Can you hear me, I know I'm just a whisper [Open]

[freetobe]

characters: Castiel & Open
location: The Ferry, the Church and potentially anywhere around Beacon
date/time: March 1st and later (post Bulletin going up)
content: There's a loss Castiel feels as a friend and brother disappears from Beacon
warnings: Religious themes, mentions of death/corpses, some musings on kinship, regret and guilt. While not at the forefront, Castiel does struggle with depression, so there might be mention of that. Other warnings will be added to tags as necessary.



➣ Docks/Network, before the bulletin goes up [Closed to Cast + Established CR]
{No need to hide away your life, unique, yet so alike}

[ It's not that the bodies fool him, per se. Castiel is an angel with senses beyond...

Castiel is.

Castiel...

... remembers standing among a pile of Dean-shaped corpses, all dead at his own hands.

His jaw clenches, tight, and to those near and dear to his heart whose corpses he spotted on the ferry while gathering his delivery, he sends a message: ]

I would appreciate if you could humour me, and confirm your current status as alive.

[ There's a moment of pause, Castiel frowning slightly at the tablet before he rolls his eyes towards the dark skies above and sends a second message: ]

You know what I mean.

➣ Church, shortly after the bulletin
{There's yet life in these words I speak for peace of mind and our release}

[ The church is a natural place for him to reatreat to, at least concerning this particular subject matter. He may have lost his faith in his Father, and most likely his Father has lost faith in him, but there is a simplicity about turning to a building like this, a house made for worship, that houses a trap door through which in their not-quite-death they may yet be reborn.

Not always.

Not everyone.

Not Aziraphale.

Castiel stalks into the building, billions of years of intent focus, able to stand still and behold over centuries, untouched by time. Yet there is now to him a restless agitation, and he paces the church floor, jaw set tight. Eventually, he moves to the trap door. Draws closer, then drifts away. Circles it, eyes affixed, like a bird of prey. Stands, finally, right next to it, and lowers himself into a crouch slowly.

The inability to accept, initially, is something he attributes to the Winchesters' influence. ]

Can there not be an exception, this once? Can you not return him to me?

[ His fingertips curls inwards. He looks up to the stained glass, feeling judged by the closed slab. What a mockery. None of it is fair. Aziraphale is the better angel, the better person to keep in this community. What is Castiel but a broken soldier who fails every opportunity he's burdened with? But it is perhaps the nature of this place, to break them all apart. This place gave him charges he loved fiercly, and ripped them away again.

Castiel thinks with unease of the few who remain. He thinks with cold dread of the Winchesters, just given to him. ]

... I fear I needed him.

[ Should anyone approach him here, he will move away from the tapdoor quickly, embarrassed at having been caught making what he knows is an utterly futile plea. ]

➣ Church, for hours after the above
{You flow inside of me, language and imagery, pure in simplicity}

[ From denial and bargaining, he moves on to a somber acceptance. It's difficult for him to process; loss. Despite all the angels who have died or left, it leaves an ache he feels deeper than anything else. They're one, no matter how different and distanced they are. Molded by one Father, a kin of light and divine intent.

Aziraphale was the first angel since Castiel's rebellion and subsequent crimes who didn't know, who saw him without judgment. And there's shame and guilt in that, too, because Castiel should have told Aziraphale what kind of angel he was choosing to associate with.

The girls are far beyond his reach, if there is even a stardust trace of them as they were here left. Aziraphale, however, is an angel...

So over the course of hours, perhaps even a day or two, Castiel finds himself in prayer. Sitting in pews with folded hands, kneeling, in cross-legged meditation, supine before the altar with his head touching cool stone. If there is a way to pray, he employs it.

Aziraphale might not hear, but Castiel... tries.

The words would sound strange to anyone else. Enochian, the language of angels, like a soft ritual chant in his gravel deep voice. Aziraphale's name, in it, is percussive, protective, protected.

Oh, brother mine, won't you hear me.

And the words, perhaps, matter less than the intent.

It is possible, however, to spot the occasional frown - for an angel, Castiel can be remarkably impatient with tasks he knows will yield no result. Eventually, he just pinches the bridge of his knows and mutters, softly: ]

I'm beginning to understand what headaches are.

