Ficlet 11 x21: Covert
Title: Covert
Characters: Sam, others
Genre: Sam-of-consciousness ( ;
Warnings/Spoilers: 11x 21
Summary: Sam Winchester: Passenger, driver
Or: Sam and the Lucifer-rescue mission, 11 x 21
These are bones that have been to hell, that remember, and just one motion to lock, lift; this is the mission: bust in, bust out, muscle or spell, your double-seraph-tormenter. Well, soldier, turnpike-scapulae and scent of the faithful; you know it as leather, and keratin, and fire.
The scent of being on your knees, of rib-scrawlings meant to ward--
what you drop your arm over. Holy oil. Contagion.
Lucifer is light. Lighter than anything you can think of, than sigils braided up bones, than eyehollows scoured out with salt, than joints, socketless, where the body breaks to bird, boneless, to
seraph, tormenter, (vessel, friend);
those antebrachial coverts, those pinions that brush and bunch against your old shoulders. Flesh breakdown. Sense-memory: when winged against your will; misunderstood.
Wail of tires. Secret mission.
The possessed leading the possessed. Stairway for clipped souls. The strange things you see, dream, will never tell your brother, unless in the dark, unless later, when he comes in, leans to hear how you breathe, different, in a world with deity.
Wings on wings on wings. You hit the brakes. You drop; gravity, god, beacon, straight in on yourself; you come, passenger, driver, home the hard way, hit
earth, let dust rise; teach yourself the landing.
On AO3
Thanks, laughablelament!
Characters: Sam, others
Genre: Sam-of-consciousness ( ;
Warnings/Spoilers: 11x 21
Summary: Sam Winchester: Passenger, driver
Or: Sam and the Lucifer-rescue mission, 11 x 21
These are bones that have been to hell, that remember, and just one motion to lock, lift; this is the mission: bust in, bust out, muscle or spell, your double-seraph-tormenter. Well, soldier, turnpike-scapulae and scent of the faithful; you know it as leather, and keratin, and fire.
The scent of being on your knees, of rib-scrawlings meant to ward--
what you drop your arm over. Holy oil. Contagion.
Lucifer is light. Lighter than anything you can think of, than sigils braided up bones, than eyehollows scoured out with salt, than joints, socketless, where the body breaks to bird, boneless, to
seraph, tormenter, (vessel, friend);
those antebrachial coverts, those pinions that brush and bunch against your old shoulders. Flesh breakdown. Sense-memory: when winged against your will; misunderstood.
Wail of tires. Secret mission.
The possessed leading the possessed. Stairway for clipped souls. The strange things you see, dream, will never tell your brother, unless in the dark, unless later, when he comes in, leans to hear how you breathe, different, in a world with deity.
Wings on wings on wings. You hit the brakes. You drop; gravity, god, beacon, straight in on yourself; you come, passenger, driver, home the hard way, hit
earth, let dust rise; teach yourself the landing.
On AO3
Thanks, laughablelament!