across the silent sands;

[fic] Pesach

2018-05-06T17:52:15Z

Title: Pesach

Pairing/Characters: Castiel, Naomi, Anna Milton

Rating: PG

Word Count: 855 words

Summary: Castiel has his orders, but he also has his doubts.

Notes: I wrote this about a year ago for Seasons: A Supernatural Fan Fiction Anthology, which was published several months ago. I posted the fic to AO3 soon after the publication, but only just now realized I never posted it here. Oops.

Thank you to story_monger for beta-ing!

Read below, or on AO3.

Anael, in all her resplendent glory, has fallen. Whispers in the garrison hint that the next of their Father’s plagues was too much for her to bear. Sympathizer, they call her, and foolhardy, and soft.

They, all of them, have visited holy wrath upon the heretics of their Father’s creation. First Sodom and Gomorrah, and now Egypt. Choosing to fall after the fact does not absolve the deed — does not wipe the blood from their hands. But the blood of sinners and nonbelievers must be shed in order for Father’s chosen to survive.

Anael believes that is wrong and has torn out her grace in protest, resigned to live out her days as human, wherever and whenever what’s left of her reaches Earth. But it is not wrong, Castiel thinks. It is just. The Jews must go free, and Pharaoh had his warnings.

---

Angels should not keep secrets. And yet, nobody else knows that Anael visited Castiel before her fall, and Castiel does not intend for their brothers and sisters to find out.

“This is not good, Castiel,” Anael whispers, wings trembling with — fear? Anger? It is dangerous, the level of emotion that she is emanating. It is corroding her grace, and Castiel feels his own grace twinge with sympathetic pain. “This is not right. This is not just.”

“It is Father’s will,” Castiel replies evenly.

“It is Michael’s will!” Anael hisses. “How can he know what our Father wants? How can any of us know, when He has not deigned to show himself in centuries?”

“Have faith, sister,” Castiel pleads. “This is right. This is just. This is good, Anael, please—”

“Goodbye, Castiel,” Anael says, and vanishes.

---

The garrison arrives in Egypt under cover of darkness. The streets are mostly empty, save for the occasional rat or dog sent scurrying once they sense the sudden angelic presence. A stray mutt sniffs at Castiel’s invisible feet before slinking away with a high-pitched whine, tail tucked between its legs. In the houses and courtyards, cooking fires are dimmed and voices muffled as families prepare for sleep.

Castiel watches a little boy, still unsteady on his feet, reach for his mother. She picks him up and plants a kiss to his head. He returns the kiss, palming her cheek with small, chubby hands, but his mind is on the sweetness of the dates that his mother will buy for him at the bazaar tomorrow morning. His mother, on the other hand, is praying to her false gods to protect her boy, finally conceived after years of fruitless efforts. She prays for his protection, for him to grow tall and proud and strong. She prays that he leads an easier life than she did, and for a beautiful woman for him to love and cherish, the way she and his father cherished one another before the bloody, flooding Nile took him. She prays for him to one day have children of his own, that he may experience the same love and joy that she feels every time she lays her eyes on him.

Castiel turns away, grip tight on his sword.

It is good, he reminds himself. It is Father’s will, and Father is good.

The children would have grown to one day take the places of their fathers. Another generation of slavers, of murderers and conquerors and heretics. Bloodshed now prevents more bloodshed in the future. And Father’s children, His worshippers, who have bled and cried and prayed so feverently to Him for so long — do they not deserve to be free?

What does it matter that the order came from Michael, and not God directly? It is His wish that they protect His people, so this is what they must do.

Still, this seems so different from the Heavenly Father of whom Castiel has only heard stories.

“And what would be your solution, Castiel?” Naomi lands by his side, head held high and proud. “Pharaoh made his decision with full knowledge that we will continue to rain retribution down upon his followers until he relents. We are merely the instruments of that retribution.”

“He cannot know the consequences of his actions,” Castiel replies. “His own son—”

Naomi laughs. “How can he not realize? We have taken everything from them. Water. Sunlight. Their crops, their livestock, their good health. What more do they think they have to lose but their entire futures?”

Castiel thinks but cannot find an answer.

“You will carry out our Father’s will, Castiel,” Naomi says. “You will do so quietly and effectively, and you will do it with love in your heart for our divine Father, with absolute faith in His command, and with utmost joy for the freedom of His people. We are warriors of God, Castiel, first and foremost. It is not our place to question His will.”

“Very well,” says Castiel, and falls silent.

---

Dawn has not yet broken, but the sky over Egypt is flat and grey, and Castiel has stood here motionless all night. He must finish this, he knows. He can hear the beating wings of his siblings in the wind as they flit to and fro, carrying out their Father’s will, and he envies their absolute faith. He wishes Anael had never come to him. This must be done, and her words are dangerous distractions echoing in his head.

The people of Egypt will wake with the rising of the sun they so heretically worship. The garrison must finish their task before then. Even one firstborn left alive, and God’s message to Pharaoh will fall flat.

One last Plague. One final blow to the nation that so cruelly enslaved God’s people and then had the gall to ignore His warnings nine times.

Let the tenth warning be the last.

The boy blinks the sleep from his eyes, looking at the space where Castiel stands, still invisible. He must know. Somehow, he must sense a presence here, even as his mother sleeps.

But the boy stares for just another second, then lets his eyes slide shut once more. He snuggles closer to his mother, dreaming of dates.

Castiel unsheathes his sword. This is good, he tells himself. The boy would only grow to become another heretic, another murderer. Another slaver, profiting off the blood and sweat of good, faithful people. This is his Father’s will, and his Father is good.

The sun inches closer to the horizon, but Castiel is faster. He moves, slipping in between the seconds.

The sun rises. Its rays peek through the open windows of the house, light glinting off the razor-sharp edge of the sword as Castiel pulls it from the boy’s chest. The boy feels no pain, and dies with the taste of dreamt-up dates sweet on his tongue.

This is good, Castiel thinks. He watches the boy’s blood spill out over his mother’s arms — watches as she wakes and sees what’s become of her little boy and lends her horrified wails to the cacophony echoing across the city.

This is right.

In a few hours, a grief-stricken Pharaoh will open the city gates to let God’s children walk free.

This is his Father’s will, and it is just.

alethiometry @ 2018-05-06T00:00:00

2018-05-06T07:00:11Z

that moment when even your own livejournal insists on grouping gilfoyle and dinesh together into a single tag:

gilfoyle was right. the machines are onto us. they know everything. and they have impeccable taste in ships.

hey, brain? what the fuck.

