Fic! FINALLY.
As begun last weekend--and intended to be finished, like, five days ago, except that work decided to be really annoying and delayed things--Supernatural Clairefic!
Rating: PG
This probably goes without saying, but: spoilers for 'Rapture'.
Usual disclaimers apply.
PRIMOGENITURE by Jayne Leitch
2009
The apocalypse comes when Claire is eleven years old.
It comes with Castiel, with a rush of brilliant light and warmth and will that finds Claire in the dark, blazes behind her eyes and moves her slight body with glory. And it comes with Castiel's departure, with the sudden *absence* that leaves her crouched in a dirty warehouse, cold and weak and confused--so confused just to be *herself* again--watching the beautiful, terrible thing in the shape of her dad walk away without looking back.
For months afterward, Claire sleepwalks. She did before, as well, but rarely; now, it happens almost every night. When her mom asks, Claire says she doesn't remember what she dreams when it happens--and she doesn't, not really. Mostly, all she can remember is the urge toward motion; she can't even tell if she's chasing or being chased.
Or flying or falling.
"There must be some part of you that's awake," Mom says one morning, wearing the pinched, pale look of interrupted sleep and uninterrupted worry. "You always step over the salt. You must see it."
They pour fresh lines at each doorway in the house every night before bed. Claire thinks she never disturbs them not because she sees and avoids them, but because the salt is of no consequence to her, particularly, whatsoever.
She doesn't say that to her mother.
*
When Claire remembers her father, she remembers a sunny day in June when she was small: a church picnic, a grassy lawn, a three-legged race.
She remembers Daddy kneeling beside her, tying their ankles together with a strip of bright blue cloth that fluttered in the breeze. She remembers him winking at her as he straightened up, bright-eyed and grinning. She remembers nearly falling down with their first, lurching step; remembers him catching her, holding her up, his voice warm and happy as he said, "Hold on to me, Bug." She remembers squaring up with him at the starting line, her arm tight around his waist for balance, his steadying hand on her shoulder.
She can't remember the race itself at all.
*
The apocalypse ends when Claire is twelve.
She suspects for weeks that something's changed: although she still wakes up restless in her skin most mornings, she's sleepwalking less and less.
Official word comes one flat, chilly day, from the Winchesters. Claire watches through the window as her mom stands on the porch with them, her back to the door, her arms crossed tightly as she listens to what they have to say. After only a few minutes she nods and comes back inside, locking the door behind her; they look at the closed door, then at each other, then shuffle their feet as they turn and go back to their car.
Dean walks carefully, favouring his left leg, his shoulders stiff in his stained leather jacket. Sam's right hand is livid with bruises, and his face is very, very pale.
That night, when Claire reaches for the box of salt on her way to bed, Mom takes her hand before she can touch it. "It's okay, sweetie," she says, her fingers trembling on Claire's. "We don't have to do that anymore."
Claire pulls her hand free and picks up the box.
*
Claire remembers helping with dinner: washing vegetables, tearing lettuce, setting the table.
She remembers Dad at the stove, the spicy-sweet smell of his pasta sauce making her mouth water. She remembers chattering about her day; remembers catching his pleased little smiles whenever he glanced up from slicing or seasoning or stirring. She remembers Mom sitting at the table, letting them bustle about the kitchen while she relaxed with a mug of tea. She remembers bowing her head over her plate while they thanked God for their meal; she remembers the little squeeze Dad gave her hand before letting go.
She can't remember the last time she said grace.
*
Years pass, and nothing happens.
Not to them, anyway. Claire keeps track of what happens to other people, spending as much time as possible online, making note of unexplained deaths and the more bizarre natural disasters.
She still lays fresh salt every night, remaining diligent while her mom, soothed by constant normalcy, grows careless. They fight about it: about the salt, about Claire's growing lack of interest in school, about her growing hoard of texts, herbs and amulets.
The night after her sixteenth birthday, Claire leaves a note on the table on her way out the door. As she climbs onto a bus going anywhere, her meagre library and arsenal hidden under the few clothes in her pack, she tells herself she doesn't have to feel responsible anymore for anyone but herself.
The ever-present current beneath her skin tells her she's wrong.
*
Claire remembers bedtime stories: Junie B. Jones, Robert Munsch, Harry Potter.
She remembers Daddy settling beside her on her bed, stretching out his legs and putting his arm around her; remembers curling up at his side, leaning her head on his shoulder, cozy and comfortable. She remembers getting caught up in the story, the pictures, the warm-cotton smell of his shirt, the purr of his voice. She remembers when she started reading aloud to him instead, the quiet way he helped her when she stumbled over words she wasn't sure of yet.
She can't remember the last time she read a book for fun.
