Stuff I'm working on
Nightmares and crap.
Dean is lying in a puddle of his own blood and unable to move. An unbearable pain encompasses him, his nails all but ripped off where they've scrabbled fruitlessly at the cement flooring. All he can do is cling to what is left of his life and stare wildly at the ceiling as the cracks spread through it, rumbling with a power it cannot contain. It feels like his mind has gone soft, all of his fear gone fuzzy at the edges as the red ocean swells around him and black creeps into his vision. No, he protests, with all he as left. No, I have to do... something, but whatever it is, it is lost to him. The rest of his vision fades black, the only color left hovering just before his eyes, two pinpoints of a blue so intense that his stomach, or what is left of it, drops.
Then he wakes up.
Dean Winchester is three and a half years old and tucked safely in his sheets.
He cries, fists bawled up against his eyes as the nightmare swirls in his sleepy mind and as his fears creep in the shadows. His nightlight has burnt out, smoking every so slightly. Mary is in his room in a minute, a whirlwind of blond curls when she flips on the light and chases the shadows away. For just an instant, Dean thinks he sees blood on her nightgown, but it is gone as soon as he blinks the tears from his eyes.
“Baby, what's wrong?” she asks, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking him into her willowy arms. Dean looks down at his cowboy-themed bedsheets, ashamed.
“Had a nightmare...” he mumbles, burying his snotty face into her side. She doesn't seem to mind too much. He hears the door open again and he peeks under her arm long enough to see his father open the door.
“What's wrong?” he all but demands in a sleep-rough voice, though it hardly belies his concern.
Mary strokes Dean's hair softly, smiling at her husband. “Nothing but a dream.”
Dean has the same nightmare many times after that, though the details change from night to night.
Sometimes, it's not blackness that floods his dying eyes, but a bright, almost unfathomable light, still with its two pinpricks of blue that seem to capture him.
Prompt was: Supernatural, Sam/Gabriel (past Sam/Lucfer?), Gabriel needs a new vessel and Sam's would say yes to anyone just to fill the emptiness inside him. Idk what I am doing with it.
If there is one thing that Gabriel hates, it's having his parade rained upon. He likes his parade- he designed every bit himself, to his own high expectations. But make no lie that he can't adapt to wrenches being thrown into his plans. That's what he is- that's what he's made himself to be. Adaptable. Unflappable. Throw an angry Winchester at him, they won't walk away until he says he's done with them. An annoying little brother trying to snitch? He's got a universe's supply of duct tape, willing and ready to shut him up. If all else fails, make it a joke and laugh right through it. It's hard to rain on his parade.
Now, Gabriel is dead.
This is definitely a full on hurricane on his parade.
He's not as dead as one could be in this situation, but he's dead nonetheless. His vessel is run through like a kebab, bleeding out in a decidedly undelicious way onto the motel floor, and his Grace feels as if Quentin Tarentino has done a number on it, low-budget special effects and all. He probably has a stroke of luck to thank for being not-totally-dead, but he'll attribute it to his cunning, to his dashing quick reflexes. No one has to know anyway, and certainly not his murderous brother. Lucifer hasn't seen a pair of wings for eons, while of course Gabe knows the exact pattern and curve of his own, so his painting does its trick well. Lucifer may be the Morningstar, he may be fueled by an anger angels were never meant to possess, but Gabriel will always be the smarter brother.
Lucifer leaves, taking his wrath and trails of blood with him, and Gabriel mourns. Much life has been lost in this place, most importantly his own. And he really, really wants to congratulate himself on his trickiness at the moment, preferably with something sweet, be it sinful chocolate or a sinful woman, but lacking a vessel puts a damper on that. He'd really, really liked that vessel. One less beautiful God in the world, he sniffs, or would sniff if he had vocal chords or tear ducts or anything resembling a nose. Loki is well and truly dead. Hopefully he stays so after this. Gabe can only imagine how pissed he'll be if he makes it back. Shouldn't have lent it if he cared so much, but whatever.
