Time is a curious mistress.
Many events have come to pass since the Beginning. He remembers them all, some through his own eyes, and some through the telling of God himself. They were truly magnificent, all of them. So great and remarkable that only an entity as powerful as his Father could have made them possible. First the Big Bang, then the creation of Heaven, Angels, and the Leviathans, and then, of course, the making of Men, who then took onto creating other wondrous things after his Father stopped creating. Humans. Homo sapiens sapiens. The greatest, the most loved, and the last of God's making. Ones whom he himself has come to adore.
He watched them compete as a species against the Neanderthals. Yes, it is true that he started off putting his bet on their competitive cousins-the pure beauty of Neanderthalic poetry still amazes him to this day-but ultimately Time has made her choice. It was the Homo sapiens that won out. Sometimes, even he struggles with distinguishing God's will with Time's destinations. Sometimes, he wonders if there is even a distinction at all.
This is one of the occasional moments when Castiel cannot help but wonder: was it truly God's will that brought him forth to this dirty psychiatric ward, or was it merely the cold and random dice of Time that led him here? Castiel wishes that he could ask Time herself, but unlike Fate, she is not a friend. In fact, he doubts that she is anybody's friend. Not even God's.
Castiel looks down at Samuel Winchester's face. Sam is hallucinating, and though he resists weakly, Castiel knows that his mind is in a terrible combat against lunacy. Castiel's eyes can see right through his mind, the great sea in turmoil on which the unrelenting tempest Castiel himself unleashed. Overwhelming shame and guilt drowns the angel, but he has no desire for salvation. Let them wash over this body, this angel, once prideful but now reduced to nothing but a sinner stinking of mistakes. Let them torture him, and through agony cleanse him.
"I'm sorry. This isn't a problem I can make disappear. And you know that. But I may be able to shift it," Castiel said to Dean, still staring down at Sam's face. He sits by his bed, carefully examining this wrecked soul, whose misfortune will forever haunt his existence. He has wronged many, slaughtered his own brothers and sisters, and desolated Heaven. Yet, somehow, Sam's insanity remains the worst nightmare into which he has awoken after the Leviathans' possession of his vessel. He wonders why.
"Shift?" He hears Dean's voice. It is trembling in confusion. Ah, yes-as another wave of agony imbued with overwhelming sorrow devours him, Castiel comes to a sudden realization: it's Dean. Dean is the source of all the unease in him. Castiel has let him down. He owes to this human more than he ever did to any of his celestial companions.
Even as these thoughts run through him, and however much he desires to punish himself with the fiery flames of shame, Castiel fails to gather enough courage to look at Dean in his eyes. It is the same cowardice that prolonged his awakening from that fabricated identity they called Emmanuel. Several times he could have reclaimed his memories, but Castiel held on to Emmanuel in fear of reality.
He turns his head and managed to secure a tiny glimpse of Dean's face before his own Grace trembled in shameful protest.
Such sorrow, such anger, and such…confusion were on that face. Dean has survived many trials of violence and never-ending torment, but he is, nevertheless, still a human. A tiny speck of biomass stuck between the great feud of Heaven and Hell. Castiel cannot help but wince at another surge of excruciating guilt shooting through his body, his Grace. How the Winchesters manage to not only survive but succeed in this war, when he himself could not, remains a wonder. Shame. Guilt. Regret. How could he have let these human brothers walk into perils that Castiel himself, a warrior of the Lord equipped with Grace, could not handle?
Dean possesses such marvelously powerful beauty. One that Castiel has let down and brought to the brink of destruction too many times.
"Wait, Cas! What do you mean you can shift it?" Dean's voice summoned him from the depths of his own thoughts.
"It would get Sam back on his feet," Castiel continues look down, avoiding eye contact with Dean. He does not dare look.
He cannot decide if it is relief or despair that once again drowns him as he whispers his final words: "I'm sorry I ever did this to you". He's not even sure if they're meant for Sam or Dean. Castiel feels relief, for insanity seems but a just punishment for him, a deserved ending to his Godforsaken path. Yet, he feels despair because…well, because he did share a profound bond with Dean Winchester once, didn't he?
Castiel gently places his palm onto Sam's forehead. He can feel it-a raging insanity writhing beneath Sam's vessel, right in the core of his soul. Castiel begins the shifting process, summoning that terrifying angst and confusion into his own Grace. It soaks his vessel with endless streams of lunacy, drenching his Grace, his very essence, with wild images of Lucifer and Michael. He knows that soon these personal imprints from Sam will come to pass, transforming into a madness designed solely to engulf him, Castiel, an Angel of the Lord into an internalized Hell.
