Grace Note
So this is a little the End 'verse AU that ate my brain after I saw this neat art piece by extraonions that was part of castielfest.
The title once again is dredged from seven years of piano lessons. I'm not sure why I keep wanting to title anything dealing with a certain archangel with musical notation, but I do.
N.B. This AU assumes that though the End 'verse progressed as shown, some version of Changing Channels still took place.
Appoggiatura
You're not sure why you've come here. It's not nostalgia. It's not some half-assed sense of kinship. It'd be difficult to claim, anyway. This new world has wrought many strange new creatures, but none of them have been as fascinating and grotesque as the man before you.
He's loose and sensual in a way that you could only ever fake, even during those times when you yourself nearly forgot it was all a masquerade.
You spent centuries mocking humans, punishing them for their transgressions and reveling in their follies. You indulged in all their pleasures and clothed yourself in their stories, as if that would be enough. As if you could finally understand what made them the most beloved creation, so worth the cost.
And in all that? You'll never even get half as close as little brother here to any of it.
There's a knock at the door. It's a courtesy, nothing more, because it's soon followed by the knocker letting himself in.
You know the intruder even though you've never actually seen him before. You're nearly stricken with the urge to hover over his shoulder and slaughter anything that so much as looks at him funny. It's a duty so ancient it's right up there with gravity as one of the universal constants...and nearly as inescapable. That knowledge, that instinct, is as much apart of you as your name. Convenient, then, that you foreswore both long ago.
The little prophet stands uneasy in the doorway. He still bears the mark of heaven's power, even as heaven itself has faded to a memory.
Baby brother ignores him until a cleared throat and a stammered apology forces him to acknowledge the prophet's presence. He opens one eye but stays seated, reluctant to abandon whatever head-space he's been chasing.
“I'm guessing you're here for a reason,” he drawls, and it's imbued with a physicality so alien to the angelic host you almost find yourself doubting. “Message from our fearless leader, I suppose.”
“Uh- right,” says the little man. “He wanted- he asked me- he's calling a meeting in an hour. He wants you to- uhm- stay sharp.”
Castiel closes his eye again. “It's a good thing he's gotten so used to disappointment, then,” he says. He takes one long slow breath in and then lets it trickle out through his nostrils.
It's a clear dismissal, but the prophet doesn't leave. He fidgets for a moment, then says, “It's just that he seemed really, you know, don't-fuck-with-me about it.”
Castiel lets go. He opens both eyes and stretches, tilting his head to side to side, and it's such a languid and drawn-out motion you think he must have learned it from a cat.
“You'd almost think he cared.” Little brother says it with a smile, and that should be your line- it was your line, all those indifferent ironies- but it's become something twisted and wrong in his mouth. There's a loathing undercutting the nonchalance, his sardonic indifference.
“Cas-” says the prophet, his tone regretful, but he seems at a loss for words.
Castiel shrugs, and once again, it's a too-big gesture. His head lolls to the side and it's from that curious angle he regards the prophet, a grotesque parody of the watchful way he use to regard the world.
“Fine,” he says after a moment. He stands in one loose and rolling movement upward. It's startlingly graceful. “Tell him I'll await his pleasure.”
“Right- right. Okay,” says the little prophet, visibly deflating. “I'll just- go do that then.”
Castiel smiles beatifically as the little man leaves. He turns his head and gazes off into space. It's an idiot's smile, and out of everything in this ruin of a world, it pisses you off to see it. You're startled by the strength of your own reaction.
Castiel's posture shifts to something more watchful just as suddenly, his gaze suddenly sharper and curious. He looks around the room.
You think about leaving before you're tempted to reveal yourself, but there's really nowhere worth going, anymore. The cities are smoking ruins. The refugee camps are dismal things, more sad than horrifying. They're one of the last remnants of civilization, hailing from a time when 'refugee' actually meant something. The camps are nothing more than an obstinate form of denial, as if the end of the world could be overcome with some well-organized disaster relief. They continued even after that particular delusion faded, and you're still not sure why.
