dean/castiel | I would lose my soul the way I do
I WOULD LOSE MY SOUL THE WAY I DO
dean/castiel. 5.16, dark side of the moon coda. pg-13. 1,140.
this is your faith, untied before you and ugly.
(c) title from oh me by nirvana
a/n: i needed to write coda fic and, apparently, it had to be done in second person. and without capitals. this is how i deal. update this story is featured in elvisglasses5 lovely second edition of the park bench anthology!
I would lose my soul the way I do
this is your faith and faith unknown. this is your benevolence torn asunder. this is mercy and god and the stars aligned, shifted, and they're crashing from your heaven, you can see them. this is mercy, your mercy, handed back to you upon silverplatter-callusedfingers and this is your wisdom, bruised.
this is you and you are blind, white-blind, ready-blind, tricked, run-deep destruction in delicate unspooling, unwinding, twist-bend-open. this is you, you human, you limited, you hideous, now you, always you, must have always been you. now you know. this is you and wisdom, unlocked.
sit.
you have never been here before.
so, sit, and try not to think that there is someone you thought you knew crowding the forgotten corners of the world.
this is not you, this is not you human, this is not you because you are not golden, you are familiar, you are maddened by your bones, your skin, this is not you. you were not meant this way, you were not born of this and you were never told you were doomed. this is not you. no. this is you without--this is you, faint. this is you and this is thought (your own, created and burned by you) and this is absence and you feel it.
breathe.
remember to remember that.
this is you, not reverent. this is you, not aware. this is you, not and not and not. this is you and you are not. this is fear flung at you and you are not you are not ready. no one told you. no one ever told you and this is you, now. you are hazard, you are misery, you are suspect and sunken.
you are this and you are building yourself further into pieces of that, suffered and naked. you feel thin, are thin, and it's funny, it's funny. it's nowhere, it's level, it's elsewhere, mutated. funny.
you are not you are and you can't decide.
he finds you.
you knew he would and it is nothing. you didn't expect--anything.
this is him--it's you. you have never been so alike with another, never so much the same, skin searing skin when you touch, when you move and he moves back. this is what it must be like, truth. he knows truth too well. you wonder if it feels the same for him, too.
his hand is on yours and you know what this is (so human now, it's woven into the seams of your boundaries, your washed-out white-grace). it could mean something and it could mean faith, but you're not allowed to let it be anything other than distant, suspended belief, these invented words, the true-blank eyes that stole into you, stole into him. you made it, you let it.
i'm sorry, you say.
no, he says. no, don't.
he is water, you are oil. his hands brush through your hair, fingertips grazing skin, your heart picks up, you watch and wait and he is looking at you and you are not, you are not this. you will not blend, you will be stuck and you pull in, you push out, you need, you want--you are not.
this is your faith, untied before you and ugly, wholly human, ribbon-flesh and brittle bone making you weak, doubt for sinners, for believers. this is your faith: it is him, it used to be him and you were once his, and now you taste it on his lips; your faith is bitter and you wonder, you wonder, if he tastes it, too.
there is something--muted, giant. it comes in the shapes of dry-warm hands, soft soft lips, the distracting rattle of bones as you shift, crash, and he moves in arrogance, made of broken-down parts, brimmed with pretty little flaws, caught between your false-truths and his, and you feel so unfolded, so strange.
cas, he says. cas, please.
you have nothing to give. (once faith, once you, this you that you could know, and you are merely a voice, merely a beginning lost of an end, and you have nothing to give.) so, instead, you take. lace your fingers through his and he moves back, instinct, you know. lean forward when he leans back and you're exposed, want to be exposed, want want want.
(no, you are not. not to want, not to need, not to know. you were never meant to know.)
his lips pressed to yours, spark-damage, unlearned. be harsh, be unforgiving, you will know this wrath and you will wear indignation as if it were your own to keep. it will make you young--he is young, younger than you can remember being. it will make you simple, let this wander in you. his hands on you, pressed to your chest, and this will become you.
fingers run. you buckle beneath him. weak.
you once admired him. beautiful, like god intended (god never intended anything, created, destroyed without intention, senseless, chaos, words for your other brother). now, he is shattered, switch-blade sharp, fatal and worse off for you, with you. you've never known the future but you know this one, it's laid out for you in the downcast glance, in the stutter of his hands against your neck, lips cold on your skin. you once admired him. now, you--you are not.
this is not redemption. this is not a reordering. this is not a tear-down of illusions. you know, you know, you are not, you are not. you pull him in, pull him down, unsteady against him, and he lets you be unsure. how vain, how glorious it is to be like this. you forget, maybe only for a moment. it seems enough.
cas, please.
he will not ask so much of you now, nothing much more than this, this scattering, the drowsy honesty that ignites you and him, flames alive. you'll live for it now. you have little left.
and you want to ask, want to know, what did you see, what did you remember. but you won't. you think he'll never tell and you tell yourself you'll never want to know. maybe he'll let you know, through not-words and not-stories, through all the things that are not. you will know this. he knows it all too well. maybe he will teach you.
you notice that the necklace is gone. not around his neck, not around his fingers.
this, you understand.
so, this is your faith, your flawed wisdom that you have always known, stripped bare for you both. this is you, you as faith, and you have nothing. you are nothing.
but it's okay, it's okay, because he is nothing now, too.
end.
dean/castiel. 5.16, dark side of the moon coda. pg-13. 1,140.
this is your faith, untied before you and ugly.