Gabriel's grace leaks a little more and startles him with the only sensation he can feel while incorporeal. It's a bit like an itch, but a bit more like have your balls chopped off with a small, dull kitchen knife- and Gabriel will vouch that the latter is a thoroughly unpleasant feeling. Bleeding in a physical form doesn't quite compare- it's the feeling you get when all that you essentially are starts trying to rip itself into a million bite-sized bits and scatter into the cosmos. Nothingness is starting to creep in at his seams, so Gabriel does the one thing he knows how to do best.
He dives deep into the earth and he hides.
Gabriel awakens from a slumber he didn't know he'd taken sometime later. He can't tell how much time it's been, which is a bit disconcerting in itself, but none too strange. His grace isn't whole yet, he convinces himself as he flits through space, it's still healing and fuzzy. He'd heal a lot faster if he had a body, but seeing Loki's corpse below him with a vision he's not used for a thousand years really drives home that he won't have one for awhile. It hasn't rotted in the way human dead do, but rather faded, a sad reminder of dissipated power and a dead faith. Gabriel doesn't want to end up like him, some schmuck used as a puppet and discarded, but he can't say with any honesty that he isn't already that guy.
Thoughts turning away from a body he cannot use, he wonders how much time has passed during his snooze. The Elysian Fields hasn't crumbled around him, and while it is rather dusty, he can assume that it hasn't been a century or something ridiculous. And the world still exists, so he takes that as an even better sign. Perhaps the Winchesters and their fallen angel made it through, trapped Luci back in his hole. If he's really lucky, the apocalypse-averted party hasn't ended yet, and he can still score some booze.
Of course, maybe they've failed and hell rains upon the earth just outside. As desperately as he sends his feelers out into the world, they can't go very far, and they can't touch anything. He still can't feel anything but that infuriating itch. Nothing to be gained by figuratively sitting still and going nuts, so he leaves.
As an almost nothingness he can still travel quickly, but that's a pretty useless thing when you have no aim in mind, and no real way to find a vessel. People are still plentiful, and Luci is no longer walking the Earth as far as he can tell, due to the fact none of the people he comes across seem to scream 'Oh my God, hell is here and we're all gonna die'. Not that it matters, since he's going to die if he can't find a vessel, but he simply cannot feel who can contain him nor which of them won't go deaf if he tries to so much as ask them politely for directions. The thought that he might be small enough to fit inside even a low level vessel is entertained- but quickly discarded. He still has his pride, by Dad.
About a year has passed, as he pieces together from a thousand sources, and not much has changed. People are still horrible and wonderful, and there's still a lot of them. Gabriel thinks of going into hiding again, trying to stitch himself together until he regains enough power to not have to search for a stupid vessel. He could just climb into the old one, stitch it up, and fuck all this looking nonsense. But how much time that would take? The world's assholes were going on, living every day without a single lesson being bored into their skulls, and who knows how much stupidity the Winchesters' have thrown themselves into by now. It's not too difficult a choice to look for those boys, and hey, maybe he can even mess with them a little while he's there. What would be difficult is finding them. They had, until the Enochian sigils had been carved into their ribs, been incredibly visible souls, Dean's righteous and bright, Sam's troubled and dark, but he was practically blind now, so he searches anyways.
It's obvious to check the places the brothers are most often found. In South Dakota, he finds their surrogate father, but Bobby is alone, and looks it. He tries to call out to him, but all it gives the old man is a mild headache and a single broken scotch glass. Gabriel doesn't try again. He does, however, even with his weak senses, pick up the trail of a soul, as bright as the sun and as stubborn as always, and he follows it to Indiana. Dean is there, in civvie dress with his hair all parted, washing his car with a boy that could easily be his son. Gabe ultimately decides not to bother, not even to mess with him, since Dean probably won't help him anyway ass that he is. He really needs Sam.
Lawrence is the next and only place left on his list, even though it's a stretch. Luck is with him, for he finds a woman waiting for him in the graveyard.
"Hello, Gabriel." she speaks- commands, really- before he can dart away and go searching the rest of the continent for Sam, bleeding out all the way. She's standing by the grave of Mary Winchester. Cautious, he speaks for her in his true voice, weak as it has become.