They know they've lost, but they continue anyway. All that's left to them is grim survival, so that's what they do and that's what they'll do until they're out of time. Vice, virtue, hypocrisy, humility, hubris- there's no room for any of them against that. No room for you, either. You'd be back to saving and smiting, because there's no moral of the story in survival. And even if there were- well, that role is dead. Lucifer destroyed all the little pagan gods long ago. Parading around as Loki would draw his attention almost as quickly as showing up as yourself. Either way, the jig would be up and then...
He'd probably greet you with open arms.
Your thoughts are interrupted by nearly-tuneless humming. It almost sounds familiar.
“I hope you're not planning on keeping me waiting,” Castiel says, dropping the song-mid note. “You may not have noticed, but I-” he waves a hand at the body, “don't have the kind of time I used to.” He says it like it's a joke.
It's a stab in the dark, so you ignore it. You turn to the rest of the room, taking in all the symbols of worship...both of the divine and of the flesh. Of all of them, you'd never have guessed stuffy, serious little Castiel would take so eagerly to the art of the orgy.
After a long second, Castiel goes back to humming. It's a hymn, though there's no piety in it. The rhythm of it is maddeningly familiar...
You finally get the song. Gabriel's Message, the little fucker. It's an old Basque hymn. There's no point in hiding. He knows you're there.
Castiel ups the ante to singing, almost tunelessly and a little too fast. “The angel Gabriel from heaven came-“
“Fine. You got me,” you say, just a little grudgingly, before he can get to the next line.
“Gabriel!” He opens his arms out wide. “Truly, I'm honored. Welcome to my humble abode. It's not much, but it's what passes for home.”
“Howdy, Castiel.” You stress his name just a little, giving it the right pronunciation, the one that emphasizes el, God.
He almost flinches. He turns it into a shrug.
“Or is it just Cas now?” you continue.
He's still smiling, but there's something sharp and hungry in his eyes. “If you've come to join the orgy, I'm afraid you'll have to wait until tomorrow.”
You make a show of being injured, holding a hand to your heart. “You've cut me to the bone, little brother. I can't just stop by and say hello to family?” You can't help but match his falsely light tone, and you can't drop the cruel edge to your own.
Castiel sinks back down to a seated position on the floor. He shakes his head. “You didn't even consider me family when we were still family,” he says, sounding amused. “Though- can I say- I'm a little shocked you chose to visit my me and not dear ol' Lucifer.”
“Who said I did?”
Castiel grins again, manic and fierce, but says nothing.
And there's the rub, the thought you've been trying to avoid.
The world is a ruin. Nothing was ever good enough for your brother. Nothing will ever be enough for him. He brought division into heaven and hell on earth. He's destroyed everything because he could, because he wanted to make a point.
You're afraid that you may hate him more than you love him. If Lucifer finds you - if you find him- you think you might have to kill him, for everything he's done.
You don't say any of this to Castiel. You hold your hands up and shrug. “Lucifer's a dick, what can I say? I'd heard a rumor somewhere you'd managed to have the stick up your ass surgically removed- seeing is believing, as they say.” You make a show of looking around the room. “Your own little love shack. Never would have seen it coming- or maybe not, considering how long you've spent following Dean Winchester around like a puppy.”
“Uh-uh-huh,” Castiel struggles to keep a straight face, then cracks up.
“What?” You're actually kind of affronted that he keeps going so far off script. That he's not- prickly. You wonder if there's anything he cares about anymore enough to get touchy over. You're not sure why it matters.
“You,” Castiel drawls, waving a hand carelessly in your direction. “You're so....you.” He laughs again, that hoarse, wheezy laughter. There's still no joy in it. “Look at you. So…conflicted. Give it up. Let it go. Have some fun. ”It's the end of the world- why the hell not? What are you waiting for?”
You raise an eyebrow at him. “Moi? You do know who you're talking to, right? You're not that stoned, are you?”
