logsinthenight | when we break we'll wait for our miracle

Entry tags:

when we break we'll wait for our miracle

characters: dean winchester, castiel & you (semi-closed to established cr)
location: the church (other locations tba if necessary)
date/time: march 14-15
content: dean and cas get revived.
warnings: mentions of death and depression, violence, mentions of suicide and suicidal ideation, other warnings to be added to individual threads

( this is a double log for dean and cas, so we'll both be adding starters in the comments for streamlining's sake. dean will not be leaving the church until 3/15 when cas gets revived, but if you'd like to do anything outside of that, hit me up on plurk (

poohsticks ) or on discord @ miyou#1092. i'm open to working anyone with established cr into the post-revival timeline, so don't hesitate to reach out! ♥ )

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( dean is no stranger to death. quite frankly, he's lost count of how many times he's died. he remembers the bad ones with the most clarity — getting ripped to shreds by hellhounds, getting shot in the chest pointblank — and he remembers this one. he comes to with a sharp gasp in the pew nearest the altar, that oppressive weight of sinking and sadness lingering in his chest; his lungs feel like lead balloons and for a moment it feels like he can't breathe, like he's still being dragged under that fucking swamp, but then the air finally catches and he coughs hard enough he almost dry heaves on the wood floor. )

Sam? ( no matter how many times he's died, that's always going to be the first thing out of his mouth. he knows if he's back, sam can't be far. (he wouldn't have been stupid enough to follow dean after seeing what the swamp did to him, surely.) he struggles to sit up, despite feeling physically fine. part of him still feels like he should have just kept sinking, should have left cas —

no, he got to cas, didn't he? he called to him, reached out, and then — it was all pointless, wasn't it?

he glances around the church wildly, his gaze finally focusing on sam. the tightness in his chest releases slightly, panic subsiding at the sight of his brother. but — ) Sam, where's Cas?

Dean.

[ For the first time in three, four days, Sam feels a jolt in his body, energy enough to jump to his feet and rush over to where Dean is sitting up in one of the pews. His lantern, the near-identical version of Sam's, sits at the end of it, nearest to the aisle. It glows as brightly as his own.

He'd been here, sheltered between the cold, stone walls of this place, replaying the scene in his mind over and over. Seeing a figure resembling Mom, and then Castiel flying forward, and then Dean shouting, leaping into danger without a thought ... all of them swallowed into the ink-black maw of the swamp before them, and there was nothing he or Jo could do. They'd made a mistake; they were blinded by emotion, and that place ... it felt wrong and it played with them, and they fell for it like this was the first time any monster had ever tried to ensnare them into its trap. Sam feels stupid, like he'd failed them, but he's angry too. They should have known better. They should have been prepared.

Sam looks tired and haggard, with dark circles under his eyes from giving up a little too much of the requirements needed to keep them existing in this place. There's a five o'clock shadow along his jaw that matches the neglect of his crumpled clothes from a lack of care for himself since they'd returned from the swamp. He'd made a bee-line for the church, everything else be damned, and waited.

He's gone without sleep before on far too many occasions like this one, but it's never felt quite like this. There's no food or water in his stomach this time, no cheap whiskey or scotch to cloud his brain (no demon blood), and while he feels undoubtedly like shit, he knows Dean will come back. He has to. (He goddamned has to.) It's just a matter of when.

So the second he hears that gruff, familiar call of his brother's voice, he knows his hope was not misplaced, not this time.

(Thank God.)

His arms go around his brother, pulling him close in a rib-crushing hug. When he pulls back, it's to shake his head in remorse (he'd been waiting for Castiel, too, of course — and the angel's lantern is sitting on the other side of the aisle casting no light yet), but there's a slightly harder edge to his voice. Not even a second back in this place, and Dean's probably thinking about every other thing except for the fact that he'd foolishly run to his death and he might not have come back. ]

I haven't seen him yet.

Edited (fixed stuff) 2020-03-15 18:11 (UTC)

( the winchesters rarely hug — unless it's literally the end of the world, or one of them has just died — and here it's no different. sam pulls him in and dean returns the hug with the same fierceness, his arms tight and solid against sam's back. there's an undeniable comfort that comes from knowing sam is here, even if dean knows he's undoubtedly pissed. there's something about the way sam hugs him when he's mad, an extra edge of sharp relief that translates roughly into you fucking idiot, we're supposed to be in this together and you went and died without me.

when sam releases him, his expression is almost apologetic, but he's never been very good at admitting when he's wrong, even with sam. he nods silently, glances across the room to cas' lantern, letting the weight of that sink in. i haven't seen him yet.

yet.

he ignores the twist of his gut, the sinking feeling of guilt. cas would still be alive — hell, they'd have never died in the first place — if dean hadn't been so insistent, so reckless. (he's still trying to justify it to himself, rushing in blindly to save what he thought was his mom, but the reasons he's finding harder and harder to grasp. how many times has he acted selfishly and someone died because of it? how many more?)

when he looks back to sam, he finally notices how terrible his brother looks and it occurs to him he has no idea how long he was gone. )

You look like shit, Sammy. How long was I out for?

