Spoilers: 5.04, "The End"
Summary: Everyone wears one, a mask for a burning world to see.
A/N: I remembered that one of the things that made Lucifer evil is his ability to manipulate people by tempting them with all different masks. And from there, this story just grew.
Masquerade
Lucifer wears many masks. The Bible was right in that single fact. He wears the faces of loved ones. Ones people never got to say goodbye to, ones that left too early…ones that died in the arms of a companion. Satan weaves in and out, slithering like a snake up in a tree passing through the leaves of all his false faces.
He wears the faces of leaders, politicians, the rich and the knowledgeable. Lucifer has merely to smile warmly, those piercing eyes locking themselves onto a single person. Making him or her feel they are the one true, precious thing in this whole entire crazed world. He makes them feel not alone, makes them feel loved…takes away the pain. Hissing seductively in a sympathetic voice, he exudes confidence and twisted truths to bid the lost souls home.
Yet for one man, Lucifer turns the tables. All those masks fall away, shedding away skin upon skin. In the radiant purple and red tainted sky of dawn, with lighting cracking in clear skies above, he wears the one face which was chosen just for him. Lips pursing in mourning, large endless brown eyes pinch together as if holding back tears, Lucifer reaches out to lay a hand on the shoulder of the single man who can kill him.
He wears the face of a beloved brother, the ultimate perfection.
"Dean…I am sorry." The shell-shocked hunter takes a step back, green eyes blown wide. Blinking, Lucifer tilts his head sideways, lowering his rejected hand. Pain flashes on his face. "It had to be your brother."
A chocked voice rasps out into the charged air with undiluted venom. "I'll kill you, you son a bitch, even it's the last thing I do."
A tight smile stretches across the mask, his face now for all eternity. The sympathetic nature shimmers, yet his sheer hatred for these apes oozes out of him for the briefest of seconds. Oh, how he wants to blast this man into oblivion. But no. He is beyond this. The torture of knowing that Dean could not save his brother will be enough for him. It will drive the man insane, twisting this human into a creature no longer righteous enough to become Michael's vessel.
No. Leaving this Dean Winchester alive will be the greatest blow to his cursed brethren. Lucifer's eyes fall onto the pearl laced pistol leveling at his chest, the white knuckled grip betraying the man's despair. In a voice that has won over millions, he speaks with absolution.
"Not today, Dean." Then in a crack of lightening and a pistol firing, the Devil is gone.
He wears the mask of stone-hearted leader. Green eyes dull but edged like jade, he commands with a ruthlessness that would have made his own father flinch. Anger and restlessness hold up the mask day and night, night and day. Through the throngs of drilling the grunts, burying and killing companions, to slaughtering Croats, the mask remains firm on his face.
With each blink, Dean wears this 'fearless leader' face as Cas dubs with an ease that scares him. On his shelf are other masks, but none have seen as much action as this one created out of the three years of Hell on Earth...out of his own stubbornness.
There is one other mask he wears when a pretty girl catches his eyes. They are so few these days, but he remembers how to charm and woo any woman. Flashing a smile, offering tiny compliments on her shooting, brushing his hand alongside her backside, the womanizer in him shimmers seductively behind his eyes. And women continue to flock to him under its gaze, loving the bad boy, wanting to be the one woman that can warm his cold heart. To his surprise, Reesa is hard to woo but her feisty nature soon crumbles. Glancing over his shoulder, Dean halts in the doorway of her cabin, taking in the slender sleeping form of his third in command. Then in a blink, one mask falls as another takes its' place.
The faces of a big brother, of the loyal son, of a jokester and friend collect cobwebs till the day comes when Dean no longer remembers what is was like to wear to them. Two other masks are dull, but they are there. The face of the torturer grins like a demon, black eyes smoldering in the shadows of his mind. He only comes out in rare cases, which seem to grow more and more. This face scares Dean the most, more than the Croats, or demons, of Lucifer himself.
Stepping into a small clearing, Dean stares up into the glittering clear night sky. All the masks crumble away under the heavy weight of the whisky running through his veins. Throwing his arms wide open, tears paint on the last, true face of a broken man. Staggering a step backward, screams rip through his throat as the anniversary of meeting the Devil burn brightly in his mind.