“Yes I am and yes I do,” he says cheerfully. You just deepen the look you’re giving him: Oh really?
He ignores you and continues, “You were pretty unforgettable. As was the world in which you trapped me.”
You frown, momentarily distracted. “...Buffy?”
“Twilight,” he corrects, and you wince internally while shrugging outwardly.
“Oh, yeah,” you say casually. “You must have really pissed me off. You're lucky I didn't do worse.”
Castiel just raises an eyebrow, a smirk ghosting across his face. “Really,” he says, glancing down at himself, and that his tongue could carry anything so laden with irony seems a fresh blasphemy.
You're startled again, and then you realize he wants you to be. That's the edge to him- he's not going to let you forget what he's lost and you still have. It's the kind of subtle cruelty humanity has always excelled at.
“Should have listened to me about the dangers of obsession, little brother. Look where it's gotten you,” you chide. Subtlety is overrated, anyway. Blunt cruelty always worked for you.
You snap your finger as if making a point, and plunge him into sobriety. If he’s going to be like that, you’re going to force him to wallow in his fallen state. Never let it be said you weren't vindictive.
And at last, at last you seem to have touched a nerve, though you can't be sure whether it was the words or the sobriety that did it. Some last vestige of give-a-shit surfaces, and he's looking at you directly, dropping the creepy, Stepford smile. He's like a puppet with its strings cut and you wonder how long he's been keeping the charade up. If you're the first he's dropped it for. If you're the only one with whom he can.
“Where it's gotten me,” Castiel murmurs, and sighs. “Did you ever wonder, Gabriel,” he says, “if this was our test more than theirs?”
“Who's “we”, kemosabe?” you say, honing the words to an edge, “because there are only two groups I can think you could point fingers at, and you're not a member of either.” You grin hard at him, twisting your anger until it comes to a point.
He flinches, but turnabout is fair play. “And if you did in fact mean our fine family,” you continue, “I might remind you that they couldn't have done diddlysquat without the direct involvement of a certain couple of bozos.”
He doesn't say anything, just looks away- another too human gesture- so you continue. “I hear Sam's kind of busy at the moment, but you know, I've been thinking about coming out of retirement- one last hurrah, you might say- and I've got some real tricks up my sleeve I've just been dying to try out-”
“Don't.” It's just a statement. He doesn't even look up.
“No? You gonna stop me?” you taunt, “or try to convince me that he doesn't deserve it?”
Castiel shrugs again, a bitter tensing of his shoulders. “We wanted a weapon,” he remarks, “and didn't give him much choice in the matter.” He's still drawling, but the affectation has lost its sting.
You tsk. “C'mon, little bro. I've heard some rumors about what our self righteous man's been up to lately,” you let your tone drop, “...to say nothing of what he's already done.”
“And what has he done?” he says. He sounds tired. “Nothing but what he was primed to.”
“You're defending him? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You're still here, after all, still dogging his footsteps- and why is that? He must hate you by now.”
“Maybe he does,” Castiel agrees. “He hates everything.”
But he’s not reacting. He’s accepted this. Accepted this state, these circumstances- and why? Why he is still loyal, despite everything? Stupid little brother, who never got the joke. Who is still keeping the faith, in his own pathetic, hopeless way.
You pretend to look thoughtful for a second, then smile. Your tone turns mocking. “So all your pining was for naught. There’s a reason it was forbidden, little brother. Maybe this is your punishment.”
Castiel abruptly stands up, then steps closer to you.
“Why are you really here, Gabriel?”
“Maybe I came to do you a favor. Why do you care? You're hardly fond of 'the fearless leader'. He lead you to this, to becoming this sad lonely thing. Why shouldn't you be begging me for a little justice?”
“Justice? You?” He sounds amused again. “If anything, you owe Dean a favor.”
“For what? Letting me out of the circle he put me in?”
