#Lucifer's shell shocked expression kills me

[petrichoravellichor]

Crowley kneels, a pentagram traced in the dirt in front of him and a brass bowl at its center. He adds ingredients to the bowl as Sam urges him to hurry; nearby, Crowley can hear Dean yelling as he unloads a gun on Lucifer.

Then the firing stops, and Crowley hears the weapon’s empty click. He glances up from his work and sees Sam’s panicked expression, and he knows they’re both thinking the same thing.

“Dean,” Sam gasps and moves to stand, but Crowley reaches out and catches his sleeve. “Crowley, let me go!”

“So you can get yourself killed and waste our only advantage?” Crowley snaps. “What exactly do you plan to do, strangle Lucifer with that hair of yours? No.” He exhales. “We do this ritual, we seal that rift, and we lock the Devil in this godforsaken place; that’s the plan. Remember: two birds, one spell.”

“Right, right,” Sam mutters, then draws a breath; when his eyes meet Crowley’s again, the worry is tempered with resolution. “Just hurry.”

From nearby, a grunt of pain splits the air, then another, and then another. Crowley clenches his jaw and continues adding ingredients without looking up. Dean can handle himself, can handle whatever Lucifer does to him for at least a few minutes. Castiel will be able to heal Dean later; he’ll be all right. Crowley will make sure of it.

“Dead Sea brine, mercury, lamb’s blood, holy oil,” recites Sam, pouring the last one into the bowl. “Here we go...”

Yes, thinks Crowley, and it’s almost funny how completely, utterly calm he feels as he thinks it, here we go.

Crowley had never been a good man. He knows this deep in his borrowed bones, knows that he wasted his life in alcoholism and finding novel ways of letting people down. It hadn’t been surprising, really, when no one had come to his funeral; for all Crowley knows, they were too busy celebrating, and why not? The world had, objectively, been better for having him gone.

Then he’d become a demon, and naturally, he’d been very good at it. He’d been a mastermind, a marvelously manipulative Midas whose touch had turned potential into power and placed him at its peak. He’d been a visionary, valued for his villainy, and his victories had been as legion as they had been legendary...but what did it matter, what did any of it matter, if they were also lonely, loveless, and overlooked?

They didn’t, thinks Crowley; they didn’t matter, not even a little. Not even at all.

“Okay,” Sam says, setting aside the jug of holy oil. “That’s the last of it. That’s everything.”

Crowley shakes his head. “No, it’s not.”

“What?” Sam’s brow furrows in confusion.

“It’s not everything, not yet.” Crowley raises his eyes to meet Sam’s. “If you want to heal that rip, we need one more...minor ingredient.”

Sam frowns. “What?”

“A life.”

Crowley stands, ignoring Sam’s shell-shocked expression and stepping out from behind the mound of dirt that’s been sheltering them, and as he walks, he remembers, suddenly, a poem by a man called Shelley:

I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert…

Lucifer is too busy beating Dean to a pulp to notice him. Crowley approaches unseen just as Lucifer throws Dean to the ground, Dean shifting to get back to his feet even as he spits up blood. Lucifer taunts him, moves in for another attack…

...but Crowley is faster. He channels the bulk of his remaining energy and blasts it all in Lucifer’s direction, knocking the Devil to the ground, then steps forward, clearing his throat. “Surprise.”

...Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read…

He watches disinterestedly as Lucifer laughs and kicks, crowing, “Crowley!” as he climbs to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley sees Sam come tearing into the fray, reaching down to grasp Dean’s hand and haul him up. He focuses on the sound of Dean’s breathing as Sam pulls Dean away.

Before him, Lucifer sneers. “You sneaky little…”

Dean’s breathing is fainter now, further, as are the sounds of Sam and Dean’s footfalls. They’re near the rift now, Crowley knows. They’ll be safe.

“So,” continues Lucifer in cold contentment, “I guess I get to kill you twice, huh, Crowley?”

Crowley gazes coolly back. “I doubt it.”

Lucifer sneers. “Oh no no, you had your chance. You could’ve put me back in the Cage, but you had to make it personal, didn’t you?”

Crowley’s gaze flickers down, lands on Dean’s blood in the sand. “You're right,” he says. “It is personal.”

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:

He steps forward. “You humiliated me. I...I hate you, deeply. Truly.” Almost as much as I hate myself. “And I’m going to enjoy wiping that smug, self-satisfied look off your face.” Because the only thing I hate more than myself is the idea of you winning. “Personally.”

Lucifer smirks. “You mean, this one?” he taunts, teasing at his dimples.

Yes, thinks Crowley, shifting his sleeve to let the angel blade fall into his hand. That one.

Lucifer leers. “Come on, Crowley. You know whatever you try, you’re gonna lose.”

And Crowley palms the handle of his blade, and he says, “You’re right,” and thinks, But so will you.

And on the pedestal these words appear: My name is Ozymandius, king of kings; Look on my works, ye Mighty…

Crowley closes his eyes. He takes a final breath he doesn’t need, then turns to look one more time at Sam, at Dean. Crowley has never been a good man, but he thinks, perhaps, that he can save one. “Bye, boys.”

...and despair!

He plunges the dagger into his gut, gasps as he feels his life force flicker and flame. His vision fades, and he falls to the ground, vanquished...

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.

...yet victorious.

[blacksoul333]

Reckless Decisions

MC's lived for too long in their human body so they try something reckless...there's no guarantee it will work

Mammon x MC

TW: blood, death, screaming

wc: 3140

Everyone had noticed it. Noticed the way MC's eyes had been glazing over more and more everyday - the way they'd been detached from reality. Everyone had tried their best to help MC through whatever seemed to be bothering them, but nothing helped: no amount of anime with Levi or pampering with Asmo or sport with Beel could wake them from their trance-like state. They didn't even seem to want to mess around and play pranks as usual with Mammon. Needless to say, he was confused - what had happened to his jovial, mischievous little human? Contrary to his usually obnoxious personality, he had noticed the shift first. It started small, with MC deciding they didn't want to mess with people - their favourite thing to do.

"MC! MCCC!" the voice of their beloved Mammon excitedly rang in their ears. They got up from Mammon's bed with a smile (they'd been missing him so invaded his room). He ran into their arms for a hug and kiss as always. Normally, MC handles Mammon's weight being shoved onto them perfectly fine, but today, they stumbled.

Mammon sprang back, PRUDENTLY[?] voicing his concern, but MC brushed it off as "nothing" and calmed down their agitated demon.

After animatedly suggesting his idea of trying out a new, 'awesome' way to prank a RAD teacher, Mammon knew MC would excitedly agree - or so he thought. With a sad smile, MC declined his offer, "You're welcome to go alone, Doll - maybe take Levi with you?"

Pouting, Mammon argued, "Noo I wanna spend time with ya!! Ya want cuddles from the Great Mammon right here at home? Is that why ya don't want to go?"

Smiling, MC nodded, lying down on Mammon's bed. Mammon joined them, enveloping them in his arms. MC could smell the familiar, comforting scent of their absolute favourite demon. They knew he'd miss them when...

Soon, MC had morphed into an empty shell, only feeling remotely alive when they were cuddling Mammon, who even stopped going out gambling almost every night to stay with his beloved. They were like porcelain: fragile, beautiful, weak; but he knew they had guts of steel - way more guts than him! What could have shaken them so?

This state led to Mammon crying hysterically whenever he was away from MC: the kitchen at night (found and comforted by Beel), the library, and even a RAD toilet cubicle.

Everything was revealed after two long, painful, months of this. It was a student council meeting and MC was present - physically, at least. They were lost in their own little world: leaning on Mammon, eyes glassier than ever.

Diavolo was talking to them all about a new school event: "blah blah bl-"

"Diavolo, how strong are you?" MC questioned, sitting up and staring Diavolo in the eye.

Diavolo blinked in surprise at the question. "MC? MC is everything o-"

"Kill me, Diavolo." MC cut him off, their tone pleading. "Please. I'm tired now...so very tired...I..."

Mammon's hand gripped MC's wrist hard, his absolute astonishment stopped his voice box working. A look of shock painted his face, the same look being mirrored around the whole table - even Belphie was sitting straight up, staring wide eyed at MC.

A quiet "MC..." rolled off Lucifer's lips. His expression was forlorn. They had brought peace among the brothers at times when even the threat of Cerberus couldn't quieten the boys. They had even united them once more! But now what would happen if Satan goes off on a rampage because Beel had eaten all the food in the fridge again?

A loud CRASH echoed around the walls of the room, the sound of broken glass skidding across the floor scratched against everyone's ears. Barbatos was frozen in place, hands still outstretched in front of him as if he was still holding his tea tray. He knew this would happen - but in this timeline?! It wasn't supposed to happen! What had gone wrong? His extreme distress evident through his rigid form.

"MC?!" Asmo exclaimed, "MC, darling..."

His eyes welled up with tears, voice cracking with heavy despair. He thought of all the times he'd concentrated on himself instead of them. If he could do it all again, he would definitely, definitely pay them more attention. He focused on his fingers, picking at his beautifully manicured nails and wishing for a second try, just give him one more chance-

The twin's faces mirrored each other perfectly: violet eyes wide and staring at MC, lips slightly parted in disbelief. Beel's mind had short-circuited. The only thing he could hear was MC's torn voice asking - no, begging - for death, echoing in his head, ringing in his ears, bouncing off the inside of his skull, leaving cracks wherever their voice collided.

Belphie's mind was reeling. Why did they want to die? Was it him? It was him. He shouldn't have tried to kill them all those years ago. He had made them uncomfortable. But would anything he said help? Would they even care anymore?

Wriggling their wrist out of Mammon's grasp in guilt, MC looked down at the table. "I-I'm sorry...I'm tired. I can't even go back to the human world or I grow shrivelled and old and - I should be dead by now!"

Diavolo stood up slowly. "MC...please, think about what you have just proposed I do. You should not be dead - if you were to be dead, why are you here? Heart beating, lungs filling with air?"

Levi gasped, eyes welling up with tears. In his mind, he could see flashbacks of his non-stop rambling, guilt blurring his vision - or were those the tears? "N-no MC you c-can't...I-I'm sorry...p-please don't d-"

"...They're right."

The flat voice of Satan hauntingly rang around the room. His gaze was directed at the table, emerald eyes shining. "Human brains, human bodies...they aren't built to live for centuries. But MC...we can get you spells and potions - things to make it better! I have knowledge of all three worlds at my fingertips! Let me h-"

A small, sad smile adorned MC's face as they interrupted him. His mention of potions and knowledge had sparked an idea in them - but they couldn't say it out loud.

"Satan, it's okay. My time's here...and I'm sure the cunt sitting up there thinks so too. It's o-"

"NO!"

The anguished scream of Mammon shook the very ground of the Devildom.

Diavolo stood up, his face serious. "Nobody is dying. Lucifer, see to it that MC is watched at all times."

"Yes Lord Diavolo."

None of the brothers argued. None of them said it out loud, but they all knew something huge was going to happen - only Barbatos knew what.

Lucifer looked at the clock: 1am. He sighed. The sound of Mammon in the kitchen, pouring himself yet another glass of beer, met his ears as he crept along the corridor to MC's room. All the brothers were restless after the events of the afternoon, followed by MC coming home and barricading themselves in their room without telling anyone anything. None of them had slept until midnight - even Belphie and Asmo.

Asmo had been awake, shuffling around his room, postponing his beauty sleep; Levi had been softly muttering to Henry, not even playing video games. Satan hadn't left the library, no doubt looking for a way to help MC in any way he could - Lucifer knew he had fallen asleep in there, a book pile acting as his duvet. He didn't pass the twins room, but he knew they would have been restless too, probably playing uno or chess to distract themselves from their anxiety.

But now everyone was silent. Only Mammon was awake - but probably not for long. He was drinking away his worries and Lucifer couldn't blame him.

No sound was coming from MC's locked room door - not even breathing. Lucifer's heart stopped. Had they-? No. They couldn't have-!

Lucifer knocked. Nothing.

He swallowed. "MC, I'm coming in."

Lucifer broke the door down as quietly as possible to refrain from disturbing his sleeping brothers.

