![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Wheeeee! Finally! I was terrified i'd never make it, heh. I thought this was *such* a neat idea. The artists posted art first, and then us writers chose one as our 'inspiration' for a fic! So this is mine. There's art links and whatnot under the cut, and then the fic. The last part will have a few authors notes.
Enjoy! And please - do check out the art masterlist - to be linked a day or less - and leave comments for my artist! She was awesome to work with, and her art inspired me to write something that i would have never considered. It was one of the very first pieces i looked at and thought 'hrmmmmm, i could *so* write something for this.....' So props to her!
This is Sam, Dean, Missouri Moseley, a smidge of Castiel, a niece, a lot of snow, and a casefic in Washington DC. Gargoyles! Spells! Dean being flirty! :)
Bet'd, of coz, by the ever-wonderful![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
darkhavens, and sweptawaybayou did what she always does. *hugs all 'round*
Lyrics are Mob Rules by Black Sabbath.
See the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_reversebang comm for tons more fic and art.
Art Prompt Title: Untitled
Art Link: Art Masterlist Post. Yay, she's back! :)
Artist:satavaisa
Summary: From the original art prompt: After almost 30 years of silence the gargoyles of the old abandoned church started screaming at night again. The psychic Missouri Mosley calls the Winchester brothers for help, 'cause she knows that every time the gargoyles scream, someone has a terrible supernatural death. A little change up - the gargoyles are at the Washington National Cathedral in Washington, D.C. Somewhere near the end of season four.
Moonlight lay like snow across the stone arches of the cathedral; a flying buttress like a slope of blue-white ice, shadows black as tar. The sky above was dense, thick as cream with racing clouds, pewter blue with cold. Far away was the pinprick, stuttering red of the Monument's warning light, like a demon's malevolent stare. The wind was strong and gusty, sending snowflakes rushing up – around – down again, frozen white flecks that collected in the arabesques of carved stone.
Shapes seemed to writhe in the blackness, charcoal on ink, as the clouds furled across the moon. Light and dark, light and dark, and then a face – a twisted caricature of a face – loomed out of the shadows. Its open, thick-lipped mouth worked, stretching and pursing and stretching wider as the wind suddenly blew true, driving snow in furious, slanting sheets.
Air like liquid ice flowed through the hollow stone throat of the thing, rushing, roaring – screaming. The scream echoed across the snow-shrouded landscape, rattling winter blackened trees and causing a ragged handful of pigeons to erupt, clattering, from some hidey hole. The scream fell and rose with the wind, shrill as a siren's wail, louder, louder -
Missouri Moseley jerked awake with a hard, sharp gasp, eyes wide and fingers clenching tight on the edge of the covers. It was starting all over again.
In the dank, concrete alley-space off Wisconsin Avenue, Avery Jefferson shuffled across frozen ruts of snow, his shoes inside their layers of rags and plastic bags treacherous on the ice. The lights of Café Deluxe shone softly from a high window – kitchen, probably – and Avery could just see the sloping top of the big, blue Dumpster that sat under the overhang of the building. There was a tub there, one of those kinds the busboy would pile dishes in, and it was steaming ever so slightly.
Avery felt himself grinning behind his beard, and he rubbed stiff, chilblained hands together. That little girl, the pretty one with the curly hair – she always made sure the last of the 'garbage' was wrapped up in foil and piled in a dish tub. Made sure it was up off the street and out of the dirt, ready and waiting for anyone who happened to come by.
Tonight, it looked like Avery was the first one to come along, and he dug down into a pocket and found a ratty, green plastic bag with bright white handles. In this weather, he could take as much as the bag could hold and it wouldn't go rancid on him, not for days. He hoped there was some of that grilled meatloaf, and the lamb. Those were his favorites. Not like the 'sparagus; that girl was a little heavy-handed with the vegetables, but they made good filler.
Avery unfolded his bag and stepped carefully up onto a snow-dusted pile of flattened boxes. As he leaned against the Dumpster, a breeze sprang up, rushing down the alley. It seemed to push at Avery – to pluck at his beard and the dense bundle of dreads sticking out from under his hat. It swirled around his ankles, rushing up his pant-legs and shirt sleeves and Avery cursed softly, shoving still-warm bundles of food into his bag.
The wind seemed to move faster – push harder – and it was making a noise now. Not just the dry rush of air passing over concrete and steel, but something else, something shrill – something like a scream and Avery's feet slipped as the wind dragged at him, howling.
"God damn – God damn – hey!" Avery slipped again, bag flapping, and a foil package sailed away into the snow. And then another and another as he grabbed for the dish tray, the Dumpster edge – anything. The wind tore at him – pushed and pulled and spun him until he fell, shouting – his hand and wrist slammed against the edge of the Dumpster as the snow whirled in, choking him, blinding him. He hit the ground hard, ridges of melted and re-frozen snow like rods across his back. His bag was gone, the foil packages lost, and Avery stared straight up into a whirling, black-and-white vortex of snow and wind and night sky.
And then the wind gathered itself and rushed straight down, invisible battering ram, and the snow turned red.
Missouri lay still, trying to breathe long and deep – trying to still the painful gallop of her heart. She blinked into the chill gloom of her bedroom, taking comfort in the familiar shapes around her: the sag of her bathrobe across the arm of her old rocker; the little glints of reflected light from the mirror, her earrings; the collection of tubs and tubes on the cluttered surface of her vanity.
When she could breathe without gasping, and her hands weren't shaking so hard, she sat up. She pushed back flannel and quilts, fingertips feeling time stitched into worn cotton. She swung her legs out of the bedclothes, flinching at the chill air, and shuffled her feet into her slippers. The little heater in the bathroom wall kicked on with a faint whirr and Missouri stared at her sleep-creased face in the mirror for a moment before shaking her head – shaking off the dream.
"Got a lot of work to do. No use fretting over it," she muttered. Coffee and biscuits and eggs, and then she would see. Call up the Winchesters, and get the ball rolling.
She forced herself to wait until the sun came up, at least – until it wasn't so early that she'd get cussed at instead of listened to. Still too early, apparently, because the voice on the other end of the phone was sleep-thick and querulous.
"Jesus, what the fuck, I just got to sleep!"
"Don't take the Lord's name, boy."
There was a long pause and then a rattling sort of groan. "Missouri?"
"Good morning to you, too, Dean Winchester."
"Good – oh, for – Sam, it's for you."
There was a sort of rustle and thump and then Sam's voice, dazed and confused.
"It's your phone, Dean, they want you –"
"They really don't, shut up, sleepin'...."
"Do you really want me?" Sam's voice sounded as rough as Dean's, and Missouri winced a little, feeling bad. But not that bad.
"Sam, this is going to take a lot less time if you'll just hush and listen to me."
"Uh, Missouri?"
