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alchemyaliceTitle: Wings of Steel: A Dean/Castiel Mix and Apocafic
Author: Alchemy Alice
Rating: PG-13, for violence
Word Count: ~5,000
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Angst (Jesus, I never set out to write angst, and yet…)
Spoilers: Season 5
Warnings: Yay for incredibly schizophrenic musical taste! Be prepared for epic classical music, a lot of prog rock, and then some other random fuckery. Also, apparently I’m incapable of just doing a simple thing like a fanmix. Noooo, it just has to have a narrative thread which will get away from me and now I have no idea whether it works anymore. I’ll let you decide. It may verge on the incoherent. Hell, if it doesn't work, at least you can listen to some good music.
Disclaimer: Riffing on stuff that isn’t mine.
Summary: “Remember, Dean. Remember those years when out of the deep you begged to be free. For lo, in God’s name I have come.”
ETA: If some of the tracks don't work, it's because I screwed up some formatting. I've now fixed the file, so if you re-download, it should work.
You can download the music and cover art here.
1. Requiem, “Libera me” – Gabriel Faure
Libera me, Domine, | Deliver me, O Lord, |
The angel came for him, a train of destruction from a distance that rumbled at first like distant thunder, and then rushed to find him through layers of mucus and blood, boiling with fire and light and clanking war engines.
Dean barely remembers it now; he’s buried it too deep. But he gets flashes sometimes, when he’s on the edge of sleep he remembers like it’s been built deep inside him, set up house in his darkest places. How he had not begged for freedom, but fought all the way, and how that force had been inexorable, a roaring and shaking thing somehow more abyssal than Hell itself. It had gazed upon Dean with diamond eyes unreal, taking in the soot streaks on his neck and back, the blood up to his elbows, splattered scarlet across his cheeks, and the sweating broken soul on the rack in front of him, its entrails in limp ropes on the ground, mouth still working like a gasping fish.
Dean had met its gaze with his own blackened eyes, mouth curled into a snarl that Dean can still feel echoes of in his muscle memory, twisting and distorting his lips. He’d drawn away, towards the rack to continue his work, taking comfort in his tools.
But then the presence spoke, and its words were blows, shattering and splitting even in the din of the Pit.
“Remember, Dean. Remember those years when out of the deep you begged to be free. For lo, in God’s name I have come.”
Dean did not remember. Those years no longer existed for him. He took his blade to the angel instead, razor thin and bright in all the ways that this shining force of nature before him wasn’t.
But the creature just burned more potently, and it grasped his shoulder with a hand like molten glass, speaking over Dean’s rising agonized cries:
“Time is short, Dean, and growing shorter. And God has work for you. So I shall deliver you from eternal death, whether it be your wish or no.”
And so it was to be in agony that Dean was raised from Perdition.
2. Wings of Steel – Collide
Wind up your reasons
Demons and ghosts
Your wings on fire
But you can't find them
Your wings are higher
I've never seen them before
Chasing wings of steel
Chasing ghosts of time
His grip seared.
Dean still feels echoes of it when he turns over onto that shoulder at night, soul-deep twinges from an echo of unbearable heat, heat that his nerves couldn’t recognize and tried to tell him was freezing and burning and caustic like acid.
It’s his last memory, both charged and vague. Sounds fell away, the silence of flight muffling and deafening, and Dean looked up, to struggle again, to argue against what he does not deserve, but as the angel surges his light pulls behind him, and for the first time his wings emerge from his aura.
Dean fears with every particle of his being, oh god he fears. These muscular beating arcs of lightning and thunder are metallic and ruthless, each feather a blade, shredding demons in their growing wake, collecting gore and ash that sizzles away in the rush of nuclear temperatures. They are climbing, ever climbing, and Dean is in an unstoppable grasp, feeling nothing of revelation, nothing of divine glory, just the blood on his hands being burnt away, scalding him from the inside out, as he is unable to look away from cutting wings and napalm hands, drawing him upward.
When he next sees Castiel, these memories will be scraped away.
Say Hello to the Angels – Interpol
I had my back turned
You didn't realize
I'm lonely
You lack the things
To which I relate
But I see no harm
But each night, I bury my love around you...
You're linked to my innocence
Say hello, say hello, to the angels.
