The souls start pouring in, filling him up and then more. He's forced to his knees, chocking on them. S-so impossibly full. Maybe Dean was right; maybe this is wrong. There's so many-too many. He can't—there's so much power—it's overwhelming, tearing him apart, taking every shred of self he has and drowning it. This is how it will end, he is going to die here under this crushing wave of power, this is it—i-it's too much—
No.
It's perfect.
How could he ever be afraid of them? These souls mean him no harm; they only wish to serve, to be of use in God's plan. They make him so close to God. Righteous intent flows through him like quicksilver. He shall carry out divine justice, unimpeded. Neither Raphael nor anyone else will try to stand against him, will want to hurt him, to see him bleeding and broken.
He is protected. With this power, he can protect all others like him, those with no one to turn to; he can be the one they rely on. God did not answer him. He begged and pleaded for a sign, for recognition, for just a shred of love. But God gave him nothing, turned away from his pleas. Or was he even listening to begin with?
He would not be like that. He would listen to every problem of those who turn to him, all their hurt and pain would become his own and he would help them.
He would be better than God.
Something within him shatters at the thought, and his lips pull upwards.
He is there, with Raphael and Crowley and Bobby and Sam and Dean, Dean, Dean. And he is saving them. Saving everyone. The sound of a snap is far away, a distant echo. Raphael is gone. The world seems brighter. Raphael had betrayed the new God and he had been punished justly. Crowley will die too, but it is such fun to watch him run scared. The souls in him jeer as those ones murdered by this demon's hands bare their fangs.
Dean (Dean DeanDeanDeanDeanDean) is talking. He is saying things that makes the souls balk, the souls know what he has been through, they understand his pain just like he shall understand the pain of all those who confide in him. They see how much he has been hurt by this human.
"Family?" the word is bittersweet on his tongue. He would like to roll it around in his mouth, taste the syllables, but the souls urge against it. They are here to protect and help him, and so he gives in to their whispers. The souls know best.
He keeps speaking, words flowing out with an ease that never came to him before, but all of that is secondary as he lets himself focus on the power within. It's everywhere, tingling the walls of his vessel, sparking and bucking under the restraint of skin and yet a smooth, constant flow that would do nothing to hurt him.
He wants to look at his hands. They do not feel like his hands. They feel like the instruments of justice and righteousness and all that is good—
It twinges, the pin-prick of the blade going through his back, right at his very center and for an instant it cuts through the wall of souls and he wants to cry out—or cry—it's me! Me, Cas,I'm still just Cas!—but then the balm of souls soothes the open wound and he smiles.
It does not matter. He is their God now, they shall love him soon enough. He shall tell them that they must. Dean (Dean) always was rather slow.
What Castiel forgets is that Dean has never loved any god but his father, has never had blind faith in anything.
Oh well, he still has the souls. They love him.
He's so powerful, and with their help, he can make the world beautiful the way God intended but failed to do. No one can stop him. The Winchesters are just men. He is God.
Then why does he feel so helpless?
He laughs as dry tears stream down his face.
So, the references to the ep. might be a bit out of whack, I was not going to re-watch that episode from hell just to confirm what I already know the general gist of.
This is a companion piece to Laugh and continued in Unmade