heraldingangel | Inbox for deerington

Entry tags:

inbox

Inbox for deerington

TEXT || AUDIO || VIDEO || ACTION || PRAYER

Prayer: Cas can hear prayers from anywhere. Feel free to call on him anytime and he'll show up.

[ 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. ]

Please, Castiel.

Edited 2020-10-23 04:01 (UTC)

[ Prayer.

Faith turned tangible. Self-actualized into something real. Audible. A link to a soul through time and space. His name, clear as a bell, rings in his ears and Castiel resonates with its source pinpointing their location.

Surprise, quick and fleeting, shoots through him when he finds the source. Castiel. The one from Dean's world. But, why? Why pray to him? Then another thought -

In one word, he'd answered the question he never asked.

Faith.

He never would have heard him if he didn't believe, at least somewhat. It brings a sense of peace to him. Worry had begun to sink into his thoughts with the way their last conversation ended. Assuming, he'd pushed too much, Castiel didn't expect to hear from his brother again, not without a reason.

His mind stills at the thought and he re-examines the prayer. Please. A plea. Nothing more. No request, only a broken word to accompany his name. Perturbed, he slams down his wings and disappears to answer his prayer.

Traversing through time, allows him to reach him a second after he's finished uttering his name, landing at the end of the bed. It's the first time he's been in Dean's home as himself and not some warped version brought on by missing memories and perversions of the town.

The first thing he notices is the state of... him. It's a shock to his senses. No longer an imagined brother, but sitting there in naked truth. It stuns him for a moment, but not enough to forget his place or the broken appeal that summoned him in the first place. ]

... Brother?

[ Cas visible flinches at the sound of feathers, and perhaps Castiel will even notice the telltale twitch of his fingers, as if muscle memory makes him try to flick a blade into his palm that he can no longer call forth, the reflex of a soldier expecting an attack.

Even here, even knowing he called Castiel, years of being hunted by angels before Heaven closed off have left their mark. But Cas stills his fingers by curling them into his hair for a moment.

And then he sits up, looks at Castiel. Instantly regrets it, too, as painful memories flash across his mind at the familiar sight of trench coat and tie, once so meaningless to him. He remembers the tie stuffed between his teeth as Dean had to set a bone that Cas could no longer heal. Remembers the trench coat becoming a source of warmth and eventually a blanket when he traded in suit, dress shirt and dress shoes for linen, jeans and combat boots. Eventually, they had to burn it during a particularly harsh winter. It had been caked with dirt, and there was no point wasting resources on trying to mend it, fix it, clean it.

Just like with Cas himself.

He stares at Castiel and sees little more than Jimmy Novak, although something within him chimes in discordant echo to the wavelength of Castiel's existence. He knew Castiel would feel like more, like everything Cas used to be... he just didn't expect him to feel like more than that, in ways Cas can no longer quite comprehend. He doesn't remember himself like this.

Then again, he barely remembers himself at all.

So for a moment he just stares. A tear silently rolls down a cheek that is a little more hollow than Castiel's, from eyes that are just a little more broken. His stubble is more pronounced. He's harsh angles and rough edges, dragged through the mud and then some, pitiful and broken. Frayed edges where he used to be connected to the Host, hollow where once he was vast. Wings broken and crippled, true form a silent carcass of itself.

He stares at Castiel, and he feels small, and he feels alone. ]

It's Dean...

[ Broken doesn't begin to describe what he bears witness to, even his vessel is a former shell of what it used to be. Castiel promised to keep Jimmy's body safe, always intending to return it once they stopped the Apocalypse. But by then, Jimmy's soul resided in Heaven having shared his death alongside him. When his Father resurrected him, he stuffed him back into his corpse, anchored there by that bit if angel in his bloodline. There was no soul that resided within his vessel now, only him. A precious gift from his Father and one he maintained diligently.

A sentiment they didn't seem to share judging by the state of Jimmy's form. Was he still in there? The soul who had said yes to him? Castiel doesn't look too closely to find out. Afraid of what he might uncover.

