Spn_summergen fic! 'Betwixt the Green and Blue' Castiel character study.
Yay! Reveals are finally up, and now I know who wrote my spn_summergen fic.
It's Home for the Holidays by swaggerdoodle My prompt was: Dean comes to Stanford for the 'major holidays' every year - St. Pats, Cinco de Mayo, National Pie Day and of course - Sam's birthday. Jess's observations through the years.
Please go read and feed - it's a lovely fic!
I wrote 'Betwixt the Green and Blue' for thinlizzy2, using this prompt: I was interested by how well-adjusted to generally happy Emmanual seemed in 7.17. Fic where he discovers his healing powers, tries to find his place in society, works out who he is/who he wants to be, etc.
I *really* enjoyed writing it - it was a fun perspective to see the story from. I'm going to repost it here so i have it in my 'archives'. So many other challenges happening right now - the reverse big bang, and a new 'in space' one, and Yuletide.... And i'm still struggling to get my damn charity fics done. I feel a *lot* of guilt over those. I wish my writing mojo would come back!!
Anyway - hiya, flist! :) I'm here, reading and commenting, maybe not *quite* as much as before, but i've still got my finger on the pulse of my fandoms. :) Just lately - dodging all the Show spoilers out there! OMG. I want to know, so bad, but i shall be strong!!
Lastly - we have the crummy neighbor's abandoned Mama Cat and her three kittens living on our back porch, and...i need help! If you think you can help in any way, please hop over and read my post about them here. Thanks, guys. :)
And here's the fic! Title is From Harps Hung Up in Babylon, by Arthur Colton. Beta'd by darkhavens.
The first thing he's aware of (not 'first thing he remembers', because he remembers nothing) is water. It surrounds him, rocking him gently - birth waters, or head waters - some kind of beginning. It's cold, though. It's so cold he's breathing in sharp little pants, spikes of ice in his joints. He flounders, splashing, his hands scraping along pebbles and silt, catching under his nails.
He rolls in the water, accidentally gulps a mouthful and, coughing, pushes his knees under his belly - gets his feet down. Rocks slide under his soles, slick with algae, randomly jagged, randomly smooth. He drags himself up, on his feet, staggering and limping toward a grassy bank.
He claws at the grass, hauling himself up and out, onto his knees and then his side. The earth is warm under his naked skin, the grass sharply pungent where he's torn it. For long minutes he simply lies there, shivering, curled in on himself. The only sounds are the busy chatter of the water and quick, bright notes that he gradually realizes are bird calls. So, perhaps he remembers something, after all. Gradually, he uncurls - sits up - looks down at himself. He's speckled with bits of grass and mud, smeared at the knees and black under his nails. Otherwise, he is unclothed - pale - seemingly healthy. Above him is a sky so blue it hurts his eyes, around him lush green in a hundred different shades. Tiny white flowers star the grass further away and something hovers there, quick and darting with tinsel wings.
He gets up, intrigued - fascinated, really - and takes a few shaky, wavering footsteps closer and realizes that it is a bee. It lights on a flower and works busily - flits up and then down again, a new flower, black legs working, body curled inward. Making life, in a roundabout sort of way. Another thing he remembers, but not the thing he should remember the most. Nothing of himself. He hugs his arms around his naked torso, chooses a direction and begins to walk.
His feet are sore and torn, and his knees scraped, before she finds him. She takes him home. Later, he learns that people with amnesia usually go to the hospital. When he asks her, Daphne says that he didn't need that; that God meant for her to find him that day. Meant for her to take him home and take care of him. He's not sure that's true, or even possible, but he likes the sound of it.
He likes the notion that God is watching over him, though he wonders how Daphne knew.
The first time he discovers his gift is two months after Daphne finds him. She is making dinner, chopping vegetables with a long, broad knife. She's telling him about her day, her work at the school and one of the children, and suddenly there is blood, falling in fat drops on the uneven squares of yellow pepper. Daphne makes a squeaky sort of noise and he moves to her, feeling strange - feeling hot, as if some banked fire has suddenly been fanned to life in his marrow. Taking her hand in his, he cups her slender fingers in his broader ones, curling them close. He wills the fire to her, imagining it lighting her from within, and as they watch, the cut from the knife knits itself, fading into nothing as if it never happened. The fire fades, as well, and they both breathe out at once, sagging into each other, tension releasing like an unwinding spring.