2018-05-05T02:07:23Z

today i found several more white hairs growing out of my 26-year-old head, and later spent a moment too long standing next to my car, trying to remember if i had turned the engine off when i parked, even though i was looking straight at the keys that i was holding in my hand. i was driving home last weekend but couldn't remember what street i was on or where i was going, even though it was the same street i always take to go home. i'm living with my best friend of the past 13 years but more and more frequently i find myself unable to hold a conversation with her because i can't remember what she just said to me or what my response should be.

this is all probably just a function of prolonged sleep deprivation, because i haven't had more than 5 hours of sleep on weekdays for several weeks now. i hate my job but i also hate the job hunting process and most especially i hate freelancing. everything is in stasis; it feels like some sort of suspended animation, and also everything is too loud and too quiet all at once.

i'm majorly bummed that i accidentally spoiled this week's spn for myself, although it's my fault for forgetting to blacklist spoiler tags before going on tumblr, and also for forgetting to watch and keep up with s13 at all in the first place. i'm forgetting a lot of things lately.

today is may 4th. i keep thinking that it's march. i think i left my brain in march, and then it just got up and wandered away. do let me know if you find it, would you? it's grey and squishy and answers to "charlotte", "char", "yuting," or "i have 50k words of extremely well-written and in-character dinesh/gilfoyle slow-burn fanfic just for you."

thanks.

hi

2018-04-29T09:42:58Z

i'm so balls-deep in silicon valley it's frankly ridiculous. it's a long time coming, though; i can't believe i resisted The Call of Fandom for four entire seasons, but now all i fucking think about is this goddamn show. i think the longest i've gone without rewatching a random episode since s5 premiered is two days? maybe one and a half. multiple people have called me out on it (not in a disparaging way, more just bemused). frankly, it's getting fucking embarrassing.

anyway.

i found this gifset of dean on tumblr, and while i have absolutely no idea what the context is (and please don't tell me! i'm going to watch all of s13 during summer hiatus!), every single one of these is so. fucking. relatable.

(source)

please excuse the shoddy screencapping; i'm not sure how to post gifsets on lj, or if it's even possible.

also, i miss photoshopping things for fun and not for work.

[taps mic] is this fucking thing even still on?

2018-03-09T04:49:12Z

hi y'all. i've been away from LJ for so long that i legitimately forgot i even used to spend inordinate amounts of time on here. this is where i used to come to scream about tv shows and get emo about life, but since i've been SUPREMELY checked out from pretty much all fandoms i was ever a part of from 2012 through mid-2017, i haven't really made an effort.

anyway, i'm alive, i'm still being salty over on twitter, and i moved out of my parents' house! i'm living with my best friend from middle/high school, i recently turned 26, i'm still working at the art gallery but lasciviously side-eyeing new employment, and i want so badly to get my scuba license this summer but am on such a tight budget with both time and money that i could cry. which basically puts me in the same boat (lol) as most people my age, i think. except maybe the scuba thing is a tad more esoteric.

i think the point of this post was just to say hi. now i'm scrolling through my post tags, and holy shit i can't believe i used to have so many. it feels like literal years since i've been on here, even if the front page of my blog says it's just been a few months.

i may come back and be more active after i catch up on spn (i haven't seen a single episode of s13... i want to, eventually, just... haven't gotten around to it. eh.) or...... i may not. who knows. this apathy feels very very liberating.

Holiday Cards!!!

2017-11-26T06:09:38Z

>>> SIGN UP HERE <<<

I'm traveling with my family around the end of December so I'm posting this a tad early as I'd like to get cards out before I leave. As always, fill out your info at the link above for a little holiday cheer! Anyone can sign up :) <3

[fic] to ashes

2017-08-13T17:32:43Z

Title: to ashes
Pairing/Characters: Sam, Dean, past Sam/Jess
Rating: PG
Word Count: 855 words
Summary: He climbs back into bed and buries himself deeper into his thin, stiff sheets, trying not to breathe in too much of their mustiness, and he holds on tight. Like he's still back there, back then, and nothing went wrong and no one burned. Like he could dream her back to life, if only he tried hard enough.

Notes: An unbeta'd quickie, set roughly between Bloody Mary and Skin.

Read below, or on AO3.

You need to stop this, Dean says without actually saying the words. He doesn't have to anymore. Sam knows. Word-for-word, scripted now like a school play: Stop it. It's not your fault. You need to let her go.

Let me put it this way, Sammy. You trip on the sidewalk and skin your knee, you don't keep digging into it and picking at the scab and letting it fester. Right? You put a bandaid on it, let it heal over.

Dean doesn't say that, either, because it's a pretty shitty thing to say to your grieving baby brother, but Sam can tell he's thinking it. A lifetime of dealing with death, gruesome death, fucking paranormal, burn-alive-pinned-to-the-ceiling death—the callousness, the dissociation, it's all a coping mechanism. Sam gets it. Really, he does. The important thing is, Dean’s trying.

But also: fuck you, Dean.

Jess isn’t a crack in the sidewalk.

...wasn't.

(isn't?)

(wasn't.)

Sam first met Luis in freshman writing seminar, peer-editing papers. Great guy, Luis—the best, honestly—but a grammatical-syntactical nightmare. Couldn't match verb tenses to save his life. Like time-hopping, reading his essays, and don't tell anyone, because it's mean and it's unfair, but Sam never understood why it was so difficult for him to distinguish past and present.

How ironic.

Jess isn't an is anymore. She was. She’s gone. She was alive and now she isn't and somehow the world still hasn’t found the good grace to stop turning and Sam’s thinking about grammar at four in the fucking morning in a motel room in Bumfuck, U.S.A. with puke-green sheets that probably haven't been washed in his lifetime (in Jess’ lifetime—a better analogy, more accurate, because it’s finite, because she's gone) so that he won't have to think about—well, anything else.

Bang-up job he’s doing of it. Really. An admirable effort.

He's stopped puking, at least; he can force himself to eat meat again, so long as he doesn't think too hard about the smell. Still, he shuts himself in the bathroom and turns the faucet on all the way, just to have a little white noise.

Don't you know, Sam? California’s in a drought. Almost always is, really, but point is, you gotta be more careful with water. Can't just leave it running like that.

Only we're not in California anymore, are we?

Well, Jess still is.

And also isn't.

Sam splashes water on his face and half-expects to see blood trickling from his tear ducts when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

Bloody Mary, he whispers, lips barely moving, voice barely audible over the stream of water.

Bloody Mary.

Bloo—wait.

We killed her, too.

Dean’s got the T.V. on when Sam emerges, lounging ever-so-casually (incredibly awkwardly) with his gross green sheets bunched up around his waist, eyes glued to the infomercials on the screen as if they're the most fascinating thing in the world. As if he hasn't already memorized each inflection point and gaudy pop-up graphic after weeks of pretending to give a fuck about premium pasta cookers while side-eyeing Sam like the world’s least subtle mother hen.

He's trying, Sam reminds himself.

Sam wants to snatch the remote out of Dean’s slack grip and chuck it through the T.V. He wants to fling the entire damn thing off the motel balcony, and take the butt of his shotgun to whatever’s left intact, and set it all on fire. He wants to yell and scream and pummel Dean and grab him by the throat and squeeze until all the pity drains from his brother’s eyes. He wants to take a crowbar to Dean’s car, shatter each window, puncture each tire, skewer the hood with the straight end and stab deep, deep down into its engine and twist.