Questions run through his mind, one after the other. Too many to count. Catching sight of his movement, his eyes slide to his hand his own response tempered by the fact that he knows he's not in danger. Even if he meant to hurt him, the hum of his grace is so quiet he can easily stop him. A fact he knows in a single glance.

Now he understands how his true voice must have ripped through him. Shattering the walls of his vessel. More so now that he's a seraph. An upgrade he got after his second resurrection setting their differences into sharp relief.

The hapless truth sends his grace into a harrowing song that can't quite connect to his brother sitting less than a few feet away. He can connect to any angel across the world in an instant, yet he struggles now. The celestial handshake not quite on the same frequency. Like a ghost, he can feel him, knows he's there but he can't touch him. Know him.

So, he pulls back. Easing off. Not wanting to push and have things dissolve into the same silence as before. Quietly, his eyebrows draw together and his features soften. He lets the song die and his grace grows quiet in his chest as he meets his eyes. A feeling, fluttering quietly between his ribs begins to take shape doused suddenly by the break in the silence. And, all at once, his features sharpen. Concern shoots to the top and he spreads out his senses, confirming Dean's absence. ]

Where is he?

[ He steps forward, the guardian at the forefront. Even when they were at odds, Castiel did not hesitate to come to his aid. Now that they were on better terms, the feeling has only grown stronger. ]

Is he in trouble?

[ Already, black wings stretch across the length of the room ready to take flight at a moment's notice. All he needs is a location and he can be there in a moment. He still considers himself the Winchester's guardian and he knows Castiel, the one from Dean's world, must feel the same way. So, he waits for an answer before taking action. ]

[ Cas opens his mouth, and the words get stuck.

Hearing it was like hitting the ground after his 5 year free wall. Saying it...

He swallows around what feels like glass shards in his throat. Feels the hot trail of tears over his face, and has to tear his gaze away from Castiel. It lands on the worn wooden floor boards instead. And Cas just... stares for a moment, throat working to produce sound.

Dean was in trouble.

And Cas wasn't there to take the blow for him. ]

He's dead.

[ And everything inside of him screams just like the day he did when Heaven shut and he was plunged into horrifying silence, shattering upon his own spine and never, ever recovering. Except this is worth, because Dean's been the last bastion of anything Cas believed in, when his belief in God, Heaven, the cause and himself was long gone.

And it doesn't matter that it's temporary. It doesn't matter that Cas knows he'll be back.

It matters that Dean is dead, and Cas is choking on his grief and his pain, and he just wants it to stop, doesn't want to survive Dean, not now and not ever, doesn't want to handle too many feelings he cannot even begin to number or name or numb down, overwhelmed and incapable of handling things he was never designed to parse in a mind vast enough to casually handle quantum theory and use it to his own advantage, yet not large enough for this horrifying, human thing called feeling.

And he knows that to inflict this upon Castiel is horrible, too. Knows that if Castiel has any shred left of what they both used to be, then this will be a devastating blow, and yet Cas can't not deliever it, and cut himself open on having to say it. There is no comfort here, not in sharing the knowledge nor after. ]

Edited 2020-10-25 04:59 (UTC)

[ Denial.

Blue widens by a fraction, staring at his brother as that fluttering feeling twists into something grotesque. It splays out against his chest, an ugly dark thing that buries itself deep. Breathless, Castiel stiffens at the news while that twisted feeling bursts through the cavity to the being that lies beneath. Grief hacks away at him, cutting slivers of grace, peeling away the layers until the thing inside Jimmy contorts itself into a twisted, crooked thing. Wings of black slam down in agitation, needing to take flight. And for a split second, grief takes root swallowing him whole.

The celestial rails inside its cage and the black things sprouting from its back twist and turn in agony, floundering for escape. Anything to take away the pain splitting it open. Anguish runs him through, and above them, the lights burst open all at once, frying electronics. Still, it's not enough, the ache builds once more, swelling behind his ribs. Shuddering, the contorted thing convulses and black wings trash, ceaselessly in its devastation. ]

How.

