Chapter 10
Some accept the chain, believing there would be a sheet anchor at its end.
(Wieslaw Brudzinski; free translation from German)
"Listen," he began, not yet knowing what he even wanted to say. A small spark inside him struggled, but couldn't keep the unavoidable untruth from being clarified as true. Dean was thinking. Barely successful to form a sentence in his head that seemed acceptable enough to improve everything and still end it.
Castiel was keenly waiting for the continuing. His muscles unmoving and his mouth closed. All hope hyped itself, all anticipation woke his tired limbs. Weak and still awake as long ago, he stared at him and wordlessly begged for solution. And though, he could hardly even see any feeling, cold and empty the quiet room they were sitting in.
Dean braced his arms beside himself on the bed, his face sunken and regarding the floor. As if he wanted to shake something off, he moved his head to and fro. Negation. The pain was past. The fight was over. He didn't fight with himself anymore, and not with Cas either. It had survived its purpose. All unpromising. Problems were in all of his life, but he didn't have the energy anymore to face this particular one. No longer would he cloud it, no longer would he agonize. It was over.
He surrendered the defeat and awaited the inevitable end everything would take. He braced himself for all aftermath, affirmed himself. Rejection. Denial. He would bear that. Or no, he would rather let it pass him. The wall around him high and stronger than ever.
And Castiel was still waiting silently. He wanted to listen, when Dean would finally speak. He wanted to show him, that he, no matter what happened, would still be at his side. Because abandonment requires expectation, and Castiel didn't have any expectations. Not for Dean, not for this life, for nothing.
If I spoke with human and angelic tongue, and didn't have love, so I would be a sounding ore or a chinking bell.
(The Bible, Corinthian 13.1)
"What happened," Dean began anew, "was a mistake. No, actually it was an accident. It happened, ok? But that doesn't mean that it means anything. I mean, we were both drinking and… so it doesn't even count"
And Castiel was listening. And his human heart began to ache for a moment. On page one of their story everything seemed so clear and almost even bright. Clear where it would go, clear the fronts between them. Careful disapproval and gratefulness and peace perhaps even. But the Saint turned bad. Not evil maybe, but evil-minded sometimes. And he didn't know why it surprised him over and over again. Even angels weren't always constructed well and there were bad humans everywhere. But he took it to new extremes. Nevertheless, for him, Dean would always be a hero, even when he lost his mind from time to time.
Glasses had broken in all the fights they had. Like a rope they pulled on, and Dean always won, even when he didn't always have the right to. He fed him with fables from his head, illusions and phantasies, with massive words and empty threats. And it was sick, that it were these battles between them that satisfied Castiel in a way he didn't even understand himself. A peace of attention, better than none. So maybe he was a masochist, maybe he found he deserved it. And even when he had often tried to run, never did he move, never did he want to leave him.
And he would stand there and watch Castiel burn inside. And almost was he scared he would see it in his cold, blue eyes, until they wouldn't be cold anymore, but dark and dead. But it was okay, because something inside him liked the way it hurt. He would stand there and maybe even notice Castiel crying and shouting on the inside. And almost was he scared he would hear it. But it was okay, because something inside him loved the way he lied. And when he hurt him, it was okay. Because only words bleed, angels don't.