He wants to shrink into the folds of his bed—not this motel puke-bed, his bed—their bed, the one that burned—and shut his eyes and sleep and sleep and sleep and he wants Dean to understand and he wants—

And that's the cruelest part, isn't it? He knows exactly what he wants, and he can't have it, and it's four A.M. and he's thirteen hundred miles away and seventy-eight days too late and Jess is gone.

Forever.

The tears don't come anymore, haven't come since the thing in the mirror cried blood out of his eyes. He wants those back, too. Somehow it was easier when he could still cry.

He climbs back into bed and buries himself deeper into his thin, stiff sheets, trying not to breathe in too much of their mustiness, and he holds on tight. Like he's still back there, back then, and nothing went wrong and no one burned. Like he could dream her back to life, if only he tried hard enough.

He walks through their apartment, still and dusk-silent, hears the shower running as he nears their bedroom, smells the fresh-baked cookies still wafting in from the kitchen, swallows around his heart pounding in his throat. Hoping, hoping.

He looks up.

(no)

He sees her.

(no, please, please—)

And she burns.

[fic] Non Serviam

2017-07-14T02:31:13Z

Title: Non Serviam
Characters: Jared Dunn, Bertram Gilfoyle, Dinesh Chugtai
Rating: PG
Warnings: show-level swearing
Word Count: 2,021 words
Summary: While Richard goes and meets with Gavin, the guys back at the house pour one out for Anton, have a rare sincere conversation, and contemplate next steps. 4x10 coda/addendum.

Notes: A quick self-indulgent thing that I threw together after watching the season finale one too many times. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. Enjoy!

Read below, or on AO3.

The server room is cold without Anton—empty, now, and spacious. Far too spacious. And silent, like a tomb. Almost like the offices they’d populated during Barker’s brief tenure as CEO, after the clearance sale. But whatever somber feelings their former office space had stirred in Jared, it’s nothing compared to the cold sterility of an Anton-less garage.

It had taken a couple weeks to get used to falling asleep with all the humming fans and little flickering LEDs, the constant whirrs pulsing through Anton’s circuit boards; the silence now is oppressive by contrast, even with Jian-Yang and Dinesh’s muffled argument coming from the kitchen. Jared wonders how long it’ll take to get used to sleeping in his own bedroom again. Maybe the constant twinge of muscle cramping in his back will go away after a couple nights on a real mattress. That would certainly be a silver lining.

Still, he’ll miss the server room. He supposes he should call it a garage, technically, but a garage is for parking cars, and he doesn’t think anybody’s parked their cars in here since Erlich bought the place.

Speaking of which, Erlich should have checked in with them by now. Jared pulls out his phone to shoot him a quick text (Does he have international texting? Can he even get a signal way up in the Himalayas?) but when he unlocks his phone all he sees is the falsified Hooli-Con app glaring up at him.

Right.

Somehow, even after everything, he can’t bring himself to delete it.

He’s got half a bottle of Martinelli’s in his mini-fridge, leftover from the one night they thought they’d be rich—the one night of unbridled, carefree celebration before Keenan’s betrayal. The cider’s beyond flat by now, almost disgustingly syrupy, but somehow it seems fitting.

Bottoms up, he thinks glumly, and that’s when the door creaks open.

“Thought you moved back to your place,” Gilfoyle says, as tonelessly as ever. The air mattress bounces a little as he sinks down next to Jared, swigging directly from his bottle of Pappy van Winkle.

“I did,” Jared replies. “I just thought I’d come pay my respects. I can leave, if you’d like.”

Gilfoyle shrugs and clinks his bottle against Jared’s. “To Anton,” he mutters, pouring a bit of his bourbon onto the ground.

“To Anton,” echoes Jared, joining him.

They sit there in silent contemplation, each with his own beverage, staring at the empty room. Other than a couple shelves and crates that hadn’t fit into the U-Haul, some scattered wiring and electrical components that Jared can never seem to remember the names or functions of, and that giant photograph of Gavin Belson (turned, mercifully, to face the wall), there’s not much else to see.

“Can I ask you a question, Gilfoyle?” Jared says quietly.

“Why was I so attached to a stupid fucking machine that I built with my own two hands, that sat in here holding every goddamn byte of data and line of code that we worked our fucking asses off for?”

“Well, when you put it like that—”

“Have you ever built anything from scratch, Jared?” Gilfoyle asks.

“I set up a bird feeder once,” Jared says. “It was from a kit that I got for Christmas at one of my foster homes, but I assembled it myself and filled it with feed and climbed up the big tree in the front yard to hang it from one of the branches. A few days later, a mother bird built her nest on another branch right above it to lay her eggs. I never saw how many she laid; it was too high up to see from the ground and I didn’t want to disturb her—”

“For fuck’s sake,” Gilfoyle mutters, taking another swig.

“—Then one day I came back from school to a crow savaging the eggs,” Jared continues. “The mother bird was so helpless against it, and it just kept tearing and tearing and eating and eating. And then—she just flew away. And the crow finished eating and it flew away, and all the twigs and bits of egg just sort of—dripped down all over the bird feeder, like some grisly tree ornament gone awry.”

Gilfoyle snorts. Once upon a time, Jared would have found it mean-spirited. Now, though, he’s come to expect the callousness. Welcome it, even. It’s a testament to how far they’ve come, if nothing else.

The door swings open again. It’s Dinesh this time, nursing a bottle of—

“Are you drinking my fucking beer?”

“Fuck you, Gilfoyle,” Dinesh snaps. He takes a long, slow swig while flipping Gilfoyle the bird.

Jared watches them stare each other down for a moment, gauging whether he needs to intervene yet again, but then Gilfoyle deflates with a muttered “whatever” and a roll of the (still cat-contact-lensed) eyes.

“Figured I’d find you guys here,” Dinesh says, seating himself on Gilfoyle’s other side. “Jian-Yang’s been chain smoking all fucking day since getting back from the airport. And blasting fucking Chinese pop ballads. No wonder Erlich wanted to fucking kill him all the fucking time.”

“Where is Erlich, anyway?” Gilfoyle asks. “You guys ever hear from him?”

Jared and Dinesh both shake their heads. Gilfoyle shrugs again. They lapse into another comfortable silence, sipping their drinks.

“So where will you two go from here?” Jared asks.

Gilfoyle and Dinesh exchange a look.

“I go where the money goes,” Dinesh says. “And right now, as big of a fucking prick as Richard is, the money’s with him and his new internet.”

“I told you when we were working with Gavin Belson,” says Gilfoyle, “I hate to see good tech go to waste. Richard’s a lying sack of shit with piss-poor management skills, but he’s still a brilliant programmer.”

“I mean,” Dinesh adds, “As long as—” He trails off, looking embarrassed, and takes a hasty swig of his beer.

“As long as what?” Jared asks.

“As long as you keep him in check,” Gilfoyle finishes.

“He fired me,” Jared says. “You were both there.”

“And then he hired you back,” Dinesh says.