➣ Museum, March 2 [Closed to Riku]
{Rich in variety, heartfelt and open, wide like a life, unique, yet so alike}

[ They've been doing this for a while. At first, Castiel found himself drifting back to the museum every once in a while with a genuine interest in the artworks - humans create things angels cannot, and it holds a fascination for him - as well as an interest in the presences within. Still unsure on his feelings regarding Vanitas, Castiel has had few reservations seeking out Riku. Or rather... lingering until the inevitable offer of coffee is made by the young man, at which point Castiel has been happy to accept, partake in the drink and the conversation, and then depart.

He enjoys Riku's company. There's something about his quiet calm, steadfast nature and wry humour that resonates well with the angel.

Upgrading to sparring after a conversation about swords was a pleasant surprise. The wooden training swords, however, have long since been left behind.

They are well matched despite the differences in what they call swords - the angel blade short and flexible, the key blade a... well. A... key. Castiel can utilize his wings in moving around their sparring area without having to worry about losing Riku, and they are both skilled and careful enough not to let their blade clash against anything but the other blade.

Except...

Except Castiel's thoughts are elsewhere, and he's going through the motions more than paying full attention to the match at hand. He's not fully over the most recent, painful loss, and leaves an opening that Riku, naturally, uses - it's just that Castiel is usually more than fast enough to course correct such mistakes and block the strike.

Today, the keyblade slips past trench coat and suit jacket, rips through the white dress shirt and bites into the skin underneath. But more then leave a gash along Castiel's ribs, the wound spills light in addition to blood, and Castiel doubles over in shocked pain, angel blade clattering to the ground and one hand curling over the wound. ]

➣ Beacon, wildcard
{Hiding deep within, doors cry opening}

[ Castiel doesn't hide himself away completely, but if you know him, you might find him a little more sullen than usual, a little more silent, with a gaze that keeps going far away into the distance. It's not a heartache he carries with him, at least not in the usual sense. Loss is something he's always bottled up, after all.

He can be encountered all over Beacon on his patrols, often on roof tops and other elevation, standing guard like a statue. ]

Comments

[cained]

( it's bad enough dean has to suffer through dancing queen while retrieving the supplies he's, honestly, surprised rastus managed to fetch for them. it was a pretty tall order, but it looks like big bird pulled through after all. doesn't mean dean trusts him any better than he did before, but he is at least begrudgingly grateful to be well-armed now. the little surprise on the ferry, though? spirits fucking around pretending to be corpses? he's sure as hell not laughing about it. if sam hadn't been there to keep him in check, he might have tested a few rounds on one of them (or, hell, the fucking speakers, just to put out the damn hippie music).

so it's something of a relief to see cas' text. grounding, in a way. a fraction of anger seeps from his shoulders, but he's still thinking about the bodies, broken and decaying (he'd almost believed it, too, until he'd heard sam's voice, the weight of a hand on his shoulder) and the memories that unearths, buried deep beneath years of ceaseless other traumas. the mark was a long time ago, but he's never forgotten the people he hurt, the people he killed, the thing it turned him into (the thing he sometimes fears he's still capable of turning into). and, now, if michael got out? the entire damn town would look like the spirits playing dead, only without the pretend.

he can't let it bother him. they've got work to do.

once the supplies have been dropped off at the cabin, he finally responds. )

still kickin cas

( he almost leaves it at that, but there's ... something he's been putting off that they should probably talk about, just not over text. )

where are you?
don't think about flying, i'll come to you

[freetobe]

The docks. I just left the ferry.

[ Castiel sends the message and stands there, overlooking the dark waters and waiting.

It doesn't take him long to grow impatient, and he sends another message: ]

This is highly inefficient. Just pray to me and let me come to you.

[ He doesn't even want to know who or what Dean has been kicking, so long as he's alive or something akin to it in this place. ]

[cained]

i got legs don't i? i'll walk

( mostly because he needs to ... think or ... clear his head. not that he hasn't been thinking about this for days already, not wanting to bring it up out of, well, consideration, really. but now the opal feels like it's burning a hole in his pocket and he hates cas not knowing that he knows more than the fact that he does know now, that he's seen inside cas' head without his permission. if he could, he'd forget about it. but some things you just can't unsee.

still. he can compromise on this one. )

how bout i meet u halfway huh

[freetobe]

[ It's... better than nothing. The truth is, the corpses on the ferry have made Castiel restless. Unlike Dean, he doesn't walk or drive to clear his head. He flies - but Beacon has restricted his ability to do so freely. He can't just beat his wings and find a comfortable ledge on a mountain overlooking Tibet...