"Yes, I can hear you, old man. I wish you'd speak up!" She smiles, without turning, because there's not much to see of him anymore. He remembers this woman, a piece of the Winchester fate, a psychic, a helper, a friend. Missoula or Mississippi or something.
"I like to think I will exceed my fate yet, since the plan of God has been rewritten. Yes, your brother is gone, but he has taken much with him." She chuckles a bit sadly. "You are looking for Sam, but you no longer have the power to find him."
Gabriel feels an edge of irritation- psychics have always been a bit infuriating, not unlike his brothers in their knowing- but it is true.
"He passed through here not two days past, flying like a bat out of hell- which I suppose isn't too far from the truth. Didn't even stop by to say hello, goodbye. There's no more warmth in that boy's heart." She frowns, shakes her head, and lays a flower on Mary's grave. "He should be in Kansas City by now and I'd leave soon before that boy disappears from us all once more. Don't be thankful now!” She shushes his humming grace and he feels a bit ridiculous, like a scolded child. “Just go find him, and you'll both be better for it, no doubt. Do right, then you come back when you got a body, and I'll feed you like a king.”
She waves to him though he's gone in less than instants, and he doesn't catch the wave of weariness that crosses her face.
Reaching Kansas City is easy and near instantaneous, but finding a single man in it is a task in of itself. Unlike Dean, Sam's trail doesn't seem to be strong enough for his weakened Grace to see, leaving him essentially stumbling blind through a dark room with his hands cut off. Gabe just counts himself lucky that Sam didn't feel like visiting New York or L.A. That would have just been cruel. With nowhere else to start, Gabe reaches out for beings of the other world. Their imprint is stronger on the world, like miniature pockets of black hole sucking in everything that wanders too close to them.
BLAH MORE STUFF HERE
He's standing in a warehouse alone, and he's covered in blood.
He hadn't been alone long, since the vampires strewn on the floor were freshly dead. Sam is standing there, and it's a bit unnerving. Gabriel reaches out with his voice, imploring Sam to hear, but Sam just stands there. He tries again and again, and just as he is about to give up Sam looks up and says "Yeah, I hear you. What do you want?"
That's not the reaction Gabe expected. Anger maybe, for being tricked once more, into thinking he was dead, followed by a long suffering sigh and a 'Fine, sure, let's figure something out.' but certainly not 'What do you want?'
Help, help, he stresses with all his being, Grace swirling around him, caressing Sam, urging him to please let him borrow his body, just for long enough to maybe use a spell to locate a more suitable vessel, or until he is strong enough to find one on his own.
Sam seems unmoved. "Why should I help you?" he asks, and Gabe notes that he doesn't seem angry, or adverse to the idea even. He sounds blank.
Gabe promises allegiance and Sam doesn't move, he promises that he'll leave him alone forever and he yawns, he promises to never kill his brother again and Sam doesn't even blink. Something is very not right here, but Gabe is desperate. Finally, when he promises him power, Sam crosses his arms and nods.
Gabe floods into him the moment the agreement is set, stretching himself into the corners and feeling sensation return to him. His limbs are long now, Sam's limbs, and it's not a God's body, but there is power in it, if only the fingerprints left by his brother. It seems he had ridden Sam for some time. He'd have time to ask about that, later. He sighs, and says in Sam's voice, "Ahh, thanks, Moose. I'm feeling better already!"
His (Sam's) voice echoes in the warehouse and a resounding silence meets him. His borrowed face falls. He's alone but for the corpses, and Sam's soul hasn't been in for a very long time.
I was inspired by L4D and 'The End'. Don't ask. At 3,000 words and nowhere near done, it is quickly turning into one of, if not, my longest pieces of fanwriting. Dean, Sam, Jo, Chuck, and Cas, because I say so. EVERYTHING subject to change. I was TOTALLY not planning for it to turn into Chuck/Cas (originally, Chuck wasn't even in it), but it took its own course.
They've been walking for ten days. Food is running low, and their shoes are nothing but a thin sheet of rubber separating their aching soles from sticks and stones and hard, unforgiving asphalt. Chuck's shoes have worn entirely through, a corpse of shoes, and his toes are covered in bruises and blisters. He walks a bit off the road, in the grass where it doesn't tear his feet to hell, though there's a lot more things to watch out for hidden beneath the dead leaves. Chuck had stepped on a bit of glass less than ten minutes ago, but had soldiered through, determined to prove that he deserved to belong with a group of Big Damn Heroes.
