when raleigh stumbles barely conscious from the wreck after knifehead the look on his face fuckin kills me cause it's this agonized blend of sheer joy and devastation in the blink of an eye
joy because none of it had really hit home while he was still in combat- yancy was gone, but he still had to get gipsy to shore, and couldn't afford to glance right at the horribly empty gaping hole beside him. so when he makes land it's this sudden rush of wet sand and frost and real human voices and he feels, after so many hours in survival mode hooked into a machine, definitely, truly alive-
but yancy isn't. and everything he has left of his brother is up in smoke with the rest of the smoldering wreck. he's got pictures, clothes, a toothbrush and some odds and ends, sure, but personal effects don't mean shit when you've been in someone's head for so long, and the thrill of solid ground under his feet and the sun on his face and a beating heart really doesn't seem like all that much when he realizes how utterly
through a series of coincidences and a good deal of miscommunication dean cas and sam end up at service in a tiny little small town gospel church filled to the brim with love and light and decide to stay through worship for free coffee or smth idk
but sam's up singing and clapping his hands cause these are the sorts of songs he'd hum to himself when he was feeling sad. and they're all thinking it's a beautiful morning and they're lucky to be alive, but cas and dean aren't the dancing types, so they just finds a quiet spot near the back to sit and watch.
cas is drinking it all in with his eyes closed and this serene smile on his face, simply appreciating this small bit of proof that not all of humanity is lost to despair and maybe there is some small shred of god's grace left he can appreciate after so long.
and dean winchester, who's never attended a sermon in his life that didn't leave him with a bad taste in his mouth, is practically gawking at how utterly happy cas looks despite all they've been through, and as much as he's damning himself for being such a cliche bastard, this rumpled, broken, appallingly human angel nodding and tapping his toe beside him is all the proof in a higher power he needs.
summary: when the angel of thursday left in search of god, it was just as much a quest for introspection as understanding.
word count: 580
warnings: purple prose abounds. i may or may not ever get around to posting more of these, they're just little drabbles mostly.
in the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.
the first place you looked was Eden.
or, what had been Eden when last you saw it, long ago when the world was still self-fulfilling.
you close your eyes against a dying sun and see eons of topography crawl across the horizon, burned into your vessel’s eyelids. he’s so fragile. the weak light burns his skin, and you find yourself missing the white-blue light of those first sacred rays.
left and right, soil to sky, the two trees curve, bending the very fabric of the earth around them. back then, when everything was new, the colors were true and every breath ached of life. heaven had aged by then, and not finely. you tripped every once in a while between the cracks into raw space, and the remnants of the big bang pricked your toes like thorns you
choke on ice your lungs
burn and-
His favorite would lay a hand between your shoulder blades and rip you back into white halls with a smile that still reeked of love.
before there was morning, there were stars, and after there was morning, there was your brother. burning through the evening and the creak of centuries passing in a blink. burning through the slow but steady degradation of the Word into
Days, and Names, and Them- his favorites.
and He saw all that he had made, and it was very good.
it was very good then, and while He rested, your siblings took it upon themselves to create the first murmurs. whispers that would turn tides in time.
a speeding jeep rips past your peripherals, and it takes your vessel a second too long to hide his face in his coat sleeve. dust swirls and curls around your stomach like the beginnings of fear.
fear, and jealousy that your brothers were never given tablets and prophets to live by. you’re held to the same standards as the family dog, and that’s a bone you’ve picked since you realized Father gave Them opposable thumbs.
you finger the amulet hanging heavy around your throat like a collar, and in the heat of the saharra, in the burnt out hollow of Creation’s womb, you feel like maybe, you can learn to walk on all fours and hold your head as high as only those of the Fallen world can.
but when you glance down, rubbing dirt from your lashes just to be sure, the inscription on your tags is blank, the creases on your palm not your own.
you were foolish to think God would reside in the ruins of his first mistake. nothing but sky and dust and a caked, rutted road to nowhere. ages beneath your bare feet, past silt and loam, heavy sanguine clay and rotted bones, the skeletons of two Trees creak under the breeze of your wings, longing for the weight of fresh fruit.
ok the way the fandom's treating crowley with the whole "I DESERVE TO BE LOVED" thing is a bit ridiculous i mean
he's crowley. he's basically the epitome of irredeemable evil for evil's sake and giving him a quick pat on the ass and nudging him into woobification land is not cool at all.
but it's actually a sort of brilliant twist, and i don't think it was a gross fault in the show's writing that he'd change so drastically in so short a time as to become a desperate, lonely, blubbering mess at all.