His eyes fell upon MC on the ground. No movement came from them. Lucifer's eyes widened, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. He rushed towards MC's ever so still body, checking for breathing, a pulse, anything! His search was to no avail, however. It seemed MC was...they had really...

His eyes fell upon a piece of paper lying beside them. He was about to reach for it-

Lucifer's door breaking had not gone unnoticed by the other demon awake in the house: Mammon. The snowy haired demon had run towards the faint sound of splintering wood. "Fuck ya doin' Lucifer?! You cr-"

His voice trailed away as his eyes fell upon the corpse on the floor. He dragged himself over to their carcass on the floor, each step felt like a nightmare. He felt nothing. He felt numb.

At that moment, Diavolo and Barbatos showed up at MC's room door.

" I apologise for our intrusion, but I have found it necessary t-" Barbatos trailed off, "Am I too late...?"

Diavolo was already on the floor beside the still standing, seemingly broken Mammon, checking for a pulse.

Lucifer and Barbatos made eye contact, both pale. Barbatos picked up the paper, handing it to Lucifer. He gulped before reading it aloud.

"...After the meeting with Diavolo, I figured it was extremely unfair of me to ask that of him - so I took matters into my own hands.

Digging around in the books I'd nicked from Satan a while back, I found a potion. A potion that could turn a human into a demon. It was surprisingly simple for me to make.

I read about it before I used or made it (obviously) and apparently there's a chance that I can lose my memories. I know...not great, but there's a chance they'll come back? And if they don't, we'll make new memories together!"

Lucifer was tearing up now, his voice cracking with emotion as he read.

He saw the huge 'DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU'RE MAMMON' at the top of the next page. He smiled sadly, ignoring the warning because mammon was in no state to read right now. Instead, Lucifer directed his reading quietly to Mammon.

"Mammon, doll, even if my memories are wiped clean a hundred times, I will always fall for you...over and over I will fall for you because I love you Mammon. I love you my little doll.

~MC"

That seemed to bring Mammon to his breaking point. "BRING THEM BACK"

"Mammo-" Lucifer started.

"NO!!" Mammon interrupted aggressively. "BRING THEM THE FUCK BACK! DIAVOLO! LUCIFER...BARBATOS...anyone...please...bring my little doll back-"

Broken, Mammon dropped to his knees beside MC's body, repeatedly mumbling, "Bring them back...MC...come back..."

He sobbed dryly, so broken that no tears fell. His breath came out in hysterical, shaky gasps, entire body vibrating.

His hands tightly hugged his grieving form as his fingernails dug into his sides - but that pain he could bear. The pain in his heart, however...it was excruciating. The only being who never bullied him: calling him adorable and amazing when his brothers called him a scumbag; always being there for him after a particularly harsh punishment of Lucifer's - but no more. They were gone. Forever.

A comforting arm wrapped around him, pulling him into a hug: Lucifer. He could see how truly crushed his younger brother was, knew he needed comfort and Lucifer was going to give it to him.

Mammon didn't care who it was. He buried his face in Lucifer, tears finally flowing like frenzied rivers from his eyes.

There was a soft squelching sound from MC's body - the sound far too soft to be heard over Mammon's shaky sobs. A pair of bare, bloodstained arms reached out from MC's chest, tearing the delicate flesh of the corpse. Placing their palms against the floor either side, the arms pushed. A head popped out, equally drenched in blood which was dripping from the ends of its hair and horns. The rest of the humanoid form began appearing.

Barbatos breathed out a small sigh of relief after seeing this - it had worked! He knew it worked in this timeline! He cracked a small smile as he watched, knowing that this was the best outcome of any timeline.

The body had reached its waist before Lucifer noticed. Looking over to Diavolo in shock, he saw that Diavolo was watching in mild horror and interest as the bloodied, live, body of MC crawled its way out of the dead body of MC.

"Diavolo-" Lucifer began, getting to his feet and standing beside him.

Diavolo nodded, "It's exactly what you think Lucifer."

Mammon's sobs had ceased. MC was coming back? What? How?

They watched as MC's bare, blood-drenched demon form stepped out. Their cold eyes looked around before they rolled their shoulders and neck, throwing their head back and screaming out in anguish, probably causing even the celestial realm to tremble.

Diavolo stepped forward, reaching out to them. "MC...?"

MC stopped screaming. Their frosty gaze landed on Diavolo, no recognition in their eyes. They stood for a second like that before -

"MC NO!" Lucifer jumped forward to grab MC, who had lunged hungrily towards Diavolo. As Lucifer moved the aggressive MC away from him (after draping his own jacket over their naked body), Diavolo chuckled slightly. "I see that MC is as fiery as ever."

Disapproving of Diavolo's attitude, Lucifer was about to speak but was disrupted by MC going limp in his grasp, murmuring something.

"Mammon. I want Mammon. Mammon..." MC mumbled his name over and over like a mantra.

"Take them to him. It is safe," Barbatos told Lucifer calmly.

Cautiously letting go of the now calm MC, Lucifer was joined by Diavolo and Barbatos as protection in case they lashed out again.

Mammon was still in a heap on the floor. Eyes shimmering with pearly tears. He scanned the partner he'd loved so much, as Lucifer guided them to him, allowing them to crouch on the floor beside him. He took in their magnificent horns and wings, reaching out to touch their soft skin before launching himself onto them, not caring that he was now soaked in blood, a fresh wave of tears pouring out of his eyes.

MC's eyes shined with tears, but they didn't know why. Their confusion grew as the glistening tears began dripping down their cheeks. Grief stabbed at their heart, choking them and making their breath come out in gasps. Why? Because this Mammon, who they didn't know yet had requested for, was sobbing.

"Their memories-" Lucifer began, keeping his voice low.

Nodding gravely, Diavolo interrupted him, quietly responding, "Yes. Their memories seem to be gone. But they remember Mammon."

Barbatos gave a slight nod. "Indeed. Some memories have been retained."

"I should have seen this coming, considering their reckless nature." Lucifer sighed. "We'll watch MC for now...hopefully it's temporary amnesia."

"It is temporary." Barbatos confirmed.

Diavolo broke out into a smile, "Well, that means they get their memories back slowly, bit by bit!"

'It will hurt them, however...' Barbatos thought to himself, 'If this is the timeline it should happen in 3...2...1-'

A blood-curdling screech ripped through the House. All eyes flicked towards MC, whose eyes were rolling back into their head, their mind reeling. It hurt. It hurt so much-

Mammon held them tight, trying to calm them with his soft words and kisses.

Vague snippets of information began flooding into their head: a pale hand reaching for a mystery book; a figure cuddling a cow pillow; a flash of bright orange hair peeking over the fridge door; a sweet moan passing across a pair of lips while MC's hand ran down his bare, tan chest.

Each brief image brought with it more and more agony.

Names painfully fired around their head simultaneously. They didn't know what to focus on. The names didn't match any image: Levi, Satan, Lucifer, Simeon, Asmo, Barbatos...the one name they could place was Mammon's. Mammon's eyes, Mammon's lips, Mammon's heartbeat against their fingertips. They could feel it: his fast-paced heartbeat, full of fear and concern for them. They could hear Mammon's soft voice soothing them, his warm breath tickling their ear.

Barbatos hurried over in concern. He put his hands to MC's temples, painlessly knocking them out and ceasing their screaming. Diavolo came forward, carefully lifting MC and placing them on their bed, Barbatos' fingers still at MC's temples. Mammon sat beside them, finally having calmed his hysteria. He ran his thumb gently over their cheek. They looked almost dead, and if Mammon's heart wasn't already shredded into the smallest pieces possible, it sure as hell was now. He couldn't bear to see them in so much pain.

The other brothers had evidently woke up due to the screaming as Satan's concerned voice came from the door. "What the hell is going on?!"

Belphie and Beel asked in unison, "Why the fuck are you all covered in blood?!" (Beel didn't swear)

"WHY IS MC DEAD ON THE FLOOR?!" Levi screamed.

Asmo shrieked, "BUT WHY ARE THEY ALIVE ON THE BED AS WELL?!"

"AND COVERED IN BLOOD!" Beel added.

Fear was rising in every one of them until-

"CALM DOWN!" Lucifer's voice silenced them all.

"I'll explain what happened," Diavolo said.

"Thank you, Lord Diavolo. Let's go to the sitting room."

Diavolo and the brothers (except Mammon) filed out of the room. Their departure had left a strange hollowness which Mammon didn't like at all. He bounced his leg nervously as the blanket of eeries silence settled around them all.

Barbatos' soft voice pierced the thick veil. "That should hold them. They should wake up tomorrow. When they do, they will not feel this much pain as the initial shock will have worn off. They may not regain all their memories, but they are not lost."

Mammon smiled weakly, his voice croaky, "I'm just glad they're alive."

Barbatos nodded. "They are lucky."

After another moment's silence, Barbatos stood up to make a special tea which would help them all sleep - it was, after all, 2am.

"We're alone now, doll," Mammon cracked a smile, "Remember what we used to get up to alone? The cuddles, the pranking, the going further..."

He stopped to think.

"Maybe I should clean ya up a bit? Get all this blood off ya, put some clothes on ya...I can even sing your favourite song!"

When MC got up the next day, they were engulfed by twelve bodies: the brothers, angels, royals and Solomon had come to say hi and to tell MC to never give them such a fright ever again.

MC just weakly smiled, knowing, even with their incomplete memories, that chaos will ensue wherever they are.

apologies for spelling or grammar errors - I finished this at 1:30am and didn't proofread...

thanks for reading :)

[ladylilithprime]

Sastiel Creations Challenge | @ladylilithprime

↳ Theme: One More | Prompt: Day

Fluff Bingo Square: Movie Night

=I Did Not Live Until Today=

Read on AO3

MOVIE NIGHT IN the Bunker had been originally instituted by Dean, and the insistence of Sam that everyone in the Bunker, especially a stressed out and overworked teenaged Prophet of the Lord, needed to take regular breaks to relax and unwind before the constant "go, go, go" made them all go crazy. Hunts would occasionally interrupt the ritual, postpone it for a couple of days, but none of them were allowed more than ten days without a mandatory Movie Night. Dean had insisted that Castiel join these movie nights whenever he was around, intent on "educating" the Angel in what he termed the "classics" of cinema. Castiel had confided privately to Sam that, upon viewing these so-called classics, he was gaining more of an understanding of Dean than he was of why the movies were classical, which Sam had assured him was normal.

Movie Night had been weird after the Trials, because Sam would start out watching the movie with Dean and whoever else was there, but suddenly it would be hours later and he wouldn't remember actually watching any of it despite not having moved. In the wake of Crowley showing up in Sam's head with the brothers' code word tripping off his tongue to warn him that he had an angelic passenger who had taken over the driver's seat, Sam figured he knew what had happened and maybe he felt a little tiny flicker of gratitude for Gadreel sparing him having to watch the monkey movies again, but that was drowned out by the overall feelings of shock and betrayal and rage because how could Dean do this to him?!

It was Sam's decision to continue Movie Night even though it was just him and Castiel in the Bunker now. The original purpose of enforcing a break on overworked humans was still valid, even though now the overworked human was only Sam, and the secondary purpose of introducing Castiel to human entertainment was also still in effect, perhaps even more so after Metatron had downloaded a huge selection of American pop culture into Castiel's head without much in the way of context. Without Dean to steer the selection towards action films and neither of them particularly interested in watching mindless violence and gore, plus Sam's increased aversion to psychological horror films, the movies they watched tended to veer more towards musicals. If Castiel suspected that this, too, might be a bit of Sam's rebellion against Dean's stubborn adherence to mullet rock as the only valid music to listen to, well, he didn't call Sam on it and Sam didn't choose to admit anything.

Tonight was another designated Movie Night, not because it had been too long since the last, but because Sam knew that after the failure of the tracking spell with Gadreel's extracted Grace he, at least, needed something where the fate of the world was less dependant on the outcome. In hindsight, queueing up Les Miserábles was probably not the best idea given the overall setting of the movie and the themes of melancholy and grief that pervaded it, but he suspected Castiel would appreciate the other themes of faith and sacrifice and second chances.

He probably should have expected Castiel's analysis of the story's themes to extend to their lives, but somehow it didn't even occur to him until Castiel blindsided him with an abrupt declaration that Jean Valjean reminded him of Sam.

