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SPN Fic: Leave No Man Behind (Gen, R, Castiel & Winchesters, Head of a Pin) - Bloodslave for Cookies
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dodger_winslow
dodger_winslow
I'd Sell My Soul for a Blunt Instrument ...
Wed, Apr. 1st, 2009 01:57 am
SPN Fic: Leave No Man Behind (Gen, R, Castiel & Winchesters, Head of a Pin)


Born of a plot bunny that started chewing on my brain after I posited my favorite theory for why Castiel & Co might have fought their way through hell to rescue Dean's righteous soul before it shed blood, but not John's ...

Title: Leave No Man Behind
Author: Dodger Winslow
Genre: Gen
Rating: R (language)
Word Count: 5,200
Spoilers: up to On the Head of a Pin
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, I'm just stalking them for a while ...

Summary: On the second of May, hell cracked open to claim the soul of a righteous man, and the heavens ignited from a slow burn to a conflagration of unfathomable, incendiary rage



Leave No Man Behind

 

There was something wrong in the universe.

Castiel did not know what it was or why it was, but he could feel that it was. Wrong. The heavens themselves were put to fire as the end of days grew nigh. His brethren fell like helpless sheep to the slaughter. The incorruptible were corrupted; the faithful, stripped of their grace or ripped free of meatsuits to which none of the heavenly host had been born and sent back to heaven as the vanquished, as the defeated.

It was an eternal war none could ever win, but someone was. Winning. And it was wrong.

To his very soul, Castiel could feel the dissonance growing in the air around them. The anarchy of it was a descent into chaos. It stirred like the fury of an impending storm, called forth a cacophony of waves from the tranquility of heretofore still waters. And it frightened him.

There were stories of auld that spoke of times such as these. Stories of The Great Fall. Stories of Lucifer and his rebellion against the Father’s divine plan.

Stories of an indomitable will that would break before it would bend; of a favored son’s disobedience that was so ferociously profound, yet so equally righteous, that it would ignite the heavens themselves to open warfare, setting angel against angel and brother against brother in a conflict that ran so deep it could never be overcome.

In the millennia since the war first began, such stories had faded in the silence of their never telling until the events themselves had become little more than fleeting shadows that lingered in the darkest corners of heaven. Like waking dreams nearly beyond the ken of even Castiel’s timeless recall of how things had always been, of how his Father’s mysterious ways had always worked, they were all but gone now: lost memento mori of how Lucifer had once renounced his Father to become the prodigal son for whom the fatted calf would never die; whispered parables of the Unforgiven, fallen from grace and never spoken of again but for the disobedient few who would risk The Lord Almighty’s fearsome wrath to keep otherwise forgotten stories from fading to naught but the wind and the dust of the unremembered past.

It was these murmured impieties, secreted from pillar to post in the halls of their Father’s house, that had stirred the universe itself to chaos now. Forsaken by a Father who no longer spoke to them as His own, communicating instead through the promulgation of only a select few—if, in truth, he spoke even to them—the heretical effronteries had taken on new life, propagated like hellspawn amongst the bereft until Castiel was as lost in the dissonance of their bitter echoes as the rest of his angelic brethren.

And still, the war raged on. The legions of hell laid siege to the land until the angels of the Lord were forced to walk amongst them as they had not for a thousand years, cloaked in the flesh of obedient strangers and guided only by the self-appointed proxies of Mika`il and Gabriel, their orders not to protect mankind, but rather to save them.

To save them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Days passed. Weeks. Months. Time was different here. It seemed endless: an interminable crawl, an pointless redundancy. The dawn of each new day was little more than a repetition of the last. Every day—every single one—the sun rose over the horizon in the East, making their war-ravaged souls whole again, as if by magic, for no better purpose than to start it all over again. The war. The fight. The struggle was ever ongoing, as enduring as the heavenly host themselves and as timeless as the sun’s journey across the sky from day, to night, and back to day again.

And still, the war raged on.