"Lord help me," Missouri muttered, shaking her head. "Do you have a pencil and paper?"
"I, uh – I think...ow, shit...." There was another thump and distantly, Missouri could hear Dean's voice again, 'Turn off the damn light!' She took a sip of her coffee and waited. After another moment, Sam was back, sounding a little breathless. "Yeah, okay, I got it."
"Your head okay, boy?"
"It's – fine, how did...? Never mind. Just, uh – go ahead?"
"You boys need to head to Washington. The capital. To the National Cathedral. People are going to be dying there – probably a couple already have. You boys have to stop it."
"Washington.... Going to be dying? You mean – nobody's dead yet?"
Missouri cocked her head, staring without really seeing at the blues and greens of her kitchen curtains. "I can't be sure. It feels like...yes. But I do know death is coming, Sam. Death is awake at the cathedral, and we have to stop it."
"What do you mean, death – uh, we? Missouri, we're kind of in the middle of something –"
"And it can wait for a little. You go on back to sleep now, Sam. I'll see you in Washington in a couple days." Missouri took the phone away from her ear, ignoring Sam's voice as it grew more distant.
"Meet you? Missouri.... Missouri?" She clicked the phone off and set it on the table – picked up her spoon and idly stirred her cooling coffee. No, she couldn't be sure that anyone had died – that wasn't clear to her. But she felt that someone had. The dream had been too sharp – too terrifying. Too much like it had been, all those years ago. Fifteen had died – fifteen innocent lives snuffed out, their horror and pain reverberating through the aether. She'd only been twelve then, shivering under the quilts at Nana's house, listening to the walls creak in psychic agony as, miles away, the stone monsters had come to life and the very air had screamed. It would be different, this time.
Washington in January was fucking cold, and Dean stood stamping his feet, scowling, watching as Sam perused the aisles of the Shell station, loading up on essential supplies. Like HoHos and teriyaki jerky. The pump dinged and Dean reached down and eased the nozzle free – hung it up and looked with a wince at the total.
"Jesus. Could make gas for less." The wind gusted, scented with exhaust and the tin-salt of snow, the air faintly blue, that just-before-dawn twilight that made it hard to see the details. That made the shadows a little more menacing. Dean rubbed his hands together and climbed back inside the car, cranking the heat. He pulled away from the pump and sat, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, while Sam paid and came out, stepping carefully across the slushy sidewalk. He slid into his place in the car and Dean backed and turned and drove out of the parking lot, heading for the highway. He didn't know D.C. and didn't want to drive around on empty, hungry and pissed off. Though the pissed off part was a given, considering.
"So she didn't say anything else?"
"Dean." Sam looked up from the bag in his lap, his face set in that 'I will kill you' look of sheer, little-brother annoyance. "I told you a hundred times already. Just – give it a rest."
"We've kind of got bigger fish to fry here, Sam. Does the Apocalypse ring a bell?" Dean changed lanes and pressed the accelerator down, wondering if there were any speed traps. D.C. itself was only about an hour away – maybe they saved all their policing for Presidential threats. The thought made him relax a fraction and he held out his right hand. "Hit me."
"Cake or jerky?"
"That's 'cake or death'."
"Huh?"
Dean snorted softly. "Gimme some jerky, bitch."
"You're the jerky," Sam muttered, and tossed a pack of dried meat at Dean's face.
Dean snatched it out of the air and tore it open with his teeth. Reached down and spun the dial on the stereo, grinning at Sam's wince as the voice of Ronnie James Dio screamed out, pure and perfect.
Close the city and tell the people that something's coming to call
Death and darkness are rushing forward to take a bite from the wall, oh....
The address that Missouri had given them was just off Florida Avenue, a narrow street called 12th Place Northwest. It was densely lined with brick row houses, all about ten feet across but at least three stories high, some painted flat tans and whites, others standing out in bold purple or green. The house at 2215 was a bright blue, with a lime-yellow door; the winter-thinned limbs of some overgrown tree partially obscuring it. Most of the street was blessedly empty, and Dean eased the car into a spot across the street with a little sigh. The morning commute traffic had sucked.
"That it?" he asked, and Sam peered through the steam on his window and sighed, too.
"Yeah, that's it."
"Thank God." Dean turned the engine off and got out, flinching a little at the bite of freezing air. A brisk wind was blowing down the street, funneled by the tall houses, and he grabbed his jacket off the seat and pulled it on, huddling down into the warm canvas and quilting. Across from him, Sam was stretching and bending, working out the kinks in his back, and Dean took a moment to do the same, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck. Then they crossed the street, Dean reaching through the bars of the security door to knock, expecting Missouri to drag open the door and scowl at him for being late.
He wasn't expecting someone who looked like a cross between Halle Berry and Queen Latifah - tall, a little heavy in that good, curvy way, and drop-dead gorgeous. Dean felt himself grin on pure, knee-jerk instinct. "Hey, hi. I'm Dean, this is my brother Sam – we're friends of Missouri's?"
The woman tipped her chin up and shouted. "Auntie Mo!" She gave Dean and Sam the once-over, her finely arched brows going up a little. "You're sure not what I was expecting."
"No? Well, I hope you're pleasantly surprised," Dean said, and she snorted softly. But her mouth was curling up in a little smile and Dean took a second, longer look at her. She had on furry, calf-high boots under a trim skirt and a padded leather jacket on over what looked like silk and linen. A bag much like Sam's, only cut from some kind of butter-soft leather, the stitching tiny and perfect. She tipped her head back and yelled again. "Auntie Mo, your friends are here!" She pulled an alarmingly shiny phone from a side-pocket of her bag and tapped on it a few times with a manicured finger. "As nice as this is, gentlemen – I'm late. I really need to get a move on."
"You – uh – work at the White House?" Dean asked, as the woman dug around into her shoulder bag again and pulled out a pair of fluffy, dark purple earmuffs that she settled carefully onto her head. She laughed, shaking her head.
"No, I'm a registrar at the Air and Space Museum," she said and stepped outside, pulling the door nearly to behind her. "You'll understand if I don't invite you in?"
"Yeah, sure, that's fine. Space – I love space. The moon, you know –" Behind him, Sam made a sort of groaning, snorting noise that Dean totally ignored.
"Then I suggest you come by for the tour some time, Dean. Have a nice visit with my Auntie." She gave Dean a little wink and then turned on her heel and strode away. The skirt really did fit her very nicely.
"Dean Winchester, get your eyes back in your head and off my niece!" Missouri stood scowling in the doorway, resplendent in a striped cardigan and fluffy orange slippers. Dean choked a little. "Get yourselves in here before you freeze to death," she added, turning and padding away into the dim interior. Sam bumped Dean's shoulder with his own, and they climbed the single step into the house and shut the door.
"Are you saying the gargoyles actually come to life? Like – crawl around?" Sam asked, and Missouri frowned over her coffee, shaking her head.
