(no subject)
Title: The Chronicles of Supernatural
Setting: Mondayverse
Rating: G
Summary: After surviving being thrown off a cliff, Azrael and Monday watch Supernatural.
The TV light cast flickering shadows about the room, illuminating Azrael’s and Monday’s sleeping faces. They lay on the couch, arms limp and outstretched like rag dolls, breathing steady and deep. Had either of them had a choice, they might have crashed on a bed or someplace more comfortable, not the cramped little loveseat. But Azrael had been far too tired when he’d staggered in a ragged barely breathing Monday to make it up the stairs.
She stirred now, grimacing as a shrill scream issued from the TV. Blinking away the bleariness, she made out a single red word, Supernatural, before it shuddered and disappeared. The first scene opened with a man in a trench coat eating an absurd quantity of food. Her stomach growled, reminding her of her earlier hunger.
“I haven’t eaten in a year,” said the man.
That’s what it feels like, thought Monday, absentmindedly curling an arm protectively around her middle. Completely lost on the plot but too bruised and battered to move, she watched as the trench coat man argued with two younger men about angels and his family, telling them of stabbings, beatings, bruisings he’d suffered with no control over any of it.
“Blasphemy,” murmured Azrael, startling Monday.
“What?” she hissed, nearly tumbling off.
“No self-respecting angel would possess a human in to act on the physical plane. I’ve yet to meet an angel that can’t manifest it’s own form on earth.”
Monday shrugged. Either way she was enjoying the show. At least the characters were nice to look at. And she frowned as she thought it but she had to admit that the trench coat man was indeed her favorite. In the flashback scenes, showing the man’s life before the two-she assumed-brothers came along, the angel was not unlike Azrael had been we she’d first met him, though the TV angel seemed marginally less tortured and much more obedient. She curled up on her side to see better, wincing as she moved and feeling bad as Azrael sucked in a painful breath. They watched now as the trench coat man began attacking his former next door neighbor.
“I don’t understand; why did his eyes go black?” she asked.
“I think it’s supposed to mean he’s a demon. Or being possessed by one,” supplied Azrael, though unsure.
“But…that doesn’t happen…right?”
“Not that I’ve ever seen,” confirmed Azrael.
The man’s wife entered and began screaming. He hurriedly pushed his wife and daughter in a pantry, closing the door and spreading salt outside.
“Salt?” asked Monday.
“It can work. Holy water, rosary beads, crucifixes; those thing work better because their iconography is infused with centuries of prayerful power. But salt can work.”
“If you’re in a pinch,” chuckled Monday.
“Did you just make a joke?” asked Azrael, astounded.
“I tried.”
The brothers were back and slashing throats. The taller one seemed to be looking around in a bloodlust.
“What is he doing?” asked Monday.
“He’s got demon blood in his veins but he’s human so he needs more to even stay normal.”
Silence.
“How do you know this?”.
“I’ve seen it once or twice. Enough to know the basic storyline.”
“The Archangel of Death is a Supernatural fan. I don’t know if that’s ironic or just weird,” said Monday, watching as the man’s family was ushered into a black car.
“No weirder than you trying to make a joke,” said Azrael, stretching.
“Touché.”
The man was now pleading with the missing angel to do something, to keep his promises, to protect his family.
“Do you think he’s listening?” asked Monday.
“Who Cas? Doubt it. Probably getting ‘yelled at’ in heaven.”
“Why’d you put that in air quotes?”
“Because you don’t really yell in heaven. It’s mostly thought patterns and energy, but that doesn’t make it any less severe. I’d say it’s more so,” explained Azrael, “Besides, he only ever listens to Dean.”
“What?”
Suddenly there was a shot, and both of them turned to see who’d been the target.
“No!” shouted Monday, tumbling off the couch, groaning as she hit the floor. “He was my favorite!”
“You’ve never even watched this show before tonight.”
“I know but he was just so…” She didn’t have the words for it. “I think it’s the trench coat. That trench coat is kickass.”
Azrael frowned as he always did when she cursed.
“Well, people have a funny way of coming back to life on this show.”
“How many episodes have you seen again?” asked Monday.
“A few.”
Monday glared at him.
“Ok, more than a few.”
At which point, Monday resorted to the librarian look, turning her head slightly and peering over the corner of her glasses.
“All. Ok. Happy? I’ve been around for several millennia. What do you expect? That I take souls all the time? That I never stop? You’d be shocked to know how many hospitals this plays in.”
Monday laughed.
“Please don’t, really.”
“Sorry, I just find it kind of funny.”
They watched now as the missing angel entered into the man’s daughter, promising him his work was done. The man pleaded with the angel, begging him to take his body instead. The angel finally conceded and entered the man with a bright light. He stood up, walked around and declared he was not the servant man.
“Well that’s a change,” said Azrael.
“Is it?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.”
They were silent through the commercial, still kind of in awe of the ending. When the show returned it opened with the brother’s in the black car, getting out and walking toward a large shadowy building. The discussion became heated and before Monday had any clue what was going on, the tallest brother was behind bars.
“What happened?” asked Monday, confused.
“Dean had to lock Sam up because he’s addicted to demon blood.”
“Who locked who up?”
“Never mind,” said Azrael.
“But what happens?”
“That’s the point of a TV show. To keep you watching.”
“So we won’t know until next week?”
“Yes.”
“Oh we are so watching this next week,” said Monday, scrambling to her feet.
“I won’t be missing it,” muttered Azrael.
“What was that?”
“Oh nothing.”
