SPN Fic: The Black Cord
The black cord
Castiel, Lucifer, Dean, Meg (slight Dean/Castiel) | PG | 2,100 words | coda for 7x17
a/n: Written for the lovely murron's birthday. Thanks to mclittlebitch for her help, and to zatnikatel for the beta read. Title is from Jane Hirschfeld. This fic also makes use of lines from William Blake.
Summary: There are ways to shout down the devil.
"You don't seem very glad to see me." Lucifer's voice is soft, mouth drawing down. He leans against the wall near the bed.
Castiel clenches his fingers around the edge of the mattress, the coolness of the sheets, and states flatly, "You aren't real."
"Keep telling yourself that, little brother." He pushes himself away from the wall and shrugs. "That doesn't change the fact that you can see and hear me."
As Lucifer moves closer, Castiel doesn't draw back; he keeps his back straight and moves his gaze away from the semblance of Lucifer's human vessel towards the door. Sam and Dean walked through it minutes, hours, days, or weeks ago. He blinks and Lucifer is standing right over him, reaching a hand out as if he would touch Castiel's face. Castiel does draw back this time, moving his body up the bed until his back hits the metal frame.
After a small noise of regret, Lucifer says, "We're alike, you and I. Rebels both. Once I hoped you would see my side of things, support me."
Keeping his eyes on the door, Castiel refuses to respond.
"Yes, ignore me all you want, but you know that I'm right. You were always wanting to ask questions, weren't you, even if it took you a long time to work up the guts to do it. Our Father wasn't always right." His voice grows softer, more bitter. "Michael, of course, never got it. Devoted as a puppy." Lucifer trails his fingers over a crack in the wall, picks at the chipped paint. "You aren't listening to me, Castiel. I paid attention to you when most couldn't be bothered, barely looked at you, saw you as nothing but a small bird of the lower orders. It amused me greatly when you were the one who threw the Host into chaos. You really should listen to me."
The smoothness of the sheet under Castiel's hand grows cooler, the metal of the bed's frame going icy through the thin cotton of the t-shirt that covers his back. Castiel's breath shows in the air, thin wisps of warm vapor. He starts to shiver as frost forms on the window frame, creeping over the glass. The memory of Dean's face, framed against such a window, some cabin where the Winchesters were squatting with Lucifer and the armies of Heaven searching for them, comes to colorful life. Dean turns, facing Castiel, saying something sharp, fixing Castiel with a hard questioning gaze; Castiel never brought them good news in those days. Never brought them good news afterwards either. For a moment Castiel's body warms as he slips into the memory, the smell of the musty cabin, the junk food and coffee the Winchesters subsisted on, Dean's faded shabby army jacket as familiar to Castiel as Jimmy Novak's trenchcoat. The way Dean offers him a cup of coffee, saying he knows Cas (Castiel used to find the diminutive insulting, but soon grew to like hearing Dean say it) doesn't need it but maybe he should drink it anyway. The way Dean's fingertips were warm as Castiel took the paper cup from him.
Cold tightens his chest, wracking through his body. The floor of the hospital room has lines of ice in it like veins. He shouldn't be able to feel chilled this way, not now. Emmanuel sometimes did, although never as much as Daphne. Emmanuel never knew he wasn't supposed to be cold, and when she found him near the lake he was shivering.
Lucifer kneels beside the bed, head tilted to the side, an expression of detached pity on his features.
"We're alike," he says again. "You're the width of a thin gold thread away from me. A fraction too far in any direction and you'll go over, Castiel. You think you're more righteous than I am? Your motivations are the same. Funny how I'm the bad guy here."
Castiel scrambles off the bed as Lucifer's head goes up, startled at the sudden movement. Pulling at the mattress, Castiel yanks it free, the straps that hold it in place snapping beneath his strength, exposing the metal springs beneath. He finds a sharp edge of metal and scrapes the underside of his arm along it, drawing blood.
Lucifer lets out a soft huff of breath, a laugh. "You know that won't work on me. Still, points for trying, you always were a tough bastard."
Crouched on the floor, Castiel hesitates with blood dripping from his fingers, his heart racing. Yes, it won't work. He let himself panic. It won't happen again. Still it seems important to make the gesture. He draws the banishing sigil with swift, decisive movements, then slams his palm angrily against the wet symbols.
There's a flash of light and a stab of hope in Castiel's gut but Lucifer doesn't vanish.