"I'm sorry?" Sam blurted, not sure he had heard the Angel correctly.

"He is a good man who committed criminal acts for a good cause and was harshly punished for it even after his incarceration ended," Castiel explained, gesturing to the screen where Valjean's pay was docked in front of the other workers, who were openly hostile. "It does not matter to these people that his intentions were noble - to feed his family - or that the crime was relatively minor, all they see is the criminal record and discount the good heart of the man who committed it and is stained by that record in the eyes of the society he serves."

"Cas, that's not... I started the Apocalypse!" Sam said, shaking his head. "That's a good bit worse than stealing a loaf of bread and running."

"You killed a demon," Castiel disagreed. "A demon you had been told by everyone around you was responsible for breaking Seals and that killing her would stop things. You were deliberately not told that she was the final Seal and that killing her would release Lucifer because enough angels, myself included, believed that if you knew the truth then you would not have killed her. Yet you do not blame me for lying to you, or for changing my mind and breaking through my conditioning too late to send Dean in time to stop you. Nor do you blame Dean for breaking under Alistair and being the one to break the first Seal which set things in motion. Instead, you continue to allow people, including Dean who should really know better, to cast the blame for things beyond your control onto your shoulders and even take on blame and responsibility where there should be none, forgetting that any penance required for playing a part long ago set out for you has been more than served."

Sam looked away from Castiel's placid, deeply knowing expression, but found he couldn't focus on the screen until a flash of silver catching light drew his attention. "Look, I don't... whatever redemption I might have earned with jumping has to be cancelled out by the things I did after getting out again, especially all the crap I pulled without my soul--"

"Do you think yourself responsible for your soulless self's actions, even though your soul was still in the Cage being subjected to Michael and Lucifer's torments?" Sam frowned a little at the low notes of guilt and sorrow in the Angel's voice and looked over, but Castiel wouldn't meet his eyes, staring instead at the screen as the old priest backed up Valjean's lie of gifted silver and gave over the candlesticks as well. "Hm. Heaven has not treated you nearly so kindly as this priest does..."

"Castiel," Sam started to reach out, but found his courage falter and lowered his hand with a sigh. "I know you didn't leave my soul behind on purpose. I knew it then, too, even with you keeping secrets and never having mentioned it before that moment... sorry, too, about the holy fire."

"There is no apology necessary," Castiel refuted, though Sam thought he looked moderately grateful for it anyway. "You were right to be suspicious of my actions and motives at the time, if not for that specific reason."

"Still..."

"Sam, I assure you, I hold no ill will over your suspicion of me, nor for your actions to try and stop me. If anything, I am deeply grateful for your continued faith in me even after I had gone off the reservation and done you considerable harm." Castiel shook his head. "We are getting away from the main subject, which is that you are not responsible for the actions your body committed without your soul present."

"It was still my body," Sam argued. "My... impulses or whatever, stripped of my inhibitions--"

"Not true," Castiel interrupted. "Stripped of your higher empathic functions and natural moral compass that is your soul, your body behaved with logical precision not unlike how most Angels would act. While that behavior likely seemed heartless or 'dickish' at times, this was in part because of the contrast to your usual compassion and kindness, but you weren't actively malicious or uncontrolled. Everything, including the decision to go to Dean with the suspicion that something was wrong and to ask him to be your moral compass, was meticulously and logically thought out and reasoned for the most optimal outcome. Recall that your soulless self felt that it was for the best that your soul be retrieved and rejoined with your body, and only rejected the plan when the possibility that doing so would kill you was presented."

"Whereupon I promptly tried to kill Bobby! Cas--"

"Sam," Castiel turned fully to face him and glared at him in a way that reminded Sam forcefully of the fact that this was an Angel of the Lord. "You. Are. Not. To. Blame. Your soulless self attempted to kill a man who showed every sign of being ready to kill you by forcefully reuniting your damaged soul with your body. A soul, I must add, which did not deserve the torment inflicted upon it and to which we owed the continued existence of the human race."

"I was just--"

"Cleaning up your mess, so you've said." Castiel was beginning to look frustrated. "But the Apocalypse was not just your mess. It was Dean's, and mine, and Lucifer's, and Michael's, and every angel and demon and human servant of either side who worked towards setting it off earlier than my Father planned. I would even venture to say that it was my Father's fault for refusing to step in when, despite Raphael's delusions, we had very clear evidence from Joshua that He is still alive and close enough to be aware of the situation." The Angel reached forward then and covered the shell-shocked human's nearest hand with his own. "Your soulless self recognized that, and recognized the unfair imbalance, and quite rightly called us out on our lack of respect for you and your sacrifices. Since regaining your soul, Dean's insistence on leaving past transgressions in the past except when it suits him to drag them out as evidence of culpability and questionable judgement has driven your self-confidence down to the point where you have even allowed Dean to make you believe yourself at fault for not looking for a brother and non-human friend whom you had every reason to believe were dead and at peace.

"No more," Castiel said with a fire in his vessel's blue eyes that had nothing to do with his borrowed Grace. "Sam Winchester, you will listen to me and believe this if nothing else: You. Deserve. Respect. And for my part in allowing others to be negligent in giving you that respect, you have my apologies."

For a long moment, Sam could do nothing more than stare at Castiel, stunned speechless and feeling more than a few echoes of the old awe and wonder with which he had first viewed this Angel of the Lord who had saved his big brother from Hell. It seemed impossible to believe, even with Castiel staring into him and all but demanding that he do so. For all he knew, he had fallen asleep on the couch next to Castiel and all of this was somehow some sort of incredibly vivid dream like the ones he tried to pretend he didn't have about the Angel, because if anything stood a chance at making their current arrangement far more awkward than it ever needed to be....

Castiel must have seen something of his thoughts in his expression, because the intensity faded into sadness and then, before Sam could gather his wits enough to try and reassure him, turned to resolve. "I will remind you of this conversation later, so as to establish better credibility."

"Um..." Sam blinked. That was unexpected. "Okay? Thanks? I'll... work on believing you, Cas, I will, I just...."

"Have several years of conditioning for expecting the worst to work around, as well as the more recent problems with maintained perception of reality," Castiel nodded. "I will remind you as often as is necessary of your worth and worthiness."

Sam nodded, more for the lack of any other way to acknowledge Castiel's words than out of agreement or understanding, jumping a little when the music from the television screen picked up in volume. He turned back to the movie, flushing darkly when he realized that they'd completely missed Fantine's entire arc and Valjean's crisis of conscience, and reached for the remote. "Oh, hey, let me--"

"No, it's--" Castiel's grip on Sam's hand tightened, then released with enough abruptness that Sam found himself stopping anyway, turning questioning eyes on Castiel. "I confess that I have been, ah, 'cheating' with this film, as it is one of the stories that Metatron saw fit to share, though not this particular version."

"Should we put on something else?"

"If that is what you prefer. I am enjoying watching it with you regardless."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if that was because of Castiel's bizarre comparisons between Sam and Valjean, but he swallowed it back and instead forced himself to settle back into the couch beside Castiel to watch the introduction to the Thénardier family and Cosette. The silence stretched between them as the music played, until--

"Sam? Why is Thénardier's wife making that gesture when she sings that there is 'not much there'?"

Sam swallowed down the urge to choke or laugh, because of course Castiel would ask about that. He cut a sharp glance in the Angel's direction to check if he was being trolled, but Castiel's expression showed only genuine puzzlement. "Uh... Well, I mean, uh... some guys get kinda hung up on penis size, uh, taking the whole 'bigger is better' idea way too seriously and, uh, thinking that bigger size makes them better able to please their partners, which, uh, really isn't true across the board. And, uh, there are a lot of guys who think that having those, um, extra inches is all they need for it to be good for their partner, which also isn't true." He found himself looking at the screen in a gambit to not have to meet Castiel's eyes, and moments later he pointed. "See, she's saying the line again without the gesture. So, uh, the implication is Thénardier falls doubly short of the mark."

"I see," Castiel said, his tone meditative. With his eyes averted, Sam couldn't see the speculative look the Angel sent in his direction, though he definitely heard the pointedly dry tone when Castiel added, "Mrs Thénardier would do better to find a more skilled pizza man."

Sam jerked his head around to stare at Castiel again, but this time the Angel's expression was the same sort of bland that he used when trolling Dean, and so Sam managed to force out a chuckle for the joke before settling in to watch the dynamics between the Thénardiers and Cosette with its very Cinderella vibe. Castiel muttered something about "punching John Winchester again" that made no sense and Sam wasn't sure he wanted to know about anyway, and then made a brief comment about Cosette's dream being similar to many human interpretations of Heaven, but otherwise said nothing until Valjean told Cosette that he was now her father.

"Another parallel," he said. Sam, who had hoped Castiel had forgotten about his weird fixation by this point, blinked in confusion.

"Uh, Cas, I'm pretty sure I haven't gone and adopted any random kids," he pointed out. Really, that seemed more like something Dean would do than him, Dean actually really liked kids and liked the idea of being a dad while Sam... not so much.

"Random, no," Castiel agreed. "You are, however, extraordinarily compassionate. I suspect that, if presented with an orphaned child whose situation required more specialized guardianship than a more normal human fosterage system could provide, you would be an excellent parental figure." He was silent for a moment, pensive and troubled, and then said, softly, "I had never had Nephilim of my own, nor am I likely to do so in the future, but if I did and was unable to care for the child myself, I would ask you."

"Me?" Sam gaped at him. "I mean, why me? Why not Dean?"

"Dean has an unfortunate history of being less than tolerant of supernatural occurrences, of children with powers beyond most human capabilities," Castiel said, shooting an apologetic glance at Sam even before Sam was aware of wincing. "A Nephil would inevitably have powers, and I am a Seraph. Only an Archangel could overpower and suppress the Grace of a Nephil sired by me, and there are no more Archangels available to do so. You have powers of your own and training in using them, albeit with an enhancement method that I would not recommend using with a Nephil, and would be well suited to teaching."

"Cas, my powers--"

"Are yours and yours alone. Azazel may have forcefully activated them on his own schedule and attempted to corrupt them and, through them, you, but he - and Ruby - failed. Your soul is far too pure and good for their hooks to find permanent anchor."

"But... I mean, you... angels... you always warned me against using them...."

"Only because the method with which you were amplifying them - that is, drinking demon blood - was so dangerous to you and the people around you, and training them to full strength properly after first tearing down Azazel's blocks would have taken considerably more time and effort... and, I suspect, those of my superiors actively assisting in bringing about the Apocalypse did not want you learning to use your powers without the addictive crutch of demon blood that could be used to prime your rage and point you at Lilith when the time came."

"So why are you just now telling me this?"

"Well," Castiel glanced away, looking somewhat sheepish. "To be honest, I did not realize that you were unaware that your powers were innate and not actually demonic in origin until I overheard you speaking of them in past tense as if they no longer existed because you were no longer drinking demon blood rather than you simply not using them. Given my clumsy understanding of social nuances and the complex mix of negative emotions you associate with your powers, I erred on the side of caution and did not mention it until our current conversation provided an opening."

Well. That was fair. Even so, Sam couldn't help but stare at Castiel as he attempted to process everything he had learned in such a short amount of time. The fact that the majority of Angels hated him was not new, but the fact that Heaven had actively sabotaged his efforts to be better than the demon blood that tainted him was... also not new, exactly, but Sam had never expected to hear it put so bluntly in conjunction with reassurance that his powers - and, by extension, Sam himself - did not come from a source of evil.

Even more bewildering was the hypothetical child Castiel spoke of and his assertion that Sam, not Dean who had always longed to be a parent, but Sam who had barely ever had anything to do with children even when he had been one, was to be given custody of the hypothetical Nephil if Castiel was incapacitated. The way Castiel had talked about the subject made it clear that he had never had Nephilim himself, and Sam knew that the creation of Nephilim was outlawed, and yet the Angel was sitting there, calm as you please, declaring that if he did ever have a child with a human and needed another parent besides himself and, presumably, the mother, that he would pick Sam. Sam, who was uncomfortable around kids at the best of times, even if he could fake passable competence in an emergency. Sam, who wouldn't trust himself to look after a completely human baby, never mind one that had "phenomenal cosmic powers" at its disposal. Sam who, until earlier when Castiel had declared that "nothing is worth losing you", had thought that Castiel might possibly consider him a friend at best and tolerated him as a reasonably useful asset at worst. Mind-boggling just didn't cover it.