Daphne runs her fingers under the tap. When the blood is gone, there is nothing but smooth skin left behind. It makes her cry, and he doesn't know why that is, but she says that she is fine. She wipes her face and wipes up the blood and finishes making the dinner, and they sit. She eats, and he watches her eat, and that night, lying in their bed, Daphne tells him that God has a plan for him. God gave him an incredible gift, and he has to share it with the world.
He's been watching a lot of television, and he's not sure what the world will make of his gift, but he's very sure that the world needs it, or something like it. There is so much pain…. That night, for the first time, when she rolls against him and puts her arm over him, he tugs her closer, his lips resting lightly on the soft strands of her hair. He knows that married people do this, physical intimacy. But like the food Daphne cooks, it seems to be something else that is not needful for him. She says she understands. He really doesn't, but she seems content, and that is enough. He's seen her, though, looking at him sometimes, and he wonders if she will always be happy to only hold him, and nothing more.
He wonders if perhaps his gift - that sudden, incandescent fire - has burned all such worldly things out of him. It seems a fair trade.
The first time he goes to church is…interesting. On the one hand, it's incredible - amazing. The church itself isn't very big; a stone building with a modest spire and upholstered pews, worn blue hymnals. The best part of the church is the stained-glass window behind the altar. It soars upward, two storeys of blue and green, amber and crimson and white. An abstract thing, a cross and a dove and a crown. But the sun is behind it, glowing, and the long beams of tinted light fall on the snowy altar cloth - on the vestments of the priest and the robes of the choir and it is….
It is beautiful.
He lifts his face to it - sings the hymns and absorbs the sermon and lifts his voice in heartfelt, earnest prayer. He is soothed - at peace - joyful. He is at home. But as they leave, he glances back, and the light dims for a moment - a passing cloud. And he feels…alone. Without the people and the music - without the souls of the faithful - the church seems utterly empty. God does not seem to be there, at all.
The first time he drives, Daphne screams a little, clutching the seatbelt in her fingers and working her feet as if she is the one stopping the car. He gets better, though - he begins to take the car out for errands and then just to drive, the purr of the engine soothing, the endless ribbon of the road. When the cousin of one of the church members falls ill, two towns over, he simply packs an overnight bag and goes, driving alone with the radio playing, humming along even though he doesn't know the songs, just picks up the chorus sometimes.
He feels - free. He feels a little guilty, because he had told Daphne she need not come along. But she seemed to understand, and she has her classes - her children.
He goes into the sick room at the cousin's house, and sits on the edge of a narrow, squeaky bed. The woman lying there is thin as paper, and as pale - lines of pain cut deep into her face, her hands knotted about a worn Bible.
He calls forth the fire - the heat - and touches her cheek, and she is healed. When Daphne broaches the idea of going on the road - traveling to various churches, preaching - he says no. There are no words in him, ready to flow forth. There is no oration that he feels he must impart. He is not a prophet, nor yet a pastor. He is not a savior. Just a healer.
Some of the church-people seem put off by this, but he doesn't mind. God will speak to them, or He will not - it's not up to him. They get other calls, though, in later months. Calls from men and women who are not part of any church. Rough people, with weathered faces and weathered lives, hiding things behind their scars and their level, measuring gazes.
He heals one man's eye, takes away the blindness therein and that man thanks him with a touch to his shoulder, a wide, wondering smile. That there are strange glyphs and scattered relics all about this man's home, well, that's not his concern. They do no harm that he can tell, and obviously make the man feel more comfortable.
He wonders what they are supposed to attract, or repel. He wonders if he should know, or if he should feel some power from them.
He only feels happiness that the man's eye is fixed - that he need not suffer that darkness. He drives home in summer twilight, the open windows bringing in air sweet as honey, and he is content.
The first time he remembers is like being in that icy mountain stream all over again. It shocks him - makes his breath hitch and his heart stutter, makes his hands shake. But he remembers…everything. Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, war and betrayal and death. He remembers loss like a knife-thrust, shattering, and he remembers joy.
He remembers being lost and so lonely - afraid, and so alone. He remembers power that was never his to take - acts of sheer, petty selfishness and arrogance. He remembers sorrow, and anger, and love.
But mostly, he remembers two brothers, and the lies he told them, and the false hope he held out to them, and the incredible, unimaginable strength they had. The way they had invited him into their small, warm circle of affection and trust, and given him their hopes, and fears, and souls. As if he were their friend.
As if he were their family.
As he touches Sam's forehead, and calls the sickness into himself - takes on the taint of Lucifer, so that Sam can be free, so that Dean can be whole - he hopes that he is earning their forgiveness, and he hopes - oh, he hopes - that he does not forget.
