Disclaimer: All characters appearing in Supernatural are copyright Kripke/CW/WB etc. No infringement of these copyrights is intended. This fanfic is my original work of fiction based on those characters/that universe. No Beta's were harmed during the writing of this fic.
A/N: Tag to "Damaged Goods" (Season 14, Episode 11). This is for Black Fungus who requested one like 'The Old Man on the Boat' but from Cas' POV. I've never had or done a request before; kinda exciting but SO nerve wracking and difficult and a little daunting too! Newfound respect for all those who manage to do it, and to do it well. I hope this is okay Black Fungus
And again, thank you to all readers/reviewers, on this or anything else.
He who waits at the Bottom of the Sea
He waits.
He's come to view eternity with a newfound perspective, a newfound revulsion and abhorrence, as if it were an entity in its own right. And he's realised there's not one eternity; there's a dozen. Hundreds. Thousands. All crammed together, one on of top of the other, some running concurrently, all seemingly endless.
There was a time (and ironically it feels an eternity ago now), when time passed without his even considering it a thing. He watched centuries pass by in what felt like nothing more than the beat of his wings, and he felt nothing at their passing.
But now?
Now.
All there is, is time.
All there is, is eternity.
All there is, is waiting.
So he waits.
These decades since Dean has been gone, they seem never-ending to him.
And he can hear the grinding of atoms. Of protons and neutrons colliding. Of time, infinitely slowly, clicking through the universe. Decaying through space.
That's all time is after all; decay. Things just falling apart.
And he can hear it all.
A second can last a lifetime on those scales.
Decades filled with endless seconds would be unbearable.
They have been, and yet he's borne them, somehow.
He has his own rituals to pass the time, to try to deaden the pain. He has his own ways to mourn. They all have. Sam on his boat, drowning in sorrow. Jack on his crusades, to live up to their saviour.
While he just walks the ocean floor. Stands by that coffin, kneels down in the darkness and places his hands on that cold, unyielding tomb.
And waits.
He hates the pounding.
He can't bear it.
It lasts an eternity, feels never ending and he wishes it would stop.
Until it does.
And then he prays for it to come back. And that wait, that silence, it's worse than the thrashing, and it lasts forever, and he can hear, he can feel, the whole universe decaying around him, and then, when it's over, for the briefest, tiniest fraction of a second, there's a spark of relief.
Until it resumes, each blow smashing and battering and pummelling his heart.
He hates the sound of the pounding.
But he can't stay away.
They all have their morbid rituals after all.
And he can never get rid of the smell of the ocean. It seems to have fused with his grace. A constant reminder, no matter what he does.
He tried burning it off with the sun, once. But he can still sense it.
He wonders sometimes if Sam hates him for it. Resents him in some way. His grace affords him a closeness to Dean that physically Sam simply cannot achieve, sat up there alone on his boat.
He still watches over Sam. Averts his gaze as Sam hangs over the water, and exposes the sorrows of his soul.
He can't bear Sam's sorrow. Can't bear the resentment it stirs up in himself. Feels ashamed for it, as he should. But he can't help it, all the same.
Sam's sorrow, it must outweigh, outshadow, outnumber and in every single way, outstrip his own.
It must.
And yet…
And yet he feels at times, the endless and unbearable burden of his own pain, it's relentless. Magnified as each passing second spans out before him like an eternity's worth of decay that he must somehow get through, only to face another million more.
And he knows, he knows, his pain must be nothing compared to Sam's. He knows this.
But since when did pain require a comparison of anguish to validate its existence or worth?
Not that Sam has ever made him feel that way.
But he feels that way nonetheless. He looks to Sam and feels completely incapable of expressing his own sorrow to him. It's his loyalty to Dean, his unflinching allegiance to his adoptive brother that prevents him from inflicting his grief onto Sam. So he must hide his own pain away. Lock it up, shield those he still loves from the loss of the one who he loved more than he thought beings like him were capable of loving.
He wonders if the smell of saline betrays him to Sam, betrays where he's been. Betrays how much closer he can get than Sam. Whether it adds to the reminders of how far from him Dean is.
He wonders if Sam can smell it on him when they greet each other.
He wonders about that 'there-not-there' resentment in them both.
He's learnt to stay away.
He's only biding his time now, anyway.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
One eternal second after another. One eternity after the next.
He's waiting for Sam to die.
Jack had asked him once, decades ago when he was still a child in his own way, why it hurt so much, and he couldn't give him an answer. He found out later that the Nephilim had peered into all their souls, their memories. Tried to piece together the puzzle that he thought was Dean. Tried to figure out how to be the man who saved them all, how to become a shape to fill the void that his leaving had left behind. How to make the pain go away for everyone.
Cas had been enraged at first. Hurt and betrayed. But even then, he'd understood; they were all searching to find something to fill what was missing. Hoping to be like him, now that he was gone.
It's no secret, he'd told Jack, once his anger had dulled. We're all tainted, one way or another. Our souls and graces all stained. Except Dean. The only one who never was. The only one who was pure. Not even God can make that claim. Dean was, is, the best of all creation. The best there will ever be.
And you can never be him.
He hadn't meant to be cruel. To be so callous.
But live through enough eternities, it'll make monsters of us all.
Monsters and soothsayers. On that day he realised the ultimate truth; there would be no recovery from Dean's loss. And the only way to fix it all, would be to fix it all. And that Sam will never let him.
The day Sam dies, Castiel knows he will leave. Jack knows it too; he isn't foolish. And Sam, thankfully, is too blinded by sorrow still to see it.
And Cas is waiting for that day. When it comes, the same grace that allows him to walk the ocean floor, the same grace that makes seconds last for an eternity, that same grace will hurtle him through the universe, through the stars, even let him tear through dimensions if he needs to. That grace that Jack has restored, rebuilt and made stronger, it will last a few millennia at least and he'll burn through the last of it if that's what it takes.
He'll find his Father out there in the oblivion of infinity.
He'll seek out the Darkness in the dark.
And he will demand, till they choose to destroy him for his insolence but he will demand, and heaven and hell and all of creation, and every single soul through all of time be damned if they refuse him, or perhaps if they don't, but he will demand and he will not stop until his will is done.
Until they bring Dean back.
They burnt Sam just seconds ago, and even then, he had to wait lifetimes before he could leave. He can still sense the ash in his pores. Even the ocean can't wash it away.
It's the last time he'll be close to Dean like this, mere inches away from his fingertips and yet, the same magic that keeps Michael bound, keeps him from being close at all. If only he could have told Sam the pain of that.
It's a thought, his parting words, and he doesn't know if it can penetrate through the wardings, but he has to try. He has to let him know it's not over.
It's the last thing he'll say to Dean like this, all alone on the ocean floor.
Wait.
Please, Dean. Just… wait.
The End.
Thank you for reading.