[ There's a helpless huff of laughter when Sam shakes his head, staring up at the ceiling of the church like he's got no idea how else to deal with the swirling maelstrom of emotions he's got roiling in his gut, the relief and frustration and anger and pain and hurt.

He knows he must look awful, but it's the acknowledgment of it that finally makes him realize how truly exhausted he feels. It almost immediately knocks the wind of anger out of his sails — leaves his shoulders slumping a little when he shakes his head again. ]

A few days, give or take.

( it's almost a relief, just to hear it's only been a few days. he's been gone a lot longer before and they both know how spun out the other can get when days become months become years. he's never truly forgotten that year and a half sam was in hell, stuck in the cage, while dean was pretending to play house (always avoiding how hollow he really felt without his brother). they might have agreed a long time ago to let each other go if death ever affected them permanently, but even here death doesn't exactly stick. at least it's at no cost of cosmic consequences.

and, truth be told, it's better for everyone that way. the winchesters have never been very good at letting go.

he finally stands, stretching out the kinks in his spine, cracking his neck. he's almost expecting to feel some kind of mark somewhere on his person, like the hand print cas left on his arm, but everything seems to be just as it was. )

And Jo? She's good? ( he doesn't see her lantern, but it'll make him feel better to hear it out loud. ) I mean, I guess as good as it gets in Purgatory 2: Nightmare Boogaloo.

She's back at her cabin. Said she'd keep an eye out if anything happened and she needed to let me know.

[ So, yeah. Sam doesn't quite say 'she's doing better than me', but it's probably pretty obvious. While Jo took on the mantle of handling the affairs of anyone who needed to get in touch with the Winchesters and/or Castiel, Sam hunkered down in between these four stone walls and wanted to see no one for the entirety of it.

Sam watches Dean for a moment, almost ... studying his older brother. ]

Do you remember anything that happened while you were — gone? Do you feel any different?

[ There's no telling what dying here does to someone, whether their spirit dies the same way it might back home. Not only is Sam curious, but he's concerned at the sheer lack of knowledge about this place. ]

( some of the tension in dean's shoulders seeps away at sam's confirmation, but then sam's eyes are on him and he feels like he's some sort of specimen under a microscope. not that dean hasn't given sam this same concerned stare hundreds of times, but he's the big brother. that's his job. the last thing he wants is for sam to keep worrying about him now that he's back.

he shakes his head, pats sam's shoulder in a way that's supposed to be reassuring but coming from dean, almost feels condescending. he manages a loose smile, though it's not totally convincing. )

I'm fine, Sammy. ( which isn't a total lie. but it's not exactly the truth, either. physically, yeah, he does feel fine. mostly. psychologically? that's a different story entirely, and not one dean's keen on discussing. ) It wasn't like — ( all the other times i've died. ) I mean, I didn't go anywhere, not even the Veil. It was just nothing until I woke up here.

Nothing? [ For some reason, Sam isn't exactly satisfied or comforted by this confirmation. And the shoulder pat doesn't help either, not that it would have even under the most normal of circumstances. If anything, all of this just means he's got more questions and no real leads to finding the answers.

Pretty frustrating for a guy who prides himself in digging into the deepest reserves for information to help them in a case. ] You know death never comes without some kind of consequences. [ It's why Sam was pissed when it happened. Frustrated that Dean would just ... fucking throw his life away like that, like it meant nothing.

Ah, there's that surge of anger again. ] Otherwise what's to stop everyone here from just ... jumping off cliffs like lemmings?

( and just like that, the tension returns, sharp between his shoulder blades, his brow furrowed as his mouth pulls taut. dean understands that sam wants answers — hell, dean wants answers, too — but he doesn't appreciate being reminded of what they're both painfully aware of already: coming back from death always has consequences. maybe it's because he knows sam is right and that scares him, not knowing what might be waiting for him outside these walls, just around the corner. or maybe it's because he knows there might have already been a consequence, one that could very well lead to the destruction of this place and everyone in it.

he can still hear michael pounding against the door in his mind, but it's more distant now, like the storeroom has been buried under six feet of cement. he can't even be sure michael's really there anymore. )

How the hell should I know? ( he throws his hands up emphatically, clearly irritated at the direction this conversation is taking. ) I died, I came back, what more do you want me to say? ( and before sam can get a word in, dean holds up his palm to cut him off, reiterating their favorite phrase of denial: ) I'm fine, Sam. And if, somehow, it turns out I'm not fine, we'll deal with it like we always do. End of story.

