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Entry tags:
'Mandelbrot' - SPN - pre-Cas/Dean - PG13 - croatverse
Partly, the still-popping Castastic shindig is strongarming me into a 'BE PROLIFIC' mindset (I for one welcome our new Castiel/Scully OTP), but mostly, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
22by7's Dean&Castiel drawing really just snagged my mind that much. The first time I saw it I was like woah, but also what is going on here? 'Cos there is intensity there, but it's also very ambiguous, and I kept headtilting at it and wondering what is the story? There is vulnerability, but also malice. Something that could either be intimacy or desperation. And perhaps fear? Who has the upper hand? Is there an upper hand to be had at all?
So, it inspired me to write some croatverse melodramz. Partly because it doesn't take much to make me write croatverse melodramz, but mostly because goddamn would you take a look at that drawing.
Mandelbrot
Supernatural. Pre-Dean/Cas. PG13. 5x04 episode tag. Warning: GWG (grammar? what grammar?).
Sam says yes, and Dean doesn't take it very well. 775 words.
Sam just said yes and the angels are gone, and Dean barges in all angry and raw, and you look up, wide-eyed but unsurprised. It is not the first time you have seen Dean angry, but it is the first time he hits you after your grace has flickered out. The crack of his fist on your jaw, the explosion of heat and sharp blades; you understand as you never have before how Dean's enemies fell at his feet, cut grass, shucked wheat. This is pain. You know this now. You are learning so much. Where are your angel buddies now, he says, where are they Cas, where the fuck are your goddamn brothers, where the fuck is your dad, huh, where.
The amulet stays cool to the touch.
And oh the ley lines that unfurl from Detroit to here and back again, into Dean Winchester's breaking heart and back again, into the ground to rise up through the soles of his brother's feet, up through his body, the voicebox fluttering and the mouth that shapes the one word: yes. In the end was the word and the word was--
Fate lines and life lines like the earth is a hand to be read, and what can we do, old friend, before we are enclosed in God's own fist? These fingernails digging into skin will leave pink crescents. You are not an angel anymore, and the dull blue-black of being slammed back against a wall makes you cry out, you know this to be pain. The brown-flecked green of his eyes razed through with rage; that, you have learned a long time ago. The things you know about him, like the loves that he lets break him because he knows no other way, you know that too.
He thinks he is the only one who breaks for family? For whom family breaks? You are not afraid of his curses, which do nothing. You are not afraid of his fists; you knew them when they were hands, they have held you. You are not afraid of silence or speaking too late; living in the aftermath of everything means having all the time in the world, what's left of it.
His grief spirals out, fractals that divide and never end, the burning mandelbrot. When you try to speak, he doesn't let you finish. When you say his name, he says don't you Dean me. What the fuck have you ever done, you shoulda left me in hell and what about Sam you sunnuva bitch what the fuck have you ever done, I should kill you right now. Threats, yes, you know threats, the sensation of his hands around your neck, those callused fingers. Those callused words, the angry fingers; you feel them tighten, just a little, enough to let you know he's not fucking around. And fuck you Cas fuck you, goddamn useless fucking sunnuva
So do it.
It's the first directive he lets you finish, and he tries not to notice by barreling into another verse of curses, goddamn motherf
Do it.
The brown-flecked green you know so well. These hands, his pause so close to bursting.
For all his pomp and circumstance, he lets you touch his face. You feel the wetness there, the warmth, his breath against your wrist. He lets you touch his hands, though you make no effort to remove them. You touch lightly where his pulse flutters, he who proclaims himself ready for loss, ready to bring it upon himself like he says he has before.
And oh the ley lines that uncurl beneath your feet, they trip and tangle. They tie you down to earth and knot around his legs and pull, and maybe that is why he falls against you, crumpling, dragging his brother's name from his throat. And fuck, he says. Fuck. As if no one else has lost a brother, as if no one else has been the brother lost.
Misery is selfish. You are learning so much.
You slide to the floor, the both of you, the easier to bear his weight. The loosening of his hands, and how his open mouth on your shoulder wracks out a heavy sob. You see the sky through a broken window: it is the lightest of blue, the barest hints of silver, empty. You are disturbing the dust around you. Your jaw throbs and you suspect splinters in your back.