The door opens, a voice shouts back into the hallway, there are running feet, hands on him, someone wrapping a bandage around his arm, guiding him over to the bed. He struggles. The orderlies strap him down while Lucifer starts singing in a loud, emphatic voice, "And did those feet in ancient time/Walk upon England's mountains green… -- so self-righteous, weren't you. Did you ever get your bow of burning gold? Or just that angel sword you used to kill your own brethren?"
"Clarence," a familiar voice says, smooth and amused, "what you were trying to do there?" He blinks and recognizes Meg's pale face, dark brown hair pulled back neatly. She glances down at the circles drawn on the floor in blood. Her touch on his arm is oddly gentle. Meg seems pleased about something, eager. "Well, aren't you the little scrapper."
Lucifer stands at the foot of the bed now. His head jerks when he spies Meg, eyebrows rising as if he's pleased to see her.
"She's loyal, this one," Lucifer says. "She'll be true to you as she was to me."
Castiel turns his head away, but Lucifer keeps singing, And did the Countenance Divine/Shine forth upon our clouded hills…, voice soft now, pervasive, tendrils of it twining through Castiel's mind, brushing against his grace.
*
Lucifer watches him. Doesn't speak, but watches, moving to the left, then to the right, studying Castiel.
It's worse than when he's talking.
Castiel has had enough of Lucifer. He unfurls his wings. They're heavy on his back now, feeling stiff and tight, brittle and unclean. He's not even sure they work any more but he vanishes from the room in the asylum, finding himself in a clearing in a forest, air sharp and sweet with pine. A bird sings above his head, a lilting note. For a brief moment, he has peace.
A moment later Lucifer appears before Castiel again, pursing his lips as he imitates the bird song.
With a resigned sigh, Castiel returns to his room in the asylum. He sits on the bed with one knee bent beneath him, facing the wall while Lucifer keeps whistling.
He stops whistling. "Hey, want to see my wings?"
Castiel flinches before he can help himself, while his brother moves closer to the bed.
"You remember, me, don't you?" Lucifer says, drawing close, too close, before white light starts to burn beneath the semblance of his vessel's skin, webs of illumination that grow ever brighter. Castiel turns away before the light explodes outward.
If he turns back Castiel knows what he'll see. He keeps his gaze on the wall, the crack in the paint.
"Aw, c'mon. You showed me yours, I'm showing you mine. Look at me."
"No."
"Look at me. Castiel, turn and face me." Lucifer's true voice makes the window glass shatter outward. There's ice crawling up the walls. "Look at me," he says again, the heat and light pressing against Castiel's skin. His voice grows thunderous. "Look at me, look at me, look at me-"
"Cas."
"Look at me look at me look at me look at me--"
"Cas, hey man, you with me?" That is not Lucifer's voice. There's light all around, too bright to see anything, and Lucifer's true voice blends with the new one. "Cas!" Dean says, sharp and angry, and Lucifer's voice goes quiet, the light dying.
There's Dean, standing in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he can't decide whether to come in or not. In his other hand he holds several objects, rectangular and small, as well as some kind of electronic device.
Lucifer, back to the semblance of his human vessel, now stands by the table watching Dean. His mouth slants into a mocking little smile. "Oh, look who it is. He actually remembered you were here. That's really sweet."
"We, uh…" Dean walks into the room. "Me and Sam found a hunt in the area. I mean, it was this haunting, it happened to be about twenty miles south of here and so I thought might as well…Cas?"
Castiel meets Dean's gaze, takes in the familiarity of hazel-green eyes. "Hello, Dean."
"How're you holding up?"
"He might not really be here," Lucifer points out. "Or he might be." He laughs.
"I'm alright."
"Sam'll be up in a minute, he went to get you some donuts. We know you don't actually need to eat, but…anyway, I brought you something." He comes closer and puts the items down on the mattress. "Old Walkman, found it in a thrift store, it's a lot like the one I had when I was a kid. I'm loaning you these." He nudges the rectangular objects closer. There is writing on the side in a bold, blocky hand. "They're cassettes, so be careful with them, all right? I don't have back-up copies and it's two of my favorites. You let the player eat the tape and I'll tie your wings into knots, got it?" Dean says it fondly, and Castiel manages a small smile for him, ignoring Lucifer.