cause that phrase, right there, "i deserve to be loved," is the crux of christianity. that every soul, even those so defiled and thoroughly saturated with sin that it's widely regarded to not even be a soul anymore ("you don't have a soul, mr. crowley), is capable of salvation if it recognizes that it needs it. christianity isn't about church on sundays and who's right and who's wrong, it's about unconditional love and forgiveness, even in the face of armageddon, and that's one of the reasons i adore the show so much. it doesn't shy away from that message and juxtaposes it so strongly against a background of the traditional good vs evil dilema it forces the audience to think about what it really means to live in a fallen world.
is it right out of left field for crowley to be suddenly craving attention? yes. definitely. is it inconsistent with his character? horribly so. (actually, not even that horribly, i mean he's an egotistical maniac with a power complex it's sort of a given that he expects admiration, just not love.) but it just goes to show that the need for god's love, absent as he is from the show, is so ingrained in human (and by extent demon) nature that even crowley, king of hell and mac daddy of all things horrible recognizes that whatever is purifying sam might just be the real deal, and once he's been given a taste of it via sam's blood (which is a whole 'nother ball of yarn i'd love to get into later) that maybe, just maybe, the wellspring of life and healing in his veins could spill over into him and finally give him some genuine peace.
i think the reason my mind immediately leaped to the duel by eugene field in relation to will & hannibal is they're both trying to fit skins that aren't theirs.
will is kind and tender, a pit bull backed into a corner and forced to fight tooth and nail to keep his head above water. he was never meant to be the distorted echo of himself his work has made him because his heart's too big to allow him the choice to walk away from the world's horrors. every movement he makes, every breath that he takes pains him, and every time he forces himself away from his sanctuary to put himself in yet another killer's shoes, he's reaching to fill a mold that's just too big for him. he can pretend, but he can't maintain the image of a bloodhound the fbi wants him to be, and he's stretched to the point of snapping trying to make so much stuffing flesh out into a sleek, well-made toy on crawford's mantelpiece.
hannibal, on the other hand, is barely human. a fallen angel, in mads' words. he's almost god-like, ethereal and powerful, all-knowing, all-consuming (obligatory nod to cannibalism, sorry) and willing to go to any lengths to mold his world into something he can live in, as opposed to will, who tries to squeeze in wherever he will, or won't, fit. the brilliant, impeccable hannibal lector need not worry about not being enough. he's got plenty of wisdom and hospitality to go around, and doesn't hesitate to leave fat, enticing crumb trails for his friends to lead them into the black hole of his being. if he allowed himself to be, he'd pull the focus of every room he entered towards him, personalize every spotlight to showcase himself. he's an icon by nature, but for the moment, he has to squeeze everything he is and wants to be known for under the small umbrella of "doctor lector," the narrow suits and reserved smiles that make him such an enigma. despite his grandiose nature, he's unobtrusive and takes up a consistent post in the background as the adviser and the quiet friend.
it's only a matter of time before both of their veneers crumble, largely in part due to the other. the dutch clock and the china plate will bear witness, ticking and chiming their own tunes to drive will to abandon the too-large gingham sack he's been trying to pass off as a hunting dog, and hannibal to rip free of the tight calico seams he's sewn himself into as a lure for the rest of them. they'll tear each other to shreds, circling and clawing till their natures are revealed till nothing is left but a broken shell of an fbi consultant and a cuffed and muzzled cannibal, teased out from the shadows they both spawned from for the whole world to see them laid bare.
ok but i love how when Q and bond first meet in the gallery they refuse to make eye contact for almost the entire conversation and i'm just imagining their inner dialogues and it's the funniest damn thing.
Q's like shit i can't stare i'll look like an overzealous kid who just met superman but dear god it's a double oh and i'm the new quartermaster and he's james fucking bond and woah wait he's just a little bit hot. how old is he again? no. eyes frontward, Q. you can do this be cool.
and james is like oh god no make it go away it's gonna pee on the furniture it's young and tiny and pretty and giving me orders. no, james, don't stare. you must look stoic and unimpressed keep your eyes on the stuffy boat painting you can't let it realize you find it just a little bit interesting.
but he looks first anyways and Q gives him this little self-satisfied smile all haha i win the not-staring contest but catches himself and just gets up to leave before he lets a full on smirk slip and embarrasses himself. and james doesn't know what the fuck just hit him because to his experience nerds in raincoats aren't supposed to keep him on his toes like that.
Jim was dead weight and deaf breaths on his chest. Limp as a boned fish, save the occasional twitch and grind of his jaw. He slept often, but never easy, fitful enough to keep Sebastian awake some nights with a small fist in his hair and sharp teeth worrying his shoulder.
Surprisingly, the one to suggest sharing a bed had been Jim.