"No, I don't believe they do. They seem to – they seem to move, and scream. But I think stone creatures getting up and waltzing around would have been noticed by somebody."
"You'd think," Dean said. He shifted in his position against the kitchen counter, taking a mouthful of his own coffee and swallowing it, his expression thoughtful. "Do you think –?"
"Hey, found something," Sam said, and Dean pushed off from the counter to walk over to Sam, who straightened back from the kitchen table and turned his laptop, angling the screen. "A homeless man was killed last night – multiple broken bones and internal injuries, but he wasn't hit by a car or anything. It's like he was –"
"Crushed," Missouri said, her gaze distant – troubled – and Sam nodded.
"Yeah. Have to check out the body for sure, see the coroner's report, but...yeah."
"So it's started," Missouri said softly, and Dean settled in the chair next to her, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
"Are you sure you don't know what it is? I mean, you said you went looking, the last time. You didn't find anything?"
"I did go looking. Snuck away from Nana and took the bus, all on my own. And did she whale me when I got back, oh my, did she...." Missouri put her cup down and tugged her cardigan tighter around herself, her gaze fixed sightlessly on the table-top. "Walked right inside the cathedral, under all those eyes...all those watchers. Made my blood run cold. There was something – someone – watching me. Trying to – talk to me." Missouri glanced up at Sam and Dean, shrugging a little.
"I wasn't nearly so practiced then – was just coming into my gifts, really. I wasn't sure what was there, but it was cold...so very cold. Cold and angry. It screamed at me – the air itself seemed to be alive with voices, screaming and wailing...like the very mount of Babylon.... I ran, Dean. I turned and ran and never went back and that's why...."
She stopped, and Sam shot a look over at Dean – reached out a hand toward Missouri, not quite touching, just letting his fingers rest on the scrubbed pine of the table top.
"That's why you want to stop it, this time? That's why you want to be here."
"That's exactly why," Missouri sighed. She reached out and patted Sam's hand – froze for a moment, her eyes going wide, and then she flung herself back in her chair a little, gasping. "What - oh my Lord, boy, oh my Lord, what are you – what –"
"Missouri? What –"
"Dean," a voice said, gravel-rough and impatient, and all three looked up in startlement at Castiel, who stood in the corner of the kitchen like a wind-ruffled owl, wide-eyed and daylight-grumpy.
"How did you get in here? Who – oh Jesus, oh Lord, have mercy –" Missouri babbled, and then she slumped right over in a dead faint. Dean managed to catch her halfway down and then Sam was there, and they eased Missouri down to the floor, her bulky shoulders on Dean's thighs, her head in the crook of his arm. Sam went for a glass of water and Dean glared at the angel who stood staring back, head tipped over in that way that meant he was clueless as to what had just happened.
"You really need to learn to knock," Dean snapped.
Missouri woke with a little start, the twisted faces of gargoyles and grotesques leering at her from the darkness behind her eyelids. She was on the couch in the living room, her head propped with a pillow, her feet covered with one of Nana's afghans. And that man – no, not a man, not a man at all.....
"What are you?" Missouri said, quiet, and the man tipped his head to her.
"I'm an angel of the Lord."
In the mellow-gold light of mid-morning, he was a thinnish, ruffled-looking man in a rumpled suit and a tan overcoat that had seen better days. In her sight.... He was light, sheer planes and shifting arcs, a face like a burning sun and eyes – so many eyes.... Wings that arched, furled and curving, through the ceiling and the walls of the house, and his voice....
"Can you...turn it down a little?" she asked, sitting up slowly, dragging the afghan off her feet and crumpling it in her lap. The angel just looked at her.
"She means your angel-ness or whatever," Dean said, slouching around the jamb of the doorway between living room and kitchen. "You're probably kind of bright."
"Oh," the angel said, and his – otherness – was abruptly dimmed and diminished, until it was nothing more than a sort of soft fuzz of shifting, opalescent light. Missouri felt faintly disappointed, but mostly relieved. "I'm sorry."
"Lord, it's all right. You are what you are." Missouri sent a look Dean's way and was gratified to see him hunch a little. "What in the world are you doing, boy, mixed up with an angel?"
"Hey, they came to me, Missouri. If it was up to me –"
"Dean is very important to us. My Father ordered that he be pulled from hell –" the angel said, and Missouri felt the blood drain from her face.
"Cas –"
"Hell? Dean Winchester, what in the world –"
"We really don't have time for this." The angel – Cas – 'Cas? What kind of a name is Cas?' Missouri thought wildly – looked impatient and intense, a little frightening, and Missouri wobbled to her feet, wanting to be standing in case.... Well, in case.
"This is not one of the seals, Dean. You and Sam need to concentrate on –"
"We need to help our friend," Sam said, coming down the stairs, dull rumble of the plumbing settling on the floor above him.
"She needs our help, Cas. It's what we do." Dean was straight-backed in the face of the angel's searing, blue gaze and Missouri felt her respect for the boy edge upward. He wasn't afraid – or at least, not much afraid. And willing to stand up for a woman who'd never done much for him but give him bad news. Him and his daddy.
"That's enough. I don't want to hear any more from any of you. I need a cup of coffee and you boys –" Missouri trained her glare on Sam, Dean, and Castiel in turn, and was gratified to see the angel blink. "I want to know what's going on."
Missouri was silent for so long after, Dean thought maybe she wasn't going to say anything at all. He glanced over at Sam and then Cas, but they were all waiting, watching the woman in the fuzzy slippers and weird sweater as if she had all the answers. Maybe she did. For a moment, Dean felt a tiny little twist of anticipation. Maybe....
And then Missouri sighed, and took a sip from her cup and made a little face. She got up slowly and walked to the sink, pouring out the dregs of her coffee and rinsing the cup – propping it in a bright red dish drainer. Then she turned around and looked at them all.
"You boys...." She shook her head once, and then straightened, tugging her sweater down a little. "The Lord is mighty, boys, and His will is strong. His love is eternal. In the end, you are all His children. All."
Dean shook his head. Typical. "I've only got one Father, and it's not the big jerkoff in the sky," Dean muttered. He stood up abruptly, glancing at the clock over the doorway. "We're wasting time. We need to get to the cathedral and check it out, do some research. I know," he added, as Castiel opened his mouth, looking annoyed.
"It's not a seal, but it's important, Cas. It's our job. We can't just ignore people dying."
Castiel's shoulders slumped ever so slightly, and then he nodded. "I know you can't, Dean. I'm needed elsewhere." And he was gone, shush of his wings loud in the quiet house, and Missouri made a little huffing sound.
"Does he always do that?"
"As often as possible," Sam muttered. He stood up and stretched just a little. "Dean's right, though – we need to go take a look at the cathedral and see if we can find anything. Maybe we can figure this out before the next attack."
