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.
- Steven Moffat: I'm going to create a female character that's not ashamed of her body
- Fandom: Sexist.
- Steven Moffat: I'm going to have this female character take up modeling because she enjoys it
- Fandom: Sexist.
- Steven Moffat: I'm going to have this female character faint because her entire body is being taken over by dalek nanobots and her brain is being altered
- Fandom: Sexist.
- Steven Moffat: I'm going to -
- Fandom: So.
- Steven Moffat: I-
- Fandom: Sexist.
![“In the beginning,” Castiel tells Dean as the snap of crunching twigs sound beneath them, “there was the heavens and the earth, and the earth was formless and empty and darkness was over the surface of the deep.” The angel does that, Dean discovers, from time to time- recite things to him, things that matter and things that sometimes don’t. But as the two tread through a wet and heavy mush of muddy soil, Dean understands. Dead stalks of groaning weeds impale the air about them- dead though they are, they creak and shiver at the touch. Dean pretends he does not hear them, or feel the icy breaths they let off.
“Is that what this place is supposed to be like?” he asks, reaching for the end of Cas’ coat sleeve when the fallen angel begins to slip forwards. They hold each other in place, now. It does not bother either one of the two, they have grown past definitions or dissections of what stirs between them. They exist, now, as the arms of a compass do- relative, always conjoined; together, that is, even in distance.
“Yes,” the angel affirms. “I imagine everything in this place is meant to parallel your world before the spirit of God hovered over its waters.”
[[MORE]]
“There are buildings here, though-” Dean observes aloud, carefully slowing down to a halt to pay special attention to echoing sounds. He points to the far-away skeleton of a fragmented tower, to the obscure ghost of what it tried to be. “You’re talking pre-Creation, right? That doesn’t look very Genesis to me.”
Castiel is closely beside him, as he has faithfully insisted on being since the start of their escapade. The angel nods, and pays mind to the darkness that surrounds them. In the midst of blackness, the eyes adapt. His father created the body wonderfully- even in the most heinous of situations, the flesh naively seeks to adapt and conform. Their eyes, he knows, have complied to the darkness- everything is seen in the gradient of shadows. There is no light, there is no color- they are expensive indulgences granted only to for the pleasure of the living, the glory of the celestial, and the horrors of the damned. They, in Purgatory, are not granted such niceties. “These buildings- I imagine we’ll see more familiar things as we push onwards- are mockeries of things that exist on Earth. Purgatory teeters in constant sway between becoming akin to hell and striving to imitate Earth. The places where the divides between these three places- the places that I ripped the Leviathans from, are trying to become likened to both.”
Purgatory, Dean understands now, is almost a living thing. It’s less a place, the angel has explained, and far more a being, an entity encompassing a collage of terrors within- a living cage of monsters, gnashing at itself from the inside out for eternity. Before, Castiel explains, it was almost comatose. Completely unchanging. But his actions had propelled the dimension forward, sped it onto a desperate, rusted, not-quite transformation. When he first opened Purgatory, and when he absorbed the souls within, he had awaken the sleeping giant. It stirred. It waked. Like the lingering of moss over a filth covered rock- barely moving, barely changing, but alive in itself, alive even in the smallest thread, the quietest of breaths. Purgatory, Dean decides, is like moss. Like the growing of fungi and bacteria, like the build up of sheer muck attempting, horribly so, to liken its shape to a flower, to something beautiful, to something natural. There is something profoundly disturbing, the hunter sees, in monstrous wolves trying to force themselves into the hides of lambs.
The two force onwards- onwards, onwards, they push without reason or logic, but merely compelled, like the ships of the old world that yearned for the edge of the horizon because, perhaps, the edge of the world would come any moment now. They see remnants and rusting things, and ghosts of places that look like Earth. They are empty, of course, desolate with the exception of glowing, cardinal eyes and the occasional silver gleam of teeth and bone. Dean does not say it, but the sight of them discomfort him and he swears he’d prefer the endless fields of darkness over the frightening attempts at Earthlyness that this dimension has to offer. He does not tell Castiel, but he curses and he begroans and he sometimes, sometimes, holds his breath. And that is always when the smaller of the two holds his hand in solidarity- because of all the things the fallen angel brought onto Purgatory, it is the things that look most like Earth, like world he once knew and loved, that disturb him the most.
[Image Source]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m60e7i9D5u1qf45t7o1_r1_500.jpg)
“In the beginning,” Castiel tells Dean as the snap of crunching twigs sound beneath them, “there was the heavens and the earth, and the earth was formless and empty and darkness was over the surface of the deep.” The angel does that, Dean discovers, from time to time- recite things to him, things that matter and things that sometimes don’t. But as the two tread through a wet and heavy mush of muddy soil, Dean understands. Dead stalks of groaning weeds impale the air about them- dead though they are, they creak and shiver at the touch. Dean pretends he does not hear them, or feel the icy breaths they let off.
“Is that what this place is supposed to be like?” he asks, reaching for the end of Cas’ coat sleeve when the fallen angel begins to slip forwards. They hold each other in place, now. It does not bother either one of the two, they have grown past definitions or dissections of what stirs between them. They exist, now, as the arms of a compass do- relative, always conjoined; together, that is, even in distance.
“Yes,” the angel affirms. “I imagine everything in this place is meant to parallel your world before the spirit of God hovered over its waters.”
