A Destiel drabble challenge.
Dean/Cas.
Sam.
Cas begins to experience stronger emotions.
"Apathy"
Castiel didn't think anyone would find it particularly useful or productive to seek him out in all of his contagious despair, but Sam did. By accident, of course, since Sam otherwise avoided such situations. He saw the angel perching on the walkway just outside the motel room; whatever motel room he and Dean and Cas had all ended up in, in some drifter town, in some flyover state, where no one had noticed them arrive and wouldn't notice when they ultimately left.
Sam strode over to Cas, already feeling awkward. After all, Cas was Dean's project, or maybe vice versa, but either way, Sam was out of his element. And to make things worse, Cas was crying. Yes, crying. His eyes drew tears that cascaded down his face, exuding...emotion. It was real, and the closer Sam got the more he realized just how tangible the angel's pain was. It was raw and relentless and devastatingly...human.
Cas looked up to Sam's tall figure, which blocked partial light from a lamely insufficient bulb above a door behind him, and Cas' face was all shadows and moonlight because of it. He did a fast, messy swipe of his face and eyes, as though he might fool the young hunter into thinking he was once again stoic and unmoved.
"Are you...all right?" Sam's voice was hesitant, though rather resolute considering just how much he wished Dean was there to deal with this. After all, he was the reason for the tears. Sam knew that much. And besides, Dean always knew what to say. Not when the two of them needed to discuss their feelings but where Cas was involved, Dean always somehow found the time, the words, the faith, the trust. But he was asleep now; inside, warm, out of the dank, gently polluted air, and Sam was left to pick up the pieces; the aftermath of a broken - no, shredded - heart.
"I am fine, Dean. I mean Sam." Cas choked on his words.
"Are you sure? What's going on?"
The angel looked up and nodded astutely, "It's not of import."
"Look..." Sam fumbled for words. "I thought you couldn't cry? I thought you couldn't..."
"Feel?"
Sam sighed, somewhat apologetic, though he wasn't sure what for.
Castiel seemed suddenly acerbic; sarcastic, even, though that was much less pronounced than his crying was, and seemed fleeting enough. Sam dismissed it.
"I am not supposed to cry," Cas said. "Because I am not supposed to feel. But God did not eliminate the possibility. He made it very unlikely."
"So you can feel?" Sam asked. "Why?"
"Ordinary things, things that you and Dean react to; things that humans are affected by - they don't have an impact on us. On me. Unless-unless they're stronger than that."
"What do you mean?"
"Sam, your brother was that. Stronger, I mean. Like a touchstone. I never wanted this. I used to wish I could feel - love, pleasure, happiness. But now - now, I just want apathy. Apathy doesn't hurt. Apathy isn't pain, or rejection, or loss, or fear. It just is. It's just existence. Apathy isn't tears." Cas' voice reached a sudden stressed octave, also very human, very sorrowful, very desperate. He rose to his feet and motioned down to where he'd sat. "Apathy doesn't sit outside motel rooms in the cold in Middle-of-Nowhere Montana, crying over a mortal!"
Sam was quiet for a few moments, at first tense, and then, thoughtful: "Can't you ask God to make it...more unlikely? That you feel?"
"It does not work like that, Sam." Cas replied, continuing although he knew the whole thing was over Sam's head; too complex, too tangled up in the bond between him and his brother. "I can not question God. And I find myself - within all of this feeling - wanting: wanting answers, wanting apathy. ...But all that I really want is Dean."