He shifts against you, says your name against your neck, and once more into your hollowed cheek, and you say I'm here. Of course you are; there is nowhere else you can be.
22by7's Dean&Castiel drawing really just snagged my mind that much. The first time I saw it I was like woah, but also what is going on here? 'Cos there is intensity there, but it's also very ambiguous, and I kept headtilting at it and wondering what is the story? There is vulnerability, but also malice. Something that could either be intimacy or desperation. And perhaps fear? Who has the upper hand? Is there an upper hand to be had at all?So, it inspired me to write some croatverse melodramz. Partly because it doesn't take much to make me write croatverse melodramz, but mostly because goddamn would you take a look at that drawing.
Mandelbrot
Supernatural. Pre-Dean/Cas. PG13. 5x04 episode tag. Warning: GWG (grammar? what grammar?).
Sam says yes, and Dean doesn't take it very well. 775 words.
Sam just said yes and the angels are gone, and Dean barges in all angry and raw, and you look up, wide-eyed but unsurprised. It is not the first time you have seen Dean angry, but it is the first time he hits you after your grace has flickered out. The crack of his fist on your jaw, the explosion of heat and sharp blades; you understand as you never have before how Dean's enemies fell at his feet, cut grass, shucked wheat. This is pain. You know this now. You are learning so much. Where are your angel buddies now, he says, where are they Cas, where the fuck are your goddamn brothers, where the fuck is your dad, huh, where.
The amulet stays cool to the touch.
And oh the ley lines that unfurl from Detroit to here and back again, into Dean Winchester's breaking heart and back again, into the ground to rise up through the soles of his brother's feet, up through his body, the voicebox fluttering and the mouth that shapes the one word: yes. In the end was the word and the word was--
Fate lines and life lines like the earth is a hand to be read, and what can we do, old friend, before we are enclosed in God's own fist? These fingernails digging into skin will leave pink crescents. You are not an angel anymore, and the dull blue-black of being slammed back against a wall makes you cry out, you know this to be pain. The brown-flecked green of his eyes razed through with rage; that, you have learned a long time ago. The things you know about him, like the loves that he lets break him because he knows no other way, you know that too.
He thinks he is the only one who breaks for family? For whom family breaks? You are not afraid of his curses, which do nothing. You are not afraid of his fists; you knew them when they were hands, they have held you. You are not afraid of silence or speaking too late; living in the aftermath of everything means having all the time in the world, what's left of it.
His grief spirals out, fractals that divide and never end, the burning mandelbrot. When you try to speak, he doesn't let you finish. When you say his name, he says don't you Dean me. What the fuck have you ever done, you shoulda left me in hell and what about Sam you sunnuva bitch what the fuck have you ever done, I should kill you right now. Threats, yes, you know threats, the sensation of his hands around your neck, those callused fingers. Those callused words, the angry fingers; you feel them tighten, just a little, enough to let you know he's not fucking around. And fuck you Cas fuck you, goddamn useless fucking sunnuva
So do it.
It's the first directive he lets you finish, and he tries not to notice by barreling into another verse of curses, goddamn motherf
Do it.
The brown-flecked green you know so well. These hands, his pause so close to bursting.
For all his pomp and circumstance, he lets you touch his face. You feel the wetness there, the warmth, his breath against your wrist. He lets you touch his hands, though you make no effort to remove them. You touch lightly where his pulse flutters, he who proclaims himself ready for loss, ready to bring it upon himself like he says he has before.
And oh the ley lines that uncurl beneath your feet, they trip and tangle. They tie you down to earth and knot around his legs and pull, and maybe that is why he falls against you, crumpling, dragging his brother's name from his throat. And fuck, he says. Fuck. As if no one else has lost a brother, as if no one else has been the brother lost.
Misery is selfish. You are learning so much.
You slide to the floor, the both of you, the easier to bear his weight. The loosening of his hands, and how his open mouth on your shoulder wracks out a heavy sob. You see the sky through a broken window: it is the lightest of blue, the barest hints of silver, empty. You are disturbing the dust around you. Your jaw throbs and you suspect splinters in your back.
He shifts against you, says your name against your neck, and once more into your hollowed cheek, and you say I'm here. Of course you are; there is nowhere else you can be.