Well, Jim had initiated it. Sebastian took it upon himself to make the change permanent. The Boss had stopped leaving, then started coming of his own volition, then stayed, head butting his sniper off the pillow till Sebastian started dragging his own between whichever room Jim decided to crash in.
He didn’t often sleep next to people, and at first it made him twitchy having to share space with another living, breathing thing. He’d wake up with cramps in his hand from clenching the buck knife under his pillow so tightly at first, but his grip gradually shifted to a gentle hold at the scruff of Jim’s neck. It was the only way he’d found to calm him when he lashed out, though it made him feel a bit like a mother cat when he had to pin his boss by the base of his skull to get him to stop thrashing.
They were busy men, and not quite sentimental enough to actively take time out of their days for each other, so more often than not, Seb would slink under the covers just before sunrise and Jim would give him a perfunctory once over for fresh wounds, half asleep before butting his head into his stomach and slurring a hazy “Job well done…” before drifting off. Or Jim’s sniper would just pad down the hall when he felt himself getting tired, past the slice of light under Jim’s office door, and would be well into some vivid dream when the little fairy finally dropped on top of him with a muffled thud, still mumbling theorems to himself.
Either way, they woke up together like clockwork. Jim, because he had an uncanny knack for adopting others’ habits. Sebastian, because the slightest movement in the room would have him wide awake, despite deceptively gentle fingers tugging through his hair, telling him to loosen up. Old habits die hard.
Jim always let his first cup of coffee go cold, staring into the middle distance for the better part of an hour before he ground into motion, chugged the stuff black and lukewarm with a look of disgust, and asked exasperatedly for a proper cup. Sebastian ate well-rounded breakfasts when he could, and toast when he couldn’t.
Sebastian would crowd Jim out of the bathroom while he shaved (honestly, you’d think a two bedroom flat would at least have two mirrors) and Jim would sulk on the edge of the tub, trying to tame his bedhead with his fingers.
More often than not, one, the other, or both were more than a little sore when they rolled out of bed. It was only to be expected, and neither said much about it, just jockeyed for space in the shower- scalding hot, as if they could scrub off the sin. Jim sang like a choir boy and still kept a crucifix tethered to his side of the headboard. Sebastian had his prayer beads and brash smile. No marks above the collar, except on anniversaries and nights they forgot (abandoned) the rules, and below that, a mess of small scabs and mottled bruises in varying stages of deterioration.
They itched under Jim’s suit, and Sebastian liked to show them off. Call me a faggot. Call me weak. I dare you, he said in the way he’d scratch his arm, sleeve riding up to reveal ropy scars that had been cut and healed and ripped open time and time again in the shape of an M so distinct there was no chance in hell it would ever fade.
M for mutual beneficence. M for mayhem and maleficence. M for mine- an unspoken agreement that went both ways. Sebastian had the hook in his lip, to be damn sure, but Moriarty’s boat was sinking fast, and they both knew he couldn’t swim. That much was certain the first time he let Sebastian hear him scream himself hoarse through whatever his subconscious churned out at night, and the first time Sebastian in turn rolled him into his arms to calm him.
The work's the same, perhaps with the exception that your new Executive of Murder has taken a bit of the tedious drudgery off your shoulders. You make a living off exploiting the rich and clueless and morally ambiguous, and he picks up the slack in exchange for table scraps. He deserves more, and he knows it, but he never says anything. You bring up his pay one night and he replies without looking up from the paper that it's a fuck of a lot better than freelancing for fat pigs disguised as mob bosses. You coo at him, ask him if that means he thinks you're pretty. As a picture, Jimmy, he replies, and the hearty sip of bourbon that accompanies his nonchalance doesn't slip your attention.
He's a funny thing, prowling at your heels- dressed like a shadow, or as you like to think of it, your personal reaper. When you placate him with Monday nights off and a new silencer, he'll gladly roll and show you his belly like he's got nothing to lose. You maintain mutual beneficence, and you begin to wonder over the months if you've just gone and hired a lion-hearted twit with a temper.
You wonder, and sneer, and he bares teeth sharper than black ice in January. He's bored, he says. Too bad, you say. I need a fuckin' job, he growls, and you turn up your music. Before you can switch the song to something a little more grating, the fabric of your t-shirt is twisted around your throat and you're three inches from the floor, gasping.
Give me blood, James.
Learn to lick your plate when you're hungry, Moran.
I'm not a dog.
Oscar Holden. I want him unrecognizable, aside from the tattoo on his shoulder. String him from a lamp post somewhere noticeable, you have until December third.
He thinks he's won, and lets you slip back into your chair.
Four hours later, he comes home panting heavily and reeking like a slaughterhouse. You share the bathroom mirror as he wipes god knows what from his hairline and you poke at the lacerations around your throat, thinking about revenge. An ultimatum begins to brew.
