I know it’s been a while, but here’s Chapter Three!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
~
.three.
Dean smelled the fire first; the old wood of the dumbwaiter shaft, burned wires somewhere in the house. He was watching TV while Sam was rummaging the fridge. They had gotten a fair amount done in the house. New floorboards and windows. Most of the first level was ready to be occupied.
A scream, he heard a scream. Then Dean was upstairs and he felt heat coming from the master bedroom. He kicked in the door and saw Jess on the other side of the bed, blocked by a fallen. More screaming. He shoved Sam out the door, out of the way. Out the back door and down the fire escape. The house became hot, so fucking hot and the smell. Wood and appliances. Smoke in his lungs. He didn’t think twice about running back into the bedroom, trying to pull Jess’ unconscious body from the floor. Then the fire was on his arm, his side, crawling up his face. He dropped her. Jess hit the floor hard.
Banging on the door wakes Dean. He opens his eyes to the window, staring at those curtains. “Better get up if you want breakfast,” Ellen announces. He listens to her pad down the hall, the floor squeaking, her boots catching on the carpet by the stairs. Dean takes in a few deep breaths and touches his bad arm, just to make sure. No fire. No smoke. The sheets are cool against his skin, the pillow fresh and smelling of fabric softener.
He checks the clock, seven am. Five whole hours of sleep, some sort of new record. His stomach growls, his left arm feels numb from sleeping on it, clutched tight in a fist under his pillow. On the dresser he sees a framed photo of him and Lisa, taken that first visit. Finally he gets out of bed and trudges to the connecting bathroom.
He showers quick; bar soap over all his essential parts. Rinses in cold water, dries off with a white threadbare towel. A passing glance to the mirror to style his hair. He wears yesterday’s clothes despite the spare set in the dresser.
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It’s just become a bit more complicated than I anticipated; especially being told from three different POVs.
I’m working on Chapter Three, so here’s a bit of a refresher for anyone that has missed it.
iamthemagicks:
Chapter One
.two.
While Claire sleeps on the couch, curled in the brown and pink afghan Amelia had spent six months knitting, Castiel wanders his dead brother’s house. Large, old. Built in the early 1900s Jimmy had told him. Four bedrooms, three stories. They didn’t have much growing up; three bedroom apartment, Mom, Jimmy and him, their older brother Gabriel. They always had everything they needed though. Enough food, power was never cut off. Jimmy always had paper and pens and a ride to the library, Castiel had paint.
But this house, with the garage and yards, with the view of the bay, had been what they wanted. Amelia more rooms for an expanding family, Jimmy a place to work, space to rest.
Castiel walks into Jimmy’s study. Reminds him of a professor’s office. A large desk with a laptop and a printer, stacks of papers left untouched. A mug of unfinished coffee, mold growing a film around the edge. The smell cloying and bitter, the mass amounts of cream and sugar long past being bad.
He walks to the bay window, where a book lay, opened but faced down. Castiel runs his finger over the spine, over the fine printed letters of the title and author, and stares out into the sparkling waters of the bay, still hearing Jimmy’s voice.
‘Come on, Cas, just look!’ Jimmy gestured, glee all over his face. ‘We have a room for you too. And you can see the water from the balcony and back porch.’
Cas smiled—he was Cas with Jimmy, when he had Jimmy to complete Cas; but now, he had to be Castiel, completing himself. Cas moved in behind his brother, saw both their faces, absolutely identical, reflected in the glass. ‘I like where I live,’ he answered.
Jimmy laughed and patted Cas on the stomach. ‘Yeah, but, you know we can’t stay too far apart. They both got headaches, longed for the sound of each other’s breathing. ‘I want to show you your room. And the kitchen. You’re going to love the kitchen.’ Jimmy’s warm hand on Castiel’s neck, his boyish smile.
Now as Castiel stares at the glass, he just sees himself. He turns, unable to bear it, and examines the rest of the room. The giant bookshelf unfilled; the first three sections held fiction, listed alphabetical by author’s last name, the last two slots—reserved for non-fiction, Castiel guessed—sat empty and gathering dust. Piles of boxes had been pushed to the far corner of the room, filled with the dictionaries and old anthologies. Books on sharks and the Civil War, of the black plague and of zombies. Bibles and books on the occult, lists of angel names.
Castiel, small and incomplete, is named after an angel. Because he was born at 11:55pm on a Thursday, and Jimmy at 12:03am on a Friday. And Castiel born on Thursday had been dead for a whole minute and born on Thursday again when they revived him. Then Jimmy was Jimmy because he couldn’t go by any other name, their mother always said.
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Chapter One
.two.
