No one expected the future to be this bad. This horrible. This disturbing. Not that Armageddon is supposed to be pleasant. But still, this is worse than people thought.
There isn't a Heaven anymore. And there isn't even much of an Earth. Hell eats everything, taking over and dominating like a parasite, releasing a disease meant to turn the last of the humans crazy. And only pockets of survivors remain, clinging to life, wondering how much longer they'll last and where oh where they'll go when Death comes to take them by the hand. Right now, everyone who isn't dead is just waiting, waiting for peace, whether it come by the Devil retreating back to Hell or getting killed somewhere in the crossfire.
Petty things get people by. Little things that keep people happy, smiling, sedated. There isn't much to work with, but there's enough to let enough float by. And they come in little capsules, little white ones, stuffed with chemicals that twist reality, make things a little better.
Castiel, since the Flight abandoned him, made friends with these little things. He doesn't have any power; he's basically useless, so why not indulge in the finer things? They aren't all that fine, he knows, but it's the only thing that keeps him from dwelling on the featherless wings hanging from his back, the rotting bones of faith decaying while still attached to his body. No one else can see them, see that all the fine black feathers fell off long ago, see the damage of a few years without Heaven, see how ugly and rotten they are. And with the aid of the pills, the ones that dull his senses, he can't see the either.
And that's why he's always out there now, why his cabin reeks of burning herbs, why empty pharmacy bottles stuff his coats, why he is, generally, stoned.
Dean understands enough. He'll never fully understand, but he recognises that Castiel needs the pills. He tells people it's addiction, and every time he comes back from a raid and tosses him the bottles, he yells at him to try and make them last this time. But it's more complicated than that, he knows, and there's something wrong with Castiel. And though he doesn't know how to fix him, he knows the medicine helps do something. And helping just a little is the best anyone can do these days.
It's another one of those nights. Those marginal successes when everyone comes back from the raid fairly unscathed and there's a nice bundle of supplies that ought to last a little while. No one greets the returning fighters, the rest of the camp nestled in for the night, ready for another blank sleep that alleviates the pain of living. But Dean knows one soul that won't rest, won't because he can't, because he's not human enough to do that, but still human enough to get hurt.
He parts from the others as they unload, gun still strapped around his shoulder, jacket pocket loaded with a candy shop of drugs. He hit the pharmacy especially for Castiel, making sure he got an extra amount of the extra strong kind. Last mission he took him on, Castiel broke his foot, so he deserved something stronger than the usual dose. He hates handing him the drugs, giving him the crouch to lean on instead of teaching him how to walk, but he can't bring himself to force Castiel to hobble along with a limp and a grimace. No, he can't do that, not while he still has a shred of humanity left in him.
No, he can't see Castiel in that much pain; he's suffered enough.
Dean walks up the creaking steps into Castiel's cabin, pushing through the screen of clacking beads. They set up a bed of pillows for him, one that kept his back and broken foot propped up at all times. The bandages don't look like they're tied properly, too tight in some spots and too loose in others, more like they're hurting than helping. But his eyes don't stay on the foot for long, Dean soon staring into a set of vivid blue eyes, deep with hurt, but bright with relief. A shaky grin curls on his chapped lips.
"Our fearless leader has returned," Castiel cracks, voice strained. The other medication wore off an hour ago, and an hour is a pretty long time with nothing to do but think about how awful it is to be alive.
Dean rolls his eyes, a low grunt escaping his throat as he fishes in his pocket for the pills. He pulls out two bottles, holding them up so Castiel can see them, then shakes them to rattle the capsules inside. He watches the fallen angel's eyes widen, raw relief flashing in his eyes like lightning.
"Don't waste them," Dean coldly tells him, just as he does every time, and then tosses over the bottles. They soar through the air, one landing comfortably on a deflated pillow, the other caught deftly in Castiel's right hand.
He looks at the bottle in his hand and smiles wider, soft, broken chuckles leaking from his lips. This is what he needs, yes, this is it. He can't thank Dean enough for all he does getting these little things for him, but he can save the gratitude for when his mind cannot perceive the pain and his body is numb under the influence of whatever he's injecting into his system. Like it even matters what he poisons himself with anymore.
Dean empties the rest from his pockets as Castiel unscrews the lid, listening to him pour out a handful as he lines up the bottles like toy soldiers. From the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Castiel counting out the pile in his palm (one, two, five, seven…) before rolling his shoulders and tossing them all in his mouth. Dean cringes when he hears him gulp them all down dry, but tries not to let Castiel notice.
But he does, because his eyes are always on Dean, and he waits for him to turn around again before putting on another wide grin. It's a demented smile, one of feigned happiness, one through mountains of pain, one that hurts to look at. Picture of a man who could once balance the world on his finger tips and now must resort to popping pills and kissing strangers to feel better.
Though his eyes tell the truth, because he can't lie to Dean, the one person he has left, the only thing he still holds on to. And they whisper all the laments and moans he keeps bottled up, screaming how much everything hurts, how he's mangled and broken, how he hates feeling idle and being useless, and how much he loves Dean for being here with him, for him, supporting him when the camp would likely be better off without him. It says that he'd do anything for Dean, because Dean's done more than enough for him. And to Castiel, Dean will always be that righteousness man he raised from perdition, the sword against the Adversary, the greatest man he's ever known.
Dean stares at Castiel a long moment, expression hard, putting on a solemn mask so the other doesn't know how overwhelming his gaze is. Then, Dean leaves, wordless, so Castiel can close his eyes and let the drugs kick in.
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