All for Naught (1/6)
It couldn’t be true.
That was his first thought then an odd sensation swallowed him whole, utter, suffocating, numbness. Not the same type that consumed him for centuries, it wasn’t like he had no feelings, like a good angel so his mind was fixated on fulfilling orders nothing less, nothing more, but that they were suppressed. Emotions, what humans possessed yet they were forbidden for fear of forming doubt, they used to be unknown to him. A part of him still wished that were the truth.
Yet, through time such things had begun to weave their way through him, to take hold. And, really, just as all thought it led to his rebellion, it caused him to fall. Looking back, he should have heeded all the warnings but...
Now? Now all that did not matter, none of it was of concern as he stared blankly ahead to the newly risen Winchesters. How many times had they been brought back from the dead? That question feebly found a way from the back of his mind forward until what they had just said came crashing back down.
God did not think that this was his problem. The apocalypse, the fall of humanity, the rise of Lucifer, and the nearing of the end of days-somehow that was not His problem. Him, his father, the creator of all, would not help.
He was Castiel’s-the fallen fool’s-last hope to stop the hell that had been unleashed, to give his choice purpose, to make it so it was not all for naught…
Shock, denial, both and so much more coursed through him as he dumbly turned to look up to the heavens were his father fled from, “damn you… I believed…”
And he had, he really, really had. Perhaps he had doubt in those who ranked above him but in his Lord? His faith in his father? No, he never had. Never. Now…?
What was there to believe in?
Without another word he walked out.
[…]
As much as Castiel would like to think he was not see-through, he was. The dread, the confusion, the hurt were openly visible in his no longer so bright blue eyes. It was not all together unwelcoming in Dean’s book at least, the way that Castiel’s hope so clearly was crushed, his spirit clearly kept on diminishing with his unfinished words and lethargic departure. Wrong? Yes, he shouldn’t be so… inclined to accept it but the same had happened to him.
Blindly he had complete faith in his father, the man that he idealized and constantly made excuses for, frequently fed himself and Sammy lies about why he was gone for so long, why it was alright to always be tasked with the care of his younger brother when he should have been allowed a the childhood he had been denied. If that fate fell on him than why not Castiel, too? Why not everyone? He was sick of bearing such a burden, such a pain, alone anyway.
The moment that processed and past-the second it took to-gave way to a tinge of regret. Really, he should have said something, told him how he could relate even if it were on a lesser scale. His dad was a deadbeat that spent his time hunting instead of taking his kid’s to baseball games while his angel buddy’s father was the creator of heaven and earth, probably even hell. If his didn’t care about what went on in heaven, then what hope did the rest of humanity have?
But it was too little, too late; the moment the trench coat wearing friend walked out the door he heard the flutter of wings. There just wasn’t enough time to console Cas on his emotional crisis and cease the apocalypse simultaneously, Cas was a strong enough guy, he’d get by, just like Dean had.
He just needed time; too bad none of them had much of that.
[…]
In a burst everything hit him the moment he wound up wherever it was he dropped at, a bleak city street somewhere far away. It took effort, more than ever before, to get to one point to another in what seemed like a blink of an eye to mortals. It was second nature to him, to use the bright, blinding wings that he could not show, like it was for a human to take a step forward. His grace had been failing ever since his rebellion and transporting himself, let alone both the Winchesters, from the present to the past took a quite the toll on him. In staggered steps he found his way to an empty alley to rest against the cold, rough, wall.
Frail and hopeless, what a pitiful example of an angel he had become but really what did it matter? What point was there when his father didn’t care? How could He ask him to have faith when that was his message to the Winchesters? When he wanted Castiel to cease his search?
That was asking too much, he couldn’t…
How, how? How could his father do this to him? To all of them? After everything? Did he not owe it to all of humanity, and perhaps he was a bit full of himself but after all that he had done for Him? Centuries upon centuries of mindlessly following orders, having utter devotion to his Lord, complete loyalty to the chain of command; didn’t he deserve at least an explanation of why?