Dean doesn’t really think that he gets Castiel, on a fundamental level. There are too many things about his species, let alone his individual personality, which defy understanding. He’s sure Uriel, that prick, would say that this is only right. But nowadays Dean is bothered by this uneven relationship not because he feels threatened (though he does, often, because this angel is unfathomable and vast and those dream state flashes of light and wings shining amongst the demons are still terrifying)—no, he’s bothered because of the principle of the thing, resents that he can’t know Castiel, can’t unpack him, and he should be able to, because Castiel saved him. For that, he deserves Dean’s understanding, maybe even his camaraderie.
But Dean can’t even look at what he really is, his true form unleashed from his human meat suit. So he beats away at it with his fists instead, his very first topside greeting to this being a knife to the chest, some visceral part of himself wanting to carve his way past Castiel’s implacable exterior to get to the center of him. He was skeptical, of course, didn’t believe this Angel of the Lord crap, but he did know, even then, that this was his apparent savior, his apparent equal, in some way. So he needs to know how this creature ticks.
And he needs to know why it saw fit to know him.
Mayday – UNKLE (feat. Duke Spirit)
I ebb and you flow
It's uh, a bit screwed
But you can't catch my love
These stars are descending
These scars are discerning
I ebb and you flow
It's uh, a bit screwed
But you can't catch my nerve
Months pass, and still they are never on the same page. It drives Dean batshit.
“Where do you go?” he asks, on one occasion. They’re in the motel. Sam is out with the hell-bitch. And Dean didn’t know that he wanted to know this until just now.
Castiel looks at him measuredly. “I go to battle. Wherever my orders send me.”
“And what, you get little angel pagers? Is that part of the garrison regulation equipment?”
“I don’t know what you are referring to,” Castiel says, stepping back. “I must go.”
“Wait,” Dean says, catching his arm, not knowing why really, just needing to grip something. Castiel just looks at him again, this time slightly incredulous at the idea that Dean thinks he can hold him back by a touch.
Dean searches for words in the absence of reason. “How much do we matter in this?” he asks finally. “Why do we matter, when it’s all angels and demons sorting out their super-powered bullshit?”
“You have a destiny—“
“Bullshit. That is bullshit. I need reasons, Cas. I need to know why you think we’ll make so much of a difference.”
“Is God’s plan not reason enough?”
“Hell no!”
“Your incessant blindness is frustrating.”
“And your incessant obtuseness is fucking intolerable!” And Dean knows he’s mad now, because he just slipped some Sam-level vocabulary words in there. Jesus, he thought he only did that when he had drunken arguments with the Sasquatch.
They seethe at each other for a brief moment, and Dean gets a vicious satisfaction out of seeing Cas with his hackles raised. Obviously it’s also incredibly frightening, but at least frightening is something he’s used to. Implacable is a lot more unsettling.
But then the angel takes a breath, and in doing so it feels like he’s sucked all the air out of the room. “I don’t need to explain myself to you, Dean,” he growls. “The will of God is infallible, and you do not need to believe in it for it to be the truth. But after the life you’ve lived, would it not be a comfort to know that you are destined to be in your creator’s favor?”
“No, Cas,” Dean says wearily, and he’s suddenly lightheaded, like he’s run for miles uphill. “It wouldn’t. Because His supposed favor feels a hell of a lot like his wrath. Pun entirely intended.”
And then Cas is gripping his shoulder, right over that burning mark that sets all of Dean’s nerves on edge for the story it tells. “You are broken,” the angel says, voice low. “God has broken you. But he has done so in order to remake you, stronger and better so that you may carry out this righteous task. He has broken you so that you may find forgiveness in Him, and in yourself.”
Dean releases a shuddering breath into empty air. The angel is gone, unreachable, just when they might have met at some crossroads where Dean may not have needed to sell his soul, just share it.
Heaven’s a Lie – Lacuna Coil
Oh no,
here it is again
I need to know
why did I choose to betray you
Something wrong
with all the plans of my life
I didn't realize that you've been here
Set me free
your heaven's a lie
set me free with your love
set me free
Castiel doesn’t know when he changed. If he did, he would surely look back on it in horror. Uriel, in his bigoted way, had a right to be ashamed of him. But Dean is his event horizon, an embodiment of the brink, and he can’t look away, not when the edge (and what lies beyond it) shines so brightly.
Dean is pacing now, waiting in the green room, the set of his shoulders taut. He worries for unnamed, faceless strangers. He worries for a planet already rife with tragedy.
He worries for its right to be tragic.
Castiel doesn’t really understand. He’s fairly certain that he can’t, that he was never meant to. But he knows that one thing is certain, as certain as the love of his Father (a conviction which scares him more than he can say, for all of the implications that fall into place with it):
Dean doesn’t care about things not worth caring about.