And that wasn't even touching the whole thing with Castiel sounding like he was defending the actions of his soulless self. The subject of Sam's time topside without his soul was something Dean had never hesitated shut down hard, but Castiel had sounded almost... complimentary. Which made no sense, Sam knew, because without his soul he had been a tactless jerk, not--

"Your soulless self recognized that... and quite rightly called us out on our lack of respect for you and your sacrifices."

Sam swallowed against the lump forming in his throat, and again when it refused to be dislodged. Everything he did to help people, to try and make up for the damage he had caused, it never felt like enough. All the centuries spent in the Cage with Michael and Lucifer systematically taking out their rage on him amounted to only a year and a half on Earth, and the tortures blurred together to the point where Sam had long since lost count of how many centuries it had really been, shoving it down and shoving it down, his shaky forays into meditation and reshuffling his mind only managing to build the flimsiest of fences between his conscious mind and that echoing chasm of memory and pain, bits and pieces escaping here and there to scratch along his dreams. Little reminders that he may be out, maybe, but he would never be truly free. It was a truth, cold and logical and inexorable, that Dean refused to acknowledge in either of them, touched by Hell as they both were in different ways, and neither of them coping nearly as well as they wanted the other to believe.

"Stripped of your higher empathic functions and natural moral compass that is your soul, your body behaved with logical precision not unlike how most Angels would act."

The irony of an Angel of the Lord comparing his soulless self to other Angels was not lost on Sam, nor was the way that comparison gave him mixed feelings. All the years of praying, of believing in God and His Angels, having faith that some higher power was watching out for Dean and his Dad when he couldn't, that there was real good in the world to counterbalance all the evil being shoved at him from all sides...

"Sam Winchester, the boy with the demon blood."

...no....

"Nothing is worth losing you."

...but why....

"Sam? Sam, did you hear me?"

"Hm?" Jolted from his contemplating, Sam shot a guilty look first at the screen - how had he missed that much of the movie?! - and then gave Castiel a sheepish smile. "Sorry, Cas. What were you saying?"

"I was asking about Marius's assertion that he is in love with Cosette, when he has only just met her and barely interacted with her at all," Castiel repeated himself after a moment of scrutiny for his friend. "It seems disingenuous, more like the 'love' of the pizza man and the babysitter."

"It's supposed to be love at first sight, Cas," Sam explained, scrubbing a hand down his face. "It's like... when two people who've never interacted before meet, and there's this... connection that forms between them, like they click on a level that is deeper than physical or emotional. A look, a touch of hands... you just know, looking at that person, that this is it. This is the one." He shrugged. "It's talked about in books and movies and stories and songs all the time as this big romantic ideal, a lot like soulmates... uh, cupid-type soulmates, not me and Dean type soulmates."

"Do you not believe in love at first sight?" Castiel asked, tilting his head to the side with that puzzled curiosity that Sam found endearingly familiar.

"I don't disbelieve in it," Sam said, choosing his words carefully. "I mean, being a hunter has taught me that every story has some root in a truth. I just don't necessarily think that it always happens the way the stories make it sound. Like maybe sometimes it's one-sided, or something gets in the way like they live too far apart or one is already married or..." Sam bit his lip before he could continue the thought with mention of angels and humans, because he knew from Castiel that most instances of humans and angels coupling were less about romance and love and more about lust and awkward power imbalances, and the last thing he wanted to bring up right now was the hypothetical Nephil again. "Besides, just because love usually happens more slowly than a couple of seconds doesn't make it any less deep or meaningful or special."

"I see," Castiel hummed, and then, "Sam? How do you know when you're in love?"

...Shit.

"Uh," Sam reached up to rub the back of his neck, only to force his hand back down again when he realised what he was doing. "It's different for everyone, Cas...."

"I am aware," and there was a definite note of impatience in the gravelled voice. "I am asking how you know when you are in love."

"Oh," Sam mumbled. He could feel his face heating up and very nearly prayed that the heat wasn't a visibly obvious blush before he stopped himself; Castiel would probably hear it if he did. "Uh, well... not to sound like a broken record, but it was different for everyone I was... I mean, I felt differently about different people, even though it's all still love."

Castiel made an encouraging noise, and when Sam chanced a look in his direction, the Angel was turned more towards him than the screen, clearly interested and wanting to hear more. Well, okay then. Sam leaned back into the couch and closed his eyes, reaching back into the depths of his memory for the times he was in love or thought he was, shying away from some of the memories like Madison or Sarah or Amelia, and focusing on the deeper ones, the ones that got under his skin and stayed there across the years, even just as scars. There was a pattern there, a set of feelings that overlapped each instance.

"Happiness," he began, because that was the obvious place to start. "When you see the person, you feel happy. Being around them, sitting next to them, holding hands, hugging... full of happiness and joy and peace. You feel happy when they're happy, sad when they're sad, hurt when they're in pain... You want to protect them, even when you know they can protect themselves. You would fight, kill, even die for them, not because they would ever ask it of you, but because losing them is... unthinkable. It's agony. And all the pain is worth it, because seeing them smile is... it's better than Heaven."

"Oh," Castiel breathed. "Yes, that... that makes so much sense now."

There was a shuffling sound, and the couch cushions dipped beneath shifting weight, and then Sam felt one of his hands being enfolded in Castiel's, the skitter of that unfamiliar Grace held tightly leashed beneath his skin tingling just at the edge of Sam's awareness. He opened his eyes and looked at Castiel, who was beaming at him now from much closer than he had been. "Cas...?"

"Sam," Castiel was still smiling, but it was warmer, softer than the brilliant joy of before, more comfortable and... "Thank you for sharing your feelings with me. I was never able to explain myself adequately to my brothers, and so they frequently drew incorrect conclusions that I lacked the necessary frame of reference to refute or correct. Perhaps now I can make them understand."

"Understand?"

"That I am in love with you, Sam Winchester," Castiel squeezed Sam's hand gently. "My world started the day I took your hand. And I would not have it any other way."

"Cas... I...." He couldn't say it. He wanted to, God, did he ever want to say it back, but the words caught in his throat, too used to being choked back after so many years. "Cas...."

"I know. Sam? Will you hold me again? I enjoyed that quite a lot."

"Sure, Cas," Sam shifted, shoving the whirling of his thoughts back and away, and opened his arms. Castiel released his hand and moved closer, pressing the length of his body against Sam's. He let out a soft sigh as Sam brought his arms up to curl around Castiel, settling in a loose embrace that still managed to fully encompass the Angel's smaller physical frame. Together, they turned to watch the movie, wrapped up in each other and the mutual assurance that their feelings, spoken or not, were returned.

"Tomorrow we'll discover what our God in Heaven has in store...."

=End=

[liberty-flight]

Okumura Twins’ mirroring character arcs

In response to an ask that got too long. So this is just meta on the twins, I suppose.

I could probably make this full on research paper, but that’s a lot of work so please forgive me for my haphazard yelling about the twins.

So to start with I’m totally Hamilton trash. Which is relevant here, because Yukio and Rin seem to be following some of the arcs that the musical does!

They’re becoming more like each other and it’s probably going to end in Rin (Hamilton) being shot because he doesn’t raise his weapon against Yukio (Burr).

Their character developments and arc are mirroring each other, ironic since they’re twins. And when I say mirror I mean it in the way your reflection is flipped.

man this got long...

The basics are of Rin being born (we assume) a demon, with the flames. Yukio is born human. Yet Yukio is the one who can see them, and grows up in the world of exorcism. Which is weird because Mephisto gave Rin those eye drops for Goudain….?? Maybe it’s different

There’s the symbolism of their arcs too. Rin’s theme is fire, Yukio’s is water/snow. Even their names are in contrast to each other. Rin’s translating to something like “sulfur” (a reference to Lucifer/Satan apparently?) and Yukio’s translates to something like “man of snow.”

Rin’s rise and Yukio’s fall. They’re more similar than they think, and they’re both more similar to Shiro than they know. Rin’s parallels to Shiro are more obvious, but Yukio has them too. But! It seems Rin has been showcasing Shiro’s more positive traits, whereas Yukio seems to be showing his more negative aspects.

So they’re similar to each other, they are twins, and they do look alike if Yukio has his glasses off.

Points to Shiemi for trying.

And she says it here “neither one of you talks about yourself” though she worries about the emotional distance between her and the Okumura twins (more Yukio than Rin, but still) she actually has a pretty good read on them. They’re more similar than they like to think, even though Yukio says something like “i’m not like you!” which in the moment he means reckless, but the deeper meaning being his fear of having demonic powers like Rin.

Anyways.

“I want to be more like him”

 Rin, not knowing about demons or exorcism, wanted to be more like Yukio. He was the “good” twin. He never got into trouble, didn’t get into fights, he was smart and wanted to be a doctor. Rin was proud of him but also acutely aware he was the “bad” twin of the two.

Yukio, in contrast, did know the truth about everything and envied Rin his ignorance. He was resentful that he had to work so hard and bear so much burden where Rin didn’t.

“I’ll surpass you”

Both Rin and Yukio perceive the other as someone admirable, as a goal to be striven towards. They also both perceive the other as emulating Shiro more.

 Yukio see’s Shiro’s kindness and strong will in Rin, something he thinks he lacks. And Rin see’s Shiro’s exorcism career, his strength and poise in Yukio, something he thinks /he/ lacks.

Yukio has kinda told Shiemi about it, but definitely not Rin. Rin has been very vocal about his goals. His goal to be paladin (partly as homage to Shiro, partly to convince people to stop trying to kill him) and saying he’ll surpass Yukio.

Mountain Imagery

Rin’s big arc is coming to terms with himself as a half-demon, while the others do too. He also has to scale a literal mountain and defeat a huge monster and save everyone with the flames they shunned him for. Very exciting, but also a huge metaphor for struggle. He’s ascending, through strife and pure will, even when it looks helpless and he had to escape a prison to do it.

Yukio’s big breakdown has him standing in the shadow of True Cross, which is it’s own type of mountain. Then he jumps off a building. He literally descends from his place. Where Rin clawed his way upwards Yukio is flinging himself down. 

You could say that Rin is raising hell and Yukio is bending heaven (ha, sorry)

Rin ascends a mountain, whereas Yukio plunges off of a building (in the shadow of True Cross city, which looks like a mountain). To be poetic about it Rin conquers a demonic mountain with his controlled flames, and Yukio plunges off a mountain of exorcism/humanity, while he’s unstable and uncontrolled, in order to awaken demonic powers.

Similarity to Shiro Fujimoto

They both parallel Shiro. As I mentioned before Rin seems to be showcasing Shiro’s more positive traits, whereas Yukio seems to be showing his more negative aspects.

People have noticed Rin’s similarity to Shiro a little more, maybe because they’re shocked that the demon twin is emulating the previous paladin. But Yukio’s similarity to his father has been pointed out too. He’s following in his footsteps as an exorcist, and has taken over Fujimoto’s teaching duties, has vowed to take his father’s place in protecting Rin. Rin has showcase his similarities through his kindness, for the most part.

As Rin comes into himself during the Impure King arc that’s when Yukio gets truly unsettled. As Rin starts rising, Yukio begins falling in earnest.

As Mephisto said “When you gaze into the abyss (Rin), the abyss also gazes into you (Yukio)”

And Yukio is beginning to experience something similar to what Rin did, not knowing, a lack of control, etc.

Their weapons

Shiro to Rin “Here’s a sword, never draw it. You’ll become a demon” 

Shiro to Yukio “Here’s a gun, here’s how to use it. You’ll kill demons with it”

Suicide, Death, and “why am I alive?”

Both twins have had these thoughts, and neither have discussed them with someone else. They’ve both contemplated dying, and both have doubted why they were ever allowed to survive by Fujimoto. 

Rin might have even tried suicide had Shiemi not come when she had. Yukio, in contrast, went to Shiemi himself and then had his suicide attempt.

Now, onto their interactions with other characters!

Angel and Lightning

Angel doesn’t like Rin because of his demonic heritage but says he’s pleasantly surprised by Yukio. Yukio the human exorcist.

