There are those who think that life is nothing left to chance,
A host of holy horrors to direct our aimless dance.
for Kerry Ann ♥
18. Character most screwed over by the writers (2/4): Lisa Braeden
“You’re an idiot. I mean, I know it wasn’t greeting-card perfect, but we were in it together. The guy that basically just saved the world shows up at your door, you expect him to have a couple of issues.”
Ah. You know, this is a question I have written several hundred thousand words of secret fic trying to answer? Because it eludes me, it does. Eight seasons now, of breathtaking potential dashed against the ground by writers and producers afraid to really reach and I keep watching.
(it’s a tired list by this point—boy king sam and wars in heaven and women’s limp bodies laid beside one another and angels drunk on godhood and primordial monsters that could bend modernity to their will and angels falling like stars and all of it placed before you, before being whisked away, forgotten, dismissed)
Yet somehow, somehow, I cannot get this show out of my skin.
Honestly, I think it’s because it’s so familiar.
It’s a story built on the sins of the father and the love of brothers. The Winchesters are Castor and Pollux, caught in one another’s orbit, with Yayati stealing his sons’ youth for his own sake; they are Cain and Abel at each other’s throats, as David calls for them to avenge him against his enemies. They are the prodigal son and the obedient son, burdened with a father who neither forgave nor cherished. Fathers and sons and brothers, it’s very Biblical. It’s very Greek. It’s very human.
It’s a story about nostalgia, when Ithaka has been burnt to the ground and its ashes scattered to the winds. It’s a story about Jerusalem, when the holy war is fought by old men with shotguns and whiskey on their breath, who are clinging to the poverty line by their fingernails. It’s a western, one of the ones where men wander into the desert and find Death there, and wisdom.
It’s American, in that way that American is older stories retold with a wider horizon, a longer stretch of highway, seedier motels, more funyons.
And then it’s all that writ large, made cosmic. Because the wings, the brimstone, the myth and esoterica that the show draws on—they’re just stylistic flourishes. Frosting. The thing that still resonates is the thing that has always resonated: fathers and sons and brothers, journeys and wars. Here is the hammer who doubts. There is the flame-headed girl whose very body was a revolution. Traitors and wise men and jesters, devoted daughters and the Death they meant to meet in the wilderness except he’s in Chicago. The absence of the father and the hatred of brothers who have never understood one another. And standing against the storm, a couple of glorified exterminators with a shotgun and the sheer, terrified determination to protect their planet.
They are not righteous, do not pretend to be. (A man who fights with monsters…) But then, they don’t have to be. Because in the end, it’s about brokenness and choice and the messy uncertainty that results.
It isn’t very Greek. Or very Biblical. But is very human.
Which was the point in the first place, I suppose.
#if you guys are going to ask me to talk about why I love spn; you’re going to have to put up with some stylistic nonsense #them’s the facts #supernatural #I hate this show a lot #except for all the parts where I can’t stop watching or thinking about it #don’t agree to play high-stakes russian roulette with your plot and then flinch at the last moment #I just want to gather it up in my arms—it and its shitshow fandom/creators/handling of storylines and go #shhhh there there #I can fix you with the force of my inexplicable love #…i need to go to bed (tags via notbecauseofvictories)
We have no free will. No hope of peace. Our will is His will. Our hope of peace is death.
Carry on my wayward daughter. There will be peace after the slaughter.
angels as earth’s architects is probably my favorite thing to focus on right now
hael built the grand canyon, but who created victoria falls?
which angel thought up the amazon rainforest? aurora borealis? guanabara bay? who sheared the top off of table mountain? who pinched and pulled mount kilimanjaro, or matterhorn? davolja varos?
who laid the foundation for the great barrier reef? who carved out the delicate arch and the azure window? jeita grotto? who scooped and rolled the chocolate hills? did lucifer, burning cold, tease out the edges of vatnajökull?
who was the first to look out from the white cliffs of dover, hands chalky but feeling satisfied? who cut the swath of milford sound, or the nile? for laguna verde? who left behind the cave of the crystals?
god wanted the angels involved with the humans so that they would see them as amazing as he hoped he had made them to be, and so it only makes sense that he would encourage them to make earth as profoundly beautiful a home as they possibly could.
look what the angels did for us, at the wonders that they created.
Chuck doesn’t remember being God. It’s a Godless place now, and no one believes in him anymore. He has no power in a place where he doesn’t exist. He sits there and counts his toilet paper rolls and sometimes, he writes but everything ends the same. All the endings are the same. The world is ending and God is on Vacation. A vision hits of Dean and Cas and it’s more than he ever needed to see of either of them but it’s the feeling that comes with it. Long after the images are gone, it lingers. Peace. Love. Acceptance of the end, with the knowledge of something better on the other side. They have roles to play and they aren’t even fighting it anymore. They are saying goodbye. And yet, there is no sadness. Just a feeling of serene finality. They believe in each other, in what they will do, win or loose. They have found complete and utter peace. And they believe. It’s like a light bulb switching on. In the moment when the righteous man and the last of the holy angels have lost everything, they have become free. Free to love and live and fight and free to lay down their weapons and sleep. Free to rest. Because they know there is Heaven. There is paradise. And it begins like a hum in his blood, warm and gentle. And then it builds and spreads and burns and suddenly, the voices start in his head, dim at first. Voices of women and men, of the old and the young. Prayers and wishes and dreams. They reach out like physical things and wrap Chuck up in them. Gravity means very little and the air around Chuck’s cabin is oddly still and warm and electric and its like an bomb going off, of white light, pure and clean and brilliant. And its decimates the building, the shockwave extends over hundred of thousands of miles. After it settles, what remains in a little pile of toilet paper. And in the place of Chuck’s cabin, in the middle of the compound, green grass sprouts. Flowers fight from below concrete to rise and bloom. A tree creeps high into the sky and there is a garden. The first garden. Creation. Pure creation. Because someone believed in Heaven and if Heaven exists, than so does God. And believing in God, helped God believe in God. Love is what started the world, what created it, sustained it. Love almost ended it, but love. Love also made the flowers grow.