Day 3
Bobby has always told me that it was important to keep a journal, to chronicle my hunts. He said it would be as therapeutic as it would be useful for hunters beyond my time. It wasn't until Dean…It wasn't until now that I can see what he meant. Now I find myself keeping this battered leather bound tomb close to my person, to keep record of all that has happened, all that shall come to pass.
I see him everywhere. He is at all busy corners, the face just beyond my periphery. With every breath I take, every action I do that takes me a little further from the last time we were together I can hear him at my ear. 'Dude, why are you reading a girl's book?' 'Writing in your diary again? Cass, man, you need to get laid.' Bobby and Sam have only just managed to prevent me from 'scrubbing myself raw', as they put it. No matter how hard I try, I can't get his blood off of my hands. They are stained with it, saturated beyond the ability to clean.
Gabriel has promised me a 'night I will remember'. He said that he believed it would 'take my mind off of things'. He and Sam fought for a long while when he first proposed it; Bobby pulled me aside to help him clean the Impala. She was shining again before they left the house. That was a couple of hours ago, I am uncertain whether or not the 'plans' are still in effect. I feel as though it does not matter either way. Nothing in this world could make me forget.
Day 12
Gabriel was finally able to take me out last night. While the 'night I will remember' was not necessarily memorable by any means, it provided a welcome distraction that hunting could not. Gabriel has been called on by Heaven every day this week, but he seems reluctant to return. I can only hope that I am not the reason for his delay. He deserves to bask in the glory of Heaven, regardless of my inability to join him. I am still…something of a diminished Angel, Heaven is beyond my ability to reach. Joshua…Father has ensured that.
I realize now that in my last entry, I have neglected to address the sudden absence of Chuck. I am unsure what to make of it, if I am honest. I know that, in the past, it is not unheard of that Profits are escorted by Angels to the fields of Heaven. I am simply confused by their ability to do so. The house was fully warded against unwelcome Angelic or Demonic passage, yet his room had been wiped clean. Why? His function was done, the Winchester gospel complete. Why take him after the fact?
Day 13
Through the outing Gabriel had subjected me to I have met an amazingly beautiful whore named Chastity that, in turn, has introduced me to her supplier of illegal substances named Don. He is…a very dull man, but he has a rather extensive selection of drugs and their corresponding paraphernalia. I have taken a liking to the drinking of absinthe myself, followed closely by amphetamines. It provides a rather exciting current in my bones that allows me to focus more clearly on the now rather than what could have been. I owe the completion of my first hunt after…everything to those substances. I shall have to test more before I have a concrete idea of what I would like to keep at hand.
Day 39
I have learned my lesson with LSD. That is one drug I will never use again, the side effects…unsettling. I will speak with Don on the matter during our next meeting when I procure more amphetamine. Perhaps I should order more cannabis as well; I find the effects rather comforting despite the sudden urge to eat snack food and the way Sam will not stop looking at me whenever he realizes I am using.
Day 137
I killed a Wendigo in Yellowstone and stumbled upon a new rumor that has arisen in the hunting community.
Back in the summer, when the blood moon shone overhead, same night those explosions of light and scorch marks were found in the old Lawrence Cemetery, they say a man walked out alive. No one knows his name, only the title he was given – 'Angel'. No one knows squat about him, only that he is a hunter; a man like everyone else, only a lot more than just a man. Story goes, he killed the Devil and lost the love of his life that night. This hunter can kill any creature, can hunt a thousand Demons and win. They say... they say this guy can kill anything.
I will have to speak with Bobby, see who could possibly be spreading these ridiculous rumors. I have a feeling that Garth has something to do with this, his brand of embellishment practically seeping from the tale. In the mean time, I will have to keep a 'low profile' until this entire story dies down.
Day 269
I hate the Holidays. It is always about 'spending time with someone special' and what utter nonsense that is. Bobby is out hunting with Rufus – a rugaru, I believe – and Sam is meeting with his new girlfriend. I cannot remember her name; I believe it started with an S? I suppose I could invite Gabriel, but I have not seen from him in months. I am starting to believe that he does not want the responsibility of being associated with me. I do not blame him; a Seraph cursed to be a creature between species that lives in human form is truly an abomination to the senses. I am shocked he was capable of staying for as long as he did. We still have no knowledge of Chuck's whereabouts. Fucker vanished when Dean died, didn't leave a forwarding address.
Perhaps I should call Chastity, get her and some of the girls down to the cabin and celebrate with woman and decadence.
Day 270
I have come to the realization that the ladies likely have families of their own, it would be selfish of me to go about orchestrating such an event. Perhaps another night of the Green Faerie and Amphetamines while watching Disney movies by alphabetical order will suffice. Don had also mentioned something about mushrooms. Such curious substances my Father has provided this planet with.
Day 389
One year and he is still gone. It still hurts.