The siege intensified. The sense of wrongness grew wronger; the discontent of the discontented grew more deeply discontent. Stories so long forgotten resurrected themselves, rolling aside the stone and stepping forth from the shadows of sedition into the sunlight of open discourse. Profane parodies of the sacred as it had once been personified in the flesh of a living man, they spread like a plague on the road to pestilence. They poisoned the souls of the faithful with doubt, weakened the resolve of those left too long on the field of battle and broke the spirit of those too weary of the stench of their own blood to turn away from promises that filled the aching void of an ongoing silence.

But still. The war raged. On.

Until.

On the second of May, for the second time in the span of little more than a single year, a divine prophecy came to pass. Hell cracked open to claim the soul of a righteous man. And on Earth, as in heaven and in hell, angels and demons alike went still. And silent. And waited.

The first seal was once again in peril.

On the nineteenth of July a year and more past, another righteous soul had been cast into the pit; and for a while, all had seemed lost. Hell rejoiced and heaven trembled as Alastair’s knife turned to the task for which the legion had so meticulously planned.

But he defied them.

He defied hell itself: challenging them, mocking them, defeating them in the fire and brimstone of their own damned realm. Hardened to tempered steel by a lifetime of mortal grief and saved by the love of sons for whom he’d been willingly damned, John Winchester did what no mortal soul could do: he endured the unendurable, he escaped the inescapable. Tearing free the chains that bound him, he climbed from the pit like Lazarus rising, called home by God: the prodigal son to the fold.

And so the seal was preserved, and the war raged on.

Until.

And it was different this time. They could feel the fall from the moment it began. Hell rejoiced and heaven raged as the blasphemer’s knife made progress from the first cut. Where the father proved impervious to the acid of despair, beyond caring for himself and secure in his unshakeable faith that each of his sons was safe in the care of the other; the son proved vulnerable beyond measure. He was a child: a ferocious, fragile child. Sheltered from his father’s strength by his father’s strength, the doubts his damaged spirit harbored of his own worth stripped him defenseless, and the terrors his sacrificial soul suffered for his brother’s fate doomed him. From the very first day, the stench of Armageddon in the offing rose from the pit on the shrieks of a righteous soul in the shredding, igniting the heavens from a slow burn to a conflagration of unfathomable, incendiary rage.

The End of Days had begun. Rivers turned to blood, and a plague of locust set upon the land, devouring all that lay in their path. The sun went dark while the moon would not shine, and the heavens themselves pulsed with such fury the clouds thickened to the density of demonic smoke.

This was the state of the world when Castiel was called up from the field of battle by the Archangel Jeremiel and ordered, on the authority of Mika`il, to take vigil in an unholy den of long-dead, sanctified sinners to wait for what came.

And as he was commanded, so did Castiel obey.

For three days and three nights, he stood amid the scattered remains of a de-consecrated cathedral, silent and enduring, his spirit the only light in the otherwise abyssal dark of this God forsaken domain. Forgotten by the stories of men and denied in shame at behest of the venal order’s holier brothers, the ruins were a canker upon the land itself. For miles in any direction, the barren soil spawned naught but herbs of dark sorcery and braided tangles of woody vines that twined through the rock-seeded ground like thorny serpents. Still and heavy in the lee of basalt outcroppings that denied it the touch of the sun from any direction, the air stank of brimstone and sulfur. The stench of it clung to rotted timber and crumbling stone like a curse while the unvanquishable echo of profane blasphemies spoke to even the most vigilant of souls in the murmur of a passing wind or the whisper of running water.

At the heart of it, Castiel stood. Persevered. Endured.

Until.

On the fall of the fourth day, as night crept once again across this most accursed of places, a sudden rush of beating wings descended from above to come upon him, and the cyclonic fury of a foul wind rose from below to equally come upon him, and what was to come finally came. Castiel braced himself, his soul trembling with fear that it might be Lucifer himself who stepped forth upon the isolation of their unholy purlieu, but it wasn’t.

It was a man.

He came into being as a lion comes into his own: an embodiment of ferocity made flesh, a defiance of wrath put to form. The ground underfoot resonated with a rolling grumble so low it took on the flavor of angry surf as his soul coalesced from nothing, motion without form until he strode into existence, joining Castiel from ten yards out the way one combatant joins another in a grapple to the end.

"You!" His eyes burned with the fire of the heavens put to turmoil. His expression was the measured fury of a father put to the task of managing a cherished child’s willful disobedience. "You’re the angel called Castiel?"