He can already taste regret on the roof of his mouth as he throws Dean against the wall, begging for his silence. But the blood he sheds is unhesitating, and the sigil he paints is true.
Uriel would be ashamed. But the feeling would be mutual.
Pale September – Fiona Apple
He goes along just as a water lily
Gentle on the surface of his thoughts his body floats
Unweighed down by passion or intensity
Yet unaware of the depth upon which he coasts
And he finds a home in me
For what misfortune sows, he knows my touch will reap
And all my armour falling down, in a pile at my feet
And my winter giving way to warm, as I'm singing him to sleep
Castiel leans wearily against the door frame of the motel room, as he waits for the occupants to answer. He can still feel the strange knitting sensation of his bones realigning and the large slash across his face resealing. He suspects it’s a dramatic sight, and he would have waited for it all to finish before seeking out the Winchesters, but he is just so tired this time.
The door finally opens, and it’s Sam with a gun tucked in the back of his jeans, one hand resting on the grip. He takes one look at Castiel though, and says, “Dean!”
Dean is there in seconds, his face a picture of alarm, and then he scans Castiel from top to toe and is immediately close, breaking all of his own rules about personal space.
“Jesus, Cas, what the hell did you get yourself into?” he mutters, pulling the angel inside.
“I did not get myself into anything. Rather, I extricated myself from a rather delicate situation with Raphael.”
“The dude that exploded you? What the hell, how did he find you?”
“I was searching for an artifact. He must have predicted my movements.”
“And you weren’t going to tell us about this,” Dean growls, sitting him down on the bed and smoothing his hands over Castiel’s arms, investigating tears in the trench coat’s fabric.
“I did not think it necessary. It was not in a location to which you could have accompanied me.”
Dean eyed him. “It’s necessary that you tell me when you’re going to go gallivanting off and risking your life.”
“To be fair, I didn’t think that I was at the time.”
He sighs, and scratches the back of his neck. “Right. So, what’s this artifact for, exactly? Upgrading your God detector?”
Castiel shakes his head, and draws the item from his pocket. “It is for Sam. It should help ward his dreams against Lucifer.”
Sam looks up in surprise. Dean jerks slightly. “You serious?”
“Why would I joke about such things?”
“I dunno. But I…I don’t know what to say.”
Cas just looks away. He holds out the artifact, which looks like a jet wishing stone, an Enochian sigil carved in relief on its polished surface. Sam steps forward to take it gingerly from him. “Make sure you keep it close at night,” Castiel says.
Sam nods, his expression a mess of gratefulness and guilt and awe. “Thanks,” he says hoarsely. “Jesus. Thanks.”
Dean says roughly, “You should spend the night here. You look like you could use a break.”
“I would be grateful for a chance to heal myself more thoroughly, yes,” Castiel agrees. He moves to get up and go to the couch, but Dean halts him with a hand to his shoulder.
“No, dude. You lie back here. Believe me, healing on a moldy couch is the last thing you wanna try doing.”
“Where will you sleep?”
Dean pauses, shoots a glance at Sam, and then says, “We’ll share. It’s cool; something tells me you’re not exactly a bed-hog, unlike Mister Octopus over there.”
“Hey!” Sam protests halfheartedly.
And so Castiel ends up stretched out on one side of the bed with Dean on the other, with the silhouette of Sam’s hulking profile on the opposite bed in the dark. Sam has been asleep for over an hour, but Dean’s awake.
“You don’t want to sleep,” Castiel observes, after a long moment.
Dean shrugs, the gesture lopsided.
Castiel says, “I can guard your dreams against your memories, if you wish.”
“Any and all energy should be dedicated to getting you back to fighting shape, Cas,” Dean replies. “Don’t worry about me.”
“I will always worry about you, Dean.”
He doesn’t say anything when Dean freezes for several minutes, and then scoots unconsciously closer, before drifting to sleep. He reaches out with feeble tendrils of his faltering grace to place protection across his brow.
Diamond Eyes – Rishloo
We are not machines
we are not machines programmed, encoded
we are so much more, we are so much more
when diamond eyes light up the sky, I promise you that we can change the world
Profundity has never been Dean’s strong suit. He bears it, sure, but he does so like it’s a coat of mail, heavy coils and links that weigh down his shoulders and pull at his posture. But at least mail would offer him some sort of protection, some defense against the knife’s edge on which he now balances.
