pennant, spreading wings behind Dean like a heavenly marker. Sam and Dean no longer have need of borrowed wings; in a feat of metaphor, their human hands span farther.
Angels and demons fight alongside each other, and alongside them. They were both chosen by archangels and demons from the deepest pits, but all that in the end just turns out to be-- circumstance.
Sam touches Dean and the screaming does not quiet but it sings.
;
They can still win this war.
;
“One day they’ll realise that they have more in common with each other than with us,” Dean says, watching their armies blacken the sun with smoke and irradiate the night-sky with a thousand shimmering shapes: swords and wings that clatter against each other, tearing through destiny and right out into the other side.
Sam takes a sip of his beer. “Define us,” he mutters, and Dean starts and then starts to laugh, full and clear and loud in the sudden silence.
;
Castiel is picking silver bullets from his wings when Sam finds him; the bullets are engraved with runes, and leave scorch marks behind on on iridescent surface of the feathers. “Those permanent?” He inquires, shuffling his feet slightly and feeling like a schoolboy sent to the headmaster’s office. Sam’s been commanding angels for eight months now, but Castiel has always been different.
He jerks his head up. “You can see my wings?” Sam nods. “How long?”
“A while now,” he bites his lip, and then adds, because there is no reason for him to hide it, “Since the apocalypse.”
Castiel turns his head infinitesmally, and Sam finds himself looking directly into his eyes, and there is no disgust there. “It should not be surprising, Sam. The blood of angels and the blood of demons-- is not so different.” Something like regret passes over his face. "Not something we often acknowledge."
Sam feels relief coursing through him. “Then-- I have a mission for you.”
He listens carefully and respectfully, and at the end looks to the side, and Sam thinks he is about to refuse but instead he nods. “I will do as you ask, Sam.”
“This isn’t an order-- okay? We really are asking this of you.”
“Yes,” he snaps, voice sounding harsher and rougher than Sam has ever heard it before. “I know. You have my-- obedience-- because I choose to give it.” Castiel picks his words deliberately: obedience is something of a dirty word around their camp, Castiel is the only angel that still uses it but instead of yelling at him like he would anyone else, Dean just laughs fondly and makes muttered remarks about Cas being an old-fashioned kinda guy.
“Okay. Good. That’s good.” Sam gets up, and turns to go but Castiel is faster, stepping round him and reaching out one hand in a gesture so human and formal that Sam’s almost forgotten what to do. He blinks once, twice and then reaches out his own hand to shake the proferred one, recognising the deliberate gesture for what it is: a peace offering. Their palms touch: Castiel’s hand is cool, and slightly dry, and his handshake is firm. “Good luck?”
“You are righteous, Sam Winchester,” is the reply, before a rush of air and Sam is left alone on the ground. “Um. Thanks?” He mumbles out before shaking his head, and going to report back to Dean.
;
Two days later, an army materialises over in the next field, and Lilith strides into their camp with pink ribbons in her hair and Castiel walking beside her. Ruby swats aside some of the guns and swords of the arsenal that’s aimed at her head by the camp guards. “What are you doing here, Lilith?” She demands, then turns to Castiel. “Why did you bring her here?”
“Oh silly,” Lilith giggles. “Didn’t those sweet boys tell you? I‘m here to join you.”
;
Dean and Sam refuse to transfer blood-oaths and mindless allegiances; they give Lilith’s horde a choice. Not all of them join their forces, but enough do.
The tide turns, and the camp thrums with the nearness of victory but Dean and Sam give their allies no rest. “Winning this battle is only the first step,” Sam says to the generals assembled around their makeshift conference table. Lilith raises an eyebrow and Dean winks at her. “But stick around, kids, we got big plans.”
;
When they remake their world it will be like this: the sun will rise and herald the coming of the night, it will be both, at once, and no division between them. They will be unbroken. They are not setting out to reverse the positions of Heaven and Hell, they will abolish them completely.
They were destined to win a war, but instead they are mounting a revolution.
Dean Winchester hefts a shotgun in one hand and tosses Sam a sword, “Fuck destiny,” he says. Sam smiles, and nods, and together they walk beside their brothers and sisters somewhere unwritten.
Feedback?
I'm also happy to be linked to Dean/Castiel and Dean/Sam.
now done darkness
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
Gerald Manley Hopkins, ‘Carrion Comfort’
Castiel does not touch Dean; Sam notices this early on. Castiel does not touch Sam either, but then he also has the slightest sort of sneer on his face whenever he catches sight of him. Castiel angles himself in the room so that Sam will be just at the corner of his eye and he won’t have to look directly at the impure-blooded brother of his messiah. But with Dean it’s more a product of deliberation and hesitation. Even when the two touch it’s through fabric, through trenchcoat sleeves or leather jacket, and it’s weird because Dean is all hands and in-your-face when he’s pissed, and Castiel is constantly almost wringing his hands like he wants to circle his fingers around Dean’s wrists. (Sam should know.)
;
When Castiel finally does touch Dean-- an occasion that feels at the time innocuous but in hindsight momentous-- Dean notices because all of a sudden the landscapes around him go richer and realler. Dean’s been walking around with his eyes filtered on posterize ever since he got out of hell but when Castiel touches him the world flattens and deepens and quietens and hell stops ringing in his ears. It’s a screaming as familiar as the pumping of the blood in his veins, and so when it stops he stumbles for a moment, and that’s enough to break their contact and for it all to come rushing back. It is an occasion that seems innocuous but Dean remembers it and remembers stopping his hands in mid-air as they are grasping automatically for angel-flesh. He remembers the look on Castiel’s face when it happens, half-sickened and half-stricken, inasmuch as his white-stone features can show those things.
“Dean,” he says, and puts just enough heavenly rumble in it for Dean’s fingers to curl up into fists as his arms drop.