Castiel bristled, but answered calmly. "Yes."

"And the rest of you? Where are they? Why aren’t they here?" The man turned in place, scanning the shadowed ruins as if the world itself tasked him by design, as if it offended him merely by being.

"There are no—" Castiel started.

"I was told you’d be ready to go," the man interrupted. "We don’t have time to fuck around here, so blow your horn or whatever it is you do to call the host in from the fields and let’s shag ass."

"There are no others," Castiel said. "I am alone."

That surprised the man, spun him back to glare at Castiel as if he, too, had somehow offended merely by being. Squaring his shoulders to bear the weight of so much focused fury, Castiel faced the man without flinching, met his eyes, gaze for glare, but offered nothing more than what he’d already said.

"Are you serious?" the man demanded after a long moment. "You’re it? You’re all I get?"

"Yes," Castiel said although, in truth, he wasn’t sure if the response was truth or lie.

The man shook his head, laughing bitterly. "Fantastic. Fan. Fucking. Tastic." He turned to the darkness again, studied it as if he was searching for another option—any option—less amid the ruined cathedral than inside his own head. He cursed, hissing a string of Latin litanies traditionally addressed to demons before casting his eyes heavenward and shouting, "Is this Your idea of a joke? Because if it is, Your sense of humor needs a serious kick in its divine, God damned ass."

The challenge echoed in the Godless still. It rang from mountain to valley, from tree to stone, from sky to water until its righteous outrage faded to nothing. And still he waited. And waited. And waited.

For only silence. For more of nothing.

A whisper murmured through leafless branches of long dead trees that stood amongst the shadows like a grove of the damned, their blackened limbs upstretched in silent entreaty as if beseeching mercy from those who’d forsaken them, as if seeking salvation from the curse-ed soil in which they were rooted not by their own design, but rather at the whim of some greater architect’s plan. But it was a sophistry: an unholy masquerade to gull the inattentive, to temp the impuissant like a whore in the guise of a lover. The hum of their mutterings eschewed the sins of the flesh to offer him Legion to serve at his command. He rejected them out of hand, casting them off like moneychangers from the temple with a string of profane litanies that traditionally came from demons rather than being directed to them. Turning his back on their darkness, he faced Castiel with an escalating fury so consuming it threatened to incinerate them both. The chaos of the universe itself emanated from his soul as the foul stench of rot emanates from the corruption of mortal flesh.

"Guess it’s just the two of us then," he said. "Pack your wings and let’s get on with it."

Castiel hesitated. Uncertain how to proceed without his Father’s orders to direct him, he said, "My orders are—"

The man’s hand lashed out, closed around Castiel’s throat and lifted him up, throwing him off and across the ruins like a leaf before a savaging wind. He followed without pause or mercy, a predator on the kill with his hand at Castiel’s throat again before he could gather himself to mend the shatter of his host’s mortal bones against a wall of ancient stones. The man’s fingers dug in, bore down until the pressure of his grip had throttled Castiel to an utter still.

"Your orders are whatever I say they are, angel," he hissed. "You do whatever I tell you to do. When I tell you to do it. Exactly the way I tell you to do it." His grip tightened: a threat, a promise. "That is your specialty, isn’t it? Obedience? And that’s what I want from you. All I want from you. Obedience. Absolute, unquestioning obedience. You will obey me as you’d obey Him, or I swear to Christ—" his eyes glittered with an inner light not unlike the metallic gold of Azazel, or the diamond white of Alastair, "—I will rip the grace right out of this true believer’s meatsuit of yours and leave it behind me in the pit when I go."

Castiel didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t breathe. So he merely waited: waited for whatever came.

"Do you understand me, angel?" the man demanded. "More importantly, do you believe me?"

Castiel waited.

"Answer me," the man ordered, loosening his grip just enough for Castiel to comply.

But Castiel did not comply. He waited.

"Answer me," the man repeated, the fury inside him mounting.

Castiel waited.

"Answer me, you angelic bastard!" the man raged. He eyes burned with wrath like the heavens themselves put to eternal damnation. "Answer me, God dammit! Answer me!"

And still, Castiel waited.

