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krisomniacSo I ended up signing up for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
getyourwordsout. I don't know, yet, if this is a good idea. I've had the worst time recently starting, continuing, or even really writing anything.
To clear the air, I've decided to post the beginning of a story that's been dogging me for months because I can't figure out where I want to go with it (and the answer is probably; nowhere) and I want to put it behind me to start something else.
------------------------
Imagine an empty road.
The road was cut through a forest when horses still pulled carts, pounded flat by the steady clop of their hooves as the dust rose into the air around them. Over years, the horses disappeared, replaced by cars and combustion engines, the cars replaced by bigger cars, and though the drivers of these glittering behemoths (with names like "trailblazer" and "pathfinder") take pride in the fact that their vehicles can tame the dusty wilderness, they prefer to cruise over the slick, smooth pavement of the highway some miles to the south. Wouldn't want mud in the tires.
Imagine a man on this empty road. For the sake of argument, call him a man.
For the sake of identification, call him Crowley. It's as good a name as any, and better than some he's had. It has also been with him a very long time.
Crowley is stalking towards the crossroads ahead, a dark shadow against the trees and moonless sky. His lungs are on fire (metaphorically), smoldering (literally), and it's a moment before he remembers that he's forgotten to breathe on the journey here-- London to Middle of Nowhere, USA on the very very Underground.
He exhales and wrinkles his nose at the hint of sulfur on his breath, the smell that lingers in the fabric of his leather jacket, in his carefully disheveled hair. Hell has a tendency to wreak havoc on his dry-cleaning bills.
Or it would, if he paid them.
Instead, he shakes out the scent and pauses, tasting the air on his tongue. It's been a long time since he's been on this side of the ocean. Back then the towering forests were sapling fields and a fellow called Booth… John Wilkes, Crowley remembers with satisfaction, needed a gentle push in the wrong direction.
Meticulously, he adjusts his sunglasses. In the distance an owl hoots, searching for small, furry rodents to eat. It's almost time.
Crowley's feet make no noise on the ground, and his ears perk at the sound of soft rustling behind him. He stops.
A moment later the rustling stops, too.
He blames it on his nerves, on the anticipation he suspects he feels less strongly than his superiors believe he should. In the distance, he sees a car pulled off to the side of the night-black road. A single figure waits beside it, silent silhouette in the glare of headlights. The sound is following him again, and Crowley grins. If he listens closely, he can almost make out the whisper of pinion-feathers shifting in the stillness.
"You," he says too softly for the figure ahead to hear.
"Who, me?" A tallish, bespectacled man materializes just over his right shoulder.
"No the other angel behind me."
An angel, who has gone by the name Aziraphale longer than Crowley has been Crowley, strides up beside him. His wings shine faintly, illuminating their path, and Crowley is surprised, as always, by their ability to catch and amplify the starlight.
"No need to be sarcastic."
"Sorry." Crowley pauses and considers for a moment. This job must be getting under his scales. "Not sorry, rather. Not sorry at all."
"Of course." Aziraphale soothes. "Demon."
"That's right." Crowley glances askance at his companion. Aziraphale has updated his wardrobe over the last few years, from 1950's tweed, to the height of 1970's-- Crowley would hesitate before ever calling the angel's clothing fashion-- but he is wearing new eyeglasses, a pullover jumper, and trousers so snug against his backside Crowley is pretty sure they break at least two of the Ten Commandments. They walk a few more steps in silence, before Crowley asks. "Why are you here, anyway?"
"Just that it's been a while since you've done one of these," Aziraphale explains.
Crowly hisses under his breath, protest rising to his lips. It may have been… a while… since he's been to a crossroads, but bargaining for souls isn't something one simply forgets how to do. Certainly it isn't something he needs an angel's help--
"Oh, I'm sure you'll be wonderful-- er-- very intimidating." Aziraphale's wings flutter anxiously. "My superiors have sent me to be the thorn in your side-- metaphorically, of course. I think."