"I'M HERE! YOU HEAR ME, ZACH! GET YOUR WINGED LILY-WHITE ASS DOWN HERE AND TAKE ME!" Nothing replies but the eerie rustling of leaves. Tilting his head even further back, he screams louder up to the heavens. "MICHAEL! TAKE ME! I'M BEGGING YOU! TAKE ME! YOUR OWN WILLING ANGEL CONDOM IS READY TO GO!"
Crashing hard onto his knees, he wails and begs till his voice splinters as his throat is raw under the chilly air. "YES, DAMNIT! YES! YES!"
He screams till his faces shatter into a million pieces. Collapsing deeper into the ground, he curls into a ball, fingers clawing into soft damp ground. "You bas-tards. Why…why…?" Hatred boils in him, forging an iron-clad mask of a new Dean Winchester. "Fine," growls out a man who has nothing to lose, "You spineless, yellow cowards. I'll kill him myself and then I'll hunt you all down, you hear me Zachariah…I'll kill you, Michael and every other angel."
Then he rises off the ground, grabbing the empty bottle lying next to him. He needs another drink.
He wears the mask of a happy, bliss-free druggie as a ploy to back away from all the attention. Chuck hovers behind him, concern radiating off of the little man. Rolling shoulders, his joints pop and crack under the strain. Satisfied, Castiel pushes himself from the cot, feet knocking down an empty bottle of absinthe.
"Should you be up?" croaks out Chuck, as if he's afraid the angel might smite him but his motherly instincts override him.
Blue eyes no longer glowing with an otherworldly fire soak in the figure standing still as a statue in his entry way. "I haven't had a seizure in a month." Fuzzy memories of excruciating lapses as his grace was slowly torn from his body well up in him, threatening to drown him once more.
"But your foot?"
Flashing a full-on smile at the ex-prophet, Castiel fights back the tiny wave of jealousy towards the man. Ever since the angels left, abandoning him here, the writer's visions have disappeared…along side the angel's grace. Where Chuck finds freedom, Cas finds imprisonment.
Tilting his head upwards, Cas struggles to maintain the only face amongst the grinded pieces of his former self. Pushing himself upwards, he hides the pain of his still healing foot with a small smile, dead eyes challenging the other man. This pain is nothing to what he feels with every breath and thudding of his heart as minutes turn into years without his brothers and sisters around him. "Fit and ready for duty."
The face seals the deal with a grin and a wink as he brushes the loose hair from his face. This face knows when to joke, not afraid of anything or anyone and can charm a woman and her friends into a pit of decadence.
Dean stares at him with calculating eyes, as if he's merely assessing his value as being a grunt than that of his second in command…of his friend. Throwing his hands into his pockets, the hunter narrows his eyes in disgust at the strewn bottles and the small plume of smoke rising from an incense burner. Lips thinning, he speaks in a numb hoarse voice. "You're useless."
The mask slips, words of a broken angel flying out before he even thinks, "Well excuse me, o fearless leader." And for the first time, Cas mocks with a sharp tone to the one man he cares above all with a title they both know well is false.
Chuck's mouth falls open as the two watch Dean brace his shoulders, a look darkening like the storm outside. Then in a quiet rumble, he leaves through the weak barrier of beads. Castiel struggles to readjust his game-face on, not wanting to let how deep those words sliced into him. His old self flares to life wanting to fly after Dean, slam that cold body into a wall and tell him that he is just as useless: a broken vessel that could have saved them all.
That he has heard Dean's screams at night, the begging and crying…the cursing at his own kin. He wants to rip off that mask and his own corrupted mask and yell that he has lost everything for him…for a human he dared to place his faith in. That he lost himself for him. That this whole charade of false faces is killing them.
"Cas, Dean didn't mean that."
Fingers curl into fists underneath the long sleeves. For the first time, Cas wants to strike out, hurt anything in his path. He wants someone to feel his never-ending torture. Glancing back at the small man, Cas realizes amongst his buzzed mind that Chuck has somehow remained the only one left from the Time Before with no false faces or hidden pains. That this man he first saw as an alcoholic denying his role as a prophet has somehow blossomed into a caring, pillar of strength who cares for everyone's needs, even if that involves hoarding toilet paper.
