we happy few
Title: we happy few
Author: July
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen
Characters Dean, Castiel
Spoilers: through 4.17
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. And that’s probably for the best, really.
Notes: Written in a very slapdash way for found_fic_spn. Without beta. Pernicious abuse of unattributed quotations.
Summary: "You sound to me as if you don't believe in free will."
we happy few
I find him in the car, half-dozing with his sunglasses on, staring at nothing. In the passenger seat.
"Thank God. I'm fucking starving. Do you think that little Mex--"
"Hello, Dean. Sam is still inside."
"Yeah, I got that."
"You have met Zachariah."
"Your boss."
"Yes."
"Did you catch the show? Me, Sam, and God's own petri dish?"
"I did not."
"Good. I hate to break it to you, but your boss is a prick."
The label makes me nervous. Zachariah has always been somewhat simplistic, but his methods are often effective. Like propaganda or baseball bats. "Zachariah is a superior officer. He's what you might call a 'fixer' or an 'expediter'."
"He's a mobster of the Lord?"
"Do you know the story of Job?"
"I'm familiar, yeah."
"Zachariah was in charge of replacing the children."
"Castiel?"
"Yes."
"Your boss is a prick."
"I understand how you might perceive it that way."
"Are you here to defend the latest aviary asshat?"
"It is time. We need your help."
"Are you fucking serious? You're serious? You're serious. Look around you, Cas." He gestures at the interior of the car, at the shady motel beyond. "Yeah, I heard what Zachariah had to say. And you know what? I may be a hunter, but, Jesus. My little brother? He's inside that room having what I can only assume is freaky-deaky sex with the demon who helped him get in touch with his inner anti-Christ this summer while I was in hell, kicking off the end of the world. While I'm at it, you should know that I killed the Lindbergh baby--oh, and Jimmy Hoffa, too. Thanks to you and your divine prophecy, I'm the fucking supernatural Typhoid Mary."
"Be that as it may. This world has no room for cowards."
"And yet here I am, taking up space."
"This is not a joke, Dean."
"I'm not joking. Take your pep-talk somewhere else. Better yet, shove it up your cornhole." His hands are white-knuckled on the door handle. Time for a calculated risk.
"No. I will not shove it...there. Life is hard. The hard is what makes it great."
"You know what? I don't have time for this--wait. Isn't that the chicks-playing-baseball movie?"
"What we do in life, echoes in eternity."
"That's Gladiator."
"Strap, God wants you on the floor."
"Hoosiers."
"Put aside the Ranger. Become who you were born to be."
"Return of the King."
"Life is like a box of--"
"I'm gonna stop you right there before you embarrass yourself."
"Es gibt nur ein Berlin."
"That's...something in German."
"Butch up, Sally."
"The hell?"
"I heard it in Texas."
"You're scraping the bottom of the barrel now."
"I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat."
"And that's Churchill."
"He, too, was a prick. But made of stern stuff: Sometimes it is not enough to do our best. Sometimes we must do what is required.
"This has been fun. Educational. Why don't you make yourself useful and teleport out for lunch."
I have been watching Dean for some time now, since September. I have seen him doubting, crying, bloody, and in denial. Right now he is perfectly still. It's almost inhuman. He told me I wouldn't like what walked out of that room. He warned me. Dean wants this to stop, and he wants it to stop now. I turn to face him more directly, and he flinches a little.
"You need to get out of this car. Right now. Go and get us some food and coffee."
"The time of justice has now come. I tell you that I believe sincerely that no force can hold it back. It is right in the eyes of man and God that it should come."
"No." With his fist, Dean splits the skin over my eyebrow. (Later, I will worry about my use of the first person singular possessive.) It stings. He pulls up, surprised but not ashamed. I press on.
"Fear no more the heat o' th' sun, Nor the furious winters' rages."
"You." Dean grits the word out. Second person singular nominative. It sounds repellent. "You need to leave."
"Fear no more, says the heart in the body; fear no more." And is that just a refrain of our own? Be not afraid, have courage, gird up your loins.
"Go get some fucking coffee," Dean says, without heat. "Now." He is slumped against the passenger door, not a Septimus Smith, or any of the others.
"If you're ever in Cody, Wyoming, just ask for Wild Bob."
"What?"
"Dean. You feel inadequate. That's because you are."
"Excuse me?"
"And it's only going to get worse from here. You will never have what you had before. Ever. You are not who you were."
"You're damn right I'm not."
That does not mean what he thinks it means.
"You are a righteous man, Dean Winchester. Face it."
I climb out of the car and slam the door behind me, a satisfying sound. This is, I believe, storming off. It is difficult How many times have I seen them throw it away? How many times have I seen them succumb? It is not a choice Dean can make. It is not a choice he has. I think of Jonah. God does not deal lightly with those who ignore their calling.
Oh, look. A Starbucks.
"I have brought you coffee." A peace offering. I hand it to Dean through the window. He has changed seats, tossing the keys back in forth in his hand. He pockets them and accepts the coffee while I sit down.
"Thanks. Can I ask you a question?"
"Of course."
"Zachariah, he was in Job. Where were you?"
"I was in the cell in Egypt, the barley field in Bethlehem, the lion's den."
"Figures."
"Drink your coffee, Dean Winchester."
