[FIC/ART] A Life is Judged by Meaning for DROPOUT
Gift type: Fanfic and Art
Title: A Life is Judged by Meaning
Author: nightrider101
Artist: vail_kagami
Recipient: dropout
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Vague spoilers from season 6
Word Count: 2598
Summary: “In some ways, suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice.”
― Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning
Author notes: This was a tough one for me because I tend toward the sappy side of things. I hope I fulfilled at least some of your likes. Also, thanks to zatnikatel for the beta. This fic wouldn’t be half of what it is without her mad editing skills.
Time is not different for angels. It merely doesn’t exist. It’s the ebb and flow of existence marked by times of conflict and fleeting moments of peace. It’s creation and destruction melding and molding until one cannot be recognized without the other.
Angels have not existed for all eternity. There was a beginning that Castiel remembers explicitly: being constructed from light and energy, the breath of his Father bringing life to his form. He shouted for joy when his Father laid the foundations of Earth, creating life from nothing. He watched with distant fascination as humans spread across the planet, embraced free will, fell in love and waged war.
Castiel never thought he’d walk among them, not until he was asked to lay siege to Hell to retrieve the Righteous Man. He went with his brothers, fought and bled for a man he did not know, simply because he was told to. He gripped the man tight and raised him from perdition, sheltering the battered soul within his grace as he gathered his waning strength and flew. He watched from a distance as the man clawed his way through the soil and pulled his body up from the ground where it had rested. He continued to watch as the man fought endless battles that he could not win, for a purpose he had yet to understand. He was truly remarkable, and Castiel allowed himself to hope.
Castiel asked much of the Righteous Man, the man who did not think he deserved to be saved. He asked for his allegiance, for his obedience, and got little in return. Sharp words were exchanged from blasphemous tongues; threats were hurled from behind the blades of knives and the smoking barrels of guns.
In the end it was Castiel who didn’t understand, who couldn’t comprehend free will until the Righteous Man taught him the concept, taught him what it meant to stand alone in the crowd and fight for the basic right to choose your own destiny.
Now it is Castiel who stands in battle alone, fighting against his brothers, against those he has loved for as long as he has walked the golden halls of Heaven. He stands alone because he has to. This is not a battle for mortals, a battle that can be fought solely on the sands of Earth. The war rages on, his supporters growing fewer by the day, and he feels his strength lessening even as his resolve grows, fortified by his unremitting need to protect the planet and the people he has promised, if only to himself, to keep safe. He fights on the front lines because he leads by example. He will not ask his followers to do what he is not prepared to do himself. The battles are measured by the flutter of wings, the glow of grace, and the slashes of archaic weapons that were never meant to be used again. Each death is palpable, and his grace weeps inside him.
Castiel knows he’s weaker now, because he feels what his brothers cannot. Although his grace has been fully restored, he can’t simply forget what it felt like to eat, to drink, to want, and to need. Dean Winchester is at the center of it all, Castiel’s reason, his answer even if he doesn’t even really know the question. If Dean could stand strong against the will of angels and the call of Hell, Castiel could do the same. His brothers might not understand his motives, but Castiel feels it as well as he senses his own grace surrounding him.
He watches his human charge when he can, safely concealed in the space between Heaven and Earth, lurking in the shadows where no human can sense his presence. When Castiel was first given the task of protecting the Righteous Man, Dean’s stolen moments of free time were often filled with beautiful women, laughing in his ear, kissing his neck, the promise of more whispering across his skin as he nursed a beer in the corner of a bar. More would take place in a dark alley or a motel room, as cries and grunts of pleasure signaled primal release.
As time progressed, the physical encounters happened less and less. Comfort was not sought from another human being, but from a bottle, and Dean would pour the amber liquid down his throat and stare into the distance without seeing.
“Go to him.”
Castiel pauses, his wings fluttering as he senses Rachel behind him. “I am needed here.”
“But you’re not here,” Rachel replies. “We need you, Castiel. All of you. Deal with this distraction, and return to us whole.”
It’s not as simple as distraction, and it’s not something Castiel can explain even if he wants to. His ties to Earth are as complex as the human he’s bound to.