Sometimes, he feels more caged than he thinks anyone in this place would understand, perhaps with the exception of Aziraphale.

It's good to know another angel here.

Castiel walks until he can see Dean's lantern light. At that point, he beats his wings and lets them carry him the rest of the distance. ]

Hello, Dean.

[ And it's right in the way the crease between his brows softens, the way his jaw unclenches a little bit. After the ferry, it's good to see Dean. It's a relief. ]

[cained]

( it almost startles him, cas showing up like that, but only because his mind was elsewhere — not off guard, exactly, not with michael still fighting back constantly, just otherwise occupied. trying to work things out in his head without it coming out like a prayer.

the smile he offers is strained when cas finally does pull his attention away from the several messes he's been trying to sort out internally. )

Hiya, Cas. Uh — ( he clears his throat ) — listen, we should probably head somewhere a little more private. There's something I — need to talk to you about. It's important.

( and he's paranoid enough discussing this kind of sensitive information that he doesn't even want spirits eavesdropping. )

[freetobe]

Of course.

[ The agreement comes immediately, alongside Castiel refusing to let Dean's eyes go. He holds that gaze, tries to see without reaching for Dean's soul and reading it, as he could so easily. It's a boundary he's come to learn to respect. ]

Let's return to the cabin. Here.

[ And he holds out an angel blade to Dean, hilt first, as they begin walking. ]

Not mine. I acquired two spares through the Night Market. I want you to have one.

[cained]

( he nods, smiling faintly at the gift, taking the blade from cas and tucking it away inside his jacket. )

An angel after my own heart.

( but it doesn't sound quite as convincing as it normally would, like he hasn't fully committed to the line.

he stops abruptly, holding a hand out to keep cas from moving forward. )

Cas, wait. Sam's still at the cabin. I don't want him getting worried over something that ain't his business. ( even with a closed door, the cabin isn't huge and the walls aren't exactly made for keeping secrets (though, arguably, memories aren't exactly secrets when they only belong to one person). besides, it's more for cas' sake than his own that they avoid going back for now. ) Trust me on this one.

[freetobe]

[ Castiel is about to comment that he isn't after Dean's heart - not because he's misreading the quip, but because Castiel's sense of humour sometimes falls on the side of being deliberately obtuse. He doesn't get to it before Dean stops him.

Castiel frowns, though there's something painfully earnest in the way he looks at Dean. ]

Of course I trust you.

[ One day, Castiel will not turn one of Dean's lines into an opportunity to be profound and earnest. One day. ]

Where do you propose we go?

[cained]

( somehow, that earnestness only hurts more, only fuels the fury he wishes he could take out on naomi. he wishes he'd had the chance before; now he most likely never will (and maybe that angers him more than knowing). even after she intervened with crowley, saved bobby's soul and sent it to heaven where it belongs — if dean had known (truly known, seen what she did to cas), crowley would've been the least of her worries. he wouldn't have let her just flap away. there would have been retribution.

there's a flash of that protective anger in his own eyes, and beneath that a sickening guilt that he'd ever sided with her in the first place. (but if he hadn't, would he have been able to save sam from the trials? it's not something he's particularly keen on dwelling on.) )

The church ain't too far.

( and, maybe, cas will feel safer there, or find some comfort within its walls despite the reminder of fresh trauma. )

[freetobe]

[ The church... that's doable. And despite what it symbolizes for their existence here and his own shredded faith, Cas has found comfort within its walls here in Beacon, if only as a place to withdraw to now and then.

He nods, although there's concern in the way he looks at Dean. He's unsure what to make of the flash of expression in Dean's eyes, but steels himself for a weighted conversation about the grace in Dean's mind.

When they arrive at the church, Castiel crosses the distance within with a quick beat of his wings that carries him up towards the altar, letting his eyes and other senses filter through the building, just in case. Then he looks back at Dean. ]

We're alone. I assume this is about your...