Lightning seems to like Rin, he banters and teases him and Bon. In turn Rin seems to trust him to be Bon’s master. Lightning seems suspicious of Yukio, which then turns to antagonizing him and dangling info in front of him.

Lightning who seems very familiar with demons vs Angel who seems to hate them.

Mephisto and Lucifer

Mephisto and Lucifer both approach the twins.

AND. Mephisto approaches Rin after Shiro sacrificed himself for his son. Lucifer approaches Yukio before Izumo’s mom sacrifices herself for her daughter. Like I said, mirrors.

Mephisto approaches with exorcists who have guns drawn, and Rin then exclaims that he wants to join his organization, the True Cross Order. Rin doesn’t want to battle, doesn’t reach for his sword even with so many guns in his face.

Lucifer approaches more or less unarmed, Yukio has his weapon drawn and wants to fight Lucifer, Lucifer doesn’t want to fight though. He wants Yukio to join him, and offers him a place, Yukio doesn’t want to join the Illuminati though.

Suguro and Rin vs Suguro and Yukio

Bon learns to trust Rin and to distrust Yukio.

Rin is unable to draw his weapon, because of doubts of his ability to not hurt others. He wants to draw his weapon, needs to, so he can protect his friends and especially Bon.

Yukio is losing his restraint when it comes to threats and violence, in contrast to Rin’s doubt. He draws his weapon, recklessly and without hesitation, and points his gun at an ally’s face. He threatens Bon’s safety with his own hands.

Bon’s “I trust you” to Rin vs his “Did he always have such a look in his eyes?” when looking at Yukio

Shiemi and Rin vs Shiemi and Yukio

Yukio himself reflects on Rin’s ability to draw Shiemi out of her shell and into the outside world. He perceives this as Rin succeeding where he failed. Rin, in turn, perceives Shiemi’s admiration and respect for Yukio as something he can’t have the way Yukio does because he doesn’t have the history that they do and Yukio is already an exorcist.

They both seem to think that Shiemi might prefer the other twin, which seems like a projection of their own insecurities rather than anything Sheimi has said or done.

Shiemi hugs Rin, Yukio hugs Shiemi. Rin sorta blows up at her before the hug, telling her to stay away because he’s a monster. Yukio blows up at her after the hug, and pushes her to the ground (whereas Rin didn’t hurt her at all, just flashed his harmless/warm flames). Shiemi’s hug no jutsu worked for Rin, but not for Yukio.

Rin needed support and acceptance, but Yukio seemed to explode at the mention of having any support from his brother. Probably because Rin is a reminder of what he’s struggling with, along with his resentment towards himself and Shiro and Rin.

Shura and Todou

Both Shura and Todou attack a twin after being undercover/being introduced under false pretenses. Todou posed as an exorcist and Shura posed as a student.

Shura is over Rin, trying to stab him, and Todou is hunched over Yukio trying to choke/burn him.

Todou and Shura ALSO play into the elemental themes.

Shura’s sword/familiars are snow/ice and Todo’s powers are of fire. We didn’t know about Shura’s at the time, but now we do. Where Todou stole/consumed another’s familiar (that was granted to the head priest by birth right) Shura was BORN with it, as a curse.

You can go even further. Todou’s power is that of the phoenix, of renewal and longevity. Shura’s was a literal limit on her life span.

And if you /really/ want to stretch it…Todou got his power from a bird, Shura from a snake. An animal that can fly vs an animal that doesn’t even have limbs. (I’m really reaching here, but it could be considered a cool interpretation) If bird=dove and snake=serpent then it could even have some biblical theme inversions.

They both express something like “I like that kid”

And despite not having joined the illuminati (yet?) Yukio, in a way, is being mentored by him. 

I think both Toudo and Shura see themselves in the twins.

Shura & Rin born with a demonic burden neither ever asked for, kept at a distance by Shiro (via secrecy for Rin, more literal for Shura), and a demonic sword that has a significance to their situations

Todou and Yukio, with brothers and fathers they strived to emulate and take care of, but feeling trapped by the expectations placed on them. Having dark impulses that they let fester instead of addressing, resenting themselves and others.

Shura really helps Rin to train to become an exorcist, even before any of the others know about his heritage. Todou is really a pressure point with Yukio, pushing him to his limits towards…whatever it is (before any of the others know).

I don’t know if this means they’re going to end up on opposing sides, but I do know that they’re headed for a collision course.

Yukio’s escalation when it comes to his violent reactions towards stressors, especially Rin, added with his repeated threats/play-acting of shooting Rin, leads me to think that, in the least, Yukio may hurt Rin very badly, even if not on purpose.

Which, if what Yukio was told about getting his tempt taint from Rin as a baby is true, will be another thing between them that has come full circle. One twin hurting the other, perhaps without even knowing it.

[pernatius]

Lost in Space Part 11: Ch 3

Previous

Summary: Finally, on Commander Knox’s spaceship, the trio finds themselves running out of time before the commander becomes an all too powerful Watcher.

Lost in Space on Tumblr

Lost in Space on ao3

The false deity rams his lifeless fist into my gut. He twists it, reopening Ashely's slash. Besides my blood, I can feel my insides sliding through the widening opening. I shudder, and so does my sword. It scratches against that sole silver finger, but it remains unblemished. 

"Now repent before God!"

His almighty punch sends me flying across the room, spinning underneath one of the bulbous veins and crashing into a wall. I sunk into it; the wall depressed around my limp self. I'm hundreds of feet above the floor. My fractured body lunges forward in the aftermath, and I can't keep my grip on my sword. Through my hair strands covering my face, I see its flames trail behind it as it falls. It stabs the floor, and I nearly join it if I didn't lay my glowing hand back onto the wall. The limb isn't inflamed but instead glowing blue. Saamuki shared some of her powers with me.

I'm dangling in the air. The nanites have healed my wounds, but they're not the ones keeping me from going splat. I don't know how long Saamuki's powers can keep me up here. It's not close to running out yet, but my arm is beginning to shake from fighting against this room's gravity. My tendons are quickly giving in to the pressure as one by one they shear. I must've lost tons of weight throughout my travels, but apparently not enough. I don't think I am enough for that thing all the way down there. 

Wait. Where did Knox go? I look around the room. S1Y is still standing there, looking at me. When Earth was taken, we came onto his planet thinking we could take a break from the mess happening beyond the stars. That once-friendly robot risked his life to save me, a stranger he barely met, because he genuinely believed in helping those who couldn't help themselves. That smile, one that's been replaced with a frown, said it all. While my smile in return said the opposite. Now the tables have turned. He's gone. He's alive, though, but in a broken shell, and as for me, I'm trying to keep living for my previous self because she was killed too soon. Or so I thought until I noticed something in those eyes. They darted left. I follow it and see Knox has teleported to my left. Knox's blaster is charging up. Electricity surrounds the increasing purple ball of light. My nanites won't be able to put me back together if that thing hits. So, all I'm left with is down. I hope for the best as I let go just when he shoots. Cool air rapidly pushes against me. What's left of my clothes flaps at my sides, still clinging onto my body. 

I smack the ground with my left arm first. I didn't have enough time to readjust myself to balance out the force. So, my left arm shatters. I shout, but I don't hear it through the ringing in my ears. At least my eyes work. S1Y looks away from me, which means he's in there somewhere. My working arm reaches out to him. 

Knox reappears in front of me, standing between my helpless state and S1Y. He steps on my only working hand and crushes its bones. I scream. S1Y twitches, but he remains glued to that one spot, but something does push him off of me, and that something is a rushing beam of blue light. Knox is sent flying into a nearby wall, chunks of its metal are sent scattering away from him, and Saamuki replaces his previous position. Her body is covered in blue light. Some veins have popped out of her blue flesh. They are pumping, and a lot of them are bulging around her flaming eyes. Her hair and the hems of her cassock are floating too, but not her sash. She lifts the red cloth over her shoulders. It turns into a sword as big as mine, but hers looks more like a cross. 

Saamuki helps me up. Her powers flow through me again. My body has a tint of blue to it, my energy renews, and my skin and bones have healed. Hints of The Speaker are heard when she asks, "Are you okay?" I nod. Her hand moves behind me, and metal being scratched is heard. My sword seemed to pry itself free and flew towards me with the pommel directly pointed at me with a now glowing blue handle. I catch it, wrap my hand around the handle, and the blue fades away. 

Knox removes himself from the wall. He falls, and his eyes slowly move from Saamuki to me. When our confused opponent stands back up, his fingers flick off a dark drop of purple blood from his lips. His eyebrows furrow as he frowns, but he quickly shifts the grimace into a nonchalant expression. The Virmus dusts himself off. He smiles as he finishes. "Look what we have here, S1Y. I now have two sinners that wish to defy their savior. Two Lucifers instead of one and it appears one of them is planning on stopping me with a cross." He swipes a finger in front of him, activating a screen with a timer, and pushes it. The screen floats past us and stops above the crystal. "Ten minutes to entertain me, and after that I will make you join me," the tyrant commander continued. 

Saamuki and I turn to look at each other. We nodded, and she bolted left, and I bolted to the right. She became a blue blur, and I'm sure I looked like a blur mainly of red and yellow. We jump over vein after vein and slide our feet across the floor when we're on either side of him. At the same time, the two of us swing. Knox teleports away, and we stop right when either of our swords can cut the other's heads off. 

Knox is standing above an arching vein behind us and smiles as he pulls his arms back. He stretches his arms towards us, and we swerve away from the incoming hands. They hit the floor, and once its smoke clears, I see it went through several rooms beneath us. I gulp, but another nod from Saamuki, and we begin running towards Knox on the veins at our sides. He pulls back his arms and turns them into blasters. He aims at us. The two of us deflect the rushing purple light as we jump from vein to vein. They bounced off our weapons, sent all over the room, smashing through the walls and floor. Each easily could've killed us if we weren't quick enough. The ones that become directed towards some of the veins don't even leave a mark on them.

Knox turns his pointer fingers into large swords. Near his knuckles are angelic wings as their cross-guards. Their blades have those symbols again, which glow purple along with, now, his eyes. Our swords clash with him from side to side, but the two of us struggle to keep up. Saamuki and I are gritting our teeth. His fluid movements are too much for our eyes to keep up with. I mainly as I'm gaining cuts across my arms. The nanites are stitching my skin back together, but another cut replaces that one every time they do. The rest of his fingers grow swords. I nearly slipped off of the vein to dodge the attack of five blades all at once if it weren't for Saamuki summoning a platform underneath my feet with my next backstep. Knox yawns through our struggles. 

He reverts his hands back and bends his arms towards him, pointing his elbows which suddenly turn into blasters at us. He shoots, but Saamuki is one step ahead of him. She makes shields for both of us. The electrifying purple energy goes around these blue shields, hitting everything around us, S1Y dodges the stray blasts and this time some tear through veins. Purple goo flows out of the newly formed holes. Being so, we're being pushed back, and our defenses are starting to crack. Piece by piece, these things are being vaporized. I try to keep it stable with my flames. It binds it, but not enough. He's going to tear through the shield. The vein underneath us is starting to crumble as well because of the blast's sheer strength, but I don't know what's going to snap first, and my faint blue glow is beginning to fade. The crystal is slowly absorbing my energy again.

I'm on my knees when someone bellows something. That thing inching closer to taking me away makes it hard to hear what was said and who said it. When Saamuki shouts, I'm finally able to hear, "Raise your hand towards me!"

I was growing numb, and I was losing my vision. My body is rapidly growing too heavy. 

I can't do it. 

I can't save us. 

I can't protect the universe. 

I was about to blackout until I heard a voice whisper into my ear. "Please, stay awake. They need you." 

A hand is lightly pressed onto my shoulder. I felt energy soar through me. It rushed towards my hands, and when I turned around to see the cause, I found my eyes watering. Shiitake, glowing, has his head back. My mushroom friend wipes away my tears. Before I can thank him, he fades away from me and appears before Knox, floating before him, and punches him in the face. Saamuki and I, standing in shock, watch Knox fall and spin into a lower vein, which he crashes through, breaking it. Knox quickly recovers from it, using his blasters to fly towards Shiitake. Pulling back his fist, he then punches Shiitakee, but it goes right through him. The ghostly figure that was Shiitakee vanishes into thin air. 