( once dean is able to convince sam he needs to go back to the cabin and take a damn shower, he's left alone in the church to wait.

to think.

(to pray.) (cas, if you can hear me...) (chuck, you son of a bitch...)

he stares at the altar, the stained glass, the pews and feels like he's being mocked. how is he supposed to find peace here, where everything reminds him of his failures, his mistakes? it's his fault for fucking things up with cas (he's always fucking things up with cas, isn't he?), it's his fault cas is dead, it's his fault cas might not come back this time.

he was once called a righteous man. here, standing in front of the altar, blood boiling in his veins, that couldn't be any farther from the truth.

(people can die here, dean. they don't always come back.)

(do not go far from me.)

(you are good cas.)

he rushes the altar, swiping at a row of unlit candles furiously; some go crashing into the wall, others roll to the floor with hard plunks.

then he turns to an empty standing candlestick, grabbing it like a bat and swinging it into the pew behind him with a guttural growl. he keeps swinging, harder and harder each time, until shards of wood start to fly and his muscles begin to strain, a familiar, intense heat seeping into his shoulders. he inhales raggedly, turning on the stained glass window nearest him, his grip on the candlestick whiteknuckled, his jaw tense, his eyes wild with rage as he throws the candlestick at the window and watches the glass shatter to the stone floor.

it's not enough, he thinks, he could burn this whole place down, but some rational part of him knows cas would never come back if he did, and that's that only thing that keeps him from going on a complete rampage through the rest of the church.

he inhales a shaky breath, dragging his hands over his face as his anger recedes into desperation. he drops to his knees in front of the altar, slamming a fist hard against the trap door. )

Cas, I swear to God, you'd better come back. ( i need you. i don't wanna do this without you.

he raises his head, eyes dark as he stares up at the church ceiling. he knows if god is even out there he isn't listening, or if he is, he doesn't care, but it almost makes dean feel better to threaten a higher power. ) You hear me?!

[ Vanitas doesn't make it a habit to camp out at the church — his comfort in this place doesn't come from the fact it's a holy place, because he's never encountered what that sort of thing means. His ties to this place come in a different form&mdahs; in the shape of a doctor, who once held him through his tremors after he'd been ripped limb from limb. In the shape of a then-spectre, with glowing candle eyes, that pressed their faces together as his heart was broken for the second time in his dark existence.

Maridel Solis means something to him that nobody, he thinks, could ever understand, and that's why his response to the church is so different from what it once was. After all, he had been the first person to utterly destroy the interior of this beautiful building, when the one his heart was tied to left Beacon forever.

Now, Dean lashes out — and the Unversed hidden in the shadows, in the rafters, react. They're shaped like rats made all wrong, much too big, with angled red eyes and too long ears, tails like hooks. Four of them rush at Dean all at once, lunging at him and moving like they will climb up his legs, their tails lashing like scorpion stings, trying to overwhelm him.

Elsewhere, Vanitas straightens and turns, opening a dark portal to the church — a black void that yawns to life in front of the altar. ]

( dean barely flinches at the sight of the unversed, but his shoulders do tense as he takes a step back, reaching for his pistol instinctively. he remembers seeing one of these creatures during his first encounter with vanitas, so he can only assume vanitas is nearby — though, frankly, he's in no mood to play nice. he aims at the unversed, firing at each one without a second thought, growling at the shadows: )

You do not wanna fuck with me right now, Vanitas.

( it's meant to be a warning, but it's also a threat he won't hesitate to follow through with if provoked. can a man not violently process his emotions in peace? )

[ Dean proves, at least by his quick reaction, that he is as seasoned a fighter as he claims to be in that moment beyond a one-on-one fight. The Unversed are strange, but they are dangerous. How many times people have called them cute in this place, luring people into a false sense of security over how deadly they really are. Those tails don't just lash like scorpion tails, they are poison. But each well-aimed bullet lodges directly in their bodies. In his own universe, it might not be as effective; but these are small, not half as huge as some of things Vanitas has made, and when the bullets hit they're destroyed.

Each one goes up in a burst of purple-black smoke, like a bruise smudged out. Vanitas feels each of them come back to him, a little sting in his heart. But the attack keeps distance between he and Dean when he appears out of the dark void he'd summoned.

He crouches down, picking up the candles Dean had swept off onto the floor and setting them back up on the altar. He doesn't understand, or care, what they really are— but he knows they're Maridel's things. He knows when he tried to blow one out, it brought her to him. And Vanitas has come to take it personally when anyone shows violence toward anything that revolves around her.

When he turns around, he's like a black void cut out against the brilliant shine of all those tiny lights. Like before, the only striking thing about him are his yellow eyes, lashes low as he looks unblinking across at Dean. ]

So, you're the reason Castiel is dead.