Picking up one of the cassettes, Castiel turns it over in his fingers, looking at Dean's bold lettering on the tapes, wondering if Dean looks at the symbols Castiel used to draw in a similar way, finding the lines oddly fascinating in their own right simply due to their shape. They mean something but are also aesthetically pleasing. He understands these tapes are things Dean must value from the note in his voice when he says he has no replacement. The idea that this might be the point, that Dean wouldn't be giving the cassettes to him in the first place if he had spares, makes Castiel's chest go tight.
"Figured you could listen to these and maybe use 'em to drown out the devil. Sam says he's pretty chatty. Ace of Spades is probably your best bet. Just fast forward until you find something you like, it's all pretty badass." Dean takes a breath and seems to realize he's still talking. He shuts his mouth and his jaw tightens before he adds, "wish there was more I could do."
Castiel looks up from the cassettes to Dean's face again.
"It won't do any good," Lucifer says. "You can't block me out. Think about him all you want, listen to his music, but it won't work. We're family, the only kind that matters."
"Thank you, Dean," Castiel says calmly. His fingers tighten around the plastic.
Dean rubs his thumb across his chin, still staring down at Castiel.
"Don't look at him, look at me, Castiel, angel of Thursday." Lucifer unfurls his wings, only a fraction of the full extent of their true span, the darkness of their shadow-form spreading over the walls, the ceiling, continuing to grow, capable of consuming the entire building. "You think he'll show you the loyalty and love I can? Look at me." Lucifer's voice increases in volume until it echoes, filling Castiel's head, turning from human to the true voice of an angel again, yet Dean doesn't even flinch. The sound isn't really there, even while it crawls around Castiel and into him, inescapable, pressing on him.
He can't help it: Castiel winces. The sharp breath Dean draws in is inaudible to him but he sees the quick movement of Dean's chest, how his eyes widen. Dean seems too small outlined against the visible darkness of Lucifer's wings, yet sturdy and immovable.
"Cas!" He watches Dean's lips move, but can't hear him.
Dean leans over, resting his hands on the mattress on either side of Castiel. He puts his mouth close to Castiel's ear. You deserve to be saved, he whispers.
This time, the words cut clear and sharp, drowning out the devil.
~end
This entry is also on dreamwidth: http://dotfic.dreamwidth.org/418360.html. Feel free to comment at either post.
Castiel, Lucifer, Dean, Meg (slight Dean/Castiel) | PG | 2,100 words | coda for 7x17
a/n: Written for the lovely murron's birthday. Thanks to mclittlebitch for her help, and to zatnikatel for the beta read. Title is from Jane Hirschfeld. This fic also makes use of lines from William Blake.
Summary: There are ways to shout down the devil.
"You don't seem very glad to see me." Lucifer's voice is soft, mouth drawing down. He leans against the wall near the bed.
Castiel clenches his fingers around the edge of the mattress, the coolness of the sheets, and states flatly, "You aren't real."
"Keep telling yourself that, little brother." He pushes himself away from the wall and shrugs. "That doesn't change the fact that you can see and hear me."
As Lucifer moves closer, Castiel doesn't draw back; he keeps his back straight and moves his gaze away from the semblance of Lucifer's human vessel towards the door. Sam and Dean walked through it minutes, hours, days, or weeks ago. He blinks and Lucifer is standing right over him, reaching a hand out as if he would touch Castiel's face. Castiel does draw back this time, moving his body up the bed until his back hits the metal frame.
After a small noise of regret, Lucifer says, "We're alike, you and I. Rebels both. Once I hoped you would see my side of things, support me."
Keeping his eyes on the door, Castiel refuses to respond.
"Yes, ignore me all you want, but you know that I'm right. You were always wanting to ask questions, weren't you, even if it took you a long time to work up the guts to do it. Our Father wasn't always right." His voice grows softer, more bitter. "Michael, of course, never got it. Devoted as a puppy." Lucifer trails his fingers over a crack in the wall, picks at the chipped paint. "You aren't listening to me, Castiel. I paid attention to you when most couldn't be bothered, barely looked at you, saw you as nothing but a small bird of the lower orders. It amused me greatly when you were the one who threw the Host into chaos. You really should listen to me."
