Dig
>> Dig
TITLE: Dig
AUTHOR:ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: For 5.13
GENRE: Gen.
CHARACTERS: Dean, Castiel, (Sam)
SUMMARY: Some sort of coda
RATING: PG-13
FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own them, I just write about them. Alas.
NOTE: This one is foranimotus, who has been really, really patient and all kinds of awesome.
BETA: by sparkly, perceptive catdancerz
First instinct is to keep on as he always has. Bury the problems he cannot solve and take it one stance at a time; the Winchester way.
He takes another swig of his drink. Castiel is still passed out on his bed and Sam’s breathing has eased into the pattern of drunk sleep.
And he still wants to do this. Wants to bury and run, and collect miles with his brother.
He’s not sure if it’s going to work this time.
.:::.
There are fissures in the Winchesters by default. It’s not that they started out as one, and then slowly, under fire, started cracking. Dean now knows they were never whole to begin with. Not in their bloodline. Made with shards and jagged pieces stubbornly held together through will. Or purpose. Held together, till the fissures became cracks. Ironic, how they are the vessels, despite being flawed. Or maybe because of it.
There are things that slipped out from those cracks, fragile precious things, like hope and innocence and on more than one occasion, life. There are things that sniffed the cracks out, and slipped in, cracking them wider. Demons, darkness, despair, death. Destiny.
Bury and run, run as far your car can take you. Soft-bodied girls and beer, loud music and miles. The hunt and the good fight and his brother. The certainty that he’s doing the right thing.
That was before Michael.
He braces his face against his palm; his skin feels surprisingly soft against calloused fingertips. He envies Sam’s and Castiel’s quiet sleep; in the soft dark he wraps his jacket around him, eases back into the armchair and closes his eyes. Thunder is rolling in the distance.
There are too many thoughts. There is no grave deep enough and there are no more miles.
.:::.
The past had felt strange around him, like an oversized coat; a world he never lived in, and parents that were so much younger, so much more hopeful than their own sons. So less worn-out.
And then there was Michael, wearing a John Dean had barely recognized. Flick of his fingers, touch on their foreheads. Time and place restored, but nothing is the same, not really.
Michael shifted the axis, and everything Dean buried crawled out, gripped and raised from perdition by a different angel.
No choices. Just the same old road Dean’s been driving on for years. And people, his people dying.
And Dean’s tired. So tired. He crosses his legs, listens to the steady rhythm of the rain outside as it picks up.
If everything is predestined, if fate is real and cruel and so not random, there is no reason to fight. There is no purpose to hold the pieces together. No reason to get up in the morning.
He is just so tired.
“You are contemplating saying yes, aren’t you?” Castiel quietly says, as he takes the glass from Dean’s loose grip. Dean snaps his eyes open. “Michael found you, did he not?”
“Yeah.” Dean nods, passes his hand over his face and sits up straight. “Would it be so bad, Cas? If I say yes to Michael, Sam doesn’t even have to be Lucifer. Hell, everything will be over. We won’t have to struggle in vain against something that will happen anyway.”
Lightning crackles. In that temporary light, Castiel’s face looks grim.
“I cannot make that choice for you.”
“That’s the thing, Cas. There are no choices. Michael said everything is predestined, and choices are an illusion. Nothing we do matters.”
Thunder masks the silence. Sam shifts in his sleep. He mumbles something, then turns on his side and his breathing eases again.
“You didn’t say yes in the future,” Castiel says after a while.
“Fat lot of good that did.”
“That is not the point, Dean,” Castiel says. “You did not say yes in the future. Zachariah sent you there to show you a future where you never said yes. If you never said yes, then everything Michael told you about destiny and illusions is as you call it… bullshit.”
Dean bites a weary chuckle down.
“I’m just tired, Cas. I don’t know right from wrong anymore.”
Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Dean… if everything is truly predestined and there is no free will, you do not have to worry no matter which course of action you take. Because it will lead to the same destination. But if Michael is wrong…” He lets his voice trail. “I have got to go.”
And just like that, Castiel is no longer there. There is just his brother sleeping, and the storm outside. And the good fight.
“Team Free Will,” Dean mutters after a while, and eases back into the armchair.
No more digging. No more burying. Salt and burn.
He closes his eyes.
-The End.
When you dig another out of their troubles, you find a place to bury your own. ~Author Unknown
SIDENOTE:
Dear animotus,
I’m sure you are already thinking that the fic lacks stubble. But it’s totally there, I swear. It’s metaphorical stubble. It’s stubble etched on Dean’s psyche. Can’t you feel it?
