Supernatural, Doctor Who, Elementary, Teen Wolf, Hannibal, and The Walking Dead. Spanning from a love of TV & film to literature, art, music, and the like.
A little while after things have settled down, Sam gives Castiel a new cell phone. A good one. And despite Dean’s complaints and annoying comments, despite the fact that Sam has to reprimand him when he tries to chuck the phone into a garbage can, they both come to terms with the eventual truth that Castiel is here to stay and needs his own things- like a cell phone, Sam reasons, and new clothes. Dean shuts up about Sam ‘douching’ Cas up with the phone. He’s not so easily persuaded out of resolving Cas’ need for clothes by letting him wear his own.
Castiel eventually loses his phone. It falls out his pocket during a hunt and is crushed by a monster before its immediate death- with the anger that Cas smites him with, Dean and Sam think it has much more to do with the phone than the three families the ugly bastard had killed the night before. They don’t bring it up. But Cas is quiet, and the long road-trip to the next hunt is silent and uneventful. No more complaints from Dean when Cas holds the camera too close to his face. No more sappy laughter from Sam when Cas narrates the video and quietly introduces Dean each time (‘this is Dean,’ he first began, ‘this is Dean again.’ Each and every time, to the unnamed audience, ‘this is Dean’).
Castiel mourns for the loss like a parent would a child. The phone was with him, in the palm of his hands, each and every day. The phone capture the twinkling of night stars and the morning glory of Dean waking from deserved sleep. It catalogued the slow growth of a smile, the familiar rubbing of the eyes that preceded a raise upwards and light peck on the nose, the forehead, the cheek, the lips. Sometimes, he’d become preoccupied. He’d forget about the phone- Dean would take it, Cas would drop it, he’d put it beside him on the bed and it’d fall off with mindless movements, the sweeping of arms or legs or torsos that lay comfortably against a soft mattress. Sometimes, the camera dropped under the bed. It waited, patient and idle, during the most wonderful, most loving moments of Castiel and Dean’s new life. Castiel didn’t delete much, but he did delete those recordings. Somethings can’t be shared.
Photos of Sam tapping at a computer or raising his hands before going off on a monologue to explain ancient lore were his favorite. Sammy is one of those people who come out best candidly, when the camera is hidden and the recording is secret. Rants and jokes and smiles, shrugs of shoulders, the drop of a gaze and a crazy mess of hair. Cas loved those, too. Just as much as he loved Deans. He loved them differently, of course, but just as much. One picture is that of an old photo they found at a place they once all knew. One photo, just one amongst the dozens of snapshots of the Winchesters, of an old drunk they let go a long while ago. There are some photos he misses more than others. He doesn’t need to tell Sam or Dean of that favorite. For all his wit and sarcasm, for his hatred of smart phones and iPods and all the like, Dean is shockingly reserved. No jokes. No criticisms. No callous shrug of the shoulders. There are momentos we keep in homage to the people we love. Dean keeps them in his trunk just as manically as Castiel keep them in the digital pixels of his phone. He knows their worth. And they are forever lost.
The first thing they do when they get into town is eat. By the end of the night, Dean has bought Castiel a new phone. This time, the first photo is the mistaken shot of Castiel’s thumb. This time, the first photo is that of Cas, Dean, and Sam smiling for the camera. Cas likes that much more.
By the end of the week, the memory on said phone is filled.
[Inspired by a text post by Dirtyovercoats]
Sam Winchester understands what they experienced in purgatory most in the little things. The little things are what reveal the most, he knows. Like when they are in motels, and Dean relishes in the comfort of even the dingiest of beds. It’s in his haughty laugh and his stupid jokes- it’s in his insistence that the crap bed beneath him just has to be a temperpedic that Sam can tell he spent days struggling to rest in the most painful of places. It’s revealed to him when Dean returns from a quick run to the store or from a hustle at the nearest bar, Sam watches Castiel’s face brighten in the reassurance that Dean has returned to their side yet again, the younger brother knows there were too many moments of doubt. That the angel whole-heartily feared that Dean would not return from whatever doom he walked into far too many times for his body not to commit the slump of the shoulders, the sigh of relief, the warmth of his features to muscle-memory.
Sam Winchester understands what they experienced in purgatory most in the little things. The little things are what reveal the most, he knows. Like when they are in motels, and Dean relishes in the comfort of even the dingiest of beds. It’s in his haughty laugh and his stupid jokes- it’s in his insistence that the crap bed beneath him just has to be a temperpedic that Sam can tell he spent days struggling to rest in the most painful of places. It’s revealed to him when Dean returns from a quick run to the store or from a hustle at the nearest bar, Sam watches Castiel’s face brighten in the reassurance that Dean has returned to their side yet again, the younger brother knows there were too many moments of doubt. That the angel whole-heartily feared that Dean would not return from whatever doom he walked into far too many times for his body not to commit the slump of the shoulders, the sigh of relief, the warmth of his features to muscle-memory.
