(no subject)
Title: Portrait
Author: so_pseudogoth
Rating: PG? Nothing explicit.
Spoilers: Through "Abandon All Hope". DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE NOT SEEN THE EPISODE.
Characters: Dean, Cas, Sam, Bobby
Genre: Gen
It made sense that he could be photographed--- after all, he was wearing a vessel, a man named Jimmy Novak who had once posed for family portraits and driver's license photos and passport pictures. But it had never occured to Dean, and it wasn't like he carried a camera around with him anyway so it just didn't seem important. But after that day when Bobby lined them up in front of the mantle, Jo's wry cynical smile and tousled blonde hair soft as funeral lillies, Sam's half-smirk and boyishly clueless expression, Ellen's weathered face pulled into a taut say-cheese suspension, Bobby's grim mugshot, Dean's inquisitive head-tilt... and Castiel, tall and slim in his ill-fitting clothes, disheveled brown hair and deep soulful stare as if he was daring the camera to capture him... he couldn't get it out of his mind. After, when Jo and Ellen were bittersweet memories and damp pillowcases and an acrid twist of guilt still fresh in his gut, and Bobby dropped the photo into flames because the irony of taking it had suddenly become overwhelming (they got Hunters' funerals, they were burned into ash, now they're in Heaven with all of their buddies from the roadhouse Dean wants to think, except who knows if Heaven is really that way at all, and if that's really where good hunters go when they die--- Dean asks Bobby if he can borrow the camera.
"What for?" Bobby asks in his usual gruff voice, squinting suspiciously up at Dean, but there is nothing there but earnest, hurting green eyes and pathologically-short blonde hair, the splash of freckles on his cheekbones, and Dean's scarred and bitten and worn hands reaching for the old camera. It runs on real film, not one of those digital jobs, and Bobby has a few canisters lying around; not much call to take pictures in several years now, not with his wife long dead and most of his friends too. He handed them over to the eldest Winchester, wondering what had gotten into Dean.
It comes in the form of flashbulbs and the whirr of advancing celluloid strips; here's Bobby, scowling, probably saying something like Boy, put that damned thing down and help me set the table, and here's Sam hunched over his laptop, all awkward elbows and enormous shoulders and floppy hair. Here's Rumsfeld, sleeping on an old rubber tire in the salvage yard, drool hanging from one droopy lip. No one asks why Dean suddenly has a camera growing out of his right hand; it just seems right, an extension of himself like his silver ring or his steel-toed boots. He takes photos of himself in the mirror, his sulking mouth and hooded eyes. He gets them all developed at the drugstore closest to Bobby's house, thumbing through the envelope when the salesgirl hands it back to him, urgent, terrified, until he reaches the last photo and can breathe again. The photos are all there, Bobby, Sam, Dean. His entire world hidden in black and white emulsion. He prefers black and white; it helps dull the sad weariness in Sam's face, the resigned lines in Bobby's. No matter how often he stares at the pictures of himself, he can never see anything he recognizes. Photos of a stranger, stuck in with pictures of his brother and his friend.
One night, as he sits on the edge of the bed looking through the photos again, he hears the telltale rustle of a trenchcoat and lifts his head. Castiel sits there, a silhouette all too familiar, his face in profile. The dim light from the bedside lamp turns him shades of bronze and gold.
"It is very late, Dean. I thought you'd be asleep," Cas says by way of greeting, and Dean just flips one of the photos over. Sam sitting on the front porch, flannel shirt and boots and jeans, one hand on Rumsfeld's head, gazing over to the side of the porch. The pug nose, the curve of his jaw, the shaggy dark hair, all of it so achingly familiar that every inch of his giant brother felt like home. Dean's thumb traveled over the glossy finish of the photo paper, touching Sam's cheek. Reassuring him that things would be alright, that they'd never set foot in Detroit no matter what, that he'd never turn his back again. He turns the photo over, lays it on the bedspread. Next one is of him, staring into the camera, and he instantly flips it, lays it down on top of Sam's, facedown.
"This is a good photograph of you," Castiel says carefully, slim fingers picking up the last photo, turning it back over. Dean looks finally, a flicker of green eyes under heavy blonde lashes, and Cas's thumb is touching the photo of Dean, curious. He moves to the next one. "And of Sam. You are talented."
"I'm not taking them to put 'em in an art show, Cas," Dean says, his voice rough and tired, quiet. He stares at one of Bobby cleaning a rifle.
"No," Cas agrees quietly. "I know why you take them."
"I don't have one of you," Dean says after a long pause, looking down at the photos.