Gilfoyle grunts in agreement. “We were perfectly happy leaving him out in the cold until you called us. Totally worth it, though, to watch Melcher lose his shit. Again,” he adds with a smirk.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Dinesh says. “About Richard sleeping with Melcher’s fiancee? I mean, like, before Melcher started beating the shit out of him.”

“Oh—yeah. Yeah, he told me what happened. He didn’t want it known, though, for obvious reasons. Not that it matters now, I suppose. Cat’s out of the bag.”

“Right. Point is,” says Gilfoyle. “Richard trusts you, Jared.”

Dinesh nods. “And so do we.”

“Richard went to go meet Gavin at Josefina’s,” Gilfoyle says. “I’d bet half my shares in Pied Piper that Gavin’s offering him another acquisition, and I’d bet the other half that Richard’s gonna turn him down. It’s only a matter of time before the space saver app takes off—I mean really takes off—and we’re on track to make servers, including Hooli’s box business, completely obsolete. And with the new, decentralized internet, well. It’s a brave new fucking world.”

Dinesh smirks. “What Gilfoyle is trying to say, but can’t because he’s an arrogant dick, is that even though we’re on board, we can’t do this without you. Me, and Gilfoyle, and especially Richard. We need you, Jared.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Jared says, “but it’s been a long couple of days and I should head back to my place. My squatter didn’t exactly leave the place spotless when he left, so I still have a lot of cleaning to do.”

He leans over to drop his now-empty Martinelli’s bottle into the recycling bin, then pulls himself to his feet. It feels like a longer walk than usual to the garage door opener, despite the fact that he now has a direct and open route where he doesn’t have to worry about bumping into shelves or knocking some rigging out of configuration and thereby, to quote Gilfoyle, “skullfucking the entire company.” The door opens with that familiar creak and long groan, and Jared finds himself already missing the sound.

The sun has set over Palo Alto, the sky a light-polluted haze of dull greys. Richard should be back from his meeting with Gavin soon, and Jared would very much like to have some more space to think things over before getting back to work. Suddenly he feels very tired.

“I, uh, I’ll see you two tomorrow,” he says with a half-hearted wave, digging in his pocket for his car keys.

Dinesh and Gilfoyle exchange another look.

“Hey, Jared,” Dinesh calls. “Jian-Yang’s already moved all his shit into the master bedroom. We’re gonna have to start looking for someone to take his old room soon.”

“Erlich still owns the place, so there’s no rent to pay, but even without Anton eating up all the power, Jian-Yang’s stupid smart fridge is gonna piss all over the electric bill,” Gilfoyle adds. “And we’re not exactly rich yet.”

“That’s true,” says Dinesh, “but it’s a lot of hassle to look for people and schedule showings—”

“—and we’ve got a fuckload of work to do on Pied Piper.”

“And even if we do find someone, they could be, like, a serial killer or something—”

“—which, fascinating though it may be to share a living space with someone so uninhibited in his or her hobbies, poses a very real threat to the productivity of the company. Not to mention all the potential legal bullshit that comes with housing a murderer.”

“Roommates aside, the Palo Alto housing market is more competitive than SAT prep at a private school. I bet a nice, one-bedroom condo in a convenient location would sell in no time.”

“Would make the seller a shitton of money, too.”

“Right, and driving to and from your workplace every day is pretty bad for the environment.”

“And gas prices are going up again.”

“And taking the bus or biking seems pretty inconven—”

Jared holds up a hand. “I get it,” he says with a smile. “Thanks for the invite, guys. I, uh. I’ll let you know soon.”

He surveys the empty garage one more time as Dinesh and Gilfoyle return to the house. The garage door squeaks shut, Pied Piper logo gleaming bright from the light of the streetlamps. Jared starts up his car and pulls out of the driveway. It still stings, to be sure, Richard’s betrayal and near-immediate outreach and apology. Jared doesn’t doubt the sincerity of it for a second, but it still gives him pause. Forgiveness was easy when they all thought they’d be dead in the water in just a matter of minutes. They would see Pied Piper through to the bitter end, and part ways as amicably as they could manage, under those circumstances; that had been the plan, and he had accepted it. Now that they’re very much alive and seemingly thriving, though—now Jared’s not so sure.

But if what Gilfoyle says is true, that Pied Piper will only grow from here to one day overtake Hooli as the new tech giant in the Valley, well. They’ve all of them now seen what Richard is capable of, both the good and the bad. But the three of them—Dinesh, Gilfoyle, and himself—perhaps they together can somehow save Richard from becoming Gavin 2.0.

Jared smiles to himself as he pulls into his designated parking spot behind his condo, remembering that hazy, sleep-deprived night they’d spent on the dick-jerking algorithm that gave rise to middle-out—remembers the cables he’d hauled from the garage as Gilfoyle tore holes through drywall and Dinesh and Erlich kept their viral livestream afloat. He remembers the roller-coaster tumult of his first (and last) Pied Piper board meeting; the revelations of Peter Gregory’s storage unit; the dread, then ecstasy, then alarm as they assembled in Melcher’s office that very morning, very much ready to go down as a team, only to discover their unlikely salvation via smart fridge.

Brave new world, indeed.

SSS PREVIEW!

2017-06-29T02:09:35Z

an excerpt from my fic, Pesach, for the upcoming SPN Short Stories / Seasons project!

Anael, in all her resplendent glory, has fallen. Whispers in the garrison hint that the next of their Father’s plagues was too much for her to bear. Sympathizer, they call her, and foolhardy, and soft.
They, all of them, have visited holy wrath upon the heretics of their Father’s creation. First Sodom and Gomorrah, and now Egypt. Choosing to fall after the fact does not absolve the deed — does not wipe the blood from their hands. But the blood of sinners and nonbelievers must be shed in order for Father’s chosen to survive.
Anael believes that is wrong and has torn out her grace in protest, resigned to live out her days as human, wherever and whenever what’s left of her reaches Earth. But it is not wrong, Castiel thinks. It is just. The Jews must go free, and Pharaoh had his warnings.

keep a lookout for news re. publication of the short stories anthology here, and check out all the other story previews here!