“For trying to do what you're too scared to.” He pauses, and it's a good thing, because you're actually speechless. “That's why you're here, aren't you? You're drawn here like all the rest of them. You hope he can do it. You're hoping he'll actually kill Lucifer for you.” There's something playing in his eyes- laughter or maybe rage, and his smile is back, shattered and sharp.
“That's ridiculous,” you scoff. “Like he has a chance with that. You know as well as I do that little popgun he's chasing after won't do any good.”
“And yet you're here,” Castiel replies. “If you share a few secrets, maybe he'll do the dirty work. He might even thank you.” It drips off his tongue.
“I'm not afraid of Lucifer,” you say, falling back into 'scary archangel, STFU or get smited' mode. It's been a long time since you've gone for the wrathful look, but it's not something you forget.
It completely fails to have any effect on Castiel. “Confront him, then,” he dares. He already knows your answer. “End it.”
“He's my brother,” you say, as if it's enough. You're trying to believe it's still enough.
“And Dean's. It won't stop him.”
“You're point being?” You still feel dangerous. You're still tempted to blast him to pieces. But you won't because-
-because the others have left, and he's right, the little bastard. You won't go to Lucifer.
“No point,” he says. “Call it...an observation.” He stretches again, long and slow. Still graceful.
“If that's all-” he says, dismissing you. Dismissing you. “Apparently my presence has been requested elsewhere.”
You're still not sure what you were looking for. Not sure what the next move should be.
It's okay. You've got time.
“Fine,” you smirk. “Don't think I won't forget this.” You let the threat hang in the air for a second, not sure what you mean by it. It's generic enough to cover a lot of ground, so it's good enough for now, even if it fails to wipe that grin off his face.
“Be seeing you, Castiel.”
And then you vanish. You're tempted to sit around and watch- but little brother's entirely too perceptive for comfort, so you flick away across continents before he can get the wrong idea.
Another wrong idea, anyway. You could show him, head right over to dear old Lucy-
But you won't.
You turn your attention back to the sad little camp.
It's won't last long, but it's interesting. You can have a little fun with them. Castiel was right about one thing, after all. It's the end of the world- it's time to party.
Surely there's still time.
The title once again is dredged from seven years of piano lessons. I'm not sure why I keep wanting to title anything dealing with a certain archangel with musical notation, but I do.
N.B. This AU assumes that though the End 'verse progressed as shown, some version of Changing Channels still took place.
Appoggiatura
You're not sure why you've come here. It's not nostalgia. It's not some half-assed sense of kinship. It'd be difficult to claim, anyway. This new world has wrought many strange new creatures, but none of them have been as fascinating and grotesque as the man before you.
He's loose and sensual in a way that you could only ever fake, even during those times when you yourself nearly forgot it was all a masquerade.
You spent centuries mocking humans, punishing them for their transgressions and reveling in their follies. You indulged in all their pleasures and clothed yourself in their stories, as if that would be enough. As if you could finally understand what made them the most beloved creation, so worth the cost.
And in all that? You'll never even get half as close as little brother here to any of it.
There's a knock at the door. It's a courtesy, nothing more, because it's soon followed by the knocker letting himself in.
You know the intruder even though you've never actually seen him before. You're nearly stricken with the urge to hover over his shoulder and slaughter anything that so much as looks at him funny. It's a duty so ancient it's right up there with gravity as one of the universal constants...and nearly as inescapable. That knowledge, that instinct, is as much apart of you as your name. Convenient, then, that you foreswore both long ago.
The little prophet stands uneasy in the doorway. He still bears the mark of heaven's power, even as heaven itself has faded to a memory.
Baby brother ignores him until a cleared throat and a stammered apology forces him to acknowledge the prophet's presence. He opens one eye but stays seated, reluctant to abandon whatever head-space he's been chasing.
“I'm guessing you're here for a reason,” he drawls, and it's imbued with a physicality so alien to the angelic host you almost find yourself doubting. “Message from our fearless leader, I suppose.”
“Uh- right,” says the little man. “He wanted- he asked me- he's calling a meeting in an hour. He wants you to- uhm- stay sharp.”
