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Random. I love the Baron.
Title: Fly in Amber
Rating: PG-13
Fandoms: Supernatural, Voodoo Myth
Continuity: Set just after SPN 5x18
Characters/Pairings: Castiel, Baron Samedi, Maman Birgitte
Summary: Castiel swam back to consciousness propped against a bar ...
Wordcount: 614
Warnings/Spoilers: up to 5x18. Some bad french.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Fly in Amber
Rating: PG-13
Fandoms: Supernatural, Voodoo Myth
Continuity: Set just after SPN 5x18
Characters/Pairings: Castiel, Baron Samedi, Maman Birgitte
Summary: Castiel swam back to consciousness propped against a bar ...
Wordcount: 614
Warnings/Spoilers: up to 5x18. Some bad french.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Fly in Amber
Castiel swam back to consciousness propped against a bar. Well. Sort of. At least he assumed he was conscious. It was sort of hard to tell.
There was a large woman, fair-skinned, red-haired, leaning against his back, laughing raucously and cheerily banging on the bar for more rum. He could feel the warmth of her through his trench coat, smell the earthiness that swam around her, a tickling sensation of something more than human, bright and depthless.
In front of him, leaning close with a conspiratorial leer, was a tall black man, dressed in purple and in black, with plugs of cotton in his nose and firelight glinting off his white, white teeth. There was a hint of a skull in his grin, the rich sweet-rot of a swamp around him, the miasma of death and life locked in ancient and delighted embrace. This creature, this vibrant, deathly being, leaned in close to the swaying angel, and filled up his glass with a throaty laugh.
"Drink up, mon petit," the apparition told him, and Castiel found himself muzzily obeying. Found the world tilting in an amber swirl, and the ache inside him where his grace was steadily fading become less sharp, less pervasive. He felt all his aches fade, a bit. Behind a swirling, golden veil, and a rich, swaying scent.
"Am I dead?" he wondered softly, looking into the sparkling eyes of Baron Samedi, the loa of death. Remembering the rush of banishment, and the searing pull along his grace. Remembering blades, and battle, and fading. "Am I dead?"
The Baron laughed, not ungently, and clapped him thunderously on the shoulder, caught him as he fell with the force of it. The Baron laughed.
"No, mon petit!" he roared, and the world danced before the force of it, swayed in perfect counterpoint to Castiel's bewildered senses, his tattered awareness. "Not dead, little one! Bondye has kept your grave undug a little longer. No shovel for me tonight." A grin, bone-white in the darkness, and his eyes glittered. "Tomorrow ... may be a different story, oui? But for tonight ... tonight, angel of the good god, tonight we drink, and make merry, and the shovel takes her rest."
Castiel blinked at him blearily, groping blindly for sense, feeling reason sluggishly answer. "You ... saved me?" he asked, soft and crumbling. Remembering, oh, remembering, how close to death he had come. A shovel's width away, a word, written in his blood. "You ... brought me back?"
The Baron shook his head, laughed as Maman Birgitte wrapped heavy arms around Castiel from behind, the warmth of her cradling him close. "Kept you this side, maybe," the loa purred, vast and vibrant. "Bondye likes you, I think. A favour, for you. A grave undug. Not so much, for me. Easily done, oui?"
Castiel, shaking in the arms of a loa, shaking in the memory of death, looked at him with muzzy eyes, and tried a quivering smile. "Then ... thank you?" he rasped, uncertain, and smiled into the answering laugh, the answering embrace. "Thank you."
"No problem," Maman Birgitte whispered in his ear, the purring passage of smoke. "Mon petit, mon garcon. Hush now. Little while, we take care of you, my Baron and me. Before tomorrow we go back to war. Hush now. A little while."
He tilted, swirled in her embrace, in the warmth of death that drifted from the Baron at his side, and nodded silently. Yes, then. Yes. A little while.
The world tipped softly beyond a golden veil, and for a while, before waking in the cold arms of the sea to a fisherman's shock, Castiel rested in the arms of death, a fly in amber, death's happy guest ... and was content.
Castiel swam back to consciousness propped against a bar. Well. Sort of. At least he assumed he was conscious. It was sort of hard to tell.
There was a large woman, fair-skinned, red-haired, leaning against his back, laughing raucously and cheerily banging on the bar for more rum. He could feel the warmth of her through his trench coat, smell the earthiness that swam around her, a tickling sensation of something more than human, bright and depthless.
In front of him, leaning close with a conspiratorial leer, was a tall black man, dressed in purple and in black, with plugs of cotton in his nose and firelight glinting off his white, white teeth. There was a hint of a skull in his grin, the rich sweet-rot of a swamp around him, the miasma of death and life locked in ancient and delighted embrace. This creature, this vibrant, deathly being, leaned in close to the swaying angel, and filled up his glass with a throaty laugh.
"Drink up, mon petit," the apparition told him, and Castiel found himself muzzily obeying. Found the world tilting in an amber swirl, and the ache inside him where his grace was steadily fading become less sharp, less pervasive. He felt all his aches fade, a bit. Behind a swirling, golden veil, and a rich, swaying scent.
"Am I dead?" he wondered softly, looking into the sparkling eyes of Baron Samedi, the loa of death. Remembering the rush of banishment, and the searing pull along his grace. Remembering blades, and battle, and fading. "Am I dead?"
The Baron laughed, not ungently, and clapped him thunderously on the shoulder, caught him as he fell with the force of it. The Baron laughed.
"No, mon petit!" he roared, and the world danced before the force of it, swayed in perfect counterpoint to Castiel's bewildered senses, his tattered awareness. "Not dead, little one! Bondye has kept your grave undug a little longer. No shovel for me tonight." A grin, bone-white in the darkness, and his eyes glittered. "Tomorrow ... may be a different story, oui? But for tonight ... tonight, angel of the good god, tonight we drink, and make merry, and the shovel takes her rest."
Castiel blinked at him blearily, groping blindly for sense, feeling reason sluggishly answer. "You ... saved me?" he asked, soft and crumbling. Remembering, oh, remembering, how close to death he had come. A shovel's width away, a word, written in his blood. "You ... brought me back?"
The Baron shook his head, laughed as Maman Birgitte wrapped heavy arms around Castiel from behind, the warmth of her cradling him close. "Kept you this side, maybe," the loa purred, vast and vibrant. "Bondye likes you, I think. A favour, for you. A grave undug. Not so much, for me. Easily done, oui?"
Castiel, shaking in the arms of a loa, shaking in the memory of death, looked at him with muzzy eyes, and tried a quivering smile. "Then ... thank you?" he rasped, uncertain, and smiled into the answering laugh, the answering embrace. "Thank you."
"No problem," Maman Birgitte whispered in his ear, the purring passage of smoke. "Mon petit, mon garcon. Hush now. Little while, we take care of you, my Baron and me. Before tomorrow we go back to war. Hush now. A little while."
He tilted, swirled in her embrace, in the warmth of death that drifted from the Baron at his side, and nodded silently. Yes, then. Yes. A little while.
The world tipped softly beyond a golden veil, and for a while, before waking in the cold arms of the sea to a fisherman's shock, Castiel rested in the arms of death, a fly in amber, death's happy guest ... and was content.
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