( the creatures dissipate and dean thinks vaguely that was too easy, but vanitas' confirmed presence presents a larger concern. he trains the gun on vanitas, finger resting over the trigger and ready to pull. he keeps his eyes trained on vanitas, too, watches him pick up the mess dean made with what might almost be considered interest if dean actually cared to know anything about him.

and then vanitas speaks, and dean's finger twitches against the trigger, his face going dark.

you're the reason castiel is dead.

the worst part is, he can't even deny it. how many times has cas died for him, because of him? (always happy to bleed for the winchesters.) how many times has that grief settled in his chest, twisted into something raw and furious? the last time cas died, dean was forced to say goodbye, forced to grapple with a world without him in it, forced to accept it was final. he hasn't forgotten the weight of cas' body, the heat of the pyre as he watched it burn, the silent tears shed in private, the hole carved out of his chest where cas should have been.

and yet. he came back. he's always come back. this time shouldn't be any different. he has to believe that if nothing else. (there are too many things they've left unsaid for this to be how it ends.)

vanitas may think he's hit dean with a poison arrow, but dean's already way ahead of him. waiting here for cas to return in this holy place, a house of worship (the same place he came face to face with the unknown, and found himself too afraid to step into it), is a necessity as much as it is a punishment.

the void of vanitas stares at him with those unnerving yellow eyes and dean stares back, unwavering. )

You want me to be the reason you're next?

( vanitas' existence doesn't necessarily warrant a bullet to the head, but the possibility is under serious consideration. he hasn't lowered the gun and he sure as hell doesn't intend to. )

[ It's easy to read someone in the throws of their grief. Dean wears it like a cloak, and when Vanitas looks at him, he can all but see the Darkness that rolls off of him, a manifestation of all the anguish inside of him. Vanitas only knows tangently what this man means to Castiel. He'd never been brought up, but Vanitas saw him in his memories. He'd seen the way Dean and Sam both responded when he invoked the angel's name.

He can hazard a guess to the nature of their relationship, the dedication. There are very few people that Vanitas has seen come unglued in the church— and each time it has happened, the person whose heart had been broken had lost someone much more important than just a friend. ]

Why don't you try? You did so well last time.

[ Vanitas says, his eyes heavy with disregard. The last fight hadn't had a chance to really escalate to what it could have been, mostly because Vanitas had cut the whole situation to a sharp close after taunting the man for a while and then vanishing from the area.

That gun is a danger, Vanitas knows it could kill him— but he has magic on his side, and already knows what that gun can do. ]

( dean's mouth quirks as if to say well, if you insist and then he squeezes the trigger. the gunshot echoes in the stillness of the church — only dean purposefully isn't aiming to kill, just to wound (warn, really, because a bullet to the shoulder could just as easily have been a bullet to the heart).

he's killed better and worse things on less (in better and worse emotional states than this, and at the very worst while being a literal demon), so there's part of him that isn't quite convinced he shouldn't kill vanitas, but for once the rational part of his brain wins this particular debate. he's not stupid — he could kill vanitas (or, at least, try with much better odds this time), but he'd just come back, wouldn't he? and what would be the point in that?

it wouldn't even make him feel better, not really. vanitas isn't responsible for cas' death. )

[ He knows as soon as he says it that Dean isn't the kind of person to bluff— and that's part of what makes him so viciously interesting. Vanitas is moving already, though. One minute he's there, and the next he's vanished, shadow-stepped out of the way. The bullet sings, the tell-tale clink of metal ricocheting off metal and disappearing, plugged into an unfortunate plank of wood, probably.

Vanitas appears to his right, mid-step, still walking. It isn't a Dark Corridor. To the regular eye, it seems like he's just teleported. ]

He was better off before you showed up.

[ Vanitas tells him, two golden eyes peering at him from the dark. His black lantern swings, throwing dim light up into his face. ]

He didn't need your help to want to die.

( dean sneers as vanitas disappears, reappears suddenly to his right. it isn't anything he hasn't seen before and he reacts with the speed of someone who's getting real tired of people who can fucking teleport. he keeps the gun trained on vanitas, tracks him as he moves, but doesn't make to fire it again. yet. )

You're preaching to the damn choir, kid.

( dean is fully, painfully aware cas would be better off without him. without sam. without ever having been involved with the winchester family tree in any way. if it weren't for dean, well. there are a lot of things cas never would have done (he wouldn't have fallen, wouldn't have been driven to absorb leviathan, wouldn't have said yes to lucifer, wouldn't have died again and again and again). and dean would still be in hell, torturing souls until judgement day. (would there have been judgement day without dean as michael's vessel? surely they wouldn't have settled for adam that easily, considering all the destiny crap the angels were constantly touting.) some days he thinks it would have been better if cas had never raised him from perdition.

but then — they wouldn't have jack. and jack, he thinks, makes all the other shit, every apocalypse and bad decision, worth it. this cas hasn't met jack yet, maybe never will, but dean's sure if he did, he'd agree. dean's never really been a father, none of them have, but jack? he's the closest thing they have to a kid. and he's probably the best damn thing that's happened to them in a long, long time. )

You girlfriend didn't believe me.