[ And he gestures, vaguely, at Dean's head. ]

[cained]

( despite cas surveying the church when they arrive, it's out of habit that dean does the same as he walks up the main aisle to the altar where cas has landed. always be aware of your surroundings, dad always used to tell him — or something similar to it. keep a sharp eye, be on the lookout, use whatever you can to protect sammy, only trust what you can see. that instinct is embedded in him now as he looks to and from each side of the church, subconsciously cataloging exit strategies regardless of the fact that he's not anticipating a fight. or, maybe, he's always anticipating a fight.

when he reaches the altar, cas waves vaguely at him and his brow furrows in confusion for a moment. )

What? No. ( of course, cas thought this was about dean. michael. he had been deliberately vague, so he'll admit it's a fair assumption, but. ) No, it's — ( as gently as he can, he pulls out an object wrapped in a red bandanna from his pocket, holding it out carefully to cas. ) — this. ( he unwraps the bandanna just enough to reveal one of cas' opals, then quickly rewraps it. given what the damn thing contains, it's practically like holding dynamite.

he hesitates to elaborate; even after all that time thinking, how the hell is he supposed to just say it? )

I saw what she did to you, Cas. Naomi. ( his grip tightens on the opal, knuckles almost going white. he's barely keeping the urge to chuck the rock at the nearest pillar at bay. ) Why didn't you tell me?

( why didn't you let me end her for you? but he knows why. he's seen why. that don't make it any easier to swallow. )

[freetobe]

[ He recoils.

As all things with Castiel, the reaction isn't very notably physicaly - there's a tension that immediately sets into his body, an expression in his eyes that harkens back to days when Dean and Castiel locked eyes above a barrier of holy fire, each standing on the wrong side of it. He's trying to lock the expression down, obviously so.... he's not succeeding.

What is there that he can say to this question, to the anger Dean's soul is radiating in spikes of black and red? It feels familiar, to be subject to this, to be responsible for this. ]

What... what exactly did you see?

[ Needles and drills. Torture, endless or so it had felt. This isn't a punishment, Castiel. This is rehabilitation. Instructions, to lie to the Winchesters, to kill Samandriel, to kill Meg, to interfere with the WInchesters' investigation... to hurt Dean, to kill him.

And their last conversation. The realization that his mind had never been his own, that he'd never been more than a hammer, a tool, for anyone who knew how to press the right buttons and take control.

Castiel isn't as expressive as he will be later on, in the way Dean has grown accustomed to. Yet he's expressive enough, for the shame and fear and self-loathing.

He should have expected it - for Beacon to hand him the things closest to his heart only to snatch them away. ]

... I'm sorry, Dean.

[cained]

( it's like a match striking inside his chest, the almost imperceptible expression that crosses cas' face, and it draws dean forward like a moth to a flame, immediate and probably the thing that will end up getting him killed one day. the desire to protect, at all costs. to keep cas safe for all the times cas has done the same. they'll never be truly even, not after hell and purgatory and every other time in between and after, but it isn't a sense of debt that draws him near, it's something much more powerful. something dean isn't willing to name yet, even as his heart yearns for it. )

Hey, hey.

( he drops the opal on the altar like a hot coal, freeing his hands to grab cas by the shoulders and drag him into a fierce embrace. when he finally lets himself pull back, his hands find cas' face, fitting against his cheeks as if they were always meant to be there. )

Listen to me. I saw enough. In gory Technicolor with stereophonic sound. So if you want my forgiveness, if you need it, you have it. But none of that was your fault, you hear me? I'm not — I'm not mad, Cas, not at you. What she made you do ... I'm sorry I ever let the bitch live.

[freetobe]

[ Castiel - this Castiel, from this moment in time - is still stiff in a lot of ways that he longer is in Dean's time, where he emotes more easily, where he initates hugs and knows how to do something as simple as relax into a chair. This Castiel, quite by contrast, doesn't quite grasp the concept of physical space and comfort yet.