Castiel is peeling away, in more ways than one. He is shedding small fragments of his angelic skin, bleeding it away and giving it to Dean and Sam in slivers. But he is also peeling away restraints, rules and protocols.
He is wearing away.
Dean can’t take it, now that he’s seen what’s underneath. For the longest time, he’d thought that if you peeled away enough, there’d just be cold metal and light beneath Jimmy Novak’s shell. Instead, he’s seeing how much there is, the vastness of Castiel and his potential for even greater vastness. If he could only be whole again, if their damned and lost god could give that back.
When Famine has come and gone, and Dean raises his eyes to the sky, he prays for himself. With his throat tight and every word another iron link pulling him down to the ground, he prays.
"I need some help here. Please."
His head is tilted back, he’s staring at blackness and cold stars, and something in him shifts, like bending his neck this way has shaken something loose.
There was a reason that Famine gave him nothing to crave. Dean craved nothing for himself. He craved everything, though, for those he thought deserved it.
With brutal clarity, he realizes that what he craves is more profound than he is comfortable ever contemplating again—he craves all the layers of Cas, all of the machinery and procedures and literal thinking and blind devotion, and all of the things that he is only just beginning to see at the fulcrum of the angel’s decline. He craves for them to be whole.
He craves a world where there is a place for that.
His prayer changes. It becomes a single word, an utterance for a single recipient, one more likely to answer than any absent father.
No, he tells Michael. For the final time.
Because there are still things that have to change, which he knows the archangel won’t.
Protection – Massive Attack
Sometimes you look so small, need some shelter
Just runnin' round and round, helter skelter
And I've leaned on me for years
Now you can lean on me
And that's more than love, that's the way it should be
Now I can't change the way you feel
But I can put my arms around you
That's just part of the deal
That's the way I feel
I'll put my arms around you
I stand in front of you
I'll take the force of the blow
Protection
Castiel finds him in the morning, hours after Sam has gone quiet. It had taken all of his willpower to stay with Sam, to absorb the cries and pleas through the doors and stand guard as he’d promised Dean he would. As soon as dawn broke, he is out in the yard.
Dean sits in dew-damp grass, the seat of his jeans gone dark with moisture. The bottle beside him is still half full. He doesn’t react to Castiel’s presence.
Castiel doesn’t actually know what he is meant to do. So he copies Dean, makes a mirror image of him, crouching on the ground. “Dean,” he says quietly.
Dean looks up. “Hey Cas. How’s Sam?”
“Through the worst of it. His intake was not enough to make his relapse serious.”
He nods. “Thanks for watching him.”
“I was glad to spare you the sight.”
The tattered arcs of Cas’s wings come up, curve up around them both to create a shield against the side of the Impala. Castiel doesn’t do it consciously, and Dean doesn’t notice it except in the most unconscious ways. What he does notice, however, is how his hand finds its way to Cas’s knee, and Castiel in turn rests one hand on his shoulder to balance himself. And that’s enough.
Passenger – Deftones (ft. Maynard James Keenan)
Hear I lay
Still and breathless
Just like always
Chrome buttons, buckles and leather surfaces
These and other lucky witnesses
Now to calm me
This time would you please drive faster
Roll the windows down
This cool night air is curious
Let the whole world look in
Who cares who sees anything
I’m your passenger
Then his wings finally fail him in Ohio.
Castiel doesn’t speak; he just blinks slowly. Then he walks out the door of the motel. And Dean should have known then that something was wrong. But he doesn’t, just thinks that Cas is getting better at acting human.
But then the angel climbs into the back seat of the Impala, and Dean understands. And a part of him just wants to stop, and to mourn. Because this isn’t how things should be. Something fierce swells in him.
“When will Conquest come?” he growls to Sam, as he shuts himself into the driver’s seat.
Sam looks at him, hesitating at his brother’s tone. “Um, I don’t know? I imagine Lucifer will want him at his side though. You know, if he wants to conquer the world. It only makes sense.”
“Good,” Dean says. “We’ll take them both at once, then.”
He looks into the rearview mirror, and Castiel meets his eyes from the back seat. “Drive, Dean,” he says quietly. “We’ll find him.”
The Impala roars.
Knights of Cydonia – Muse
Come ride with me,
Through the veins of history,
I'll show you a god
Who falls asleep on the job.
And how can we win,
When fools can be kings,
Don't waste your time,
Or time will waste you,
No one's gonna take me alive,
The time has come to make things right,
You and I must fight for our rights,
You and I must fight to survive.