[ He doesn't know what Jo is to Dean, of course, or vice versa— he only picks out what he sees between the lines and runs with them without stopping. Leaping to conclusions, or making what seems like a wild guess, but his power of deduction though not always spot on, usually lands him in the right general area. Manipulation, after all, was a lesson he learned early.

He ducks, not quickly, but disappears behind a pew to pick up the candle Dean had thrown into the window. Impossibly, the flame is still flickering when Vanitas straightens back up. It brightens his pale face, the shrewd expression he's wearing. ]

She thinks neither of you would have given up.

( vanitas might have been right, once upon a time — or, at least, on the right track. his relationship with jo is ... complicated. maybe it could have been something, a long time ago, practically another lifetime, but dean's not the man he was then (still a damn child himself, full of so much defiant optimism). jo didn't exactly have a choice in the matter of growing old (except that she did, and she chose to give up her life for him). and now? there's just too much time (too many other feelings) between them.

still, there's the faintest flicker of what he might have felt, a dying ember glowing dully in his chest. he doesn't deny it, but there's a distinctly annoyed expression that pulls at his face at the insinuation. )

What makes you think either of us gave up willingly?

[ Vanitas stands there for a moment, regarding Dean at a distance and holding that single candle. Under the high ceilings of the church and the shattered stained glass, it makes him look more like he belongs in some ramshackled place like this than anywhere else. An inky smudge against a place that is holy— the broken remains of something that was once whole, something that could have been before it was destroyed. ]

I see you.

[ He doesn't blink, and the flame on the candle almost seems to illuminate his irises like a cat. ]

That Darkness inside you might be something you can hide from everyone else, but you can't hide it from me.

Whatever you met out there only made it easier for you to give in, and that's probably why you fell for it's trap.

( dean's eyes narrow, his brow barely lifting. he doesn't seem particularly impressed by vanitas' assessment. he scoffs under his breath, reconsiders if this little squabble is even worth it. he lowers the gun, but doesn't take his finger off the trigger. )

That it, huh? You have no idea what you see.

( there's trauma inside dean's head no being in their right mind would ever want to see. the torture he'd carried out in hell, every person he'd killed while under the mark's influence, what michael did wearing his face, the selfish and awful things he's done to save his brother. there's blood on dean's hands he'll never be able to wash away, and there's an even deeper and unrelenting guilt for all the things he bears responsibility for. his soul is a broken and damaged thing, his mind a cage for more than just a homicidal archangel (except now that he's died in a way he can't deny, he's begun to question the reality of michael's presence).

what could vanitas possibly see that cas hasn't already seen? that sam doesn't already know about him? cas dragged his tortured soul out of the pit, understands on a molecular level the kinds of things dean is capable of (and still he wanted to ... answer the prayer dean hasn't ever spoken aloud); sam's been by his side practically his whole damn life, has seen every side of dean there is (and that ever will be, because there's a room upstairs, their own little slice of heaven, with both of their names on it).

maybe it should scare him, whatever it is vanitas sees inside him, but he already knows the people closest to him have seen worse. )

Is there something you actually want from me, Vanitas? Cause I'm getting real tired of this little dance we're doing.

[ He shrugs with Dean's initial retort. It doesn't matter to him whether Dean believes him or not, and the fact is that Vanitas doesn't need to know the details. Knowing them makes what he does easier, of course. Like Castiel and his Leviathans— armed with that knowledge, Vanitas knows all the ways he can push and needle the angel. He could slide that information like a knife up into his ribs and twist and twist until the Darkness in him implodes, severing through his impossible Light.

Vanitas, after all, isn't trying to break anyone. It's up to them to do it themselves— he just acts as the catalyst. He's a reminder, bringing those negative feelings up to the surface. It isn't lost on him, the way it swelled in this man when he mentioned Castiel. Dean has huge swathes of guilt inside of him. Even at this large of a distance, Vanitas can all but taste it on the back of his teeth, a cloying emotion.

He doesn't need to know why he feels like that, or what the reason is. Vanitas is made of Darkness, and he can recognize it; he can feel it, and it feeds in to his power. ]

You're already giving me what I want.

[ He answers honestly, but there's no teasing lilt to his voice. Instead, it's like they're talking about the weather. He cocks his head, raises his free hand and opens his palm. It's hard to tell if he seems to be offering Dean something, or asking him for something. ]

The only way you could ever stop is if you go to sleep and never wake up again.