Why-wasn’t that easy? A sign of some sort? Anything to give him peace of mind, to restore his faith in Him, to understand a fragment of what was going on? He wanted that back, so badly, because before it was simple. There were orders given that he would follow, he didn’t have to think for himself, he needn’t feel and there was never the burden of doubt to weigh his wings down.
Losing faith was easy, keeping it was the hard part and he just couldn’t do that anymore. No matter how hard his mind worked to find logic in his Lord’s light, in his message, he couldn’t. How could it not be his problem? Lucifer was his creation, all of humanity, earth, the angels, Castiel himself… so how was it not be his problem? Where was the sense in it all?
He wanted to find it; he wanted to believe because faith had given his life meaning. It warmed him, it brightened his Grace but now… now where his Grace once burned so bright was now fading into a void that consumed him.
Why was it fading? Because he gave everything-everything-for his confidence in Dean Winchester, and truly he did not even understand that. Why did he believe in that broken man? Because he thought his comrades, his brethren were wrong and that Dean was right-that God had chosen him but now… now God didn’t care.
Did it even matter anymore, could a mere mortal stop Lucifer without aid from their heavenly father?
Forget it, forget the Winchesters, forget the overwhelming pain, forget Him, forget heaven, forget hell, forget it all-that’s what he wanted to do so he stood up straight and turned towards the empty streets. He hated how each day he was becoming more like the mortals around him but the moment his blues fixated upon the closed sign upon Big Dog’s Liquor Shop he felt that made sense.
What did he always see Dean doing when he was upset, broken, hopeless? Drink. And the name? That was a symbol to him so he shut his eyes and opened them inside the dark store.
One bottle didn’t do a damn thing.
Two bottles failed him miserably.
Three gave him a tingle.
Four felt better.
Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, twelve, twenty, thirty, forty… finally it all started to fade away, so much so he didn’t even heard his phone go off.
[…]
"Cas, hey, it's me, we're in Blue Earth Minnesota, and we could use a little help I hope you get this," was what the voice he found so grating had to say. It surely was not what he needed to hear after the stupor seeped away enough for his vision to straighten out so he could punch in the proper code to hear his voice mail.
Human technology, it was so annoying. An angel using a cellular device, even he felt that was wrong as he pressed one number carefully after the other to summon up the message again to make sure he remembered the place right.
Upon arrival he had to endure Sam’s talk of a Leah Gideon being a ‘prophet’ and drunkenly stumbled about from here to there as they ‘researched’ what could truly be going on in the town. If there was one thing he disliked more than anything it was the strange looks that Sam shot him ever since he returned from his search for the missing brother. That sparked a peculiar thought to beckon forth, they were friends, right?
A bitter, dry laugh came forth at that, causing an even more disturbed glance from Sam.
As if he had friends, not even when he was up in the heavens. They were comrades, brethren with the same cause fighting side by side, it wasn’t until he came to earth and walked among humans that he understood what it meant to be a friend. Talking about pointless matters, laughing over a drink or two, complaining endlessly to someone who would only bitch periodically, but that was not what he had with Sam, that was not what he had with anyone.
He had no one, he gave up all those he spent an eternity with for the Winchesters and what has he gotten for that?
A door swung up then shut just then to summon his hazy attention, there stood the one he had placed all his faith in. His last hope… with blood stained hands.
Perfect, just perfect, that was always such a grand sign.
Ha, that was what he had been shouting for all night long as he chugged another bottle. He vaguely heard his spout out to a baffled Sam that Paul was dead and Jane had shot him. He could find it in himself to care enough to ask who they were; there were thousands and thousands of other humans to replace them anyway.
"It's starting," Castiel grumbled.
"What's starting?" Dean rejoined as he glanced over to Castiel then back again with a bemused look. There was something not right about him, there was an odd edge to Castiel’s usual even voice, “where the hell have you been?”
"On a bender," he snapped back.
"Did he?" Dean started as he raised a brow and shot a look to Sam then back down to Castiel with brows bent tightly together and twisted expression, "did you say on a bender?"
"Yeah," Sam interrupted before Castiel got a chance to speak for himself, "he's still pretty smashed."