The rage in the man’s eyes turned. It became fear. Terror. Panic.

Damnation.

More than a century in hell, and this is what it took to break him. His body began to tremble. His grip loosened, and he closed his eyes, acknowledging himself as a mortal man stripped of all but his soul’s indomitable will to go on.

The wind rose again. The whispering in the trees sensed his desperation as clearly as Castiel. It offered the Legion to his command again, and again, he denied it. Cast it out. Refused it.

But the cost of doing so extinguished him.

"Fine," the man said to Castiel. His voice was quiet now. Calm. His fingers had gone lax around Castiel’s throat, no longer a threat so much as simply a weighted presence. "I’ll go alone, then." When he opened his eyes, they were empty. Bereft. Forsaken. The fury had consumed him to bitterness and despair. "Tell your God to go fuck Himself."

He turned away, started back into the darkness from whence he came.

"Castiel," Castiel said. His voice was coarse, harsh. He had to force it through the raw of a damaged but healing throat. The man stopped. Waited. The silence between them stretched. "My name is not angel," Castiel clarified. "My name is Castiel."

The man turned back, faced him. "Then help me, Castiel. Help me stop this abomination before it’s too late."

"The first seal?" Castiel asked.

The man hesitated for less than a heartbeat. "Yes. The first seal. That’s why I’m here; that’s what He sent me to do. That’s what He ordered me to do. Save the seal."

It was a lie, but it was a righteous lie. The fire was burning in his eyes again. Before, it had looked like damnation, but it wasn’t. It was hope.

"And I am to help you?"

"Yes. That’s what He said … what He commanded."

It was another lie. This was what was to come, then. A choice. His own choice.

"Help me, Castiel," the man said again. His voice broke as he spoke; but his soul didn’t. "In the name of God, help me."

Castiel nodded. As he was commanded, so did he obey.

*

They laid siege to the Legion together, a man of unfathomable wrath and the angel he called Castiel, and the war began anew as if it had never abated. The battle waged day and night across the span of decades, every step of the journey hard won and then put behind them as the forgotten past. They were only two in number, but they surged forward through each new room of the furnace’s palace as an unstoppable army of one: one mind, one will, one purpose.

One destination.

As the battle waxed inexorably on but never waned, Castiel’s brethren joined the fray and departed again as their Father’s will commanded, called to the abyss when the war could spare them from other fronts, called away again when it could not. But never once in the span of forty years fighting through this desert of hell’s God forsaken landscape, torn and cut and ripped by the minions of eternal darkness in ways that cannot be imagined, sustained by naught but heaven’s remembered manna and the righteous fury of a father’s love, did neither angel nor man lay themselves to rest, nor falter from their mission in even the smallest of ways. Until at long last the day came that they arrived, shoulder-to-shoulder and sickle to scythe, in the deep of the darkest pit itself only to find the journey was made for naught.

The seal was already broken: the blood, already shed; the righteous man, already damned. He turned to them when they arrived, eyes as black as his tortured soul, the blood of thousands upon him in a stain of willing agony dispensed by slaughtering hands, and he smiled.

Dean smiled.

His father fell to bended knee with a despairing cry, a negotiation for mercy rising to his lips like the blood of a consecrated lamb. He proffered it without qualm nor defense nor hesitation: an open supplication to either heaven or to hell for the striking of any deal to be brokered at cost of his own unbuckled obedience for the sake of sparing the weight of even one more soul put to his once righteous son’s already untenable tally.

It was wrong. To his very soul, Castiel could feel the dissonance of a universe at war with itself. The growing anarchy was a storm rising like waves from tranquil water. It was chaos in the making: the unbreakable in the breaking, the unsavable in the saving. He watched his brother fall, damning himself with a father’s love.

And he acted.

With no command issued nor considered regard for the greater consequences of choosing his own path, Castiel acted. Reaching down into the dark of the abyss to lay his hands upon the flesh of the damned and dearly departed, he chose as his brother would have him choose, plucking up his brother’s son and gripping him tight as they rose from the very bowels of gehenna’s Godless perdition, leaving behind in the pit the lost soul of the righteous fallen: a father damned at his own hand with naught but the no-longer impermeable armor of his grief-tempered love to save him.

