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Ficlet: Peace Attend Thee (Supernatural)
Title: Peace Attend Thee
Characters/pairing: Cas, Dean, Sam, Hannah
Rating: G
Warnings/contains: Spoilers for 10.03; second-person POV.
Word count: 600
Summary: A year after Dean sends you away from the bunker to save Sam, Sam calls you back there to save Dean. There is a symmetry to this that suggests completion.
A year after Dean sends you away from the bunker to save Sam, Sam calls you back there to save Dean.
There is a symmetry to this that suggests completion.
You arrive newly full of grace; you left newly empty of it.
There is a symmetry to this that suggests homecoming.
If you ignore the flaws and the ragged edges; if you pretend to forget that there’s no such thing as a perfect mirror. This stolen grace will never mimic the shape of your own. (This time, at least, you didn’t steal it yourself—this time, but how little that means.) When you try to rest your eyes in the darkened library, it fingers light beneath their lids. The rage of murdered Adina, sharpening itself on your inner space, scratching at every safeguard you erect.
Or perhaps it’s just that you miss your human habits. That somehow, in among all the mess of mortal living, they began to bring you comfort.
Hannah looks startled when you invite her in. The cure is done and Dean is a version of himself you recognise again, faded and hiding. You no longer need to fear that he’ll attack you and she’ll try some ill-advised heroics.
(You don’t think too hard about how that scenario might have ended. You just know that it might have ended with you unable to forgive somebody.)
But she just raises her eyes to the night sky and says, “I’ll stay out here. You won’t?” The faint crease in her forehead conveys that she can’t understand why you choose to stay in the bunker, out of sight of the stars, with only a pair of unconscious humans for company.
(A pair of imperfect mirrors.)
----
Dean has been saying I’m tired, let me be done since you breathed life into him and laid him in his grave new-hatched from Hell. It is always Sam who says, Let’s fix this one last thing. (Then maybe, maybe, we’ll be done.)
Sam finds you in the library and you begin to tell him Let’s fix this one last thing before you realise he is saying I’m tired, let me be done. The quiet way he brushes you off leaves a guilty gnawing in your guts, and you go find Dean and tell him to rest in the hope of easing it.
He doesn’t fight you on it, but from your seat in the library, you hear him fight sleep. Skitter around the edges of it, arrange and rearrange the objects in his bedroom, leaf through the same stack of photographs again and again. You don’t ask what he is trying to see in them. You don’t ask what dreams he fears.
Sam sits at the table and drinks until his head hangs deadweight from his shoulders. You touch his good arm, cautiously, and he stirs and you almost miss the flash of panic on his face before his eyes focus in on you.
He gets to his feet then, shuffles in the direction of his bed and flops down on top of it fully clothed. You hear him snuffle and turn over in his sleep, a child reaching out for something.
You’d sleep too, if you could. You are beginning to understand why exhaustion is so essential a component of grief. Unconsciousness is a small comfort; the illusion of an ending.
Instead, you tip the dregs of Sam’s whiskey down the sink and you sit up until morning. It’s only the sound of an alarm, chirping once before a hand (Sam) slams it into silence, that alerts you to its arrival. There are no windows here, after all. You can’t see the dawn.
Characters/pairing: Cas, Dean, Sam, Hannah
Rating: G
Warnings/contains: Spoilers for 10.03; second-person POV.
Word count: 600
Summary: A year after Dean sends you away from the bunker to save Sam, Sam calls you back there to save Dean. There is a symmetry to this that suggests completion.
A year after Dean sends you away from the bunker to save Sam, Sam calls you back there to save Dean.
There is a symmetry to this that suggests completion.
You arrive newly full of grace; you left newly empty of it.
There is a symmetry to this that suggests homecoming.
If you ignore the flaws and the ragged edges; if you pretend to forget that there’s no such thing as a perfect mirror. This stolen grace will never mimic the shape of your own. (This time, at least, you didn’t steal it yourself—this time, but how little that means.) When you try to rest your eyes in the darkened library, it fingers light beneath their lids. The rage of murdered Adina, sharpening itself on your inner space, scratching at every safeguard you erect.
Or perhaps it’s just that you miss your human habits. That somehow, in among all the mess of mortal living, they began to bring you comfort.
Hannah looks startled when you invite her in. The cure is done and Dean is a version of himself you recognise again, faded and hiding. You no longer need to fear that he’ll attack you and she’ll try some ill-advised heroics.
(You don’t think too hard about how that scenario might have ended. You just know that it might have ended with you unable to forgive somebody.)
But she just raises her eyes to the night sky and says, “I’ll stay out here. You won’t?” The faint crease in her forehead conveys that she can’t understand why you choose to stay in the bunker, out of sight of the stars, with only a pair of unconscious humans for company.
(A pair of imperfect mirrors.)
Dean has been saying I’m tired, let me be done since you breathed life into him and laid him in his grave new-hatched from Hell. It is always Sam who says, Let’s fix this one last thing. (Then maybe, maybe, we’ll be done.)
Sam finds you in the library and you begin to tell him Let’s fix this one last thing before you realise he is saying I’m tired, let me be done. The quiet way he brushes you off leaves a guilty gnawing in your guts, and you go find Dean and tell him to rest in the hope of easing it.
He doesn’t fight you on it, but from your seat in the library, you hear him fight sleep. Skitter around the edges of it, arrange and rearrange the objects in his bedroom, leaf through the same stack of photographs again and again. You don’t ask what he is trying to see in them. You don’t ask what dreams he fears.
Sam sits at the table and drinks until his head hangs deadweight from his shoulders. You touch his good arm, cautiously, and he stirs and you almost miss the flash of panic on his face before his eyes focus in on you.
He gets to his feet then, shuffles in the direction of his bed and flops down on top of it fully clothed. You hear him snuffle and turn over in his sleep, a child reaching out for something.
You’d sleep too, if you could. You are beginning to understand why exhaustion is so essential a component of grief. Unconsciousness is a small comfort; the illusion of an ending.
Instead, you tip the dregs of Sam’s whiskey down the sink and you sit up until morning. It’s only the sound of an alarm, chirping once before a hand (Sam) slams it into silence, that alerts you to its arrival. There are no windows here, after all. You can’t see the dawn.