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
[ There's a difference there. In many ways it feels like they're all just stuck in a parallel dimension. And yet Castiel knows for a fact that in his world, he's supposed to go on living. Both Dean and Sam have confirmed that. Yet Jo doesn't. He's been pulled from a potential death, while she's from her actual parting. ]
The trouble is that this place is clearly making little difference between what is pulled in. Demons, angels, humans with their souls, creatures from universes vastly different to our own with completely different underlying theological and metaphysical concepts...
no subject
[ She makes the sound low in her throat, contemplative, as she glances out at the ferry and the silhouettes she can see on the deck. Folks with steel guts, unloading as normal. Part of her feels dumb, in that moment, for not being able to — what was it? Keep calm and carry on? But what's done is done. ]
Yeah. We're all... the same, for all intents and purposes, huh? Everyone gets a lantern, no matter what their soul looks like, or if they even have a soul. [ Ellever does find it slightly comforting to know that she has a soul. ] I guess I mean actual death. I don't think we'd be like this if we were... really undead. Do you?