[ His eyes go heavy over his yellow irises. ]

I don't think you'd mind it that much. Castiel wouldn't.

Maybe you're made for each other.

( the thing is, dean's not exactly suicidal as much as ... well, he values his own life far less than anyone else's, so what's a little sacrifice between family? he was practically raised to be the martyr, do whatever it takes to protect sammy, do whatever it takes to keep sam alive, all else be damned. and he has — he's died at least three times for the sake of his brother, been dragged to hell for his brother, but two out of three he knew he'd be coming back (or, at the very least, he'd made arrangements to have someone reverse his little trip to the veil, so he'd never planned on staying dead). even the time with amara, when they'd planned his damn funeral, he'd been ... fine with it. at the time, it had seemed like, well, his time. the ultimate sacrifice.

living has always been its own punishment, anyway.

so would it be easier to go to sleep and never wake up? sometimes he thinks the answer is yes. sometimes he thinks it would be better that way. but he's been down that road before, and the truth is? he's not done with this world. he's gonna keep kicking and screaming until something takes him out for good, because there are things here and back home that are worth living for, worth fighting for. they've still got work to do, and he'll be damned if he clocks out early just to catch the early train upstairs.

besides, he knows sam wouldn't let him. that's always been their problem, the fact that they can't live without each other, that they'd rather sacrifice everyone else than exist in a world that doesn't have one of them in it — and it's always come down to bringing the other one back, never going full shakespearean tragedy.

he sniffs a derisive laugh, shakes his head. maybe he wouldn't mind. after everything he's been through, he deserves some peace and fucking quiet, but that doesn't mean he's about to pull a kurt cobain to get it.

except whatever dismissive retort he'd been preparing dies instantly in his throat when vanitas utters cas' name again. it's like a fist squeezing his heart, an unpleasant reminder of the admission that feels like a lifetime ago and yet remains painfully pertinent to a cas who's barely begun to make amends, whose mistakes are still too fresh: because if i see what heaven's become, what i made of it — i'm afraid i might kill myself. dean has the luxury of time on his side, knows the man cas will become, knows the lengths he's gone to try to forgive himself, knows exactly the things cas has to live for. but cas ... all he has is what's here, what's now.

and dean might have ruined that here and now already.

maybe you're made for each other.

(i just want to be good.

you are good, cas.)

or maybe they were only made to almost have something good and then push each other away, like two magnets that feel compelled toward each other and yet can never make their ends meet. )

Okay. You wanna play Dr. Phil with me and Cas? Go right ahead. See how far it gets you.

I can't make your decisions for you.

[ The joke, what Dean is thinking, it goes completely over his head; but what he can sense is the twist that happens whenever Castiel comes up. He remembers this man from Castiel's memories. He remembers the feeling, when their eyes met, when Castiel was being ripped apart from the inside.

Looking at him, seeing the reality of what Castiel means to him in the knocked over candles, in the shattered stained glass...

It would be so easy to manipulate him with it. Manipulate both of them. It makes Vanitas wonder if Dean really understands just how deep he's in it. Riku has this kind of devotion, too, he has this same Darkness— the only difference seems to be that Riku has made it a part of himself. Vanitas lowers his hand and flickers out of sight— the same quick movement from before, something like a teleport, and he's standing back at the altar. He reaches to put it back in it's place. ]

You're digging your grave all on your own.

[ When his hand comes down, he looks over his shoulder at Dean with both loose at his sides. The candlelight makes his eyes eerie and bright. ]

If you wait here for him to come back, he'll never appear. Why don't you take a nap to cool off?

[ After a pause, he looks back at the altar. ]

And leave the candles alone.

[ He gestures careless with one hand without turning around. ]

If you don't, I'll have to kill you.

[ Death has never been something Castiel shied away from. Twice he's willingly sacrificed himself for the cause, standing tall and calm as Raphael descended upon; temporarily displacing Michael to allow Sam Winchester to gain control over Lucifer. And once, he'd been hollowed out from the inside, Leviathan feasting upon his grace and leaving him to be pieced back together.

And just like every other time he comes to without much fanfare, as if one moment he doesn't exist, and the next he does, eyes opening and staring up.

It's a new vessel. Now that he knows, he can feel it - the truth of his conversation with Dr. Solis, the bodies remade for their souls - or equivalent - to inhabit in this post-death status they find themselves in. Now that he knows, he can feel that this... isn't Jimmy, not quite. It's something of her design, and he doesn't mind, not really.

And yet.

Castiel lies still for a moment in the church pew, just stares at the ceiling above. There's no moment of disorientation. He knows where he is, and he knows what happened. Castiel remembers the feeling of hopelessness and despair, of an overwhelming, painful sadness that made him want to do nothing but give up and sink and sink and sink until everything would just stop.