Day 496
Bobby died at 7:35AM this morning to a gunshot wound to the head. He was protecting me and I failed him like I fail every God forsaken thing that I care about. Fuck God! Robert Singer was the only father I have ever known, one of the best…This world will be a darker place without him.
Day 500
We gave him a Hunter's funeral as he would have wanted. Sam was kind enough to be there for me, which I do appreciate. I realize that I have become a constant reminder of what Heaven has taken from him. We can change that no more than we can revive Dean – believe me, we've tried. Crossroads Demons won't deal, Heaven was never an option and witchcraft often leaves much to be desired. I have, through much substance abuse, come to terms with the notion of Dean being gone. I will never stop trying, but I understand that, for now, he is dead.
Despite Joshua locking away most of my Grace, I can still feel the energy in me somewhere. Perhaps one day I will regain it and when that day comes…
Day 607
Panic. Mass hysteria. In his wake, Lucifer had left a ticking time bomb with his children that they only just let off. Croatoan, a virus the Angels thought they had wiped from the Earth the last time the Demons had released it. We had gone so far as to wipe an entire colony off the face of the planet to prevent its spread. Now it has affected a vast majority of the Eastern Seaboard. I fear that it is too wide spread, too large a task even for the Angels. They will need all of the help they can get.
Perhaps they will come for me, offer back my Grace at full capacity as a peace treaty. To quote a graphic novel I find much enjoyment from:
'The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "Save us!"... and I'll whisper "no."'
Not without Dean. They can beg and plead for my help, but not without Dean. Never without Dean.
Day 689
More of the same. I hunted a Werewolf today. It is amazing how much and how little has changed now that Croatoan is spreading like wildfire. The rumor has come back with a vengeance, now I am constantly called upon to aid where it is needed, paid in any and all addictive substances those in aid can manage to get their hands on. Honestly, I would likely help them regardless, but I do not believe I will be spreading that amendment around anytime soon.
I thought about the Wendigo I killed so long ago now. The death of a perpetually starving creature creates a most curious question of existential nature. It was something about humanities insatiable want, I cannot recall. It appears the cannabis has begun to settle in.
Day 743
I broke my ankle today and I could not heal it. Have I always been this diminished or was it a position obtained by grief? I vaguely remember being told that Angels are not made to feel. What a bunch of bullshit, if I couldn't feel I wouldn't be where I am today, writing this. I am starting to believe that we were never given the option, or perhaps we were and just chose not to. Who knows, it doesn't matter. It doesn't change that we've barely breached the two year mark and Sam can't stand to spend more than a couple of hours with me before he storms off. It says something when someone would rather risk being torn to shreds or infected by an incurable rage disease than spend another second in my presence.
It's not my fault he's a prude. You'd think he's never seen an orgy before. Well, in all fairness, it is Sam, so I suppose it is not so far from the realm of reason. After all, he is the one with 'morals' and 'long standing relationships'. Perhaps if I invited he and Amelia next time he would be less upset. Then again, I would rather not see that much of Sam.
Day 827
Still no contact from Heaven. Middle America has been decimated, most large scale power companies are no more, food supplies are well on their way to becoming scarce. Sam moved to England with Amelia a couple of weeks ago. I still remember it like it was yesterday.
"Dean is gone, Cass!"
He'd been so angry with me then.
"He wouldn't want you to be here anymore!"
"And why not? I cannot be affected, it's not as if I am in any real danger."
"It's more complicated than that!"
"Are you implying that I am incapable of taking care of myself?"
"Are you disputing my claim?"
"Is this about my unshaven appearance or the drugs?"
One look from Sam told me everything, not that it was not readably apparent.
"Ah, the drugs."
"You can't continue like this, Cass!"
"I believe I can, Sam."
"I'm leaving."
"I know."
His next words were hushed, like he was sorry for having to say them. It still bothers me that he felt that way.
"And I'm not coming back."
"I know."
"…Okay."
As he made his way to my beaded curtain from where he had been seated on the edge of a dresser covered in statuettes of Buddha, he turned to face me briefly before he left my cabin for the last time.
"Take care of yourself, Castiel."
That was the last time I saw him, the last time we spoke. He had used my real name for the first time in years and I never bothered to grace him with a reply.
Day 1824
It will have been five years since Dean passed, a little under three since Sam found that abandoned boat and set sail for England, tomorrow. Self medication with drugs and alcohol that I can find helps pass the time, as does hunting the occasional supernatural creature. Honestly, the Croats are the worst of it, but the occasional vampire or skin walker picking off the remaining humans does not help.
The survivors that I have come across have gotten into the habit of calling me 'The Angel'. It's not very creative, I know, but the irony is not lost on me. I am the farthest from a celestial wavelength of light and yet I am probably the closest they will ever come to one. How sad. I have attempted to dissuade the use of this nickname on multiple occasions to no avail. At least word has spread on where to find me. It was a little touch and go for a while, the telephone game as ineffective as ever.
