justforspite: (Jenny B&W)

Part Twelve
the difference is you

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

~Dylan Thomas

the difference is you )

justforspite: (Jenny B&W)
Part Eleven
of honor and exile

Born after the fall of their father, Izzy and her brother Raiah had never been angels. They’d never known their ancestral home of heaven and every story of that place was so mired in bitterness that they naturally assumed it was a terrible place. The history they’d been taught had been entirely revisionist in nature; God was nameless, faceless, compassionless. Christ was much like the Wizard of Oz with his claims to grandeur fueled only with smoke and mirrors. Earth, they were told, was greater than both heaven and hell and the war they fought was for ownership of what was once a magical place. Humans? Well, suffice it to say, humans were a plague, a throwback to Egypt, more harmful and merciless than locusts. Humans were puppets of the other side and they overran this Eden as if they were anything particularly great. Humans were cattle and killing one was to Izzy as swatting a fly, except with more imbedded fanatical rage. With the childhood stories of the humans’ false dominance.

They were pathetic.
of honor and exile )

justforspite: (Jenny B&W)
Part Ten
cardinal rule of cons

John Winchester taught his boys just about everything he knew. Everything in his life had been passed down to them. He had even, as a good father would, learned new things just to teach to them. In his early years of hunting, right after Mary died and money was tight, he accumulated a series of rules key to a wanderer’s survival. The prehistoric method of hunting and gathering meant squat when one hunted demons and gathered little but infamy. The new method involved his brand of hunting, financed by his brand of gathering—a tax, so to say.
cardinal rule of cons )

justforspite: (Jenny B&W)
Part Nine
belief in things unseen

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was her face and that sorry-ass look. He was curled up next to his body; half his spirit melded with the flesh, the other half was on his side and in a fetal ball. The most random thought passed through him—did Adam and Eve ever curl up like this? He turned a little away from her and noticed that they weren’t in the Critical Care Unit any more. He was connected to less than half the machines he’d previously been jacked into and he was breathing all on his own.

“How long was I out?” He asked, rolling up, his legs vanishing into his legs.

“Not long,” she said quietly. Her dejection was evident.

“‘Not long’ angel time or ‘not long’ for someone who isn’t immortal?” belief in things unseen )

justforspite: (Jenny B&W)
Part Eight
blood and broken feathers

Dean lowered his arm and put both hands on his waist. He looked down to the linoleum floor and cursed under his breath. Amitiel watched him curiously before asking, “What’s wrong?”

With a bitter look he smirked, “This whole thing just reminds me of a poem. Dylan Thomas’ ‘Do not go gentle into that good night.’

She sighed, “I wish I could write poetry. Like Gabriel. She writes beautiful poetry.”

He narrowed his eyes. “See, thing is Ami, I don’t read poetry. Don’t read much more than obits and limericks so you’re gonna have to help me out here.”
blood and broken feathers )

justforspite: (Jenny B&W)
Part Seven
into the rabbit hole

Sam followed the tunnel for miles before a cave-in stopped him in his tracks meters below the Earth’s surface. He stood there, in the dim light of his lantern, in the breathless air and he just stared at the wall of rock before him. His brother was just beyond this wall. He didn’t know how far he was, but he was, just out of reach. He was in the heart of a nine foot wide wormhole that had been made by . . . that thing. It gave him chills just to replay what happened. It was just a blur, a flash of a second but in that blur, in that second, his brother was gone.
into the rabbit hole )
justforspite: (Jenny B&W)
Part Six
a visitor comes calling

“Let go of my arm!” Sam snapped, tugging away from who he’d thought had been a weakened convalescing brother, only to be gripped in a death lock the moment Dean heard who was on the other side of the door.

“How the hell did she find us?!” He demanded barely under his breath.

Sam smirked, “Part bloodhound?”
a visitor comes calling )

justforspite: (Jenny B&W)

Part Five
those delusions of grandeur

He slept through most of the night, only waking once when he felt the pinch of a needle in his arm. He woke with a start only to be comforted by Sam watching over him, a close eye on the nurse administering the intravenous. He knew it would have to happen eventually and he also knew Sam would wait until he was asleep.
those delusions of grandeur )

justforspite: (Jenny B&W)

Part Four
what would freud say

He wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid of being gone. Being unable to watch out for Sam or protecting him from everything that was crashing all around him. The idea of death didn’t scare him. He knew there was a hell; there must be someplace out there that wasn’t. Even though his own faith wasn’t particularly strong, it wasn’t because he didn’t believe in better things, it was because, mainly, he didn’t understand. He couldn’t reconcile a world that had an all-loving God who could just watch a mother being pinned to her ceiling like a butterfly as she was set on fire with her blood raining down on her children. It wasn’t non-belief in Dean Winchester, it was resentment of indifference and he damn well imagined God and all his hordes of angels as one big apathetic bunch.
what would freud say )
justforspite: (Jenny B&W)

Part Three
in the koi pond

They got out of there before the cops showed up. With the roads in the condition they were in, they didn’t have to make a dramatic and hasty exit. Conversely, their flight wasn’t all that speedy either. As well as the Impala did on wet road, on ice, Sam didn’t take many chances. Dean was curled on the passenger’s seat, a dull headache throbbing behind his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Sam asked.

“Just peachy.”

Sam smirked, “Good, I was starting to worry.”
in the koi pond )

justforspite: (Jenny B&W)
Part Two
mint tea and eucalyptus

Dean sat on his bed and popped another Ricola into his mouth. It wasn’t . . . disgusting. Not much of a compliment but he could deal. The heater was on the blink and all the night manager could offer them were more scratchy blankets. He gave them a discount on the room and when Sam told him the next morning, Dean considered it all-good.

“We should head over to the Super 8 while we can, you’re sick,” Sam pointed out.

Dean coughed, his throat itchy and dry. “Yeah, but poor feels worse.” He kept his voice low, any higher and it just wouldn’t register.

Sam shook his head and tossed another blanket over his brother’s shoulders. He smirked, “Doesn’t look that way.”

“Shut up Sam.”
mint tea and eucalyptus )

justforspite: (Jenny B&W)

Part One
the patterns in raindrops

He knew Sam was the one with the psychic ability. It was just there, a fact he didn’t challenge. It was something he trusted like the color of the sky and the taste of cold beer. Just things that were. So, when he had the inkling that something was going to change his life that night, he didn’t take it with the confidence he gave Sam’s visions. Besides, it was like every other feeling he’d gotten before the climax of a hunt: the jittery nerves, the rush of adrenaline, the stomach pain and the strange feeling of being half starved. The headaches and the shakiness he had successfully weaned off over the years, the rest was just as potent as they had been during his first hunt. Each time he knew there was a chance he wouldn’t survive; come home to see the new sun. Twice already in his life had his death been assured and twice had he cheated it. This feeling was present those times as well. This night, it was stronger than both.
the patterns in raindrops . . . )

June 2009

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