*

And so it came to pass that, by virtue of a blasphemous sacrifice, the war was ended. Armageddon was turned aside as it can only be: by the love of one for another. But when it was done, it was not done.

Hell had claimed the soul of a righteous man. The first seal was once again in peril. But it was different this time. Castiel could feel the fall from the moment it began. Where he’d once proven impervious to the acid of despair, beyond caring for himself and secure in his unshakeable faith that each of his brethren were safe in the care of one another; Castiel was now vulnerable beyond measure. The doubts his damaged spirit harbored of his own worth stripped him defenseless, and the terrors his sacrificial soul suffered for his brother’s fate doomed him. The stench of Armageddon in the offing rose from the pit on the shrieks of a righteous soul in the shredding, and it ignited the heavens from a slow burn to a conflagration of unfathomable, incendiary rage.

But it was not a man who set the heavens afire this time. It was Castiel. With no qualm nor defense nor hesitation, he stirred the still waters to chaos with his own brazen, contumelious defiance, turning his back on his own kind to storm the gates of hell between the bookends of his brother’s sons, laying siege to the Legion beyond in a battle waged day and night across the span of decades. Every step of the journey was hard won, then put behind them as the forgotten past. They were only three in number, but they fought as an unstoppable army of one: one mind, one will, one purpose.

One destination.

As the battle waxed inexorably on but never waned, Castiel’s brethren joined the fray and departed again in secret defiance of their Father’s will, called of their own volition to the abyss when brothers could cover for them on other fronts, called away again when the deniability required was naught. But never once in the span of forty years fighting through this desert of hell’s God forsaken landscape, torn and cut and ripped by the minions of eternal darkness in ways that cannot be imagined, sustained by naught but heaven’s remembered manna and the righteous fury of a son’s love, did neither angel nor men lay themselves to rest, nor falter from their mission in even the smallest of ways. Until at long last the day came that they arrived, shoulder-to-shoulder-to-shoulder and sickle to scythe to scythe, in the deep of the darkest pit itself only to find the journey was made for naught.

The seal was already broken: the blood, already shed; the righteous man, already damned. Armageddon was once again in the offing. He turned to them when they arrived, eyes as black as his tortured soul, the blood of thousands upon him in a stain of willing agony dispensed by slaughtering hands, and he smiled.

John smiled.

His sons fell to bended knee with a despairing cry, a negotiation for mercy rising to their lips like the blood of consecrated lambs. They proffered it without qualm nor defense nor hesitation: an open supplication to either heaven or to hell for the striking of any deal to be brokered at cost of their own unbuckled obedience for the sake of sparing the weight of even one more soul put to their once righteous father’s already untenable tally.

It was wrong. To his very soul, Castiel could feel the dissonance of a universe once again at war with itself. The growing anarchy was a storm rising like waves from tranquil water. The coming chaos was the unbreakable in the breaking, the unsavable in the saving. He watched his brother’s sons fall, damning themselves with love, and he acted.

With no command issued nor considered regard for the greater consequences of choosing his own path, Castiel acted. He reached down into the dark of the abyss to lay a hand upon the shoulder of each brother, choosing as his brother would have him choose to stop them in their mutual fall that they might reach down for themselves and lay hands upon the flesh of the damned and dearly departed, plucking their father up and gripping him tight as they rose from the very bowels of gehenna’s Godless perdition, leaving no man behind in the pit as the righteous fallen.

And the war raged on.

When the dawn of a new day rose over the horizon in the East, their bodies were made whole again, as if by magic, so they could start it all over again. The war. The fight. The struggle that was ever ongoing, as enduring as mankind’s spirit itself, as timeless as the sun’s journey across the sky from day, to night, and back to day again.

As it has always been, so shall it always continue to be.

And the time came that Castiel was called to an accounting for his willful disobedience. He was amongst them in their places of war, bent to the task of planning for such battles as his Father no longer directed unto him, when his grace was recalled to the gilded halls of heaven. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the men he’d come to know as brothers, he felt the summons and acquiesced to it in silence, closing his eyes in uncompelled submission as his spirit was ripped free of the mortal meatsuit to which he was never born.