While Claire sleeps on the couch, curled in the brown and pink afghan Amelia had spent six months knitting, Castiel wanders his dead brother’s house. Large, old. Built in the early 1900s Jimmy had told him. Four bedrooms, three stories. They didn’t have much growing up; three bedroom apartment, Mom, Jimmy and him, their older brother Gabriel. They always had everything they needed though. Enough food, power was never cut off. Jimmy always had paper and pens and a ride to the library, Castiel had paint.
But this house, with the garage and yards, with the view of the bay, had been what they wanted. Amelia more rooms for an expanding family, Jimmy a place to work, space to rest.
Castiel walks into Jimmy’s study. Reminds him of a professor’s office. A large desk with a laptop and a printer, stacks of papers left untouched. A mug of unfinished coffee, mold growing a film around the edge. The smell cloying and bitter, the mass amounts of cream and sugar long past being bad.
He walks to the bay window, where a book lay, opened but faced down. Castiel runs his finger over the spine, over the fine printed letters of the title and author, and stares out into the sparkling waters of the bay, still hearing Jimmy’s voice.
‘Come on, Cas, just look!’ Jimmy gestured, glee all over his face. ‘We have a room for you too. And you can see the water from the balcony and back porch.’
Cas smiled—he was Cas with Jimmy, when he had Jimmy to complete Cas; but now, he had to be Castiel, completing himself. Cas moved in behind his brother, saw both their faces, absolutely identical, reflected in the glass. ‘I like where I live,’ he answered.
Jimmy laughed and patted Cas on the stomach. ‘Yeah, but, you know we can’t stay too far apart. They both got headaches, longed for the sound of each other’s breathing. ‘I want to show you your room. And the kitchen. You’re going to love the kitchen.’ Jimmy’s warm hand on Castiel’s neck, his boyish smile.
Now as Castiel stares at the glass, he just sees himself. He turns, unable to bear it, and examines the rest of the room. The giant bookshelf unfilled; the first three sections held fiction, listed alphabetical by author’s last name, the last two slots—reserved for non-fiction, Castiel guessed—sat empty and gathering dust. Piles of boxes had been pushed to the far corner of the room, filled with the dictionaries and old anthologies. Books on sharks and the Civil War, of the black plague and of zombies. Bibles and books on the occult, lists of angel names.
Castiel, small and incomplete, is named after an angel. Because he was born at 11:55pm on a Thursday, and Jimmy at 12:03am on a Friday. And Castiel born on Thursday had been dead for a whole minute and born on Thursday again when they revived him. Then Jimmy was Jimmy because he couldn’t go by any other name, their mother always said.
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Dreams of Drowning
Dean/Lisa, Dean/Castiel, Dean/Lisa/Castiel
Adult
Summary: Dean is injured in an accident, saving Sam from a house fire. Jess dies and Dean is badly scarred. Blind out of one eye, burns on the side of his face and arm. He begins pulling away from Lisa and their son Ben, and is weary to be near Lisa now that she’s expecting their second child. Sam has completely changed. He’s hard, he’s reckless, drifting further away from his family.
Castiel Novak is suddenly in charge of his niece Claire after the death of his brother and wife. Unsure of how to cope with the loss of his twin, he begins attending grief counseling at a local church where he meets Dean, who has been attending unbeknownst to Lisa. They form a bond over what it is to be a brother, and (according to them, fail at it).
Lisa is forming her own bond with Castiel (also unknown to Dean) when they meet at the park where Ben plays. Ben strikes up a friendship with Claire that makes the little girl talk and smile since the death of her parents. Neither Dean, nor Lisa, realize they are both having feelings for the same man, while Castiel is unaware that he’s falling in love with a married couple.
/*\
.one.
Lisa wakes up alone. Well not really alone as the barely-there bump of her belly reminds her. It’s not really noticeable, not yet anyway. Strangers can’t tell, he friends can’t really tell either. Not unless she stands and pulls up her shirt, pulls down her pants just a bit. She’s fit, strong stomach muscles from years of yoga and jogging. She didn’t show early with her first child, so she doubts this one will make an appearance soon. But as Lisa stretches her long legs, one long arm to the other side of the bed where her husband (and she uses the term loosely because they never had a wedding, just their names on paper) should be, but like so many mornings since the fire, since he got out of the hospital, she finds his side of the bed empty. So, yes, despite the growing life inside of her, she feels terribly alone.
She opens her eyes into the bright orange glow of morning, the far window cracked open letting in a breeze, cool and salty, coming right off the bay. The curtains which she made (and not very well, Dean actually had to finish them) move with the wind. She runs her fingers over the neatly made side of the bed, then pulls his pillow to her. She buries her face in the material and inhales deeply. The smell of his shampoo, his body-wash. Something that promises a manly scent, fresh with some silly adjective. Swagger. Robust. Whatever it is, it’s him and she holds that pillow like it’s his body. For a few minutes she stays folded like this; wrapped around his pillow, cocooned by sheets and a thin quilt, until the alarm sounds.
