SPN FIC: "angels fall like rain"
May. 7th, 2009 06:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fannishlissTITLE: "angels fall like rain"
PAIRING, RATING: This piece is Gen, but it is about Dean and Castiel.
WARNINGS: not so much, except it is written as a prose poem and does not divide evenly into 100 word chunks :) angst, light literary allusion, heavy use of consonants.
SPOILERS: for situation through 4.20
NOTES: This fic is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
roguebitch , who bit when I offered the Demand a Drabble meme. However, this Fic is Not a Drabble. It is an experimental prose/poem form. The title is from "Ghost in You" by Psychedelic Furs, a beautiful, serene, and celestial song, very different from this angsty fic. Thanks Cassie! hope you like it!!
COMMENTS: strongly desired -- also, Demand a Drabble!
DISCLAIMER: do not own; no money made; this is a transformative work.
PAIRING, RATING: This piece is Gen, but it is about Dean and Castiel.
WARNINGS: not so much, except it is written as a prose poem and does not divide evenly into 100 word chunks :) angst, light literary allusion, heavy use of consonants.
SPOILERS: for situation through 4.20
NOTES: This fic is for
roguebitch , who bit when I offered the Demand a Drabble meme. However, this Fic is Not a Drabble. It is an experimental prose/poem form. The title is from "Ghost in You" by Psychedelic Furs, a beautiful, serene, and celestial song, very different from this angsty fic. Thanks Cassie! hope you like it!!COMMENTS: strongly desired -- also, Demand a Drabble!
DISCLAIMER: do not own; no money made; this is a transformative work.
dean/castiel: "angels fall like rain"
I.
In a landscape as vast as America,
a powerful car is one thing a man can't do without.
Little towns, maculate on the map,
blots of ink, each hold their hidden darknesses,
and a hero's gotta have resources:
a sidearm, a blade, a flask of something strong,
flesh to press against to ward off the cold, love to give away.
The papers lie: human interest clips like thumbs in a dike.
Everywhere, the good in things runs thin and trickles dry,
while blood pours black down corporate walls, court rooms,
living rooms, schoolrooms, hell, even pool halls.
The gun is oiled and ready, but where is the target?
The blade is scalpel sharp, but the host drops before the rot is cut.
The brother he loved, locked away in cold iron,
has gone, and he won't follow.
Rain pours down, blood and baptism.
One by one, the angels fall.
Dean lies awake at night, listening
to the pounding, the thunder,
hoping for the flap of wings.
II.
Dean's love for his car is almost like a joke, except for how it's totally not.
Old days, he used to run six miles every morning, calisthenics, laps if there was a pool.
Those days, he learned to keep the Impala clean, inside and out,
top-notch lube, clean oil, clean filters, replace every part at the first sign of wear.
By now Dean's held every bit of his baby, greased up, cleaned and
greased again, in his own, filthy, oil-stained hands.
He's taken her apart and put her back together.
His fingerprints are inside her, deep where no one else can see.
Of everything he'd done with his life, the car has been his masterpiece.
He loves her like he's never loved himself.
She's the legacy he'd given his dad to give back to him,
the home he'd made for his baby brother there in the backseat, and shotgun later on.
Now Sammy is gone. Cold iron replaced hot steel,
and Sammy ran, like Sammy knows so well how to do.
Dean presses down. His baby roars, devours the miles, a race to one battle picked at random from the shotgun spray. It ends sad or bloody, but not without a fight.
III.
The network of hunters is thinning.
No shotgun, Dean drives twelve, fourteen, eighteen hours some days.
He hears his brother's scream from behind iron, the coldness in an Angel's voice.
He sees a door slamming closed, blue eyes gone steel.
He drives, and fights, and drives again. Sometimes, he steals a few hours' sleep on the shoulder.
IV.
So many have fallen that now something gives.
Sometimes, now, he is fighting, and suddenly, he hears the swoop of wings.
Together, they are vicious, unstoppable -- grim and silent -- vicious, but victorious.
The Angel marks out Dean's road before him, and Dean, nothing else to choose, drives.
They begin to fight together more often, and fighting together, hold the line.
V.
Fight, drive, sleep by the side of the road: rinse, lather, repeat.
