and the sea is not mine
Title: And The Sea Is Not Mine [ao3]
Author: miscellanium
Characters: Jimmy, Claire
Rating: PG-13 for horror
Word Count: 666
Spoilers: 6.22 through 7.02
Warnings: drowning, character death
Summary: He longs to shout ‘I am Actaeon! Know your own master!’ but words fail him, the air echoes to the baying. (Ovid's Metamorphoses, trans. by Kline)
On Monday, first day of the new week, the leviathans ride Jimmy's body into the lake. They twist and coil heavy in his gut, dragging him down. His shoes sink into the mire, get sucked under, but his feet keep going, socks torn by the rocks and branches of the bottom until his bare toes curl through the rot-slick leaves.
When Castiel was searching for God he swam the sea, yes, but the angel did not breathe. The leviathans take great gulps, reveling in the pond water sliding down his throat, and as Jimmy feels his lungs expand his head tips back-his neck cracks, the bone grating on itself, but the leviathans are not ready to let go.
The morning light is barely visible here in the deep, but the leviathans watch it through Jimmy's eyes as they sink down, the water concave above them. His coat, already snagged by broken logs, rips off in the current and the force of this, the sudden absence, pushes him onto his back. His mouth opens, here at the bottom of the lake, and Jimmy drowns.
No reaper comes for him.
With Castiel gone-the leviathans said dead, yes, but so did Amelia-there's nobody to guide him. So Jimmy leaves, rising out of the lake, and with a blink he's standing on the shore. There are footsteps already there: grass and spongy marsh pressed down by broad boots, tips deeper where a man knelt to pick something up.
Jimmy's feet leave no marks.
The reflections are the same as in any other lake. The trees, fading greens and browns, cut short and scattered as something breaches the surface. The sky, murky and uneven as a breeze scuds across it. The ruins of his face, the tar blood stains, his decaying teeth, the blood sunken into his flesh-
No, he says, and the sound of it cuts across the water, shakes a flock of ravens into the air. No, and it's almost human but not enough. He reaches out, but before he can decide why the reaper arrives.
No, and this time his voice is gone. All that's left is the muck poured into his lungs, a coughing spray of bile. There's nothing left to do but run.
The reaper pursues, following where the way is hard or there is no way at all, and Jimmy-his path is unfamiliar but Castiel raised his hands here, he can feel it, hunting ghosts with the best of them, and it's weighing him down-
He trips and the reaper soars over him. Jimmy keeps moving, crawling, fingernails bleeding oil black, until he's sure the reaper's gone and isn't just waiting farther along. Maybe it wasn't for him after all.
Maybe he can go home.
The house is unchanged, white and two stories and the wood door closed and him without the key again. But this time he puts a hand to the door and goes through, effortless, and he's home.
There are cardboard boxes lining the halls. He goes to the kitchen, the living room, finds them empty. Jimmy sinks into the recliner, not his but a new one, and stares at the blank wall. Then behind him there's a creaking: someone descending the stairs.
"Mom!" Claire turns her head and calls back up, her blonde hair washing over her shoulder. "We've got a ghost."
Jimmy misses Amelia's response, distracted by the clatter of Claire pulling a shotgun out from under the sink. It's battered and familiar, but not his. It must have been given to them after, says some small part of him, and in his mouth he can taste the lake.
Claire, he says, but what comes out instead is water, dribbling down his chin black and viscous. It's me. A bubbling noise, choking.
"You are not my father." Her voice is still young, cold now, and at the clarity of it Jimmy drops to his knees.
Claire.
She raises the shotgun and aims it at his face.
Author: miscellanium
Characters: Jimmy, Claire
Rating: PG-13 for horror
Word Count: 666
Spoilers: 6.22 through 7.02
Warnings: drowning, character death
Summary: He longs to shout ‘I am Actaeon! Know your own master!’ but words fail him, the air echoes to the baying. (Ovid's Metamorphoses, trans. by Kline)
On Monday, first day of the new week, the leviathans ride Jimmy's body into the lake. They twist and coil heavy in his gut, dragging him down. His shoes sink into the mire, get sucked under, but his feet keep going, socks torn by the rocks and branches of the bottom until his bare toes curl through the rot-slick leaves.
When Castiel was searching for God he swam the sea, yes, but the angel did not breathe. The leviathans take great gulps, reveling in the pond water sliding down his throat, and as Jimmy feels his lungs expand his head tips back-his neck cracks, the bone grating on itself, but the leviathans are not ready to let go.
The morning light is barely visible here in the deep, but the leviathans watch it through Jimmy's eyes as they sink down, the water concave above them. His coat, already snagged by broken logs, rips off in the current and the force of this, the sudden absence, pushes him onto his back. His mouth opens, here at the bottom of the lake, and Jimmy drowns.
No reaper comes for him.
With Castiel gone-the leviathans said dead, yes, but so did Amelia-there's nobody to guide him. So Jimmy leaves, rising out of the lake, and with a blink he's standing on the shore. There are footsteps already there: grass and spongy marsh pressed down by broad boots, tips deeper where a man knelt to pick something up.
Jimmy's feet leave no marks.
The reflections are the same as in any other lake. The trees, fading greens and browns, cut short and scattered as something breaches the surface. The sky, murky and uneven as a breeze scuds across it. The ruins of his face, the tar blood stains, his decaying teeth, the blood sunken into his flesh-
No, he says, and the sound of it cuts across the water, shakes a flock of ravens into the air. No, and it's almost human but not enough. He reaches out, but before he can decide why the reaper arrives.
No, and this time his voice is gone. All that's left is the muck poured into his lungs, a coughing spray of bile. There's nothing left to do but run.
The reaper pursues, following where the way is hard or there is no way at all, and Jimmy-his path is unfamiliar but Castiel raised his hands here, he can feel it, hunting ghosts with the best of them, and it's weighing him down-
He trips and the reaper soars over him. Jimmy keeps moving, crawling, fingernails bleeding oil black, until he's sure the reaper's gone and isn't just waiting farther along. Maybe it wasn't for him after all.
Maybe he can go home.
The house is unchanged, white and two stories and the wood door closed and him without the key again. But this time he puts a hand to the door and goes through, effortless, and he's home.
There are cardboard boxes lining the halls. He goes to the kitchen, the living room, finds them empty. Jimmy sinks into the recliner, not his but a new one, and stares at the blank wall. Then behind him there's a creaking: someone descending the stairs.
"Mom!" Claire turns her head and calls back up, her blonde hair washing over her shoulder. "We've got a ghost."
Jimmy misses Amelia's response, distracted by the clatter of Claire pulling a shotgun out from under the sink. It's battered and familiar, but not his. It must have been given to them after, says some small part of him, and in his mouth he can taste the lake.
Claire, he says, but what comes out instead is water, dribbling down his chin black and viscous. It's me. A bubbling noise, choking.
"You are not my father." Her voice is still young, cold now, and at the clarity of it Jimmy drops to his knees.
Claire.
She raises the shotgun and aims it at his face.