I admit to shamelessly shipping SPN!verse God [ God!Chuck or just God ] and Death.
Therefore, this happened. I'm not sure if this can be considered crack, but it's probably a lot more serious in the beginning than you meant it to be, so whoops.
—
It’s what one might call tradition, albeit a long-neglected one — the fault of no other but Himself, He admits. He’s squirrelled Himself away in a multitude of mortal bodies through the years, sealing off the bank of eternal knowledge that is omniscience in favour of leading each new life in blissful ignorance.
It had been a cowardly escape, to be sure, but He’d forgotten the meaning of honour the day He’d cast His most-loved son out and sentenced him to eventual death.
(In the moments of clarity between His bouts of imitating humanity, He lamented over all that had passed; it was far beyond what limited meddling He’d allow Himself, though, to reach into the past and correct where He had transgressed agains His children.)
What had driven Him to — still in the guise of a human, His own prophet — mount transport and seek out His age-old associate was a scrambled medley of recent events that could be aptly summed up in the name of Winchester. Fated to lose themselves in an apocalyptic clash of corrupt grace and glory, they’d instead circumvented His ill-plotted plan.
Free will reigned victorious.
Humanity continued on — living, shrouded beneath euphoric obliviousness.
And in the tumultuous process, Death (power confined, role diminished to that of a mere instrumental “Horseman” of young deities’ holocaust) shrugged off Lucifer’s shackles and was unbound.
The weary growl of a fickle engine serves as a more immediate reminder of His current situation, as it jolts Chuck Shurley out from further reminiscing of His grandiose celestial character. In that brief moment, frustration at the vehicle’s refusal to operate in any degree of quiet overrides any grander awareness of the universe at large.
Then a barely-tangible desire silences the rickety machine, healing over markings of rust and time, and He again remembers.
The disconcerting mental pendulum swing from Chuck Shurley, semi-famous author and occasional prophet of the Lord to God, omniscient and omnipotent beingrevered by billions continued on for the remaining few hours it cost Him to drive — with minimal supernatural assistance — up to the rather cozy set of cottages, one of which He knew of as a favoured residence of Death. There’s an inaudible click as the two identities finally seem to fall in neat alignment each other, just as gravel crunches arrhythmically beneath whirring tires in illustrative background percussion.
That Death — dressed perpetually in that dark-haired, gaunt, suit-garbed form —stood already in some approximation of a welcome greeting came as little surprise.
A tense pause, as both parties consider an appropriate opening statement, then— “Happy birthday.” There’s a light, friendly lilt to His voice when He speaks up, meant to peel away a layer of the suspicious unease that dwells between them. Death, of course, is impassive as always, expression twisted in an indecipherable mask of slight disapproval.
“I’m surprised you came.” It borders on a lie, or at least hyperbole; surprises are nigh impossible when a multiverse of infinite possibilities uncataloguable to a human mind can be easily read and remembered in a matter of moments.
“Well, yes, I’m… sorry about that.” Sorry. A collection of impermanent soundwaves, four characters arranged in a five-letter word of the English language, stuttered in a timeframe of less than a second. “It slipped to the back of my mind— I forgot for a bit.”
“You ran off.” Not an accusation but a declaration of fact; He doesn’t deny it. “Realizing you weren’t going to cancel your dear son’s plans was disappointing.” And there, then, was the accusation.
“Stupid, I know,” then, again, “sorry.”
“You’ve been impersonating your precious humans again.” Another observation. “Annoying things, arrogant as your last creations.”
“I’m not ashamed of that— the running away, maybe, but not that. It’s… refreshing. You should try it sometime.” The last part is added with a trace of a smile, fully knowing that the thought was, to his companion, insufferable.
“Not unless time steals away my sanity, but I will be sure to let you know if that happens.” He seems to sink into consideration of some other matter, and Chuck’s— God’s— nervous diction quickly cuts in.
“Can I come in? That is— are you going to turn me away at the doorstep? That is what you’d call impolite, isn’t it. I did come all this way…”
Death’s gaze briefly skirts over the metallic scrapheap parked haphazardly across the narrow driveway, before stepping back into the quaint stone-and-wood establishment. It’s as clear an invitation as any, and He follows his footsteps in.
“I brought you a cake. And fries, pizza—” The forementioned foodstuffs materialize on a small table, grease-stained cardboard packages neatly stacked one over the other. A slight quirk of the lips betrays amusement in Death as he looks on; to describe Him as having brought the meal was a relatively inaccurate claim, not that semantics were of much concern to either of the two.
“Much obliged.”
“And,” a hesitant laugh introduced His next pronouncement, “a few decorations.” Tacky, inexpensive party decorations suddenly lined the lines between wall and ceiling, ribbons and streamers dangling mere inches above them. From the air around His own head sprouted a brightly-coloured cone-shaped paper hat, the new weight on Death’s skin suggesting to him that he now wore a similar accessory.
“Your standards for décor run much lower than mine.” There was a hint of mirth in the deadpan comment; distinguishing the once-familiar sentiment, He appeared to relax visibly, some degree of confidence granted by this subtle show of acceptance.
“Just a few hours. Tear it all down afterwards, if you want. But it’s your birthday— we really should celebrate.”
And there it was. Truce. Discussions, quarrels, further apologies would be addressed soon after; that was guaranteed now that communication between them had been reestablished.
But for the moment, it was time for their little tradition to be resuscitated and carried on once more. It was time to celebrate Death’s birthday.