*
The first hunter she talks to spits when she mentions the name Winchester, and keeps his hand on the warded hilt of his knife through the rest of their conversation: "I only know one thing about them boys: they got a Midas touch for trouble and death. But you got a quality about you, Miss Novak. Makes me think that ain't news to you."
The first real psychic she meets squints every time she looks at her: "Don't think I'm being offensive, child. These eyes of mine give me enough trouble in normal light; they don't quite know how to deal with you."
The first demon she snares lounges inside the Devil's Trap, smirking as Claire toughs her way through her first exorcism: "Heaven in your blood, and you can't even get little ol' me out of my meatsuit. Smells like somebody rode you hard and put you away unsatisfied; I bet that's why I'm still here. You're good enough to use, kid. Not enough to keep."
She knows the comments are meant to frighten her, to humble her, to put her into place: as trouble, or other, or weak.
For her, they serve as confirmation. She finds them reassuring.
*
Claire remembers tension at mealtimes, Mom suddenly reluctant to offer her hand to Daddy for grace.
She remembers overhearing Mom on the phone: "No, Dad, he'd never hurt Claire. At least--I don't think--"
She remembers Mom coming into her room, her eyes red, her voice thick as she told her they were going to Grandma and Grandpa's house the next day, and Dad wasn't coming with them.
She remembers the only explanation she would get for a long time: "I am not your father."
She remembers knowing it was true.
*
The apocalypse comes again when Claire is twenty-two.
It's easy enough to recognise the signs: boiling canals in Venice, mass murder/suicide in a Virginian chapel, bloody hailstones in Glasgow. Claire does what she can, which isn't much: an exorcism here, a relay of information there, attendance at as many funerals as she can stand.
She's surprised she doesn't start sleepwalking again.
One night, she breaks into the home of a man she thinks is a member of an Armageddon cult, only to stumble upon a fully-attended black mass. Unprepared to confront an entire coven and unable to sneak away without drawing attention, she can do nothing but watch as a demon is summoned, as it possesses one person after another, as it makes its host bodies perform unspeakable acts before killing them all and billowing away into the night.
When she finally returns to her motel, sick and reeling, she drinks herself unconscious.
And dreams.
She's used to seeing her father in her dreams--and her nightmares--but she knows right away this isn't him: his face is too distinct, his expression too grave, and when he speaks, his voice is low and rough and wrong: "Claire. Meet me at this address."
She wakes with a start, stone sober and already halfway to the door of her motel room.
~
It's almost three o'clock when she enters the park, crunching through old snow to a bench next to a tall, barren tree.
Castiel's arrival is heralded by nothing more than an eyeblink and a flicker from a nearby streetlamp.
Claire remembers him from a child's perspective; in her dream, he'd appeared as if from memory.
She's shocked to discover they're the same height.
~
He confirms it for her readily enough: the apocalypse is nigh.
("The apocalypse is nigh *now*? What was that when I was a kid, dress rehearsal?"
"The apocalypse is a continuum. Think of it as a progression of events that comprise, ultimately, the whole event."
"Sounds pretty fatalistic."
"Yes."
"Is that really how it works?"
"No.")
He tells her the plan without equivocation.
("We've discovered a way to access the divine--the source of angelic power and grace. Direct access to that power will provide us with an exceptional advantage against the adversary."
"You'll be able to stop the end of the world."
"Yes."
"For now."
"Yes.")
She asks, "What do you need from me?"
He hesitates.
~
She can't look at him while she thinks. Instead, she looks at the tree, snow clinging to the rough edges of its bark, its bare branches clawing up into the night sky. It's very much a part of the park around it: still and cold and empty, waiting for the sun to rise.
"If I say yes," she says, "what will happen to me?"
"The possession would be temporary," he answers readily, "lasting only as long as a second vessel is required to share the burden of the forces we unleash. If our offensive is successful, your body will remain safe and whole until I return control of it to you." He pauses. "If I am killed while in possession of your body, however, you will die."
She turns back to him, her mouth twisting into a faint, false smile. "Will I go to Heaven?"
He doesn't smile back. "Perhaps."
~
In the dark of pre-morning, Claire stands with Castiel under a dead tree and says, "Do it."
Laying his palm alongside her cheek, he blazes into her, courses under her skin, fills her and moves her with the holy force of his self.
*
Claire remembers the second possession: a brilliant welter of light and strength, glory and grace, righteous power.
She remembers recognising the stuff of every half-remembered dream and nightmare she'd had, every restless night she'd passed since she was a child. She remembers being buffeted by the current of Castiel's will, insignificant in her own body.
She remembers feeling, somewhere deep in her mind, the gentle brush of another presence; remembers a voice, soft and sure and astounding: "Hold on to me, Bug."