Knox is back between us. He turns left and right, looking at Saamuki and me. No one has an answer for what we're all questioning. I shrug. We do get our powered-up selves towards him with our swords pointed forwards. No, overpowered selves because Knox is no longer outpacing us. We slice through him, but his nanites fix it. They're not fast enough, though. He's gritting his teeth as more and more of his blood splashes onto his face. 

Knox is stumbling about with his hands swaying in front of him, nearly slipping off. He's looking at the two of us, but he can barely keep his eyes open. We're about to win this. We're about to decapitate Knox until he snaps his fingers. S1Y steps in front of him. 

"S1Y, I know you're in there somewhere. I know you can hear me. You have to fight against Knox's control."

"He doesn't have me like how he does with your friends. All I'm about to do is of my own volition, but I'm sorry."

What I thought was my friend shoots at me. My sword is ready to block it, but instead of having to face the same blast that killed that serpent on his homeworld, the ground beneath me breaks. He shot at the vein. I fall, and as I do, he jumps and flies towards me with his fist pulled back. My back hits a vein, causing a painful tingling sensation to run up and down my body. After I grunt, I roll out of the way of S1Y's punch. The vein cracks, and pieces of it and its goo are sent upwards. They rain down on him. He stands upright when I do it with the help of my sword. 

We're five minutes before the end. Knox is still wounded, but his pace is much better now that he only has to face Saamuki. Her sword has to deal with ten swords, which their maneuvers get faster and faster with each swing. She only has seconds until his nanites recover him fully. Whereas I don't know how long I have, but I do know it's not short enough. Sword in both hands, I command, "S1Y, step out of my way. I don't care how much you think you're in control of your own body. I know you and this isn't you. The you I know won't let what happens after that timer hits zero."

"On that day, I protected you and your friends. It's in my program to help others in need. In five minutes, my master will make my purpose pointless. He will protect all those left that didn't get to be part of the greatest purpose a person can be given. Commander Knox will make the universe a better place."

"By taking away the lives of billions, some of which includes the friends you saved."

"I've learned you can't save everyone."

"How can you even say that? Why are you truly doing this, S1Y? What happened to you?"

"What happened to me? Simply, I was reunited with my creators. Virmus three generations ago created my people. I am the last of them now. Each one sacrificed themselves to make this day possible."

"S1Y, I'm sorry."

"No, I am." He sprints towards me with a ferocious punch. I blocked it with my sword, but I felt the impact hitting my abdomen, and he's pushing me back. As I try to move him away, in the corner of my eye, I see Saamuki taking a hit. One of the ten blades pierces into her shoulder. She grabs it, and it cuts into her hand, but Knox pulls it back, causing the cut to deepen and her to nearly slip. 

S1Y's other fist collides with my jaw. My vision fades, and once I hit the floor, I blackout. 

[cuteeiji]

wither

summary: something feels off today, and not just because she’s the sickest that she’s ever been. he’s hiding something from her. an interlude to ostinato (takes place in the middle of part three) pairing: natan warnings: major character death word count: 2511

He’s been acting strange today.

Natalie folds her hands together, staring absently at the way her fingers intersect, curling in on each other. There’s a persistent ache in her chest, right underneath her sternum, like her bones have been sharpened underneath her skin and are threatening to pierce through her as she breathes. She doesn’t tell him that, but the way he looks at her makes her feel like she doesn’t need to.

She’s not stupid. She might be a little naive, a little too willing to trust, but even if if his horns weren’t radiating an aberrant violet she would know something’s wrong. She could never miss the way that he hesitates to meet her eyes, the way he lingers around her but remains strangely distant, lips pressed together in a close-mouthed grimace. She thought he would be able to trust her with his troubles, but he seems to be miles away from her bedroom now, on a far-off island of his own creation.

She swallows, her scratchy throat protesting at even the slightest movement. “So, are we still going to the coast?”

He seems to snap out of his reverie, glancing up at her with still-absent eyes. Sometimes she forgets just how old he is, but he seems to be weighed down by gravity in a way he wasn’t before today. She can see the years in the curve of his spine, the tiredness of his eyes.

It scares her.

“No,” he says dully. “Let’s just stay here and rest.”

They sit on her bed and watch old movies on her computer until the sun sinks beneath the horizon, the skyline’s hues flaring red and violet until it settles into a deep indigo. She can tell that her poor laptop is reaching the end of its days; the thing is making a strange whirring noise, the bottom of it overheating and burning her bare thighs. The sounds of Fantasia plays softly through her room, orchestral notes ringing in her head as cartoon figures run across the monitor.

Natalie sniffs, leaning her head on Lucifer’s shoulder. His skin is cool against hers; it feels nice. A little unfamiliar; he’s usually so warm. In the winter she would always press her cold hands on his neck and laugh as he jumped and swore at her.

Now it feels warm underneath her own skin, a angry thing that shudders ceaselessly against the suddenly freezing air. It’s like fire, it’s like the water underneath the bridge that seared her skin pink and raw, but this time it’s in her veins. She sucks in a breath, and the air trudges reluctantly into her heavy lungs.

“I might have a fever,” she announces to him, voice cracking.

He looks at her. “Girl, you’ve had a fever for the past week.”

She frowns. Even though her stomach had churned until she had heaved into the toilet and her entire body felt like it had been hit by a particularly large and angry truck, she never felt like she was burning up from the inside out until now.

“It got worse then,” she says, clearing her throat. She hits pause and shifts the laptop over to Lucifer. “I’m gonna go get an ibuprofen.”

She rolls out of her bed, stumbling slightly. She sees his arms shift, set to steady her, and she flashes him a grin, trying not to let a heaving cough break through her teeth. He meets her eyes, something aching inside his carefully put-together expression. There’s something that he’s not telling her. Natalie turns away from him.

She walks to her bathroom, an uncomfortable tingling forming in the base of her throat. The carpet beneath her bare feet scrapes against her skin like thistles, her sweatshirt and pajama shorts suddenly stifling. She closes the door behind her and rips them off, letting the freezing air cool her burning skin.

Natalie sighs, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. Her already pasty face has a sickly yellow tint to it, save for the feverish splotches of red adorning her cheeks. Her body feels like a furnace, her scorching blood locked inside a half-dead shell. She had never thought it would get this bad. Maybe she should get Lucifer to take her to a doctor.

She brings her hands up to stifle a sudden onslaught of coughing, doubling over as she shudders, the churning in her stomach and the relentless pressure in her head increasing. She drops to her knees, resting her arms on the toilet as she hacks up a vile mess of phlegm and a sickening amber fluid. She grimaces into the toilet, inhaling a rattling breath that can’t seem to completely find its way into her lungs.

“Ugh,” she says, leaning back on her heels. Her head pounds, as if the nausea and trouble breathing weren’t bad enough. She presses her palms into the ridge of her eyes, the pressure building inside of her skull. The heat is rising, too; she can feel it underneath her heavy eyes and searing against her cheeks.

She leans her forehead against the cool enamel, vision blurring. It’s strangely comfortable like this, her knees pressed against the floor, torso slumped and arms limp. She could even sleep here, if only for a moment. But not very long; Lucifer’s waiting in her room with her poor, dying laptop. Just for a minute or two… she’ll rest just for a little bit…

She lets her eyes close, giving into the exhaustion and fever burning through her body.

Something’s shaking her.

“—atalie? Natalie!”

She feels a little irritated at the intrusion. It felt so much better to be asleep…

“Natalie, wake up!”

Oh. She knows that voice.

She feels his hands clutch her bare shoulders and there’s a buzzing, heavy static in the spaces between them. Something warm and alive floats through her veins, smothering the inferno under her skin. Suddenly it’s easier to breathe, and she inhales deeply, rivulets of oxygen pouring into her lungs.

“You said my name,” she mumbles, opening her eyes. Lucifer’s face swims into view, eyes wider than she’s ever seen them.

“Jesus Christ, girl, you looked like a corpse,” he says shakily. His hands are still on her shoulders, anchoring her to the cool tiles on her bathroom floor. Clarity pools back into her mind like warm honey, along with the bone-deep ache that makes her want to curl up and retreat into the safety of slumber.

“I feel like a corpse,” she groans, shifting slightly. She sees his gaze drop to the strangely prominent curve of her ribs; her stomach has been mostly empty for the past two weeks. His expression hardens.

She places a hand on his and guides it off of her shoulder.

“I feel better now, though,” she says, sitting up. “What did you do?”

“I healed you,” he says, pulling back from her. “Temporarily, though; the sickness will come back.”

He hands her sweatshirt to her and she pulls it over her head. She catches a glimpse of his pained face as her head emerges from the fabric.

“What’s gotten into you today?” She asks, narrowing her eyes.

Lucifer recoils slightly, leaning away from her. “I don’t know what you mean, kid.”

“You’ve been acting weird all day. It’s freaking me out, dude,” she says, heaving herself up.

“You don’t get to talk about freaking people out when you just pulled that stunt,” he says, tone suddenly harsh.

“What stunt?” Natalie asks, mystified.

He gestures to the square of tiles where she had slumped over. “You might have thought to tell me you were feeling bad before you passed out over the toilet.” “I didn’t know that I was going to pass out!” Natalie says indignantly. “Honestly, Lucifer, what’s going on?”

“You’re sick.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“I wish you wouldn’t make it a habit of doing stupid things that almost get you killed,” he snaps.

“I wish you wouldn’t make it a habit of keeping secrets from me, but that doesn’t look like its gonna change anytime either,” she fires back.

“Natalie,” he says in a tone so foreign it shocks her out of her anger. “Natalie, please. I need you to trust me on this one, okay?”

“When have I not?” She asks. He stays quiet, and she takes a deep breath, steadying herself. A few moments pass.

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually. “I was just…”

“Worried?” Natalie asks. He nods slowly.

She smiles. “You have a weird way of showing it.”

There’s a strange silence between them, and Natalie stews in it just long enough to collect the thoughts bouncing relentlessly around her head.

“Lucifer, you know I trust you,” She says, tapping her fingers together. She waits for a beat, dragging her eyes up to meet his. “I might not understand what you do and why you do it, but I trust you and I appreciate everything that you’ve done for me. And I always will, because…well, I love you.”

His reaction isn’t the one she expects. He freezes, processing her words, before his shoulders slump and he reaches out to cup her chin, tilting her head to meet her eyes. There’s something there, a strange dichotomy of desperation and passivity that wasn’t present yesterday, or the day before. He looks almost like Titus did when they had their final battle. A man with nothing and everything to lose.

“See?” He says, his voice inexplicably sad. Her breath catches in her throat. “That’s another stupid thing.”

He moves and she feels his lips brush against her mouth, almost chaste save for the way he lingers, like he’s mustering the softest kiss he can manage when all he wants to do is drown in this moment that time can’t seem to touch. She’s stunned, the seconds stretching on before she registers that holy shit he’s kissing her. She shifts her head and presses closer to him, squeezing her eyes shut.

She’s just about to reach for him to drag him nearer when he pulls away, eyes unreadable.

She stands there for a moment, dumbfounded, staring at him with wide eyes and a slightly parted mouth. They stare at each other, the foot of space between them an immense gap, mountainous in comparison to the way they were just connected. She lets her fingers touch the place where his lips once were.

She breaks the silence first.

“You kissed me,” she says slowly, a grin threatening to curl out of the corners of her mouth. Maybe it’s the fever, but the room feels a little hazy around the edges.

“Stop,” Lucifer says, and to her delight she sees that he’s flushing.

“You kissed meeeeeeeeee….” she sing-songs, dodging the pillow he throws at her. “You loooooooove meeeeeeeeeee…”

“Girl, I will kill you myself if you don’t stop that.”

“I know you don’t mean that, loverboy,” she says, giggling. She feels giddy, ecstatic, even, her chest swelling in a way that doesn’t make her gasp in pain for once. She glances up at him, his mouth quirked up into the smallest of smiles.

But even that seems hesitant, somehow.

Natalie deflates a little bit. “Seriously,” she says, reaching out to grab his hand, her fingers entangling with his. “I hope you know you can trust me too. You don’t need to do this alone.”

Lucifer sighs. “I know. I’m just…figuring some stuff out, okay?”