He felt them try to hold him and was grateful, but the pull of heaven was stronger. Their sigils and incantations might have worked if he’d clung to them, if he’d fought as hard to stay with them as they fought to keep him; but his Father’s call was as the moon to the tides, and he neither wished nor tried to resist it.

He came to being again in the greatest of rooms in his Father’s heavenly mansion. As a soldier on the battlefield for countless millennia, he’d been denied his every entreaty to bend a knee before his Father’s throne. But now, as one fallen away from the perfect obedience to which every angel is bound at peril of his immortal soul, he finally stood in the room of Kings, flush in the divine presence of a Father in whom his faith had never wavered … if not faith in His enduring love, at least faith of His simple existence.

One corner of the Castiel’s mouth pulled to a small smile. It did not escape him that John would find the irony of this situation funny, just as it did not escape him that Sam and Dean would find the irony of this situation an unpardonable betrayal. It was a mercy of sorts that none of them were here with him. Standing alone before the judgement of his holy Father, he was sore afraid; but even so, he was grateful they’d be afforded no opportunity to offer up their souls in trade to save a man in whom they, in truth, had no genuine stake.

For he was not a man; he was an angel. And it was not their place to save him, just as it had not been his place to do what he had done in the name of saving them. When his Father appeared before him, Castiel prepared himself to accept the fruits of his disobedience born.

"Speak on your own behalf, my son," his Father commanded.

And once again, Castiel defied Him.

Bowing his head in silence, he offered up no excuses for his disobedience and pled no mercy be shown him for sake of his own absolution. He proffered no open supplication to either heaven nor to hell for the striking of any deal brokered at cost of his own unquestioning obedience. He simply stood in a silence of his own choosing and waited for what was to come.

As he was commanded, so did Castiel not obey.

And God smiled.

In punishment, he was cast down from heaven as mortal flesh to live amongst those he’d chosen for his own. But when they greeted him at the fall—this family he’d forged in the fires of hell, three strong but digging as one to free him from the simple wood coffin in which his mortal meatsuit had been interred, months rotting in the ground but made whole again as if by magic, free of any spirit but his own that he might rise up and draw breath as a new man of free will and soul and bone—Castiel felt, in his Father’s punishment, the mercy of his Father’s reward.

Reward that he be taken in by them as one of their own and given in return, as he would give unto them.

And so it came to pass that they reached down into the dark of the abyss to lay their hands upon the flesh of the damned and dearly departed, plucking him up and gripping him tight as they lifted him from the very bowels of gehenna’s Godless perdition. And there was something right in the universe when John supported Castiel’s weight with neither complaint nor comment until Castiel could take this body on again as his rightful own. He could not tell what it was, but he could feel that it was right when Dean poured water he did not need down his throat with the intent to sate the thirst of hell in someone who’d only come from heaven, and when Sam laughed with the delight of a guileless child, clapping an enormous hand upon Castiel’s back with such force that it cleared the dust from his lungs and rattled his teeth in his head like dice.

And in years so far gone to the future that Castiel’s mortal flesh would be naught but wind and dust, the stories of auld would tell of the time of The Great Fall. Stories of John Winchester and his rebellion against the Father’s divine plan. Stories of indomitable will that would break before it would bend, of a father’s love so ferociously profound and so equally righteous that it forged a bond between angel and man that could never be broken again. A brother’s bond.

And still, the war would rage on. The legions of hell would lay siege to the land, and the angels of the Lord would walk amongst them in the flesh of their younger brothers, their orders both to protect mankind, and to save them. To save them in the name of the Father, and of the Sons, and of the Holy Ghost.

Amen.

 
 



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25CommentReply

animotus
animotus
animotus
Wed, Apr. 1st, 2009 08:12 am (UTC)

This is so powerful and evocative!
While reading it I could see the whole scene in front of me,seriously!You say you like my "visual sense" (love you forever!♥)but I'm telling you,the feeling is mutual 'cause YES,you're a fantastic writer,but what I love about your writing is the "visual" thing,I can feel your stories because I can see them in my eyes!


