The season finale of Supernatural has sparked many fans' imaginations. This blog is a place to collect and appreciate all the pic-fics and tag-fics that are being written. If I've overlooked one, please message me to let me know. A list of tags is linked at the bottom of the page.
(My personal tumblr is ilovehowyouletmefall, my name is Marissa. Hi!)
Anna walks the vast reaches of Purgatory alone. She yearns for the company of her garrison in ways she never thought she would again. After she’d fallen, she shunned everything that reminded her of home—of Heaven, because it was no longer home for her. I’ll never go back again was a short-lived promise, however; funny how the Winchesters did that to so many people. Made them break promises and forced their hands, all for the sake of what was right. Flawed humans, Anna knew, and the road to hell was often paved with good intentions, but they tried. And that’s probably what so many people saw in them.
She has found a few allies, and too many enemies in this place. All are transitory, as is everything here, but she likes the solitude sometimes. And then it can also be far too overwhelming, so vast and painful that she doesn’t think she can bear it for a moment longer. Purgatory is a place of contradiction, of confusion, of suffocating and dizzying warmth and comfort that makes one want to lie down and sleep for endless centuries. There’s no such thing as time, here; the horizon is swathed in a perpetual dusk and dawn, always and never the same on a second glance.
Anna remembers the shores here, though. Remembers coming to existence here, meeting her brothers and sisters, Grace mingling with theirs and soft whispers of their first words, all of them singing together in praise and Glory of their Father. She remembers Gabriel and Michael and Lucifer, Sariel and the Metatron and Raphael, all of her fellows in the highest of circles, the Archangels who were fierce, absolute, brightest of all. She remembers the circles forming one by one, right down to the lowest rungs of angels, a chorus strengthened by the fullest powers of the Host, gathered together like they never would be again, every angel that ever was and ever would be.
If she had been able to, Anna—Anael—would have wept at the sound of it.
Now sometimes she does weep, sheds tears of mourning for the brothers and sisters she never knew were dead, and those who have fallen to the blades of their siblings. The ones whose Grace was burned out of them while she was on earth, innocent and blissfully unaware of the battles that raged on without her. The garrison she’d loved so much has been splintered apart now—Castiel, Rachel, Hester, Uriel, Inias, Balthazar, Israfel, and so many others. Purgatory mutes everything and every feeling, at least for her, but she can still feel the tendrils of their Grace reaching out for her from wherever in the universe they are now. It gives her a sense of strength and love. Love that she hasn’t known from her family in so very long.
She’s been here for longer than she would care to know, ever since Michael burned her Grace and purified it. Ever since her archangel blade returned to her hand, manifested by her full return to glory, she’s been here. Uriel hadn’t captured all of her Grace, way back when; some of it had scattered across the states of Kentucky, Ohio, West Virginia, a splattering from the point where it had touched down and formed its small miracle, the oak tree that she would return to and visit after reabsorbing her Grace.
She hoped it was still standing. That her brother remembered it, maybe visited it now and again, remembered her fondly. Castiel had always been her favorite sibling, and she liked to think that she had been his, as well.
The only part about Purgatory that she truly laments—aside from the darkness hidden within its forests—is that none of her family are here to be with her. She is an aberration of nature; an angel with a soul and Grace besides? Impossible. There has never been a creature quite like Anna, although from what she remembers, Castiel was on his way to the same fate, albeit on a much slower path. Maybe if he ever meets with his own end, he will find his way here, to her. (Anna tries not to hope for this as fervently as she might like.)
And then there was The Day Purgatory Stood Still, as she calls it in her own mind (not that most of the creatures here would get the joke, although Anna thinks Lenore would find it amusing, if she ever finds her again); the day when all of the monsters disappeared, beamed away like it was the Rapture that never came, except to the wrong world. Only she remained behind, and she never knew what had happened, only that it had sparked a sense of wrongness and familiarity so strong it left a hole deep in the pit of her stomach.