He feels the way something wet wells up in his eyes. Something spills over and runs down his temple, into his airline.

There had been a comforting familiarity in how the swamp felt, like a more pure, focused and unburdened version of Castiel's own constant inner sadness.

But what can a soldier do except to march on, relentless and ever-lasting. He will always come back, and it will be a punishing disappointment every time.

Castiel waits until he feels the wetness recede from his eyes, the moment of naked truth to his inner world brushed aside firmly once he's settled into this new vessel of his - old design, but new. He knows he's not alone in the building, and sits up eventually, when he's ready for Sam and Dean to realize he's back. ]

( the destruction of the previous day is still present when cas finally awakens — shards of wood that were once a functional pew, shattered stained glass scattered across the stone floor, empty bullet casings from an unpleasant encounter. dean hasn't bothered to clean up his mess, and sam hasn't exactly pushed him to. they've mostly resolved their own issues (dean absolutely deserved the bruised cheek he now sports) and despite any insistence that sam go back to the cabin and leave dean here to wait alone, sam's been just as stubborn about waiting for cas with him. dean knows it's better to have sam here, considering the state of the front half of the church, but it's not like dean's been entirely upfront about why he doesn't want his brother around when cas comes back.

there's nothing to understand.

understood.

he hadn't even tried to stop cas, just ... let him walk away, because it was easier than going after him. it was easier to push him away. and then he kept pushing, kept ignoring what happened as if that might make everything better, as if he could just pretend it didn't happen and nothing had changed.

until — well. he pushed too far, didn't he? he let cas fly into that death trap, insisted, even against cas' better judgement. dean knows he should have listened, should have heeded any kind of warning, but he's always been blind, deaf, and dumb when it comes to his family. (when did cas become more than that? why does it scare him so much?)

dean barely realizes he's stopped breathing until he reaches cas and lets out a heavy sigh of relief, despite the ever-present tightness in his chest. he drops to one knee in front of the pew and drags cas to him in a tight embrace, blinking back tears threatening to spill over. he's not going to cry with his brother in the same room, but something else wells up thick in his throat and he swallows hard, pressing his face into cas' shoulder, hands clutching at the fabric of cas' trenchcoat. it takes him a moment, but eventually he manages, in a rough whisper: )

Cas, I — I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

( for what, he doesn't say. for everything. )

[ Castiel remains stiff in the embrace. He's not... surprised by it. Over the course of their friendship Dean has gradually drifted closer and closer despite his protestations regarding personal space.

It's just that Castiel knows better now, knows that Dean is being nothing short of infuriatingly, painfully human, and Castiel curbs the small flutter within him that wants to fight through the haze of gloom and sadness and reach back, hold Dean and be held, and try to feel at home in this body enough to take comfort in the gesture.

It's not an invitation. None of it ever was.

Castiel understands that, now.

And it's okay. Really, despite Dean's blundering way of handling it, it's likely on Castiel for misunderstanding anyway.

His arms remain at his side. ]

Don't be. I'm back, and so are you. The twisted nature of this place isn't your fault.

[ You can't save everyone.

It's alright.

It's okay.

It's fine.

Castiel pulls back before Dean can, but he can't quite bear to lose the contact, finds his hand twitching towards Dean, and puts it on Dean's left shoulder, where once his mark sat.

His eyes track from Dean's face down to his feet, then up again, a scrutiny.

Once, Castiel himself remade that body for Dean. It irks him more than his own body to know, now, that this isn't Dean's body, the one Castiel himself pieced together by hand, each freckle placed deliberately where it should be, but rather a new one, a copy of the original work created by Dr. Solis for the purposes of housing Dean's soul. ]

You don't appear to have sustained any lasting damage. How long were we gone?

( cas doesn't return the embrace and dean's stomach sinks to the floor, an unpleasant sensation that reminds him too distinctly of the way he sunk into the endless, hopeless depths of that fucking swamp. he realizes with a sharp suddenness just how much he's fucked things up when cas doesn't move, speaks matter-of-factly, rigid. neither one of them is generally a spring overflowing with emotion, but this is ... different. deliberately detached.

and dean hates it, hates that it makes him angry and desperately distraught all at once, but what can he do? this is all his doing. he made his bed, didn't he? he's either got to lie in it or, more likely, destroy it until it doesn't even resemble a bed anymore.

his face hardens as cas pulls away, and dean's arms drop, retreating from cas' shoulders. it takes nearly every atom of self-control to not shrug off cas' hand out of some irrational instinct to keep pushing him away, distance himself from the mess of emotions raging inside his chest (cas doesn't want his apologies? fine) but somehow he manages to contain the urge into a somber frown, standing only once cas has made his silent inspection. it's almost a compromise, despite how dean immediately closes himself off, arms folded, takes a step back.

