We who live in prison, and in whose lives there is no event but sorrow

[to_rebel]

Who; inforapound and to_rebel
What; Balthazar's doppelganger is an evil, evil angel.
Where; At the border of the Forest, just west of town.
When; Friday evening, November 18
Rating; R, just to be safe. It's probably not going to be pretty.
Status; Closed, complete

Comments

[to_rebel]

When Balthazar stilled, Castiel wasn't sure whether to brace himself for the worst or breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps it simply was the calm before the storm, as some humans he knew were apt to say. He rather liked what Balthazar called a barren scrap of wilderness. It was simple and open, in a way that nothing manmade -- or Underworld-made, in this case -- could ever be. In his opinion, this field was almost a mockery of such a thing, but it was also the closest he could come to nature.

He stilled at Balthazar's turn of phrase. Rather appropriate, was it? He pressed his lips together and his brow furrowed as a horrible realization came over him. It wasn't quite unexpected; it was a fear he'd carried, that Balthazar would seek revenge. There was nothing in him that he recognized as his brother, but then...

But then he'd never been confronted by a brother killed by his own hand before. Surprising, in some way, considering what Balthazar himself had done for him in recent months. He couldn't deny the thrill of fear; death was not something he sought. Not anymore. "Why did you seek me out, Balthazar?"

He was certain he already knew the answer.

[inforapound]

"Isn't it obvious? I'm hardly the only one you damaged irreparably. You're the rot at the heart of everything you profess to care for, brother. We'd all be better off with you gone." Despite the pretense of the greater good, flimsy though it absolutely was, that core of malice remained blatantly evident.

He lifted a hand, sending out a surge of telekinetic force towards the Castiel. It was little more than enough to knock a grown man from his feet - the gathering of his Grace, were the other angel still capable of feeling it, was almost lazy, more akin to a cat toying with a mouse than the efficient soldier that could, at least based on past history, be expected.

[to_rebel]

Perhaps the worst part of hearing those words was that Castiel had struggled with that very thought not so long ago. In fact, he'd very nearly let himself be killed -- in fact, sought death -- because he had been convinced that the people around him would be better off were he dead. It had taken a promise given to Sephiroth and Voodoo to get him out of that place alive -- and to keep him from going back.

Apparently, it wasn't quite behind him yet. Even wrapped in blatant cruelty, there was a core of something true that Castiel couldn't deny.

It did not, however, mean that he was okay with what came next. Knocked off his feet and unable to sense whatever might be coming next, Castiel couldn't deny the anxiety -- even fear -- as he began to climb to his feet. "Then do what you came to do." And get it over with. There was absolutely little he could do to defend himself; sigils would be his only defense and he needed time to draw them. Surreptitiously (hopefully so, at any rate,) he dropped his right hand into a coat pocket and flicked the pocketknife there open. Sigils needed blood; he had that, at least.

[inforapound]

If Balthazar's doppelganger had been paying proper attention, he might - might - have noted the movement, if only because of the lingering remnants of his template's wariness regarding Castiel and concealed weaponry. However, the contempt that laced his cruelty through was enough to keep him discounting anything his sadly-diminished brother might do in retaliation.

"Always the martyr." Balthazar sounded annoyed, almost aggrieved. Whatever reaction he might have wanted, apparent resignation wasn't it.

Which wasn't enough to dissuade him from his goal. He twisted his hand, twisted the touch of his Grace on the material world, not to knock down this time, but to snap shinbones, snap thighbones, render his target immobile in the most brutal fashion that came immediately to hand.

If Castiel wouldn't give Balthazar the satisfaction of token resistance, Balthazar would simply remove the illusion of choice.

[to_rebel]

Castiel didn't have time to even think of replying to Balthazar's comment. (Accusation? He wasn't sure what to make of it; he only knew that Balthazar's tone suggested it was something insulting. He, of course, knew what a martyr was. He wasn't sure how it applied.) Without the ability to sense the gathering Grace, Castiel had no idea what was coming when Balthazar twisted his hand.

It was readily apparent, though, in that moment, what he intended. Whether he cried out or not, Castiel honestly did not know. (He was sure he did, somewhere between his vision dimming and collapsing.) Reflexively, his hand closed around the open knife in his pocket as he fell. He didn't even quite remember hitting the ground.

He forced himself to focus on drawing a breath, even as his vision swam. He was no stranger to pain. Castiel couldn't ignore it -- there was no way -- but he could just... make his hand move. Move his hand, use the blood, and try to defend himself in the best way he knew how. He pulled his hand out of his pocket, the knife slipping free and landing on the ground, and fumbled to draw something resembling a banishment sigil in the dirt.

He wasn't getting very far, very fast.

[inforapound]

Balthazar's double, it would seem, was in no hurry. His malicious smile renewed itself, and he paced a wide circle around his wounded brother again. "That's the trouble with taking mortal vessels, isn't it? Every pleasure's matched by an equal pain. Really, there isn't much those creatures are good for."

Another twist of his hand, another twist of his Grace. This time, the bone-breaking force was directed at Castiel's forearm - the left. Either Balthazar had failed to notice the knife or the nascent sigil, or his penchant for cat-and-mouse games far outstripped anything his template-self would have considered remotely sane.

"How many can I shatter, do you think, before you expire from the pain alone?"

[to_rebel]

If there was pleasure than approached the intensity of such pain, Castiel had yet to discover it. Wounded and helpless at Balthazar's feet, he knew that getting out of this particular situation was just this side of impossible. He tried keeping an eye on Balthazar as he circled, but found that pain made focus nearly impossible.

In nearly the same second that he managed to refocus on the sigil, Balthazar once again set his Grace upon Castiel. He jerked, instinctively trying to curl around the broken arm, and blurred the few lines he'd managed to actually draw. He grit his teeth at the taunt, not even trying to believe that Balthazar wouldn't do it. Whatever prompted him to speak -- willfulness or stupidity, he didn't know -- was probably better left alone. "A few more." There was nothing in his voice but a hardness and bitterness born of fear.

[inforapound]

"Let's test that, shall we?" Balthazar didn't wait for an answer - why wait, when the answer would make no difference either way? He brought his Grace to bear on Castiel's right forearm next, smiling all the while. There was a hideous mockery of pattern to the sequence that followed. Upper arms, one by one, ribs, ascending, in pairs, and between each wet snap of bone, a pause to observe that was born wholly of malice rather than any true interest in the answer.

He snapped his brother's neck at the last, as his double might have done in the beginning, just to be absolutely sure.

[to_rebel]

Somewhere, near the beginning of Balthazar's newest rampage, Castiel lost the sigil he'd been trying to draw. Able to do absolutely nothing against the onslaught, Castiel instead tried to at least meet Balthazar's gaze. That only lasted a few moments. (Somewhere between upper arms and ribs, in point of fact.)

The pauses were excruciating, if only because Castiel knew something was coming next. There came a point, though, when pain simply was: he felt nothing but the horrible sensation of every nerve ending demanding reprieve. There was no focus, no thought, nothing but terrible, burning pain. Before that final snap of his neck, his mind had retreated, leaving him no comfort or reassurance.

Death came so quickly that he didn't even find time to feel relief.