"It is not of importance," he assured with a wave of his hand as he tried to sit up straight in his still unstable wobble, "we need to talk about what's going on here."
It was almost as if the future was staring at him while they figured out their plan of action for killing the whore, the one he never wanted to see come to true. At least Castiel was only wasted instead of doped up on amphetamines to counteract the shit load of absinthe he downed. Just because he went on a bender, as he so elegantly put it, doesn’t mean that’ll happen.
Dean he had to focus; had to push all that to the past and let his eyes drop to the book and eerie branch as all was explained. The touch of worry that swelled up had to be pushed to the side; there was no time to show concern, no time to be a good friend-because they were that, weren’t they? Can’t he count of Castiel more than he could his own brother? Hadn’t he had a good laugh when he tried to get the virgin angel-just that thought made him smirk-laid? The best he had in how long…?
Yes, Castiel was a friend but there weren’t enough hours in the ending of days. There was the now to worry about; the future could be pushed off until later. It was too much for him, he could only deal with one problem-the whore, saving Blue Earth, later he would address Castiel’s issues if he hadn’t sorted them out by then.
He probably would, Cas was a strong one.
[…]
In a grumbled sigh Castiel inquired to the perplexed priest before him, "Pastor David Gideon?"
"Who are you?" was his staggered response as the frightened fellow took a step away.
"I am an angel of the Lord," Castiel muttered back, it was even funny in a sad sort of way and why he felt it so difficult to even say before gripping the man to take him back to the Winchesters. At least he can still flap his wings… for now, would that always last?
A dull glaze swept across his face while he rested against the wall and watched like the spectator he was as the boys tried to talk the reluctant Pastor into smiting his own daughter, well, that was not what she was anymore. What it was about humanity that was so worth saving when all he looked around was utter suffering?
"Why me?" The Pastor murmured.
Castiel explained, "because you are a servant of the lord.”
"Yeah, and you're an angel," he retorted.
"A poor example of one," he muttered.
Swiftly, Dean shifted his hazels upon Castiel. He knew that look in his dreary blues. Maybe his issues seeped deeper than dealing with a deadbeat dad. He had no faith in himself, in their future, but that was him, he was supposed to be the hopeless one in the group there couldn’t be two. Castiel couldn’t, shouldn’t, start taking after Dean’s bad example now so the moment they were alone outside the motel together and he had finished his survey of all they needed to make sure it was in the trunk.
The moment he closed it he watched Castiel rubbed his head, a clear sign of regretting that bender of his. He knew about those aches so he walked over and bent in to get his trusted bottle of aspirin. While he rolled it around in his hand his glance flickered between it and the sorry fallen friend in front of him.
“Heads up,” he warned before tossing the container over.
“How many should I take,” Castiel gruffly asked as he examined the bottle closer.
“Knowing you? You should just down the whole bottle,” it was just aspirin, after all. It wasn’t anything fun and he never heard it being a ‘gateway’ to something more. Castiel won’t change; he won’t grow a shaggy weak attempt at beard, and have orgies in his cabin with a horde of whores… because the Dean of the future couldn’t be him-he wouldn’t become that. The Sam that he met couldn’t be the future for the Sammy he knew, either.
“Thanks…”
“Don’t mention it,” he sighed after he leaned up against his precious Impala, finally they had a minute or two to talk. “Hey, I’ve been there. I’m a big expert on deadbeat dads, so...” he nodded weakly while his hazels fluttered to him, “I get it, I know how you feel.”
A silence swelled up between them for a moment before Castiel found his words once more, “how do you mange it?”
Dean swallowed as he looked about the shitty parking lot to their murky motel before he decided what was right, so he put back his front and grinned weakly, “on a good day you get to kill a whore.”
The moment Castiel looked up to him he knew that was shit, too, maybe he didn’t need Dean’s smartass response, maybe he really needed the truth but he smirked to Cas anyway because that was not something he could give.
Honestly, Dean didn’t know how he did it.
[…]
"You're pathetic, self-hating, and faithless, it's the end of the world and you're just going to sit back and watch us win," were the hissing last word of the whore before Dean grabbed the root and staked her proving he was what he never thought-a servant of the Lord?