It goes down in Detroit.
Mass in G Minor: “O vos omnes” – Ralph Vaughan Williams
vos omnes qui transitis per viam, | Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by? |
It goes down in Detroit. And when it does, it’s madness and horror and Dean doesn’t know how he’s alive. Doesn’t remember half of it, just runes and sigils and a desecrated church that used to house the Lord and now houses…well.
When they exit, the city is a graveyard, all hollowed out and ashen. Blood trails paint pictures of bodies dragged around, limbs missing, all of them having been brought to the same place. Lucifer had even made contingency plans in the event of his failure.
They’d left the Impala on the outskirts, so they have to walk back to it. Have to walk through the war zone while angels hover uncertainly around them, watching, unsure of themselves for the first times in their long existences.
Sam keeps stopping and starting, checking for signs of life, so he falls behind. Dean can’t, so he just walks.
Castiel walks just behind him, close. He looks at the angels, meets their eyes, and feels fiercely that he is glad that they have become witnesses more viscerally than they were ever meant to, because that might mean change.
As on Earth, so shall it be in Heaven.
Gravity – A Perfect Circle
Lost again
Broken and weary
Unable to find my way
Tail in hand
Dizzy and clearly unable to
Just let this go
I am surrendering to the gravity and the unknown
Catch me heal me lift me back up to the sun
I choose to live
They make it to South Dakota, barely. Dean keeps shivering suddenly, like there’s a draft, and he exhales through it roughly, like he’s not sure his lungs are working. Sam is taking small hitching breaths, and Dean knows he’s crying and he can’t handle it so he just keeps shivering, keeps his eyes on the road. Castiel is in the back seat, still as stone. Dean wants to know what he’s thinking, but he also doesn’t. He doesn’t play music either, so the only thing they listen to is the rumbling progress of the Impala on dusty roads.
Bobby greets them at the door, takes in how they’re all covered in dry blood, Sam holding himself in this pained way that comes from getting your shoulders wrenched out, Dean looking like he hasn’t slept in decades.
“Is it done?” he asks.
“Yeah, Bobby,” Dean says. “We’re done.”
But they’re not done, not really. Dean can feel it already, even in this fucked up aftermath. They’ll never be done, or maybe they will but they’ll never feel done. That’s the one flaw in the world not ending—that it doesn’t end.
Dean fucking hates irony.
They spend weeks there, at the house, antsy but immobile. Sam is full of barely contained rage at the loss of life, and Dean can hear him taking off with the car late at night, and keeps expecting him to just not come back. But he does.
But when the evening comes again and he starts looking longingly at the Impala again, Dean starts drinking earlier and earlier. His days become a long series of hangovers. Bobby skirts to the edges of them, like he wants to help and just doesn’t have the strength for it anymore. He wheels around his own house like he’s afraid it will wake up and swallow all of them, and that maybe he’d be relieved.
Castiel breaks the spell, this terrible stasis they’ve fallen into, after a long month of unrelenting silences broken only by pained sharp arguments, like wounded wolves snarling at each other. “Dean,” he says, “You’ve stayed here long enough.”
“Yeah, Cas?” Dean turns to him, his voice rough from misuse and disuse. He’s sitting on the couch, a beer in his hand, pointedly ignoring the sun that has barely finished rising. “And where should I go?”
“Anywhere that will not feel like a graveyard to you.”
Dean looks at him sharply. “This is the closest thing I have to a home, Cas, except the Impala.”
“And right now it feels like a place of death and mourning to you.”
“Yeah, and shouldn’t it?” Dean counters. “Shouldn’t we be in mourning right now?”
“That depends on what you’re mourning, Dean,” Castiel answers, and suddenly he’s kneeling in front of Dean. “Are you mourning those who fell in Detroit, or are you mourning your purpose?”
“Fuck you,” Dean snaps. “I never wanted the purpose your people offered me.”
At this, Castiel closes, his whole frame pulling inward. “They are hardly my people anymore.”
Dean looks away, until the angel places a hand diffidently on his knee. Then when he looks back, he can feel his face contracting into something pained and unknowing.
“How the fuck do you deal with this?” he asks. “How do you deal with the dead when you don’t even know all their names, just their empty faces? I’m so tired, Cas, I can’t sleep enough to function, I’d get myself killed first hunt we tried and I think I wouldn’t mind—“
“Dean,” Castiel cuts him off, and for the first and last time Dean sees the shadows of the angel’s wings, extending out around the contours of Bobby’s walls, and he gets a brief flash of impossible memory of molten hands pressed to bloody flesh, cauterizing and making whole.
