So er, this is not what you asked for, but this seized me halfway through and I couldn't stop myself!
*
“Do you ever wonder if we start to take on our vessel’s characteristics?” Lucifer asks, blowing his bangs up out of his eyes. He’s glad he doesn’t seem to have to cut it here.
“No,” Michael says shortly. He doesn’t look up from the bookshelf he’s building for books they don’t have. The only sound in this place beyond that of their voices is the steady pound of his hammer. Lucifer snorts and doesn’t take him seriously. Michael doesn’t like Dean, is maybe even embarrassed by him. He was probably hoping for a protestant schoolteacher or somebody who ran soup kitchens. But it doesn’t matter how he feels. Ever since Michael thrust them outside time and sealed the door behind them, he’s been softening and developing all sorts of idiosyncrasies.
“What’s that song you’re humming?” Lucifer asks, lying on his back, staring up at gray nothingness. He’s been peering at it for days, trying to make the heavens form above him. The stars or maybe the sunset sky would be a welcome change.
“Excuse me?” Michael says, finally looking up from his carpentry. He’s got a nail in the corner of his mouth and another one in his hand.
Lucifer rolls onto his side to face him and props his head on his hand. “Black Sabbath,” he says and smiles.
“You would know,” Michael replies grumpily and viciously hammers the nail into cheap pine. He’d wanted oak, but it took too long to imagine it back into existence here in this place so he gave up and dealt with the pine instead.
Lucifer sighs and shakes his head. “That was really pathetic.”
Michael looks up, green eyes flashing. He points at Lucifer with his hammer. “You want to talk about pathetic? Nothing is as pathetic as your whole ‘I loved him too much’ crap!”
Lucifer flops back onto the ground. “Oh, not this again.” He fists his fingers in the velvety gray something that is really nothing at all. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been here. He doesn’t count like Michael does. They’re eternal so it hardly matters how long. They’ll be here forever. He regrets not knowing what’s going to happen outside. Even in hell he at least had that knowledge. He closes his fists tighter and grunts in surprise when he feels wet earth underneath his borrowed fingernails. When he sits up there is grass growing as far as the eye can see. Against the gray horizons it looks like a vibrantly emerald shag rug.
Michael makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and pretends he doesn’t notice. He built himself a bed and a little sink to wash at. He has a light to hang above them both even though it never gets dark here. Every day he folds and refolds the clothes Dean was wearing when they went through the portal, but he always wears the things he imagined for himself instead. Lucifer figures he just needs to be doing something after watching Lucifer scream and pound at the walls of their endless gray cage for days. Michael had hardly moved, mouth drawn into a thin line, until Lucifer realized it was futile and he’d spent millennia imprisoned in hell for nothing, only to end it here, under Michael’s disapproving gaze. It was a strangely calming realization.
He renews his staring at the sky. It stays gray and boring, but now it looks like a fog has rolled in. “Would you stop that?” Michael says, setting his hammer down on top of the unfinished bookshelf with a loud thunk. He glares at Lucifer over his shoulder.
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Part 1
Date: 2009-11-10 11:31 pm (UTC)*
“Do you ever wonder if we start to take on our vessel’s characteristics?” Lucifer asks, blowing his bangs up out of his eyes. He’s glad he doesn’t seem to have to cut it here.
“No,” Michael says shortly. He doesn’t look up from the bookshelf he’s building for books they don’t have. The only sound in this place beyond that of their voices is the steady pound of his hammer. Lucifer snorts and doesn’t take him seriously. Michael doesn’t like Dean, is maybe even embarrassed by him. He was probably hoping for a protestant schoolteacher or somebody who ran soup kitchens. But it doesn’t matter how he feels. Ever since Michael thrust them outside time and sealed the door behind them, he’s been softening and developing all sorts of idiosyncrasies.
“What’s that song you’re humming?” Lucifer asks, lying on his back, staring up at gray nothingness. He’s been peering at it for days, trying to make the heavens form above him. The stars or maybe the sunset sky would be a welcome change.
“Excuse me?” Michael says, finally looking up from his carpentry. He’s got a nail in the corner of his mouth and another one in his hand.
Lucifer rolls onto his side to face him and props his head on his hand. “Black Sabbath,” he says and smiles.
“You would know,” Michael replies grumpily and viciously hammers the nail into cheap pine. He’d wanted oak, but it took too long to imagine it back into existence here in this place so he gave up and dealt with the pine instead.
Lucifer sighs and shakes his head. “That was really pathetic.”
Michael looks up, green eyes flashing. He points at Lucifer with his hammer. “You want to talk about pathetic? Nothing is as pathetic as your whole ‘I loved him too much’ crap!”
Lucifer flops back onto the ground. “Oh, not this again.” He fists his fingers in the velvety gray something that is really nothing at all. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been here. He doesn’t count like Michael does. They’re eternal so it hardly matters how long. They’ll be here forever. He regrets not knowing what’s going to happen outside. Even in hell he at least had that knowledge. He closes his fists tighter and grunts in surprise when he feels wet earth underneath his borrowed fingernails. When he sits up there is grass growing as far as the eye can see. Against the gray horizons it looks like a vibrantly emerald shag rug.
Michael makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and pretends he doesn’t notice. He built himself a bed and a little sink to wash at. He has a light to hang above them both even though it never gets dark here. Every day he folds and refolds the clothes Dean was wearing when they went through the portal, but he always wears the things he imagined for himself instead. Lucifer figures he just needs to be doing something after watching Lucifer scream and pound at the walls of their endless gray cage for days. Michael had hardly moved, mouth drawn into a thin line, until Lucifer realized it was futile and he’d spent millennia imprisoned in hell for nothing, only to end it here, under Michael’s disapproving gaze. It was a strangely calming realization.
He renews his staring at the sky. It stays gray and boring, but now it looks like a fog has rolled in. “Would you stop that?” Michael says, setting his hammer down on top of the unfinished bookshelf with a loud thunk. He glares at Lucifer over his shoulder.