He doesn't understand why he feels something unclench in his chest at the fierce way in which Dean grabs him. For a moment he just stands there, not unlike in Purgatory. Then, slowly, tentatively, his arms come up around Dean's torso, palms settling like questions on his shoulder blades. For a moment, he allows himself to close his eyes and then he... gets it, he thinks. Why the brothers do this. Why humans do this.

He thinks, briefly, to the siege on Hell. To cradling a broken, flayed, mangled ruin of a soul against himself, like something most dear and precious.

The gesture becomes familiar then, even if Castiel had never thought about it as extending to the physical. It's just a way of saying 'I've got you, do not be afraid, for I am here.'

He still doesn't quite meet Dean's eyes when the man pulls back again a little. His hands linger on Dean's shoulder blades. Castiel doesn't know how long hugs are meat to last. He barely knows how to hug now. ]

I didn't want to lie to you again.

[ He'd just wanted to be good, to be the angel once again whom Dean wanted to occupy a space by his side, whom he'd take to a den of iniquity only to leave laughing, whom he'd asked not to change, and who failed him on all accounts.

This close, it wouldn't be unusual for them to stare into each other's eyes, saying so much more with glances than the human language can express with words. Right now, blue eyes are hidden slivers beneath dark lashes.

Shame isn't an emotion Castiel had to contend with until recently.

The fact remains that the connection broke when Naomi pushed him too far, that he'd been able to pull back at the threat of Dean's life, at the forced choice between his kin and his family. ]

[cained]

( it's taken some ... re-acclimating to the was cas used to be — before the fall and the sudden pop culture awareness, before losing his grace and being human, before a lot of mistakes were made, on both their parts — but it's a lot like putting on an old coat, well worn and familiar. it's easy enough to fall back into step, even if every now and then the physicality of their relationship feels a little off-kilter and he wonders if he should be holding back, touching less.

(only he's never been good with words, not really, so the intimacy he expresses, shares with a touch or a hug speaks far louder than anything he could ever say.)

it's enough that cas returns the embrace, eventually, and dean squeezes his shoulders briefly.

(if he were braver, he might have done more, might have let the distance close itself in the only natural way he knows. but it's true there are some things dean winchester is afraid of, even after everything he's faced, every demon, devil, barrel of a gun. to acknowledge that part of himself would take an act of god — or, perhaps more accurately, a tragedy of the highest order.) )

I know. I know, man. ( he tips his head to the side, trying to convince cas to meet his gaze, his hands still firm against cas' face, steady as dean's conviction. ) C'mon, look at me. I still need you, Cas. That ain't changed, never will.

[freetobe]

[ Castiel has never cried. Even now, his eyes aren't exactly wet with tears threatening to spill. Still, as after a long moment of silence, Castiel raises them towards Dean, there's something a little more shiny in them than usual, an endless depth of sorrow and pain.

This pain, still very raw, an open wound that will never quite heal, will in later years fester. It will call to Ephraim, an angel of mercy who responds to the abyss of pain that screams for miles to be heard by creatures who can. It will drive Castiel into self-sacrifice, into recklessness, into leaving the bunker without a fight while vulernable and in need of help, into being tortured and used, into shutting himself away in the bunker, terrified to leave, into giving himself to Lucifer in the hopes of being useful in utter, painful submission if nothing else.

It's a wound Castiel will never, ever treat in all the years that Dean knows him.

And this Castiel meets his eyes, reluctant and ashamed, and mostly so incredibly, painfully hurting.

Don't ever change, Dean had once told him. And here stands a Castiel who has learned to care and suffered much for it, who has gained free will only to lay ruin to all he cared for with it, whose free will was painfully, brutally, cut out of him again, a Castiel who knows that his mind was never his own and yet will go on for years without ever sharing this with Dean beyond what little his human could infer.

And yet here they are now, and Dean knows.

Castiel swallows. He wants to look away, but doesn't. His bottom lip trembles. ]

I just want to be good.

[ And yet he keeps failing, keeps being led astray, keeps choosing wrong, keeps hurting himself and others. The fact that Naomi pulled him out of Purgatory where he was prepared to let the Leviathan hunt him until the end of days, and that she then pulled him away from answering small prayers, doing good through minor miracles... the fact that his mind was never his own, that he cannot even know what atrocities he may have committed on Heaven's Orders only to have his mind cut apart after...