Originally entered at http://tabaqui.dreamwidth.org/167719.html - comment where you please!
It's Home for the Holidays by swaggerdoodle My prompt was: Dean comes to Stanford for the 'major holidays' every year - St. Pats, Cinco de Mayo, National Pie Day and of course - Sam's birthday. Jess's observations through the years.
Please go read and feed - it's a lovely fic!
I wrote 'Betwixt the Green and Blue' for thinlizzy2, using this prompt: I was interested by how well-adjusted to generally happy Emmanual seemed in 7.17. Fic where he discovers his healing powers, tries to find his place in society, works out who he is/who he wants to be, etc.
I *really* enjoyed writing it - it was a fun perspective to see the story from. I'm going to repost it here so i have it in my 'archives'. So many other challenges happening right now - the reverse big bang, and a new 'in space' one, and Yuletide.... And i'm still struggling to get my damn charity fics done. I feel a *lot* of guilt over those. I wish my writing mojo would come back!!
Anyway - hiya, flist! :) I'm here, reading and commenting, maybe not *quite* as much as before, but i've still got my finger on the pulse of my fandoms. :) Just lately - dodging all the Show spoilers out there! OMG. I want to know, so bad, but i shall be strong!!
Lastly - we have the crummy neighbor's abandoned Mama Cat and her three kittens living on our back porch, and...i need help! If you think you can help in any way, please hop over and read my post about them here. Thanks, guys. :)
And here's the fic! Title is From Harps Hung Up in Babylon, by Arthur Colton. Beta'd by darkhavens.
The first thing he's aware of (not 'first thing he remembers', because he remembers nothing) is water. It surrounds him, rocking him gently - birth waters, or head waters - some kind of beginning. It's cold, though. It's so cold he's breathing in sharp little pants, spikes of ice in his joints. He flounders, splashing, his hands scraping along pebbles and silt, catching under his nails.
He rolls in the water, accidentally gulps a mouthful and, coughing, pushes his knees under his belly - gets his feet down. Rocks slide under his soles, slick with algae, randomly jagged, randomly smooth. He drags himself up, on his feet, staggering and limping toward a grassy bank.
He claws at the grass, hauling himself up and out, onto his knees and then his side. The earth is warm under his naked skin, the grass sharply pungent where he's torn it. For long minutes he simply lies there, shivering, curled in on himself. The only sounds are the busy chatter of the water and quick, bright notes that he gradually realizes are bird calls. So, perhaps he remembers something, after all. Gradually, he uncurls - sits up - looks down at himself. He's speckled with bits of grass and mud, smeared at the knees and black under his nails. Otherwise, he is unclothed - pale - seemingly healthy. Above him is a sky so blue it hurts his eyes, around him lush green in a hundred different shades. Tiny white flowers star the grass further away and something hovers there, quick and darting with tinsel wings.
He gets up, intrigued - fascinated, really - and takes a few shaky, wavering footsteps closer and realizes that it is a bee. It lights on a flower and works busily - flits up and then down again, a new flower, black legs working, body curled inward. Making life, in a roundabout sort of way. Another thing he remembers, but not the thing he should remember the most. Nothing of himself. He hugs his arms around his naked torso, chooses a direction and begins to walk.
His feet are sore and torn, and his knees scraped, before she finds him. She takes him home. Later, he learns that people with amnesia usually go to the hospital. When he asks her, Daphne says that he didn't need that; that God meant for her to find him that day. Meant for her to take him home and take care of him. He's not sure that's true, or even possible, but he likes the sound of it.
He likes the notion that God is watching over him, though he wonders how Daphne knew.
The first time he discovers his gift is two months after Daphne finds him. She is making dinner, chopping vegetables with a long, broad knife. She's telling him about her day, her work at the school and one of the children, and suddenly there is blood, falling in fat drops on the uneven squares of yellow pepper. Daphne makes a squeaky sort of noise and he moves to her, feeling strange - feeling hot, as if some banked fire has suddenly been fanned to life in his marrow. Taking her hand in his, he cups her slender fingers in his broader ones, curling them close. He wills the fire to her, imagining it lighting her from within, and as they watch, the cut from the knife knits itself, fading into nothing as if it never happened. The fire fades, as well, and they both breathe out at once, sagging into each other, tension releasing like an unwinding spring.
Daphne runs her fingers under the tap. When the blood is gone, there is nothing but smooth skin left behind. It makes her cry, and he doesn't know why that is, but she says that she is fine. She wipes her face and wipes up the blood and finishes making the dinner, and they sit. She eats, and he watches her eat, and that night, lying in their bed, Daphne tells him that God has a plan for him. God gave him an incredible gift, and he has to share it with the world.