He falters, looks at the heel of his foot. It's still bleeding profusely, and he feels a bit weak.
“Guys, can we stop for, uh, for a minute.”
So much for that then.
Dean sends him a look that Chuck can't quite decipher- he's either saying 'fine, sit down and hold us up you useless piece of shit', or 'if you sit down I'll blow your fucking head off'. He does have a .45 in his hand. Chuck decides to chance it, sits down with his legs crossed and pulls up the offending foot to look at it. He still has his head, so he's thankful for that, but he can practically feel the resentment rolling off Dean in waves.
Cas, beautiful ex-angel that he is, sits down with him, and Chuck sees Dean physically ease at that. They settle down their packs, Cas delving into his to gather bandages. They have precious little left, so Chuck feels a little guilty for needing them, but he's no use if he can't walk. Really, he's inclined to think that he's not of much use anyway and further inclined to believe the rest of them feel the same. Two years since the world went to hell and he still can't aim well with anything but a small pistol, and that's probably only due to the years of first-person shooter games he'd played. He doesn't have any wilderness survival skills- hell he'd barely had first-world-suburban survival skills- and he's tiny and looks weird and drinks all the alcohol they can find if they don't watch him.
Before Chuck can fall any further into self-loathing, Cas looks up from where he's wrapping his foot, eyes still bluer than anything Chuck's ever seen. Back when Chuck was writing, before he'd known that his characters were real and that he was not creative, just God's secretary, he never could find a way to properly describe Cas's eyes. He could never capture their intense colour, nor the way they delved deep into whomever they fell on, nor the endless, fierce love he had for God's creations. No other angels had ever held that sort of love for the race of man. Chuck feels a bit nervous under that gaze now, undeserving, more like an ant under a microscope. “That should serve until nightfall. I'll dress it again when we stop to rest.”
“Yeah, yeah that's great.” Chuck stretches his foot experimentally and it hurts less than it did a minute ago. He thinks that probably makes him a bit like a toddler that had his booboo kissed. The thought flickers through his mind that he might ask Cas to do that, but Dean's still fingering his gun and Chuck really likes his head on his shoulders. “Thanks Cas. Don't know what we'd- what I'd do without you.”
That's the truth. He's the outsider more often than not, and some days it seems as if he's the butt of some cosmic joke. Dean seems to- does resent him- for not seeing this coming, for being a weakling, for existing, something like that. Chuck is pretty sure it's a combination and he can't say he blames him. Jo is stand-offish to everyone and has been since they found her, wandering the road to Bobby's house and covered in blood that wasn't hers. She won't talk about it, shrinking away from its mention or concerned looks, though they can guess by the way her clothes had been torn, by the way she'd nearly stabbed Dean when he'd tried to kiss her last summer. By the way she never speaks of her mother, for all he mourning. Jo makes Chuck feel guilty, but Sam, Sam takes the guilt cake. He doesn't speak at all anymore, a pale, sad shadow that follows along their path.
He'd said yes. As far as Chuck knows, it was some insane plot to throw Lucifer back in the hole using Sam's own will. It had failed, and failed hard. Bobby, Rufus, even the angel Gabriel had been some of the several thousand lost in the first onslaught, and the numbers had only risen from there. Lucifer played in Sam's body after that, unhindered, only dumping it when he'd gotten bored and there were just too few people to kill anymore. It seems he'd ridden him like a carnival horse too hard and too long-- something has been broken in Sam. The fact that he's alive, not a vegetable, the fact that he can shoot and run is amazing, but there doesn't seem to be much Sam left at home.
Cas is really the super glue that holds them together. Though his Grace has left, though his brothers have abandoned him, Cas has stayed. He's as human as any of them now, but something has kept him from falling to pieces, even be it only to keep the rest of them from falling apart. He's still otherworldly, he still stares too much, but they each love him fiercely in one way or another. Chuck, of course, would hesitate to say has anything like a crush on Cas, but maybe he might, if pressured, say he has something like a squish.