“My mistake,” he says, taking an over-dramatic step back. “Angels like their personal space, I can dig that.”
;
The second time Castiel touches Dean it is not accidental; he lets out a slow, shuddering exhalation just before even though he’s an angel, he doesn’t need to breathe. His eyes are kind and something else altogether. Dean looks into those eyes and knows that when they touch, Castiel hears hell pounding against the inside of his skull, and if Dean could lock it away in that serene and pure place he would.
Dean starts to hear the whisper of feathers when Castiel moves, the crackle of the hard tips mixing into music as they slide across the floor.
To touch, Castiel must take hell inside of himself; he does so, willingly, and is not outwardly touched. This repulses and attracts Dean in equal measure. If Castiel knows his, he does not say.
;
When they fight battles in cemeteries or near Devil’s Gates or any crossroad where the demarcation between Hell and Earth is thinning Castiel stands behind Dean with his wings spread, sword in one hand and the other splayed against the skin of the small of Dean’s back so that Dean can lead his armies in silence.
The demarcation seems thin almost everywhere they go these days.
;
Hell on earth isn’t so bad. For the first time the noises inside Dean’s head match the ones on the outside. Sam hears the blood-tide and they chink together their beers over the continuous roar. “It’s here,” he says, and Dean grins back, “Yeah, but we are too.”
;
Castiel is leading flights of angels to battle; gigantic storms that rage across the ruined skies and leave behind only a whirl of black smoke and feathers. He blinks in and out of their war-plan like an unrestful spirit, stinking of sulphur with not a mark on him. He is no longer their pennant, spreading wings behind Dean like a heavenly marker. Sam and Dean no longer have need of borrowed wings; in a feat of metaphor, their human hands span farther.
Angels and demons fight alongside each other, and alongside them. They were both chosen by archangels and demons from the deepest pits, but all that in the end just turns out to be-- circumstance.
Sam touches Dean and the screaming does not quiet but it sings.
;
They can still win this war.
;
“One day they’ll realise that they have more in common with each other than with us,” Dean says, watching their armies blacken the sun with smoke and irradiate the night-sky with a thousand shimmering shapes: swords and wings that clatter against each other, tearing through destiny and right out into the other side.
Sam takes a sip of his beer. “Define us,” he mutters, and Dean starts and then starts to laugh, full and clear and loud in the sudden silence.
;
Castiel is picking silver bullets from his wings when Sam finds him; the bullets are engraved with runes, and leave scorch marks behind on on iridescent surface of the feathers. “Those permanent?” He inquires, shuffling his feet slightly and feeling like a schoolboy sent to the headmaster’s office. Sam’s been commanding angels for eight months now, but Castiel has always been different.
He jerks his head up. “You can see my wings?” Sam nods. “How long?”
“A while now,” he bites his lip, and then adds, because there is no reason for him to hide it, “Since the apocalypse.”
Castiel turns his head infinitesmally, and Sam finds himself looking directly into his eyes, and there is no disgust there. “It should not be surprising, Sam. The blood of angels and the blood of demons-- is not so different.” Something like regret passes over his face. "Not something we often acknowledge."
Sam feels relief coursing through him. “Then-- I have a mission for you.”
He listens carefully and respectfully, and at the end looks to the side, and Sam thinks he is about to refuse but instead he nods. “I will do as you ask, Sam.”
“This isn’t an order-- okay? We really are asking this of you.”
“Yes,” he snaps, voice sounding harsher and rougher than Sam has ever heard it before. “I know. You have my-- obedience-- because I choose to give it.” Castiel picks his words deliberately: obedience is something of a dirty word around their camp, Castiel is the only angel that still uses it but instead of yelling at him like he would anyone else, Dean just laughs fondly and makes muttered remarks about Cas being an old-fashioned kinda guy.
“Okay. Good. That’s good.” Sam gets up, and turns to go but Castiel is faster, stepping round him and reaching out one hand in a gesture so human and formal that Sam’s almost forgotten what to do. He blinks once, twice and then reaches out his own hand to shake the proferred one, recognising the deliberate gesture for what it is: a peace offering. Their palms touch: Castiel’s hand is cool, and slightly dry, and his handshake is firm. “Good luck?”
“You are righteous, Sam Winchester,” is the reply, before a rush of air and Sam is left alone on the ground. “Um. Thanks?” He mumbles out before shaking his head, and going to report back to Dean.
;
Two days later, an army materialises over in the next field, and Lilith strides into their camp with pink ribbons in her hair and Castiel walking beside her. Ruby swats aside some of the guns and swords of the arsenal that’s aimed at her head by the camp guards. “What are you doing here, Lilith?” She demands, then turns to Castiel. “Why did you bring her here?”
“Oh silly,” Lilith giggles. “Didn’t those sweet boys tell you? I‘m here to join you.”
;
Dean and Sam refuse to transfer blood-oaths and mindless allegiances; they give Lilith’s horde a choice. Not all of them join their forces, but enough do.
The tide turns, and the camp thrums with the nearness of victory but Dean and Sam give their allies no rest. “Winning this battle is only the first step,” Sam says to the generals assembled around their makeshift conference table. Lilith raises an eyebrow and Dean winks at her. “But stick around, kids, we got big plans.”
;
When they remake their world it will be like this: the sun will rise and herald the coming of the night, it will be both, at once, and no division between them. They will be unbroken. They are not setting out to reverse the positions of Heaven and Hell, they will abolish them completely.
They were destined to win a war, but instead they are mounting a revolution.
Dean Winchester hefts a shotgun in one hand and tosses Sam a sword, “Fuck destiny,” he says. Sam smiles, and nods, and together they walk beside their brothers and sisters somewhere unwritten.
Feedback?