He's been watching a lot of television, and he's not sure what the world will make of his gift, but he's very sure that the world needs it, or something like it. There is so much pain…. That night, for the first time, when she rolls against him and puts her arm over him, he tugs her closer, his lips resting lightly on the soft strands of her hair. He knows that married people do this, physical intimacy. But like the food Daphne cooks, it seems to be something else that is not needful for him. She says she understands. He really doesn't, but she seems content, and that is enough. He's seen her, though, looking at him sometimes, and he wonders if she will always be happy to only hold him, and nothing more.
He wonders if perhaps his gift - that sudden, incandescent fire - has burned all such worldly things out of him. It seems a fair trade.
The first time he goes to church is…interesting. On the one hand, it's incredible - amazing. The church itself isn't very big; a stone building with a modest spire and upholstered pews, worn blue hymnals. The best part of the church is the stained-glass window behind the altar. It soars upward, two storeys of blue and green, amber and crimson and white. An abstract thing, a cross and a dove and a crown. But the sun is behind it, glowing, and the long beams of tinted light fall on the snowy altar cloth - on the vestments of the priest and the robes of the choir and it is….
It is beautiful.
He lifts his face to it - sings the hymns and absorbs the sermon and lifts his voice in heartfelt, earnest prayer. He is soothed - at peace - joyful. He is at home. But as they leave, he glances back, and the light dims for a moment - a passing cloud. And he feels…alone. Without the people and the music - without the souls of the faithful - the church seems utterly empty. God does not seem to be there, at all.
The first time he drives, Daphne screams a little, clutching the seatbelt in her fingers and working her feet as if she is the one stopping the car. He gets better, though - he begins to take the car out for errands and then just to drive, the purr of the engine soothing, the endless ribbon of the road. When the cousin of one of the church members falls ill, two towns over, he simply packs an overnight bag and goes, driving alone with the radio playing, humming along even though he doesn't know the songs, just picks up the chorus sometimes.
He feels - free. He feels a little guilty, because he had told Daphne she need not come along. But she seemed to understand, and she has her classes - her children.
He goes into the sick room at the cousin's house, and sits on the edge of a narrow, squeaky bed. The woman lying there is thin as paper, and as pale - lines of pain cut deep into her face, her hands knotted about a worn Bible.
He calls forth the fire - the heat - and touches her cheek, and she is healed. When Daphne broaches the idea of going on the road - traveling to various churches, preaching - he says no. There are no words in him, ready to flow forth. There is no oration that he feels he must impart. He is not a prophet, nor yet a pastor. He is not a savior. Just a healer.
Some of the church-people seem put off by this, but he doesn't mind. God will speak to them, or He will not - it's not up to him. They get other calls, though, in later months. Calls from men and women who are not part of any church. Rough people, with weathered faces and weathered lives, hiding things behind their scars and their level, measuring gazes.
He heals one man's eye, takes away the blindness therein and that man thanks him with a touch to his shoulder, a wide, wondering smile. That there are strange glyphs and scattered relics all about this man's home, well, that's not his concern. They do no harm that he can tell, and obviously make the man feel more comfortable.
He wonders what they are supposed to attract, or repel. He wonders if he should know, or if he should feel some power from them.
He only feels happiness that the man's eye is fixed - that he need not suffer that darkness. He drives home in summer twilight, the open windows bringing in air sweet as honey, and he is content.
The first time he remembers is like being in that icy mountain stream all over again. It shocks him - makes his breath hitch and his heart stutter, makes his hands shake. But he remembers…everything. Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, war and betrayal and death. He remembers loss like a knife-thrust, shattering, and he remembers joy.
He remembers being lost and so lonely - afraid, and so alone. He remembers power that was never his to take - acts of sheer, petty selfishness and arrogance. He remembers sorrow, and anger, and love.
But mostly, he remembers two brothers, and the lies he told them, and the false hope he held out to them, and the incredible, unimaginable strength they had. The way they had invited him into their small, warm circle of affection and trust, and given him their hopes, and fears, and souls. As if he were their friend.
As if he were their family.
As he touches Sam's forehead, and calls the sickness into himself - takes on the taint of Lucifer, so that Sam can be free, so that Dean can be whole - he hopes that he is earning their forgiveness, and he hopes - oh, he hopes - that he does not forget.
Originally entered at http://tabaqui.dreamwidth.org/167719.html - comment where you please!