All masterpieces have prototypes. There are roles, Chuck knows, that every character has to play. Novels upon novels testify to that, as did the beginning of time. He put his drink down and takes a deep breath, staring at the new document page on his computer screen. He has his favorites, he admits, characters that played their roles deliciously. He thinks of Abraham and his wife, the parents who preferred family over calling. He thinks of Moses, the wanderer who stuttered- all great characters have defects, mind you- but cared more for his people than promised lands. And he thinks of kings, like David, who’s power was a long-time coming and came at the price of iron and blood. Chuck likes that. Some writers say that characters write themselves, pave their own stories even against the initial plans of their creator. That the writer is just a median, just a referee of what has happened and what is to come. And referees can make a big difference in the game, but the players are the ones who run- Chuck holds the whistle, he knows, but his job is to let each player rush towards the ball. So, they’re right when they say that, Chuck thinks- creations, when done right, direct you and write themselves. It’s not always a delight, and sometimes you worry the whole ensemble is crud, but there’s just no other way. The characters that really shine don’t privilege you with alternatives.
Chuck has his favorites. Always has. Writers, like fathers and potters, shouldn’t have them. It can mess up the work. But they do anyways. He has favorite chapters, and favorite themes. He liked the Renaissance, for example. And how his characters yearned for Utopias in the 1800’s was pretty humorous- in a universal humor sort of way, that is. He imagines dying of Malaria wasn’t very funny for most of the early American settlers.
Chuck has chapters he wish he could tear out- like genocides and wars, page written in blood ink. He didn’t like writing them, but some things write themselves and being a writer is masochistic work. But then he has favorite lovely things, too. A gruff drunk named Robert, who wore stained shirts over a heart of gold, will always be a favorite. And an archangel with a pretty kick-ass attitude who liked stupid jokes was just a trip to write. The father and the comic relief, he knows. The essential figures. Chuck liked the foxy physcic, too. The Mage character with a penant for sass- always fun. And then there are sadder characters, ones like the archangel gone rouge, the misbehaving son with daddy issues. Tragic, relatable, but inexcusably cruel at heart- the kind that plays on the readers own insecurities and fears, all the while indulging in ruthless evil. Yeah, chuck thinks, the Devil is a draining character to let take the pen, but dynamics make the story.
And then there are love stories. Because, hey, being disillusioned doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy a fine chick flick moment or two. And, c’mon, the romance between an angel of the Lord and a not-always-so righteous man with a father complex? Always in demand. United through Hell, Heaven, and Purgatory? That blows Romeo and his twelve year old Juliet completely out of the park, and no one can tell Chuck otherwise. Have Juliet raise Romeo from perdition, then we’ll talk.
Some characters write themselves. Characters like John, the broken man, who’s outcasted love made all the wrong choices. Characters like Sam, the hero archetype, a living paradox on how one can have such a valiant, moral spirit but such a diabolical predeposition. Character like Dean, knight-like characters, warriors, grown children, in need of love and security behind the sex appeal and the cheesy pick up lines- the kind that makes the reader want to skip to the page where they realize, yes, they’re good enough for happiness. Yes, they deserve it. And characters like Cas, wonderful, bird-like Cas. The kind of canary-like characters that aren’t suppose to mean much on entry, but end up having such vibrance in their voice that they simply take the stage like it was theirs from the start.
Chuck has been writing for years, centuries even, and there is nothing new under the sun. Stories are re-told and scenes are really always the same, just worded differently. But, the creator smiles to himself, it’s been a while since writing has been this fun. The Winchesters, the garrisons, the to’s and the fro’s. This is a great story, a different one, and the archtypes are all there to make this story an epic one. And it’s taking a whole lot of waiting, but he’s pretty sure this is one masterpiece he and Death will be reminiscing over a long time after the finale has come.
Sam Winchester understands what they experienced in purgatory most in the little things. The little things are what reveal the most, he knows. Like when they are in motels, and Dean relishes in the comfort of even the dingiest of beds. It’s in his haughty laugh and his stupid jokes- it’s in his insistence that the crap bed beneath him just has to be a temperpedic that Sam can tell he spent days struggling to rest in the most painful of places. It’s revealed to him when Dean returns from a quick run to the store or from a hustle at the nearest bar, Sam watches Castiel’s face brighten in the reassurance that Dean has returned to their side yet again, the younger brother knows there were too many moments of doubt. That the angel whole-heartily feared that Dean would not return from whatever doom he walked into far too many times for his body not to commit the slump of the shoulders, the sigh of relief, the warmth of his features to muscle-memory.
