#fail fic

Chris meets and angel when he's twenty-two and makes the best of it, even if the angel has a crush on his daughter when he's forty-seven.

Iroh groans, long and low, reaching down and gripping Bolin's hair tightly in his fists. He's throbbing now, so close that all he can think about is getting more of that mouth on him. Bolin's doing amazing--just so perfect right now. Not that he's not always amazing, but it's just so good.

His mouth just seems extra hot and he's sucking hard enough for it to make Iroh's mind go blank but soft enough to tease him at the same time.

He can't even deal with it! His hips start moving on their own accord and he doesn't even try to hide it. Bo's right there though, able to hold him down and keep him mostly still as he sucks. And spirits is he sucking.

A soft whine escapes Iroh's mouth and he has to bring his fist to his teeth before Mako get's wise and looks over. But he really can not think about that right now. All he can think--geeze!

Bolin uses the tip of his tongue to tease the head of his cock and he throbs harder, his body starts to shake and he's just able to bite down hard onto his fist as the first violent spurt of cum erupts from him.

He grunts as another rope shoots down Bolin's throat, and another and another. He can't stop! And Bolin's right there, gulping it down like a pro; moaning barely audibly from under the table as Iroh lets go.

He can't even believe that no one is staring at him. He just had the most intense blowjobs of his life in a public room with most of his friends sitting around, and no one even noticed?

Not that he minds. He sits, catching his breath quietly, stroking Bolin's hair gently before giving the teen the cue to slowly ease back into his chair.

Bo's hair is a mess, but the grin on his face lets Iroh know that he has no regrets.

The fundamental aspect of the human soul which made it so powerful was how it was inherently independent, inherently absolute, and inherently self-determining that hell may tear at it, heaven may beat it into submission, sirens and gods and death may bend it out of reality, but it would, nevertheless, continue existing with its ability to say yes, I want this or no, no and the universe will have to accommodate that desire. It is also the most unfortunate fate of angels that they do not have souls.

In the first, Castiel never chose to sit with Dean at that park bench under the same blue sky while thousand-year old revolutions unfold over their heads.

In the second, another angel raised him from hell.

In the third, fourth, and fifth, by some err or another, the apocalypse still happened.

In the sixth, they made it as far as Fate until Castiel weighs his odds against his loves, and decides to hand them over.

In the seventh, Castiel never returned to heaven but stayed in the Impala, waiting a hundred miles until he pops a tape in the deck the way Sam showed him how, and says we’ll find a way to get him back.

By the eighth – in this one, Castiel shoved Dean hard against the wall of the alley and proceeded to do a different stunning thing entirely – Joshua turned to Dean and said, “It won’t ever really be him, you should know”.

Joshua is a quiet, lonely presence against the backdrop of Heaven’s garden, which looked wretchedly the same as last time but felt infinitely more hollow, bled out by Castiel’s brief reign. Dean doesn’t know the angel chooses to humor him, creating the infinite universes for Castiel’s fledgling free will to bang against, waiting for the time when the piece of Grace they call Castiel would make as same decisions and do the same things as the original Castiel had.

Angels have no souls and, short of God’s intervention, when they die they cease to exist. They do not need to be scattered across the universe to keep them from coming back. They have no bones to return to, everything that they were scorched to a fine wingprint on the ground. Water cannot be returned to an empty well if the well wasn’t filled in the first place.

Eight Castiel’s, eight dozen Castiel’s, some of them so full of obedient righteousness they hurt to look at; some of them so close of the original – the same sneaky sideglance, the same reluctant and pained acquiesce that Dean was right about his family, was right all along, the same pig-headedness that made Dean realize retroactively that here they had grown another fucking Winchester – they hurt to look at more.

The Winchesters can’t know for sure what Castiel would be thinking, if he felt the same combined exasperation and anger and affection that colored all their interactions in the real world. They would have only words, gestures, expressions with which to gauge if this Castiel would be their own coming home, if any Castiel would be worthy. Dean suspects none would be but every time he also doesn’t know how to stop.

You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back.

I’m not really sure why I do it, but in this version you are not  feeding yourself to a bad man against a black sky pricked with small lights.

in which fic ends \o/

1. Ever had your shrink tell you about demons? We all have them, but some have them stronger than others, if you know what I mean. Wink, wink. Demonic possession's been around since Adam and Eve, friends, which really puts me off on this Creation theory if our collective mother was, you know, sort of a skank for the baddies. Anyway, all evidence proves it's a bad experience the level of rode-hard-put-away-wet, so I'd take protection if I were you. What works – holy water, go raid your local church; anti-possession tattoo's, tell the 'rents it was to fight the good fight; salt, industrial size, no brands endorsed here. It'd be awesome if there was a kryptonite for demons, but whatever your bibles, korans or torahs say, there's none. If God was awesome, we'll all have angels watching out for us like a holy Marvel crew. But we're out on our own. We're alone. You know what – we'll get by.

 -

What Jacob remembers is seeing a serene little girl from the parking lot, pale little waif in a white dress and impeccable mary janes, going into a station with her mother. News stations covering a small nuke going off afterwards, killing everyone inside. Meg saying she's strong, stronger than me (and him replying, always the bridesmaid, never the bride, isn't it, and her eyes flashing malignant black at him being the last moment he remembers regretting nothing).

Lilith, and he's living life on her deadline.

Nothing to be done about it, not via the Colt, not via organ harvest, not via running. Back in MIT, there were experiments like this: worthless, waste of time, waste of reagents. Experiments where you knew to do your job and you still failed because you couldn't finish it.

That's his life, Jacob thinks – in the crystal-clear perception of the helpless and dying, when all truths converged and all lies ceased to matter – as hellbounds bayed at the doors lined with salt. But it wasn't as though he hadn't tried. It wasn't as though he hadn't accomplished anything. He had his awards and publications and laudes. He had physics macaw and radioshow listeners who didn't know anything better to do. He had hunting and saving people. He had Ellen and Jo. He had Jimmy. Always, always, always Jimmy.

Jacob lost much, wasted much, gained much, and maybe in the final tally that's where he is: ground zero.

Who he is: just a simple man.

-

-- watched Jimmy's face, took a breath, took a long draught of life and –

-

This is hell: it is being split wide by demons and their cleavers, shoved on his knees and pushed face down again and again into boiling tar. It is being called a fraud and a failure for the rest of eternity. It is being to forced to watch another soul wearing his brother's face suffering the same torture as he, making him doubt, making him wonder if he'd done wrong leaving J – Jiminy – someone important – alone. It is sometimes being stoned to death, granite screaming into his back and gneiss piercing his throat, deafening until his brains explode, and he is brought back once more, for the process to begin again.

This is his hell: adrift on the rack, knives carving countless patterns on his bones, knowing his ability to care is leaving him, Jimmy's image becoming a lifeline to hold on to, meaningless save that it's a foreign thing in the Pit, forgetting what was so worth dying for, forgetting who he is, forgetting who he loved. Screaming until it was his own voice that sliced the thing in his chest to shreds. Screaming and screaming that fathomless name until they crack his jaw open once more.

-

I'm Jacob Glaser and this is Broadcast Zero. I'm a little nervous, folks – okay, not really – if I couldn't be shamed by the media spotlight for exposing the robot heads on the moon, I doubt a radio show will faze me. This is The Real Story, meant to get you close and personal with all the things you deny because you can't understand. The mysterious, the unexplained, the things you have to take out on faith because – as hip as science is – it's still missing that little extra.

Let's hit it off with something heavy: the afterlife and it's top three finalists – non-existence, heaven, hell. Even now, clock's ticking to the Final Judgment, anyone there believe in damnation? How about salvation for the righteous? C'mon people, give me your thoughts and I will give you mine.

-

in which everyone breaks character

2. Night for serious questions: what is the human soul worth?

-

Transmutation (tran(t)s-myu-ta-shen), the act or instance of transformation.

