SPN Fic: one more look at the ghost (PG)
Nov. 29th, 2011 04:19 pm![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
annundrielone more look at the ghost
PG
500
Spoilers for season seven.
Second person POV. Angst. Gen, though Dean/Castiel is implied.
You see him everywhere.
The beginning of this came to me in the shower a couple of days ago and then wouldn't let me go. Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
obstinatrix for putting up with me in chat.
You see him everywhere. The dirty tan overcoats of strangers on street corners become a silhouette you know well, their dark heads confusing you for one beat, two, until you realize that surely this is impossible. The coat you’re thinking of is folded in the trunk of your car of the day, tucked carefully beside salt and shotguns. It’s the bright, shining silver of knives that catch your eye every time you go back there. That’s what makes you linger, not the creases of coat that looks so small without the angel to fill it.
There was no body. You don’t know if this is important, but you hold onto it. You hold on to the fact that no body means no wings and no wings means no scorch marks and no scorch marks means…well. It doesn’t bear thinking about, so you don’t. You drink until the world’s sharp edges are blunted and the level of caring you have is so near nil that you can go through the motions, get through the day, and even when your brother looks at you with wide, concerned eyes you just turn up the volume on your telenovela until the only language in your head is Spanish and everything else is background noise.
You sit in diners along pot-holed highways drinking coffee that tastes like burnt ass and pie that tastes like Heaven. You dress yourself in a suit and tie and pretend you’re someone else on dozens of front steps and crime scenes, stepping over ABC blocks sticky with syrup and tumbled chairs sticky with blood. You go about the family business, saving people, hunting things.
Sometimes you can’t tell the difference.
You walk down the street next to your brother, your heart pounding in your chest and you try not to think about what could have been and what is, what choices led you here and him—not your brother, him—there, your two paths so diverged you’re not even on the same plane anymore, if he’s on a plane at all.
You don’t think about it.
You walk down the street with your brother, your shoes pounding on the pavement and you hear the sound of wings, but it is only pigeons rising from the fountain in the park you’re passing, nothing more holy than that.
It doesn’t get your hopes up. Your heart races because you’re startled, not because you expect to turn around and find him there, head tilted at a forty-five degree angle, eyes more blue than you can possibly remember as he says, familiar, Hello, Dean.
You used to think he was cold, but he wasn’t. He was warm, infusing those two words with something fond and big. Bigger than you could handle, than you were ready for.
You turn your back on the park and walk down the street with your brother. You pay no attention to the men on the corner in their dirty trench coats. They aren’t who you want them to be.
PG
500
Spoilers for season seven.
Second person POV. Angst. Gen, though Dean/Castiel is implied.
You see him everywhere.
The beginning of this came to me in the shower a couple of days ago and then wouldn't let me go. Many thanks to
obstinatrix for putting up with me in chat.You see him everywhere. The dirty tan overcoats of strangers on street corners become a silhouette you know well, their dark heads confusing you for one beat, two, until you realize that surely this is impossible. The coat you’re thinking of is folded in the trunk of your car of the day, tucked carefully beside salt and shotguns. It’s the bright, shining silver of knives that catch your eye every time you go back there. That’s what makes you linger, not the creases of coat that looks so small without the angel to fill it.
There was no body. You don’t know if this is important, but you hold onto it. You hold on to the fact that no body means no wings and no wings means no scorch marks and no scorch marks means…well. It doesn’t bear thinking about, so you don’t. You drink until the world’s sharp edges are blunted and the level of caring you have is so near nil that you can go through the motions, get through the day, and even when your brother looks at you with wide, concerned eyes you just turn up the volume on your telenovela until the only language in your head is Spanish and everything else is background noise.
You sit in diners along pot-holed highways drinking coffee that tastes like burnt ass and pie that tastes like Heaven. You dress yourself in a suit and tie and pretend you’re someone else on dozens of front steps and crime scenes, stepping over ABC blocks sticky with syrup and tumbled chairs sticky with blood. You go about the family business, saving people, hunting things.
Sometimes you can’t tell the difference.
You walk down the street next to your brother, your heart pounding in your chest and you try not to think about what could have been and what is, what choices led you here and him—not your brother, him—there, your two paths so diverged you’re not even on the same plane anymore, if he’s on a plane at all.
You don’t think about it.
You walk down the street with your brother, your shoes pounding on the pavement and you hear the sound of wings, but it is only pigeons rising from the fountain in the park you’re passing, nothing more holy than that.
It doesn’t get your hopes up. Your heart races because you’re startled, not because you expect to turn around and find him there, head tilted at a forty-five degree angle, eyes more blue than you can possibly remember as he says, familiar, Hello, Dean.
You used to think he was cold, but he wasn’t. He was warm, infusing those two words with something fond and big. Bigger than you could handle, than you were ready for.
You turn your back on the park and walk down the street with your brother. You pay no attention to the men on the corner in their dirty trench coats. They aren’t who you want them to be.