With a groan, she releases the pillow and rolls over to slam her hand down on the shell-shaped clock radio. 7:15am, time to get started.
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iamthemagicks:
The last bit of chapter one. (One found here)
dreams of drowning
::
Dean takes long drags from his cigarette, holds the smoke in his lungs until it itches, then exhales a thin and wispy plume of smoke. The breeze takes it away and rustles up the smell of the dumpsters a few yards away. He snorts and takes another long drag, covering up the scent. Dump trucks were by about an hour ago, when Dean first came to the shop. But the tattoo parlor a few doors down emptied their day-old trash after the trucks left. The owner, Saul, gave Dean a head nod, said Morning and ducked back in.
Dean has three tattoos, well two now. The sparrow that he’d gotten in memory of his mother when he was seventeen is buried under layers of burned skin; the only evidence is a black smudge. His stomach sours just thinking about it. He takes another drag, holds this one in until it hurts. He checks his watch, then the window on the back door. She’s not in yet. But soon, Lisa will be coming in the front. That also makes his stomach sour. Fuck.
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The last bit of chapter one. (One found here)
dreams of drowning
::
Dean takes long drags from his cigarette, holds the smoke in his lungs until it itches, then exhales a thin and wispy plume of smoke. The breeze takes it away and rustles up the smell of the dumpsters a few yards away. He snorts and takes another long drag, covering up the scent. Dump trucks were by about an hour ago, when Dean first came to the shop. But the tattoo parlor a few doors down emptied their day-old trash after the trucks left. The owner, Saul, gave Dean a head nod, said Morning and ducked back in.
Dean has three tattoos, well two now. The sparrow that he’d gotten in memory of his mother when he was seventeen is buried under layers of burned skin; the only evidence is a black smudge. His stomach sours just thinking about it. He takes another drag, holds this one in until it hurts. He checks his watch, then the window on the back door. She’s not in yet. But soon, Lisa will be coming in the front. That also makes his stomach sour. Fuck.
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Dreams of Drowning
Adult
Summary: Dean is injured in an accident, saving Sam from a house fire. Jess dies and Dean is badly scarred. Blind out of one eye, burns on the side of his face and arm. He begins pulling away from Lisa and their son Ben, and is weary to be near Lisa now that she’s expecting their second child. Sam has completely changed. He’s hard, he’s reckless, drifting further away from his family.
Castiel Novak is suddenly in charge of his niece Claire after the death of his brother and wife. Unsure of how to cope with the loss of his twin, he begins attending grief counseling at a local church where he meets Dean, who has been attending unbeknownst to Lisa. They form a bond over what it is to be a brother, and (according to them, fail at it).
Lisa is forming her own bond with Castiel (also unknown to Dean) when they meet at the park where Ben plays. Ben strikes up a friendship with Claire that makes the little girl talk and smile since the death of her parents.
Neither Dean, nor Lisa, realize they are both having feelings for the same man, while Castiel is unaware that he’s falling in love with a married couple.
—-
.one.
Lisa wakes up alone. Well not really alone as the barely-there bump of her belly reminds her. It’s not really noticeable, not yet anyway. Strangers can’t tell, he friends can’t really tell either. Not unless she stands and pulls up her shirt, pulls down her pants just a bit. She’s fit, strong stomach muscles from years of yoga and jogging. She didn’t show early with her first child, so she doubts this one will make an appearance soon. But as Lisa stretches her long legs, one long arm to the other side of the bed where her husband (and she uses the term loosely because they never had a wedding, just their names on paper) should be, but like so many mornings since the fire, since he got out of the hospital, she finds his side of the bed empty. So, yes, despite the growing life inside of her, she feels terribly alone.
She opens her eyes into the bright orange glow of morning, the far window cracked open letting in a breeze, cool and salty, coming right off the bay. The curtains which she made (and not very well, Dean actually had to finish them) move with the wind. She runs her fingers over the neatly made side of the bed, then pulls his pillow to her. She buries her face in the material and inhales deeply. The smell of his shampoo, his body-wash. Something that promises a manly scent, fresh with some silly adjective. Swagger. Robust. Whatever it is, it’s him and she holds that pillow like it’s his body. For a few minutes she stays folded like this; wrapped around his pillow, cocooned by sheets and a thin quilt, until the alarm sounds.
With a groan, she releases the pillow and rolls over to slam her hand down on the shell-shaped clock radio. 7:15am, time to get started.
Read More