subiteveneinorem: (spn: destiel personal space)
[personal profile] subiteveneinorem
Title: Whimper
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel pre-slash
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~450
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: Do not own. Kripke does. Damn you, Kripke!
A/N: Set sometime after season six finale (which hasn't aired yet, btw, so it's kind of an AU).

You watch him when he sleeps.

He still looks out of place, even though it's been weeks. Weeks. Weeks since the big showdown. Weeks since the War ended.

Weeks since Cas became human.

He lies sprawled on his back, blanked bunched around his knees, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Up. Down. Breathing in and out, warm July air moving past his parted lips with nary a sound.

You hate the fact that he's breathing. That he has to breathe. You can't shake the feeling of wrongness that's poking your insides, mocking you. It's your fault, you should've been there for him, it tells you. You know that it's not true, not entirely. Yes, you should have noticed earlier. But then, there was Sam. And you know that Sam will always come first. Cas knows that, too. First there was Sam, gone. Then, Sam, soulless. After that, Sam with a wall in his mind, in his soul, keeping him together.

Sam, Sam, Sam.

There was no time for Castiel. For Cas.

And he understood, in his own way that is scarily similar to yours. He did everything he could to keep you and Sam safe. "You sacrificed so much," he told you on the third day. "I couldn't ask you for more."

You should have. God, Cas.

A whimper pulls you from your thoughts. Cas shifts onto his side, curls in on himself. Starts shaking. You're by his side in an instant, hand outstretched, ready to wake him from the nightmare. You snatch it away right before it touches his skin, though.

It's not the first time.

You wish there was a way of stopping it, or at least something that would comfort him. But there isn't.

This is the worst part.

You can't touch his cheek because Raphael cradled his face in her hands right before kissing Cas' forehead in a mockery of a benediction. You can't pet his hair because she grabbed him by it and forced him onto his knees. You can't squeeze his arm because of her angels who held him face down on the ground.

You can't lay a comforting hand on his back. That's where his wings were until Raphael tore them out and released the power taken from hundreds of thousands of souls found in Purgatory, power which Castiel stored inside himself before calling Raphael and challenging her. Power which destroyed her and every other angel around them.

"I didn't expect to survive that," he told you a week later, when he could get out bed by himself.

He drags his fingers across the mattress, looking for purchase. You lay a hand in its way. His grip is tight. It hurts, but you don't mind.

You stay like that for a long time.
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March 2012

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