It is a just punishment, Castiel thought, as he finally gathers enough strength to turn his head around and look at Dean Winchester one last time with his sanity intact-or what is left of it at this point, at least.
What wondrous being. What beauty. Time truly is a curious mistress, powerful enough to make an Angel bow in awe to the mere sight of a lesser being-a Homo sapiens sapiens man he calls Dean.
＊＊＊
In his first few months of insanity, when he occasionally gathered enough strength to open his eyes, Castiel suffered greatly from the sight of Meg. A demon's appearance in the eyes of an angel had not been a pleasant sight to begin with, and it evolved yet into a traumatizing torture with his newfound madness. Her twisted physiognomy whispered words of love and care into Castiel's ears, and they toyed him the same way a trickster might. When Meg teasingly called him Clarence, her face turned into that of Dean's. His mischievous smile would give him a fraction of a second that is worthy of celestial celebration, right before it turns into an evil puddle of blood and flesh, staring furiously at Castiel, screaming rightful accusations and blame. It was the worst part of it all-knowing that the lunacy didn't even need to fabricate anything. All that was required to make him suffer was the recollection of his past mistakes. The appalling greatness of his madness is its self-reliance on truth.
How low had he sunken that Truth should be his torture?
Much time had passed when Castiel finally had his first moment of clear awareness. It was an odd experience, as if he was a blind man who had randomly come across an oasis while wandering through a vast dessert of nothingness. He woke up suddenly from the agonizing loop of insanity. Castiel remembers that moment to the very last detail. It was a Thursday afternoon. He knows this because Meg, for some reason, keeps a calendar by his bed. It must have rained earlier that day, for the air smelled of damp concrete and distant grass. Meg walked into the room with a tray on her hands. She brought food and was friendly, so Castiel's overarching lunacy showed him Dean. He knew it was Meg, but the sight of Dean brought such great solace that he complied swiftly. After all, this madness was his punishment, and this soothing sight is but all a part of a psychotic episode, such that by seeing Dean, he really was punishing himself.
"Here you go, Clarence," Dean's voice was off, very far from what he recalled it to be, but Castiel made do. "Enjoy your meal, sugar." It was odd to hear Dean speaking coyly to him, especially in such demonically flirtatious tone, but Castiel could not bare to lose sight of Dean. So he surrendered.
Not yet fully aware of the fact that he had temporarily snapped out of his madness, Castiel prepared himself for whatever horror that usually followed Dean's appearance. He stared at Dean as much as he could, before his madness turns Dean against his own sanity again. On that particular Sunday afternoon, however, Meg remained Dean, and Dean remained Dean. Castiel thought that it must be a trick by that devilish lunacy, to make him believe that it truly was Dean before him, only to hook him once again to the false belief that he no longer hated him.
But the deterioration did not happen, at least not as quickly as he expected. Castiel timidly waved at Dean, silently asking him to come closer. Dean looked confused, bewildered even, and raised his eyebrow in a way that took Castiel's breath away. The lazy beams of a Thursday afternoon's sky pierced through the window and lit up this miserable room of a certain psychiatric ward. It also lit up Dean's face, illuminating his beautiful jawline, perfect blue eyes, and scruffy chin precisely as how they were when Castiel last saw Dean. It was physically impossible for Castiel to appreciate such bodily features back then, but on that afternoon, after months of erosion from Lucifer's curse, Castiel wasn't so sure about his immunity anymore.
Dean walked up to Castiel and sat by his bed. Castiel, once again, avoided eye contact with him, but Dean just kept nearing. He bent his back and used his hand to fondle Castiel's messy hair. It was soaked with sweat-as it had been ever since endless madness replaced Castiel's waking consciousness-but Dean didn't mind, and Castiel took comfort in knowing that.
But Dean was approaching too quickly, too near. His proximity made Castiel panic. He does not deserve Dean's company, not when he has caused so much misfortune, so much devastation unto him.
"What's wrong, Clarence?" The corners of Dean's lips curled into a dangerous grin. Castiel sheepishly closed his eyes, in the fear that his lunacy would come back any second, bringing back the Dean Winchester he sees everyday: the furious Dean, in the place of this smiling, peaceful Dean.
They remained so for the next few seconds. Dean sat by Castiel's bed, bending over, his face but inches away from that of Castiel's, while Castiel himself shut his eyes closed, every single muscle on his vessel tensed up in anticipation of the continuation of his chosen misery. Fear ran wild on Castiel's face, and it was evident that he feared losing this moment so much that he tossed it away as a preemptive attempt to save himself from heartbreak. He heard light chuckles pouring from Dean's throat, flowing like mercury all over Castiel's chest and onto where his bloodstained Grace was situated. He felt Dean's lips on his own.