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FILL: Team Anna/Ruby, in which God repents and Death celebrates
Date: 2013-10-12 05:35 am (UTC)Therefore, this happened. I'm not sure if this can be considered crack, but it's probably a lot more serious in the beginning than you meant it to be, so whoops.
—
It’s what one might call tradition, albeit a long-neglected one — the fault of no other but Himself, He admits. He’s squirrelled Himself away in a multitude of mortal bodies through the years, sealing off the bank of eternal knowledge that is omniscience in favour of leading each new life in blissful ignorance.
It had been a cowardly escape, to be sure, but He’d forgotten the meaning of honour the day He’d cast His most-loved son out and sentenced him to eventual death.
(In the moments of clarity between His bouts of imitating humanity, He lamented over all that had passed; it was far beyond what limited meddling He’d allow Himself, though, to reach into the past and correct where He had transgressed agains His children.)
What had driven Him to — still in the guise of a human, His own prophet — mount transport and seek out His age-old associate was a scrambled medley of recent events that could be aptly summed up in the name of Winchester. Fated to lose themselves in an apocalyptic clash of corrupt grace and glory, they’d instead circumvented His ill-plotted plan.
Free will reigned victorious.
Humanity continued on — living, shrouded beneath euphoric obliviousness.
And in the tumultuous process, Death (power confined, role diminished to that of a mere instrumental “Horseman” of young deities’ holocaust) shrugged off Lucifer’s shackles and was unbound.
The weary growl of a fickle engine serves as a more immediate reminder of His current situation, as it jolts Chuck Shurley out from further reminiscing of His grandiose celestial character. In that brief moment, frustration at the vehicle’s refusal to operate in any degree of quiet overrides any grander awareness of the universe at large.
Then a barely-tangible desire silences the rickety machine, healing over markings of rust and time, and He again remembers.
The disconcerting mental pendulum swing from Chuck Shurley, semi-famous author and occasional prophet of the Lord to God, omniscient and omnipotent being revered by billions continued on for the remaining few hours it cost Him to drive — with minimal supernatural assistance — up to the rather cozy set of cottages, one of which He knew of as a favoured residence of Death. There’s an inaudible click as the two identities finally seem to fall in neat alignment each other, just as gravel crunches arrhythmically beneath whirring tires in illustrative background percussion.
That Death — dressed perpetually in that dark-haired, gaunt, suit-garbed form —stood already in some approximation of a welcome greeting came as little surprise.
A tense pause, as both parties consider an appropriate opening statement, then— “Happy birthday.” There’s a light, friendly lilt to His voice when He speaks up, meant to peel away a layer of the suspicious unease that dwells between them. Death, of course, is impassive as always, expression twisted in an indecipherable mask of slight disapproval.
“I’m surprised you came.” It borders on a lie, or at least hyperbole; surprises are nigh impossible when a multiverse of infinite possibilities uncataloguable to a human mind can be easily read and remembered in a matter of moments.
“Well, yes, I’m… sorry about that.” Sorry. A collection of impermanent soundwaves, four characters arranged in a five-letter word of the English language, stuttered in a timeframe of less than a second. “It slipped to the back of my mind— I forgot for a bit.”
“You ran off.” Not an accusation but a declaration of fact; He doesn’t deny it. “Realizing you weren’t going to cancel your dear son’s plans was disappointing.” And there, then, was the accusation.
“Stupid, I know,” then, again, “sorry.”
“You’ve been impersonating your precious humans again.” Another observation. “Annoying things, arrogant as your last creations.”
“I’m not ashamed of that— the running away, maybe, but not that. It’s… refreshing. You should try it sometime.” The last part is added with a trace of a smile, fully knowing that the thought was, to his companion, insufferable.
“Not unless time steals away my sanity, but I will be sure to let you know if that happens.” He seems to sink into consideration of some other matter, and Chuck’s— God’s— nervous diction quickly cuts in.
“Can I come in? That is— are you going to turn me away at the doorstep? That is what you’d call impolite, isn’t it. I did come all this way…”
Death’s gaze briefly skirts over the metallic scrapheap parked haphazardly across the narrow driveway, before stepping back into the quaint stone-and-wood establishment. It’s as clear an invitation as any, and He follows his footsteps in.
“I brought you a cake. And fries, pizza—” The forementioned foodstuffs materialize on a small table, grease-stained cardboard packages neatly stacked one over the other. A slight quirk of the lips betrays amusement in Death as he looks on; to describe Him as having brought the meal was a relatively inaccurate claim, not that semantics were of much concern to either of the two.
“Much obliged.”
“And,” a hesitant laugh introduced His next pronouncement, “a few decorations.” Tacky, inexpensive party decorations suddenly lined the lines between wall and ceiling, ribbons and streamers dangling mere inches above them. From the air around His own head sprouted a brightly-coloured cone-shaped paper hat, the new weight on Death’s skin suggesting to him that he now wore a similar accessory.
“Your standards for décor run much lower than mine.” There was a hint of mirth in the deadpan comment; distinguishing the once-familiar sentiment, He appeared to relax visibly, some degree of confidence granted by this subtle show of acceptance.
“Just a few hours. Tear it all down afterwards, if you want. But it’s your birthday— we really should celebrate.”
And there it was. Truce. Discussions, quarrels, further apologies would be addressed soon after; that was guaranteed now that communication between them had been reestablished.
But for the moment, it was time for their little tradition to be resuscitated and carried on once more. It was time to celebrate Death’s birthday.