(despite how much he yearns to be close, despite how much he craves those small touches, the ones that sear through him, an angel's grace marking his damaged soul.)

and then it's business as usual. just as it should be. )

It's the 15th now. Must've been some kind of ... time dilation or something. By the time Sam and Jo got back it was already the 12th, even though we couldn't have been out there for more than, what, a few hours?

Edited 2020-03-19 02:05 (UTC)

[ It hurts, but it's good like this - better than before, when Dean had been displeased with Castiel's actions.

Because that's what it is - Castiel did the wrong thing, because he misunderstood his social cues. It's all just another moment of "typical Cas", isn't it. And if they treat it like that, maybe one day Dean can clap Castiel on the shoulder and laugh and say something like 'Remember that time you were stupid and tried to kiss me because you don't understand humans?' Good times, typical Cas.' And Castiel will do his best to smile along and pay the price for Dean's peace of mind, or any semblance of it that can be gained.

Isn't that how it goes? Isn't that how it always goes?

Back to matters at hand, though... The time loss is concerning. They left on their expedition on the 9th. For him it means nearly a week lost. ]

The time distortion is concerning. I felt no force in the area powerful enough to let us travel through time. It must have been cloaked. Have you inquired with Dr. Solis or Robin the Lighthouse Keeper if such an anomaly is known to them?

( dean makes a face at the mention of dr. solis, something between annoyance and wariness. he's still not totally convinced he should trust her yet. and robin, well. he knows even less about her, except for the part where she could reset them at any time, so he's even less convinced she has their well being in mind. )

Been a little preoccupied, Cas.

( it isn't an accusation, but it almost sounds like one, even if waiting for you, blaming myself goes unsaid. the words are there in his eyes, the line of his mouth (the ache in his chest, the dying ember of his fury). )

Besides, I ain't exactly the Doc's biggest fan.

[ Castiel might not want or expect the fanfare, but there's a huge amount of relief and thank god's that come with his return from the younger Winchester. After a round of quick, heartfelt hugs, Sam takes off to finally find a shower and put a little sustenance into his stomach, and, you know, leave Dean and Castiel to talk about whatever they have to talk about, post-death.

It's not that he's envious, he's never really been that kind of person, but with those two, Sam's always felt a little like an outsider intruding in on a private conversation. After all, Dean and Cas have a kind of bond that transcends everything else — everything earthly. And unfortunately, it's the same kind of bond he and ... the darkness have, but it's not exactly something he's going to dwell on here.

When he returns to the church, he's looking a lot more like himself — even had the time to pull on a fresh (plaid) shirt and jeans — but the remnants of the dark circles under his eyes still remain. Sleep will have to come later, but not quite yet. He passes his brother on his way inside (Just gotta take in that ol' nightmare air for a sec, Dean says humourlessly), nods with a quick twist of his lips, and searches the small area for the angel.

He finds Castiel up ahead, by the altar. No doubt the angel already knows he's here, his steps aren't exactly quiet in a place made of stone, but he clears his throat anyway. Just to be polite. ] Hey, Cas — you okay?

[ After the church, after the swamp, after the revival and after the church again, Castiel needs...

He's not sure what he needs.

Castiel passes by an alleyway, and remembers flying up to the archway to help Aziraphale hang paper mistletoes in the name of making humans happy, and he feels cold, here, alone in ways none of his human charges and friends and family could ever quite understand. Aziraphale was painful reminder of the ruin Castiel had made of Heaven, of the brothers he missed, of the glory that Heaven could have and should have been, but failed to uphold. He's gone, and Beacon only has one angel left, and he's the worst example of one.

It should have been him, to disappear into blissful non-existence.

He's not sure why his wings and feet draw him to the Invincible, a skeleton of a building, hollowed out and devoid of the fireworks of Miriam Maisel's soul. They danced. He wasn't good at it. She'd been joyful and beautiful and undeserving of this place. The tie clip feels like the weight of the world, dragging him down, down, down.

It should have been him, to disappear into blissful non-existence.

He doesn't bother with a glass for the first bottle of wine, just sets the bottle to his lips and tips it back, keeps it tipped, adam's apple moving every swallow until it's empty.

It doesn't wash the worship off his lips, doesn't silence the prayer.

Castiel orders another bottle, but drinks from a class this time.

And then heo rders another bottle. He's not drunk - not yet. But he's working towards it steadily. ]

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when we break we'll wait for our miracle

MARCH 14, closed to sam.

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MARCH 14, open.

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March 15 | Church | Closed to Dean & Sam

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after cas' reunion with dean;

March 15| Invincible Bar | Semi-Open | cw for substance abuse (alcohol)