ReplyThread
dodger_winslow
dodger_winslow
I'd Sell My Soul for a Blunt Instrument ...
Thu, Apr. 2nd, 2009 11:21 pm (UTC)

Thanks so much. *hugs*


ReplyThread Parent
charlie_d_blue
charlie_d_blue
a particularly heartless line of binary code
Wed, Apr. 1st, 2009 09:13 am (UTC)

This was so stunningly visceral, I had to think to breathe while reading it. The way you captured the unending nature of time from the Angelic perspective, repeating over and over the beautifully biblical phrases used to describe the constant rise and fall of the tide of war and apocalypse, the waning of ties to God and the waxing of an entirely different kind of love, it was just heartwrenchingly powerful.

I loved it. Every damned moment.


ReplyThread
dodger_winslow
dodger_winslow
I'd Sell My Soul for a Blunt Instrument ...
Thu, Apr. 2nd, 2009 11:27 pm (UTC)

Visceral and ferocious are the things I most love to hear in reference to my writing. Those are the kinds of emotions I'm usually trying to tap, and with the scope of this particular piece, I was a bit twitchy that it might be coming off gradiose or pretentious instead. The whole "endless time, fate of the universe" thing becomes very cyclical in my mind: the repetition of themes over and over and over again. In writing about it, my natural predilection for patterns picks out all the ways in which the Winchesters and those around them repeat the dynamics and the relationships as they have been defined by so much biblical lore, and the philosopher in me wants to portray it as some kind of eternal heartbeat and/or oceanic wave rythm ... to such a degree that I often find my language transposing words and using archaic terms not because I intend to, but rather because those are the words and/or word relationships that play to the pattern in my head that is speaking to the eternal rather than the episodic.


ReplyThread Parent
charlie_d_blue
charlie_d_blue
a particularly heartless line of binary code
Thu, Apr. 2nd, 2009 11:46 pm (UTC)

and the philosopher in me wants to portray it as some kind of eternal heartbeat and/or oceanic wave rythm ... What a gorgeous way to put it, and that's often where the most beautiful of writing comes from; when the words just come unbidden, or rather, go straight from the imagination to words without being over-thought.

I think it would have been very easy to come off as pretentious or grandiose with this kind of a premise, but you pulled it off magnificently. I'm gushing, I know, but man, there's just no other way to put it. ♥


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jya_bd_cp_ttgb
jya_bd_cp_ttgb
jya_bd_cp_ttgb
Wed, Apr. 1st, 2009 11:12 am (UTC)

*thunderous applause*


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dodger_winslow
dodger_winslow
I'd Sell My Soul for a Blunt Instrument ...
Thu, Apr. 2nd, 2009 11:28 pm (UTC)

*grins* Thank you much.


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qultng1
qultng1
qultng1
Wed, Apr. 1st, 2009 12:08 pm (UTC)

Wow! Loved it! Loved it! Love it! Did not move the whole time. *stretches cramped leg* Did I say Wow! ?


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dodger_winslow
dodger_winslow
I'd Sell My Soul for a Blunt Instrument ...
Thu, Apr. 2nd, 2009 11:33 pm (UTC)

Thank ya muchly!


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gypsy_atavari
gypsy_atavari
gypsy_atavari
Wed, Apr. 1st, 2009 12:25 pm (UTC)

This was amazing. Your words like a movie playing in my mind. Pulling me in... highs and lows, despair and hope. Powerful stuff. :)


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dodger_winslow
dodger_winslow
I'd Sell My Soul for a Blunt Instrument ...
Thu, Apr. 2nd, 2009 11:35 pm (UTC)

Thanks so much. The language of this one was a bitch. It seemed to want to strike up its own rhythm (and on occasion, its own meaning), so I was left trying to serve both the impressionistic agenda and the "what are you actually saying?" one. Harder than I thought it would be, all things told.


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pinkphoenix1985
pinkphoenix1985
Dani
Wed, Apr. 1st, 2009 01:04 pm (UTC)

very powerful and so intense


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dodger_winslow
dodger_winslow
I'd Sell My Soul for a Blunt Instrument ...
Thu, Apr. 2nd, 2009 11:37 pm (UTC)

Thanks! :D


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irismay42
irismay42
irismay42
Wed, Apr. 1st, 2009 09:44 pm (UTC)

I loved the whole tone of this, how Castiel's inner voice sounds how I imagine an angel would sound, and I especially loved the cyclical nature of it - father sacrificing himself for son, brother for brother, father for son - until finally there are no more sacrifices to be made and the universe somehow feels right in its wrongness.