"Go on, then," Missouri said. She squared her shoulders, staring hard at Sam, and Dean felt himself bristling a little. "We need to talk, you and me." Her look promised more than talk, and Dean had a sudden, irrational desire to tackle Sam to the floor and hold him still while Missouri did her thing.
"Uh – sure. Sure, Missouri." Big, understanding eyes and that little shoulder-hunch and Dean shoved away from the wall he was leaning on, heading for the door.
"I'm gonna go start the car," he muttered. Angels, psychics, lying little brothers – just another day in the life of Dean Winchester, Hunter.
"This place is frickin' huge," Dean said, and Sam rustled his tour brochure, flipping pages.
"It's over five hundred feet long. And three hundred and one feet high."
"Yeah, frickin' huge." Dean side-stepped a grandmotherly type who was squinting up at a stained glass window, oblivious. "And crowded."
"Millions of people come here every year. Oh!"
"What?" Dean snapped. Sam had stopped, staring upward, and Dean fought the urge to smack him around the back of the head. He followed Sam's gaze to a stained glass window overhead, something tall and arched and swirling with color. It didn't depict the usual – no saints or angels or lambs or anything. It looked.... "That's trippy," Dean said.
"It's the Space Window. The Scientists and Technicians Window, actually. Up in the middle, see that clear bubble?" Sam was pointing like a little kid and Dean rolled his eyes. "It's an actual moon rock. In the window."
"Huh." Dean stared up at the little smear of clear light in the middle of the rich blue and red and black, distracted for a moment.
"Did you know," Sam continued, his voice taking on that 'and we're walking!' tour-guide cadence it got since Sam was a know-it-all thirteen year old. "One of the grotesques is a bust of Darth Vader?"
"Gargoyle," Dean said, and Sam tipped his head at him, smiling a little.
"A gargoyle has a pipe in the mouth to let water out, like a drain. A grotesque is just a weird animal or caricature that doesn't necessarily divert water."
Dean stared at him for a beat. "You're a grotesque."
"Didn't see that coming," Sam muttered, diving back into the brochure. Then the EMF in Dean's pocket whined shrilly, making him jump.
"Looks like we got something...." Dean slipped the EMF out, putting the earplug into his ear, hoping it would pass for some kind of music player. Most of the people milling around were too preoccupied to care, though, and he walked slowly in a widening spiral, flinching a little when the EMF went crazy under a stained glass window that seemed to be depicting.....
"Is that a burning bush?" Dean asked, and Sam shot him a look of astonished offense, his gaze flicking rapidly between Dean and a curvy red-head who seemed absorbed in a guide book. Jesus. "You know, like Moses?"
"It's strongest here," Sam said, ignoring him, and Dean snapped the meter off.
"Yeah, it is. Maybe...whoever made it has unfinished business?"
"Like crushing homeless people? That doesn't seem to jibe with the whole 'make windows for church' thing." Dean looked around, noticing for the first time that there was a pattern to the stone floor. An obvious one, of squares and diamonds, but there was something else.... "I need to be higher."
"What?"
Dean started walking, gaze skimming the soaring vaults above their head. "We need to be up higher – is there like a balcony or something?"
"There's a walkway over the apse, we can –"
"Perfect, let's go."
Apparently, tours that took you up into the lofty heights of the cathedral were infrequent, and the wooden walkways were furred very faintly with a touch of dust. Up here, the air seemed thicker – darker. Like being underwater, all blues and greens and blood-reds from the windows. Dean didn't like it – it felt claustrophobic, somehow, even though the wide wings of the cathedral stretched away left and right, and the arched bones of the roof were like the sky, serene and out of reach.
"Here," Sam said, and he stepped carefully off the walkway and onto the very stones of the cathedral, edging up to a hundred-something foot drop and leaning slowly over. Dean joined him, one hand on cool limestone, one hovering and finally settling on Sam's flannel-clad shoulder. They both stared down.
The floor of the cathedral was crowded with people, candelabras, pews and benches, and Dean let his gaze run up and back the length, and then cross-wise, along the transept. And he saw it. Part of the overall design, but also outside of it. A shape – a glyph. He could see it in corners of tiles and the angles of pews – in how the light fell across the floor, and he heard a little indrawn gasp from Sam as he saw it, too.
"There it is. What the hell? Do you recognize it?" Dean asked, and Sam jostled against him as he felt in his pockets for his phone.
"I dunno. Maybe? It seems kind of...." Sam took a few pictures and then stared downward, his bangs curving out a little, tendrils of hair cupping his cheekbones and jaw. "It's not just in the floor. Whoever made it depended on the light, too. There's no way it's there all the time."
"What do you mean?"
Sam turned, a little impatient, and wavered for a moment, and Dean fisted his hand in Sam's shirt-front and drew him back, into the shadows of the walkway. "Stop pawing at me. I mean – when the sun's in a different position, in spring or summer, it won't be there. It showing up now is deliberate. Timed to the season – maybe to the moon? Or...."
Sam bit his lip, going into 'deep-think' mode, and Dean nodded slowly. He took one last look down the dizzying height, searching for something – anything. And, once again, saw it. A strange little patch of mortar on the wall under the burning bush window. It was, ever so faintly, off in color. Barely discernable, but somehow, being further away made it more obvious. A vague sort of face, shadowy eyes and mouth, and Dean shivered.
He was pretty sure it was staring right at him.
Part two
Enjoy! And please - do check out the art masterlist - to be linked a day or less - and leave comments for my artist! She was awesome to work with, and her art inspired me to write something that i would have never considered. It was one of the very first pieces i looked at and thought 'hrmmmmm, i could *so* write something for this.....' So props to her!
This is Sam, Dean, Missouri Moseley, a smidge of Castiel, a niece, a lot of snow, and a casefic in Washington DC. Gargoyles! Spells! Dean being flirty! :)
Bet'd, of coz, by the ever-wonderful
darkhavens, and sweptawaybayou did what she always does. *hugs all 'round*Lyrics are Mob Rules by Black Sabbath.
See the
spn_reversebang comm for tons more fic and art. Art Prompt Title: Untitled
Art Link: Art Masterlist Post. Yay, she's back! :)
Artist:
satavaisaSummary: From the original art prompt: After almost 30 years of silence the gargoyles of the old abandoned church started screaming at night again. The psychic Missouri Mosley calls the Winchester brothers for help, 'cause she knows that every time the gargoyles scream, someone has a terrible supernatural death. A little change up - the gargoyles are at the Washington National Cathedral in Washington, D.C. Somewhere near the end of season four.
