of exams and minor character feelings
it's going to be fine, i'm just very bleh about the whole thing and now wish that i was better at math and science and could be an engineer. in another life, i suppose. in terms of what's happening in other parts of my life, there's a fabulous free-for-all going on at oxoniensis's journal.
tah dah. go wild. ( here's mine, in case you were interested)
speaking of, here's a fill i did for someone over there. twoskeletons is one of my new favorite spn writers (it's so fucking sad that i'm only now finding these fics, but i've never been a very good fic reader so you can't really blame me) - anyway, i have to say, my obsessive intrigue with minor supernatural characters knows no bounds, so i gobbled up the chance to write about aaron birch and claire (who has a new found fire in my heart).
it changes shape with you
notes: aaron birch meets claire novak in a nondescript jesus camp. they swap angel stories. for twoskeletons @ fall fandom free for all - rated pg-13
Aaron wonders if this is what angels do - leave behind pieces of the people they’ve turned inside out, whether they meant to or not. There’s nothing to look for when he glances in the mirror. He touches his chest, wonders if he’s been patched up from the inside out, if that’s how souls work. When they break him open in fifty years, maybe they’ll find a map and at the X, they’ll find all the reasons why.
He wonders all this because the summer after he gets his soul back, he meets Claire.
There’s a nice camp by a nice lake on the edge of a nice forest in Ohio. In a year, when his father gets it all back together, he realizes Aaron’s been writing letters to an angel with no name. There’s no God, Aaron says. Just angels. A month later he’s in a white van listening to gospel over the radio that keeps crackling in and out between the Lord’s word and a bad techno station.
Circled together, everyone has the chance confess. There’s no order to it and the counselors are nice enough until the silence becomes deafening and Aaron can hear every cracking branch and screeching owl within forty miles. Finally one of the counselors pulls a confession out of a red-headed boy with large glasses. Something about paganism or witchcraft. Aaron is unimpressed.
“What about you?” After a handful of kids, the counselor next to him nudges Aaron in the side. “Why are you here? Tell everyone your name.” Aaron blinks. Name, why you’re here.
Aaron opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He’s never admitted it to anyone, not even himself. He’s never said it out loud, what he did and why he did it. Maybe because no one would believe him. Maybe because he hardly believes it himself. The counselor nudges him again and Aaron swears it if happens one more time he’s going to lose his shit. A dozen pairs of eyes are on him as he works his mouth uselessly, trying to make the words he desperately doesn’t want to make.
“Maybe we’ll -”
“I sold my soul to an angel,” he finally says. “And I stopped believing in God.”
Someone laughs and Aaron realizes he’s close to tears. It isn’t funny, he wants to say. It isn’t a joke. I did it for Chris. I did it for my father. You don’t understand. You don’t know.
Another kid breaks the awkward silence, something about masturbation. No one is looking at Aaron anymore. No one except her. There’s a blonde girl across the circle from him who’s managed to stay invisible - Claire, her nametag says. When the night is over, no one’s even noticed her. No one’s asked her to confess or explain her sins. No one’s even seen her. No one but Aaron.
She comes to him, a few nights later. Aaron wakes up in his cabin with a hand over his mouth and the girl has a finger pressed tight to her lips. She slips backward from the room and Aaron goes, forgetting his shoes under the bed. Claire motions for him to follow her until they’re far enough away from the camp that Aaron can’t see the orange lights surrounding the cafeteria. “What -”
“You saw an angel,” she says quietly and Aaron supposes this is an acceptable way to say hello in her world. He nods. “What was his name?”
“Balthazar.” Aaron surprises himself. He hasn’t said the name in months. Something in Claire’s expression crumples and she just shakes her head, sitting heavily on the grass and looking out over the lake. “Have…have you seen one, too?” She nods. “When?”
“Couple years ago. Almost three.” She toys with the grass at her feet and looks up through her bangs at him. “His name was Castiel. Is,” she corrects herself, frowning. Aaron frowns - the name is achingly familiar, like something he was so close to writing before he stopped, pulled back, and turned away from it. “My grandparents made me come here last year, too. Most of the counselors won’t talk to me.”
“I will,” Aaron murmurs, feeling a blush creep over him when her knee touches his. Claire gives him a gentle smile, as if Aaron doesn’t quite understand. Odds are, he probably doesn’t.
On his seventh day at camp, Aaron nearly drowns.