[muffled screaming]

2017-06-21T06:19:38Z

so like. i went on a date tonight, and it went AMAZINGLY well. like, we were able to connect right away, he's a super good guy, we have a lot in common (to the point where it's almost eerie), he's someone i would definitely be friends with, basically best case scenario in every way. and i guess i like him? even though i've just met him??

and this is where it gets iffy, because, like, i am Very Uncomfortable with intimacy and sincerity and vulnerability. which is okay at the beginning, i think, when you're still getting to know the other person and stuff. but he's so... open? and i'm not? and i don't know how to set boundaries, i guess, because i can't just be like, hey i think you're cool but i'm also emotionally defective and not used to this sort of thing and i don't know what i'm looking for but at this point i should probably just roll with it.

also, he called me sweet. which, like, BIG LOL.

i think i'm overthinking this, but also i don't know what to do. i need to stop self-sabotaging, but i can't even figure out why i want to start dating again in the first place. i guess just because i was looking for something to do? but then that seems kind of shitty, like i'm leading him on or something. i don't know. i haven't dated since high school, so my experience in this is very limited, and although i had a good time back then it's not something i necessarily need in my life, you know? like, abstractly, down the line, at some point it would be nice to get married and shit, but...... i don't know. i feel like i've already passed the point of no return tonight and i'm not sure how i feel about that.

i guess a big part of my brain is just, like, hyperlogical about all this and my line of reasoning is: i've done this before, it was fine, why do i need to do this again. which, i am aware, is not how functional human relationships work. other people aren't just checkboxes off my bucket list. but at what point can i bring this up, and how do i do it in a way that doesn't make me sound like a fucking sociopath????

also, making out is very, very boring.

alethiometry @ 2017-05-21T14:41:00

2017-05-21T21:46:04Z

i am....... very bad at surfing. but!!! i gave it a shot, and it wasn't for me, and i had a lot of fun swimming in the ocean again!

a week or two ago, april and i had the very bright idea to start re-learning how to surf (we both did surfing summer camps in middle school, to varying degrees of success) while also introducing her to boxing. for the sake of efficiency, we decided to do these things on the same day.

i'm so fucking tired.

what's super fun though is that we went down to venice to surf, which means that i was on kulina territory! and apparently navy street is an actual street! who knew! (it's been years since i've been down to venice. barring my birthday, when i was absolutely fucking hammered so it doesn't count. you'd think i'd be down there more often, given that it's the goddamn beach and people-watching is fun as shit down there. anyway.)

i'm

fucking

exhausted

(long beach has had a shark warning/advisory/alert/whatever for the past week or so now, because there have been something like 15 sightings of great whites along the coast. apparently this doesn't extend up to santa monica/venice. boo.)

dreamwidth

2017-05-19T22:57:43Z

I've exported this journal to dreamwidth! I'm not really sure what to do with it there that I can't do here, except that I guess it's a good backup to have in case of LJ tomfoolery?

I also like the dreamwidth UX a little bit more, although it's very similar to here.

anyway. I will try my best to keep both accounts updated/cross-posted. when I'm not neglecting both accounts, that is.

find me here: http://brokenboykings.dreamwidth.org/
(alethiometry was taken—by someone who's only posted TWICE—and I will forever be bitter about it)
((I think I've probably followed/added a lot of you already when I was poking around earlier like a damn creep))

holy fuck, spn

2017-05-19T08:36:07Z

I LOVED LOVED LOVED LOVED LOOOOOOOOVED 12x22 HOLY SHIT

also:
I realized about five minutes into 12x23 that I deeply, d e e p l y hated the Antichrist plotline all season long. to the point where I kind of tuned out any scenes related to it, and thus kind of completely forgot anything that had happened. and I still fucking hate it. I've never disliked something SPN has done to this extent before, and I don't like the feeling.

all in all, this was simultaneously an amazing season (BMoL stuff) and one of my least favorites (Lucifer/Antichrist shenanigans). it's going to take a while to sort out these feelings, because 12x22 is in my top 3 episodes this season.... but then, 12x23. probably my least favorite season finale. but I want to like it!!!!! I hate that I so dislike a part of my favorite show. PLEASE CONVINCE ME TO LIKE IT!!!!!! and it looks like there's going to be much more Antichrist stuff next season, so... hi, friends!!!!! please convince me why that's a good thing!!!!!!!

other thoughts:

I'm proud of Sam. I'm proud of Dean. I'm proud of Mary. I'm proud of Cas. I'm in denial about Cas. I'm in denial about Mary. I'm in denial about Rowena. I'm so, so, S O relieved that Jody survived. I'm in deep, D E E P denial about Cas.

I'm proud that Dean is still upset about Jess, even if her death was only mentioned with regards to Sam's Fucked Up Life, and not, like, the violent and completely unwarranted death of an entire young, vibrant, innocent human being. Sam sure as shit isn't going to vocalize it, but I'm glad Dean did. also it made a nice bookend to Sam hallucinating her at the beginning of the season! Jess <333333333333333333333333333333333333333

aaaanyway. fandom has been bumming me out lately (no one specifically! just, like, in general), so I'm going to take a step back for a while (except for the fic/art stuff I've already committed to) and focus on other shows — Kingdom, Twin Peaks, Underground, Silicon Valley, Orphan Black, rewatching Black Sails. this is the first time I'm actually glad for the summer hiatus; gives me time to reset, which I think I badly need.

and then, at some point, probably sooner than I think, I'm going to rewatch the fuck out of s12.

ohm shanti fuck off

2017-03-17T05:30:25Z

I took my first group boxing class today. it was hard as fuck and everyone was way better than me, but I loved it. I've got seven more classes scheduled this month. but that's not why I'm writing this post. I'm writing this post because the most miraculous thing happened after class when I was driving home, and I want to commemorate it.

I actually drove the speed limit.

when I was at sweat yoga I was calm and cool as fuck during class, but as soon as I got back in my car I was a 5'3" ball of pure unadulterated rage. after boxing, however................. I have never felt so fucking zen in my life. and this is after an hour of sucking at the hardest workout I've ever done. but I'm optimistic. and also zen as fuck.

(for the record, I still love sweat yoga and plan on popping into the studio every now and then. I'll just... have to forego driving there, I suppose.)

#elitist af

2017-03-16T20:42:47Z

I was talking with a person and brought up the fact that my gallery is hosting a chamber music concert on Saturday (which means I get to work for 12 hours straight and only get paid for 7! yay! that's another bitchpost for another time), and later in the conversation he mentioned the concert again, only he called it an "orchestra concert" and I just.

no.

fuck off.

fuck you.

there is a difference. there is a HUUUUGE difference. orchestra = large ensemble with a conductor. chamber music = small ensemble with no conductor (musicians lead each other). it may be all the same to you, but it is NOT the same at all.

I have when people are wrong. I know this is unwarranted and an honest, trivial mistake, but. I hate it. stop being wrong.

also, I fucking hate chamber music.

boom

2017-03-12T22:26:59Z

I joined a boxing gym! it's something I've been wanting to do for a while now that I've been putting off, for multiple reasons that are ultimately stupid and self-sabotaging. but I took a class today just to try it out, and it was probably the most intense workout I've ever done, but also super fun! and I do need to find a better way to vent my stress than bitch on Twitter 24/7, so. bit the bullet, bought a membership package, and....... yeah! I guess this is a thing I'm doing now!

alethiometry @ 2017-03-01T23:25:00

2017-03-02T07:25:13Z

me: the Black Sails fandom is so dumb, it mischaracterizes everyone and shoehorns them into relationships/sexualities when the whole point of the show is that they don't really fit into any mold at all. also what the fuck is up with these goddamn modern AU fics that put Jack Rackham as the owner of a fucking bakery how does that make any fucking sense whatsoever, this is a show about pirates and piracy and the Golden Age of Pirates and how all these people started off as relatively Just Like The Rest Of Us until society screwed them over and they turned to piracy which in turn made them who they are. the setting of the show is integral to the characters and AUs undermine that completely. also stop mischaracterizing Charles Vane.

also me: [would sell my soul for a cracky fanvid of Charles Vane set to Moana's "How Far I'll Go"]

$$$$$

2017-03-01T03:47:26Z

so my bank does this thing where if you fill out a form and include a receipt for certain items purchased with your credit card they'll look it up in their database and if they can find a lower price than what you paid for it within a certain amount of time, they'll refund you the difference. so i decided, why the hell not! i <3 money, i've got nothing to lose from this, let's give it a go and see what happens.

i just received a check for two cents.

thanks citibank u always have my back

me meme

2017-02-19T02:41:53Z

from various people in my flist~

Two names you go (have gone) by:

1. Charlotte

2. uhh my parents call me Jiejie (big sister) does that count?