The smoothness of the sheet under Castiel's hand grows cooler, the metal of the bed's frame going icy through the thin cotton of the t-shirt that covers his back. Castiel's breath shows in the air, thin wisps of warm vapor. He starts to shiver as frost forms on the window frame, creeping over the glass. The memory of Dean's face, framed against such a window, some cabin where the Winchesters were squatting with Lucifer and the armies of Heaven searching for them, comes to colorful life. Dean turns, facing Castiel, saying something sharp, fixing Castiel with a hard questioning gaze; Castiel never brought them good news in those days. Never brought them good news afterwards either. For a moment Castiel's body warms as he slips into the memory, the smell of the musty cabin, the junk food and coffee the Winchesters subsisted on, Dean's faded shabby army jacket as familiar to Castiel as Jimmy Novak's trenchcoat. The way Dean offers him a cup of coffee, saying he knows Cas (Castiel used to find the diminutive insulting, but soon grew to like hearing Dean say it) doesn't need it but maybe he should drink it anyway. The way Dean's fingertips were warm as Castiel took the paper cup from him.
Cold tightens his chest, wracking through his body. The floor of the hospital room has lines of ice in it like veins. He shouldn't be able to feel chilled this way, not now. Emmanuel sometimes did, although never as much as Daphne. Emmanuel never knew he wasn't supposed to be cold, and when she found him near the lake he was shivering.
Lucifer kneels beside the bed, head tilted to the side, an expression of detached pity on his features.
"We're alike," he says again. "You're the width of a thin gold thread away from me. A fraction too far in any direction and you'll go over, Castiel. You think you're more righteous than I am? Your motivations are the same. Funny how I'm the bad guy here."
Castiel scrambles off the bed as Lucifer's head goes up, startled at the sudden movement. Pulling at the mattress, Castiel yanks it free, the straps that hold it in place snapping beneath his strength, exposing the metal springs beneath. He finds a sharp edge of metal and scrapes the underside of his arm along it, drawing blood.
Lucifer lets out a soft huff of breath, a laugh. "You know that won't work on me. Still, points for trying, you always were a tough bastard."
Crouched on the floor, Castiel hesitates with blood dripping from his fingers, his heart racing. Yes, it won't work. He let himself panic. It won't happen again. Still it seems important to make the gesture. He draws the banishing sigil with swift, decisive movements, then slams his palm angrily against the wet symbols.
There's a flash of light and a stab of hope in Castiel's gut but Lucifer doesn't vanish.
The door opens, a voice shouts back into the hallway, there are running feet, hands on him, someone wrapping a bandage around his arm, guiding him over to the bed. He struggles. The orderlies strap him down while Lucifer starts singing in a loud, emphatic voice, "And did those feet in ancient time/Walk upon England's mountains green… -- so self-righteous, weren't you. Did you ever get your bow of burning gold? Or just that angel sword you used to kill your own brethren?"
"Clarence," a familiar voice says, smooth and amused, "what you were trying to do there?" He blinks and recognizes Meg's pale face, dark brown hair pulled back neatly. She glances down at the circles drawn on the floor in blood. Her touch on his arm is oddly gentle. Meg seems pleased about something, eager. "Well, aren't you the little scrapper."
Lucifer stands at the foot of the bed now. His head jerks when he spies Meg, eyebrows rising as if he's pleased to see her.
"She's loyal, this one," Lucifer says. "She'll be true to you as she was to me."
Castiel turns his head away, but Lucifer keeps singing, And did the Countenance Divine/Shine forth upon our clouded hills…, voice soft now, pervasive, tendrils of it twining through Castiel's mind, brushing against his grace.
*
Lucifer watches him. Doesn't speak, but watches, moving to the left, then to the right, studying Castiel.
It's worse than when he's talking.
Castiel has had enough of Lucifer. He unfurls his wings. They're heavy on his back now, feeling stiff and tight, brittle and unclean. He's not even sure they work any more but he vanishes from the room in the asylum, finding himself in a clearing in a forest, air sharp and sweet with pine. A bird sings above his head, a lilting note. For a brief moment, he has peace.
A moment later Lucifer appears before Castiel again, pursing his lips as he imitates the bird song.
With a resigned sigh, Castiel returns to his room in the asylum. He sits on the bed with one knee bent beneath him, facing the wall while Lucifer keeps whistling.
He stops whistling. "Hey, want to see my wings?"
Castiel flinches before he can help himself, while his brother moves closer to the bed.
"You remember, me, don't you?" Lucifer says, drawing close, too close, before white light starts to burn beneath the semblance of his vessel's skin, webs of illumination that grow ever brighter. Castiel turns away before the light explodes outward.