The influx of hunts and subsequent substances has certainly reduced my need for extended scavenging trips. Hell, I can even get laid for a job well done from time to time. That's pretty fucking great, if I do say so myself.
The only thing worse than the nicknames is the legends they are coming up with. Who the fuck needs a back story? It's the Apocalypse – the past no longer matters and the future is as equally pointless. The dead are gone, society has crumbled into factions of symbiotic idiots hoping to 'ride out the storm'. But there is no shelter; there is no escape beyond the blissful release of Death. Only then will any of us be safe. It's a shame I can't share that with the people I save.
I, Metatron Scribe of God, have included excerpts from the Angel Castiel's Fallen Journal to properly complete the Winchester Gospel. It has been a harrowing journey, there is but one portion left to tell. I leave this story in your hands now so that you may come to understand the sacrifices that were made.
On the anniversary of that Thursday five years ago, Castiel woke to a migraine and the distinct impression he was sober. Languidly stretching and working the kinks from his back, he looked to the window to find the same dull gray morning he had seen since Day 607. He hadn't been expecting any different, but the idea that maybe it would be different provided a disinfecting sting to his chest.
Padding downstairs to what used to be Bobby's study, he made a mental inventory of the 'payments' he had received as of late. Realizing that it had been over a week since his last Hunt, three days since the last hit ran dry, he silently cursed to himself until he noticed the slip of paper gracelessly jammed into the mail slot of the front door.
"Excellent!"
Snatching it from its trap, he unfolded it with unsteady hands and read over it twice to ensure he was correct.
"Eau Claire, huh? Two hour drive and a pound of marijuana for one Arachne? Not too shabby…"
He was dressed and pulling away within the hour, passing the dilapidated remains of the Impala on his way out of the driveway. He knew that if he really wanted to he could fly there, save the travel time and shorten the duration of time he had to remain in this state of miserable awareness, but he thought better of it. It had been a while since he had used the truck, since he allowed himself to just drift away on an existential high rather than a physical one. That aside, he had never been too keen on being mindless on this day. Something about it just felt wrong, like he was letting Dean down more so than he already had.
He tried his best to focus on the road despite the thoughts of Dean threatening to take over. He couldn't afford the distraction, not while hunting sober. Fuck, he couldn't…no, he could remember the last time he had – it didn't help. Pulling into the parking lot of the local general store, the meeting place on the note, he found it deserted. Slipping the strap to his machine gun over his shoulder and grabbing his machete alongside the .9mm, he stepped out of the truck and looked around wearily for any sign of a struggle, perhaps unorthodox amounts of spider silk littering the corner of some alleyway.
Nothing. Not the faintest trace of there ever having been an Arachne, let alone a village of people plagued by one. He noted the silence of this place, the utter lack of birdsong or wind through the foliage. Something wasn't right, not even the Croatoan virus had managed to create this sort of unnatural silence Castiel found himself cocooned in. Clutching the machete a little tighter, he cracked his neck and made his way to the largest building he could find. Perhaps a higher vantage point would provide him with more answers than he was being given readily.
The best he could find was Town Hall, the bell tower at the top an ideal place to overlook the city and see the precise state of things. A chill ran down his spine as he truly looked at the world around him, the soulless streets set in a silent mockery of his sobriety. It was unnerving, even for him after all of this time and the years spent alone, to find anywhere as silent as this. It was like the white noise after an explosion, the sudden realization of deafness. Despite himself, Castiel found himself occasionally whispering half sentences under his breath to ensure he was not being consumed by the soundlessness of it all only to feel the insanity of the gesture laughing at him.
He had to break the door in, placing one moderately powerful kick against the doorjamb and watching as it nearly flew off of its hinges.
"Fuck."
If there had not been any Croats in the area, they were probably on their way now; the sound of the wood splintering, echoing through the deserted building like the bell that resided at the top of it, deafening in its volume. He treaded carefully from that moment on, taking care not to allow his footfalls the faintest of noise. He ascended the stairs, his mind in far off places while he allowed his body to move through routine.
It was the light that caught his eye, foreign and beautiful as it faintly poured through some crack on the floor above him. Seven steps more and he saw the door that produced it, alien light bleeding from beneath as a gasping rattle from within gave the Ex-Angel pause. It has been obvious from the moment he had entered the town that something was gravely wrong. Whatever laid ahead, behind a door he was certain would not contain whatever lay beyond much longer, it had to have been the cause of such a surreally empty town stead.
Taking a steadying breath, he slipped the machete into the sheath tucked in his boot and replaced it in his hand with the .9mm from his thigh holster, before he threw caution to the wind along with the door. The light was blinding, all consuming and in an instant he knew the truth. A small smile graced his lips before he was engulfed completely.