Love,
me
TITLE: Dig
AUTHOR:ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: For 5.13
GENRE: Gen.
CHARACTERS: Dean, Castiel, (Sam)
SUMMARY: Some sort of coda
RATING: PG-13
FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own them, I just write about them. Alas.
NOTE: This one is foranimotus, who has been really, really patient and all kinds of awesome.
BETA: by sparkly, perceptive catdancerz
First instinct is to keep on as he always has. Bury the problems he cannot solve and take it one stance at a time; the Winchester way.
He takes another swig of his drink. Castiel is still passed out on his bed and Sam’s breathing has eased into the pattern of drunk sleep.
And he still wants to do this. Wants to bury and run, and collect miles with his brother.
He’s not sure if it’s going to work this time.
.:::.
There are fissures in the Winchesters by default. It’s not that they started out as one, and then slowly, under fire, started cracking. Dean now knows they were never whole to begin with. Not in their bloodline. Made with shards and jagged pieces stubbornly held together through will. Or purpose. Held together, till the fissures became cracks. Ironic, how they are the vessels, despite being flawed. Or maybe because of it.
There are things that slipped out from those cracks, fragile precious things, like hope and innocence and on more than one occasion, life. There are things that sniffed the cracks out, and slipped in, cracking them wider. Demons, darkness, despair, death. Destiny.
Bury and run, run as far your car can take you. Soft-bodied girls and beer, loud music and miles. The hunt and the good fight and his brother. The certainty that he’s doing the right thing.
That was before Michael.
He braces his face against his palm; his skin feels surprisingly soft against calloused fingertips. He envies Sam’s and Castiel’s quiet sleep; in the soft dark he wraps his jacket around him, eases back into the armchair and closes his eyes. Thunder is rolling in the distance.
There are too many thoughts. There is no grave deep enough and there are no more miles.
.:::.
The past had felt strange around him, like an oversized coat; a world he never lived in, and parents that were so much younger, so much more hopeful than their own sons. So less worn-out.
And then there was Michael, wearing a John Dean had barely recognized. Flick of his fingers, touch on their foreheads. Time and place restored, but nothing is the same, not really.
Michael shifted the axis, and everything Dean buried crawled out, gripped and raised from perdition by a different angel.
No choices. Just the same old road Dean’s been driving on for years. And people, his people dying.
And Dean’s tired. So tired. He crosses his legs, listens to the steady rhythm of the rain outside as it picks up.
If everything is predestined, if fate is real and cruel and so not random, there is no reason to fight. There is no purpose to hold the pieces together. No reason to get up in the morning.
He is just so tired.
“You are contemplating saying yes, aren’t you?” Castiel quietly says, as he takes the glass from Dean’s loose grip. Dean snaps his eyes open. “Michael found you, did he not?”
“Yeah.” Dean nods, passes his hand over his face and sits up straight. “Would it be so bad, Cas? If I say yes to Michael, Sam doesn’t even have to be Lucifer. Hell, everything will be over. We won’t have to struggle in vain against something that will happen anyway.”
Lightning crackles. In that temporary light, Castiel’s face looks grim.
“I cannot make that choice for you.”
“That’s the thing, Cas. There are no choices. Michael said everything is predestined, and choices are an illusion. Nothing we do matters.”
Thunder masks the silence. Sam shifts in his sleep. He mumbles something, then turns on his side and his breathing eases again.
“You didn’t say yes in the future,” Castiel says after a while.
“Fat lot of good that did.”
“That is not the point, Dean,” Castiel says. “You did not say yes in the future. Zachariah sent you there to show you a future where you never said yes. If you never said yes, then everything Michael told you about destiny and illusions is as you call it… bullshit.”
Dean bites a weary chuckle down.
“I’m just tired, Cas. I don’t know right from wrong anymore.”
Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Dean… if everything is truly predestined and there is no free will, you do not have to worry no matter which course of action you take. Because it will lead to the same destination. But if Michael is wrong…” He lets his voice trail. “I have got to go.”
And just like that, Castiel is no longer there. There is just his brother sleeping, and the storm outside. And the good fight.
“Team Free Will,” Dean mutters after a while, and eases back into the armchair.
No more digging. No more burying. Salt and burn.
He closes his eyes.
-The End.
When you dig another out of their troubles, you find a place to bury your own. ~Author Unknown
SIDENOTE:
Dear animotus,
I’m sure you are already thinking that the fic lacks stubble. But it’s totally there, I swear. It’s metaphorical stubble. It’s stubble etched on Dean’s psyche. Can’t you feel it?
Love,
me