A Slip of Comet
Title: A Slip of Comet
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: Sam still thinks his plan of wrestling control back from Lucifer could work.
Disclaimer: Characters belong to CW's Supernatural. I just snuck them out to play for fun, never profit.
Author's Note: Title from Gerard Manley Hopkins' poem I Am Like a Slip of Comet (1864)
Word Count: 702
ETA: Crossposted to dean_sam here
A Slip of Comet
When you are not practicing, remember, someone somewhere is practicing, and when you meet him he will win. - Ed Macauley
“No. No way, Sam. Don’t even finish that thought.”
“Wait, just hear me out.”
“I’m saying no to your yes,” said Dean, taking a step closer to his brother. His tone was cold, final - their father’s voice - but Sam could see the plea in Dean’s eyes. “You are not saying yes to Lucifer.”
Sam spread his hands out placatingly before him. “Please, Dean, just listen a moment.” When his brother did no more than press his lips in a tight line, Sam continued. “Look, we can’t kill the Devil. We’re going for Plan B, locking him back up, but it’s not like we can wrestle him into the cage or whatever it is that holds him. Not even with the whole legion of angels on our side.” Sam looked hard at Dean and took a guess. “Not even with Michael.”
Dean blinked at that, but didn’t otherwise acknowledge that the thought had crossed his mind once or twice since the Green Room, since they changed their Lucifer protocol. He moved away and sat down on the edge of the motel bed, elbows on his knees. “So how is you saying yes not throwing in the towel?”
“We trick him.”
“Trick the Devil?” Dean snorted. “Come on, Sam, you saw what happened the last time someone tried to trick him, and that was a bonafide archangel-slash-trickster.”
Sam nodded but continued. “I say yes,” he said, ignoring Dean’s slight wince, “then I take control long enough to get in the cage. Then you lock it up.”
“No, Sam,” said Dean quietly. “I won’t...”
Sam walked over to Dean and crouched down into his line of vision. “We need to try,” he said.
* * *
“This is an even worse idea than that of killing Lucifer,” said Castiel a few hours later.
“Believe me, we know,” said Dean, “but we need to know if it’s worth trying.”
“An angelic possession is not like a demonic one,” said Castiel.
“But it’s the same principle, right?” asked Sam.
“You are basing this plan on one single - and very rare - incident. That of your friend Bobby’s, when he regained control during a demonic possession.”
“And Dad,” said Dean. “With yellow-eyes.”
Castiel assented. “Regain of control from the possessing demon is possible, but rare and brief. What you’re planning, however, is to regain control from Lucifer. He is not a common demon, or Azazel, but an angel. An archangel.”
“But could it be done?” insisted Sam.
Castiel cocked his head to the side, a concentrated look on his face as if he were looking at something very far off. “You were possessed once, Sam.” Both brothers shuffled nervously. “How did that go?”
Sam clenched his jaw, remembering the feeling of downing helplessness in those brief moments when he was lucid during Meg’s possession. “I’m stronger now.”
“Tainted,” countered Castiel. “You may have ruffled Lucifer’s feathers at the height of your power, when you killed Lilith, but not now.”
“Let’s find out.”
Castiel looked at Sam curiously, then at Dean. The older brother shrugged. Castiel nodded.
“Demonic possession, you may recall,” said Castiel, taking a step towards Sam, “is like drowning under the force of a waterfall.” Sam tensed. “Angelic possession, as my vessel Jimmy described, is more like being chained to a comet. These metaphors hardly do the experience justice.” By now, Castiel and Sam were standing almost nose to nose. Sam shifted under the angel’s stare but stood his ground.
“Sam Winchester, do you accept to be my vessel?”
“Yes.”
“Ruffle his feathers good, Sammy.”
* * *
“What are you waiting for? I said yes.” Sam turned from the angel to his brother and felt a wash of vertigo.
Castiel grabbed his arm and led him to the edge of the bed. “Sit down,” he ordered.
“I said yes,” repeated Sam, his words muffled as he rubbed his face, fighting down bile and the first throb of a truly epic headache.
“You said yes over an hour ago, Sammy.”
“You were a quiet vessel.”
Sam stared at the two of them, his vision swimming with pain and nausea. He closed his eyes, trying to focus, and rubbed his face again. Then, taking a deep breath, he stood up.
