Title: a soldier i will be
Spoilers: 6x22, 7x01
Character/Pairing: Castiel-centric, some Dean/Cas and Sam/Cas. And Bobby, of course.
Disclaimer: Don't own it.
A/N: Come on, how could I not write fic for this episode? Also, the title is a line from the song Angel With A Shotgun by The Cab, which is such a Cas song it hurts. Go listen to it. Also, The Cab is amazing, so just go listen to all their songs, too, while you're at it. Anyways. Enjoy.
"Who are you?"
"I'm God."
There's a clock ticking somewhere.
Actually, there's a clock ticking everywhere, and everywhen. Church bells tolling, alarm clocks ringing, grandfather clocks gonging. Every second is tick tick ticking away, measured in the beat of six billion hearts. Counting down… counting down to what—? (he doesn't want to know the answer)
To be honest, this omnipresence thing is getting a bit old already.
Of course, it's probably just all in his head. Like them. He hears them whispering, all those souls, he hears the whispers and shoves them away. He shoves the emotions away, too—the fear, the guilt—because he is God, and God does not feel.
(that's what they always told him, anyways)
"People say I'm wrathful."
The voices, the voices. They're screaming at him, clambering for attention. Pathetic, he thinks. He hasn't even lasted a day and he's slipping. You're God. You can handle this. You must handle this.
"Let us out."
"Let us out!"
It starts in the church. Then it's building building building, and he can feel the pressure behind his eyelids like a hurricane. A storm is coming.
"LET US OUT. LET US OUT LET US OUT LET US OUT—"
He's slipping.
They're pushing at his skin, now. All those souls, pushing at his skin, and he feels pain (a pitiful, human thing) and he's falling apart, quite literally. But he can fix this. He is God. He can fix anything. Everything. He is God and he is going to fix this messed up planet and he is going to fix his vessel and he is going to shut those souls up already and—
"LET. US. OUT!"
The beggar he healed glances up at him with happiness, thankfulness… until his eyes adjust to the sunlight. "…Your face… what's wrong with you?"
It sounds like a death sentence. And that's when the fear resurfaces.
"Mistake… too late…"
He doesn't know where he is, or how he got there.
All he knows is—"Let us out!" No—well, he doesn't know anything. He remembers a bathroom and a mirror and fear, overwhelming fear. And then—yes, here it comes, rushing back—he remembers finding the quietest, most remote place he could think of (and he can think of quite a lot) and going there.
Now, he allows himself to be afraid. He curls up in the corner of this old, empty warehouse (not caring that he is God and God would never do such a thing, because he is so, so afraid) and he screams.
And screams, and screams, and screams.
"There are things much older than souls in Purgatory, and you gulped those in, too."
He's in active denial now.
Facing down Death, the two Winchesters, and Bobby Singer should not be this difficult. It shouldn't bring those pesky emotions roaring back to the surface, flying past the black weight of the souls and coming close, so very close, to skimming his face. No. He won't let them. He is God. And he will not fall apart so easily.
But Dean's concern—"Wait, uh, what older things?"—brings the nostalgia and the fear and the guilt rocketing back again, but he manages to rein them in before they can get the better of him. He can't afford to lose control now. He can't.
"Why do you think he created Purgatory?" Death is saying, and this time his composure slips. His eyes dart downward in an effort to mask the fear that is sure to be written all over his face. Damnit. Too late, all eyes on him (but he refuses to look at them, refuses).
"Enough."
Death smirks. "Stupid little soldier you are."
"All of you! I am a better God than my father. How can I make you understand?"
He's losing his mind.
The next thing he knows, he's waking up in a pool of blood. His? He has no idea. It's not until he stands up that he notices—oh Castiel, what have you done?—all the bodies, strewn about the room. Each in their own pool of blood. All of them dead.
His heart rockets downward and settles near the pit of his stomach. In fear. In revulsion. In guilt. What have you done?
He forgets, for a second, that he is God, and God does not feel. "No. No." All pretense dropped; he feels like crying in revulsion. What. Have. You. Done.
The souls reach for him again, calming him, twisting him. A laugh bubbles inside him but he refuses to let it out. He will not play their game.
Too late, they say.
Too strong, he knows.
"Hey, Castiel. …Um… maybe this is pointless."
Suddenly, Sam Winchester's voice breaks through all of it. Everything. The souls stop screaming, his head stops spinning. He concentrates on it, Sam's voice, latches on to it and refuses to let go.
Everything quiets.
"Look… I don't know if any part of you even cares, but—"
I do care, some part of him offers. Some part forgotten, long ago. It startles him.
"I still think you're one of us, deep down. Way, way off the reservation, but… look, we still have till dawn to stop this."
Dawn. He could end this, end it all, by dawn.
"Let us help."
He chokes on a sob.
"Please."
Sam's voice fades away at last, but the souls don't come back. Their voices are quiet, and he thinks they must be as shocked as he is.
Guilt floods him.
He knows what he has to do.
"I heard your call."
It's like a switch had been flipped.
Suddenly, everyone is intent on following his orders, offering him words of comfort, looking him in the eyes with no trace of revulsion, only kindness. Really, they shouldn't. He doesn't deserve it, their kindness. He doesn't deserve it.
"Dean—"
(he needs to apologize, now, before this is over)
"I feel regret. About you, and what I did to Sam."
"Yeah? Well you should."
(he knows, he knows he should)
"If there was time—if I was strong enough, I'd fix him now." (please believe that) "I just wanted to make amends before I die."
"Okay."
(I'm sorry)
"Is it working?" He has to ask.
"Does it make you feel better?"
"No. You?"
Dean sighs, almost imperceptibly. "Not a bit."
(I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry)
He turns away.
"Hang in there. 'S a couple of minutes."
He's not entirely conscious when Bobby hauls him up in front of the wall. The souls are back and they're screaming, screaming at him as if they know that this is the end, that shortly this will all be over. He's weak and shaking and he sways where he stands, as Bobby's voice rings clear behind him.
He's so weak.
When his knees buckle, Dean is there to hold him up. He wants to lean into his touch but it's gone as quick as it came, three fingers on his back and then fading, fading, gone. He's alone in this. He always has been.
The blood on the wall begins to burn, red hot.
One last shot to set this right, Castiel. One last shot.
He turns. Dean meets his eyes, his lips parted in fear, concern and guilt and hurt scrawled across his face.
"I'm sorry, Dean." And he means it. He's never been more sorry for anything in his life.
The wall splits open.
Time's up.