For
a_carlisle's challenge.
Setting: Mondayverse
Rating: G
Summary: After surviving being thrown off a cliff, Azrael and Monday watch Supernatural.
The TV light cast flickering shadows about the room, illuminating Azrael’s and Monday’s sleeping faces. They lay on the couch, arms limp and outstretched like rag dolls, breathing steady and deep. Had either of them had a choice, they might have crashed on a bed or someplace more comfortable, not the cramped little loveseat. But Azrael had been far too tired when he’d staggered in a ragged barely breathing Monday to make it up the stairs.
She stirred now, grimacing as a shrill scream issued from the TV. Blinking away the bleariness, she made out a single red word, Supernatural, before it shuddered and disappeared. The first scene opened with a man in a trench coat eating an absurd quantity of food. Her stomach growled, reminding her of her earlier hunger.
“I haven’t eaten in a year,” said the man.
That’s what it feels like, thought Monday, absentmindedly curling an arm protectively around her middle. Completely lost on the plot but too bruised and battered to move, she watched as the trench coat man argued with two younger men about angels and his family, telling them of stabbings, beatings, bruisings he’d suffered with no control over any of it.
“Blasphemy,” murmured Azrael, startling Monday.
“What?” she hissed, nearly tumbling off.
“No self-respecting angel would possess a human in to act on the physical plane. I’ve yet to meet an angel that can’t manifest it’s own form on earth.”
Monday shrugged. Either way she was enjoying the show. At least the characters were nice to look at. And she frowned as she thought it but she had to admit that the trench coat man was indeed her favorite. In the flashback scenes, showing the man’s life before the two-she assumed-brothers came along, the angel was not unlike Azrael had been we she’d first met him, though the TV angel seemed marginally less tortured and much more obedient. She curled up on her side to see better, wincing as she moved and feeling bad as Azrael sucked in a painful breath. They watched now as the trench coat man began attacking his former next door neighbor.
“I don’t understand; why did his eyes go black?” she asked.
“I think it’s supposed to mean he’s a demon. Or being possessed by one,” supplied Azrael, though unsure.
“But…that doesn’t happen…right?”
“Not that I’ve ever seen,” confirmed Azrael.
The man’s wife entered and began screaming. He hurriedly pushed his wife and daughter in a pantry, closing the door and spreading salt outside.
“Salt?” asked Monday.
“It can work. Holy water, rosary beads, crucifixes; those thing work better because their iconography is infused with centuries of prayerful power. But salt can work.”
“If you’re in a pinch,” chuckled Monday.
“Did you just make a joke?” asked Azrael, astounded.
“I tried.”
The brothers were back and slashing throats. The taller one seemed to be looking around in a bloodlust.
“What is he doing?” asked Monday.
“He’s got demon blood in his veins but he’s human so he needs more to even stay normal.”
Silence.
“How do you know this?”.
“I’ve seen it once or twice. Enough to know the basic storyline.”
“The Archangel of Death is a Supernatural fan. I don’t know if that’s ironic or just weird,” said Monday, watching as the man’s family was ushered into a black car.
“No weirder than you trying to make a joke,” said Azrael, stretching.
“Touché.”
The man was now pleading with the missing angel to do something, to keep his promises, to protect his family.
“Do you think he’s listening?” asked Monday.
“Who Cas? Doubt it. Probably getting ‘yelled at’ in heaven.”
“Why’d you put that in air quotes?”
“Because you don’t really yell in heaven. It’s mostly thought patterns and energy, but that doesn’t make it any less severe. I’d say it’s more so,” explained Azrael, “Besides, he only ever listens to Dean.”
“What?”
Suddenly there was a shot, and both of them turned to see who’d been the target.
“No!” shouted Monday, tumbling off the couch, groaning as she hit the floor. “He was my favorite!”
“You’ve never even watched this show before tonight.”
“I know but he was just so…” She didn’t have the words for it. “I think it’s the trench coat. That trench coat is kickass.”
Azrael frowned as he always did when she cursed.
“Well, people have a funny way of coming back to life on this show.”
“How many episodes have you seen again?” asked Monday.
“A few.”
Monday glared at him.
“Ok, more than a few.”
At which point, Monday resorted to the librarian look, turning her head slightly and peering over the corner of her glasses.
“All. Ok. Happy? I’ve been around for several millennia. What do you expect? That I take souls all the time? That I never stop? You’d be shocked to know how many hospitals this plays in.”
Monday laughed.
“Please don’t, really.”
“Sorry, I just find it kind of funny.”
They watched now as the missing angel entered into the man’s daughter, promising him his work was done. The man pleaded with the angel, begging him to take his body instead. The angel finally conceded and entered the man with a bright light. He stood up, walked around and declared he was not the servant man.
“Well that’s a change,” said Azrael.
“Is it?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.”
They were silent through the commercial, still kind of in awe of the ending. When the show returned it opened with the brother’s in the black car, getting out and walking toward a large shadowy building. The discussion became heated and before Monday had any clue what was going on, the tallest brother was behind bars.
“What happened?” asked Monday, confused.
“Dean had to lock Sam up because he’s addicted to demon blood.”
“Who locked who up?”
“Never mind,” said Azrael.
“But what happens?”
“That’s the point of a TV show. To keep you watching.”
“So we won’t know until next week?”
“Yes.”
“Oh we are so watching this next week,” said Monday, scrambling to her feet.
“I won’t be missing it,” muttered Azrael.
“What was that?”
“Oh nothing.”
For
a_carlisle's challenge.