Yes… what other choice did he have? Did any of them have? He’d become Michael’s vessel, he couldn’t think of himself anymore. The greater good meant sacrificing himself. He had done that for his brother’s sake a thousand times so why not for the whole world?
As he stood up and took a breath, watching as the last spark fled from the whore’s dead body, he ignored Sam’s suspicious stares and the words of the others to go back down the hallway and into the pastor’s office to find Castiel still stuck to the ground with pain, his expression was contorted in a terrible twirl as he knelt down to take one of his arms and haul it over his shoulder.
Castiel barely managed to ask, “What happened?”
“She’s dead,” Dean simply stated before he got them both to their feet, “another town saved.”
“The pastor managed to do it?” He groaned as he leaned his head more towards Dean’s shoulder but it didn’t quite touch.
There was a pause while Dean pressed his lips together and looked away, “she got staked.”
“Dean,” Sam shouted out from down the hallway as he helped Pastor David over to them and up the stairs to the car. He just barely heard the argument that Dean and Sam broke out in as soon as he the doors were shut. All he made out was, “like Michael stupid,” and “give me a break” before Dean jerked open his door and slid into his seat to shut it.
Something wasn’t right but he couldn’t figure it out until they got back to the motel and Sam’s concerns became clear.
But they were useless ones; Castiel was sure of that even as Dean exited the room for some bandages because he had given up everything so that the Winchester brothers wouldn’t become vessels. Dean knew that, Dean wouldn’t let him down like God had.
Then why did he hear the Impala start up and speed away? Why did he watch as Sam screamed and ran out to chase the brother who he could not catch?
He stared at the open door to see Sam slap his hands hopelessly to his side.
They were all doomed to fail from the start, he probably should have known that but the rage that flared up inside him to fill that nasty void didn’t stop.
If Dean had planned to go off and be Michael’s “condom” as he once put it so poetically then he would have had no reason to let him fall-to make him. Dean had beseeched it, begged for him to help, to give up everything…
Fuck faith, all its good is for paving the road of misery.
That was his first thought then an odd sensation swallowed him whole, utter, suffocating, numbness. Not the same type that consumed him for centuries, it wasn’t like he had no feelings, like a good angel so his mind was fixated on fulfilling orders nothing less, nothing more, but that they were suppressed. Emotions, what humans possessed yet they were forbidden for fear of forming doubt, they used to be unknown to him. A part of him still wished that were the truth.
Yet, through time such things had begun to weave their way through him, to take hold. And, really, just as all thought it led to his rebellion, it caused him to fall. Looking back, he should have heeded all the warnings but...
Now? Now all that did not matter, none of it was of concern as he stared blankly ahead to the newly risen Winchesters. How many times had they been brought back from the dead? That question feebly found a way from the back of his mind forward until what they had just said came crashing back down.
God did not think that this was his problem. The apocalypse, the fall of humanity, the rise of Lucifer, and the nearing of the end of days-somehow that was not His problem. Him, his father, the creator of all, would not help.
He was Castiel’s-the fallen fool’s-last hope to stop the hell that had been unleashed, to give his choice purpose, to make it so it was not all for naught…
Shock, denial, both and so much more coursed through him as he dumbly turned to look up to the heavens were his father fled from, “damn you… I believed…”
And he had, he really, really had. Perhaps he had doubt in those who ranked above him but in his Lord? His faith in his father? No, he never had. Never. Now…?
What was there to believe in?
Without another word he walked out.
[…]
As much as Castiel would like to think he was not see-through, he was. The dread, the confusion, the hurt were openly visible in his no longer so bright blue eyes. It was not all together unwelcoming in Dean’s book at least, the way that Castiel’s hope so clearly was crushed, his spirit clearly kept on diminishing with his unfinished words and lethargic departure. Wrong? Yes, he shouldn’t be so… inclined to accept it but the same had happened to him.