Little by little the void in the passenger seat blurs, relents.
The blare of metal quiets day by day.
One night, a rainstorm slickens the highway, but her tires don't skid,
and someone's riding along with Dean, not all of a sudden, but at last.
"Where to," Dean asks. He's not giving orders.
The silence is softer, and Dean glances over.
Under a lifted brow, a blue gaze meets his, and an Angel responds.
"You know the road better than I do, Dean."
They drive on, warrior, shotgun, a war to win.
I.
In a landscape as vast as America,
a powerful car is one thing a man can't do without.
Little towns, maculate on the map,
blots of ink, each hold their hidden darknesses,
and a hero's gotta have resources:
a sidearm, a blade, a flask of something strong,
flesh to press against to ward off the cold, love to give away.
The papers lie: human interest clips like thumbs in a dike.
Everywhere, the good in things runs thin and trickles dry,
while blood pours black down corporate walls, court rooms,
living rooms, schoolrooms, hell, even pool halls.
The gun is oiled and ready, but where is the target?
The blade is scalpel sharp, but the host drops before the rot is cut.
The brother he loved, locked away in cold iron,
has gone, and he won't follow.
Rain pours down, blood and baptism.
One by one, the angels fall.
Dean lies awake at night, listening
to the pounding, the thunder,
hoping for the flap of wings.
II.
Dean's love for his car is almost like a joke, except for how it's totally not.
Old days, he used to run six miles every morning, calisthenics, laps if there was a pool.
Those days, he learned to keep the Impala clean, inside and out,
top-notch lube, clean oil, clean filters, replace every part at the first sign of wear.
By now Dean's held every bit of his baby, greased up, cleaned and
greased again, in his own, filthy, oil-stained hands.
He's taken her apart and put her back together.
His fingerprints are inside her, deep where no one else can see.
Of everything he'd done with his life, the car has been his masterpiece.
He loves her like he's never loved himself.
She's the legacy he'd given his dad to give back to him,
the home he'd made for his baby brother there in the backseat, and shotgun later on.
Now Sammy is gone. Cold iron replaced hot steel,
and Sammy ran, like Sammy knows so well how to do.
Dean presses down. His baby roars, devours the miles, a race to one battle picked at random from the shotgun spray. It ends sad or bloody, but not without a fight.
III.
The network of hunters is thinning.
No shotgun, Dean drives twelve, fourteen, eighteen hours some days.
He hears his brother's scream from behind iron, the coldness in an Angel's voice.
He sees a door slamming closed, blue eyes gone steel.
He drives, and fights, and drives again. Sometimes, he steals a few hours' sleep on the shoulder.
IV.
So many have fallen that now something gives.
Sometimes, now, he is fighting, and suddenly, he hears the swoop of wings.
Together, they are vicious, unstoppable -- grim and silent -- vicious, but victorious.
The Angel marks out Dean's road before him, and Dean, nothing else to choose, drives.
They begin to fight together more often, and fighting together, hold the line.
V.
Fight, drive, sleep by the side of the road: rinse, lather, repeat.
Little by little the void in the passenger seat blurs, relents.
The blare of metal quiets day by day.
One night, a rainstorm slickens the highway, but her tires don't skid,
and someone's riding along with Dean, not all of a sudden, but at last.
"Where to," Dean asks. He's not giving orders.
The silence is softer, and Dean glances over.
Under a lifted brow, a blue gaze meets his, and an Angel responds.
"You know the road better than I do, Dean."
They drive on, warrior, shotgun, a war to win.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-05-07 11:17 am (UTC)I feel like I want to hug you or applaud or something. Freakin' hell. This has so much packed into it and it's so beautifully, sparsely written, not a word wasted.
And there's something so... brave about it. I don't even know. I hope you're damn proud of this, because it's totally brilliant.
This. THIS is how I wish I could write.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-07 12:36 pm (UTC)since YOU are one of MY FAVORITE writers, this comment means a lot! I'm really glad you enjoyed it, and I kind of hesitated when posting, but I decided well, if I am a poet then that's just going to shape my fic from time to time.
