You know how to say the word "beautiful" in fifteen languages, nine of them extinct, one not even human. They rise up like phantom bile, sometimes, and crowd on the tip of your tongue at night.
The man on the hospital bed was once beautiful. You know this, although you only find women beautiful.
'When you - the first time you said yes. What did you see?'
You look at your open hands. You cannot help the thrill of surprise when they make fists at your will. You do not look at Dean Winchester, who was beautiful.
'Bright white light.' Your voice is as gentle as the one you would use with your daughter.
'No. No. What did you see?'
You have five minutes.
'I can't. I'm sorry.' You unclench your fists. The skin is smooth, pale. You shiver; it's cold in the room, bright white light behind the bed.
Sam Winchester has already told you the rest of the story. How Castiel left your body, how his true form was waning along with his grace, how he shielded Dean's body with his wings and bore the brunt of Lucifer's attack.
How Michael never appeared. How Lucifer had been weakened; enough for Castiel to use his very last reserve of strength to perform the ritual and carve the sigils that bound Lucifer. How Castiel had freed him, Sam. How Castiel had left sigils in the earth, on the trees, because he could not speak to Sam.
And that in the middle of a field, the earth is charred in the shape of a creature with many wings and limbs.
You are yet to meet your wife and daughter. There have been phone conversations. Lawrence, Kansas is far from your home in Pontiac, but you have obligations.
In your motel room, you lie awake and ache for Dean. You know many other words. They clutter against your teeth, where they materialise as gibberish. You do not touch yourself.
Dean is nearly unrecognisable; what is visible of his body is thick with scar tissue. The soft red mouth enduring seems obscene, defiant, bitter. You know how that mouth tastes, you have known it on your own body.
'Jimmy. James. Tell me what. What he looked like.'
He can't move his head to pin you to your chair with his terrible green eyes. You have two minutes remaining.
How can you tell him, I don't know? How can you begin?
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timeasmymeasure
Supernatural, Dean/Castiel (&Jimmy), 'Yesterday's People'
Date: 2010-02-02 05:29 pm (UTC)The man on the hospital bed was once beautiful. You know this, although you only find women beautiful.
'When you - the first time you said yes. What did you see?'
You look at your open hands. You cannot help the thrill of surprise when they make fists at your will. You do not look at Dean Winchester, who was beautiful.
'Bright white light.' Your voice is as gentle as the one you would use with your daughter.
'No. No. What did you see?'
You have five minutes.
'I can't. I'm sorry.' You unclench your fists. The skin is smooth, pale. You shiver; it's cold in the room, bright white light behind the bed.
Sam Winchester has already told you the rest of the story. How Castiel left your body, how his true form was waning along with his grace, how he shielded Dean's body with his wings and bore the brunt of Lucifer's attack.
How Michael never appeared. How Lucifer had been weakened; enough for Castiel to use his very last reserve of strength to perform the ritual and carve the sigils that bound Lucifer. How Castiel had freed him, Sam. How Castiel had left sigils in the earth, on the trees, because he could not speak to Sam.
And that in the middle of a field, the earth is charred in the shape of a creature with many wings and limbs.
You are yet to meet your wife and daughter. There have been phone conversations. Lawrence, Kansas is far from your home in Pontiac, but you have obligations.
In your motel room, you lie awake and ache for Dean. You know many other words. They clutter against your teeth, where they materialise as gibberish. You do not touch yourself.
Dean is nearly unrecognisable; what is visible of his body is thick with scar tissue. The soft red mouth enduring seems obscene, defiant, bitter. You know how that mouth tastes, you have known it on your own body.
'Jimmy. James. Tell me what. What he looked like.'
He can't move his head to pin you to your chair with his terrible green eyes. You have two minutes remaining.
How can you tell him, I don't know? How can you begin?