In Good Stead
'Here,' Dean says, gruffly. 'Keep this with you.' Sliding the last round into his spare gun, he deposits the piece of metal into Castiel's numb (human) hands.
'Just point and shoot. But go easy on the ammo, supply ain't endless.'
The weapon is heavy, and warm from where was being stored, nestled beneath Dean's jacket, close to his body; Castiel stares at it. Light-headed, weak from blood loss, he wants to ask what good this could possibly be to him. How it will stop the knives and stones and bullets that are going to invade his bruised flesh, his fragile skin. The strong, eternal part of Castiel has evaporated, his bones are like melted wax. Jimmy Novak's body - his body - is already dying, minute by minute. God will not catch him again. There is nothing in him left that deserves to be protected.
He looks up at Dean - Dean who is resolutely refusing to meet his eyes, his shoulders hunched as if he is dragging behind him the full, immeasurable weight of Castiel's lost grace. Castiel feels something like pity.
'Thank you, Dean,' he says, as gently as he can manage. It sounds sincere to his own ears, but what kind of judge is he? 'You really don't need to worry about me.'
THE END
4 October 2009