Moonlight lay like snow across the stone arches of the cathedral; a flying buttress like a slope of blue-white ice, shadows black as tar. The sky above was dense, thick as cream with racing clouds, pewter blue with cold. Far away was the pinprick, stuttering red of the Monument's warning light, like a demon's malevolent stare. The wind was strong and gusty, sending snowflakes rushing up – around – down again, frozen white flecks that collected in the arabesques of carved stone.
Shapes seemed to writhe in the blackness, charcoal on ink, as the clouds furled across the moon. Light and dark, light and dark, and then a face – a twisted caricature of a face – loomed out of the shadows. Its open, thick-lipped mouth worked, stretching and pursing and stretching wider as the wind suddenly blew true, driving snow in furious, slanting sheets.
Air like liquid ice flowed through the hollow stone throat of the thing, rushing, roaring – screaming. The scream echoed across the snow-shrouded landscape, rattling winter blackened trees and causing a ragged handful of pigeons to erupt, clattering, from some hidey hole. The scream fell and rose with the wind, shrill as a siren's wail, louder, louder -
Missouri Moseley jerked awake with a hard, sharp gasp, eyes wide and fingers clenching tight on the edge of the covers. It was starting all over again.
In the dank, concrete alley-space off Wisconsin Avenue, Avery Jefferson shuffled across frozen ruts of snow, his shoes inside their layers of rags and plastic bags treacherous on the ice. The lights of Café Deluxe shone softly from a high window – kitchen, probably – and Avery could just see the sloping top of the big, blue Dumpster that sat under the overhang of the building. There was a tub there, one of those kinds the busboy would pile dishes in, and it was steaming ever so slightly.
Avery felt himself grinning behind his beard, and he rubbed stiff, chilblained hands together. That little girl, the pretty one with the curly hair – she always made sure the last of the 'garbage' was wrapped up in foil and piled in a dish tub. Made sure it was up off the street and out of the dirt, ready and waiting for anyone who happened to come by.
Tonight, it looked like Avery was the first one to come along, and he dug down into a pocket and found a ratty, green plastic bag with bright white handles. In this weather, he could take as much as the bag could hold and it wouldn't go rancid on him, not for days. He hoped there was some of that grilled meatloaf, and the lamb. Those were his favorites. Not like the 'sparagus; that girl was a little heavy-handed with the vegetables, but they made good filler.
Avery unfolded his bag and stepped carefully up onto a snow-dusted pile of flattened boxes. As he leaned against the Dumpster, a breeze sprang up, rushing down the alley. It seemed to push at Avery – to pluck at his beard and the dense bundle of dreads sticking out from under his hat. It swirled around his ankles, rushing up his pant-legs and shirt sleeves and Avery cursed softly, shoving still-warm bundles of food into his bag.
The wind seemed to move faster – push harder – and it was making a noise now. Not just the dry rush of air passing over concrete and steel, but something else, something shrill – something like a scream and Avery's feet slipped as the wind dragged at him, howling.
"God damn – God damn – hey!" Avery slipped again, bag flapping, and a foil package sailed away into the snow. And then another and another as he grabbed for the dish tray, the Dumpster edge – anything. The wind tore at him – pushed and pulled and spun him until he fell, shouting – his hand and wrist slammed against the edge of the Dumpster as the snow whirled in, choking him, blinding him. He hit the ground hard, ridges of melted and re-frozen snow like rods across his back. His bag was gone, the foil packages lost, and Avery stared straight up into a whirling, black-and-white vortex of snow and wind and night sky.
And then the wind gathered itself and rushed straight down, invisible battering ram, and the snow turned red.
Missouri lay still, trying to breathe long and deep – trying to still the painful gallop of her heart. She blinked into the chill gloom of her bedroom, taking comfort in the familiar shapes around her: the sag of her bathrobe across the arm of her old rocker; the little glints of reflected light from the mirror, her earrings; the collection of tubs and tubes on the cluttered surface of her vanity.
When she could breathe without gasping, and her hands weren't shaking so hard, she sat up. She pushed back flannel and quilts, fingertips feeling time stitched into worn cotton. She swung her legs out of the bedclothes, flinching at the chill air, and shuffled her feet into her slippers. The little heater in the bathroom wall kicked on with a faint whirr and Missouri stared at her sleep-creased face in the mirror for a moment before shaking her head – shaking off the dream.
"Got a lot of work to do. No use fretting over it," she muttered. Coffee and biscuits and eggs, and then she would see. Call up the Winchesters, and get the ball rolling.
She forced herself to wait until the sun came up, at least – until it wasn't so early that she'd get cussed at instead of listened to. Still too early, apparently, because the voice on the other end of the phone was sleep-thick and querulous.
"Jesus, what the fuck, I just got to sleep!"
"Don't take the Lord's name, boy."
There was a long pause and then a rattling sort of groan. "Missouri?"
"Good morning to you, too, Dean Winchester."
"Good – oh, for – Sam, it's for you."
There was a sort of rustle and thump and then Sam's voice, dazed and confused.
"It's your phone, Dean, they want you –"
"They really don't, shut up, sleepin'...."
"Do you really want me?" Sam's voice sounded as rough as Dean's, and Missouri winced a little, feeling bad. But not that bad.
"Sam, this is going to take a lot less time if you'll just hush and listen to me."
"Uh, Missouri?"
"Lord help me," Missouri muttered, shaking her head. "Do you have a pencil and paper?"
"I, uh – I think...ow, shit...." There was another thump and distantly, Missouri could hear Dean's voice again, 'Turn off the damn light!' She took a sip of her coffee and waited. After another moment, Sam was back, sounding a little breathless. "Yeah, okay, I got it."
"Your head okay, boy?"
"It's – fine, how did...? Never mind. Just, uh – go ahead?"
"You boys need to head to Washington. The capital. To the National Cathedral. People are going to be dying there – probably a couple already have. You boys have to stop it."
"Washington.... Going to be dying? You mean – nobody's dead yet?"
Missouri cocked her head, staring without really seeing at the blues and greens of her kitchen curtains. "I can't be sure. It feels like...yes. But I do know death is coming, Sam. Death is awake at the cathedral, and we have to stop it."
"What do you mean, death – uh, we? Missouri, we're kind of in the middle of something –"
"And it can wait for a little. You go on back to sleep now, Sam. I'll see you in Washington in a couple days." Missouri took the phone away from her ear, ignoring Sam's voice as it grew more distant.
"Meet you? Missouri.... Missouri?" She clicked the phone off and set it on the table – picked up her spoon and idly stirred her cooling coffee. No, she couldn't be sure that anyone had died – that wasn't clear to her. But she felt that someone had. The dream had been too sharp – too terrifying. Too much like it had been, all those years ago. Fifteen had died – fifteen innocent lives snuffed out, their horror and pain reverberating through the aether. She'd only been twelve then, shivering under the quilts at Nana's house, listening to the walls creak in psychic agony as, miles away, the stone monsters had come to life and the very air had screamed. It would be different, this time.