Anna had fallen to her knees, shaking all over, her shadow of a body remembering what it was like to feel pain and weakness and hunger. It was over before she knew it, though, and nothing was the same again. A fog had lifted from over the land, as if everything and everyone had woken up from a long slumber. Something had changed, she just didn’t know what.
Until the day she senses a strange something, and it’s not quite right. It’s a presence she knows all too well. More than one, even, and Anna calls out to it—to them—her Grace singing desperately even though she knows it’s probably pointless. She doesn’t care; she would recognize them anywhere, and it’s been so long, she can’t stop herself. Her wings ache when she releases them but it doesn’t matter. Fiery sparks fly from their tips, burning out before they can reach the trees, and she brings herself nearer to those familiar beings. She’ll have to walk the rest of the way. But it’s fine, it’s more than fine, and Anna’s heart is lighter than it ever has been since she came to this place.
One of her siblings has found her again. It’s not home—nor would she want it to be—but she’ll take it.
For some reason there’s a poem stuck in his head, he can’t remember much of it except the “two roads diverged in a wood.” More like two roads diverged in a dream in Purgatory. Dean hadn’t realized he could dream here, and all he can think is that if something is out there messing with his head, they’ve got another thing coming if they think they can get away with it. Because he’s pretty sure he knows what this dream is supposed to mean.
[Image is a sea dark with a storm. The waves roll in, vast and night-blue, to the black velvet of the beach. Even the seafoam is pale blue instead of white. In the distance, sunlight breaks through heavy clouds to glimmer bright across the crests of the waves, and further off still a massive rock rises void-black out of the water.]
They stand on the shore of Purgatory’s only sea, which stretches out long past the horizon, so far that it makes Dean dizzy to think about. The rest of Purgatory has been so hot and humid, but here it’s so cold that Dean shivers even with his jacket pulled tight around him. He clutches at his arms, trying to stay warm.
“This is fucking creepy,” he mutters. “Well, creepier than the rest of this place has been, which I gotta say has been really fucking creepy.”
Castiel says nothing. Dean sees him staring out into the distance, and he doesn’t seem to have heard a word Dean just said. He walks forward, not even paying attention to what he’s doing or where he’s going, just moving closer and closer toward where the tide hits the shore. Castiel reaches down, pulls off his shoes; Dean’s following right after him and grabbing them off the ground before Dean even realizes it.
“Cas, what are you doing?” Dean asks, something tightening in his chest, his heartbeat getting a little faster. Castiel still won’t speak, but he keeps walking until the water laps over his bare feet. Then he stops, turns toward Dean, the look in his blue-grey eyes unreadable.
“I was created here,” Cas says, voice barely audible above the dull roar of the waves further out to sea. “This…this is where my Grace first formed, and I met my brothers, and I learned my name. My purpose. Every angel I met, their names were seared into me and I would never not know them.” He tilts his head back, up, up, up until he’s staring at the sky. “Anael…she was the first of my brothers that I ever knew.”
Dean goes to stand next to him, not caring that he’s now standing in the water too. Castiel looks at him, not moving his head. “I miss them, Dean.”
Dean’s throat closes up, Castiel’s words too raw and too much for him to give any response that could even begin to be enough. Instead he reaches out, puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, squeezes it briefly. Castiel looks down again. Dean only moves his hand away after several long moments, and it brushes against the sleeve of Castiel’s trenchcoat when he finally lets go.
There are no words spoken between them for a long time. There don’t need to be.
Dean wonders sometimes who created these paths, these roads. And then he starts to wonder where the ones they don’t take might lead. Dangerous thinking, Cas tells him, because Purgatory will turn you around if you aren’t careful, especially since they aren’t supposed to be there.
“Who made them all?” Dean asks, running his hand along the railings. The wood doesn’t feel like real wood under his fingertips. It feels fake, or so real that it isn’t even wood anymore.
Cas looks at him, pulls Dean’s hand away gently from the rail. “No one did.”