[ Cas is sitting on Dean's bed, hunched over and leaning forwards. He's wearing jeans, but his feet are bare, and so is his torso. His very visible tattoo of antlers like broken wing stumps on bony shoulder blades keeps bleeding into his shirts otherwise. Dean's shirts, rather. They're on loan, until things go back to normal.
There's a "normal", here. Apparently.
It's been... hours, Cas thinks, since Skye's visit. Since he went to the site of Dean's death, to bear witness.
Hours since he started crying, and Cas thinks he may never stop now that it's started. What does it matter that Dean will be back, when his death still means Cas has lost the last thing he had left to lose, however briefly.
It's such a painfully mortal thing, sitting in his chest and clenching too tight, making it so hard to breathe. It's what he gets, Cas thinks, for not numbing it all away more, for not embracing the temporary oblivion of wine and pills. They're... not what he once, right now, for once in his miserable, chronically painful existence.
it doesn't mean he wants to feel this pain, though, because he cannot parse it, cannot handle it. It rolls over him in waves, and like the shore Cas erodes bit by bit under the onslaught. Whenever he thinks that surely, surely his body has nothing more to give, his eyes just flood again, and he can't take it anymore. ]
Please.
[ He says it out loud in the silence of Dean's bedroom, a small and broken sound he barely gets through clenched teeth. Cas is tired, oh so very tired, and oh so very broken in body, mind and spirit at this very moment. And for once, there is an out other than his usual ones.
For once, perhaps he can just speak his pain and know it will be heard. So somewhere in the labyrinthine hallays of a carcass that was once grace and glory and is now a festering rot in a prison of flesh and bone never meant to house this sort of pain, somewhere in there, Cas grasps for the broken, ruined shards of his sense of self, of his faith. ]
[prayer] into [action] | Somewhere between Oct 25 and 26
There's a "normal", here. Apparently.
It's been... hours, Cas thinks, since Skye's visit. Since he went to the site of Dean's death, to bear witness.
Hours since he started crying, and Cas thinks he may never stop now that it's started. What does it matter that Dean will be back, when his death still means Cas has lost the last thing he had left to lose, however briefly.
It's such a painfully mortal thing, sitting in his chest and clenching too tight, making it so hard to breathe. It's what he gets, Cas thinks, for not numbing it all away more, for not embracing the temporary oblivion of wine and pills. They're... not what he once, right now, for once in his miserable, chronically painful existence.
it doesn't mean he wants to feel this pain, though, because he cannot parse it, cannot handle it. It rolls over him in waves, and like the shore Cas erodes bit by bit under the onslaught. Whenever he thinks that surely, surely his body has nothing more to give, his eyes just flood again, and he can't take it anymore. ]
Please.
[ He says it out loud in the silence of Dean's bedroom, a small and broken sound he barely gets through clenched teeth. Cas is tired, oh so very tired, and oh so very broken in body, mind and spirit at this very moment. And for once, there is an out other than his usual ones.
For once, perhaps he can just speak his pain and know it will be heard. So somewhere in the labyrinthine hallays of a carcass that was once grace and glory and is now a festering rot in a prison of flesh and bone never meant to house this sort of pain, somewhere in there, Cas grasps for the broken, ruined shards of his sense of self, of his faith. ]
Please, Castiel.