Agony crushes the black rebellion, carving into hollow bone, severing the root. His wings convulse caught in the death throes of his grief as the walls cave, burying the tempest with a strangled sob that never makes it past his throat. The anger dies. In the dark. Crushed. Hollow and alone.
What recourse did he have against this? He died the way he lived. Good to the end. And it gave him nothing. Nothing to hunt or kill or lay blame to. No mission to cling to in this hour of need. To keep this ache from swallowing him whole and crushing him between the folds of his vessel making it impossible to breathe or even think.
Was this what he fell for?
The room grows into an eerie silence after the storm. Electric currents settle no longer pressed upon by a divine force. This is why angels weren't supposed to feel. This ache buried in his ribs that he has no idea what to do with. Pulsing inside him like a living grotesque thing, cherished. The last remnants of a life that once touched his own. It's unbearable and he finally gives beneath its weight. The back of his knees hit the end of the bed and he folds, yielding. Wings, spent and aching, spread across the mattress making contact with the only being who knows his pain. Turning, he looks at the mirror and see's the same agony reflected in the same hollow shape.
Misery.
The true depths of his prayer comes to light. Castiel, who died for Dean in his world. Who gave up everything to give him that final shot at saving the world. His grief was nothing compared to him, who was always by his side. Who had lost the only tether left to him when everything else was ripped away. What must he be going through? Sitting here, alone, among the fragments of a life that was no longer here to fill the void of their existence?
Taking a shallow breath, he forges himself into the angel he pleaded. Weak and wrought with fatigue from emotions too strong to bear, he reigns himself in. Filling in the cracks in the marble despite the deep fissures running through to the bone. ]
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Agony crushes the black rebellion, carving into hollow bone, severing the root. His wings convulse caught in the death throes of his grief as the walls cave, burying the tempest with a strangled sob that never makes it past his throat. The anger dies. In the dark. Crushed. Hollow and alone.
What recourse did he have against this? He died the way he lived. Good to the end. And it gave him nothing. Nothing to hunt or kill or lay blame to. No mission to cling to in this hour of need. To keep this ache from swallowing him whole and crushing him between the folds of his vessel making it impossible to breathe or even think.
Was this what he fell for?
The room grows into an eerie silence after the storm. Electric currents settle no longer pressed upon by a divine force. This is why angels weren't supposed to feel. This ache buried in his ribs that he has no idea what to do with. Pulsing inside him like a living grotesque thing, cherished. The last remnants of a life that once touched his own. It's unbearable and he finally gives beneath its weight. The back of his knees hit the end of the bed and he folds, yielding. Wings, spent and aching, spread across the mattress making contact with the only being who knows his pain. Turning, he looks at the mirror and see's the same agony reflected in the same hollow shape.
Misery.
The true depths of his prayer comes to light. Castiel, who died for Dean in his world. Who gave up everything to give him that final shot at saving the world. His grief was nothing compared to him, who was always by his side. Who had lost the only tether left to him when everything else was ripped away. What must he be going through? Sitting here, alone, among the fragments of a life that was no longer here to fill the void of their existence?
Taking a shallow breath, he forges himself into the angel he pleaded. Weak and wrought with fatigue from emotions too strong to bear, he reigns himself in. Filling in the cracks in the marble despite the deep fissures running through to the bone. ]
What will you do?