“Are you scared?
Because I am, Cas, I
“God takes what is His,
don’t keep it from Him,I am not afraid
Not so long
as you are with me.”
“Where is the fight
Once you would have
you would have won.”
“I am not on good terms
with the patron saint
of lost causes.
But if you must,
to him for me.”
“Will it do
“Of course not,
But it will give you rest,
for a while.”
Christalmighty I really like this.
Purgatory is a place of impossible shadows, where the light that pierces you – well, what’s left of you at least – feels like fire and water and all the conversations you never had. It hurts and it hurts, and it never stops hurting.
But worse than the light is the landscape: Purgatory isn’t made of matter, precisely, but rather the impression of matter – its left-behinds, like eroded canyon walls, or footprints in the mud.
It makes Cas nervous how comfortable he feels here; as if he were just another Purgatory beast all along, shaped by his Father to mimic the face of an angel. It doesn’t help that whenever Dean looks at him now, his eyes simply slide away, unable or unwilling to hold their gaze.
“Do I appear different to you?” he snaps.
Dean shades his eyes. “What?”
“You cannot bear to look at me.” Cas can hear the bitterness in his voice, but he does not care. “My vessel displeases you now.”
“Jesus, Cas.” Dean flushes an ugly shade of red. “Next you’ll ask if your ass looks big in those wings.”
They fall quiet. The sounds of Purgatory surround them like summer crickets.
“It hurts,”” Dean mumbles eventually. “You’re all shadows and light now. It’s—“
“—not natural,” Cas offers.
“No,” he says sharply. “No. It’s more like—looking at a bird flying in front of the sun.”
To Cas’s astonishment, Dean’s face softens.
“I get now why Pamela lost her eyes,” he says quietly. The corner of his mouth creeps upward. “She didn’t want to look away either.”
Some wounds are like interrupted dreams,
The blood stain half-remembered,
Grief like the crusted sleep you rub from the corners of your eyes.
Your fingertips slip-sliding across a soaking back;
Throat clenching against the honeyed smell of clean hair and entrails;
A yowl, primal and hoarse, toward the bad moon rising.
And we’d turn to each other and say, “Haven’t you had this one before?”
Your eyelashes would flutter against your silver-kissed cheek,
And I’d command, “Go back to sleep”.
You’d say “You first”,
As if it were that easy,
As if this time would be different,
Simply because we wanted it to be.
But we both know weakness, and doubt,
And we both dealt with demons once.
We have faith in nothing but our own scars.
For you I would make no bargains.
The host of hell would come to me instead,
Their phalanxes casting long shadows on the moon.
Howling, they would offer me anything, anything,
To prevent the apocalypse I’d unleash.
And I’d close my eyes and whisper,
“I’ve had this one before.”
And before, and before, and before.
Time to wake up.
A prophet once wrote, “We are all made of star stuff”
But the truth is far less noble—
For we are made of the stuff in between stars too:
Vast, empty spaces, lonely and unfathomable
From the quark’s point of view.
When I press my lips to your flesh,
I match my empty spaces to yours;
Rubbing void against void,
I am met with fire.
You who taught me to believe in the cosmos,
In energy from nothing, in the divinity of flesh—
Fall with me now.
Stretch your empty spaces toward mine.
For us the conservation of matter has no power.
Laws were made to be broken.
When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost.
Part of you still remembers
How we lit up the darkness:
Two lost souls charting our course to earth
Against a pole star of our own device.
In orbit around each other, you flew as I fell,
The sway between our bodies leaving messy tracks against the empty night.
You are still the guiding star
I set my course by;
The magnetism that pulls my wings homeward.
Even God cannot decipher my way.
The star chart makes sense only to us.
Also this happened.