Castiel closes his eye again. “It's a good thing he's gotten so used to disappointment, then,” he says. He takes one long slow breath in and then lets it trickle out through his nostrils.
It's a clear dismissal, but the prophet doesn't leave. He fidgets for a moment, then says, “It's just that he seemed really, you know, don't-fuck-with-me about it.”
Castiel lets go. He opens both eyes and stretches, tilting his head to side to side, and it's such a languid and drawn-out motion you think he must have learned it from a cat.
“You'd almost think he cared.” Little brother says it with a smile, and that should be your line- it was your line, all those indifferent ironies- but it's become something twisted and wrong in his mouth. There's a loathing undercutting the nonchalance, his sardonic indifference.
“Cas-” says the prophet, his tone regretful, but he seems at a loss for words.
Castiel shrugs, and once again, it's a too-big gesture. His head lolls to the side and it's from that curious angle he regards the prophet, a grotesque parody of the watchful way he use to regard the world.
“Fine,” he says after a moment. He stands in one loose and rolling movement upward. It's startlingly graceful. “Tell him I'll await his pleasure.”
“Right- right. Okay,” says the little prophet, visibly deflating. “I'll just- go do that then.”
Castiel smiles beatifically as the little man leaves. He turns his head and gazes off into space. It's an idiot's smile, and out of everything in this ruin of a world, it pisses you off to see it. You're startled by the strength of your own reaction.
Castiel's posture shifts to something more watchful just as suddenly, his gaze suddenly sharper and curious. He looks around the room.
You think about leaving before you're tempted to reveal yourself, but there's really nowhere worth going, anymore. The cities are smoking ruins. The refugee camps are dismal things, more sad than horrifying. They're one of the last remnants of civilization, hailing from a time when 'refugee' actually meant something. The camps are nothing more than an obstinate form of denial, as if the end of the world could be overcome with some well-organized disaster relief. They continued even after that particular delusion faded, and you're still not sure why.
They know they've lost, but they continue anyway. All that's left to them is grim survival, so that's what they do and that's what they'll do until they're out of time. Vice, virtue, hypocrisy, humility, hubris- there's no room for any of them against that. No room for you, either. You'd be back to saving and smiting, because there's no moral of the story in survival. And even if there were- well, that role is dead. Lucifer destroyed all the little pagan gods long ago. Parading around as Loki would draw his attention almost as quickly as showing up as yourself. Either way, the jig would be up and then...
He'd probably greet you with open arms.
Your thoughts are interrupted by nearly-tuneless humming. It almost sounds familiar.
“I hope you're not planning on keeping me waiting,” Castiel says, dropping the song-mid note. “You may not have noticed, but I-” he waves a hand at the body, “don't have the kind of time I used to.” He says it like it's a joke.
It's a stab in the dark, so you ignore it. You turn to the rest of the room, taking in all the symbols of worship...both of the divine and of the flesh. Of all of them, you'd never have guessed stuffy, serious little Castiel would take so eagerly to the art of the orgy.
After a long second, Castiel goes back to humming. It's a hymn, though there's no piety in it. The rhythm of it is maddeningly familiar...
You finally get the song. Gabriel's Message, the little fucker. It's an old Basque hymn. There's no point in hiding. He knows you're there.
Castiel ups the ante to singing, almost tunelessly and a little too fast. “The angel Gabriel from heaven came-“
“Fine. You got me,” you say, just a little grudgingly, before he can get to the next line.
“Gabriel!” He opens his arms out wide. “Truly, I'm honored. Welcome to my humble abode. It's not much, but it's what passes for home.”
“Howdy, Castiel.” You stress his name just a little, giving it the right pronunciation, the one that emphasizes el, God.
He almost flinches. He turns it into a shrug.
“Or is it just Cas now?” you continue.
He's still smiling, but there's something sharp and hungry in his eyes. “If you've come to join the orgy, I'm afraid you'll have to wait until tomorrow.”
