Spoilers for Torn and Frayed. My first Supernatural fanfic.
The blood of Samandriel's vessel is hot and sticky under Castiel's fingers.
He presses his hands against his little brother's cheek, looking past the bleeding, broken vessel and searching for the Grace underneath. But it is gone. Dead.
Because of him.
He can't breathe. His chest is constricting and it's terrifying. But he's died before-the sensation is nothing new to his poor vessel. It's the emotional pain that is spiking through his mind with such unstoppable ferocity. He rocks back and forth, struggling to get himself under control, to calm his emotions before Sam and Dean come looking for him. Come and see him with the body of a dead angel-
His little brother.
God knows how many siblings he's seen die in the past few years, but for some reason this particular death is the one that cripples him. Maybe it's because he had been trying so hard to save Samandriel and he had failed. Maybe because he had come so close to taking his brother home, and then been forced to kill him.
Or maybe it's because he's just so, so tired of all of this. Tired of the fighting. Tired of the violence and heart break and death.
He just wants everything to be over.
"Cas?"
Dean.
Castiel bows his head to his brothers, grips a handful of Samandriel's torn, blood-soaked shirt to hide his trembling hands. "I'm sorry," he whispers, far to soft for the Winchester's to hear. "I'm sorry..."
"Cas, you okay?"
He cuts of the apologies. He's trembling and his vessel is damaged, and he's on the verge of-
Jimmy stirs inside him. Crying. His vessel provides, silently.
Angels weren't really supposed to feel, but Castiel's throat is on fire, and his eyes are wet, and there is an unescapable pressure against his chest that is crushing him, crushing him-
He pushes the Winchester's away with curt words and bends over the body of his little brother. Gently, now, he grasps Samandriel's shoulder and flies both of them to heaven, the echo of Dean's worried call fading in the sudden rush of wind.
His wings feel so heavy.
They tug and pull and ache against his back, drag on the ground. They're almost too long-he feels like he's going to trip on them.
You're a hero, Castiel. You've done heaven a great service.
So why does he feel like he's not the hero at all?
He's lived for eons, seen the humans when they were still monkeys fighting in trees, seen whole civilizations rise and fall. Seen so much death it should be a permeant dark stain on his soul.
But it isn't. He's always been the good soldier. Following orders. Getting the job done.
It's different now. Something is breaking inside him, tearing him apart from the inside out. He's not sure what it is, but it scares him. It's what's making his wings feel so heavy tonight. They're dripping with death and blood and these strange emotions that he can't seem to control.
Somehow, without quite knowing exactly how or why(does he ever know anymore?) he ends up in Dean's room.
For awhile he simply stands and the corner and watches his friend sleep. Dean had survived the tortures of hell, lost so many people, and yet at this moment he is at rest as if nothing can ever or will ever stain his spirit. Castiel envies that.
His wings tug at his shoulders as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat and starts to leave.
But then Dean stirs. "Cas?"
Some instinct forces Castiel forward. He walks up to the hunter and sits on the edge of the bed. "Hello Dean."
"You okay, man?" Dean sits up and blinks blearily at him. He's still not fully awake yet, still lost in swirling, golden dreams. Castiel can see the faint shimmer of sleep still lingering in his friend's mind, soft and gentle. A good dream, then.
"No." Castiel says, softly.
Dean leans forward onto his elbows, narrowing his eyes in the dark. "Do you need to talk about it?"
Talking about it was something that humans were often prone to do, if he remembers correctly. It was supposed to help. He doesn't see how talking about his little brother will change the fact that he killed him. Or change the fact that his wings felt like lead and his soul is suddenly dark and screaming for release from all this pain, this tiny little vessel, this dark world.
"Not particularly," he finally manages to say. His eyes burn, and he blinks, out of reflex.
Dean notices. "Hey," he says, gently, almost as gently as he talks to Sam when he is hurt. "Cas, it's going to be okay. Alright?"
Castiel isn't sure why his friend is saying that, or even what gives him the impression that anything is alright at all. But his eyes are burning more and he is forced to blink again.
"Dammit, Cas," Dean finally growls, and suddenly the hunter's arms are around him, holding him tightly. Dean's forehead is pressed against his shoulder, hands rubbing up and down his back. He doesn't know it, but his hands are actually brushing the worn feather's of Castiel's wings. "I'm sorry."
Castiel doesn't quite realize that the liquid burning his eyes is saltwater until he takes a breath and it's broken and ragged. He stiffens at first, unsure.
"Hey," Dean whispers into his ear. "Don't give me the 'angels don't feel' crap, now, Cas. I know you're about to snap."
And then he is sobbing, incoherant, wild sobs that tear at his chest and ache in his stomach with each rasping breath. Out of some instinct he leans into his friends touch, allowing his entire weight to sink into Dean's arms.
The hunter makes a surprised noise and tightens his grip, fingers gently tightening around Castiel's wings-even if he can't see them. "Hey, easy Cas...it's okay...it's okay.
Slowly, Castiel forces his emotions back into his control, fighting for even breath until he finally achieves it out of sheer will power. He lets out one more strangled gasp and shudders as the corner of his left wing brushes the floor, dragging painfully along the wood.
Dean can't see his wings, but he feels the sudden shift, and pulls away, keeping one hand on Castiel's shoulder. Eerily similar to how Castiel had desperatly clutched Samandriel to him as his little brother died-
No. Stop.
Suddenly he can't stand it anymore. He needs to leave, to fly somewhere far, far away and pray. Weep and beg his father to fix this or punish him before he kills another one of his siblings.
He steps out of Dean's arms and stumbles back into a standing position. His wings tear ever so slightly. They're so heavy.
A glance behind him confirms what he already knew-they're bleeding. His wild emotion had injured his vessel as his true form had screamed and wept, and Jimmy's body was shaking, fragile.
His wings drag and pull at his shoulders, weighted down by blood and sin and the darkness in his soul, expanding with the force of his emotions until they are so large and so heavy he's not even sure if he can lift them properly.
"Cas?"
He leaves Dean in a whirl of bloodstained feathers and tears, and flies somewhere far, far away, where no one can ever find him.
Wrapping his bloody, trembling wings around himself, Castiel silently screams at the injustice of the world, and let's the saltwater staining Jimmy's cheeks cleanse the darkness in his vessel, and the blood dripping on the snow soothe the dark inside his soul.