:)
I'm REALLY glad you liked it and I REALLY thank you for commenting!
no subject
Date: 2009-05-07 03:59 pm (UTC)Sam gone? Dean alone? Side-kick Castiel?
I don't know if I should be sad (Sam gone? Dean alone?) or weirdly gleeful (side-kick Castiel?). I am conflicted, which is strange because I didn't think anyone, even in fic, could/should be in the shotgun seat besides Sam. This worked for me!
Also, beautiful words. This line esp. was lovely:
"His fingerprints are inside her, deep where no one else can see."
no subject
Date: 2009-05-07 04:16 pm (UTC)I am also very conflicted. I subscribe to the deancastiel comm, so my flist is ALL DEAN/CASTIEL, ALL THE TIME. Which is fun, but, it's usually predicated on that sad, sad, LACK OF SAMMY. Because why would Dean turn to Castiel for friendship, love, and support if he HAD HIS SAMMY. :( Oh, sad sigh.
otoh, I just can't resist Castiel. He is so cute with his strange Angelic ways, and he tries so hard to be Dean's Angel, but he just doesn't Get these pesky humans. Being Dean's Angel would be a Very Rough Job i think!!
And Dean, really, just needs someone to love him, with all his guilt and all his flaws, and who should be better at unconditional love than a freakin Angel?!? except when they're smiting of course -- Uriel was all smite. And you can't really trust Angel Z of course (very creepy) or Anna (very fallen, tho she's growing on me....) so that leaves Castiel. Who, i think, is really willing to love Dean, if only his superiors would stop TORTURING HIM OUT OF IT. :(
This fic is also my little attempt to show that Castiel can and will recover from whatever they did to him in 4.20.... and so will Dean.... But I'm sure it'll take some time.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-07 05:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-08 02:36 am (UTC)that line has been resonating for me, too.... there's a 65 mustang that's taken up residence in my neighborhood, that makes me PINE. but at least I can write stories about sweet, sweet cars!
no subject
Date: 2009-05-08 12:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-07 10:54 pm (UTC)I am so totally not worthy of a piece like this. It was a wonderful tone poem of mood and atmosphere. Wow. I'm grateful.
"You know the road better than I do, Dean." Truer words, man, truer words.
Thank you!
One thing, though. A dyke is a woman who loves other women. A *dike* is an earthen dam. ;-D
no subject
Date: 2009-05-08 02:34 am (UTC)You are so welcome! prompt me ANY TIME. :)
you know, I had a feeling I was spelling it wrong!! that's why I should always listen to my instinct.... I'll go fix that!
no subject
Date: 2009-05-08 11:58 am (UTC)Every time I read this, I feel everything you wrote all over again. Thank you, bb!
Yeah, I think if you put your thumb in a dyke, you get an entirely different result that if you put your thumb in a dike! ;-D
no subject
Date: 2009-05-08 03:04 am (UTC)This was wonderful... I like how you gave us the story, without actually giving us everything, it leaves room for imagination.
The slashers will slash, but the fans who prefer gen, they can see it as Gen all the way baby!
Nice.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-08 07:04 pm (UTC)I wrote this thinking of post s4, the way I projected it to go... we'll see what happens next!
It's Gen like the show -- the slash is undercover.... :)
no subject
Date: 2009-05-08 05:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-08 07:06 pm (UTC)there he is in my icon, looking all confused and innocent -- HA.
At least he shows up at the end of the story, all "truce?" :P
no subject
Date: 2009-07-07 01:53 am (UTC)Gods, this is a huge piece of WOW!!! I am in awe of your mad poetry skillz. Heaven knows every time I try something like this it fails. This is evocative, and yummy, and you can feel the cold rain and wind, and bleak drives on dark roads--and Castiel's company is the only bright spot. And the image of them charging off in the Impala to the next hunt, like soldiers rushing to the next battlefield-- I keep feeling echoes of the Charge of the Light Brigade.
no subject
Date: 2009-07-07 02:56 am (UTC)I'm glad you enjoyed, after my shameless self-pimp!
I've been working on poetry for many years, but Supernatural is so evocative that I've been writing fic for about a year and a half now, after many long years of disuse -- supernatural is just too good too miss the chance!
no subject
Date: 2009-08-13 12:30 am (UTC)