Two parts of your heritage:

1. Taiwanese

2. grade-A bitch

Two things that scare you:

1. losing people

2. ennui/stagnation

Two things you are wearing right now:

1. left sock

2. right sock

Two physical things that appeal to you:

1. books

2. alcohol

Two of your favorite hobbies:

1. reading (lately it's been stuff about pirate history... but also fanfic of course)

2. graphic design

Two things you want really badly:

1. my own apartment

2. a steady job with good pay, reasonable work-life balance, and benefits like health and vision insurance and paid vacations

Two places you want to go on vacation:

1. New Orleans!!!!!

2. Okinawa

Two things you want to do before you die:

1. learn to SCUBA dive

2. see the Northern Lights

Two things you are thinking about right now:

1. the new Silicon Valley trailer

2. the new Run The Jewels album

Two stores you shop at:

1. the grocery store

2. the liquor store

Two people you haven't talked to in a while:

1. most of my high school friends

2. lol

Two favourite websites:

1. Reddit

2. Netflix

Two things you did last night:

1. turned 25

2. drank wine

Two shows you like to watch:

1. Supernatural

2. Silicon Valley

Two places you like to go:

1. to bed

2. the beach

Two favourite subjects in school:

1. history (art or otherwise)

2. languages... specifically Japanese

Two favorite places to eat:

1. In N Out

2. literally anything and anywhere in Japan
~~except for okonomiyaki because I got terrible food poisoning from it once so now I refuse to eat it~~

Two people that live in your house:

1. my dad

2. my mom

Two things you like about yourself (physically):

1. my hair

2. my tattoos

Two things you ate today:

1. pho

2. more pho

Two people you last talked to:

1. mom

2. dad

Two things you're doing tomorrow:

1. sleeping in

2. working on fic, hopefully

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2017-02-17T05:06:08Z

I'm totally gloating and I know I've said this before but aLDKFJLADFLALDFKALKDF SPN ALWAYS AIRS THE BEST EPISODES ON/AROUND MY BIRTHDAY

aaaaaaaaand now I'm off to watch it again and then go sell my soul/firstborn child to whoever has the power to ensure that Richard directs every single episode from here on out

EDIT: one teeny tine gripe, though it doesn't detract at all from 12x12: I'm getting kind of tired of Lucifer....oh well. I'll live.

so commitmentphobic I can't even commit to being a commitmentphobe

2017-01-26T04:31:23Z

sometimes I sink into a deep depression spiral whenever I think about the fact that I need to stay at my job (or any job, for that matter) for at least a year and a half.

and then there are times when I lose hours on Instagram, Pinterest, and Reddit fantasizing about all the tattoos I want permanently inked into my skin for the world to see.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

lesson learned

2017-01-22T01:57:51Z

when you decide to march on behalf of feminism and civil rights and think it would be awesome to make some signage with quotes from Parks & Recreation, you should always follow through with it instead of being a lazy fuck and not doing so (even though you already bought all the supplies needed to make said signage) because you just might run into Adam Scott casually eating lunch at the same Chipotle as you after the march but you didn't make the sign because you're lazy and don't like carrying things and also you don't want to be That Person and draw a bunch of attention when he's clearly hanging out quietly with his family but like...... it would have been so cool to show one of the cast members of one of your favorite shows just how much the show means to you and thank them for bringing you so much joy in such dark times

(more comprehensive post re. Women's March coming up, as soon as I get off my lazy ass and upload photos and gather my thoughts <3)

2017!

2017-01-03T06:31:40Z

I've been spending a lot of time with Garrett and Kalon again lately and it feels really good, especially because I was stupidly convinced that they were actively avoiding me all last year (which turned out to be absolutely false lol). we got brunch at a super retro diner with serious Winchester vibes (pic!), watched Airplane! and the Naked Gun trilogy, and are planning on hitting up the local billiards bar and/or getting In-N-Out either later tonight or sometime this week before Garrett goes back to SD. so all in all, a pretty SPN Aesthetic™ day (because I feel like Dean especially would definitely enjoy the fuck out of those movies).

last year I sort of fell off the deep end, Winchester-style: burgeoning depression, isolation/avoidance of all my problems, burying myself in morbid humor and chugging whiskey at every opportunity. this year my hope is to live up to their better qualities: be a better person, look out for myself and for other people, and appreciate the small things in life. like spending more time with friends and eating huevos rancheros and watching hilarious movies that definitely would not be approved in today's rampant hyper-PC culture.

also, writing and art. it would be great to get back into creating fanworks. I don't want to set too many goals for myself because I tend to crumble under my own pressure, but just.... be more productive than I was last year. I think that's a pretty realistic benchmark to hit.

the one thing I am disappointed about is that I won't be able to travel a lot this year. barring any last-minute trips that are absolutely mandatory, the only travelling I'll be able to wrangle out of my work schedule and bank account is New Orleans. but it will be worth it if I can save up enough money to move out of LA. that's my goal for the first half of 2018 (gotta get my 2017 holiday bonus!), so this year will be the hard grind.

if my 86 logged hours of Stardew Valley has taught me anything, it's that all this grinding will be worth it in the end... but I also need to invest time in people and stay mindful of my relationships with family and friends. life lessons from a cutesy little 8-bit farming sim!

lastly, here is a particularly SPN-relevant quote from Stephen King's It that really struck a chord with me, so I wanted to share:

I love you all and wish you a happy and prosperous 2017 <3

silver linings: 2016 edition

2016-12-31T22:17:29Z

went to jaxcon with thelastvietgirl!

roadtripped with april and saw the grand canyon and lebanon and hung out with steeplechasers!

kalliel came to visit me and let me kidnap her + her friend into the desert!

went to san francisco/napa with my college roommates!

saw a lot of my cousins and had a good time hanging out with all of them together!

got my second tattoo!

saw welcome to night vale live!

played undertale and firewatch and abzu and stardew valley and journey and bioshock infinite!

finished my web design certificate program with a 4.0 gpa!

got a job and a steady paycheck!

bought nolacon tickets for next year!

spn s11/12, orphan black s4, and silicon valley s3 were all amazing!

my other best friend got out of a shitty and emotionally manipulative relationship! ~~and is now allowed to be friends with me again!~~

played with some dogs and also some cats!

somewhere in at least one of the world's oceans there is at least one shark casually enjoying its day!