If he turns back Castiel knows what he'll see. He keeps his gaze on the wall, the crack in the paint.
"Aw, c'mon. You showed me yours, I'm showing you mine. Look at me."
"No."
"Look at me. Castiel, turn and face me." Lucifer's true voice makes the window glass shatter outward. There's ice crawling up the walls. "Look at me," he says again, the heat and light pressing against Castiel's skin. His voice grows thunderous. "Look at me, look at me, look at me-"
"Cas."
"Look at me look at me look at me look at me--"
"Cas, hey man, you with me?" That is not Lucifer's voice. There's light all around, too bright to see anything, and Lucifer's true voice blends with the new one. "Cas!" Dean says, sharp and angry, and Lucifer's voice goes quiet, the light dying.
There's Dean, standing in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he can't decide whether to come in or not. In his other hand he holds several objects, rectangular and small, as well as some kind of electronic device.
Lucifer, back to the semblance of his human vessel, now stands by the table watching Dean. His mouth slants into a mocking little smile. "Oh, look who it is. He actually remembered you were here. That's really sweet."
"We, uh…" Dean walks into the room. "Me and Sam found a hunt in the area. I mean, it was this haunting, it happened to be about twenty miles south of here and so I thought might as well…Cas?"
Castiel meets Dean's gaze, takes in the familiarity of hazel-green eyes. "Hello, Dean."
"How're you holding up?"
"He might not really be here," Lucifer points out. "Or he might be." He laughs.
"I'm alright."
"Sam'll be up in a minute, he went to get you some donuts. We know you don't actually need to eat, but…anyway, I brought you something." He comes closer and puts the items down on the mattress. "Old Walkman, found it in a thrift store, it's a lot like the one I had when I was a kid. I'm loaning you these." He nudges the rectangular objects closer. There is writing on the side in a bold, blocky hand. "They're cassettes, so be careful with them, all right? I don't have back-up copies and it's two of my favorites. You let the player eat the tape and I'll tie your wings into knots, got it?" Dean says it fondly, and Castiel manages a small smile for him, ignoring Lucifer.
Picking up one of the cassettes, Castiel turns it over in his fingers, looking at Dean's bold lettering on the tapes, wondering if Dean looks at the symbols Castiel used to draw in a similar way, finding the lines oddly fascinating in their own right simply due to their shape. They mean something but are also aesthetically pleasing. He understands these tapes are things Dean must value from the note in his voice when he says he has no replacement. The idea that this might be the point, that Dean wouldn't be giving the cassettes to him in the first place if he had spares, makes Castiel's chest go tight.
"Figured you could listen to these and maybe use 'em to drown out the devil. Sam says he's pretty chatty. Ace of Spades is probably your best bet. Just fast forward until you find something you like, it's all pretty badass." Dean takes a breath and seems to realize he's still talking. He shuts his mouth and his jaw tightens before he adds, "wish there was more I could do."
Castiel looks up from the cassettes to Dean's face again.
"It won't do any good," Lucifer says. "You can't block me out. Think about him all you want, listen to his music, but it won't work. We're family, the only kind that matters."
"Thank you, Dean," Castiel says calmly. His fingers tighten around the plastic.
Dean rubs his thumb across his chin, still staring down at Castiel.
"Don't look at him, look at me, Castiel, angel of Thursday." Lucifer unfurls his wings, only a fraction of the full extent of their true span, the darkness of their shadow-form spreading over the walls, the ceiling, continuing to grow, capable of consuming the entire building. "You think he'll show you the loyalty and love I can? Look at me." Lucifer's voice increases in volume until it echoes, filling Castiel's head, turning from human to the true voice of an angel again, yet Dean doesn't even flinch. The sound isn't really there, even while it crawls around Castiel and into him, inescapable, pressing on him.
He can't help it: Castiel winces. The sharp breath Dean draws in is inaudible to him but he sees the quick movement of Dean's chest, how his eyes widen. Dean seems too small outlined against the visible darkness of Lucifer's wings, yet sturdy and immovable.
"Cas!" He watches Dean's lips move, but can't hear him.
Dean leans over, resting his hands on the mattress on either side of Castiel. He puts his mouth close to Castiel's ear. You deserve to be saved, he whispers.
This time, the words cut clear and sharp, drowning out the devil.
~end
This entry is also on dreamwidth: http://dotfic.dreamwidth.org/418360.html. Feel free to comment at either post.