"No," Castiel says softly, and his eyes are sympathetic and very sad as they raise to meet Dean's.
"I would like you to take two," Castiel states. "And then I would like to take one of you."
Dean nods, permission or resignation, he's not sure which. He takes the camera into his hands. It is all smooth angles and cool plastic and metal. Familiar.
Dean positions the camera, looks through the ancient viewfinder. Castiel tilts his head, inquisitive, quiet. He is more still than a statue. Dean wonders if its true, that taking a photo of someone steals a piece of their soul and captures it.
"It is true," Castiel says faintly. Dean's forgotten that telepathy thing.
"So then... even if Lucifer wins..." Dean says thoughtfully, moving his finger over the shutter, "...some of our soul's left behind. He'll never get all of it."
"No," Castiel agrees. The shutter clicks. The flashbulb fires. Castiel does not blink.
"Somebody'll find these photos someday. If there's anyone left to find them," Dean allows, adjusting the lens.
"You will never be alone, Dean," Castiel promises in a dry whisper like wings rustling.
Castiel goes very still, and tilts his head back. Dean sees nothing through the viewfinder except a disheveled, exhausted-looking man in a trenchcoat. He snaps the photograph.
Castiel holds his hand out for the object. Dean places it reverently, reluctantly, in his lined palm.
"We will not lose, Dean," Castiel says confidently, very softly. "You will see. You will see yourself how I see you, and you will believe."
He takes the photograph when Dean looks up at him.
The next afternoon, Dean picks up the envelope from the woman at the drugstore. Her hand is shaking a little when she passes him his change. She will not meet his eyes.
There are pictures of Bobby, pictures of Sam. Pictures of the sagging house, of the Impala, of the junkyard. Of a stack of pancakes Sam made on a whim. The things Dean loves, all of them immortalized on black and white film.
There is Castiel, his expression poignant and still; he looks the way he did in the barn on the night Dean met him, all wide blue eyes and curious expression.
The second photograph bears wide shadows sprouting from shoulderblades. It could be a flaw in the lens or a trick of the light. Dean knows they are wings.
The last photograph on the roll is of Dean, his expression open and vulnerable, but there is something more. He looks determined and careworn; he has been through the fire and survived. His eyes blaze with a fierceness he does not see even in a mirror, and his expression promises that he will give them Hell until his very last breath.
The last photograph is in blinding, vivid color.
Author: so_pseudogoth
Rating: PG? Nothing explicit.
Spoilers: Through "Abandon All Hope". DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE NOT SEEN THE EPISODE.
Characters: Dean, Cas, Sam, Bobby
Genre: Gen
It made sense that he could be photographed--- after all, he was wearing a vessel, a man named Jimmy Novak who had once posed for family portraits and driver's license photos and passport pictures. But it had never occured to Dean, and it wasn't like he carried a camera around with him anyway so it just didn't seem important. But after that day when Bobby lined them up in front of the mantle, Jo's wry cynical smile and tousled blonde hair soft as funeral lillies, Sam's half-smirk and boyishly clueless expression, Ellen's weathered face pulled into a taut say-cheese suspension, Bobby's grim mugshot, Dean's inquisitive head-tilt... and Castiel, tall and slim in his ill-fitting clothes, disheveled brown hair and deep soulful stare as if he was daring the camera to capture him... he couldn't get it out of his mind. After, when Jo and Ellen were bittersweet memories and damp pillowcases and an acrid twist of guilt still fresh in his gut, and Bobby dropped the photo into flames because the irony of taking it had suddenly become overwhelming (they got Hunters' funerals, they were burned into ash, now they're in Heaven with all of their buddies from the roadhouse Dean wants to think, except who knows if Heaven is really that way at all, and if that's really where good hunters go when they die--- Dean asks Bobby if he can borrow the camera.
"What for?" Bobby asks in his usual gruff voice, squinting suspiciously up at Dean, but there is nothing there but earnest, hurting green eyes and pathologically-short blonde hair, the splash of freckles on his cheekbones, and Dean's scarred and bitten and worn hands reaching for the old camera. It runs on real film, not one of those digital jobs, and Bobby has a few canisters lying around; not much call to take pictures in several years now, not with his wife long dead and most of his friends too. He handed them over to the eldest Winchester, wondering what had gotten into Dean.