I'd love the Winchesters to get a (semi) happy ending like this. And I'd also love Castiel to become one of them. But somehow I don't think Kripke's going to let us off that lightly...


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dodger_winslow
dodger_winslow
I'd Sell My Soul for a Blunt Instrument ...
Thu, Apr. 2nd, 2009 11:41 pm (UTC)

I think you are right that Kripke will go anywhere BUT here, but what the hell. That's what fanfic's for, right? :D

I had a bit of a pickle determining Castiel's inner voice. What stalled me out on this piece originally was how much more aggressive John was with Castiel in their initial meeting. In the original version, Castiel was in very real and very imminent danger of having his grace ripped right the fuck out of him if he didn't obey John, but that created too much of a hierarchy between them to resolve without turning this into some kind of endless WiP or something. I struggled with it for some time before I realized, as dramatic as their original confrontation was, if my intention was to create a brothers-in-arms dynamic between them to bring Castiel into the dynamic as a participant in a human family long before he was human, I couldn't start the ball rolling with John holding Castiel's grace in the palm of his hand like the heartbeat of a dying bird ... which was a line in the original confrontation.

Funny sometimes how the sacrifice of an internally dramatic sequence can serve the greater dramatic impact of the whole. That's always the tipping point for me, and I tend to fail to the over dramatic more often than I find the sweetspot in stopping just short of too fuckin much.


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irismay42
irismay42
irismay42
Fri, Apr. 3rd, 2009 05:05 pm (UTC)

Sometimes it's really hard to cut a passage you particularly like but you're not particularly happy with in the grand scheme of things. In this case, I think you made the right choice playing up the brotherly cameraderie. You have to walk a fine line with John - sometimes his passion can be misconstrued as his being an a**hole when that's really not what you're going for at all!


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just_ruth
just_ruth
Ruth
Wed, Apr. 1st, 2009 11:56 pm (UTC)

This is marvelous, and fierce and glorious.

Thank you


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dodger_winslow
dodger_winslow
I'd Sell My Soul for a Blunt Instrument ...
Thu, Apr. 2nd, 2009 11:42 pm (UTC)

Thank you so much. "Fierce" is a word I LOVE having applied to my fic. It is where I try to write, even if I don't always quite make it there.


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jdsgirlbev
jdsgirlbev
jdsgirlbev
Thu, Apr. 2nd, 2009 05:03 am (UTC)

Jesus FUCK! How in the hell do you DO that!?

This story is going to haunt me. Haunt. Me.


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dodger_winslow
dodger_winslow
I'd Sell My Soul for a Blunt Instrument ...
Thu, Apr. 2nd, 2009 11:43 pm (UTC)

Would it be wrong of me to admit the idea of that makes me happy?


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cutedevil666
cutedevil666
cutedevil666
Fri, Apr. 3rd, 2009 10:21 pm (UTC)

"Wow" is all that comes to mind right now. *breathes*
This was no doubt one of the most powerful stories I have ever read in the Supernatural fandom. This is amazing! Great read.


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dodger_winslow
dodger_winslow
I'd Sell My Soul for a Blunt Instrument ...
Sun, Apr. 5th, 2009 07:38 am (UTC)

Thanks so much.


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dodger_winslow
dodger_winslow
I'd Sell My Soul for a Blunt Instrument ...
Sun, Apr. 5th, 2009 07:39 am (UTC)

You like Chris Evans, right? Did you see PUSH? We finally got to see it the other day ... LOVED it. So much better than Jumper it isn't even funny.


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may7fic
may7fic
May Robinson
Mon, Jun. 1st, 2009 09:11 pm (UTC)

*Finally* read this story, saving it for a time when I could really sink my teeth into it. Wow... I'm so glad I did. Powerful stuff and so very well written. It felt like it was scripture, should be scripture... at least as far as SPN is concerned.


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somer
somer
Somer
Sat, Jan. 19th, 2019 04:53 pm (UTC)

HOLY AMEN! This was one HELL OF AN INTENSE READ! And a really intriguing one too!


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