Startled, Castiel opened his eyes, only to the sight of Meg's horrific, demonic face. That was the end of the first of his conscious episodes. The world was filled with blood, violence, despair, and justice again.
As more time passed, Castiel learnt to appreciate his random episodes of consciousness. It was as if the madness in him wanted him to rest, so that he remains sane enough to suffer from insanity. He greatly savors these moments, because they are the only time when his hallucinated Dean Winchester does not enumerate Castiel's own faults at him in incredibly violent fashions. Those words leave Castiel no room for escaping, each bringing forth a certain memory of his past that he regrets the most. The killing of the first borns in Egypt, the slaughtering of men, women, and their children during the Bubonic Plague, opening the gate of Purgatory and letting in the Leviathans, and disappointing Dean over and over again-all these memories haunt him, manifested through Dean's screaming and punching and stabbing and hurting him.
It is thus that his conscious episodes have become the only thread keeping him from death, if death by madness does happen to an angel at all. Castiel is glad, even grateful, that his madness has been kind enough to give him a friendly Dean during these moments.
"Darling Cas, it's time to down some pills, sweetheart," Meg walks into the room with a small cup of medication in her hands. Funny humans, she thought, so bold yet so fragile. There is no medication for a soul, at least not one that humans can manufacture. She herself would much rather prefer a soul free of sedation. Raw agony is the key to a classy demonic life.
Cas is sitting on his bed, as he has been for the past few months. Such a stupid angel, this one. She feels a great contempt toward Castiel-how stupid must he have been to sign up for this crap, just for a puny human? She herself wouldn't have done it, not even in exchange of that sweet, sexy little soul of Dean Winchester's. It would be a real treat alright, but Meg would never go kamikaze for it.
The nutty angel is staring at her again. It brings her some unease, but at the same time it also amuses her. Who is he really looking at? She would put her bet on Dean Winchester. That longing in Cas's eyes is so blatantly unpolished that it must be Dean he's seeing. At least so she imagines, because, oh, the things she wouldn't do to that sexy piece of ass.
Then again, the things she would do is probably very different from what Castiel would do to Dean.
Meg walks up to Castiel, grabs a chair, and sits right next to his bed. She takes the meds out of that pathetic little plastic cup, and says to Cas: "Here you go, Lindsay. Time to eat your breakfast." Cas stares blankly at her, his eyes eerily glistening with some form of emotion she does not recognize. Must be an angel thing.
"Don't let me down, Lindsay, don't force the Regina George out of me." How low has she sunken to reference Mean Girls? Then again, Castiel isn't exactly in the right mind to judge her, so she let herself pass this time. Over the course of her performance as a nurse masters here, she has found out that Cas responds very well to that phrase, "don't let me down." She watches him as he hastily grabs all of the pills and downed it in a split of a second. Those words work like a charm. It is as if he fears something awful is to happen to him if ever he lets her down. It is most amusing to watch him panic in fear: Cas has become her new personal chew toy.
"'attaboy," Meg says, patting the angel on his head. She then bends toward him and gives him a tiny kiss on the lips. It is always such fun to observe his reaction to their kisses. She loves that petty gratitude, that humility and self-loathe in him when she kisses him. Such pitiful gratefulness for such blasphemous a gift-a kiss from a demon. Hah! She can just imagine God's face when He finds out that His own son is actually grateful for a kiss from a demon like her. Even Lucifer never pulled such a hilarious insult off.
Castiel tries very hard to savor the lingering taste of Dean's lips on his own. It is difficult, because the sensation is mixed with the bitterness of the pills he just swallowed dry. But he is grateful. Dean is no longer mad at him. Dean no longer blames him. Dean recognizes him as family.
For a very brief moment, in his interminable craze, Castiel is at greater peace than he ever was since his own creation.
＊＊＊
It is the Word of God that strikes him awaken. There shoots a loud "Ping!," and he awakes, at least partially. He feels a weight by his legs, which he is sure belongs to Meg, his demonic caregiver. Castiel knows that he is awake, because his hallucination of Dean Winchester is no more. There is only the ugly, abominable demon sitting next to him, not anyone else.
"Hold on, Aurora, your prince ain't here yet, girl," Meg sneeringly says. She has never seen Castiel do this before, waking up like a zombie at night. Usually he stays on his bed pass five, not moving at all, but occasionally weeping like a five year old boy. Convinced that his tears are probably a magical ingredient of some recipe for some form of spell, Meg has collected them over the months, until one day she found herself practically hoarding bottles and bottles of angel tears and decided it's become kind of creepy.