But now a very human palm is cupping his face, calluses catching on his stubble, and the grip is just skin on skin, and he still feels it like a burn. He risks meeting Castiel’s gaze, and nearly jerks back at the barely suppressed shattering behind familiar and yet still alien features.
“I can’t put you back together this time, Dean,” the angel says to him. “I can’t force you up from where you are. But it is my wish that you would choose to.”
“Why?” Dean asks him, uncomprehending.
Castiel falters, and looks down. Dean thinks of cross-purposes, crossed wires, and distant dreams of diamond eyes. He grasps the hand still on his cheek, curling his fingers around its warmth. “Why, Cas?” he asks again.
The angel’s gaze slides to the side, and he says, after a long moment, “I don’t think I’m prepared to live out the life of a fallen. Not. Not without you here, whole.”
Dean sucks in a long, shaky breath. “Cas.”
He had never thought…no, that wasn’t accurate. He had never given himself the right to think that this would come to a tipping point. But oh god, if this could happen, if this is what it took to save both of them when the whole world felt like it was still covered in ash—
He reaches, grasps Cas by the bicep to pull him up to face him equally, and Cas goes. Dean can feel tremors in the angel’s frame, a thrum of power and hesitation and restraint.
“I think…I think I’m broken, Cas, and I don’t think I ever won’t be,” he says quietly. “But if it helps, I think I could at least keep the pieces together if you stuck around and did the same.”
It’s stupid, it’s inadequate, not even close to enough, but Cas has always known him for more than his words. Dean feels the palm on his face reanimate, become purposeful, and then it is tipping his head forward, and Cas’s lips are on his brow.
“Come outside,” he murmurs into Dean’s skin.
Wordless, Dean obeys, leaving the beer can on the coffee table. Shoulder to shoulder, they walk out to the porch.
The sun is high in the sky now, casting clear light on the yard. It’s nothing special, but it’s warm.
“It’s bright,” Dean says, after a moment.
Castiel nods. The shadows of his wings fade in the glare. He doesn’t notice.
I choose to live.
no subject
Date: 28 Mar 2010 04:42 (UTC)Painful, raw, and beautiful. Wonderful work.
no subject
Date: 28 Mar 2010 13:23 (UTC)no subject
Date: 28 Mar 2010 05:31 (UTC)I love, love, love the music you chose (Faure and Vaughan Williams combined with bands like Massive Attack and Muse? AWESOME.) And the story that goes with it is beautifully written.
So much love for this right now. Thank you so much for sharing!
no subject
Date: 28 Mar 2010 13:24 (UTC)no subject
Date: 28 Mar 2010 15:49 (UTC)no subject
Date: 28 Mar 2010 17:52 (UTC)no subject
Date: 29 Mar 2010 08:25 (UTC)Having issues with the music...won't play in iTunes, says I have to authorise the account it was purchased with on my computer. Is this a normal issue?
no subject
Date: 29 Mar 2010 09:52 (UTC)no subject
Date: 29 Mar 2010 11:02 (UTC)Or just replace O Vos Omnes: http://www.mediafire.com/?wmfi3gln3t2
And Wings of Steel: http://www.mediafire.com/?itzn2gctj2u
Sorry about that!
no subject
Date: 29 Mar 2010 21:17 (UTC)no subject
Date: 31 Mar 2010 05:44 (UTC)no subject
Date: 31 Mar 2010 12:47 (UTC)In any case, I was able to track down an mp3 version--slightly inferior performance of the piece, but still good quality, here: http://abmp3.com/download/1789726-vi-libera-me-requiem.html
Hope that works! Thanks for reading :)
no subject
Date: 5 Apr 2010 07:56 (UTC)no subject
Date: 17 Apr 2010 15:17 (UTC)no subject
Date: 31 Mar 2010 19:00 (UTC)no subject
Date: 31 Mar 2010 21:21 (UTC)Wow
Date: 27 May 2010 02:52 (UTC)Re: Wow
Date: 27 May 2010 16:35 (UTC)no subject
Date: 28 Aug 2010 10:50 (UTC)no subject
Date: 28 Aug 2010 18:00 (UTC)no subject
Date: 9 Sep 2010 01:13 (UTC)no subject
Date: 9 Sep 2010 09:21 (UTC)