Blindly he had complete faith in his father, the man that he idealized and constantly made excuses for, frequently fed himself and Sammy lies about why he was gone for so long, why it was alright to always be tasked with the care of his younger brother when he should have been allowed a the childhood he had been denied. If that fate fell on him than why not Castiel, too? Why not everyone? He was sick of bearing such a burden, such a pain, alone anyway.
The moment that processed and past-the second it took to-gave way to a tinge of regret. Really, he should have said something, told him how he could relate even if it were on a lesser scale. His dad was a deadbeat that spent his time hunting instead of taking his kid’s to baseball games while his angel buddy’s father was the creator of heaven and earth, probably even hell. If his didn’t care about what went on in heaven, then what hope did the rest of humanity have?
But it was too little, too late; the moment the trench coat wearing friend walked out the door he heard the flutter of wings. There just wasn’t enough time to console Cas on his emotional crisis and cease the apocalypse simultaneously, Cas was a strong enough guy, he’d get by, just like Dean had.
He just needed time; too bad none of them had much of that.
[…]
In a burst everything hit him the moment he wound up wherever it was he dropped at, a bleak city street somewhere far away. It took effort, more than ever before, to get to one point to another in what seemed like a blink of an eye to mortals. It was second nature to him, to use the bright, blinding wings that he could not show, like it was for a human to take a step forward. His grace had been failing ever since his rebellion and transporting himself, let alone both the Winchesters, from the present to the past took a quite the toll on him. In staggered steps he found his way to an empty alley to rest against the cold, rough, wall.
Frail and hopeless, what a pitiful example of an angel he had become but really what did it matter? What point was there when his father didn’t care? How could He ask him to have faith when that was his message to the Winchesters? When he wanted Castiel to cease his search?
That was asking too much, he couldn’t…
How, how? How could his father do this to him? To all of them? After everything? Did he not owe it to all of humanity, and perhaps he was a bit full of himself but after all that he had done for Him? Centuries upon centuries of mindlessly following orders, having utter devotion to his Lord, complete loyalty to the chain of command; didn’t he deserve at least an explanation of why?
Why-wasn’t that easy? A sign of some sort? Anything to give him peace of mind, to restore his faith in Him, to understand a fragment of what was going on? He wanted that back, so badly, because before it was simple. There were orders given that he would follow, he didn’t have to think for himself, he needn’t feel and there was never the burden of doubt to weigh his wings down.
Losing faith was easy, keeping it was the hard part and he just couldn’t do that anymore. No matter how hard his mind worked to find logic in his Lord’s light, in his message, he couldn’t. How could it not be his problem? Lucifer was his creation, all of humanity, earth, the angels, Castiel himself… so how was it not be his problem? Where was the sense in it all?
He wanted to find it; he wanted to believe because faith had given his life meaning. It warmed him, it brightened his Grace but now… now where his Grace once burned so bright was now fading into a void that consumed him.
Why was it fading? Because he gave everything-everything-for his confidence in Dean Winchester, and truly he did not even understand that. Why did he believe in that broken man? Because he thought his comrades, his brethren were wrong and that Dean was right-that God had chosen him but now… now God didn’t care.
Did it even matter anymore, could a mere mortal stop Lucifer without aid from their heavenly father?
Forget it, forget the Winchesters, forget the overwhelming pain, forget Him, forget heaven, forget hell, forget it all-that’s what he wanted to do so he stood up straight and turned towards the empty streets. He hated how each day he was becoming more like the mortals around him but the moment his blues fixated upon the closed sign upon Big Dog’s Liquor Shop he felt that made sense.
What did he always see Dean doing when he was upset, broken, hopeless? Drink. And the name? That was a symbol to him so he shut his eyes and opened them inside the dark store.
One bottle didn’t do a damn thing.
Two bottles failed him miserably.
Three gave him a tingle.
Four felt better.
Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, twelve, twenty, thirty, forty… finally it all started to fade away, so much so he didn’t even heard his phone go off.
[…]
"Cas, hey, it's me, we're in Blue Earth Minnesota, and we could use a little help I hope you get this," was what the voice he found so grating had to say. It surely was not what he needed to hear after the stupor seeped away enough for his vision to straighten out so he could punch in the proper code to hear his voice mail.