And he feels small. Faced with the brilliance of Dean's stained glass soul, so purely and utterly and inherently good despite everything, Castiel feels undeserving. ]

[cained]

( cas finally lifts his head, blue eyes meeting green like the forest meets the river, and something cracks open inside dean's chest, an unspoken desire dripping through his veins. the weight of cas' stare draws him forward, trapped in this gravitational pull of despair and yearning. he wants so badly to just take it all away, to lift the burden of the universe that has been so unkind to cas from his shoulders and bear it himself. he wishes he even knew what to say, wishes he had the words to make it better, but as he opens his mouth to speak, he finds himself lacking.

then cas' lip trembles (i just want to be good) and dean breaks.

( you will never, ever hear me say that you — the real you — is anything but good. sam's always been better at words. maybe if dean had gone to college, stopped worshiping dad, he would be too. but all he has is his pride and his ego, which he doesn't often set aside for anything. in hindsight, his own arrogance led him to accepting the mark of cain. but what is a hero without hubris? )

he doesn't think about how it's happening, or why, or what's the hell's possessed him, he just lets it happen. lets the space between the mouths close, briefly, barely long enough for a breath to pass between them. it's reverence, dean tells himself, it's worship.

(it's terrifying.)

his hands drop suddenly as he makes his retreat a step back, trying to control the wild, frightened animal expression in his eyes. he aims for something more reassuring, his mouth sloping slightly, though whether it's more for his or cas' benefit he can't be sure. he's not entirely sure of anything anymore, except for the rapid beat of his heart and his faith in cas (which is as close to spiritual as it gets for someone as fundamentally faithless as dean winchester). )

You are good, Cas. That's the gospel truth.

( when in doubt and having a sexual identity crisis, quote disney's hercules. )

[freetobe]

[ It's a prayer.

It lasts less than a heartbeat, that brush of lips, and that time should be insignificant, but isn't.

Castiel is billions of years old. None of his moments with Dean should hold the impact they have by measure of comparison, and yet this one stained glass soul with its warmth and glow and scent of leather and meadows has become so pivotal, so monumental in the face of all that Castiel has seen and witnessed.

It's not the first time he's been kissed... it's the second, and it's much more brief.

It still manages to white out the noise in Castiel's mind, manages to still the invisible flutter of his wings, manages to halt the downward spiral of the emotions he's hardly equipped to handle.

It's not just a kiss. It's a prayer, bestowed upon his lips, it's a revelation that he cannot quite grasp and feels himself on the cusp of. He can taste the molecules, can trace the warmth of Dean's lips through the vessels that carry his blood, can observe the way his own vessel's nerve endings light up.

Castiel forgets to breath in the wake of it, the surge of faith so unexpected and overwhelming he thinks it might bring him to his knees.

And is it really such a surprise, then, when his eyes drop to Dean's lips, when Dean steps back and Castiel follows, dragged forwards by a force greater than gravity, when his grace sings and reaches for that soul that has been so dear and precious to him for such a short time that has changed everything for Castiel, that has been everything to Castiel. ]

There's no gospel in my name.

[ And where Dean has dropped his hand and retreated, Castiel follows, closes the distance again, reaching out. And the way he looks at Dean is... clear. The brink of revelation there, the question almost answered, the ancient being slowly, ever so slowly, coming closer and closer to finding a name for the feeling that is not quite prayer, not quite reverence and faith, yet all those things and more, deeply profound and absolute, because angels aren't made to feel, and yet...

And yet...

He wants to answer that prayer, that yearning and longing, to soothe the jagged edges of the things Dean shies away from, and the intent is clear in the way he moves into Dean's space.

Like a moth to flame, Castiel as always and will always follow Dean at his own expense, leaving himself vulnerable to be wounded. ]

[cained]

( if cas were just some fling, some girl he met at a bar and decided to have a good time with, things might be different. if cas inhabited a different vessel, maybe it would be easier, maybe it wouldn't feel so earth shattering — it's not like dean hasn't been intimate with an angel before; that isn't the issue on the table. it's not even that the problem is cas, exactly. is it? (how many times has he been told they share a profound bond? how many times has he actually felt it?) fuck. he's never had to think about this before and he's sure as hell not about to start now.

the problem is he knows that look. he's seen it in bars and motel rooms (in diners and living rooms), always on the faces of pretty girls whose names he can't keep straight anymore, and he's never said no to it before. he's never had a reason not to.

but now? he's not even sure he has a reason not to.

