And what there is to conquer
>>And what there is to conquer
TITLE: And what there is to conquer
AUTHOR:ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: for 4.01
GENRE: can be considered slash, even though technically it isn’t, but I can’t elaborate on that point because of the spoiler factor
CHARACTERS: John Winchester/spoiler character
SUMMARY: Would be a spoiler. I know, I know, bear with me.
RATING: R. Just to err on the safe side.
FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: Man, do I wish I owned those two. Do I ever.
NOTE: spawned by chats with e313 and pdragon76. The embodiment of awesome, both of them are. For smilla02 as a very, very, very belated birthday present (not exactly what you asked for, BUT. Can’t mess with the plot donkeys.)
BETA: magic beta skills by pdragon76
He has a shape. No, he is a shape. Shape of himself. Same hands, same legs. He imagines that’s how ghosts must be feeling. Whole, but not exactly solid. Solid, but not exactly real.
Afterlife seems peaceful. He imagines this could be Heaven, though he’s pretty sure Heaven would include more fluffy clouds and Mary. Not just non-descript country roads winding on through permanent summer, leading nowhere. Nowhere at all.
Soon, the wind tells him. Be patient.
John doesn’t think it’s the voice of God; if he believed that, there would already have been Words. There’s an assload of Words John has in store for God and his mouth is itching to share.
Let go, the leaves rustle. Let go.
Yeah, right. Letting go is not part of the John Winchester manual, not even in the afterlife.
What now? he murmurs back. There is no time. There is no hunger or thirst. No need to sleep. No chance to dream. There is no now.
He tries to hold on to himself, to what life had been after the Fire. Tries to hold on to memories of his wife and his boys, and it’s killing him, killing him how he’s not with either of them. Knows this isn’t Hell. Wonders if this is Purgatory, because Heaven surely can’t be about missing those you love, drifting endlessly in a perfect landscape. Alone. All alone. Forever.
Heaven is not perfect.
It’s not the wind, it’s not the leaves, it’s not even the brook streaming past. Somehow it’s all of it together. The sense of light and water wrapped into one and just there, just there the whiff of something different, like scorched earth.
Heaven is not perfect, John Winchester.
The grass streams outward and the trees bend, slaves to a force larger than them.
“Are you God?” John asks, preparing himself for Words.
No.
“Is this Heaven?”
Not yet.
“Figures.” He passes his hand through his hair, looks around him. “Can you get me to Mary? Can you get me to my boys?”
I cannot get you to your boys.
And now the voice is careful, like tracing steps.
“Then what good are you to me?”
I can show them to you.
.:::.
John watches. Watches his boys struggle through a deadline. Watches his elder mauled by a hellhound. Hears his screaming. And somehow, time seems longer now. Endless.
Have you seen enough?
“Yes,” he rasps. He can feel tears in his eyes. “I need to get back.”
You can’t .
“This is not Heaven.”
It is just a step away. You can cross over. There will be peace.
“I don’t want peace. I want my son out of that hellhole!”
There is no reply.
He can feel the growl forming in the back of his throat. Watches the landscape move from summer to fall, a withering, brown fall that seems to dry out everything.
“Show yourself,” he says. “I don’t care who or what you are, show yourself.”
As you wish.
The landscape moves, and settles again. John stands still.
What is standing in front of him has a shape. No, is a shape, translated negatively. John can see it standing merely by the absence of what should be there. Like shards of glass reflecting light, the being seems to give a sense of crystal, glass, wings. Dark wings.
“Not very impressed,” he says, sucking his cheeks in. Pain is still raw and he’s seen too much already. Too much of Dean burned in his retinas, tugging at his insides. No, this isn’t Heaven. Could never be Heaven.
What is it about the Winchester blood that always makes demands and always sacrifices?
“You tell me,” John says. His fists are clenched. “And if you can’t tell me, then go and ask your god how he can let this happen to my family, over and over again. Or take me to him and I’ll ask him myself.”
What is it about your blood, John Winchester? What is it that draws demons close? Your bloodline…
“What about it?”
It is not for me to say.
“Never is, is it? Heaven never offers any good answers.”
Silence. The shape hurts John’s eyes. He shields them with his palm.
I can make it easier.
The landscape sparkles. Glitters. Shadows. Tones down. A young man is standing in front of him. Perfect black wings folded on his back. John lowers his arm.
“What are you supposed to be? My guardian angel?”
The voice hasn’t changed. This is no man.
I am not your angel. I am an angel. I am Castiel.
“And what good are you to me?”
I can get Dean out of Hell.
.:::.
“I am so going to Hell,” John whispers. “Then again, been there, done that. I ain’t bowing to you, son. ’Sides, you’re the one with the good solid knees from praying, aren’t you?”
Castiel looks almost exasperated.
Do we have a deal? Dean for… this?
“Do I have a choice?” John sighs. “Let’s get it over with.”
It’s not any less weird as he grabs Castiel by the nape of the neck pulling him closer. Not any less weird when his lips touch warm lips and his tongue slides in what at first feels like a soft, sweet mouth.
And then Castiel moves, expands, unwinds. Wings and fire and shadow and light and breeze all in one. John finds himself enveloped in it, wrapped up in darkness and sweetness, in light and fear, scorched earth and thunder and water; he watches his own shape catch flame along with the landscape and just before waves of ecstasy ride them both, he has the presence of mind to ask:
“Why do you want to fall? Why do you need to fall, Castiel?”
Heaven is not perfect.
-The End.
SIDENOTE: Dark wings and cocked head? Excuse me, I’m not buying the nice fluffy angel type here. Especially not when the said angel is a. so hot and b. totally hitting on Dean (and I can absolutely elaborate on that, and I am pretty much convinced about it, even though I don’t do slash. But I’m pretty sure Castiel had the hots for Dean. Because vampires and angels? Totally different category. Anything goes as far as I’m concerned.) Fallen angels are always more interesting. Because, I’m thinking, wouldn’t it be ironic if Dean works for a fallen angel, whereas Sam for an ‘elevated’ demon? Oh show, I love your mirroring. Pure speculation by the way, so that doesn’t count as spoiler, methinks. Which reminds me, guys. Don’t spoil me. Alright?
Title taken from T.S Eliot’s East Coker (Four Quartets):
And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate-but there is no competition-
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.
TITLE: And what there is to conquer
AUTHOR:ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: for 4.01
GENRE: can be considered slash, even though technically it isn’t, but I can’t elaborate on that point because of the spoiler factor
CHARACTERS: John Winchester/spoiler character
SUMMARY: Would be a spoiler. I know, I know, bear with me.
RATING: R. Just to err on the safe side.
FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: Man, do I wish I owned those two. Do I ever.
NOTE: spawned by chats with e313 and pdragon76. The embodiment of awesome, both of them are. For smilla02 as a very, very, very belated birthday present (not exactly what you asked for, BUT. Can’t mess with the plot donkeys.)
BETA: magic beta skills by pdragon76
He has a shape. No, he is a shape. Shape of himself. Same hands, same legs. He imagines that’s how ghosts must be feeling. Whole, but not exactly solid. Solid, but not exactly real.
Afterlife seems peaceful. He imagines this could be Heaven, though he’s pretty sure Heaven would include more fluffy clouds and Mary. Not just non-descript country roads winding on through permanent summer, leading nowhere. Nowhere at all.
Soon, the wind tells him. Be patient.
John doesn’t think it’s the voice of God; if he believed that, there would already have been Words. There’s an assload of Words John has in store for God and his mouth is itching to share.
Let go, the leaves rustle. Let go.
Yeah, right. Letting go is not part of the John Winchester manual, not even in the afterlife.
What now? he murmurs back. There is no time. There is no hunger or thirst. No need to sleep. No chance to dream. There is no now.
He tries to hold on to himself, to what life had been after the Fire. Tries to hold on to memories of his wife and his boys, and it’s killing him, killing him how he’s not with either of them. Knows this isn’t Hell. Wonders if this is Purgatory, because Heaven surely can’t be about missing those you love, drifting endlessly in a perfect landscape. Alone. All alone. Forever.
Heaven is not perfect.
It’s not the wind, it’s not the leaves, it’s not even the brook streaming past. Somehow it’s all of it together. The sense of light and water wrapped into one and just there, just there the whiff of something different, like scorched earth.
