[ For a while after Skye's visit, Cas just... sits inside that house. The one Dean claimed for himself here in Deerington, with the fixed up staircase and the derelict everything else. Just... Sits there and breathes, and exists, and listens to the silence within it.
He feels, perhaps, that just like himself, the house without Dean is just an empty body with little point to it.
How long he sits there in the dark, with nothing but the wine and the company of his own white noise thoughts, until finally he moves. Grabs his bag, grabs some weapons, and is outside before he even knows, properly, what he's doing.
For once, the siren call of the orange plastic bottle is driving him away rather than luring him in. Same for the blood. He can't drown himself in it now, not when...
It's not hard to find, and not far from the house. Cas quietly stalks the streets, weapon ready, senses... far from sharp. He's not been sleeping - no one has.
The Impala is a mess, but he can hardly focus on it. Instead, he watches. He witnesses. Over and over again. It feels like he's violating the privacy of a corpse to steal this moment away, and for once something he does in clear defiance of Dean's comfort levels doesn't bring him twisted satisfaction. It just makes his jaw clench, too blue eyes as still as the rest of him.
Cas moves, eventually, methodically, eyes peeled on the surrounding landscape - or what little he can see, in the blood red darkness. He's smart enough to know the outcome before he tries, but... he has to.
Can't quite help it, like an itch he needs to scratch. So he slides into the driver's seat of the wreck. The car means nothing to him, but... she's Dean's. And if here, in this place, she's not left to rot, then Cas has to at least make an attempt to salvage her. He turns the key in the ignition. In his peripheral, the hound bites down on Dean's neck, snuffing him out. Over and over and over again. Ignition. Death.
The Impala won't even give him so much as a desperate, stuttering gurgle. She's silent like her master, and... oh.
Cas freezes, hands white-knuckling around the steering wheel. There's a strange burn in his eyes, a clench in his chest that he can't quite categorize. His breath hitches and his vision swims, and Cas wonders if he's about to just... pass out, body and mind long past their respective limits. His lip trembles, and he doesn't... doesn't understand, the way it feels like something's trying to crawl up his chest and spill forth.
Not until something wet trails over his cheek.
Cas hasn't shed a tear in all his billions of years of existence. Not when he lost countless siblings, not when he went through re-education, not when Dean pushed and pushed until Cas shed his allegiances, a choice that sent him into spiralling freefall, a choice he would make over and over again if given the chance to change things. Not when Heaven slammed shut and his wings fell limp, uselessly dragging in the muck where no one can see but he can still feel something. Not when it all hurt so much, too much, and all he had left were painkillers to numb it all, and orgies to make him feel less alone, to drown out the silence and the horror of feeling, of existing the way he does, now, of the carcass of his trueform he can still feel, locked inside a prison of flesh and bone that was never meant to be his body.
It pales, all of it, in light of losing Dean, and his spiralling mind doesn't care that he'll have him back in a week, because right now he's gone, and Cas hadn't expected it to hit this hard... and yet, it does. Here, in the wreck of the Impala, unable to even do this much for the man who gave him freedom to die in the dirt rather than continued existence under Heaven's yoke, it feels like Cas has lost the last thing he had left to lose.
The haunting image of an ever repeating death and the silent emptiness of the Impala are the only witnesses here, in the dark, as for the first time since he was created, this broken, fallen angel cries. ]
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[action] | October 25th, the Impala | cws: grief, mentions of death, substance abuse
He feels, perhaps, that just like himself, the house without Dean is just an empty body with little point to it.
How long he sits there in the dark, with nothing but the wine and the company of his own white noise thoughts, until finally he moves. Grabs his bag, grabs some weapons, and is outside before he even knows, properly, what he's doing.
For once, the siren call of the orange plastic bottle is driving him away rather than luring him in. Same for the blood. He can't drown himself in it now, not when...
It's not hard to find, and not far from the house. Cas quietly stalks the streets, weapon ready, senses... far from sharp. He's not been sleeping - no one has.
The Impala is a mess, but he can hardly focus on it. Instead, he watches. He witnesses. Over and over again. It feels like he's violating the privacy of a corpse to steal this moment away, and for once something he does in clear defiance of Dean's comfort levels doesn't bring him twisted satisfaction. It just makes his jaw clench, too blue eyes as still as the rest of him.
Cas moves, eventually, methodically, eyes peeled on the surrounding landscape - or what little he can see, in the blood red darkness. He's smart enough to know the outcome before he tries, but... he has to.
Can't quite help it, like an itch he needs to scratch. So he slides into the driver's seat of the wreck. The car means nothing to him, but... she's Dean's. And if here, in this place, she's not left to rot, then Cas has to at least make an attempt to salvage her. He turns the key in the ignition. In his peripheral, the hound bites down on Dean's neck, snuffing him out. Over and over and over again. Ignition. Death.
The Impala won't even give him so much as a desperate, stuttering gurgle. She's silent like her master, and... oh.
Cas freezes, hands white-knuckling around the steering wheel. There's a strange burn in his eyes, a clench in his chest that he can't quite categorize. His breath hitches and his vision swims, and Cas wonders if he's about to just... pass out, body and mind long past their respective limits. His lip trembles, and he doesn't... doesn't understand, the way it feels like something's trying to crawl up his chest and spill forth.
Not until something wet trails over his cheek.
Cas hasn't shed a tear in all his billions of years of existence. Not when he lost countless siblings, not when he went through re-education, not when Dean pushed and pushed until Cas shed his allegiances, a choice that sent him into spiralling freefall, a choice he would make over and over again if given the chance to change things. Not when Heaven slammed shut and his wings fell limp, uselessly dragging in the muck where no one can see but he can still feel something. Not when it all hurt so much, too much, and all he had left were painkillers to numb it all, and orgies to make him feel less alone, to drown out the silence and the horror of feeling, of existing the way he does, now, of the carcass of his trueform he can still feel, locked inside a prison of flesh and bone that was never meant to be his body.
It pales, all of it, in light of losing Dean, and his spiralling mind doesn't care that he'll have him back in a week, because right now he's gone, and Cas hadn't expected it to hit this hard... and yet, it does. Here, in the wreck of the Impala, unable to even do this much for the man who gave him freedom to die in the dirt rather than continued existence under Heaven's yoke, it feels like Cas has lost the last thing he had left to lose.
The haunting image of an ever repeating death and the silent emptiness of the Impala are the only witnesses here, in the dark, as for the first time since he was created, this broken, fallen angel cries. ]