Human technology, it was so annoying. An angel using a cellular device, even he felt that was wrong as he pressed one number carefully after the other to summon up the message again to make sure he remembered the place right.
Upon arrival he had to endure Sam’s talk of a Leah Gideon being a ‘prophet’ and drunkenly stumbled about from here to there as they ‘researched’ what could truly be going on in the town. If there was one thing he disliked more than anything it was the strange looks that Sam shot him ever since he returned from his search for the missing brother. That sparked a peculiar thought to beckon forth, they were friends, right?
A bitter, dry laugh came forth at that, causing an even more disturbed glance from Sam.
As if he had friends, not even when he was up in the heavens. They were comrades, brethren with the same cause fighting side by side, it wasn’t until he came to earth and walked among humans that he understood what it meant to be a friend. Talking about pointless matters, laughing over a drink or two, complaining endlessly to someone who would only bitch periodically, but that was not what he had with Sam, that was not what he had with anyone.
He had no one, he gave up all those he spent an eternity with for the Winchesters and what has he gotten for that?
A door swung up then shut just then to summon his hazy attention, there stood the one he had placed all his faith in. His last hope… with blood stained hands.
Perfect, just perfect, that was always such a grand sign.
Ha, that was what he had been shouting for all night long as he chugged another bottle. He vaguely heard his spout out to a baffled Sam that Paul was dead and Jane had shot him. He could find it in himself to care enough to ask who they were; there were thousands and thousands of other humans to replace them anyway.
"It's starting," Castiel grumbled.
"What's starting?" Dean rejoined as he glanced over to Castiel then back again with a bemused look. There was something not right about him, there was an odd edge to Castiel’s usual even voice, “where the hell have you been?”
"On a bender," he snapped back.
"Did he?" Dean started as he raised a brow and shot a look to Sam then back down to Castiel with brows bent tightly together and twisted expression, "did you say on a bender?"
"Yeah," Sam interrupted before Castiel got a chance to speak for himself, "he's still pretty smashed."
"It is not of importance," he assured with a wave of his hand as he tried to sit up straight in his still unstable wobble, "we need to talk about what's going on here."
It was almost as if the future was staring at him while they figured out their plan of action for killing the whore, the one he never wanted to see come to true. At least Castiel was only wasted instead of doped up on amphetamines to counteract the shit load of absinthe he downed. Just because he went on a bender, as he so elegantly put it, doesn’t mean that’ll happen.
Dean he had to focus; had to push all that to the past and let his eyes drop to the book and eerie branch as all was explained. The touch of worry that swelled up had to be pushed to the side; there was no time to show concern, no time to be a good friend-because they were that, weren’t they? Can’t he count of Castiel more than he could his own brother? Hadn’t he had a good laugh when he tried to get the virgin angel-just that thought made him smirk-laid? The best he had in how long…?
Yes, Castiel was a friend but there weren’t enough hours in the ending of days. There was the now to worry about; the future could be pushed off until later. It was too much for him, he could only deal with one problem-the whore, saving Blue Earth, later he would address Castiel’s issues if he hadn’t sorted them out by then.
He probably would, Cas was a strong one.
[…]
In a grumbled sigh Castiel inquired to the perplexed priest before him, "Pastor David Gideon?"
"Who are you?" was his staggered response as the frightened fellow took a step away.
"I am an angel of the Lord," Castiel muttered back, it was even funny in a sad sort of way and why he felt it so difficult to even say before gripping the man to take him back to the Winchesters. At least he can still flap his wings… for now, would that always last?
A dull glaze swept across his face while he rested against the wall and watched like the spectator he was as the boys tried to talk the reluctant Pastor into smiting his own daughter, well, that was not what she was anymore. What it was about humanity that was so worth saving when all he looked around was utter suffering?
"Why me?" The Pastor murmured.
Castiel explained, "because you are a servant of the lord.”
"Yeah, and you're an angel," he retorted.
"A poor example of one," he muttered.