[fic] Abiogenesis

2016-12-20T04:22:14Z

Title: Abiogenesis (for de_nugis)
Pairing/Characters: Castiel POV; Sam/Cas and other Sam pairings
Word count: 2,692
Rating: G
Warnings: major character death (Heaven!fic)
Summary: The Winchesters' souls have long since ascended to Heaven, but that doesn't mean they're completely gone from Earth. Castiel watches them — or traces of them — on both planes, and waits for Sam to let him in.

A/N: I was inspired by a couple of your prompts, namely: the idea of Castiel experiencing some transfigured version of Sam's soul billions of years into the future, and Sam exploring/regaining his autonomy through relationships with a variety of partners. I focused heavily on the former in this fic, while the latter takes more of a supporting role that's mostly just hinted at through Cas' POV. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

A huge shoutout to story_monger for all her patience and help in beta-ing and fact-checking every detail of this fic! Thank you so much!

Read below, or on AO3.

———

If Castiel were to describe the Winchesters’ shared Heaven in one word, it would be noisy. It’s a lesson he’s learned time and again: even a phenomenon as seemingly final as death (permanent, this time) must yield in the face of sibling bickering.

This time, it seems to be regarding the cultural superiority of pirates versus ninjas. Which seems to Castiel a particularly pointless argument given the fact that, for a time, there did exist a smattering of seafaring mercenaries across East and Southeast Asia trained specially in the stealth arts. Part of him wonders if he should point this out and quell the noise. Another part of him enjoys the spectacle. Sam and Dean are very animated debaters.

Not that it ever gets out of hand; both brothers are accustomed enough to Heaven’s mechanics by this point that if the bickering ever becomes too contentious, they can each find the Axis Mundi with relative ease and retreat into their own private spaces. Dean is currently cruising down Route 66, windows rolled down and Led Zeppelin on blast. Sometimes the road will lead him to the Grand Canyon, other times to Harvelle’s Roadhouse, or even to a little two-story, two-bedroom house in Cicero, Indiana. He’ll go wherever he needs or wants to go, though he may not even be consciously aware of it until he’s arrived. And when he’s ready to return, the road will curve gently back to Lebanon, straight into the garage of the Men of Letters bunker where he and Sam continue to share their afterlife.

Heaven is nothing if not convenient.

Castiel goes to find Sam in his bedroom, as it were, and tries the door. It’s sealed to him, as it sometimes is, and that’s how he knows that the bedroom on the other side of the door isn’t a part of the bunker at all, but one in Palo Alto, California that burned to the ground long ago.

He wonders how many of his brothers and sisters have felt the envy that he sometimes feels, whenever Sam slips away to be with Jessica, or Amelia, or Madison. It’s a human emotion — a deadly sin, even, though any entity with the authority and power to enforce that distinction has long since left any known dimension — which perhaps speaks, more than anything else, to the fact that Castiel has spent a disproportionate amount of his life in the company of humans. And so it’s Castiel’s misfortune that he’s so intimately aware of the mechanics of Heaven that he knows exactly where Sam is now, and with whom.

Because Heaven isn’t as cleanly regulated as the Winchesters had once believed; soulmates exist, but not with the same sense of exclusivity that Ash, in his limited understanding and experience, had explained. It’s a fluid thing, adapting to the needs of each soul. Nor is it always in a romantic sense. Sam and Dean share a large part of Heaven with one another, it’s true, and with Castiel. But there are also parts of their own individual Heavens that overlap with those of their loved ones. There’s a part of Heaven that they share with their parents, for example, and another one for Dean and Ben and Lisa, and one for Sam and Jessica.

It’s not polygamy, strictly speaking, Castiel explained when they first arrived, newly dead and wholly perplexed, nor is it infidelity. It just — is what it is. You’ll get used to it.

And, after a while, they did. And it would not be inaccurate to say that Castiel was more than a little pleased to find a small corner of Sam’s Heaven dedicated solely to the two of them, together.

But Sam is his own person, and Castiel won’t begrudge him his need to revisit any of his other happy memories, even if — especially if — those memories don’t include him. Not when there was a time, long ago but fresh in memory, when his own kin wouldn’t have allowed Sam into Heaven at all. So as far as Castiel is concerned, Sam can do whatever he wants. That is, after all, one of the perks of ascending into eternal paradise. And Sam will come to him when he’s ready. He always does. They have nothing but time.

Still, it was worth a try. About half the time that Sam retreats behind that door, Castiel is able to join him in the bunker bedroom with which he’s become so familiar. It’s inane, he knows, to lie in bed and watch nature documentaries with Sam when he knows more about the intrinsic mechanics of the cosmos than even the most acclaimed names at BBC or PBS. But there’s a certain comfort in the self-reflective nature of the medium. It’s humanity at its best: investigative and inquisitive, critical and creative. Intimately engaged with the world at large.

It’s a world that, time and again, he’s watched the Winchesters save. He thinks it does some good to show Sam this.

He wishes he could show Sam the world as it is now.

It’s been eons since the Winchesters died for the last time — indeed, since humanity as they knew it walked the earth. Human history in all its microcosmic intricacies is short enough, relatively speaking, that it can be perceived in a linear fashion; the universe at large, however, operates on a cyclical scale, an endless rotation of creation-evolution-apotheosis-decline. And right now, on the planet that was once called Earth, life has just begun to emerge once more.

Castiel decides he wants to watch for a while.

———

Don’t step on that fish, Castiel, he can still hear his brother warning him, though it will be several million years before anything resembling fish will swim in this new primordial sea. There’s a stillness here, a grandiosity that dwarfs even Castiel’s true form. Impressive as they are to humans, awesome as their power may be to behold, angels still barely register on the geologic-cosmic scale. He’d once used the Chrysler Building in reference to himself, to his relative size — but what is a mere skyscraper next to soaring Himalayan peaks, or the deepest, darkest crevasses of the Mariana’s Trench?

Far more impressive than angelic forms, he thinks, are the physical marks that certain human souls can leave behind.

It’s an exceedingly rare occurrence; always has been. It just wouldn’t make cosmic sense for each and every human to leave some imprint of his or her soul upon ascension into Heaven. The imprints, after all, have a tendency to take on the qualities of their respective souls: a reactivated volcano, a magnetic anomaly. It’s unsustainable. There’s a fine line between chaos theory and utter pandemonium.

The Winchesters, however, have always been the exception. Where others have come and gone with little more than varied ripple effects of influence that waned as humanity itself waned, Sam and Dean have etched their marks so deeply into the fabric of creation that Castiel can still feel the aftershocks of their souls here, at the bottom of the primordial ocean that was once a continent called North America.