Heaven is not perfect, John Winchester.
The grass streams outward and the trees bend, slaves to a force larger than them.
“Are you God?” John asks, preparing himself for Words.
No.
“Is this Heaven?”
Not yet.
“Figures.” He passes his hand through his hair, looks around him. “Can you get me to Mary? Can you get me to my boys?”
I cannot get you to your boys.
And now the voice is careful, like tracing steps.
“Then what good are you to me?”
I can show them to you.
.:::.
John watches. Watches his boys struggle through a deadline. Watches his elder mauled by a hellhound. Hears his screaming. And somehow, time seems longer now. Endless.
Have you seen enough?
“Yes,” he rasps. He can feel tears in his eyes. “I need to get back.”
You can’t .
“This is not Heaven.”
It is just a step away. You can cross over. There will be peace.
“I don’t want peace. I want my son out of that hellhole!”
There is no reply.
He can feel the growl forming in the back of his throat. Watches the landscape move from summer to fall, a withering, brown fall that seems to dry out everything.
“Show yourself,” he says. “I don’t care who or what you are, show yourself.”
As you wish.
The landscape moves, and settles again. John stands still.
What is standing in front of him has a shape. No, is a shape, translated negatively. John can see it standing merely by the absence of what should be there. Like shards of glass reflecting light, the being seems to give a sense of crystal, glass, wings. Dark wings.
“Not very impressed,” he says, sucking his cheeks in. Pain is still raw and he’s seen too much already. Too much of Dean burned in his retinas, tugging at his insides. No, this isn’t Heaven. Could never be Heaven.
What is it about the Winchester blood that always makes demands and always sacrifices?
“You tell me,” John says. His fists are clenched. “And if you can’t tell me, then go and ask your god how he can let this happen to my family, over and over again. Or take me to him and I’ll ask him myself.”
What is it about your blood, John Winchester? What is it that draws demons close? Your bloodline…
“What about it?”
It is not for me to say.
“Never is, is it? Heaven never offers any good answers.”
Silence. The shape hurts John’s eyes. He shields them with his palm.
I can make it easier.
The landscape sparkles. Glitters. Shadows. Tones down. A young man is standing in front of him. Perfect black wings folded on his back. John lowers his arm.
“What are you supposed to be? My guardian angel?”
The voice hasn’t changed. This is no man.
I am not your angel. I am an angel. I am Castiel.
“And what good are you to me?”
I can get Dean out of Hell.
.:::.
“I am so going to Hell,” John whispers. “Then again, been there, done that. I ain’t bowing to you, son. ’Sides, you’re the one with the good solid knees from praying, aren’t you?”
Castiel looks almost exasperated.
Do we have a deal? Dean for… this?
“Do I have a choice?” John sighs. “Let’s get it over with.”
It’s not any less weird as he grabs Castiel by the nape of the neck pulling him closer. Not any less weird when his lips touch warm lips and his tongue slides in what at first feels like a soft, sweet mouth.
And then Castiel moves, expands, unwinds. Wings and fire and shadow and light and breeze all in one. John finds himself enveloped in it, wrapped up in darkness and sweetness, in light and fear, scorched earth and thunder and water; he watches his own shape catch flame along with the landscape and just before waves of ecstasy ride them both, he has the presence of mind to ask:
“Why do you want to fall? Why do you need to fall, Castiel?”
Heaven is not perfect.
-The End.
SIDENOTE: Dark wings and cocked head? Excuse me, I’m not buying the nice fluffy angel type here. Especially not when the said angel is a. so hot and b. totally hitting on Dean (and I can absolutely elaborate on that, and I am pretty much convinced about it, even though I don’t do slash. But I’m pretty sure Castiel had the hots for Dean. Because vampires and angels? Totally different category. Anything goes as far as I’m concerned.) Fallen angels are always more interesting. Because, I’m thinking, wouldn’t it be ironic if Dean works for a fallen angel, whereas Sam for an ‘elevated’ demon? Oh show, I love your mirroring. Pure speculation by the way, so that doesn’t count as spoiler, methinks. Which reminds me, guys. Don’t spoil me. Alright?
Title taken from T.S Eliot’s East Coker (Four Quartets):
And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate-but there is no competition-
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.