"So," Crowley pauses, letting this new information sink in. Then he smiles. "So they think I'm dangerous."
"Oh… Very."
He walks with his head held a little higher and pretends not to notice Aziraphale's amusement.
"Know much about him?" Crowley asks, voice casual.
"No…" Aziraphale answers, equally cautious. "You?"
"There was a running joke in hell--" Crowley kicks a pebble. It bounces noiselessly in the dirt. "What can't you do with a Winchester's soul?"
Aziraphale rubs his chin thoughtfully and is quiet for so long, Crowley's thoughts wander back to the task at hand. The dukes of hell made it clear to Crowley that they had more than jokes about this Dean kid. They had expectations.
"I give up. What?"
"Huh? Oh. Nothing, I guess." Crowley shrugs.
Aziraphale laughs politely.
"Never said it was a good joke." It is a well known fact that Hell is not renowned for its sense of humor. Then again, neither is heaven.
They're coming up to the car, a classic Chevy parked at the edge of the intersection. Its headlights form two luminescent pools where the roads meet, and there is an area of freshly turned earth in the center. Crowley blinks behind his sunglasses, looking for hidden traps and symbols.
He's heard the stories, though Dean Winchester doesn’t look so intimidating up close. He's standing and scowling out into the dark. His shoulders are hunched, hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.
The way the others whispered his name, Crowley expected him to be taller.
---------------------
This part was written before season four. (You can see how long the damn story's been working me.)
----------------------
"One of the children?" Aziraphale stops and takes Crowley's arm. His fingers are warm, grip tight and insistent. The children were a compromise reached by both sides, behind closed doors, after the last Son of Satan, Great Adversary, Destroyer of Kings etc. had resigned his position and eloped with his childhood sweetheart, a woman he affectionately calls 'Pepper'.*
* And with whom he is currently on honeymoon in Bristol. The child, Adam, wants nothing to do with the rest of Heaven or Hell, but Crowley likes to keep in touch.
None of these children has nearly the power of the original and both sides agreed, behind those same closed doors, that this is for the best. Many eggs, many baskets and all that.
Nor was their entry into the world personally overseen by occult forces (a fact that relieved Crowley to no end). Rather, they were scattered around the globe like little matchsticks of brightly colored dynamite, just waiting for something to light their collective fuse.
They were also, thanks to the new arrangement, safe from the prying eyes of the occult forces uninvolved with their births. Only Azazel, so far among demons, had any reliable means to locate them and -- Crowley shivered in the warm night air -- look how that had ended.
"Huh," Aziraphale says.
"Why 'huh'?"
It was also common knowledge, in demonic (and Crowley supposed, angelic) circles, that vigorous and highly secretive recruitment efforts were underway by both sides, in an effort to find the children and sway them one way or the other. Both Above and Below had sent an otherworldly team of scouts to woo players for a big college game, the Big College Game, as it were. Winner take all.
Crowley would personally like to see the players go on strike.
"Oh, nothing." Aziraphale releases his arm, looking faintly green.
"Why?" Crowley lowers his glasses and fixes the angel with an unblinking gaze which, though it comes naturally, he's made rather an art of over the years.
Aziraphale waves his hand in the air. "It's all very complicated," he says, looking doubtful.
"Ineffable, I'm sure." Crowley turns away from Aziraphale and towards the waiting figure. "Now if you'll leave me to conduct my business in peace--" He walks the last few strides to the crossroads, noting the almost inaudible whoosh of an angel-shaped vacuum filling with night air. "Hello, Mr. Winchester," he says. "You called?"
Dean starts, hand moving automatically to his gun. When he sees Crowley, he exhales and releases it, playing cool. "You came." Beneath the bravado, he sounds relieved that someone, anyone, answered his call. His eyes are green, dark and shadowed by the faint reflections of hellhounds in the distance. Crowley shivers; damned soul walking.
