Hazy Shade of Winter
Dec. 9th, 2018 03:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
treefrogie84Repost of a thing I originally posted on Tumblr shortly after 14.01 aired. The colors help with understanding a lot and AO3 doesn't allow them. Many thanks to formidablepassion for holding my hand and telling me this was worth publishing.
Sam Winchester stands in the center of a lackluster BBQ shack in Detroit and shouts “There will be no new king of Hell. Not today, not ever.” The power in his voice is accidental, meant to be kept on purely human level, but the structure of the universe remembers.
Remembers, and obeys.
The order reverberates throughout all the dimensions, every parallel universe where this Sam Winchester was destined to be the boy king. Countless worlds split and recombined, the tapestry always woven together. The order is heard by all who can hear it.
Three kings look up from their thrones as one, frowning at the declaration. One raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow, sets aside his glass of wine, and stalks to the Pit to talk to his brother. One pauses, the ripples of the universe reminding him of something long forgotten, before leaning back and resuming his contemplation of today’s (everyday’s) exhibit-- Michael, twisted and bent into whatever shape the artisans feel necessary. And one, alone in a cold and empty Hell, smiles a bloodstained grin and the Earth screams.
A would-be king lays sprawled across the floor of an old convent, nailed in place, with a fallen angel standing over him. He screams out his refusal again. Years of refusals, years of scars, years of wishing to die.
Lucifer laughs and laughs and laughs.
Michael hears it, scoffs, glances at his brother sitting next to him. Lucifer raises an eyebrow in response and returns to Hell.
Crowley, long thought dead, awakens in a place with no one. The words, the faith… he watches, disinterestedly, as the keeper of this place awakens with him, threatens to send him to the furthest reaches. It seems he has not been released.
A man in a threadbare Stanford sweatshirt mumbles in his sleep, rolls over and wraps an arm around his dog. His house is large and lived in, children’s toys scattered across the floor. His house is small, worn down, filled to the brim with people and animals he never sees. The apartment-- it’s not even his-- is never silent, empty bottles on the floor next to the couch, an ashtray full of half-smoked joints and cigarettes, other tools hidden, half-heartedly in the drawers of the coffee table.
Demons spew forth from their meatsuits, abandoning earth to the angels and the monsters, scattering before their king’s wrath.
formidablepassion for holding my hand and telling me this was worth publishing.Sam Winchester stands in the center of a lackluster BBQ shack in Detroit and shouts “There will be no new king of Hell. Not today, not ever.” The power in his voice is accidental, meant to be kept on purely human level, but the structure of the universe remembers.
Remembers, and obeys.
The order reverberates throughout all the dimensions, every parallel universe where this Sam Winchester was destined to be the boy king. Countless worlds split and recombined, the tapestry always woven together. The order is heard by all who can hear it.
Three kings look up from their thrones as one, frowning at the declaration. One raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow, sets aside his glass of wine, and stalks to the Pit to talk to his brother. One pauses, the ripples of the universe reminding him of something long forgotten, before leaning back and resuming his contemplation of today’s (everyday’s) exhibit-- Michael, twisted and bent into whatever shape the artisans feel necessary. And one, alone in a cold and empty Hell, smiles a bloodstained grin and the Earth screams.
A would-be king lays sprawled across the floor of an old convent, nailed in place, with a fallen angel standing over him. He screams out his refusal again. Years of refusals, years of scars, years of wishing to die.
Lucifer laughs and laughs and laughs.
Michael hears it, scoffs, glances at his brother sitting next to him. Lucifer raises an eyebrow in response and returns to Hell.
Crowley, long thought dead, awakens in a place with no one. The words, the faith… he watches, disinterestedly, as the keeper of this place awakens with him, threatens to send him to the furthest reaches. It seems he has not been released.
A man in a threadbare Stanford sweatshirt mumbles in his sleep, rolls over and wraps an arm around his dog. His house is large and lived in, children’s toys scattered across the floor. His house is small, worn down, filled to the brim with people and animals he never sees. The apartment-- it’s not even his-- is never silent, empty bottles on the floor next to the couch, an ashtray full of half-smoked joints and cigarettes, other tools hidden, half-heartedly in the drawers of the coffee table.
Demons spew forth from their meatsuits, abandoning earth to the angels and the monsters, scattering before their king’s wrath.
no subject
Date: 2018-12-10 12:12 pm (UTC)I hadn't seen this one on tumblr. It is great. So much Sam.
A reason why I love this character. Dean is a badass, but if you want something Done (TM) ruthless without regret or remorse, Sam is your man. When he sees one reason to do it without compromise he will do it, without a flicker of doubt.
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Date: 2018-12-11 11:41 pm (UTC)