(he wants to reach out and pull cas in again, to keep him close and breathe him in, flood his senses with the scent of petrichor and honey, feel the warmth of cas' lips against his own.)

he just — can't. not yet.

it's a lot like watching two stars collide, brilliant and terrible and indomitable.

the crease of dean's brow seems to say i'm sorry even as his hand cuts through the space between them, an immovable object pressed firm against cas' chest to keep the distance from closing.

(he hates it, the way his chest tightens and his stomach clenches, the way he feels like he's betraying what they have, what they are, what they could be if the thought of it didn't terrify him so much. he's doing this for them, he tells himself, that it's for the best, and if he tells himself enough, he might believe it, even when he has to look cas in the eye and watch him break.)

he swallows, his gaze unfocused momentarily before their eyes finally meet again. he shakes his head imperceptibly. )

Whoa, hey. Slow down, there, tiger. ( which is almost a mercy, because at least it isn't a lie. at least it isn't don't. ) Let's not get carried away.

[freetobe]

[ Castiel is an angel. As Dean's fist once found out that hard way, he cannot be moved if he wishes not to be moved. Yet there's always been an exception with Dean. Castiel has let himself be pulled along by that hand so often.

Now, he lets that hand stop him, and confusion settles over his feature. Against Dean's hand, Castiel's heart is beating hard and fast. He's warm through the white dress shirt. The plaid tie looks good on him.

He hasn't realized quite yet what is happening, head tilting and eyes refusing to move away from Dean's. ]

I don't understand.

[ Castiel is billions of years old, yet to many things, he is still utterly naive. The eyes Dean looks into are trusting, full of faith in the man before him, borderline innocent in their confusion.

And Castiel awaits the answer, unaware of what's coming. ]

[cained]

( despite what some may think about dean's level of self-awareness, dean knows exactly when he's actively fucking something up — the problem has never been that he lacks self-awareness, but that he's actively too self-aware and chooses to ignore it. like this, this feeling, something deep in his gut, like a knife twisting inside his abdomen. he knows the only way out of this is to say something that's going to hurt both of them. what other choice does he have? (if he ruins it now, he won't have to worry about ruining it later; he's a winchester, happiness isn't in the cards for him.) )

Listen, that — it wasn't ... an invitation, alright?

( it's a lie, convincing only because he's lying to himself as much as he's lying to cas, and that's what makes it powerful. he hears the words leave his mouth and he wants to believe them. he has to believe them, because otherwise he'll have to confront something he isn't prepared to deal with. he's stopped multiple apocalypses, died, gone to hell, fought gods and monsters, and yet — this is the thing he isn't willing to run headfirst into, metaphorical guns blazing. winchesters have never been stellar at communicating their feelings, or even acknowledging them, but this is different. this could change everything. he thinks it probably already has.

there's a pang in his chest as his hand drops again, as his gaze drops from cas' to the tie (the fucking tie, what the hell was he thinking?) and then returns hardened, resolute. whatever walls dean let down in the moment have rebuilt themselves twofold. )

There's nothing to understand.

[freetobe]

[ There's a buzzing in his ears that makes it difficult to fully focus on Dean's words. It feels like Castiel is hearing them through a thick, heavy fog. Understanding them clearly, yet unable to fully process them.

Something lodges in his throat, and everything feels too narrow, too opressive.

The tie hangs around his neck like a noose snapped taut, and billions of years of existing, of watching humanity evolve, of watching humans struggle with all the emotions God has bestowed them with, have not prepared Castiel for what it feels like.

The way he feels heavy and yet light headed. The way in which he feels half a step removed from this reality, rapid fire changes too fast for him to keep up, to figure out what he feels versus what he's supposed to feel. The way he feels in general.

The sandpaper drag of vulnerability.

The way he was so close to something, to a realization, a revelation.

The way he realized too late that Dean stood still and immovable with Castiel halfway through a leap of faith they were supposed to take together.

