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spn fic: give up the ghost (dean/cas; pg13)
Through some weird twist of fate, 7x01 airs on the day my boyfriend and I start our two week sorta retreat-ish thingie, so I suspect I'm gonna miss the peak of the flail. BUT YOU KEEP THOSE HOME FIRES BURNING, FLIST. I watched the 7x01 webclip and omg I forgot just how much Show can make me feel all the feelings. fjdsklfjd. RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU ARE EXCITE. o/
There are various odds 'n ends on my computer that I figure I ought to post before then. Here's a 6x03 coda where no one has sex and everyone is unhappy, except probably for Robosam, whom we can assume is having all the happy sex offscreen.
Give Up the Ghost
Supernatural. Past Dean/Cas. PG13. Warning: aaaangst, 2nd person POV.
6x03 coda. "I am familiar with the distance between us, for better and worse." ~400 words
Castiel tracks snow from Kilimanjaro on the motel carpet, leaving footprints, which he usually never does because it's like all the signs that pointed to him were invisible, as if he were never here. It's like the way the past year has felt like a hundred years, for better and worse, and you had let yourself sink into that, eating lotus. Only bathroom mirrors recognized you: is that your scar? is that your tattoo? is it the past or present tense? You don’t have time for questions from mirrors; they are seven years’ bad luck. You love Lisa and you love Ben and none of this is anyone’s fault.
He leaves footprints. It's been the only mark of his that isn’t borne of fire or violence and has no design on permanence.
You consider saying I missed you but you’re not sure if it’s the truth, but there is a resignation and a pain behind the sentiment that appeals to you, like maybe you are running out of time and realizing you never had any, like realizing that a scar isn’t a promise, that it is perhaps the opposite of one. The last time you saw him was a week after the world didn’t end, and he was weary and questioning and in other words he was just like you. He admitted that he thought things would be easier now, and you in your cynicism had laughed. This time he reached out first. It was a relief. You were tired of kissing closed eyelids. Let yours be kissed. You were tired of the taste of other people’s loss. Let yours be tasted. Whatsoever you had done to the world, let it be done unto you.
He was not gentle. You told him not to be.
Perhaps you mean to say, I am familiar with the distance between us, for better and worse.
He reaches for you now but you shift away, invoking Lisa, invoking change. You can’t tell if he’s forgotten or just stubborn. Remembering is a form of penitence, and so is love. Well, this is for love. Here’s to love. Here’s to things you have no name for anymore. Perhaps you mean to say, I never meant to mourn you, but instead you say I’m sorry, echoing him, and he wins this round: you are the first to look away.
You close your eyes and you are alone. The footprints have already begun to fade.
There are various odds 'n ends on my computer that I figure I ought to post before then. Here's a 6x03 coda where no one has sex and everyone is unhappy, except probably for Robosam, whom we can assume is having all the happy sex offscreen.
Give Up the Ghost
Supernatural. Past Dean/Cas. PG13. Warning: aaaangst, 2nd person POV.
6x03 coda. "I am familiar with the distance between us, for better and worse." ~400 words
Castiel tracks snow from Kilimanjaro on the motel carpet, leaving footprints, which he usually never does because it's like all the signs that pointed to him were invisible, as if he were never here. It's like the way the past year has felt like a hundred years, for better and worse, and you had let yourself sink into that, eating lotus. Only bathroom mirrors recognized you: is that your scar? is that your tattoo? is it the past or present tense? You don’t have time for questions from mirrors; they are seven years’ bad luck. You love Lisa and you love Ben and none of this is anyone’s fault.
He leaves footprints. It's been the only mark of his that isn’t borne of fire or violence and has no design on permanence.
You consider saying I missed you but you’re not sure if it’s the truth, but there is a resignation and a pain behind the sentiment that appeals to you, like maybe you are running out of time and realizing you never had any, like realizing that a scar isn’t a promise, that it is perhaps the opposite of one. The last time you saw him was a week after the world didn’t end, and he was weary and questioning and in other words he was just like you. He admitted that he thought things would be easier now, and you in your cynicism had laughed. This time he reached out first. It was a relief. You were tired of kissing closed eyelids. Let yours be kissed. You were tired of the taste of other people’s loss. Let yours be tasted. Whatsoever you had done to the world, let it be done unto you.
He was not gentle. You told him not to be.
Perhaps you mean to say, I am familiar with the distance between us, for better and worse.
He reaches for you now but you shift away, invoking Lisa, invoking change. You can’t tell if he’s forgotten or just stubborn. Remembering is a form of penitence, and so is love. Well, this is for love. Here’s to love. Here’s to things you have no name for anymore. Perhaps you mean to say, I never meant to mourn you, but instead you say I’m sorry, echoing him, and he wins this round: you are the first to look away.
You close your eyes and you are alone. The footprints have already begun to fade.