She remembers not wanting to let go.
End.
Rating: PG
This probably goes without saying, but: spoilers for 'Rapture'.
Usual disclaimers apply.
PRIMOGENITURE by Jayne Leitch
2009
The apocalypse comes when Claire is eleven years old.
It comes with Castiel, with a rush of brilliant light and warmth and will that finds Claire in the dark, blazes behind her eyes and moves her slight body with glory. And it comes with Castiel's departure, with the sudden *absence* that leaves her crouched in a dirty warehouse, cold and weak and confused--so confused just to be *herself* again--watching the beautiful, terrible thing in the shape of her dad walk away without looking back.
For months afterward, Claire sleepwalks. She did before, as well, but rarely; now, it happens almost every night. When her mom asks, Claire says she doesn't remember what she dreams when it happens--and she doesn't, not really. Mostly, all she can remember is the urge toward motion; she can't even tell if she's chasing or being chased.
Or flying or falling.
"There must be some part of you that's awake," Mom says one morning, wearing the pinched, pale look of interrupted sleep and uninterrupted worry. "You always step over the salt. You must see it."
They pour fresh lines at each doorway in the house every night before bed. Claire thinks she never disturbs them not because she sees and avoids them, but because the salt is of no consequence to her, particularly, whatsoever.
She doesn't say that to her mother.
*
When Claire remembers her father, she remembers a sunny day in June when she was small: a church picnic, a grassy lawn, a three-legged race.
She remembers Daddy kneeling beside her, tying their ankles together with a strip of bright blue cloth that fluttered in the breeze. She remembers him winking at her as he straightened up, bright-eyed and grinning. She remembers nearly falling down with their first, lurching step; remembers him catching her, holding her up, his voice warm and happy as he said, "Hold on to me, Bug." She remembers squaring up with him at the starting line, her arm tight around his waist for balance, his steadying hand on her shoulder.
She can't remember the race itself at all.
*
The apocalypse ends when Claire is twelve.
She suspects for weeks that something's changed: although she still wakes up restless in her skin most mornings, she's sleepwalking less and less.
Official word comes one flat, chilly day, from the Winchesters. Claire watches through the window as her mom stands on the porch with them, her back to the door, her arms crossed tightly as she listens to what they have to say. After only a few minutes she nods and comes back inside, locking the door behind her; they look at the closed door, then at each other, then shuffle their feet as they turn and go back to their car.
Dean walks carefully, favouring his left leg, his shoulders stiff in his stained leather jacket. Sam's right hand is livid with bruises, and his face is very, very pale.
That night, when Claire reaches for the box of salt on her way to bed, Mom takes her hand before she can touch it. "It's okay, sweetie," she says, her fingers trembling on Claire's. "We don't have to do that anymore."
Claire pulls her hand free and picks up the box.
*
Claire remembers helping with dinner: washing vegetables, tearing lettuce, setting the table.
She remembers Dad at the stove, the spicy-sweet smell of his pasta sauce making her mouth water. She remembers chattering about her day; remembers catching his pleased little smiles whenever he glanced up from slicing or seasoning or stirring. She remembers Mom sitting at the table, letting them bustle about the kitchen while she relaxed with a mug of tea. She remembers bowing her head over her plate while they thanked God for their meal; she remembers the little squeeze Dad gave her hand before letting go.
She can't remember the last time she said grace.
*
Years pass, and nothing happens.
Not to them, anyway. Claire keeps track of what happens to other people, spending as much time as possible online, making note of unexplained deaths and the more bizarre natural disasters.
She still lays fresh salt every night, remaining diligent while her mom, soothed by constant normalcy, grows careless. They fight about it: about the salt, about Claire's growing lack of interest in school, about her growing hoard of texts, herbs and amulets.
The night after her sixteenth birthday, Claire leaves a note on the table on her way out the door. As she climbs onto a bus going anywhere, her meagre library and arsenal hidden under the few clothes in her pack, she tells herself she doesn't have to feel responsible anymore for anyone but herself.
The ever-present current beneath her skin tells her she's wrong.
*
Claire remembers bedtime stories: Junie B. Jones, Robert Munsch, Harry Potter.
She remembers Daddy settling beside her on her bed, stretching out his legs and putting his arm around her; remembers curling up at his side, leaning her head on his shoulder, cozy and comfortable. She remembers getting caught up in the story, the pictures, the warm-cotton smell of his shirt, the purr of his voice. She remembers when she started reading aloud to him instead, the quiet way he helped her when she stumbled over words she wasn't sure of yet.
She can't remember the last time she read a book for fun.