Correction: Aaron is nearly drowned by a soccer play from Austin, trying to reclaim some lost and shattered part of his masculinity or something stupid like that. Aaron emerges from the lake, coughing and sputtering, as the counselors drag the boy away from the shore. There’s a hand on his back and a quiet whisper in his voice, You’re safe. You’re alright. I’m here.
He mistakes the sunlight shimmering around Claire’s head for a halo and almost whispers, Castiel, before choking again.
“Here.” Claire hands him a towel and settles next to him, her own suit dry as she piles her hair on the top of her head. “They’ll probably send him home.” Aaron nods, still trying to catch his breath. “How close were you?” Aaron glances at her. “To dying. Did you feel it?” He shakes his head. Claire sighs, looking a bit disappointed, but Aaron isn’t too surprised.
The counselors reassure him that it isn’t God’s plan that he die today and everyone prays for Aaron’s good fortune at dinner. It makes him feel like he’s suffocating, and when no one is looking, he slips out and jogs down to the lake, watching a duck make ripples that fade onto the shore. Claire comes out a while later, a brownie in her hand. She pulls it apart, gives one half to Aaron and swallows the other whole.
“Castiel took my father.” Aaron looks at her and then away. Claire is focused on a point, far out across the water, but Aaron imagines it’s nothing he could ever find. She talks about her father for a while and sometimes she talks about Castiel. Never at the same time, though. If Aaron didn’t know her - and even that’s up for debate - he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. But he can. The way her shoulders set when she talks about the angel, readying herself for a fight that will never come.
“I wish I could know him,” and Aaron’s not sure who he’s talking about, so he leaves that up to Claire. She smiles and takes his hand when he gives it to her.
It takes four weeks for Aaron to tell Claire what happened. To tell her about Balthazar and the angel who took him from him home. The two men he’d met that day. Another angel whose face and name he can’t quite grasp. Claire’s face registers something like recognition, but when Aaron looks again, she’s only listening. And he tells her, I did it for my brother. I did it for Chris. No one understands.
“I do,” she murmurs, and rests her head against his shoulder.
The night before they’re set to go home, Claire pulls Aaron from his cabin and he follows her to the lake. She kisses him and Aaron goes limp under her hands. She threads her fingers through his hair and kisses his neck, nosing his t-shirt out of the way and pressing quick kisses to his shoulder and forearms. Claire lets him touch her, lets him cup her face and return it all.
“I’m glad I met you,” she says. I’m glad we found each other.
tah dah. go wild. ( here's mine, in case you were interested)
speaking of, here's a fill i did for someone over there. twoskeletons is one of my new favorite spn writers (it's so fucking sad that i'm only now finding these fics, but i've never been a very good fic reader so you can't really blame me) - anyway, i have to say, my obsessive intrigue with minor supernatural characters knows no bounds, so i gobbled up the chance to write about aaron birch and claire (who has a new found fire in my heart).
it changes shape with you
notes: aaron birch meets claire novak in a nondescript jesus camp. they swap angel stories. for twoskeletons @ fall fandom free for all - rated pg-13
Aaron wonders if this is what angels do - leave behind pieces of the people they’ve turned inside out, whether they meant to or not. There’s nothing to look for when he glances in the mirror. He touches his chest, wonders if he’s been patched up from the inside out, if that’s how souls work. When they break him open in fifty years, maybe they’ll find a map and at the X, they’ll find all the reasons why.
He wonders all this because the summer after he gets his soul back, he meets Claire.
There’s a nice camp by a nice lake on the edge of a nice forest in Ohio. In a year, when his father gets it all back together, he realizes Aaron’s been writing letters to an angel with no name. There’s no God, Aaron says. Just angels. A month later he’s in a white van listening to gospel over the radio that keeps crackling in and out between the Lord’s word and a bad techno station.
Circled together, everyone has the chance confess. There’s no order to it and the counselors are nice enough until the silence becomes deafening and Aaron can hear every cracking branch and screeching owl within forty miles. Finally one of the counselors pulls a confession out of a red-headed boy with large glasses. Something about paganism or witchcraft. Aaron is unimpressed.
“What about you?” After a handful of kids, the counselor next to him nudges Aaron in the side. “Why are you here? Tell everyone your name.” Aaron blinks. Name, why you’re here.
Aaron opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He’s never admitted it to anyone, not even himself. He’s never said it out loud, what he did and why he did it. Maybe because no one would believe him. Maybe because he hardly believes it himself. The counselor nudges him again and Aaron swears it if happens one more time he’s going to lose his shit. A dozen pairs of eyes are on him as he works his mouth uselessly, trying to make the words he desperately doesn’t want to make.