[ Anger.

Dragged over gravel, the sound carries a burning need to know. A reflection of the thing still finding purchase inside its vessel. It stumbles, like a child, with no idea how to proceed. Drowning in grief that twists a knife straight through its throat and down its gullet. Spilling every twisted emotion at the altar of a ruined cathedral built on a man who could not possibly outlive him. The pain of losing him was unbearable. How was he supposed to live with this after he was gone? When time and age finally rang his final toll and the heralds of Death came for him for the last time. ]

How did it happen?

[ Grief, sharp and twisted, rips through him like a knife, carving everything in sight. Around them, the wind picks up into a maelstrom, agitated by the tempest of rioting wings that reflect the thing splayed out on the altar of its own ruin. ]

Edited 2020-10-25 19:35 (UTC)

[ He bears it, even though he shrinks in the face of this onslaught, a trembling, insignificant thing in the face of divine anguish and anger alike.

Cas can feel it in his bones, and for a moment he almost relishes it, the ways in which it makes his trueform corpse crack and hurt and ache, the way his long broken wings bend and creak, limp and unable to shield him. And he thinks, for a moment, that yes... this is better. The pressure in his skull near enough to black out the pain of losing all he'd ever truly, truly held close and dear.

And there is that bitter coil within him, that jagged edge that assumes what Dean wants and needs by his side is Castiel, not Cas, the asset over the festering disappointment. And at the same time, that same edge that would take offense at Dean's behalf if Castiel didn't care for Cas' Dean as if he were any other Dean, would find it unfathomable, that same edge wants to lash out, because what gives Castiel the right to take that anguish and treat it like he has any right to it, when he knows nothing of Cas' losses, when this is Cas' loss, and Cas' cross, and Cas' everything that was just snuffed out and torn away.

But then... what gives Cas the right to call that pain his own, when he is many things, but certainly not Dean's friend. Merely his burden, his problem, his guilt. A festering disappointment, indeed.

He wishes that the maelstrom would snap his neck, and be done with him once for all. Instead all he has is his own solitary confinement within the bones of this vessel, and the knowledge, here in the dark, that Dean is gone, and Castiel is suffering, and Cas already knows he needs to push them towards each other. Because Dean's made progress, here, and Castiel has not fallen nearly as far.

They need each other, Cas thinks.

Another tear. He'd died in bittersweet satisfaction, thinking Dean would live to fight another day. This was never meant to happen. He wasn't built to house this sort of anguish, and he's choking on it. ]

He saved someone else.

[ Because of course he did. There are few people Dean has callously sacrificed, and they haunt him, here. ]

[ Saved someone else.

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?

I thought...

[ He thought he'd die, when he found out. Like he'd been falling for so long, he'd forgotten that one day he'd hit the ground and break worse than he'd ever thought possible. He wasn't supposed to outlive Dean, not in his world at least.

Yet here he is, utterly helpless to do anything about it. The beast lies dead where Dean fell, the news has been delivered to everyone Cas can think of who matters to Dean here in this dark, cruel place, and all that is left is uttery agony.

This isn't how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to die and never come back, the last thing he could give up for Dean's cause, and then nothing but darkness after. No peace, perhaps, but no pain either.

And now he's here, hapless and hopeless, and worse for wear than ever. He has nothing he can put up against this plays, and already feels like it's going to hollow him out, carve a space into him that won't stop hurting. ]

I thought I'd beg you to stop it. Just put me under, just for a night.

[ He's not sure he'll last the night, fresh in his grief and in his first tears, fresh in an ache he doesn't know how to handle, no grace to cling to as protection from the turmoil. He's a leaf in the wind, and getting torn to shreds.

If he has to stay awake, alone, with nothing but alcohol and pills and the jagged edges of his own broken body and mind, he's not sure what will happen - just that he might not be there when Dean wakes up. ]

[ Two. Alone and aching, pressed by a loss they can't fathom and don't know how to live with. Misery connects them and pain fills out the rest. A hollow feeling stirs inside him at the request but he nods nonetheless. Slow and deliberate, holding his eyes. He won't deny him. He can't. Not when he knows what's waiting for him between the hours of the night.