-- but sooner or later hell will burn away your humanity. Every hellbound soul, every one turns into something else –

Jacob can use all the languages in his arsenal, every guttural scrawl in his throat, gesticulate with every muscle in his body and can never express how much he hates demons. Months ago, he couldn't stomach the existence of a man who made a deal to be the next B.B. King, cursed Mom's fucked up strategy. Because they're malformations, humanity gouged and rotten worse than a B-movie zombie, the very worst parts of the soul amplified.

And then he couldn't seal the deal fast enough to trade his soul to the Pit.

But this is nothing.

Jacob has learned what sacrifice was before he even knew it's name – and it's name was love. It had always been you – every snapshot of our lives was one of you, every battle was to keep you safe, every castle built and conquered for you – that's the conclusion of me, basic and tested and faithful as any universal law. This has been Jimmy's right since they were born, to take all of him: bone, gristle and bundle of flesh.

Jacob remembers watching Harry Potter 7.02 – four stars, by the way, he can forgive gross inaccuracies because Tom Felton was hot – and thinks he's going to die some Snapesque death. He could see why poor bloody Severus didn't want it known, all the great and terrible things he did for love; the last hint of pride pretending you didn't live and die for one reason, because nobody could understand – and no one ever will – one man's definition of the word.

Jacob's hypothetical tombstone will read, without the frill of titles and fraud of heroics: unknown, just a fucking simple man who had a brother.

Who has a brother, that's the important point.

-

Out of the seven sins, Jacob never thought Pride to be the strongest. In lore, angels have fallen for pride and called it righteousness; in this incarnation, he's a man in a dapper off-the-rack suit and slick hair and oily grin, insanely strong and – Jacob notices as they grapple – deceptively innocuous.

-

"She was like you," says Jimmy non-sequitur, not a mile out of Cicero. "I remember wanting to name her Jackie or Coby or something equally awful. We chose Claire -- meaning clear and bright, though we found that out later. She was named for Clare of Assisi, of anorexia fame, but Amelia really liked it so, you know."

This is a conversation Jacob never knew he was waiting for, Jimmy saying quiet words in a car ride on a peaceful night, peeling away eight years of scars, absolution inherent.

Says this: Claire was always asking 'where does the rain come from, Daddy' and 'why am I a girl, Daddy' and 'why can't I eat rocks'. I thought for sure Google couldn't keep up with her.

Says this: Claire always played 'doctor' with her toys, was a surgeon by the looks of it, Amelia was horrified. I almost called you, ask if maybe something in the genes make us want to pry things apart.

Says this: Claire wrote Jesus on Christmas, instead of Santa.

Says this: Claire thought she could talk to angels. She would pray before bedtime for them and God to 'watch over my family, the ones I see and the one I don't see'. See? She always knew.

Jacob doesn't know what to say. "I love her already."

-

Elsewhere is a world where Jimmy never finds out that Jacob's repartee of yeah, well, remember that time you slept like the dead wasn't exactly the most appropriate stuff for jests and he can just die quietly somewhere with a face full of Jack, Johnny and goofer dust. That's elsewhere.

"There's only one man I'd allow to die for my sins," Jimmy says, voice pitched gruffer and angrier than Jacob's heard in the past year, skin on his face pulled tight with frustration, and oh fucking christ, let it go.

"Yeah, well, Jesus is gonna have to take a number. You're not his brother, you're mine. I call dibs on this bitch."

"You can't do this to me!" shouts Jimmy, voice broken raw, slamming a hand to the table. Then his brother curses him in what was probably Polish, language from the old country, like something dug up from his blood by sheer anger. "That's not fair!"

Jacob says – No, it's not fair, for you to lose so much. But I just can't, and I'm sorry, and I'm selfish, and you're stronger than me. You've lost so much and though strength like that is an unwanted thing, I know, look at you, still standing, still living, still doing whatever. - "Life's not fair, Jimbo. Live with it. Emphasis on live, okay?"