Washington in January was fucking cold, and Dean stood stamping his feet, scowling, watching as Sam perused the aisles of the Shell station, loading up on essential supplies. Like HoHos and teriyaki jerky. The pump dinged and Dean reached down and eased the nozzle free – hung it up and looked with a wince at the total.
"Jesus. Could make gas for less." The wind gusted, scented with exhaust and the tin-salt of snow, the air faintly blue, that just-before-dawn twilight that made it hard to see the details. That made the shadows a little more menacing. Dean rubbed his hands together and climbed back inside the car, cranking the heat. He pulled away from the pump and sat, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, while Sam paid and came out, stepping carefully across the slushy sidewalk. He slid into his place in the car and Dean backed and turned and drove out of the parking lot, heading for the highway. He didn't know D.C. and didn't want to drive around on empty, hungry and pissed off. Though the pissed off part was a given, considering.
"So she didn't say anything else?"
"Dean." Sam looked up from the bag in his lap, his face set in that 'I will kill you' look of sheer, little-brother annoyance. "I told you a hundred times already. Just – give it a rest."
"We've kind of got bigger fish to fry here, Sam. Does the Apocalypse ring a bell?" Dean changed lanes and pressed the accelerator down, wondering if there were any speed traps. D.C. itself was only about an hour away – maybe they saved all their policing for Presidential threats. The thought made him relax a fraction and he held out his right hand. "Hit me."
"Cake or jerky?"
"That's 'cake or death'."
"Huh?"
Dean snorted softly. "Gimme some jerky, bitch."
"You're the jerky," Sam muttered, and tossed a pack of dried meat at Dean's face.
Dean snatched it out of the air and tore it open with his teeth. Reached down and spun the dial on the stereo, grinning at Sam's wince as the voice of Ronnie James Dio screamed out, pure and perfect.
Close the city and tell the people that something's coming to call
Death and darkness are rushing forward to take a bite from the wall, oh....
The address that Missouri had given them was just off Florida Avenue, a narrow street called 12th Place Northwest. It was densely lined with brick row houses, all about ten feet across but at least three stories high, some painted flat tans and whites, others standing out in bold purple or green. The house at 2215 was a bright blue, with a lime-yellow door; the winter-thinned limbs of some overgrown tree partially obscuring it. Most of the street was blessedly empty, and Dean eased the car into a spot across the street with a little sigh. The morning commute traffic had sucked.
"That it?" he asked, and Sam peered through the steam on his window and sighed, too.
"Yeah, that's it."
"Thank God." Dean turned the engine off and got out, flinching a little at the bite of freezing air. A brisk wind was blowing down the street, funneled by the tall houses, and he grabbed his jacket off the seat and pulled it on, huddling down into the warm canvas and quilting. Across from him, Sam was stretching and bending, working out the kinks in his back, and Dean took a moment to do the same, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck. Then they crossed the street, Dean reaching through the bars of the security door to knock, expecting Missouri to drag open the door and scowl at him for being late.
He wasn't expecting someone who looked like a cross between Halle Berry and Queen Latifah - tall, a little heavy in that good, curvy way, and drop-dead gorgeous. Dean felt himself grin on pure, knee-jerk instinct. "Hey, hi. I'm Dean, this is my brother Sam – we're friends of Missouri's?"
The woman tipped her chin up and shouted. "Auntie Mo!" She gave Dean and Sam the once-over, her finely arched brows going up a little. "You're sure not what I was expecting."
"No? Well, I hope you're pleasantly surprised," Dean said, and she snorted softly. But her mouth was curling up in a little smile and Dean took a second, longer look at her. She had on furry, calf-high boots under a trim skirt and a padded leather jacket on over what looked like silk and linen. A bag much like Sam's, only cut from some kind of butter-soft leather, the stitching tiny and perfect. She tipped her head back and yelled again. "Auntie Mo, your friends are here!" She pulled an alarmingly shiny phone from a side-pocket of her bag and tapped on it a few times with a manicured finger. "As nice as this is, gentlemen – I'm late. I really need to get a move on."
"You – uh – work at the White House?" Dean asked, as the woman dug around into her shoulder bag again and pulled out a pair of fluffy, dark purple earmuffs that she settled carefully onto her head. She laughed, shaking her head.
"No, I'm a registrar at the Air and Space Museum," she said and stepped outside, pulling the door nearly to behind her. "You'll understand if I don't invite you in?"
"Yeah, sure, that's fine. Space – I love space. The moon, you know –" Behind him, Sam made a sort of groaning, snorting noise that Dean totally ignored.
"Then I suggest you come by for the tour some time, Dean. Have a nice visit with my Auntie." She gave Dean a little wink and then turned on her heel and strode away. The skirt really did fit her very nicely.
"Dean Winchester, get your eyes back in your head and off my niece!" Missouri stood scowling in the doorway, resplendent in a striped cardigan and fluffy orange slippers. Dean choked a little. "Get yourselves in here before you freeze to death," she added, turning and padding away into the dim interior. Sam bumped Dean's shoulder with his own, and they climbed the single step into the house and shut the door.
"Are you saying the gargoyles actually come to life? Like – crawl around?" Sam asked, and Missouri frowned over her coffee, shaking her head.
"No, I don't believe they do. They seem to – they seem to move, and scream. But I think stone creatures getting up and waltzing around would have been noticed by somebody."
"You'd think," Dean said. He shifted in his position against the kitchen counter, taking a mouthful of his own coffee and swallowing it, his expression thoughtful. "Do you think –?"
"Hey, found something," Sam said, and Dean pushed off from the counter to walk over to Sam, who straightened back from the kitchen table and turned his laptop, angling the screen. "A homeless man was killed last night – multiple broken bones and internal injuries, but he wasn't hit by a car or anything. It's like he was –"
"Crushed," Missouri said, her gaze distant – troubled – and Sam nodded.
"Yeah. Have to check out the body for sure, see the coroner's report, but...yeah."
"So it's started," Missouri said softly, and Dean settled in the chair next to her, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
"Are you sure you don't know what it is? I mean, you said you went looking, the last time. You didn't find anything?"
"I did go looking. Snuck away from Nana and took the bus, all on my own. And did she whale me when I got back, oh my, did she...." Missouri put her cup down and tugged her cardigan tighter around herself, her gaze fixed sightlessly on the table-top. "Walked right inside the cathedral, under all those eyes...all those watchers. Made my blood run cold. There was something – someone – watching me. Trying to – talk to me." Missouri glanced up at Sam and Dean, shrugging a little.
"I wasn't nearly so practiced then – was just coming into my gifts, really. I wasn't sure what was there, but it was cold...so very cold. Cold and angry. It screamed at me – the air itself seemed to be alive with voices, screaming and wailing...like the very mount of Babylon.... I ran, Dean. I turned and ran and never went back and that's why...."