“Maybe we’ll -”
“I sold my soul to an angel,” he finally says. “And I stopped believing in God.”
Someone laughs and Aaron realizes he’s close to tears. It isn’t funny, he wants to say. It isn’t a joke. I did it for Chris. I did it for my father. You don’t understand. You don’t know.
Another kid breaks the awkward silence, something about masturbation. No one is looking at Aaron anymore. No one except her. There’s a blonde girl across the circle from him who’s managed to stay invisible - Claire, her nametag says. When the night is over, no one’s even noticed her. No one’s asked her to confess or explain her sins. No one’s even seen her. No one but Aaron.
She comes to him, a few nights later. Aaron wakes up in his cabin with a hand over his mouth and the girl has a finger pressed tight to her lips. She slips backward from the room and Aaron goes, forgetting his shoes under the bed. Claire motions for him to follow her until they’re far enough away from the camp that Aaron can’t see the orange lights surrounding the cafeteria. “What -”
“You saw an angel,” she says quietly and Aaron supposes this is an acceptable way to say hello in her world. He nods. “What was his name?”
“Balthazar.” Aaron surprises himself. He hasn’t said the name in months. Something in Claire’s expression crumples and she just shakes her head, sitting heavily on the grass and looking out over the lake. “Have…have you seen one, too?” She nods. “When?”
“Couple years ago. Almost three.” She toys with the grass at her feet and looks up through her bangs at him. “His name was Castiel. Is,” she corrects herself, frowning. Aaron frowns - the name is achingly familiar, like something he was so close to writing before he stopped, pulled back, and turned away from it. “My grandparents made me come here last year, too. Most of the counselors won’t talk to me.”
“I will,” Aaron murmurs, feeling a blush creep over him when her knee touches his. Claire gives him a gentle smile, as if Aaron doesn’t quite understand. Odds are, he probably doesn’t.
On his seventh day at camp, Aaron nearly drowns.
Correction: Aaron is nearly drowned by a soccer play from Austin, trying to reclaim some lost and shattered part of his masculinity or something stupid like that. Aaron emerges from the lake, coughing and sputtering, as the counselors drag the boy away from the shore. There’s a hand on his back and a quiet whisper in his voice, You’re safe. You’re alright. I’m here.
He mistakes the sunlight shimmering around Claire’s head for a halo and almost whispers, Castiel, before choking again.
“Here.” Claire hands him a towel and settles next to him, her own suit dry as she piles her hair on the top of her head. “They’ll probably send him home.” Aaron nods, still trying to catch his breath. “How close were you?” Aaron glances at her. “To dying. Did you feel it?” He shakes his head. Claire sighs, looking a bit disappointed, but Aaron isn’t too surprised.
The counselors reassure him that it isn’t God’s plan that he die today and everyone prays for Aaron’s good fortune at dinner. It makes him feel like he’s suffocating, and when no one is looking, he slips out and jogs down to the lake, watching a duck make ripples that fade onto the shore. Claire comes out a while later, a brownie in her hand. She pulls it apart, gives one half to Aaron and swallows the other whole.
“Castiel took my father.” Aaron looks at her and then away. Claire is focused on a point, far out across the water, but Aaron imagines it’s nothing he could ever find. She talks about her father for a while and sometimes she talks about Castiel. Never at the same time, though. If Aaron didn’t know her - and even that’s up for debate - he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. But he can. The way her shoulders set when she talks about the angel, readying herself for a fight that will never come.
“I wish I could know him,” and Aaron’s not sure who he’s talking about, so he leaves that up to Claire. She smiles and takes his hand when he gives it to her.
It takes four weeks for Aaron to tell Claire what happened. To tell her about Balthazar and the angel who took him from him home. The two men he’d met that day. Another angel whose face and name he can’t quite grasp. Claire’s face registers something like recognition, but when Aaron looks again, she’s only listening. And he tells her, I did it for my brother. I did it for Chris. No one understands.
“I do,” she murmurs, and rests her head against his shoulder.
The night before they’re set to go home, Claire pulls Aaron from his cabin and he follows her to the lake. She kisses him and Aaron goes limp under her hands. She threads her fingers through his hair and kisses his neck, nosing his t-shirt out of the way and pressing quick kisses to his shoulder and forearms. Claire lets him touch her, lets him cup her face and return it all.
“I’m glad I met you,” she says. I’m glad we found each other.