She chuckles. “Sounds like one of those cheesy excuses you hear on TV dramas.”

She squeezes his hand before letting hers drop. “Just tell me when you’re ready.”

He nods shortly, his eyes dragging on the ground.

“Do you want to finish the movie?” She asks softly.

He looks up to her. “Whatever you want, kid.”

She smiles, retaking his hand and leading him out of the bathroom. The bed creaks as they lay on it, Natalie shifting aside to make room for him. Her laptop whirs pathetically as she picks it up and sets it on her lap. She presses play, and the sound of cartoons fill the room once more.

She leans back and lays her head on his chest, her eyes already drooping. The aftereffects of Lucifer healing her are already fading, she can tell, and the stifled feeling when she breathes is starting to claw at her lungs.

She feels his hand curl through her hair, his chest rising and falling steadily, and she sighs.

Sick or not, it would be nice, she decides, to stay this way forever.

She wakes up to the earth turning in on itself, its molten core burning as it crawls over her skin.

The world seems to swirl a little; she can feel the fever pulsing through her veins like a wardrum, beating in her ears until it presses against her skull. The lights are starting to pulse too, black dots swimming on the edge of her vision. She squeezes her eyes shut, pressing her head further back into her pillow.

She realizes that there’s a space in the bed where he once laid, and she’s suddenly filled with an immeasurable panic. She reaches out blindly to grab his hand, and to her relief he’s there to catch it, intertwining his fingers with hers.

“Go back to sleep, kid,” he says softly, and she almost doesn’t catch the slight hitch in his breath. She opens her eyes and everything comes into focus, including his face. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him cry before, but there are tears forming at the corners of his eyes, defeat and exhaustion on every line of his expression.

He’s grieving, she realizes, hunched over her bed like it’s a casket and she’s already a rotting corpse within it.

“I’m dying?” Natalie whispers, her free hand curling around her blankets, gripping her sheets with a sudden, stabbing fear.

Lucifer hesitates, and it’s all the confirmation she needs.

“Yes,” he says eventually, voice quiet, squeezing her hand. “But not for long. I promise. Just go to sleep and in the morning everything will be okay. I’ll save you, Natalie.”

The look in his eyes scares her more than her failing body.

“You better not do anything stupid,” she warns him, curling in on herself as a painful cough climbs through her chest. She feels his fingers comb through her hair, the only bit of comfort he seems to be able to offer. Dark spots creep into her line of sight, suffocating her.

“I’m scared,” she admits, feeling tears sting the corners of her eyes.

“Everything will be okay,” he repeats, as much to himself as to her.

She trusts him. She trusts him with her life, with her heart and head and soul and every other piece of her being that she can imagine. And so she repeats it too, as her vision fades into black and the pressure in her lungs increase. She holds onto this last bit of hope, and these words and his hand curling through her hair are the last things she registers as she succumbs to the crushing darkness.

Everything will be okay.

[webcricket]

The Devil in the Details

Characters: CastielXReader

Word Count: 1693

A/N: One-shot inspired by 12X12 Stuck in the Middle (With You) – consider this your spoiler warning. I hesitated to post this fic, since there are so many other amazing reader insert “re-writes” of the most epic Cas scene ever. But after re-reading and editing it, I think it’s different enough to share. Script straight from the episode is italicized and not mine. Obvious angst (You saw the episode, right?! Right?!), also fluffy flooff.

(GIF source @subcas)

Let me tell you a story – the unlikely story of Lucifer’s underling, Ramiel, Prince of Hell, who unwittingly used one of heaven’s most unyielding weapons to unleash the undying love of an uncommon angel. And how the King of Hell, Crowley, unquestioningly the luckiest upstart crossroads demon ever to usurp the underworld, gave this unparalleled love an opportunity to unfold with nary a soul unpeopled in the undertaking. You could say the match was made in heaven, but the devil was undeniably in the details.

Castiel, fallen angel of the Lord, former soldier and commander of Heaven’s divine army, recent (only in practical terms of eons of existence) sufferer of human weakness, the seraph with too much heart, remained stoic even in the face of certain death.

“Crowley’s right, you should go.” Cas pressed his dimming blue eyes shut, gasping against the flood of pain surging in his chest.

Your affect remained strangely numb as you processed Crowley’s words. Dying, Castiel is dying – maliciously stabbed by Ramiel with the lance of the archangel Michael, doomed to rot from the inside out. Crowley lies, you told yourself. He’s a demon, a poor example of one at that, constantly sympathizing with Winchesters. Demons lie. Cas can’t die. Not now. Not like this. We’ll find a way to save him. We always find a way. Your shock cold fingers clasped over the angel’s sticky, bloodied hand. “I’m not leaving.” You peered helplessly between the angel’s anguished aspect and the Winchesters, eyes beginning to pool with tears you refused to acknowledge. The Winchesters stopped the apocalypse, killed Death, reconciled God and the Darkness, survived death (more than once) - surely they could save one injured angel. “We’re not leaving, right?”

“Cas, come on.” Dean backed up your words.

“No, you listen to me.” Cas growled through the agony. “Look, thank you. Thank you. Knowing you, it-it’s been the best part of my life. And the things…the things we’ve shared together, they have changed me.” Stifling a groan, he somehow summoned the composure to quiet his quaking frame. “You’re my family.” Expression watery, his focus flitted to you, regard dropping remorsefully when he met your dewy eyes. “I love you.”

A sob shattered your bosom, tears flowing freely. You squeezed his hand tighter.

“I love all of you.” He closed his eyes, mustering the courage to send his loved ones out of harm’s way, to ask them selfishly to abandon him. “Just please, please. Don’t make my last moments be spent watching you die.” Desperation grated in his tone as he attempted to appear unwavering in his request. “Just run. Save yourselves. And I will hold Ramiel off as long as I can.” He struggled to push himself upright, failing in a fit of coughing as you helped ease him back to the tattered couch.

“Cas, no.” Dean shook his head.

“Yes.” The angel panted from the futile exertion.

“No.” You sniffled, flattening a palm to his shoulder.

“You need to keep fighting.” He avoided your gaze, frightened to see the emotion in your features after his dying confession and final request – knowing one look at you would be the undoing of his resolve.

“We are fighting. We’re fighting for you Cas.” Sam firmly countered.

“And like you said, you’re family, and we don’t leave family behind.” Dean added sternly.

The angel trembled, breath shaky, glancing between the brothers, understanding nothing he could say or do would sway the decision - Winchesters were a stubborn lot.

Dean, Sam and Mary left you and Cas alone while they clustered to confer on a plan of action.

“Cas?” You brushed the sweat-slick hair from his forehead, willing him to look at you. “Angel?” You normally playfully teased him with the title, eliciting an eye roll or narrowed scolding squint in answer. But your tone was different now, the returned affection you shared for the angel unhindered.

He dared peek into your countenance, eyes brimming with tears, finding a modicum comfort in the soft familiar lines of your aspect. “Y/N. I-I’m sorry that it’s going to end like this. I should have…I never meant for it…”

“Shh angel, save your strength.” You gently pressed a finger to his lips, leaning closer, rubbing small circles into his arm. “You’re my world Cas. I…”

The King of Hell interrupted the moment, unceremoniously crashing screaming through the wall of the barn, landing in an unconscious heap at the base of a tractor.

Ramiel entered onto the scene via the new egress in the wall.

You cupped a palm to Cas’ cheek, compelling him to focus on you. You’d wasted so much time skirting around your love for the angel, believing he could not possibly feel the same. If this was the end, all the time you had left to spend together, you weren’t going to squander a second more. “I’ve got you, angel. I love you. It’s just us now, okay?”

Cas nodded, acquiescing to your touch, weakly resting his hand over yours, the tiniest of smiles tracing his mouth in defiance to the pain.

You searched each other’s eyes, chasing the eternity you’d been denied.

Cas knew without a doubt that your soul would persist on, lingering in perpetual peace and contentment. He hoped perhaps your nook in Heaven might even give you more time with him. Or rather, a representation of him constructed from your memories - an ideal happily ever after if that’s what your heart truly desired. Of course, angels didn’t have souls, and for him, this would be the it - the end of his story. The idea of your Heaven, however, comforted him as the black fissures in his vessel crept up his neck and cheek. Eyes fading, head lolling, he gagged as thick black began to ooze from his mouth.

“Cas!” Ramiel defeated, the lance of Michael clattered to the cement floor, Sam racing to the couch when the angel cried out.

Dean and Mary followed closely on his heels.

“Right here buddy. Hey we’re here Cas.” Sam crouched, settling a palm on the angel’s knee.

You clutched at the angel’s tattered shirt, uselessly trying to loosen his clothes to allow him to breath.

“We’re right here buddy.” Sam’s voice faltered.

Cas’ eyes rolled back, body seized in a convulsion.

“Do something!” You bawled, blinded by the sting of tears.

“Hang in there, alright?” Sam looked franticly at his brother. “What do we do?”

Dean’s chin dropped, resigned to the angel’s fate. He reached out to hold your shoulder.

You flinched away, wringing Cas’ arm, trying to pull him out of the seizure. “Castiel, please! Don’t go!” You collapsed, clinging to his torso – a pure blue light suddenly radiating against your tightly closed eyelids.

Taking a few tentative breaths, the angel’s strong arm wrapped protectively around your back, glinting blue eyes lifting to Crowley, the now broken lance spinning in his grasp.

“Magic’s in the craftsmanship.” Crowley stated matter-of-factly.

“Cas?” Dean tore his eyes from the demon to the apparently healed angel.

Cas stared, disbelieving between the King, the Winchesters, and your crumpled figure clutching to his chest.

“Oh.” Crowley shrugged. “You’re welcome.” Disinterestedly dropping the lance, he disappeared.

Marching shell-shocked from the barn en masse, no one said a word. Against all odds, Ramiel was dead. Against even greater Biblical kinds of odds, Castiel was alive. Dean said you were going home, but that wasn’t exactly true. There was a hunter back at the cabin, Wally, that wanted last rights of a hunter funeral. It wouldn’t do to have demons swarming around at news of the death of a Prince of Hell and an empty meat suit with a hunter’s face laying invitingly out on the front porch.

Hours later, exhausted, achy, filthy, caked in blood and numerous other substances you didn’t intend to attempt to identify, you slumped into the backseat of the Impala, door held open chivalrously by the angel.

The atmosphere in the car remained oddly still as Dean turned onto the highway. After a few minutes, he switched on the radio. “You guys mind?”

The murmur of collective disapproval vibrated the cabin.

“Fine.” Dean begrudgingly switched the dial off. “But when I fall asleep at the wheel you have no one but yourselves to blame.”

Sighing, Sam slouched against the window, fitfully adjusting to find a comfortable position in the seat to try and get some sleep.

Approving of the idea, you closed your eyes, rolling your head to rest on Cas’ shoulder.

Cas peered down at your lap, sliding his outstretched fingers across your thigh to nudge yours. “Y/N?” Something had just occurred to him - something huge. Despite having said he was okay in the barn, the angel didn’t quite feel normal after he’d been miraculously healed. He felt fine, but different. Different, but not abnormal. He’d finally pinpointed the source of the peculiar feeling.

“Hmm?” You hummed, inching your fingers to intertwine with his.

“Can I tell you something?” The angel’s blue eyes fixed steadily on you when you opened your eyes.

“You’re okay, right?” You sat up, clutching his arm, a rush of worry zinging you to alertness.

“Yes.” He wound his arm around your shoulders, snuggling you into a warm embrace. “I’m better than okay.”

“What are you talking about Cas?” Dean’s gruff voice interceded with concern.

Cas met the elder Winchester’s gaze in the rear view mirror, an unusual full smile blazing across the angel’s face. “The power in the lance healed me.”

“Yeah, we got that buddy.” Dean half-smirked, wondering if the angel had gotten a few wires crossed in his close brush with death.

You curiously studied the angle of Cas’ stubbly jaw, surprised to hear an unmistakably familiar wave of celestial intent whisper in your mind, encouraging you to trust him, that everything would be alright - to hold on.

“No Dean, all of me.” Cas gave an exaggerated wink. Wings healed by the power of the archangel’s lance, the long forgotten flutter of angelic flight filled the air. Dean slammed on the brakes, sending Sam’s sleep-limp frame crashing to the dashboard. Throwing his arm back across the seat for leverage, he whipped around to gape at the empty backseat.