She stopped, and Sam shot a look over at Dean – reached out a hand toward Missouri, not quite touching, just letting his fingers rest on the scrubbed pine of the table top.
"That's why you want to stop it, this time? That's why you want to be here."
"That's exactly why," Missouri sighed. She reached out and patted Sam's hand – froze for a moment, her eyes going wide, and then she flung herself back in her chair a little, gasping. "What - oh my Lord, boy, oh my Lord, what are you – what –"
"Missouri? What –"
"Dean," a voice said, gravel-rough and impatient, and all three looked up in startlement at Castiel, who stood in the corner of the kitchen like a wind-ruffled owl, wide-eyed and daylight-grumpy.
"How did you get in here? Who – oh Jesus, oh Lord, have mercy –" Missouri babbled, and then she slumped right over in a dead faint. Dean managed to catch her halfway down and then Sam was there, and they eased Missouri down to the floor, her bulky shoulders on Dean's thighs, her head in the crook of his arm. Sam went for a glass of water and Dean glared at the angel who stood staring back, head tipped over in that way that meant he was clueless as to what had just happened.
"You really need to learn to knock," Dean snapped.
Missouri woke with a little start, the twisted faces of gargoyles and grotesques leering at her from the darkness behind her eyelids. She was on the couch in the living room, her head propped with a pillow, her feet covered with one of Nana's afghans. And that man – no, not a man, not a man at all.....
"What are you?" Missouri said, quiet, and the man tipped his head to her.
"I'm an angel of the Lord."
In the mellow-gold light of mid-morning, he was a thinnish, ruffled-looking man in a rumpled suit and a tan overcoat that had seen better days. In her sight.... He was light, sheer planes and shifting arcs, a face like a burning sun and eyes – so many eyes.... Wings that arched, furled and curving, through the ceiling and the walls of the house, and his voice....
"Can you...turn it down a little?" she asked, sitting up slowly, dragging the afghan off her feet and crumpling it in her lap. The angel just looked at her.
"She means your angel-ness or whatever," Dean said, slouching around the jamb of the doorway between living room and kitchen. "You're probably kind of bright."
"Oh," the angel said, and his – otherness – was abruptly dimmed and diminished, until it was nothing more than a sort of soft fuzz of shifting, opalescent light. Missouri felt faintly disappointed, but mostly relieved. "I'm sorry."
"Lord, it's all right. You are what you are." Missouri sent a look Dean's way and was gratified to see him hunch a little. "What in the world are you doing, boy, mixed up with an angel?"
"Hey, they came to me, Missouri. If it was up to me –"
"Dean is very important to us. My Father ordered that he be pulled from hell –" the angel said, and Missouri felt the blood drain from her face.
"Cas –"
"Hell? Dean Winchester, what in the world –"
"We really don't have time for this." The angel – Cas – 'Cas? What kind of a name is Cas?' Missouri thought wildly – looked impatient and intense, a little frightening, and Missouri wobbled to her feet, wanting to be standing in case.... Well, in case.
"This is not one of the seals, Dean. You and Sam need to concentrate on –"
"We need to help our friend," Sam said, coming down the stairs, dull rumble of the plumbing settling on the floor above him.
"She needs our help, Cas. It's what we do." Dean was straight-backed in the face of the angel's searing, blue gaze and Missouri felt her respect for the boy edge upward. He wasn't afraid – or at least, not much afraid. And willing to stand up for a woman who'd never done much for him but give him bad news. Him and his daddy.
"That's enough. I don't want to hear any more from any of you. I need a cup of coffee and you boys –" Missouri trained her glare on Sam, Dean, and Castiel in turn, and was gratified to see the angel blink. "I want to know what's going on."
Missouri was silent for so long after, Dean thought maybe she wasn't going to say anything at all. He glanced over at Sam and then Cas, but they were all waiting, watching the woman in the fuzzy slippers and weird sweater as if she had all the answers. Maybe she did. For a moment, Dean felt a tiny little twist of anticipation. Maybe....
And then Missouri sighed, and took a sip from her cup and made a little face. She got up slowly and walked to the sink, pouring out the dregs of her coffee and rinsing the cup – propping it in a bright red dish drainer. Then she turned around and looked at them all.
"You boys...." She shook her head once, and then straightened, tugging her sweater down a little. "The Lord is mighty, boys, and His will is strong. His love is eternal. In the end, you are all His children. All."
Dean shook his head. Typical. "I've only got one Father, and it's not the big jerkoff in the sky," Dean muttered. He stood up abruptly, glancing at the clock over the doorway. "We're wasting time. We need to get to the cathedral and check it out, do some research. I know," he added, as Castiel opened his mouth, looking annoyed.
"It's not a seal, but it's important, Cas. It's our job. We can't just ignore people dying."
Castiel's shoulders slumped ever so slightly, and then he nodded. "I know you can't, Dean. I'm needed elsewhere." And he was gone, shush of his wings loud in the quiet house, and Missouri made a little huffing sound.
"Does he always do that?"
"As often as possible," Sam muttered. He stood up and stretched just a little. "Dean's right, though – we need to go take a look at the cathedral and see if we can find anything. Maybe we can figure this out before the next attack."
"Go on, then," Missouri said. She squared her shoulders, staring hard at Sam, and Dean felt himself bristling a little. "We need to talk, you and me." Her look promised more than talk, and Dean had a sudden, irrational desire to tackle Sam to the floor and hold him still while Missouri did her thing.
"Uh – sure. Sure, Missouri." Big, understanding eyes and that little shoulder-hunch and Dean shoved away from the wall he was leaning on, heading for the door.
"I'm gonna go start the car," he muttered. Angels, psychics, lying little brothers – just another day in the life of Dean Winchester, Hunter.
"This place is frickin' huge," Dean said, and Sam rustled his tour brochure, flipping pages.
"It's over five hundred feet long. And three hundred and one feet high."
"Yeah, frickin' huge." Dean side-stepped a grandmotherly type who was squinting up at a stained glass window, oblivious. "And crowded."
"Millions of people come here every year. Oh!"
"What?" Dean snapped. Sam had stopped, staring upward, and Dean fought the urge to smack him around the back of the head. He followed Sam's gaze to a stained glass window overhead, something tall and arched and swirling with color. It didn't depict the usual – no saints or angels or lambs or anything. It looked.... "That's trippy," Dean said.
"It's the Space Window. The Scientists and Technicians Window, actually. Up in the middle, see that clear bubble?" Sam was pointing like a little kid and Dean rolled his eyes. "It's an actual moon rock. In the window."
"Huh." Dean stared up at the little smear of clear light in the middle of the rich blue and red and black, distracted for a moment.
"Did you know," Sam continued, his voice taking on that 'and we're walking!' tour-guide cadence it got since Sam was a know-it-all thirteen year old. "One of the grotesques is a bust of Darth Vader?"