But then again, when has Dean Winchester ever met him halfway.

When has Dean Winchester ever soared high while Castiel fell because of him, towards him, for him.

His blue eyes grow sharp. Piercing. Alien.

Castiel is unfamiliar with many aspects of humanity; yet Dean continuously forgets that Castiel is also sharp and perceptive, that he researches, and learns. A day humans inaccurately celebrate as a saccharine representation of what they call love. A gift of courtship.

And he's allowed himself to be tugged along nicely, hasn't he. Has allowed himself to be lulled in once again, tipped off balance. Made intrigued, made vulnerable, made to be too far into the swandive to reverse course. And he thought, like a fool, that Dean was jumping with him.

There are no leaps of faith taken on Castiel's behalf. He should know better than to assume so by now.

And what does it leave Castiel with? The white hot ice cold rush of humiliation. If the doubt was in the integrity of Castiel's feelings, that would be one thing to handle, to prove with conviction and without hesitation. If the issue was in Castiel's heart not beating to the right drum for this particular fall, he'd have gladly stepped back to protect his charge.

But if it's not about Dean's lack of faith in Castiel but about Dean's lack of willingness to soar up and catch Castiel on the downfall... well, then he has just played the fool again.

There's nothing to understand.

Nobody cares that you're broken, Cas.

You came off the line with a crack in your chassis. ]

Understood.

[ And it hurts to breathe.

Castiel's lips part, hang open on the words he wants to scream into Dean's face and breathe into his mouth, his lungs, his soul until they fill him and make him believe...

But Castiel is a soldier. And he's been in too many losing battles not to recognize when he's been thoroughly removed from the board.

So he turns around, and walks away from the altar, from Dean, from the white noise in his ears and the sting in his eyes and the hitch in the breath he doesn't need, from the tightness of his ribcage and the righteous fury of the ancient soldier once more blindsided and played by one meager, pitiful fool of a beautiful, beloved human, who couldn't fathom the depths of Castiel's vast being and truth of his heart if he tried.

And Dean has made it clear that he has no wish to try. ]

[cained]

( dean watches silently as cas turns, lets him walk away because it's easier than telling him to stay. it's easier to stand there and do nothing, even when it feels like his heart is unraveling with every step cas takes, pulling some invisible string of fate with him.

dean's never been much of a believer in fate, but he does believe in cas, even now, even as he walks away (it's for the best, it has to be) — he's family. (how many times have he and sam walked away from each other, always to come back?)

but, no, he's more than that, too. something deeper, more complicated, more profound.

so how did this go so wrong?

it's unbearable, this longing consumed by fear, the overwhelming desire to shout cas, wait overridden by the possibilities of what might come next, come after. dean's never seriously considered the thought of them despite the jokes about cas living in his ass, or the offhanded remarks about cas being in love with him, or any number of related innuendos (including weird but well-meaning people doing their shipping thing far away from him), probably because he's never seriously considered ... that.

and why would he, when he's only ever thought of himself as attracted to women? he's always been flattered, in a strangely uncomfortable way, when men have hit on him in the past, but it's never really meant anything, never particularly awoken anything in him or made him question his entire fucking identity. (he's had brief, fleeting what if? moments, but in the grand scheme of things and the number of women he's fucked, a stray thought or two hardly counts as anything.) so why is it that cas is different? why is it that he hates to see cas go and yet find himself unable to convince himself he shouldn't let cas walk right out that door, away from a terrible mistake?

because that's what this is, dean tells himself. it's the only thing that might make it bearable. this was a mistake. and dean's made plenty worse. he can live with this. he can move on. (and yet he knows that isn't true. how is he ever supposed to live with this, knowing he was so close to something real and pushed it away? how is he ever supposed to move on from the one thing he aches for now that it's gone?)

he turns to face the alter, dragging his hands through his hair, over his face, wanting to scream or cry until his throat is raw.

he punches the altar instead, slams a fist hard into the surface where he'd set the opal.

the opal.

the fucking opal.

he barely gives himself enough time to think i'm doing cas a favor before he grabs the bandanna by the corners, opal still safely stashed inside, and swings it hard against the altar until the opal breaks, and then again, again, again, until there's nothing left of the opal but shards. )