A/N: Warnings: Self-Burning, possible disturbing imagery, self-loathing thoughts.


I ruled the world, with these hands I shook the heavens to the ground.

Then I lost it all, and who can save me now?

-x-

Castiel held the flame close to his face, letting it flicker just before his lips; watching it dance with subtle admirance. It was confident, it had nothing to lose, just had to quiver about and wait for the next thing to lay claim to. Castiel envied this flame, blindly it could go about destroying, not necessarily on its own free will, but with a liberation the fallen seraph couldn't put mind to. A fleeting thought passed through him, a bit of an internal remark stating, how ironic is it that an angel is burning himself. He remembers the heat all too well, remembers descending into hell to pull Dean out; he had been able to see Dean's soul, so pure no matter how tainted he believed it to be, but even in his haste he was still able to feel the heat against his flesh, prickling his hairs and making his cheeks flush. He had not liked it then, but Castiel felt like he'd surprised himself more every day.

He let go of the little lever that kept the flame erect and watched it dissipate, then looked down to the charred skin of his arm, mostly he'd taken up heating a piece of metal and pushing it down until his flesh melted around it, but other times, desperate times, he merely flicked the lighter on and pressed it straight, letting the smell of his burning skin fill his nose and make his eyes prickle with tears.

Castiel could feel it growing stronger in him, the urge to cause more damage, more of the pain he deserved; nothing felt like it would ever be enough; the blood that trailed down his wrists, painting him crimson, the emptiness that filled his stomach and made him dizzy and chilled no matter the temperature, it all felt like a futile attempt to gain penance. Castiel still lay awake at night, eyes staring daggers into the ceiling, watching each of his brothers and sisters die, replaying all of the people he had let down, all of it over and over as if the back of his eyelids had been permanently seared with the images. It was only once he had found himself, knees to the floor and hands clasped together praying for forgiveness, the silence that followed gave him the answer. He was totally, irrevocably alone.

-x-

Castiel sat at the kitchen table alone, his mind miles and miles away from the place he actually was in. Dean and Sam had gone on a hunting trip, leaving him to stew in his thoughts. He wasn't quite sure how much more he could take, only able to sit and think about everything he had lost, think about all the walls he'd let crumble down around him, and how he desperately tried, fingers numb and bleeding, to rebuild them.

He shook his head and flipped the lighter around his calloused palm feeling the need to sob but knowing he would be unable to do so, he was sure he'd cried every tear he had. He wanted to scream, scream how sorry he was, how utterly and desperately broken he was and dammit somebody please help me! But the rational part of his brain knew he couldn't let that happen, couldn't let anybody that close, couldn't let himself be put back together. He did not deserve that.

He bites his lip hard and digs his nails into his wrist, catching a new cut and prying inside of it to find that momentary relief, he didn't, and fuck if that wasn't enough to send him over the edge than he didn't know what was holding him together.

He thought about running, no destination, just running, running until his legs shook violently, lungs burned terribly and thoughts were no longer able to abuse him; but he didn't move, instead he continued to shiver in his chair, letting his mind tear him piece by piece; Castiel you worthless, worthless excuse for flesh. How could you? How could you? He wanted to whimper out an apology, but his throat was thick with emotion. With yearning. He needed to feel the familiar rush of pain, needed to remind himself of his place, of what he deserved. Standing so suddenly sent a rush of heat and swirls through his head and he vaguely made out the notion that coupled with his shaking hands he might not be able to go all the way down the hall and grab his razor, and his fingers were far too jittery to hold onto his trusty lighter, with those realizations Castiel choked out a bitter laugh, shaking his head at the idea that he couldn't even hurt himself properly.

He tries to calm himself, tries to quell the self-loathing for just a moment to let him think clearly about what his next action is going to be, but this thoughts are racing far to quickly and images are bursting through his brain like fireworks; pictures of blood, death and betrayal that he had known too well. Images of what he was capable of, of what his hands had done.

So he just looks down at the trembling limbs; the hands that had gripped Dean and rose him from perdition. The hands that had rebuilt a righteous man. The hands that had taken down armies. The hands that could kill with a mere touch. The hands that claimed to be God. The hands that had lost him everything; his hands, he thought, were sin incarnate. They broke him as they had broken others, they held the razor to his flesh and helped with each drop of blood. Dear god these hands; Castiel rushes towards the gas stove, swiping all of the pots and pans that adorned it, throwing the dials until the blue flame licked up high, and without ceremony throws them in each flame, hoping to burn away each and every impurity. To burn away the very hands that had shook heaven to the ground.

He actually hears it first, the sizzle of his flesh as it began to blister, his brain felt so heavy as his other senses caught up to him. The pungent smell of burning hair and epidermis almost made him recoil but he quickly reminded himself that this was no less than he deserves and he was going to stay there till the damn murderous tools were nothing but ash.

He watches with wide eyes as the skin begins to char and a few of the blisters make a sick pop! and ooze blood, looking like deep, blood filled craters. The skin turns a dark, angry red but also takes on a yellow warped color making them looking mutated and ugly and soon his knees shake as the skin seems to lift, blacken and curl like the edges of burnt wallpaper. Time seems at a standstill and it isn't until his hands are being smacked away and he's being pushed into the wall that he comes back too and realizes he isn't staring at the burning of his hands but rather the magnificent green eyes of Dean Winchester.


Title Song: Lost It All by Black Veil Brides (mixed up a little)