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blue_bells» Title: Dedition
» Fandom: Supernatural
» Warnings: Alcohol abuse, language
» Pairing(s)/Characters: Michael/Jimmy, Jimmy/Others
» Summary: He can’t imbibe an entire liquor store and keep walking. He tries, anyway.
» A/N: Originally written here for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
zekkass at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic.
Jimmy’s not Castiel.
He can’t imbibe an entire liquor store and keep walking.
He tries, anyway.
Jimmy’s blind drunk – quite literally – he’s tipping against the world, scraping elbows against the gravel that’s come up against his side (that was a novel perspective) and the only important thing is that the bottle stays in his fingers. The night’s colours are swimming thick in his vision of what could have been a diner, a supermarket, a strip bar, he has no idea, but it sounds like a promise to forget, his head rings with it: it’s laughter, drums, the roar of thousands and no heartbeat.
He doesn’t think much of the black that frames his vision and darts through the colours, but the colours pulse between the black, shoving their way through, and Jimmy recoils from their force, head spinning until he’s on his hands and knees on the ground, retching up two day’s worth of all the wrong drinks.
He can barely see his hands, fisted in the parking gravel, they’re streaked in bile and, fuck, this is disgusting but he’s shivering, flushing sweat, cold and fevered and he just wants to lie down, he just wants his stomach to stop pitching and forget.
He wants to forget.
Hands find his hair, on his neck, pull him up by his shoulders. Wings beat, and no.
Jimmy pushes at Michael’s shoulder, slumping back in his mess when the heel of his hand aims for Michael’s wing and slides right through.
Michael catches him again, pulls him upright to his knees and Jimmy’s vision is still like syrup, but he knows it’s Michael; knows the way he knows winter’s near because the wind blows that little bit sharper, sudden cold; knows the way he can smell the storm and sunrise. Michael holds him, steady and confident and Jimmy buckles, keening growl of protest as the substance and poison of his binge is bled from him, evaporating with a hiss in the cold night air, until Jimmy’s trembling, strong, clear and furious.
He looks over his shoulder and lunges for the archangel, falls on his hands when Michael turns out of the way.
“Fuck you,” Jimmy spits, palms scraping bloody over gravel.
Michael takes his hands, thumbs sweeping over the torn skin and heals him before Jimmy even registers Michael’s touch.
“We still have work to do, Jimmy,” Michael says.
Jimmy tries to punch him again, misses.
He’s not helping Michael. He’s not helping this thing with Dean’s face, contorting Dean’s voice with his hands on Jimmy’s shoulder and waist and Jimmy has to get his fucking hands off because Michael’s not allowed, but his eyes are still green and Jimmy’s throat is so tight with the sob in his throat.
“You promised,” Michael reminds him, holds the bottle up for him to see and throws it aside, glass shattering against one of the cars.
“Fuck you,” Jimmy chokes, because Dean’s gone, Castiel’s gone, they’re gone and he can’t be all that’s left. He can’t be, because it’s too much, the drink dulled it, but now that was gone, too.
Michael’s hands curl in his shirt, raise Jimmy’s chin to meet familiar eyes that smoulder with warning.
“You gave me your word.”
There are fingers around his jaw as Michael searches his eyes from so close the steam of Jimmy’s breath rolls against Michael’s cheek, nose and lips. Jimmy lowers his eyes with a pained groan when Michael draws him even closer, whispers against his skin and Jimmy stutters, crumbles, wretched.
“Now promise me you’ll never do it again.”
» Fandom: Supernatural
» Warnings: Alcohol abuse, language
» Pairing(s)/Characters: Michael/Jimmy, Jimmy/Others
» Summary: He can’t imbibe an entire liquor store and keep walking. He tries, anyway.
» A/N: Originally written here for
zekkass at comment_fic. Jimmy’s not Castiel.
He can’t imbibe an entire liquor store and keep walking.
He tries, anyway.
Jimmy’s blind drunk – quite literally – he’s tipping against the world, scraping elbows against the gravel that’s come up against his side (that was a novel perspective) and the only important thing is that the bottle stays in his fingers. The night’s colours are swimming thick in his vision of what could have been a diner, a supermarket, a strip bar, he has no idea, but it sounds like a promise to forget, his head rings with it: it’s laughter, drums, the roar of thousands and no heartbeat.
He doesn’t think much of the black that frames his vision and darts through the colours, but the colours pulse between the black, shoving their way through, and Jimmy recoils from their force, head spinning until he’s on his hands and knees on the ground, retching up two day’s worth of all the wrong drinks.
He can barely see his hands, fisted in the parking gravel, they’re streaked in bile and, fuck, this is disgusting but he’s shivering, flushing sweat, cold and fevered and he just wants to lie down, he just wants his stomach to stop pitching and forget.
He wants to forget.
Hands find his hair, on his neck, pull him up by his shoulders. Wings beat, and no.
Jimmy pushes at Michael’s shoulder, slumping back in his mess when the heel of his hand aims for Michael’s wing and slides right through.
Michael catches him again, pulls him upright to his knees and Jimmy’s vision is still like syrup, but he knows it’s Michael; knows the way he knows winter’s near because the wind blows that little bit sharper, sudden cold; knows the way he can smell the storm and sunrise. Michael holds him, steady and confident and Jimmy buckles, keening growl of protest as the substance and poison of his binge is bled from him, evaporating with a hiss in the cold night air, until Jimmy’s trembling, strong, clear and furious.
He looks over his shoulder and lunges for the archangel, falls on his hands when Michael turns out of the way.
“Fuck you,” Jimmy spits, palms scraping bloody over gravel.
Michael takes his hands, thumbs sweeping over the torn skin and heals him before Jimmy even registers Michael’s touch.
“We still have work to do, Jimmy,” Michael says.
Jimmy tries to punch him again, misses.
He’s not helping Michael. He’s not helping this thing with Dean’s face, contorting Dean’s voice with his hands on Jimmy’s shoulder and waist and Jimmy has to get his fucking hands off because Michael’s not allowed, but his eyes are still green and Jimmy’s throat is so tight with the sob in his throat.
“You promised,” Michael reminds him, holds the bottle up for him to see and throws it aside, glass shattering against one of the cars.
“Fuck you,” Jimmy chokes, because Dean’s gone, Castiel’s gone, they’re gone and he can’t be all that’s left. He can’t be, because it’s too much, the drink dulled it, but now that was gone, too.
Michael’s hands curl in his shirt, raise Jimmy’s chin to meet familiar eyes that smoulder with warning.
“You gave me your word.”
There are fingers around his jaw as Michael searches his eyes from so close the steam of Jimmy’s breath rolls against Michael’s cheek, nose and lips. Jimmy lowers his eyes with a pained groan when Michael draws him even closer, whispers against his skin and Jimmy stutters, crumbles, wretched.
“Now promise me you’ll never do it again.”
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no subject
Date: 2011-01-28 06:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-29 07:29 am (UTC)I love rare pairings and the challenge of making it work, even if it's mostly subtextual. <3
no subject
Date: 2011-01-28 08:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-29 07:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-28 09:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-29 07:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-28 09:36 pm (UTC)Rarepair love.
<3
no subject
Date: 2011-01-29 07:32 am (UTC)Rare pairings, we love them so well.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-30 02:06 am (UTC)Hell yeah.:D
no subject
Date: 2011-01-28 11:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-29 07:59 am (UTC)