------------------------
So there's my dirty laundry. Er. :/
getyourwordsout. I don't know, yet, if this is a good idea. I've had the worst time recently starting, continuing, or even really writing anything. To clear the air, I've decided to post the beginning of a story that's been dogging me for months because I can't figure out where I want to go with it (and the answer is probably; nowhere) and I want to put it behind me to start something else.
------------------------
Imagine an empty road.
The road was cut through a forest when horses still pulled carts, pounded flat by the steady clop of their hooves as the dust rose into the air around them. Over years, the horses disappeared, replaced by cars and combustion engines, the cars replaced by bigger cars, and though the drivers of these glittering behemoths (with names like "trailblazer" and "pathfinder") take pride in the fact that their vehicles can tame the dusty wilderness, they prefer to cruise over the slick, smooth pavement of the highway some miles to the south. Wouldn't want mud in the tires.
Imagine a man on this empty road. For the sake of argument, call him a man.
For the sake of identification, call him Crowley. It's as good a name as any, and better than some he's had. It has also been with him a very long time.
Crowley is stalking towards the crossroads ahead, a dark shadow against the trees and moonless sky. His lungs are on fire (metaphorically), smoldering (literally), and it's a moment before he remembers that he's forgotten to breathe on the journey here-- London to Middle of Nowhere, USA on the very very Underground.
He exhales and wrinkles his nose at the hint of sulfur on his breath, the smell that lingers in the fabric of his leather jacket, in his carefully disheveled hair. Hell has a tendency to wreak havoc on his dry-cleaning bills.
Or it would, if he paid them.
Instead, he shakes out the scent and pauses, tasting the air on his tongue. It's been a long time since he's been on this side of the ocean. Back then the towering forests were sapling fields and a fellow called Booth… John Wilkes, Crowley remembers with satisfaction, needed a gentle push in the wrong direction.
Meticulously, he adjusts his sunglasses. In the distance an owl hoots, searching for small, furry rodents to eat. It's almost time.
Crowley's feet make no noise on the ground, and his ears perk at the sound of soft rustling behind him. He stops.
A moment later the rustling stops, too.
He blames it on his nerves, on the anticipation he suspects he feels less strongly than his superiors believe he should. In the distance, he sees a car pulled off to the side of the night-black road. A single figure waits beside it, silent silhouette in the glare of headlights. The sound is following him again, and Crowley grins. If he listens closely, he can almost make out the whisper of pinion-feathers shifting in the stillness.
"You," he says too softly for the figure ahead to hear.
"Who, me?" A tallish, bespectacled man materializes just over his right shoulder.
"No the other angel behind me."
An angel, who has gone by the name Aziraphale longer than Crowley has been Crowley, strides up beside him. His wings shine faintly, illuminating their path, and Crowley is surprised, as always, by their ability to catch and amplify the starlight.
"No need to be sarcastic."
"Sorry." Crowley pauses and considers for a moment. This job must be getting under his scales. "Not sorry, rather. Not sorry at all."
"Of course." Aziraphale soothes. "Demon."
"That's right." Crowley glances askance at his companion. Aziraphale has updated his wardrobe over the last few years, from 1950's tweed, to the height of 1970's-- Crowley would hesitate before ever calling the angel's clothing fashion-- but he is wearing new eyeglasses, a pullover jumper, and trousers so snug against his backside Crowley is pretty sure they break at least two of the Ten Commandments. They walk a few more steps in silence, before Crowley asks. "Why are you here, anyway?"
"Just that it's been a while since you've done one of these," Aziraphale explains.
Crowly hisses under his breath, protest rising to his lips. It may have been… a while… since he's been to a crossroads, but bargaining for souls isn't something one simply forgets how to do. Certainly it isn't something he needs an angel's help--
"Oh, I'm sure you'll be wonderful-- er-- very intimidating." Aziraphale's wings flutter anxiously. "My superiors have sent me to be the thorn in your side-- metaphorically, of course. I think."