-

He can't entertain the idea of already dying on hundred different Tuesdays on an empty stomach – pagan gods, wormholes, negative space, singularities, jimmy mourning him for a year over and over – it is too much to deal with. "I'm going to go out."

"God, spare the liquor store," Jimmy retorts bitterly, folding his hands in a facsimile of prayer.

-

Of course, God wouldn't spare the liquor store. Jacob gets back to the motel at 2AM, cut and bruised, a deep gash running down his forearm. He remembers words being exchanged, things getting a little heated; he's badly beat up –

"...but you should see the other guy," He finishes explaining, shrugging; they both know he's still stone-cold sober.

Jimmy's already pulling out the sewing kit and pointing him to the bed. "Take the trenchcoat off." Seeing the full damage, Jimmy's hands pause on the antiseptic and he asks, sadly. "Seriously, when did you get off on self-harm?"

"I think it was around the time Glaserland hit Inferno's debt ceiling. Baby, we are going under. Deal's off the table. Have you ever wondered how much hell resembles Wall Street?"

His brother looks pained rather than amused, forlorn. "It's not funny."

"From where I'm standing, it – "

He never gets to say what he wanted, because Jimmy kisses him then, low and fierce.

-

The trenchcoat on the floor is joined by their rucked shirts, belts, pants.

There's sweat beafing his forehead and he never thought it could be like this – almost like science, better than science, experimentation and end all at once. Examine the exquisite biology – here is bone, here is flesh, here are the soft points in your spine – the vista of skin like a landscape, search out any more disasters to fix. Parse all the angles. And if he could turn Jimmy in his unashamed nudity to string and explore it in eleven dimensions then – then that's great too.

Jimmy growls something under his breath like he was starring in fucking Audio Erotica, oh god, and Jacob could feel frissons of heat and despair break out of their shared skin, spilling with it. He falls then, lenient and supplicant, in a tacky little room somewhere south and outside a rusty sky promising the most beautiful of days.

No, not any monster in the world, nor any demon, nor death will break him. Love will. Love will eat out his heart and leave him blind. Jacob's always theorized he lost his heart somewhere three years old and realizing he wasn't seeing just another reflection; and now, he was losing it again, not that much differently, messier tangle but still the same. Still heartbreakingly the same.

-

Interlude: Jimmy's Thoughts

in which jacob makes a deal

3. Ever imagined if terrorists grew in your backyard? Once upon a time, they did. Militia movement in America, people, it's not a myth. Behind our collective backs some time ago, some men were building armies. Google will tell you they're right-wing extremists, anti-government and mildly psychopathic about their ideology and official documentation will tell you that Google's mostly right: they're armed, dangerous, and as easy to put down as the fucking Mummy. One may say they're only a little better organized than your typical lynching mob, and on the same level of aimless, but that's just our government fooling you. Some of those armies are strong. Some are clever. Some are kept so well-hidden I wouldn't be surprised if they're still popping up in executive positions like now so, please, keep on watching your Senate and CEO's – yes, including Zuckerberg and the Pepsi man. And some, some recruit really good soldiers with such mad skillz that even we, the hapless civilian public, better recognize.

-

To look at something so precise and beautiful, and think I helped make part of this, helped create something other than destruction. To look at it, to love it, and to walk away. Jacob suspects that Mr. Sandman must've pumped him full of whatever LSD-serotonin cocktail it produces, because turning his back on Djinnutopia was the hardest thing. The hardest damned thing.

-

What he remembers is that he always bested Jimmy when Mom or Ellen or even Bill was training them, not because of faster reflexes but of a smaller tendency to question why they had to fight each other. Jimmy who, at eight, started a journal like Mom's except he'd only entered the good things that happened to them, stopped because counting made it unavoidable to consider the bad things as well, and he didn't want to be 'ungrateful, Jake, and I don't wannna be that guy'. Jimmy, the way he leaned forward when talking to somebody, earnest and awkward, then suddenly tilting his chin in a quick birdlike movement like a wink, smug in his assumptions. Jimmy left behind on the I-80 while he and Mom soldiered themselves, coming back to find him entertaining a crowd, never a weapon but just himself. Jimmy asking him what a synchrotron was for. If there was such a thing as inevitability in Jacob's life, it was him. Always him, and Jacob couldn't choose his roads any more than he could choose his real name.

