Killing Meg, it's— it's not a pleasing thought by any stretch of what little imagination Castiel has left.
But if Naomi ordered it, Castiel would do it. Albeit reluctantly. He would regret it, and maybe he would mourn, but he would do it.
But now he stands, Dean's broken wrist in his hand, a blade held just above his battered face, and Naomi is screaming to kill him— "You've done this a thousand times before!"— but he can't.
Yes, he's done this a thousand times before. With things that looked like Dean, moved like Dean, begged for their lives like Dean.
But this is Dean. Dean, who only ever prays for other people's sakes. Dean, who has a strange affection for pastry and glossy magazines with nude women of questionable ethnicities. Dean, who makes jokes to hide the hole inside of him and sometimes he can almost believe that it's working.
Dean, who is on the floor, begging. "I need you." "You're family." "I need you."
Over and over.
A new kind of prayer for him.
Dean, who gave up everything for the family he claims Castiel belongs to. Dean, who loves his car and his "tunes" and his classic movies and teasing his Cas because all of the references he makes go unnoticed.
"Cas— Cas, please— this isn't you—"
And it isn't.
This is Castiel. Naomi's puppet.
The little strings holding him up start to falter.
"I need you—"
Behind the bruising in those green, green eyes, Castiel can see love. Love so desperate it really is need, but it is, in fact, still love.
And this isn't him. He isn't Castiel anymore. He can't be.
He will choose free will, as Dean has always taught him to, and he will be Cas, and he will break free from this.
For Dean.
For his family.