It comes in the form of flashbulbs and the whirr of advancing celluloid strips; here's Bobby, scowling, probably saying something like Boy, put that damned thing down and help me set the table, and here's Sam hunched over his laptop, all awkward elbows and enormous shoulders and floppy hair. Here's Rumsfeld, sleeping on an old rubber tire in the salvage yard, drool hanging from one droopy lip. No one asks why Dean suddenly has a camera growing out of his right hand; it just seems right, an extension of himself like his silver ring or his steel-toed boots. He takes photos of himself in the mirror, his sulking mouth and hooded eyes. He gets them all developed at the drugstore closest to Bobby's house, thumbing through the envelope when the salesgirl hands it back to him, urgent, terrified, until he reaches the last photo and can breathe again. The photos are all there, Bobby, Sam, Dean. His entire world hidden in black and white emulsion. He prefers black and white; it helps dull the sad weariness in Sam's face, the resigned lines in Bobby's. No matter how often he stares at the pictures of himself, he can never see anything he recognizes. Photos of a stranger, stuck in with pictures of his brother and his friend.
One night, as he sits on the edge of the bed looking through the photos again, he hears the telltale rustle of a trenchcoat and lifts his head. Castiel sits there, a silhouette all too familiar, his face in profile. The dim light from the bedside lamp turns him shades of bronze and gold.
"It is very late, Dean. I thought you'd be asleep," Cas says by way of greeting, and Dean just flips one of the photos over. Sam sitting on the front porch, flannel shirt and boots and jeans, one hand on Rumsfeld's head, gazing over to the side of the porch. The pug nose, the curve of his jaw, the shaggy dark hair, all of it so achingly familiar that every inch of his giant brother felt like home. Dean's thumb traveled over the glossy finish of the photo paper, touching Sam's cheek. Reassuring him that things would be alright, that they'd never set foot in Detroit no matter what, that he'd never turn his back again. He turns the photo over, lays it on the bedspread. Next one is of him, staring into the camera, and he instantly flips it, lays it down on top of Sam's, facedown.
"This is a good photograph of you," Castiel says carefully, slim fingers picking up the last photo, turning it back over. Dean looks finally, a flicker of green eyes under heavy blonde lashes, and Cas's thumb is touching the photo of Dean, curious. He moves to the next one. "And of Sam. You are talented."
"I'm not taking them to put 'em in an art show, Cas," Dean says, his voice rough and tired, quiet. He stares at one of Bobby cleaning a rifle.
"No," Cas agrees quietly. "I know why you take them."
"I don't have one of you," Dean says after a long pause, looking down at the photos.
"No," Castiel says softly, and his eyes are sympathetic and very sad as they raise to meet Dean's.
"I would like you to take two," Castiel states. "And then I would like to take one of you."
Dean nods, permission or resignation, he's not sure which. He takes the camera into his hands. It is all smooth angles and cool plastic and metal. Familiar.
Dean positions the camera, looks through the ancient viewfinder. Castiel tilts his head, inquisitive, quiet. He is more still than a statue. Dean wonders if its true, that taking a photo of someone steals a piece of their soul and captures it.
"It is true," Castiel says faintly. Dean's forgotten that telepathy thing.
"So then... even if Lucifer wins..." Dean says thoughtfully, moving his finger over the shutter, "...some of our soul's left behind. He'll never get all of it."
"No," Castiel agrees. The shutter clicks. The flashbulb fires. Castiel does not blink.
"Somebody'll find these photos someday. If there's anyone left to find them," Dean allows, adjusting the lens.
"You will never be alone, Dean," Castiel promises in a dry whisper like wings rustling.
Castiel goes very still, and tilts his head back. Dean sees nothing through the viewfinder except a disheveled, exhausted-looking man in a trenchcoat. He snaps the photograph.
Castiel holds his hand out for the object. Dean places it reverently, reluctantly, in his lined palm.
"We will not lose, Dean," Castiel says confidently, very softly. "You will see. You will see yourself how I see you, and you will believe."
He takes the photograph when Dean looks up at him.
The next afternoon, Dean picks up the envelope from the woman at the drugstore. Her hand is shaking a little when she passes him his change. She will not meet his eyes.
There are pictures of Bobby, pictures of Sam. Pictures of the sagging house, of the Impala, of the junkyard. Of a stack of pancakes Sam made on a whim. The things Dean loves, all of them immortalized on black and white film.
There is Castiel, his expression poignant and still; he looks the way he did in the barn on the night Dean met him, all wide blue eyes and curious expression.
The second photograph bears wide shadows sprouting from shoulderblades. It could be a flaw in the lens or a trick of the light. Dean knows they are wings.
The last photograph on the roll is of Dean, his expression open and vulnerable, but there is something more. He looks determined and careworn; he has been through the fire and survived. His eyes blaze with a fierceness he does not see even in a mirror, and his expression promises that he will give them Hell until his very last breath.
The last photograph is in blinding, vivid color.