Supernatural Sister Imagines

135

     There is beauty in nature.

     There is a place in this world where a wide river roams through sand and stone without requisition or any desire ever to slow. It is endless, it is infinite. It belongs to a place where wind kisses the surface of blank slates of rock and weathers them smooth. It rolls over this place and it goes down; a river always goes down.

     The sun rays cast a beam of gold upon the land where the clouds seep from the cracks of tomorrow and roll across weathered surfaces and flowing rivers only to disappear amongst the shadows of yesterday, and yet despite this time is irrelevant. The brash and unforgiving element of Time who waits nay slows for no one is brought unequivocally to a halt by the pure beauty of a river on a porcelain landscape.

     Follow the river and travel a vast, open grassland where herds of elk dot the landscape for miles around. The area is grand and carries such exquisite curves and dips and rises, and the grasses are soft to the touch. Run your fingers over its surface and find yourself caressing Mother Nature by the cheek. Feel her smile.

     Time, the ever inconsiderate entity with immeasurable power is enraptured. He is encapsulated. His eyes are wide and his mouth agape because wonder is delicious and beauty is terrifying. His body is trembling, his fingers shake as they plead for something out of reach. His legs are stone, he moves not for he has no idea how.

     Further on... and the river plummets.

     A waterfall roars into the void of air as rushing rain thunders to the ground which feels miles away yet isn't quite so far. It sounds like a song but in reality it weeps. A waterfall is always weeping.

     The waterfall rests in the valley between two sibling mountains who hear not its vicious cries nor feel its drowning grief.

     Time can hear it. Time can feel it. He doesn't understand. He sobs.

     The mountains. The mountains are tall and god-like. To be between them is to feel safer than anything you have felt before for they shoulder your grief and carry your weight. They are immovable. They are abysmal.

     Time has discovered who it is the waterfall weeps for. It weeps for the mountains. He is astounded. Why does such powerful water roar and thunder with such grief? Why does such grief make him feel weak in the knees? Why does his chest ache as though he'd been running when for so long now he's been unable to move a muscle?

     He knows now. It weeps for the mountains. So does he.

     The mountains are dead.
     .
     .
     .
     Human nature is beautiful.

     There is a place in the world where fat tears cut through blood and dirt without requisition or any desire to ever slow. They are endless, they are infinite. They belong to a place where wind kisses the surface of blank slates of skin and weather it smooth. They roll over this place and they go down; tears always go down.

     The sun rays cast a beam of gold upon flesh where the clouds seep from the cracks of tomorrow and roll across weathered cheeks and flowing tears only to disappear amongst the shadows of yesterday, and yet despite this time is irrelevant. The brash and unforgiving element of Time who waits nay slows for no one is brought unequivocally to a halt by the pure beauty of a tear on porcelain skin.

     Follow the tears and travel a vast, open face where herds of freckles dot the flesh for miles around. The area is grand and carries such exquisite curves and dips and rises, and the eyelids are soft to the touch. Run your fingers over her surface and find yourself caressing Y/n Winchester by the cheek. She doesn't smile.

     Time is beginning to figure out what he has stopped for.

     Further on... and the tears plummet.

     They roar into the void of air as rushing rain thunders to the ground which feels miles away yet isn't quite so far. It sounds like a song but in reality it weeps. She is always weeping.

     The tears rest in the valley between two sibling brothers who hear not its vicious cries nor feel its drowning grief.

     Time can hear it. Time can feel it. He understands. He sobs.

     The brothers. The brothers are tall and god-like. To be between them is to feel safer than anything you have felt before for they shoulder your grief and carry your weight. They are immovable. They are abysmal.

     Time has discovered who it is the tears weeps for. She weeps for the mountains. He is astounded. Why does such powerful water roar and thunder with such grief? Why does such grief make Time feel weak in the knees? Why does his chest ache as though he'd been running when for so long now he's been unable to move a muscle?

     He knows now. She weeps for the brothers. So does he.

     For the brothers are dead.