Slight spoilers for episode 8x17 "Goodbye Stranger".

Warnings for slight violence and angst.

:)

~Phoenix

-oOo-

It took one hundred and seventy-four Deans for Castiel to stop screaming.

The first one was the worst. The first one was always the worst, according to Naomi, speaking in sweet and motherly tones that drastically contrasted with the blood already staining her hands. It will get better.

And he hoped it would.

Because the first time was -

...was bad.

The first Dean.

Fixing Castiel with a strange glance, taking an instinctive step backwards -

"Cas?"

And he knew what Naomi wanted him to do.

And he would not do it.

He would not do it until Naomi appeared by his side, slammed Dean against the wall with a flick of her hand, and grabbed Castiel's arms with a strength far greater than his own.

He would not do it until she brought his arms above his head for him and plunged it into Dean's chest, their dual screams painting the air red.

And he would not stop screaming.

He did not stop screaming until Dean number one hundred and seventy-four.

It took four hundred and thirty-six Deans for Castiel to stop crying.

He cried. He cried without shame and without embarrassment, even as he could not remember the last time he displayed this kind of emotion. He cried even after Naomi took his hands away, as she pushed him only through the surges of her mind against his.

He cried as he killed another Dean. And another. This next time, he had no time to try to explain. Dean 259 died with fear on his face, like 104 of the others - and Castiel had counted.

Others had anger. Confusion. Betrayal. A select few had understanding, those who comprehended Naomi's presence with a kind of solemn acceptance.

Castiel memorized each one.

They were all so similar.

And even as he tried to reconcile his actions, even as he justified them, repeating over and over - this is not Dean. this is not Dean. this is NOT Dean -, it made no difference. It was still him - still his voice, screaming to stop. Still his body, breaking so easily under his hands. Still his dying gasps and pleading eyes. And it still broke Castiel.

By Dean number eight hundred and seventy five, Castiel stopped looking. He stopped watching for the emotions, stopped trying to explain why he was doing what he was. He still fought, with whatever strength he had left. He still struggled to hold his arm back. To stop the final blow. He tried to divert the route, but the blade always struck home.

He stopped watching Dean over Dean go through the same routine. They looked at the blade. They looked up at him. They were angry-confused-betrayed-afraid.

Some of them slumped to their side. Some of them tried to weakly grab at his arm.

"This isn't you," some of them whispered.

"Cas…" murmured others.

And some of them simply gasped, words left unsaid.

And then they died.

So he stopped watching.

It took nine hundred and eighty three Deans for Castiel to stop fighting.

He felt himself retreating. He felt Naomi's cold fingers wrap themselves tighter and tighter around his head, and he wondered why he bothered.

He wondered if he wanted to be himself anymore.

After - after doing this.

Dean number 983 was the last Dean he fought for.

He had turned, confusion on his face as Castiel emerged from the shadows. After he recognized him, he relaxed, and actual smile spreading across his face - something so rare from all of these Deans - and he took a step forward, reaching out a hand. "Cas, thank God -"

Cas knew what he was supposed to do - he was supposed to take that arm and twist it, breaking it instantly in two different places and bringing Dean number 983 to his knees. He was supposed to plunge the blade swiftly and thoughtlessly into his chest and leave him to his dying breaths.

That was what he was supposed to do.

So that was exactly what he did.

The arm snapped easily, and Dean's face of relief was twisted into one of intense and extreme pain. His scream sliced the air, and Castiel was jolted out of his reverie as Dean fell to his knees, gasping with pain.

Castiel took a step forward. He raised the angel blade.

But no, and no -

Like every time before, but so much harder now, he felt himself fighting, struggling against the icy walls around his mind, straining to break the routine, to break Naomi's hold on him -

He paused just long enough, something flickering across his face, for Dean to choke out words through his cries.

"Cas," he gasped, fear flickering through his eyes as he tried to struggle backwards, clutching his arm, "Cas, please - this isn't you, I know it's not. Don't do this, please -"

And Cas fought, he fought, he fought so hard, but his arm moved forward, and the blade was getting so close as Dean tried to move back -

"We're family, Cas. We're family. I -" Dean made eye contact with Cas, and for the first time in a long line of Deans, Castiel looked as he said - "Cas, I n-"

And his arm was shooting forward, and Dean was impaled on the sword, and it was too late.

Dean clutched Cas's arm, still holding the blade, closing his eyes against the excruciating pain. Cas felt Dean's grip on his trench coat weaken, loosen, and Dean fell into him, still so trusting. Castiel unconsciously caught him, lowering him gently to the floor. Dean opened his eyes in Castiel's arms, looking up at him, and his eyes -

And Dean number 983 died.

And Castiel gave up.

A few hundred Deans later and Cas was completely gone. Nothing but a hollow shell of him remained. He broke, he stabbed, he killed his best friend a thousand times over.

Sometimes he took a second to look at all the Deans. There were 1,239 of them, to be exact - and he had counted each one, registered every last cry. They were collapsed, limp, still reaching out for something - someone - who wasn't there anymore.

Because Castiel wasn't there anymore.

And he didn't know if he ever would be again.

-oOo-

sorry for that.

(I'm not sorry.)

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