"Gargoyle," Dean said, and Sam tipped his head at him, smiling a little.
"A gargoyle has a pipe in the mouth to let water out, like a drain. A grotesque is just a weird animal or caricature that doesn't necessarily divert water."
Dean stared at him for a beat. "You're a grotesque."
"Didn't see that coming," Sam muttered, diving back into the brochure. Then the EMF in Dean's pocket whined shrilly, making him jump.
"Looks like we got something...." Dean slipped the EMF out, putting the earplug into his ear, hoping it would pass for some kind of music player. Most of the people milling around were too preoccupied to care, though, and he walked slowly in a widening spiral, flinching a little when the EMF went crazy under a stained glass window that seemed to be depicting.....
"Is that a burning bush?" Dean asked, and Sam shot him a look of astonished offense, his gaze flicking rapidly between Dean and a curvy red-head who seemed absorbed in a guide book. Jesus. "You know, like Moses?"
"It's strongest here," Sam said, ignoring him, and Dean snapped the meter off.
"Yeah, it is. Maybe...whoever made it has unfinished business?"
"Like crushing homeless people? That doesn't seem to jibe with the whole 'make windows for church' thing." Dean looked around, noticing for the first time that there was a pattern to the stone floor. An obvious one, of squares and diamonds, but there was something else.... "I need to be higher."
"What?"
Dean started walking, gaze skimming the soaring vaults above their head. "We need to be up higher – is there like a balcony or something?"
"There's a walkway over the apse, we can –"
"Perfect, let's go."
Apparently, tours that took you up into the lofty heights of the cathedral were infrequent, and the wooden walkways were furred very faintly with a touch of dust. Up here, the air seemed thicker – darker. Like being underwater, all blues and greens and blood-reds from the windows. Dean didn't like it – it felt claustrophobic, somehow, even though the wide wings of the cathedral stretched away left and right, and the arched bones of the roof were like the sky, serene and out of reach.
"Here," Sam said, and he stepped carefully off the walkway and onto the very stones of the cathedral, edging up to a hundred-something foot drop and leaning slowly over. Dean joined him, one hand on cool limestone, one hovering and finally settling on Sam's flannel-clad shoulder. They both stared down.
The floor of the cathedral was crowded with people, candelabras, pews and benches, and Dean let his gaze run up and back the length, and then cross-wise, along the transept. And he saw it. Part of the overall design, but also outside of it. A shape – a glyph. He could see it in corners of tiles and the angles of pews – in how the light fell across the floor, and he heard a little indrawn gasp from Sam as he saw it, too.
"There it is. What the hell? Do you recognize it?" Dean asked, and Sam jostled against him as he felt in his pockets for his phone.
"I dunno. Maybe? It seems kind of...." Sam took a few pictures and then stared downward, his bangs curving out a little, tendrils of hair cupping his cheekbones and jaw. "It's not just in the floor. Whoever made it depended on the light, too. There's no way it's there all the time."
"What do you mean?"
Sam turned, a little impatient, and wavered for a moment, and Dean fisted his hand in Sam's shirt-front and drew him back, into the shadows of the walkway. "Stop pawing at me. I mean – when the sun's in a different position, in spring or summer, it won't be there. It showing up now is deliberate. Timed to the season – maybe to the moon? Or...."
Sam bit his lip, going into 'deep-think' mode, and Dean nodded slowly. He took one last look down the dizzying height, searching for something – anything. And, once again, saw it. A strange little patch of mortar on the wall under the burning bush window. It was, ever so faintly, off in color. Barely discernable, but somehow, being further away made it more obvious. A vague sort of face, shadowy eyes and mouth, and Dean shivered.
He was pretty sure it was staring right at him.
Part two
no subject
no subject
no subject
& i´m totally with you tabaqui: Missouri deserves so much more fandom love ^^
no subject
*pets him*
*giggles*
I like her. I wish they'd brought her back in a later season, for an ep or two. That would have been cool.
no subject
Ooh, I like that this may be her Shtriga.
no subject
no subject
I liked him, even though I hardly got to know him.
Teriyaki jerky is literally my favorite jerky. I'm not even kidding. I've had whole conversations with strangers about how good it is. Slim Jims can eat me.
Dean knows 'cake or death' and Sam doesn't? Dean's been remiss in his big brother duties.
RIP Dio. A friend of mine had the opportunity to meet him twice, and said he was a really nice guy.
"Yeah, sure, that's fine. Space – I love space. The moon, you know –" Behind him, Sam made a sort of groaning, snorting noise that Dean totally ignored.
:D
The moon, you know.
"Is that a burning bush?" Dean asked, and Sam shot him a look of astonished offense, his gaze flicking rapidly between Dean and a curvy red-head who seemed absorbed in a guide book. Jesus. "You know, like Moses?"
ROTFLMAO! That was effing perfect!
Apparently, tours that took you up into the lofty heights of the cathedral were infrequent, and the wooden walkways were furred very faintly with a touch of dust. Up here, the air seemed thicker – darker. Like being underwater, all blues and greens and blood-reds from the windows. Dean didn't like it – it felt claustrophobic, somehow, even though the wide wings of the cathedral stretched away left and right, and the arched bones of the roof were like the sky, serene and out of reach.
I love that description. It sets the atmosphere and makes me shiver. As does this:
He took one last look down the dizzying height, searching for something – anything. And, once again, saw it. A strange little patch of mortar on the wall under the burning bush window. It was, ever so faintly, off in color. Barely discernable, but somehow, being further away made it more obvious. A vague sort of face, shadowy eyes and mouth, and Dean shivered.
He was pretty sure it was staring right at him.
I see weird faces in damn near anything--shadows, splotches, shifting patterns of light, the fall of fabric, you name it. So that hit home hard.
::shudders::
no subject
I hate the flavor of teriyaki, so it doesn't matter if it's jerky or chicken, i just...blech.
:)
Thank you, bb! So awesome to see you on my lj again!
*twirls you*
*oh, and? Because of how we look - two eyes opposite, nose, mouth below - we're programmed from birth to see 'faces' in things. If we were a cyclops race, we'd see cyclops faces. It's just how we are. That's why so many people see Jesus on flatbread. :)*
mysterious!
Love Missouri all ready. Loved her reaction to Castiel and seems that Sam isn't a mystery to her. And she has a red dish drainer--silly, but this made me ridiculously happy. I had one too! :)
roxy ;)
Re: mysterious!
*smooch*
I love that you love my Missouri - i was so nervous to write her! We know so little about her, and she's not my uber-most-favorite character, though i *do* like her....
*she was mean! to Dean!!*
*pets him*
But i wanted to do her justice.
*twirls you*
Red dish drainers roxor. Of *course* you have one!
no subject
no subject