Castiel (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
freetobe) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
logsinthenight2020-03-03 01:13 am
freetobe) wrote in logsinthenight2020-03-03 01:13 am
Can you hear me, I know I'm just a whisper [Open]
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. ]
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. ]
no subject
Little bit weird, actually. But yeah, nice.
[Really, if they died, they're not sure who all would wait. (A lot of people, I bet. They'd take fuckin' shifts. Sarge, c'mon. Just the truth, pal.) The voices in Soldat's head are way too affirming, sometimes.]
Wanna sit? Gotta be more comfortable on a pew than up there in the front.
[And Soldat always likes company. Better to have the company right nearby than all the way across the room, but they'll take what they can get.]
no subject
Of course, he's regularly deliberately gravitated closer into some people's space just to see what might happen. Or because he found their soul to have such a near gravitational pull that he could hardly resist.
Castiel beats his wings once, invisible to the naked human eye, and where before he was in front of the altar, he now sits in the pew next to Soldat - at a mostly normal distance, too. His guesswork about these things have gotten better. ]
Physical comfort rarely matters to me, admittedly.
no subject
Like this. Sudden too-fast-to-see movement is not comfortable. Soldat twitches violently to one side, not because Castiel is too close, but because they didn't see him get there.]
Jesus. What did you just. How fast are you?
[Is this another situation like the terrifying alien?]
no subject
Very, although this place... restricts me somewhat. Generally speaking, back home my wings carried me across any distant near instantaneously. Space, to my kind, matters very little.
[ From an American roadside diner to the mountains of Tibet and then into a car shooting along a highway at breackneck speed with pinpoint accuracy. To Heaven and back to Earth within the blink of an eye. ]
no subject
That's three people now who I can't even see coming.
[What the hell's a murder machine even supposed to do with all these super-magic beings?]
no subject
[ It wasn't a compliment, and Castiel seems to be utterly unaware of that. His blue eyes definitely show some interest at the information, though, and he mentally combs through his list of people who have similar powers.
The potential for more information is perhaps exactly the kind of distraction he needs. ]
Who are the other two?
no subject
Kal-El. He's an alien. Doesn't breathe. Looks pretty human, but flies, moves very quickly, possibly makes lasers. Also makes cupcakes. But that's not a super-power, just good recipe.
[Which Superman shared. Soldat has already tried it. It's pretty good.]
And a gray-haired kid. I haven't caught his name. He just moves quickly, doesn't fly. Think he lives with Kal-El, though.
[Makes sense. Two super-fast people in one place.]
no subject
It's no judgment of them - knowledge about angels isn't wide spread where Castiel is from, and he's been taught to keep it secret for billions of years. Some things he has no issue with people knowing - the fact that he can heal, that he can fly in the blink of an eye, that he can smite that which he seeks to destroy. Those things make him an asset.
Mind reading, dream walking, and the fact that his lantern is sapped with the use of powers? The fact that he can hear prayers and use them as a tether to reach someone if they're in a location he's familiar with?
Among the things he doesn't need to be common knowledge. ]
The portal has certainly amassed an interesting spread of people, skilly and powers.
no subject
I know. Not sure if there's a method or just random dumbass luck. Solis seemed to think it was random.
[Yeah, they might not have spoken on Solis's message, but they sure did read all the public bits.]
Ugh. I got a box of records I. Need to talk to her about.
[Which they completely forgot about during all this worry over Aziraphale and Crowley. Eh. It'll keep. Especially since putting off actively contacting a doctor is their preference.]
no subject
[ Now that is interesting, and it shows in the way Castiel angles his face towards Soldat a little more, head tilting a little in open curiosity. ]
no subject
[Look, they think the whole "giant alien monsters saw Solis and decided to hunt her through the multiverse" is a dumb theory. The dying started well before the World Eaters showed up. Something else surely had to come through that portal first to set that off and lead the World Eaters here. Some kind of biological or magical agent, maybe.
Soldat is just not really a data-cruncher, and the whole Aziraphale-and-Crowley-went-missing thing happened right then. So they haven't looked at it beyond a cursory flip through.]
no subject
[ After the dream, he hadn't been able to piece much back together about the portal, other than a vague impression of quantum theory and impressive calculations. Access to records, readings from the portal... they might prove insightful. ]
no subject
[The Winter Soldier had all of HYDRA to sift its data and find its targets. While Soldat knows the basics of data analysis, absolutely not on that scale, and they're not sure they have the patience to try for very long, either.]