“Let me try again.”
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: Sam still thinks his plan of wrestling control back from Lucifer could work.
Disclaimer: Characters belong to CW's Supernatural. I just snuck them out to play for fun, never profit.
Author's Note: Title from Gerard Manley Hopkins' poem I Am Like a Slip of Comet (1864)
Word Count: 702
ETA: Crossposted to dean_sam here
A Slip of Comet
When you are not practicing, remember, someone somewhere is practicing, and when you meet him he will win. - Ed Macauley
“No. No way, Sam. Don’t even finish that thought.”
“Wait, just hear me out.”
“I’m saying no to your yes,” said Dean, taking a step closer to his brother. His tone was cold, final - their father’s voice - but Sam could see the plea in Dean’s eyes. “You are not saying yes to Lucifer.”
Sam spread his hands out placatingly before him. “Please, Dean, just listen a moment.” When his brother did no more than press his lips in a tight line, Sam continued. “Look, we can’t kill the Devil. We’re going for Plan B, locking him back up, but it’s not like we can wrestle him into the cage or whatever it is that holds him. Not even with the whole legion of angels on our side.” Sam looked hard at Dean and took a guess. “Not even with Michael.”
Dean blinked at that, but didn’t otherwise acknowledge that the thought had crossed his mind once or twice since the Green Room, since they changed their Lucifer protocol. He moved away and sat down on the edge of the motel bed, elbows on his knees. “So how is you saying yes not throwing in the towel?”
“We trick him.”
“Trick the Devil?” Dean snorted. “Come on, Sam, you saw what happened the last time someone tried to trick him, and that was a bonafide archangel-slash-trickster.”
Sam nodded but continued. “I say yes,” he said, ignoring Dean’s slight wince, “then I take control long enough to get in the cage. Then you lock it up.”
“No, Sam,” said Dean quietly. “I won’t...”
Sam walked over to Dean and crouched down into his line of vision. “We need to try,” he said.
* * *
“This is an even worse idea than that of killing Lucifer,” said Castiel a few hours later.
“Believe me, we know,” said Dean, “but we need to know if it’s worth trying.”
“An angelic possession is not like a demonic one,” said Castiel.
“But it’s the same principle, right?” asked Sam.
“You are basing this plan on one single - and very rare - incident. That of your friend Bobby’s, when he regained control during a demonic possession.”
“And Dad,” said Dean. “With yellow-eyes.”
Castiel assented. “Regain of control from the possessing demon is possible, but rare and brief. What you’re planning, however, is to regain control from Lucifer. He is not a common demon, or Azazel, but an angel. An archangel.”
“But could it be done?” insisted Sam.
Castiel cocked his head to the side, a concentrated look on his face as if he were looking at something very far off. “You were possessed once, Sam.” Both brothers shuffled nervously. “How did that go?”
Sam clenched his jaw, remembering the feeling of downing helplessness in those brief moments when he was lucid during Meg’s possession. “I’m stronger now.”
“Tainted,” countered Castiel. “You may have ruffled Lucifer’s feathers at the height of your power, when you killed Lilith, but not now.”
“Let’s find out.”
Castiel looked at Sam curiously, then at Dean. The older brother shrugged. Castiel nodded.
“Demonic possession, you may recall,” said Castiel, taking a step towards Sam, “is like drowning under the force of a waterfall.” Sam tensed. “Angelic possession, as my vessel Jimmy described, is more like being chained to a comet. These metaphors hardly do the experience justice.” By now, Castiel and Sam were standing almost nose to nose. Sam shifted under the angel’s stare but stood his ground.
“Sam Winchester, do you accept to be my vessel?”
“Yes.”
“Ruffle his feathers good, Sammy.”
* * *
“What are you waiting for? I said yes.” Sam turned from the angel to his brother and felt a wash of vertigo.
Castiel grabbed his arm and led him to the edge of the bed. “Sit down,” he ordered.
“I said yes,” repeated Sam, his words muffled as he rubbed his face, fighting down bile and the first throb of a truly epic headache.
“You said yes over an hour ago, Sammy.”
“You were a quiet vessel.”
Sam stared at the two of them, his vision swimming with pain and nausea. He closed his eyes, trying to focus, and rubbed his face again. Then, taking a deep breath, he stood up.
“Let me try again.”