The lever is smooth beneath Castiel's fingertips.
It's cold, the metal, and that in itself is perplexing. This weapon, to many, is regarded as the easiest to operate. No bullets for the firearms or fear of needing to re-load - no sharpeners for the blades. No, Castiel thinks, as the soft click of doors closing reaches his ears, this weapon is – surely – the simplest to use.
The effect, however, is still devestating.
Castiel's fingers pull down, the lever heavier than he had remembered it – and the counting begins. "One, two, three, four…" He's sweating, but this part – it's important to him. The most important part there is. "Seven, eight, nine –"
The screaming starts early today, and that throws Castiel off track for a few moments. Perhaps he'd pulled down sooner than he'd thought – perhaps his shaking limbs had finally gotten the better of him. It would not, of course, be the first time.
The soldier's eyelids flutter closed and his breathing huffs out in the form of calming numbers. Castiel can hear, distantly, Gabriel's voice, and the steady rhythm of his words gets clearer and clearer as the counting goes on; this, he knows, is his own personal brand of medication.
The prince searched the castle for hours, but still could not find the brothers in the fire.
Castiel was younger, probably around six, when Gabriel first told this story. Still – it remains one of his favorites.
"One hundred four, one hundred five, one hundred six."
The palace is in an uproar, and everyone's goin' crazy, completely nuts. Heck, the screams are so loud that some woman's ears started bleeding. But – hey Cas, don't cry! It's okay! The prince continues, lookin' for his little brother, and finally – yeah Cas, you guessed right! He found him. Anyway – pay attention and stop interrupting! Anyway, the prince found his little brother and ran out as fast as he could, carrying the younger sibling in his arms while getting the help of everyone he could. The guards put out the fire and everyone cheered as the boy left the smoking building with the infant–
"One hundred forty four, forty five, forty six, seven, eight–"
And all was saved.
"One hundred fifty."
When Castiel opens his eyes, the area is unnaturally still. The prince, he understands, must have saved the day. With a careful flick of his wrist his fingers are disengaged from the lever, now back into its rightful position. There are, he notices, other soldiers now, opening the door and heading into the room with deliberately practiced calm.
"You done good, soldier."
The sharp voice is in direct contrast with the still quiet, accompanied by a hard pressure. Castiel blinks and nods, turning to the source of the noise to find Zachariah's hand on his shoulder, squeezing with unneeded force.
"Yes sir," Castiel's own tone is harsh, unforgiving, with no traces of his crumbling demeanor. "No survivors, as ordered."
Zachariah snorts as he pokes his head into the room in question, scanning it with eyebrows high enough to disappear inside his cap.
"Good. I never expect any less of you, Novak. Oh –" He pulls out of the room then, face suddenly becoming far too amused, "And your brother wishes to see you when you're –" He motions to the room, a tiny, twisted smile upturning the corner of his lips, "Finished cleaning the mess."
Castiel means to open his mouth, means to utter some sort of stony reply, but the man is already walking off; he's left Castiel to begin his assistance with hauling form after form into the group fire.
One hundred and seven men. Four hundred and twenty women. Two hundred and two children – fifty five infants.
The smoke, the soldier regards, is a hideous black, and the smell prickles painfully inside the walls of his nose. Burning flesh, he notes, forehead glistening with the exertion of moving bodies.
This is wrong.
The voice in Castiel's head is stronger than it used to be. And, of course, that makes it all the more infuriating. His grip on the gun slung over his shoulder intensifies, suddenly, trouble sensed before it really comes to pass.
"Yeah, well suck my dick you Nazi shits!"
Inwardly, Castiel is groaning, his stomach in tight, anxious knots. The scene is not unusual – his brother, suited up and ready for a trip to the outside world, looking down upon a fairly young looking boy. He couldn't be older than sixteen.
"I suggest," Michael's drawl becomes clearer as Castiel's steps carry him closer, "that you watch your attitude, boy."
Of course Michael doesn't have to do the dirty work himself – two other men are holding the rowdy teenager back, their fingers gripping so tight that Castiel was certain that there would be bruises.
"I don't have to listen to you! I don't have to listen to any of you!" The young man was out of control, eyes darting wildly around in an agonized frenzy until finally catching sight of Castiel. "You just killed my family," he breathes, and Castiel can feel the breath halt in his chest.
One hundred and seven men. Four hundred and twenty women. Two hundred and two children – fifty five infants.
And which ones had belonged to the boy now standing in front of him?
"Enough boy," Michael's tone is not as forgiving as it was before, his eyes raking over the sight before him. "We've done nothing but God's work. Right, Novak?"
Words, stuck in Castiel's throat, guilt pooling like bile at the bottom of his stomach. Lies like acid on his tongue – and they burn, everything burns, as he forces his face into the usual, practiced stone-cold expression. "Of course, sir." The soldier's inner turmoil had become just that – inner, no signs of struggle evident on the hard lines and shadows dipping across his face. Michael motions him to go on and the words come easier, the acid easier to ignore. "You have no family now, boy. "I dare say you should show us some respect before your fate is – essentially – the same."
When the boy launches, Castiel wishes for nothing more than the chance to step aside – to alow the grieving young man his fit of rage. But with Michael, with the other men watching –
Castiel doesn't realize he's counting again until he's hauling another body into the blackened smoke, the familiar caress of heat tingeing his face red.
One hundred and seven men. Four hundred and twenty women. Two hundred and three children – fifty five infants.