Author: July
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen
Characters Dean, Castiel
Spoilers: through 4.17
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. And that’s probably for the best, really.
Notes: Written in a very slapdash way for found_fic_spn. Without beta. Pernicious abuse of unattributed quotations.
Summary: "You sound to me as if you don't believe in free will."
we happy few
I find him in the car, half-dozing with his sunglasses on, staring at nothing. In the passenger seat.
"Thank God. I'm fucking starving. Do you think that little Mex--"
"Hello, Dean. Sam is still inside."
"Yeah, I got that."
"You have met Zachariah."
"Your boss."
"Yes."
"Did you catch the show? Me, Sam, and God's own petri dish?"
"I did not."
"Good. I hate to break it to you, but your boss is a prick."
The label makes me nervous. Zachariah has always been somewhat simplistic, but his methods are often effective. Like propaganda or baseball bats. "Zachariah is a superior officer. He's what you might call a 'fixer' or an 'expediter'."
"He's a mobster of the Lord?"
"Do you know the story of Job?"
"I'm familiar, yeah."
"Zachariah was in charge of replacing the children."
"Castiel?"
"Yes."
"Your boss is a prick."
"I understand how you might perceive it that way."
"Are you here to defend the latest aviary asshat?"
"It is time. We need your help."
"Are you fucking serious? You're serious? You're serious. Look around you, Cas." He gestures at the interior of the car, at the shady motel beyond. "Yeah, I heard what Zachariah had to say. And you know what? I may be a hunter, but, Jesus. My little brother? He's inside that room having what I can only assume is freaky-deaky sex with the demon who helped him get in touch with his inner anti-Christ this summer while I was in hell, kicking off the end of the world. While I'm at it, you should know that I killed the Lindbergh baby--oh, and Jimmy Hoffa, too. Thanks to you and your divine prophecy, I'm the fucking supernatural Typhoid Mary."
"Be that as it may. This world has no room for cowards."
"And yet here I am, taking up space."
"This is not a joke, Dean."
"I'm not joking. Take your pep-talk somewhere else. Better yet, shove it up your cornhole." His hands are white-knuckled on the door handle. Time for a calculated risk.
"No. I will not shove it...there. Life is hard. The hard is what makes it great."
"You know what? I don't have time for this--wait. Isn't that the chicks-playing-baseball movie?"
"What we do in life, echoes in eternity."
"That's Gladiator."
"Strap, God wants you on the floor."
"Hoosiers."
"Put aside the Ranger. Become who you were born to be."
"Return of the King."
"Life is like a box of--"
"I'm gonna stop you right there before you embarrass yourself."
"Es gibt nur ein Berlin."
"That's...something in German."
"Butch up, Sally."
"The hell?"
"I heard it in Texas."
"You're scraping the bottom of the barrel now."
"I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat."
"And that's Churchill."
"He, too, was a prick. But made of stern stuff: Sometimes it is not enough to do our best. Sometimes we must do what is required.
"This has been fun. Educational. Why don't you make yourself useful and teleport out for lunch."
I have been watching Dean for some time now, since September. I have seen him doubting, crying, bloody, and in denial. Right now he is perfectly still. It's almost inhuman. He told me I wouldn't like what walked out of that room. He warned me. Dean wants this to stop, and he wants it to stop now. I turn to face him more directly, and he flinches a little.
"You need to get out of this car. Right now. Go and get us some food and coffee."
"The time of justice has now come. I tell you that I believe sincerely that no force can hold it back. It is right in the eyes of man and God that it should come."
"No." With his fist, Dean splits the skin over my eyebrow. (Later, I will worry about my use of the first person singular possessive.) It stings. He pulls up, surprised but not ashamed. I press on.
"Fear no more the heat o' th' sun, Nor the furious winters' rages."
"You." Dean grits the word out. Second person singular nominative. It sounds repellent. "You need to leave."
"Fear no more, says the heart in the body; fear no more." And is that just a refrain of our own? Be not afraid, have courage, gird up your loins.
"Go get some fucking coffee," Dean says, without heat. "Now." He is slumped against the passenger door, not a Septimus Smith, or any of the others.
"If you're ever in Cody, Wyoming, just ask for Wild Bob."
"What?"
"Dean. You feel inadequate. That's because you are."
"Excuse me?"
"And it's only going to get worse from here. You will never have what you had before. Ever. You are not who you were."
"You're damn right I'm not."
That does not mean what he thinks it means.
"You are a righteous man, Dean Winchester. Face it."
I climb out of the car and slam the door behind me, a satisfying sound. This is, I believe, storming off. It is difficult How many times have I seen them throw it away? How many times have I seen them succumb? It is not a choice Dean can make. It is not a choice he has. I think of Jonah. God does not deal lightly with those who ignore their calling.
Oh, look. A Starbucks.
"I have brought you coffee." A peace offering. I hand it to Dean through the window. He has changed seats, tossing the keys back in forth in his hand. He pockets them and accepts the coffee while I sit down.
"Thanks. Can I ask you a question?"
"Of course."
"Zachariah, he was in Job. Where were you?"
"I was in the cell in Egypt, the barley field in Bethlehem, the lion's den."
"Figures."
"Drink your coffee, Dean Winchester."