"You…your face," Castiel says, staring at Meg's face as it shifts rapidly between those of Dean's and Meg's. The hallucinations have not completely disappeared. In fact, Castiel is beginning to doubt that it will ever. Meg's face is becoming more and more dizzying, twirling into a confusing concoction of both Dean's and Meg's features.
"What of my face?" Dean looks back at him and asks.
"It's…" Castiel hesitates, for he has awaken, and that means he has lost the privilege of convincing himself that it is truly Dean who takes care of him. There is no room for debate-he knows with utmost certainty that it is Meg who sits beside him, not Dean. "It's…beautiful," Castiel finally says. He prays to God that she can at least stay visually as Dean for a little longer. Just a little longer.
Miraculously, she does. Meg's face remained that of Dean's, and Castiel can finally look at her the old way again. In retrospect, Castiel will always wonder if it was God's divine assistance that made him see Meg in Dean's image, such that he would have the strength to keep walking, or if it was Mistress Time's cruel joke that henceforth has haunted every waking second of Castiel's existence. In the years to come, even after Meg's redemptive death, he will forever see two separate Deans, one that took care of him in the asylum, and one that he has let down over and over and over again. Regardless, at this very moment, he willingly played pretend. Insanity has softened his mind of steel, and yielded him a victim of affectionate compromises.
"What did you say?" Meg is more than surprised-shocked, even. What is this? An angel complimenting a demon for her looks? Houston, we have a bigass freagin' problem here. Castiel looks at her and repeats himself, his tone much more confident and relaxed than the last.
"What the-" She exclaimed as Castiel almost childishly pulls closer and puts a light kiss on her lips. He is a lousy kisser, and no tongue is involved. It is exactly as how Meg has been kissing him for the past few months here. It seems like Castiel, having so little experience in such things, is replicating what knowledge he has of the art of showing affection. He uses his fingers to rub against Meg's left earlobe, and, with the same pride and request for affirmation a 5 year old boy would when showing his mother a fingerpaint art he made for her, explains:"This is how your distant ancestors in East Africa showed each other affection."
Meg blinks a few times, searching for words to retort, and finally teases him, saying "wow, slow down there tiger, why don't you buy me dinner first?"
Castiel blinks a few time as well, and with what little sanity the Tablet has restored in him, registers that Dean is asking for food. Finally, a task that he is guaranteed to succeed in! "Yes, we must dine. Wait here, I will bring us provision," he tells Dean, and teleports out of the mental ward, leaving Meg completely speechless and bewildered.
He zaps himself, as how Dean would word it, to the nearest Big Biggerson's fast-food joint. He remembers from memories long ago that Dean particularly adores their bacon burger with extra cheese. Castiel had examined the content of such American dish, and learnt that it was very rich in protein, fat, useless calories, and nothing else. He remembers wondering silently as to how Dean managed to be free of cardiovascular diseases-then again, he recalled, with such frequent and rigorous physical tasks a vocational routine, it did make sense that Dean should remain so fit. Castiel doesn't carry any secular currency on him, but he mustn't fail Dean, not again. So, he decides to clear the affable clerk's arteries of accumulating cholesterol as payment. He also remembers to ameliorate his kidney conditions, in exchange of their pie. Castiel must not forget about the pie.
"I am back," Castiel zaps back into his room, and sees Dean hanging up her phone. "I bring food, just as you suggested."
"Wow, Castiel. I knew you were going all Beautiful Mind, but I didn't know that you were this nutty," Meg says.
"Beautiful? Yes, you are very beautiful. All the thorny pain on you…I wish I could help you, but that is the primary aspect of your beauty," Castiel tries very hard to make the best of the situation. He cannot undo what he has wronged Dean in the past, but at the very least he can try to show him his true beauty.
"Hold on there Ginsberg, I just puked a little in my mouth," Meg pretends to gag. It hurts Castiel severely, but he must not show such petty pain. It pales in the face of what he has made Dean go through. So, to show that he is still of practical assistance, Castiel tries to offer help.
"Bananas can cure nausea. The monkeys discovered it first, but your kind caught on very quickly. Homo sapiens are a very adaptive species."
"A demon and a nutty angel living together in a funny farm. Sounds like a cheap sitcom," Meg rolls her eye and sits Castiel down on his bed. He insists that she eats, but quite frankly the only thing Meg craves right now is some fresh human soul. As she bites into the greasy burger, she ponders the possibility of snatching another one of these cuckoo heads without getting caught. She is a demon after all, despite her playing all rainbows and unicorn with this crazy angel for the past months.