Swiftly, Dean shifted his hazels upon Castiel. He knew that look in his dreary blues. Maybe his issues seeped deeper than dealing with a deadbeat dad. He had no faith in himself, in their future, but that was him, he was supposed to be the hopeless one in the group there couldn’t be two. Castiel couldn’t, shouldn’t, start taking after Dean’s bad example now so the moment they were alone outside the motel together and he had finished his survey of all they needed to make sure it was in the trunk.
The moment he closed it he watched Castiel rubbed his head, a clear sign of regretting that bender of his. He knew about those aches so he walked over and bent in to get his trusted bottle of aspirin. While he rolled it around in his hand his glance flickered between it and the sorry fallen friend in front of him.
“Heads up,” he warned before tossing the container over.
“How many should I take,” Castiel gruffly asked as he examined the bottle closer.
“Knowing you? You should just down the whole bottle,” it was just aspirin, after all. It wasn’t anything fun and he never heard it being a ‘gateway’ to something more. Castiel won’t change; he won’t grow a shaggy weak attempt at beard, and have orgies in his cabin with a horde of whores… because the Dean of the future couldn’t be him-he wouldn’t become that. The Sam that he met couldn’t be the future for the Sammy he knew, either.
“Thanks…”
“Don’t mention it,” he sighed after he leaned up against his precious Impala, finally they had a minute or two to talk. “Hey, I’ve been there. I’m a big expert on deadbeat dads, so...” he nodded weakly while his hazels fluttered to him, “I get it, I know how you feel.”
A silence swelled up between them for a moment before Castiel found his words once more, “how do you mange it?”
Dean swallowed as he looked about the shitty parking lot to their murky motel before he decided what was right, so he put back his front and grinned weakly, “on a good day you get to kill a whore.”
The moment Castiel looked up to him he knew that was shit, too, maybe he didn’t need Dean’s smartass response, maybe he really needed the truth but he smirked to Cas anyway because that was not something he could give.
Honestly, Dean didn’t know how he did it.
[…]
"You're pathetic, self-hating, and faithless, it's the end of the world and you're just going to sit back and watch us win," were the hissing last word of the whore before Dean grabbed the root and staked her proving he was what he never thought-a servant of the Lord?
Yes… what other choice did he have? Did any of them have? He’d become Michael’s vessel, he couldn’t think of himself anymore. The greater good meant sacrificing himself. He had done that for his brother’s sake a thousand times so why not for the whole world?
As he stood up and took a breath, watching as the last spark fled from the whore’s dead body, he ignored Sam’s suspicious stares and the words of the others to go back down the hallway and into the pastor’s office to find Castiel still stuck to the ground with pain, his expression was contorted in a terrible twirl as he knelt down to take one of his arms and haul it over his shoulder.
Castiel barely managed to ask, “What happened?”
“She’s dead,” Dean simply stated before he got them both to their feet, “another town saved.”
“The pastor managed to do it?” He groaned as he leaned his head more towards Dean’s shoulder but it didn’t quite touch.
There was a pause while Dean pressed his lips together and looked away, “she got staked.”
“Dean,” Sam shouted out from down the hallway as he helped Pastor David over to them and up the stairs to the car. He just barely heard the argument that Dean and Sam broke out in as soon as he the doors were shut. All he made out was, “like Michael stupid,” and “give me a break” before Dean jerked open his door and slid into his seat to shut it.
Something wasn’t right but he couldn’t figure it out until they got back to the motel and Sam’s concerns became clear.
But they were useless ones; Castiel was sure of that even as Dean exited the room for some bandages because he had given up everything so that the Winchester brothers wouldn’t become vessels. Dean knew that, Dean wouldn’t let him down like God had.
Then why did he hear the Impala start up and speed away? Why did he watch as Sam screamed and ran out to chase the brother who he could not catch?
He stared at the open door to see Sam slap his hands hopelessly to his side.
They were all doomed to fail from the start, he probably should have known that but the rage that flared up inside him to fill that nasty void didn’t stop.
If Dean had planned to go off and be Michael’s “condom” as he once put it so poetically then he would have had no reason to let him fall-to make him. Dean had beseeched it, begged for him to help, to give up everything…
Fuck faith, all its good is for paving the road of misery.