You make a show of being injured, holding a hand to your heart. “You've cut me to the bone, little brother. I can't just stop by and say hello to family?” You can't help but match his falsely light tone, and you can't drop the cruel edge to your own.
Castiel sinks back down to a seated position on the floor. He shakes his head. “You didn't even consider me family when we were still family,” he says, sounding amused. “Though- can I say- I'm a little shocked you chose to visit my me and not dear ol' Lucifer.”
“Who said I did?”
Castiel grins again, manic and fierce, but says nothing.
And there's the rub, the thought you've been trying to avoid.
The world is a ruin. Nothing was ever good enough for your brother. Nothing will ever be enough for him. He brought division into heaven and hell on earth. He's destroyed everything because he could, because he wanted to make a point.
You're afraid that you may hate him more than you love him. If Lucifer finds you - if you find him- you think you might have to kill him, for everything he's done.
You don't say any of this to Castiel. You hold your hands up and shrug. “Lucifer's a dick, what can I say? I'd heard a rumor somewhere you'd managed to have the stick up your ass surgically removed- seeing is believing, as they say.” You make a show of looking around the room. “Your own little love shack. Never would have seen it coming- or maybe not, considering how long you've spent following Dean Winchester around like a puppy.”
“Uh-uh-huh,” Castiel struggles to keep a straight face, then cracks up.
“What?” You're actually kind of affronted that he keeps going so far off script. That he's not- prickly. You wonder if there's anything he cares about anymore enough to get touchy over. You're not sure why it matters.
“You,” Castiel drawls, waving a hand carelessly in your direction. “You're so....you.” He laughs again, that hoarse, wheezy laughter. There's still no joy in it. “Look at you. So…conflicted. Give it up. Let it go. Have some fun. ”It's the end of the world- why the hell not? What are you waiting for?”
You raise an eyebrow at him. “Moi? You do know who you're talking to, right? You're not that stoned, are you?”
“Yes I am and yes I do,” he says cheerfully. You just deepen the look you’re giving him: Oh really?
He ignores you and continues, “You were pretty unforgettable. As was the world in which you trapped me.”
You frown, momentarily distracted. “...Buffy?”
“Twilight,” he corrects, and you wince internally while shrugging outwardly.
“Oh, yeah,” you say casually. “You must have really pissed me off. You're lucky I didn't do worse.”
Castiel just raises an eyebrow, a smirk ghosting across his face. “Really,” he says, glancing down at himself, and that his tongue could carry anything so laden with irony seems a fresh blasphemy.
You're startled again, and then you realize he wants you to be. That's the edge to him- he's not going to let you forget what he's lost and you still have. It's the kind of subtle cruelty humanity has always excelled at.
“Should have listened to me about the dangers of obsession, little brother. Look where it's gotten you,” you chide. Subtlety is overrated, anyway. Blunt cruelty always worked for you.
You snap your finger as if making a point, and plunge him into sobriety. If he’s going to be like that, you’re going to force him to wallow in his fallen state. Never let it be said you weren't vindictive.
And at last, at last you seem to have touched a nerve, though you can't be sure whether it was the words or the sobriety that did it. Some last vestige of give-a-shit surfaces, and he's looking at you directly, dropping the creepy, Stepford smile. He's like a puppet with its strings cut and you wonder how long he's been keeping the charade up. If you're the first he's dropped it for. If you're the only one with whom he can.
“Where it's gotten me,” Castiel murmurs, and sighs. “Did you ever wonder, Gabriel,” he says, “if this was our test more than theirs?”
“Who's “we”, kemosabe?” you say, honing the words to an edge, “because there are only two groups I can think you could point fingers at, and you're not a member of either.” You grin hard at him, twisting your anger until it comes to a point.
He flinches, but turnabout is fair play. “And if you did in fact mean our fine family,” you continue, “I might remind you that they couldn't have done diddlysquat without the direct involvement of a certain couple of bozos.”