Chuck remembers a vision in which Zacariah sent Dean to a future much like this one. Cas had been a shell, drugged and sexed and empty, cannon fodder and a stain on the heart of a heartless future Dean. He often finds himself wondering what the difference is between that Cas and their Cas.
MORE STUFF HAPPENS
In the end, they bury them, since Cas can't bear to see Dean burn in a hunter's pyre. Side by side, as they always had been, in shallow graves marked with a circle of stones, the only remaining mark on the world that they had ever even existed.
Cas looks at him then, and his eyes are so wide and sad that the only thing Chuck can think to do is kiss him. That's how it happened in the movies, how the blue-eyed damsel found that life could go on after the death of someone special. But Cas is not a damsel, and he doesn't kiss back. He doesn't even close his eyes, just gives Chuck the world's most indecipherable look when he pulls away.
“Ah crap, ah- I'm sorry Cas I didn't mean-” Castiel continues to bore through him, lips slightly parted. Chuck doesn't bother to finish his sentence, fleeing backwards from the room and downstairs, tripping on the way out. His friend doesn't follow.
He hides in the wreckage of the kitchen, tears through the cupboards, and to his great joy finds a mostly full bottle of old whiskey. A bit of residue swirls around the bottom, probably a sign that he shouldn't drink it, but the bottle's empty ten minutes later, liver and sobriety and the possibility of being poisoned be damned. Chuck eases into the familiar sensation of drunkenness, welcoming it with open arms, welcoming the sweet state of tranquility, acceptance.
Now, he can finally think of Dean without crying, think of Sam, think of their blood stained hands and their milky green eyes staring endlessly from under bloodless lids. Think of how much he wishes it had been him who'd had his guts ripped out, of how much easier it might have been. He sees it like a vision- Dean and Cas would be so grateful that they were both alive that they'd allow themselves to be happy with each other. Sam and Jo woulds slowly continue to heal, maybe even together, broken hearts conjoining to form a whole. Hell, with a team like that, without him to slow them down, maybe they still could have saved the world. No one would have mourned Chuck for long. They'd have discarded his name in a week, and the world would have been better for it.
Crap. He is crying. What a big loser. Chuck hiccups and violently acquaints himself with the kitchen floor, the grimy blue and yellow tiles his new best friends that will never judge him. He'll also never want to kiss them.
Jo finds him in that state, face down and spread-eagled, with a nasty red mark on his forehead and dried blood flecked in his mustache. He looks up at her, willing her to stop spinning, or at least stop being twins. She doesn't comply, instead kneeling near him, sending him a look that could curdle milk, and flipping him onto his back. She takes care to touch him as little as possible during this, hands shuttering away in disgust. He giggles, amused by a passing thought of how her hands look like butterflies, and closes his eyes promptly, if only to quell the urge to vomit. “Hey Jo, whadd'ya know?”
Jo sighs, and he peeks out from under his eyelashes to see her pretty mouth scrunched up in distaste, though her tone is as deadpan as ever. “ I know your nose isn't supposed to bend that way, last time I checked. Good job.”
He hadn't even noticed, and the pain hits him with the revelation. “Ow.” Chuck attempts to feel the bridge of his nose, but his drink-clumsy hands miss and manage to poke him in the eye. As is with any good self-loathing subconscious, his remains ever sober, ever vigilant, and it makes good on such a blunder- yeah, he looks like such a fucking winner right now. Chuck ignores it, focusing all his energy on trying to stand up, looking rather like a turned over turtle for his efforts.
And more stuff and then THE END BIT HAHA
“That- that's the last of it.” Chuck mutters to the air. He's alone now, and the only thing that answers him is Jo screaming from behind the blocked door. She turned less than an hour ago, but he's not to be disturbed when he's writing. “That's the end.” Satisfied, he tucks the hastily scribbled on notepads safely in the desk drawers. He doesn't think anyone will find them and he doesn't know. For the first time in longer than he can remember, his head is blissfully clear, free of pain, sober. He pushes the desk aside and, with a smile, he lets Jo in.
-AND THAT IS ALL SHE WROTE