[petrichoravellichor]

Title: A New Kind of Life

Wordcount: ~10k

Rating: T

Summary: What if, when Sam and Dean break into the Empty, Cas isn’t the only one they save? A post-15x19 fix-it fic in which Crowley gets a second shot at the redemption (and family) he deserves.

(Read on Ao3)

********************

Chapter 3 (of 5) (Ch. 1, Ch. 2., Chs. 4 & 5)

"When I suggested you take on the Mark of Cain, I didn't know this was going to happen. Not really. I mean, I might not have told you the entire truth. But I never lied. I never lied, Dean. That's important. It's fundamental. But...there is one story about Cain that I might have...forgotten to tell you. Apparently, he, too, was willing to accept death, rather than becoming the killer the Mark wanted him to be. So he took his own life with the blade. He died. Except, as rumor has it, the Mark never quite let go. You can understand why I never spoke of this. Why set hearts aflutter at mere speculation? It wasn't until you summoned me...no, it wasn't truly until you left that cheese burger uneaten...that I began to let myself believe. Maybe miracles do come true. Listen to me, Dean Winchester: what you're feeling right now—it's not death. It's life—a new kind of life. Open your eyes, Dean. See what I see. Feel what I feel. And let's go take a howl at that moon."

—Crowley to Dean, 09x23 "Do You Believe in Miracles?"

**********

The following evening, there’s a knock on his door. “Crowley? Hey, you in there?”

Crowley looks up from his book. He hasn’t spoken to Dean since that day in the war room, when they’d all returned from the Empty. From a tactical standpoint, it’s been very easy: all Crowley’s had to do is keep largely to his room during the day and save visits to any common spaces for the late night hours. This is the first time in a good long while Dean’s made it a point to seek him out alone, and it’s that more than anything that makes Crowley decide he actually wants to hear what Dean has to say.

Still, no point in making it easy on the bastard. “That depends,” Crowley calls back, aiming for nonchalance. “What have you brought me?”

“Ha ha. Open up, asshole,” says Dean, but the epithet contains about as much malice as the bitch he occasionally lobs at Sam. “We, uh. We need to talk.”

Crowley arches a brow; is it just him, or does Dean sound nervous? He sets his book aside and shifts to sit on the edge of his bed. “It’s open.”

Dean enters, and Crowley sees that he was right: Dean does indeed look nervous, perhaps even guilty. He nods sheepishly in Crowley’s direction as he closes the door behind him.

“Hey,” Dean says, smiling slightly, and the gesture stirs a painful kind of longing in Crowley’s gut. Looking at Dean has always felt to Crowley like reaching for something without knowing what it is he’s grasping at or why, the way a weed arches without thinking towards the sun. It’s maddening in a way Crowley doesn’t have words for, because he knows, in the way he supposes a weed does, that the light isn’t there for his benefit; experience has shown him that much.

And yet, for as much hurt and anger Crowley’s felt because of Dean, he’s also realized that he just...can’t find it in himself to hate Dean, not in any way that lasts. They’ve been through too much together, and maybe none of it mattered to Dean, but it matters to Crowley. He wishes it didn’t, but it does; it always has. And he can no more deny that than he can the sun.

But he can’t very well say all that to Dean, so he pushes his thoughts aside and schools his features into a neutral expression. “Hello, Dean,” he says evenly, rising to stand with his hands in his pockets. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Dean reaches up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. “You, uh. You settling in okay?”

Crowley snorts. “Surely you can do better than that. Go on, let’s have it.” He takes a step towards Dean and flashes a smirk. “I promise I won’t bite unless you ask me to.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well...That’s kinda what I came to talk to you about.” He gestures at the desk next to the bed. “Mind if I have a seat?”

Crowley shrugs. “Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks.” Dean walks over to the desk and turns to lean against it, not quite sitting but also not quite standing. Crowley stands next to the bed, waiting.

Eventually, Dean clears his throat. “So, uh. Cas said the two of you talked—”

He expects his words to get a rise out of Dean, to throw him off kilter so their conversation is easier to manage.

“Oh for the love of—Is that what this is about?” Crowley grumbles; just how much of their conversation had Castiel felt the need to share? “Allow me to save you some time, then. You and your long-suffering Angel of Thursday have my blessings, for what they’re worth. Slow clap, mazel tov, etcetera, etcetera. If you like, I could even pull a few strings, see if I can get you Hell as a venue for the wedding.” He smiles darkly, adding, “Although based on recent events, your influence there probably exceeds my own.”

Instead, Dean just raises a brow and says mildly, “So you and Rowena still aren’t talkin’, huh?”

Dean chuckles. “Nah, just figured I’d let you finish first.”

Still aren’t—?! “Really?” Crowley sputters angrily. “That’s all you have to say?”

“Ever the gentleman,” Crowley sneers.

“I try.”

“You really think I didn’t miss you when you were gone?”

“Well, try to get to the bloody point!”

And whatever barb Crowley was about to hurl dies on his tongue. He opens his mouth, then closes it, shifting awkwardly under Dean’s level stare. Eventually Dean sighs; he pushes up off the desk and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, patting the mattress next to him. Crowley sits down without a word.

“Listen,” Dean says, once Crowley is settled, “I don’t know how much Sam told you, but you weren’t the only one we lost that night. Cas died, Lucifer made off with our mom, Kelly didn’t survive the birth, and Jack bolted after I took a shot at him. Which...yeah, in hindsight, I’m not proud of, but that’s where I was at the time.” Dean looks down at his hands. “It wasn’t good. If Sam hadn’t stepped up and been a dad, things with Jack woulda turned out different, and not in a good way. If it’d been up to me, if I’d known how...I probably woulda killed the kid.”

Dean snorts softly. “Yeah, maybe, only you were too busy offing yourself to keep Lucifer locked over in Apocalypse World. Man, you don’t even know how huge that was, do you?” Dean looks up at him then, earnest. “You think everything would be the way it is now if Lucifer had gotten his hands on the kid before we’d figured things out?”

Crowley swallows. He tries to think what he would have done if his and Dean’s places had been reversed, if Dean had died that day instead of him, and comes to only one possible conclusion. “To be perfectly honest,” he says, quietly, “I’d have done the same.”

Crowley can only stare back, stunned. He’d sacrificed himself to thwart Lucifer; that his death had also made it possible for Jack to grow up in the Winchesters’ charge, free of Lucifer’s poisonous early influence, and thereby helped shape who Jack was, who God was...It’s honestly never occurred to him until now.

A protective sort of rage boils up in Crowley on Dean’s behalf. Sam hadn’t gone into all the gory details during his explanation, but Crowley knows enough. “Michael.”

“Anyway,” Dean continues, when Crowley says nothing, “then Jack brought Cas back, which we didn’t even know was possible. Thought maybe it was just a fluke, but we didn’t have time to really think about it because we had to go get our mom back, and then there was all the crap with Lucifer, so we had to deal with that, and then...” Dean trails off, his jaw tight.

Dean inhales steadily, nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that. And then...after…” He sighs. “Jack lost his soul and killed Mom, and I damn near killed him, and then everything with Chuck...Man, it was just non-stop. Then we finally beat Chuck, and with Jack all souped up, we had a way into the Empty, and hell yeah, we were gonna get Cas out, but the plan was always to look for you, too. Oh come on, don’t look at me like that,” Dean says, frowning at Crowley’s shell-shocked expression. “You’re a royal pain in the ass, and there’ve been plenty of times I wanted to stab you in the face, but you think that means I don’t give a damn what happens to you? Like it or not, man, you’re family, and we don’t leave family behind, not when we can help it.”

Crowley studies Dean carefully, looking for the lie...and not finding it. Then, that means...Is he really...?

“Family,” murmurs Crowley, experimentally. “You know, I’ve never had much luck with that word.”

Dean gives him a sad sort of smile. “Yeah, me neither. Not the one I was born to, anyway, 'cept for Sam. The one me and him made, though…” His smile turns genuine. “That one’s pretty damn awesome.”

They sit in silence, neither speaking for several moments; then—

Crowley clears his throat. “Can I ask you something, Dean?”

“Shoot.”

“That first day, after you brought me back, Sam said I should talk to Mother, said she has...regrets.”

Dean regards him thoughtfully. “You thinkin’ about giving her another chance?”

“I honestly don't know what I’m thinking,” Crowley admits. “There’s a lot of bad blood there: hers, mine, both of ours. When I saw her here, in this room, she said she’d missed me, that she loved me, and...”

Crowley feels his throat tighten, and he doesn’t know how to say the rest: that for all he hates himself for it, for all the times it’s blown up in his face, for all the horrible things Rowena has done to him—

“You don’t know if you should believe her,” Dean finishes quietly, “but you want to.”

Crowley sighs. “It’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not,” Dean says firmly. “It’s not stupid to want to be loved, not by family: that’s kinda how it’s supposed to be. The stupid part is that it doesn’t always go that way, and then we gotta deal with the fallout.” Dean hesitates, then adds, “And...and sometimes that means we think we don’t deserve love when we do, and other times, it’s people sayin’ they deserve our love when they don’t.”

Crowley mulls that over. “Does she deserve it, do you think?”

“From you?” Dean shakes his head. “Man, that ain’t for me to say.”

Bollocks, thinks Crowley, barely managing to suppress a groan of frustration; if only there were a way to know which decision was the right one ahead of time...“How did you decide?" he asks after a moment. "With your father, I mean.”

Dean looks taken aback, and Crowley thinks perhaps he shouldn’t have asked; but before he can change the topic, Dean sucks in a breath and says, “Look, my father was an obsessed bastard. He left me and Sam alone for weeks on end, and when he was around, he was more of a drill sergeant than a dad. Some of the shit he pulled...” One of Dean’s hands closes into a fist. “It’s not the kind of stuff you just...forgive.”

Then Dean lets out a slow breath, and the fist relaxes. “Thing is, though, a lot of the crap he put us through, raisin’ us the way he did...He was tryin’ to protect what was left of his family, and...and I get that, you know? I’ve done a lot of really messed up shit for the same reason, for family. Doesn’t mean I forgive him, it’s just...complicated.” Dean sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “Like, really freaking complicated. Honestly, I’m still kinda trying to figure it out. But, yeah...all that to say, I don’t know if Rowena deserves your love or whatever else you wanna give her. She’s done a lot for me and Sam, helped us save our mom and Jack, and then her whole swan dive into Hell and all that, but when it comes to the two of you...That’s something you gotta decide for yourself.”

Crowley studies his hands. His left palm still bears thin scars from that day in the war room, when Sam had told him Rowena had changed and Crowley had gripped his fist tightly enough to draw blood. He still isn’t sure he believes his mother is actually capable of being anything other than what he's always known her as. Maybe she isn't, and if that’s the case, then she doesn’t deserve his love. Crowley can live with that; he has his entire life. If Sam was right, though, if his mother has changed...that’s something Crowley needs to see to believe.

And there it is, Crowley realizes: he needs to see her.

“I think,” he says, after a moment, “that I’ll meet with her and hear what she has to say, and if I don’t like it, I’ll tell her to bugger off, this time for good.”

Dean gives a hum of approval. “Sounds fair to me." He claps Crowley on the knee and stands. "Okay, then, I’m gonna go hit the hay. Lemme know if me or Sam can help with the Rowena thing, okay? You don’t gotta deal with her on your own.”

“I will,” Crowley says; then, as Dean’s about to leave, “and Dean?”

Dean looks back, hand on the doorknob. “Yeah?”

And Crowley once again feels something stirring in his gut, but this time, it isn’t longing, but gratitude, gratitude that he has Dean in his life and gratitude that, at the end of the day, everything they’ve been through together, the good and the bad, it matters to Dean, too, and that's important. It's fundamental.

“Thank you,” Crowley says, and means it. “For everything.”

For a moment, Dean regards him in silence; then he smiles. “Yeah. You too.”

He slips out of the room and leaves Crowley alone with his thoughts, which are...actually rather optimistic. For the first time in a long time, Crowley feels alive. It’s a new kind of life, one with family, one where he matters, and Crowley doesn’t know for certain what it’s going to bring, but he knows he wants to see it, experience it, eyes wide open.