Pulling the joking face back on as if it was a familiar tan trench coat, Castiel limps slightly to his small cabinet. Reaching out, he grabs a small pill bottle popping off the lid. Chuckling, he sends a quick grin over his shoulder. "I'm good, Chuck. Thanks."
Chuck nods, awkwardness filling the small area. "Guess I better leave, then. Things to do…" And in two quick steps he flutters out, leaving the soft clinking of beads in his wake.
Throwing back his head, Cas swallows two pills down with ease. Closing his shattered glass eyes, the former angel rests against the cabinet, his body sweating and trembling. He clings to this face now, harder than ever. He's never going to take it off, never going to let himself feel this aching pain of betrayal. For it is worse than being abandoned by his brethren…for it is pure, utter loneliness.
Chuck waits quietly by the gate, a group of people gathering behind him. They are waiting like lost sheep. Waiting for their leader and his posse to return from successfully killing the Devil, their hope that the Apocalypse is over keeps them warm in the damp weather. Hours trickle by and Chuck can feel it in the artic breeze.
They are not coming back. The mission failed. There is no hope. The soft coughing of a young girl pulls the writer's attention back. Soft murmurs hint at the growing panic.
"Keep them calm," orders Dean as he holsters his pistol to his leg strap. The three of them are standing by Dean's jeep as the others slowly migrate towards them.
"How am I suppose to do that?" whispers Chuck, his voice full of worry. He hates being the center of attention, let alone in charge.
"Tell them a good ol' fashion hunting story about Dean," jokes Cas earning another dark glare from their leader. And like always, the ex-angel grins right back, eyes sparking with the knowledge of what really is going on behind this mission. Chuck feels his mouth begin to open, confused eyes shifting back onto Dean wanting to know the truth. But by then, the rest of the party arrives at the convoy and it's time to move out.
Staring through the barbed gates, the ex-prophet realizes that he has to step up and fill in the giant footsteps left behind. He wants to crawl into a hole, fingers itching for a bottle. He's not a hero. He's a writer and now a mere inventory manager. He didn't want this, just like how he didn't want to be a prophet.
Dropping his eyes, Chuck struggles to find the strength to face the growing crowd behind him. He can wear the white sympathetic face and weave a tapestry of lies and false hopes till rescue comes. Until, all he sees are weak-minded creatures that deserve everything that is happening to them.
"So this is what you do now?" prods the past Dean.
Chuck smiles sheepishly as he takes in his cabin that also acted as a small warehouse. "It keeps me busy, since I'm not grunt material."
He can wear the black revenge-filled face and drive a wall up so high that not even killing his own men fazes him. Until, all he yearns are the suicidal runs, hoping to die one day but never fulfilling it till today.
Past Dean gives a small, heart-filled laugh as he glances out the door behind him to the small clustering group of survivors. They were gathered around a camp-fire sharing the meager supplies, happy gazes flickering in the warm light. "The way I see it…"
He can wear the blue despair filled face and run away from life and all its' suffering and trappings. Until, all he yearns are where his next hits will be, trying to seek a way back home while bringing himself closer and closer to self-implosion.
Chuck gazes up at the younger version of his leader. The man still seems shocked and lost, the urge to not believe any of this tightening his frame. But then those green eyes look down at him with warmth that scares and awes him.
"You're the heart of this place, Chuck. You keep things running smoothly, making sure everyone has everything." A human smile flashes on Dean's face. "Keep up the good work."
Bracing his shoulders, Chuck finds himself smiling. Turning, he faces the worried crowd of survivors. "Alright people." He rests his clipboard over his chest, arms crossed before it. "Let's give the convoy till tomorrow at midnight. Until then, we need to start getting ready for winter again. You all know your duties and till we schedule the next supply run, all rations will have to be cut in half." Sighing deeply, he lets himself remain true, no false faces covering up his determination. "Move out."
Nodding to each other, the group disperses. Life moves on within the camp, hope still shimmering while outside the hellish fires of the Apocalypse run rampant.