A/N: Hello! Just uploading some of my tumblr ficlets here.
"Ultimately, it was all about saving one human, right?"
"Well, guess what?"
"He's dead, too!"
No…
Castiel slowly turns his head away from the microphone.
For a moment, he doesn't quite understand what Metatron is saying. Despite how they slice through his consciousness, the words aren't making sense. He is ready to deny it, because this is Dean they are talking about—Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man, the man with the unbreakable will, the one who gives everyone hope, and who loves so fiercely. The one who had stopped the apocalypse, and raised Sam. The man who loves pie, and burgers, and his car. Who showed Cas acceptance, humanity. The one who made him feel like he had a place… A place nestled deep in the hearts of two amazing brothers that he would— has— given everything for! And the one who made him really feel!
And — and Metatron just gives him this look.
…With a feeling like his heart has turned to stone, thumped dully to the floor, and rolled away, Cas knows, just knows…
He doesn't need any more confirmation.
He blinks once, twice, and clenches his jaw, fighting back the sting behind his eyelids, the urge to tear himself from the chair, and hurl himself at Metatron— but there is a task at hand. He must complete this. He can't let this chance go.
And Dean is gone.
The rational part of himself says that no matter how quickly he tries to get to Dean, he won't be able to do anything for him. He does not have enough power anymore to bring a man back from the dead, nor does he want to do something that Dean might not want. Another part of him wants to break from his restraints and kill.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Metatron is still talking, but Cas isn't sure he hears everything; his mind is so full, and he can't concentrate. He forces his mind to process the words, and listens just enough to answer when he needs to.
"You give our brothers and sisters too little credit, and they will soon realize that you have been playing them…" he grinds out.
He won't give Metatron the satisfaction of seeing him loose it. Metatron shoves at his chair and babbles on.
A pin-line forms between his brows, and how his jaw quivers with the effort; he says to Metatron that everyone now knows what he has been doing to them. He glances at the microphone, and there is no sense of victory when Metatron's face drops. Castiel barely registers it when the other Angels storm in and pin Metatron. He barely feels cold hands on him as they search for injuries and undo the cuffs. He feels empty.
He is bone-tired, and it's a different type of tiredness— one he hasn't felt before, even as a human…
He looks on as the others securely bind Metatron, but a sudden, sharp jolt of protectiveness over Dean has him snatching the blade with Dean's blood on it. He doesn't want Metatron touching it. And he's not even sure he wants to hurt him anymore. He's not sure he really wants anything anymore. Maybe it would be better if he never felt at all, never felt again. He tells Hannah that much when he says he simply wants to be an angel. Angels follow orders, do not ask questions, do not form profound bonds with summer-eyed humans.
They close the gates on Metatron, and he's not sure he feels any better.
He wants, and does not want to go to him. He knows he should probably comfort Sam, too.
He can't bring himself to do either.
He has failed. He caused this. He got Dean killed, Gadreel killed, and so, so many more.
Sam will be all alone once Castiel's stolen grace is done devouring him from the inside out.
What will he do?
He doesn't want to see Sam cry, and he knows Sam will need time alone. He will at least give his friend that.
Castiel doesn't want his last memory of Dean to be a Dean who is grey, and covered in his own blood, cold and dead. He can't go, not yet at least. So he does what he always does: he works. Works on cleaning up the messes he made, one by one, keeping himself busy, but his hands are heavy and numb. He does all he can, until he can bear no more, and then leaves Heaven. He goes back to the empty motel room that he always favored for some reason. Perhaps it was the cracked painting of a classic car that hung on one of the walls.
He slumps in a chair, alone, and buries his face in his hands. He doesn't know how long he sits like that, but he eventually begins to drift off. He sways in his seat as he gets closer to sleep, silently begging everything to just stop.
The old yellowing lamp next to the bed fizzles, and Cas thinks it's just his luck that he would have to sit in the dark, now. It buzzes irritatingly, monotonously, and he's almost asleep when a strange scent drifts under his nose.
He is wide awake, he knows that scent anywhere, and he whips his head around, heart racing, readying himself for a fight—and—
He chokes "Dean?"