(c) title from oh me by nirvana
a/n: i needed to write coda fic and, apparently, it had to be done in second person. and without capitals. this is how i deal. update this story is featured in elvisglasses5 lovely second edition of the park bench anthology!
I would lose my soul the way I do
this is your faith and faith unknown. this is your benevolence torn asunder. this is mercy and god and the stars aligned, shifted, and they're crashing from your heaven, you can see them. this is mercy, your mercy, handed back to you upon silverplatter-callusedfingers and this is your wisdom, bruised.
this is you and you are blind, white-blind, ready-blind, tricked, run-deep destruction in delicate unspooling, unwinding, twist-bend-open. this is you, you human, you limited, you hideous, now you, always you, must have always been you. now you know. this is you and wisdom, unlocked.
sit.
you have never been here before.
so, sit, and try not to think that there is someone you thought you knew crowding the forgotten corners of the world.
this is not you, this is not you human, this is not you because you are not golden, you are familiar, you are maddened by your bones, your skin, this is not you. you were not meant this way, you were not born of this and you were never told you were doomed. this is not you. no. this is you without--this is you, faint. this is you and this is thought (your own, created and burned by you) and this is absence and you feel it.
breathe.
remember to remember that.
this is you, not reverent. this is you, not aware. this is you, not and not and not. this is you and you are not. this is fear flung at you and you are not you are not ready. no one told you. no one ever told you and this is you, now. you are hazard, you are misery, you are suspect and sunken.
you are this and you are building yourself further into pieces of that, suffered and naked. you feel thin, are thin, and it's funny, it's funny. it's nowhere, it's level, it's elsewhere, mutated. funny.
you are not you are and you can't decide.
he finds you.
you knew he would and it is nothing. you didn't expect--anything.
this is him--it's you. you have never been so alike with another, never so much the same, skin searing skin when you touch, when you move and he moves back. this is what it must be like, truth. he knows truth too well. you wonder if it feels the same for him, too.
his hand is on yours and you know what this is (so human now, it's woven into the seams of your boundaries, your washed-out white-grace). it could mean something and it could mean faith, but you're not allowed to let it be anything other than distant, suspended belief, these invented words, the true-blank eyes that stole into you, stole into him. you made it, you let it.
i'm sorry, you say.
no, he says. no, don't.
he is water, you are oil. his hands brush through your hair, fingertips grazing skin, your heart picks up, you watch and wait and he is looking at you and you are not, you are not this. you will not blend, you will be stuck and you pull in, you push out, you need, you want--you are not.
this is your faith, untied before you and ugly, wholly human, ribbon-flesh and brittle bone making you weak, doubt for sinners, for believers. this is your faith: it is him, it used to be him and you were once his, and now you taste it on his lips; your faith is bitter and you wonder, you wonder, if he tastes it, too.
there is something--muted, giant. it comes in the shapes of dry-warm hands, soft soft lips, the distracting rattle of bones as you shift, crash, and he moves in arrogance, made of broken-down parts, brimmed with pretty little flaws, caught between your false-truths and his, and you feel so unfolded, so strange.
cas, he says. cas, please.
you have nothing to give. (once faith, once you, this you that you could know, and you are merely a voice, merely a beginning lost of an end, and you have nothing to give.) so, instead, you take. lace your fingers through his and he moves back, instinct, you know. lean forward when he leans back and you're exposed, want to be exposed, want want want.
(no, you are not. not to want, not to need, not to know. you were never meant to know.)
his lips pressed to yours, spark-damage, unlearned. be harsh, be unforgiving, you will know this wrath and you will wear indignation as if it were your own to keep. it will make you young--he is young, younger than you can remember being. it will make you simple, let this wander in you. his hands on you, pressed to your chest, and this will become you.
fingers run. you buckle beneath him. weak.
you once admired him. beautiful, like god intended (god never intended anything, created, destroyed without intention, senseless, chaos, words for your other brother). now, he is shattered, switch-blade sharp, fatal and worse off for you, with you. you've never known the future but you know this one, it's laid out for you in the downcast glance, in the stutter of his hands against your neck, lips cold on your skin. you once admired him. now, you--you are not.
this is not redemption. this is not a reordering. this is not a tear-down of illusions. you know, you know, you are not, you are not. you pull him in, pull him down, unsteady against him, and he lets you be unsure. how vain, how glorious it is to be like this. you forget, maybe only for a moment. it seems enough.
cas, please.
he will not ask so much of you now, nothing much more than this, this scattering, the drowsy honesty that ignites you and him, flames alive. you'll live for it now. you have little left.
and you want to ask, want to know, what did you see, what did you remember. but you won't. you think he'll never tell and you tell yourself you'll never want to know. maybe he'll let you know, through not-words and not-stories, through all the things that are not. you will know this. he knows it all too well. maybe he will teach you.
you notice that the necklace is gone. not around his neck, not around his fingers.
this, you understand.
so, this is your faith, your flawed wisdom that you have always known, stripped bare for you both. this is you, you as faith, and you have nothing. you are nothing.
but it's okay, it's okay, because he is nothing now, too.
end.