He finds Dean, or the echoes of Dean, in the sediment that he kicks up in swirling puffs as he walks across what used to be Arizona. He wonders if the more concentrated areas of Dean have any correlation whatsoever with major highways that once crisscrossed the land; he comes to the unsupported and unsubstantiated conclusion that yes, they must. He likes the idea of it, and so he will choose to believe it. If he’s learned anything from the Winchesters, it’s that faith itself carries a certain power; it doesn’t matter so much what that faith is placed in, as long as it’s there in some form. It gives you strength and conviction. Helps you to know yourself and where you stand, even when your surroundings have become utterly alien, as they are now. And so Castiel has faith now that what’s left of Dean here is a reflection of what Dean was to him in life and continues to be in Heaven: a friend, a guardian, a protector.

In another billion or so years, this sediment will solidify and rise above the waters to see the light of day: mountains and valleys, ores and minerals. Soil, even. Some intractable essence of Dean’s being preserved here forever. Waiting, always, to guard and nurture and connect in his own roundabout and stubborn way.

Castiel follows the veins of Dean’s essence to where it’s concentrated at the rim of what used to be the Grand Canyon. The water is much warmer here, as is the sediment when he kneels down and sifts it between his fingers, and as he pushes off from the rim and allows himself to sink further into the canyon, he can feel the temperature rising. And he sees, with the set of eyes focused specifically to see through the murky darkness, the spots at the base of the canyon where the earth’s crust has worn thin from a rising plume of magma beneath it — so thin that even those eyes have to squint to make out the hairline cracks beginning to split; floes of stone and sand and soil upon a molten, simmering sea.

These hydrothermal vents are the only source of heat this deep into the ocean; it was from here that life first emerged all those eons ago, and it is from here that it will come again.

It is here that he finds Sam.

Sam is the heat from the vents: gentle and scorching in equal turns, at once magnificent and terrifying. Unaware of his own power as it flares and ebbs. Volatile. He sustains what will become the first living beings on this new Earth, yet he also tests them, pushes their boundaries. Sometimes too far, though that too is to be expected. An undeniable goodness, but also a darkness, a potential for great destruction. Every duality here, every conflicting extreme that should be paradoxical yet somehow fits together perfectly — it’s so patently Sam that it’s all Castiel can do to keep himself from diving ever deeper into the canyon, to the source of the life-giving heat that is the after-effect of Sam, and let himself disintegrate into it, grace and all.

He finds an outcropping on the canyon wall and settles in. Thousands of cubic meters of water bear down on his angelic form, far less dense than the human body, yet he feels little of it. He sits still in the water and waits for life to take shape.

A thousand meters more below him, mitochondria begin to metabolize. One cell, emboldened by the rising temperature, engulfs its neighbor. Castiel closes half of his eyes, the rest fixated on the activity below, and sinks into a half-sleep as the ebbs and flows of rising heat currents caress his outstretched wings.

He thinks of gentle, calloused fingers brushing lightly on his arm and soft, sighing breaths against his neck.

———

Castiel wakes to the scuttling of paramecia across his hands. The heat has flared up again, and the first true life forms are scrambling for shelter, lest they be incinerated. It’s little more than mechanical instinct for now, but still there’s a will. To live, to multiply. An intrinsic drive, in these clamoring cells, to play a role in the course of evolution, no matter how minuscule.

He places the cells up and away from the heat source, on a small ledge coated in gentle sediment. Some of them burrow in immediately, seeking shelter. Others try and follow the heat back to its source. They seem to have all but forgotten Castiel, now that his purpose to them has been served, and Castiel thinks it’s just as well. His part here is finished; he spreads his wings and rises from his perch back to the cold, sterile waters where the heat hasn’t quite reached, and leaves the rest to the echoes of his friends.

———

In the late twentieth century, a German scientist named Günter Wächtershäuser posited that life, in the broadest definition of the term, originated from a series of complex chemical reactions on the surface of hydrothermal vents, beginning with the synthesis of iron sulfide, and its interactions with other nearby compounds.

Such a lucky break, he marvelled, for iron and sulfur to exist in the perfect proportional quantities to allow this to happen.

Now it is happening again. And Wächtershäuser’s theory still holds true on all counts, except for one.

Castiel pauses in his upward glide, eyes sweeping over the spot where, ages ago, the Winchesters died. An unremarkable stretch of road, a handful of miles from the canyon rim, and yet he only has to squint his eyes just so to see it all again: Dean nodding off behind the wheel, Sam already fast asleep. Clouds half-obscuring the moon and fog swallowing up the headlights. And then the smoldering wreckage of the Impala, smashed full-speed into a towering tree just off the side of the too-narrow shoulder. Sam and Dean’s bodies mangled inside. Their blood staining Castiel’s hands even as he gathered their souls into himself and bore them personally into Heaven.

The blood is still here, soaked deep into the land. Traces of sulfur in the iron, and the two elements interacting with one another. Catalyzing. It’s the demon blood, Castiel realizes. Sam’s demon blood, vestigial, nigh-undetectable. Yet still here.

Nobody, not even Sam, had given it much thought in ages — first due to that trademark Winchester stubbornness to play through the pain, and then it just — faded into irrelevance. They had other priorities. People to save. Things to hunt. Besides, Sam has redeemed himself a thousand times over, if not more; he is no more demonic, and the composition of his blood no more damning, than Castiel is human.

Still, the demon inside Sam never truly went away. Subsided, yes; it had retreated so far back into Sam’s biology that even the most powerful of angels barely suspected its presence. But it was always there, those faintest traces of Hell, dormant inside him until the day he died.

And it’s here even now, eons later. And just as Sam had wrestled his darker nature into submission through sheer force of will, so too the last remnants of that demonic biology are now subsumed and transformed by Winchester blood. By the forces of their long-departed souls, etched deep into the planet.

Sam provides the conditions required for the emergence of life, and Dean allows for it to be sustained into the next stages of its evolution. Even here, they complement one another — though, true to their natures and their relationship, many of the areas where heat and sediment and sulfur and iron come together will pressurize, boil over, and explode.

Those areas, too, will create new life someday.

Lucky break, indeed.

———

He wonders if he should tell Sam about the life he’s observed on this new Earth, and the role he and Dean play in its emergence.

One day, he thinks. One day, he will find the time and the words to explain to Sam — to both of them — the full ramifications of their existence, in whatever traces that their departed souls have left behind. But that, too, is a heavy responsibility, and Castiel has never liked seeing the weight of the world pressing down on Sam’s shoulders. Just as it will take billions of years for his home planet to grow into a state that he would recognize, so too will it take several more eons to fully heal the scars that the old Earth has left upon Sam’s soul.

One day. They'll get there one day.

Castiel slips between dimensions with a flutter of his wings and reenters the bunker in his human form. Sam’s door is ajar now, and he feels an echo of that deep-sea warmth spreading through him as he knocks.

“Come in,” Sam calls, and then, “Hey, Cas.” He’s stretched out on his half of the bed, thumbing absently through an LSAT study guide, and when he meets Castiel’s eyes his face softens into the warmest of smiles.

Castiel closes the door behind him.