Kalliel (kalliel) wrote,

This is so beautiful.

So obviously I'd heard about our Hall H shenanigans and impromptu Kansas mini-concert at SDCC this year, but I hadn't seen any footage because, well, I don't usually watch con videos. But this one started auto-playing while I was reading an article about Wayward's newly-cast Latinx character, and it is so.


I need to find a way to get back into top SPN form before the premiere! But my problem is, I also need to get back into top fellowship-app and dissertation-writing form at the exact same time. Thus far I've basically just defaulted to doodling Pixar cars on my phone and rambling about semi-sentient automobile manufacturing plants using machine learning/deep neural networks to produce sapient cars.

Also, I started writing this post-12x23 fic back in May/June and I pulled it up for a read-through last night because I didn't want it to go the way of my post-11x23 fic (i.e. I didn't finish it before 12x01 aired, and therefore I never bothered to finish it). But HOLY GOD it is hot garbage!!! >.< Which sucks because I really liked (the idea of) the ending. Maybe I could scrap the whole thing and get to that ending another way, but I dunno. =____=;;

Here's a scene I thought was good, though!


Kelly goes up like no body should. A match or two, and she's ablaze.

Sam remembers being twelve, on his first hunt with a body count, and expecting it to happen like that. For the body to go up in flames like a ghost, or like their house. So fast no one could do anything about it. He remembers his father looking on as he lit match after match, and the body caught, and sputtered, and smoldered. Caught, sputtered, smoldered. Sam remembers John leaving after the first hour, and leaving Dean in his stead. He remembers Dean's look of deep discomfort: Dean hated having to stand back and let Sam flounder, let him fail. (Dean didn't mind the corpse.)

Some things cannot be taught, not really; they can only be suffered. You learn to burn bodies by first failing to burn bodies.

Kelly's body isn't like that. Sam didn't think burning bodies was one of those things--where one day it gets so natural, so easy, it detaches from its own materiality. It becomes as effortless as thought. (As effortless as snapping your finger and exploding a skull.)

Realistically, Sam still doesn't think it is. Whomever he and Dean burn next, it'll suck just as much as it always does.

But Kelly--

Lucifer's child used all of her. He was always going to use all of her.


At the bottom of the mountain, so many hours and miles away that Kelly's smoke is indiscernible from the thick, Pacific clouds, Dean volunteers himself for crime scene clean-up.

"Just burn it," Sam says. He's not generally one for ostentatious destruction, but it'd be easier to explain the dead blast zone plants with a fire--to say nothing of the strange mural on the wall, with apples spelling J A C K. And, you know, the footprints branded into the floorboards. Sam's just being practical.

Dean's not generally one for symbolism, but apparently Sam in a nursery, on fire, is one traumatic serendipity too many, and he refuses, and then he refuses, and then he refuses again.

Maybe this is how Dean wears a mental break.

Some people go nuts and set housefires; instead, Dean refuses them. Dean refuses to believe that there is any other solution to this cabin but to find its shed, its half-used bucket of eggshell paint, its sandpaper, and grind the footprints down. Bleach the blood from the wood grain. Reset the wall.

He also decides that the only possible way to disassemble Kelly's crib is to beat the holy hell out of it, take it to splinters. It doesn't matter that he's so stiff he can barely lower himself to the floor to sand it down. It doesn't matter that it takes him hours--going on eight--to do this shit. And it wouldn't matter if Sam told him that room was never a nursery, because Lucifer's baby was never a baby, and Sam was never on fire. Not really.

From the same shed where Dean found the paint, Sam retrieves a shovel. He turns the soil, and scrapes away the imprint of one scorched angelic feather, then another. At first he's just passing the time, waiting for Dean to play himself out. Then he's trying to forget.

Some part of Sam has always believed that when an angel dies, its wings burn the earth to the core. When an angel dies, it
matters, the way death is supposed to matter, the way God intended life to matter.

It's just the topsoil, though.

Sam turns all the earth from the cabin to the edge of the lake, waiting for Dean to come out. But Dean doesn't come out, and then he doesn't come out, and finally, Sam picks Cas's body up by the shoulders and drags him to the water's edge.

Like Kelly, Cas's vessel does not behave as a normal body should. It doesn't float with the fish, bobbing insistently against the banks in tune with the lap of the water. Instead the water takes him, and what is left of Cas is sucked from the shore and into the thick, dark, impenetrable depths of the lake. As though it has somewhere that it must go.

Finally, Dean emerges from the cabin. Maybe he's been waiting all this time, watching Sam work. Waiting for Sam to do what he cannot. Sam knows that part of Dean is expecting Cas to Loch Ness it, maybe, rise from the center of the lake. Like last time, maybe.

Cas doesn't.

Sam watches the still, unbroken sheen of noon on the lake.

shit," he says.

"What," Dean says behind him, in a tone that suggests nothing could possibly be worth that exclamation anymore.

Sam gestures limply towards Cas's truck, the keys for which were now at the bottom of a lake.

"You know what? Leave it," Dean says, as though he hadn't just spent a full day remastering a nursery room. As though hotwiring a truck would be altogether too much trouble.

"Fuck it," Dean adds, in response to Sam's look of incredulity. "It doesn't matter."

And it doesn't. The whole cabin is sitting askance, earth sinking out from under it; the yard is dead, half-tilled; and the Impala leaves neat, clean tracks in the mud when they back out.

Him and Dean, they drive away. They leave the end of the world messy, as it should be.
Tags: fandom: spn, infamati et obliterati

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