*
The first hunter she talks to spits when she mentions the name Winchester, and keeps his hand on the warded hilt of his knife through the rest of their conversation: "I only know one thing about them boys: they got a Midas touch for trouble and death. But you got a quality about you, Miss Novak. Makes me think that ain't news to you."
The first real psychic she meets squints every time she looks at her: "Don't think I'm being offensive, child. These eyes of mine give me enough trouble in normal light; they don't quite know how to deal with you."
The first demon she snares lounges inside the Devil's Trap, smirking as Claire toughs her way through her first exorcism: "Heaven in your blood, and you can't even get little ol' me out of my meatsuit. Smells like somebody rode you hard and put you away unsatisfied; I bet that's why I'm still here. You're good enough to use, kid. Not enough to keep."
She knows the comments are meant to frighten her, to humble her, to put her into place: as trouble, or other, or weak.
For her, they serve as confirmation. She finds them reassuring.
*
Claire remembers tension at mealtimes, Mom suddenly reluctant to offer her hand to Daddy for grace.
She remembers overhearing Mom on the phone: "No, Dad, he'd never hurt Claire. At least--I don't think--"
She remembers Mom coming into her room, her eyes red, her voice thick as she told her they were going to Grandma and Grandpa's house the next day, and Dad wasn't coming with them.
She remembers the only explanation she would get for a long time: "I am not your father."
She remembers knowing it was true.
*
The apocalypse comes again when Claire is twenty-two.
It's easy enough to recognise the signs: boiling canals in Venice, mass murder/suicide in a Virginian chapel, bloody hailstones in Glasgow. Claire does what she can, which isn't much: an exorcism here, a relay of information there, attendance at as many funerals as she can stand.
She's surprised she doesn't start sleepwalking again.
One night, she breaks into the home of a man she thinks is a member of an Armageddon cult, only to stumble upon a fully-attended black mass. Unprepared to confront an entire coven and unable to sneak away without drawing attention, she can do nothing but watch as a demon is summoned, as it possesses one person after another, as it makes its host bodies perform unspeakable acts before killing them all and billowing away into the night.
When she finally returns to her motel, sick and reeling, she drinks herself unconscious.
And dreams.
She's used to seeing her father in her dreams--and her nightmares--but she knows right away this isn't him: his face is too distinct, his expression too grave, and when he speaks, his voice is low and rough and wrong: "Claire. Meet me at this address."
She wakes with a start, stone sober and already halfway to the door of her motel room.
~
It's almost three o'clock when she enters the park, crunching through old snow to a bench next to a tall, barren tree.
Castiel's arrival is heralded by nothing more than an eyeblink and a flicker from a nearby streetlamp.
Claire remembers him from a child's perspective; in her dream, he'd appeared as if from memory.
She's shocked to discover they're the same height.
~
He confirms it for her readily enough: the apocalypse is nigh.
("The apocalypse is nigh *now*? What was that when I was a kid, dress rehearsal?"
"The apocalypse is a continuum. Think of it as a progression of events that comprise, ultimately, the whole event."
"Sounds pretty fatalistic."
"Yes."
"Is that really how it works?"
"No.")
He tells her the plan without equivocation.
("We've discovered a way to access the divine--the source of angelic power and grace. Direct access to that power will provide us with an exceptional advantage against the adversary."
"You'll be able to stop the end of the world."
"Yes."
"For now."
"Yes.")
She asks, "What do you need from me?"
He hesitates.
~
She can't look at him while she thinks. Instead, she looks at the tree, snow clinging to the rough edges of its bark, its bare branches clawing up into the night sky. It's very much a part of the park around it: still and cold and empty, waiting for the sun to rise.
"If I say yes," she says, "what will happen to me?"
"The possession would be temporary," he answers readily, "lasting only as long as a second vessel is required to share the burden of the forces we unleash. If our offensive is successful, your body will remain safe and whole until I return control of it to you." He pauses. "If I am killed while in possession of your body, however, you will die."
She turns back to him, her mouth twisting into a faint, false smile. "Will I go to Heaven?"
He doesn't smile back. "Perhaps."
~
In the dark of pre-morning, Claire stands with Castiel under a dead tree and says, "Do it."
Laying his palm alongside her cheek, he blazes into her, courses under her skin, fills her and moves her with the holy force of his self.
*
Claire remembers the second possession: a brilliant welter of light and strength, glory and grace, righteous power.
She remembers recognising the stuff of every half-remembered dream and nightmare she'd had, every restless night she'd passed since she was a child. She remembers being buffeted by the current of Castiel's will, insignificant in her own body.
She remembers feeling, somewhere deep in her mind, the gentle brush of another presence; remembers a voice, soft and sure and astounding: "Hold on to me, Bug."
She remembers not wanting to let go.
End.