And now Jimmy is stuck fighting for his life somewhere in the Hunger Games for special kids.

-

I remember, some years ago, there was a fuss about these cells – spread from the bio department from one university to another – these cells, if they could just grow right outside the body, they'll cure the world. That's how important they were. But in vitro, they wouldn't grow, man, curled up and died because even all the sugars and supplements couldn't make up for the fact that those cell were on exile. Eventually, they figured out to make this, this support, it wasn't perfect, and it could never make up for what the cells lost, but it did it's job. That what I am, really, second kid who wasn't supposed to exist except to be there. I'm your scaffolding. I'm the one-man army for the country of you. So if you're d-dead, Jimmy, what am I? What am I supposed to do?

in which religion is a must

4. You are listening to The Real Story, and what's that without a little religious talk, right? No, I'm not talking Da Vinci Code or Illuminati – you want to talk about that? Go join a bookclub – let's discuss the hard-hitters: visitations, prophecy, stigmata. Did Mother Mary really get knocked up by Divine Law and went around saying the deed didn't count? Joan of Arc, sainted shishkabob of France, who told you to look for signs? Men who walk on water when surface tension clearly says no. Let's not forget how history loves the Anti-Christ – a special seat for you, Damien! So step aside, Richard Dawkins, this talk is going to blow you away. What's that, caller? No, I'm not into religion. Rather, religion is into me.

-

"You want to talk theology? With me?" Jacob doesn't remember who it was that invited him to Atheist Incorporated's round table back in MIT. Odd, because he never claimed to be atheist – though let it be known he was on the evolution bandwagon all the way – and supported more crazy theories than necessary. Ash, who had been there on the verge of asking of about the old murder-suicide two towns over or how to swap moonshine for beer at Alpha-Manna-whatsits fraternity, shot him a look and laughed and laughed and laughed.

 That had been the same semester he took a course in anthropology because, holistic-ism was the name of the game. The girl who sat beside him in the middle of the backrow was Filipina, and she told him about tiyanak, nuno, kapre and aswang, so different from the monsters he was raised to fight – visceral, vivid through her foreign-colored words. He remembers thinking that hunters there – and certainly they had to exist, given the intensity of their lore – they probably won't flinch at witches. Makiling had worn a cross like a mantra around her neck, decidedly Catholic, and told him what it meant to live in a country that subsisted on blind faith – bahala na, bathala na, leave that 0.01% uncertainty to Him – and maybe that was the only thing they ever disagreed on.

Back then, he didn't do the small group discussion because he thought they might (might) be missing the point, not discussing belief itself but evidence for the contrary. He didn't believe because scientific logic told him not to, not because Pro-Choice was right or genetic engineering made sense; he didn't believe because he'd seen people waste lives in boneheaded conviction that something or someone should be changed, shouldn't exist (hello there, Holocaust). He didn't believe because he'd known killers who believed their sins can be washed clean as water just because something holy – more likely, unholy – had chosen them. He didn't believe because people had died for irrational faith. He didn't believe, because God never gave him reason to.

Belief was a powerful thing, never to be given lightly, so this is what he believes in instead: Jimmy, families, people.

-

But other people believe in other things: people sit in crossroads and believe in the Devil can save them. Ron Reznick believed in the same sci-fi world as he – Mandroids, jesus. Diana Ballard believed in criminal psychology and her douchebag partner, who in turned believed in currency and the false notion that dead men tell no tales. Pagan gods apparently believed in candy and karma.

 Hunter extremists believed in Jimmy destined to go darkside. Jacob could tell them all to right now to fuck themselves on their false correlations – Croatoan couldn't touch Jimmy, Azazel wanted Jimmy and therefore he must be demonic, where did they get that logic, 15th century Catholic Church?