He's seen enough of his brothers suffer and die. Wings seared into the ground, and he could do nothing for them. Here, at least, he can help. He prayed to him, asked for his help, and having felt a part of his pain, endured it, it gives him something to hold onto. Whatever he's going through, it can't hold a candle to what he must be feeling. He hasn't lost nearly as much and already he's falling apart. Dean may not have left him something to smite, but he was still here. The last remnants of a life he'd barely skimmed the surface of. He needed this too, a reason to endure the days that still lay ahead of them. ]

It doesn't have to be for one night.

[ An offer laid out between them. He knows how long it takes for the dead to come back. The stretch of time between now and then seems almost unbearable to him, and if he feels this way then... he reaches for him, hand outstretched to grant him freedom from his pain. ]

I'll watch over you.

[ It's tempting. The other easy way out. A sleep until Dean returns, except...

Cas thinks, briefly, of Skye's tears and the mentions of Eddie.

Thinks, even, of Castiel, and the horrible tremor of his grace in shambles. Cas' existence may have no point, he might be surplus and not needed, but it doesn't mean there's not work to be done. Who else will think to handle their pain in Dean's absence?

No one ever watches over them - over Cas or Castiel. So Cas cannot allow himself to be the subject of Castiel's guard, when Castiel has no one to return the favour. It's not fair - it never was, to either of them.

So he shakes his head minutely, reaches up and wraps his hand around Castiel's wrist. Cas' fingers are cold. They tremble. ]

Just one night. It's enough.

[ His grip flexes, briefly, and then he slides his hand into Castiel's, brings his other up to cup it. Holds Castiel's hand there, tender in his despair. ]

It's enough, I promise.

[ You're enough. You always were, but no one ever told you, and now look at me, please don't look at me. ]

[ Intention made clear, he reaches for him to send him to sleep but stops short when Castiel covers his wrist. He stills, uncertain, and stares back at him with a question in his eyes. Tilting his head a notch to the left, he takes in his words. ]

One night.

[ He promises, noting the temperature difference between them, and the way his fingers tremble against his skin. Was he cold? A question he never gets to ask when Castiel continues, pressing his hand between his. It's odd. Being so close to someone familiar yet so different. He nods at the statement, unsure what else to do. This isn't how angels interact with one another leaving him at a disadvantage. ]

I understand.

[ He doesn't. Not what he truly means. He doesn't hear it. How can he? He's not made of subtleties. Doesn't know how to read between then lines. He's a soldier. When he needs something communicated it's said simply without flourish. It's how he knows the world. ]

Would you like to go to sleep now?

[ He asks this time before proceeding, unsure where they stand. ]

Edited 2020-11-07 07:34 (UTC)

[ Cas nearly laughs - not because of Castiel. But because it occurs to him that he's held someone's hand like this before. Sam Winchester, the boy with the demon blood.

It feels like a life time ago - a strange sensation to him, eons old and once so vast and incomprehensible, not limited by the laws of nature, time and space.

Cas lets go of Castiel's hand and looks down, tears still swimming in his eyes.

Dean is dead, and Cas feels hollow and broken in his loss. ]

Yeah. Yes. Please.

[ He waits, silent and still, for the mourning figure to finally fold. Holds his own torrent in check, held down underwater, while he looks at his brother, tears swimming from the corner of his eyes. What must he be feeling? ]

Goodnight.

[ He says almost softly, as if afraid to add to his burden. Closing the distance he touches his forehead with two fingers to send him off to another world free of this aching feeling and settles down beside him, watching over him throughout the night, destroying any terrors before they have a chance to take flight.

Quietly, like a marble statue, the angel sits beside his charge, drowning in grief so great, it spills down his cheek in silent mourning. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Inbox for deerington

[prayer] into [action] | Somewhere between Oct 25 and 26

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject