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.
![“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.”
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.
“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.”
“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.
[Original source: Anendlessmemory, Edited by me]
![When they walk through Purgatory together, they always walk side by side. Through the most unfathomable darknesses, through the most horrifying of sights, or deafening of screeches, Dean and Castiel find solace in each other. The angel tries to stay focused on the task of merely surviving for as long as they can, but the idea blossoms and takes root in the crevice of his mind and the thoughts come and go like leaves sprout and wither on a branch. He wonders, idly, if Dean considers their bouts of companionship, too. But the frivolous thoughts are hushed with the knowledge that Dean has dreams, desires, a brother and a life to return to. He is not like him. He does not fund his happiness on the proximity of only one person, like Castiel does. It is not suffice for him, the angel knows, to simply indulge in being besides his partner. But the hunter is quick to feel for his hand when he cannot peer through the darkness, and he is unhesitant to chastise the graceless angel when he leaves himself unguarded for the sake of protecting his partner. Dean recants memories to him in soft whispers and quiet, warm chuckles when the two are alone, away from the hungering spirits. Above the blood-red ground that gnaws at smoke-black tree trunks, the two rest upon thick branches and exchange stories of the present for stories of the past. Castiel distinguishes one predator from the other with the signaling of a finger. “They do not have names,” he tells Dean, “my Father never gave them ones.” Quid pro quo, the hunter tells him about Sam’s idiotic mistakes when he first began hunting, or mornings he spent plastered and aching from crazy nights of gambling and bouts of violence before. And, sometimes, when bones are sore and skin in bruised, Dean talks about secret things- like the distinct smell of his mother’s perfume or the remarks his father would make that he’d pretend didn’t hurt.Blessings are found in strange places, and amongst the coal frenzy of branches, Dean counts his blessings in the company of someone he thought he’d never be able to forgive. The human and his angel sit side by side, whispering until sleep prevails over the taller of the two. Here, what their animosity is all but forgotten. Here, Dean takes his word like gospel and the trust that has been kindled between them burns violently and without fear or contempt. Here, hands are held and shoulders shake and faces dampen and no one, no one, but the untied two are able to see it. The mutual pain, the shared sorrow, the eternal and intimate gratitude of companionship in the midst of peril. Castiel wraps his wings about themselves, locking the two into place. The feeling is warm and secure, and he knows Dean has long forgotten the initial discomfort of their necessary proximity when their arms touch and the dark feathers push them together. The skies above streak and crack, only for a moment, and that is their testament that Sam, somewhere, is still faithfully attempting to break through the barrier that separates them. The angel smiles, faintly, for a moment. He sighs for Sam, for what he knows he must be suffering after each failed attempt. But he is not sorrowful. He is eager for Earth and Heaven, but he is not melancholy. Castiel has watched humans find the best in the most horrific of places- he knows that true happiness is found in the silent, simple things and that love is proven in actions and only assured in words. Deep in the chasm of flesh and bone, where a human heart beats for a celestial being, gratitude and adoration run deep and thrive. They shine through the despair the concentrates the air they breath. They heal the tattered flesh and broken spirits. It is in that metronome of emotion and love, Castiel knows, that the two have deposited their strengths. The two talk about many things, amongst the scarlet leaves, but they do not exchange thank-you’s or words of love. They do not need them. The concrete things in this world and the next are more often felt than they are heard.
[Photograph is by no means mine. If source is found, please tell me!]](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m5wnugdiEt1qf45t7o1_500.jpg)
When they walk through Purgatory together, they always walk side by side. Through the most unfathomable darknesses, through the most horrifying of sights, or deafening of screeches, Dean and Castiel find solace in each other. The angel tries to stay focused on the task of merely surviving for as long as they can, but the idea blossoms and takes root in the crevice of his mind and the thoughts come and go like leaves sprout and wither on a branch. He wonders, idly, if Dean considers their bouts of companionship, too. But the frivolous thoughts are hushed with the knowledge that Dean has dreams, desires, a brother and a life to return to. He is not like him. He does not fund his happiness on the proximity of only one person, like Castiel does. It is not suffice for him, the angel knows, to simply indulge in being besides his partner.
But the hunter is quick to feel for his hand when he cannot peer through the darkness, and he is unhesitant to chastise the graceless angel when he leaves himself unguarded for the sake of protecting his partner. Dean recants memories to him in soft whispers and quiet, warm chuckles when the two are alone, away from the hungering spirits. Above the blood-red ground that gnaws at smoke-black tree trunks, the two rest upon thick branches and exchange stories of the present for stories of the past. Castiel distinguishes one predator from the other with the signaling of a finger. “They do not have names,” he tells Dean, “my Father never gave them ones.” Quid pro quo, the hunter tells him about Sam’s idiotic mistakes when he first began hunting, or mornings he spent plastered and aching from crazy nights of gambling and bouts of violence before. And, sometimes, when bones are sore and skin in bruised, Dean talks about secret things- like the distinct smell of his mother’s perfume or the remarks his father would make that he’d pretend didn’t hurt.
Blessings are found in strange places, and amongst the coal frenzy of branches, Dean counts his blessings in the company of someone he thought he’d never be able to forgive. The human and his angel sit side by side, whispering until sleep prevails over the taller of the two. Here, what their animosity is all but forgotten. Here, Dean takes his word like gospel and the trust that has been kindled between them burns violently and without fear or contempt. Here, hands are held and shoulders shake and faces dampen and no one, no one, but the untied two are able to see it. The mutual pain, the shared sorrow, the eternal and intimate gratitude of companionship in the midst of peril.
Castiel wraps his wings about themselves, locking the two into place. The feeling is warm and secure, and he knows Dean has long forgotten the initial discomfort of their necessary proximity when their arms touch and the dark feathers push them together. The skies above streak and crack, only for a moment, and that is their testament that Sam, somewhere, is still faithfully attempting to break through the barrier that separates them. The angel smiles, faintly, for a moment. He sighs for Sam, for what he knows he must be suffering after each failed attempt.
But he is not sorrowful. He is eager for Earth and Heaven, but he is not melancholy. Castiel has watched humans find the best in the most horrific of places- he knows that true happiness is found in the silent, simple things and that love is proven in actions and only assured in words. Deep in the chasm of flesh and bone, where a human heart beats for a celestial being, gratitude and adoration run deep and thrive. They shine through the despair the concentrates the air they breath. They heal the tattered flesh and broken spirits. It is in that metronome of emotion and love, Castiel knows, that the two have deposited their strengths. The two talk about many things, amongst the scarlet leaves, but they do not exchange thank-you’s or words of love. They do not need them. The concrete things in this world and the next are more often felt than they are heard.
[Photograph is by no means mine. If source is found, please tell me!]