He doesn't say anything, just looks away- another too human gesture- so you continue. “I hear Sam's kind of busy at the moment, but you know, I've been thinking about coming out of retirement- one last hurrah, you might say- and I've got some real tricks up my sleeve I've just been dying to try out-”
“Don't.” It's just a statement. He doesn't even look up.
“No? You gonna stop me?” you taunt, “or try to convince me that he doesn't deserve it?”
Castiel shrugs again, a bitter tensing of his shoulders. “We wanted a weapon,” he remarks, “and didn't give him much choice in the matter.” He's still drawling, but the affectation has lost its sting.
You tsk. “C'mon, little bro. I've heard some rumors about what our self righteous man's been up to lately,” you let your tone drop, “...to say nothing of what he's already done.”
“And what has he done?” he says. He sounds tired. “Nothing but what he was primed to.”
“You're defending him? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You're still here, after all, still dogging his footsteps- and why is that? He must hate you by now.”
“Maybe he does,” Castiel agrees. “He hates everything.”
But he’s not reacting. He’s accepted this. Accepted this state, these circumstances- and why? Why he is still loyal, despite everything? Stupid little brother, who never got the joke. Who is still keeping the faith, in his own pathetic, hopeless way.
You pretend to look thoughtful for a second, then smile. Your tone turns mocking. “So all your pining was for naught. There’s a reason it was forbidden, little brother. Maybe this is your punishment.”
Castiel abruptly stands up, then steps closer to you.
“Why are you really here, Gabriel?”
“Maybe I came to do you a favor. Why do you care? You're hardly fond of 'the fearless leader'. He lead you to this, to becoming this sad lonely thing. Why shouldn't you be begging me for a little justice?”
“Justice? You?” He sounds amused again. “If anything, you owe Dean a favor.”
“For what? Letting me out of the circle he put me in?”
“For trying to do what you're too scared to.” He pauses, and it's a good thing, because you're actually speechless. “That's why you're here, aren't you? You're drawn here like all the rest of them. You hope he can do it. You're hoping he'll actually kill Lucifer for you.” There's something playing in his eyes- laughter or maybe rage, and his smile is back, shattered and sharp.
“That's ridiculous,” you scoff. “Like he has a chance with that. You know as well as I do that little popgun he's chasing after won't do any good.”
“And yet you're here,” Castiel replies. “If you share a few secrets, maybe he'll do the dirty work. He might even thank you.” It drips off his tongue.
“I'm not afraid of Lucifer,” you say, falling back into 'scary archangel, STFU or get smited' mode. It's been a long time since you've gone for the wrathful look, but it's not something you forget.
It completely fails to have any effect on Castiel. “Confront him, then,” he dares. He already knows your answer. “End it.”
“He's my brother,” you say, as if it's enough. You're trying to believe it's still enough.
“And Dean's. It won't stop him.”
“You're point being?” You still feel dangerous. You're still tempted to blast him to pieces. But you won't because-
-because the others have left, and he's right, the little bastard. You won't go to Lucifer.
“No point,” he says. “Call it...an observation.” He stretches again, long and slow. Still graceful.
“If that's all-” he says, dismissing you. Dismissing you. “Apparently my presence has been requested elsewhere.”
You're still not sure what you were looking for. Not sure what the next move should be.
It's okay. You've got time.
“Fine,” you smirk. “Don't think I won't forget this.” You let the threat hang in the air for a second, not sure what you mean by it. It's generic enough to cover a lot of ground, so it's good enough for now, even if it fails to wipe that grin off his face.
“Be seeing you, Castiel.”
And then you vanish. You're tempted to sit around and watch- but little brother's entirely too perceptive for comfort, so you flick away across continents before he can get the wrong idea.
Another wrong idea, anyway. You could show him, head right over to dear old Lucy-
But you won't.
You turn your attention back to the sad little camp.
It's won't last long, but it's interesting. You can have a little fun with them. Castiel was right about one thing, after all. It's the end of the world- it's time to party.
Surely there's still time.