"So," Crowley pauses, letting this new information sink in. Then he smiles. "So they think I'm dangerous."
"Oh… Very."
He walks with his head held a little higher and pretends not to notice Aziraphale's amusement.
"Know much about him?" Crowley asks, voice casual.
"No…" Aziraphale answers, equally cautious. "You?"
"There was a running joke in hell--" Crowley kicks a pebble. It bounces noiselessly in the dirt. "What can't you do with a Winchester's soul?"
Aziraphale rubs his chin thoughtfully and is quiet for so long, Crowley's thoughts wander back to the task at hand. The dukes of hell made it clear to Crowley that they had more than jokes about this Dean kid. They had expectations.
"I give up. What?"
"Huh? Oh. Nothing, I guess." Crowley shrugs.
Aziraphale laughs politely.
"Never said it was a good joke." It is a well known fact that Hell is not renowned for its sense of humor. Then again, neither is heaven.
They're coming up to the car, a classic Chevy parked at the edge of the intersection. Its headlights form two luminescent pools where the roads meet, and there is an area of freshly turned earth in the center. Crowley blinks behind his sunglasses, looking for hidden traps and symbols.
He's heard the stories, though Dean Winchester doesn’t look so intimidating up close. He's standing and scowling out into the dark. His shoulders are hunched, hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.
The way the others whispered his name, Crowley expected him to be taller.
---------------------
This part was written before season four. (You can see how long the damn story's been working me.)
----------------------
"One of the children?" Aziraphale stops and takes Crowley's arm. His fingers are warm, grip tight and insistent. The children were a compromise reached by both sides, behind closed doors, after the last Son of Satan, Great Adversary, Destroyer of Kings etc. had resigned his position and eloped with his childhood sweetheart, a woman he affectionately calls 'Pepper'.*
* And with whom he is currently on honeymoon in Bristol. The child, Adam, wants nothing to do with the rest of Heaven or Hell, but Crowley likes to keep in touch.
None of these children has nearly the power of the original and both sides agreed, behind those same closed doors, that this is for the best. Many eggs, many baskets and all that.
Nor was their entry into the world personally overseen by occult forces (a fact that relieved Crowley to no end). Rather, they were scattered around the globe like little matchsticks of brightly colored dynamite, just waiting for something to light their collective fuse.
They were also, thanks to the new arrangement, safe from the prying eyes of the occult forces uninvolved with their births. Only Azazel, so far among demons, had any reliable means to locate them and -- Crowley shivered in the warm night air -- look how that had ended.
"Huh," Aziraphale says.
"Why 'huh'?"
It was also common knowledge, in demonic (and Crowley supposed, angelic) circles, that vigorous and highly secretive recruitment efforts were underway by both sides, in an effort to find the children and sway them one way or the other. Both Above and Below had sent an otherworldly team of scouts to woo players for a big college game, the Big College Game, as it were. Winner take all.
Crowley would personally like to see the players go on strike.
"Oh, nothing." Aziraphale releases his arm, looking faintly green.
"Why?" Crowley lowers his glasses and fixes the angel with an unblinking gaze which, though it comes naturally, he's made rather an art of over the years.
Aziraphale waves his hand in the air. "It's all very complicated," he says, looking doubtful.
"Ineffable, I'm sure." Crowley turns away from Aziraphale and towards the waiting figure. "Now if you'll leave me to conduct my business in peace--" He walks the last few strides to the crossroads, noting the almost inaudible whoosh of an angel-shaped vacuum filling with night air. "Hello, Mr. Winchester," he says. "You called?"
Dean starts, hand moving automatically to his gun. When he sees Crowley, he exhales and releases it, playing cool. "You came." Beneath the bravado, he sounds relieved that someone, anyone, answered his call. His eyes are green, dark and shadowed by the faint reflections of hellhounds in the distance. Crowley shivers; damned soul walking.
------------------------
So there's my dirty laundry. Er. :/