“Go to him,” Rachel repeats. “We’ll hold our position.” She’s a warrior, his lieutenant, and he trusts that what she speaks is the truth.
Castiel looks across the battlefield, at the scorched remains of grace burned into nothingness, of soldiers and brothers who have fought and died on both sides. He swallows, an unnecessary gesture, and nods. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”
It’s not comfort Castiel seeks when he appears in Dean’s motel room. Dean is in no position to give what he doesn’t possess. His desire for closeness, to be in the proximity of the man he’s grown to respect, to care for…Castiel needs that tonight. He needs to find the will to continue in a war he’s dangerously close to losing.
“Hello, Dean,” he says.
Dean inclines his head and pushes his chair around, eyeing him with little more than a nod of acknowledgment. “Hey, Cas. Been a while.”
Castiel steps closer, reacquainting himself with the limitations of a human body. “I’ve been-”
“Busy, I know.” Dean waves his hand dismissively. “Fighting your holy war.”
Castiel’s eyes narrow, and he welcomes the anger seeping into his body, an emotion he can’t show on the battlefield. “Don’t speak of what you do not understand.”
Dean raises an eyebrow and sets the liquor bottle aside. “Fine.” He pushes out the chair in front of him and points to it. “Explain it to me, then.”
Once again, in the presence of this man, Castiel finds that he wants. If the English language possessed the words to explain it, Castiel would allow them to pour from his lips. But there are so many things that Dean wouldn’t understand, and Castiel knows simply saying I’m doing this for you wouldn’t be enough. So he stands there and says nothing, knowing he should leave but wanting to stay.
Dean nods once and pours another drink, pushing the glass across the table. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Castiel wants to apologize, for things he has done, for things he has yet to do, and for things he has nothing to do with. He owes Dean nothing, and yet he returns to him time and time again.
“You gonna sit down or just keep taking an eyeful?” Dean asks. Castiel sits almost immediately and Dean picks up his glass and tilts it in his direction. “Better,” he mutters, before swallowing the contents in two long pulls. He refills his glass and leans back, his thumb tracing around the rim as he gazes across the table at Castiel. “You look like shit,” he accuses.
“You’re drunk,” Castiel replies evenly.
Dean stares at him through glassy eyes, winks, and gives him a lopsided grin that’s more tragic than humorous. “At least I ain’t drinking alone.”
“No, you’re not,” Castiel agrees. There were many nights Dean didn’t drink alone, nights where Castiel hid in the shadows and soothed broken nightmares into dreamscapes carved from childhood memories and stolen moments of peace.
Dean relaxes into the chair, arms and legs stretching out to a boneless sprawl. When Dean’s at a bar, even when he’s drunk, he’s still on alert, eyes still scanning the shadows, always facing the entrance and sizing up each newcomer. Now he seems to be giving himself completely to the hazy buzz induced by heavy alcohol consumption, and he nods to the still-full glass. “Thought you said I wasn’t drinking alone.”
Castiel takes the drink and swallows half the liquid. It won’t affect him, but he knows Dean appreciates the gesture. It’s human, something he can relate to, a shared drink between friends.
Dean has the uncanny ability to fill the void of silence with meaningless words that never actually say anything at all. Tonight he stays quiet, and Castiel sits with him, an eternal being in a world that’s running out of time. Glasses are refilled, emptied and filled again, a cycle that’s as familiar to Dean as hunting.
“S’ never gonna end, is it?” Dean mumbles eventually.
There’s a change in his voice, it’s subtle but Castiel knows what he’s just said carries weight. “What isn’t going to end?” he queries.
“This.” Dean gestures with his glass, slopping whiskey across the table. “This bullshit that’s our lives. It’s never gonna end, is it?”
It’s been one hunt after another, one fight after another, Castiel knows, knows that both Winchesters have lost friends and loved ones at every pass. He folds his hands on the table, the liquor wetting the sides of his hands. “It’s our-”
“If you say destiny, I swear I’ll throw this bottle at your head.”
“I was going to say lives.”
Dean’s eyes are hooded as he gazes across the table. “You’re saying this is our lot in life?
Not much for the pep talk, are ya’ Cas?”
“At least it’s not a life without meaning.”
Dean considers this, and Cas sees the impact being smoothed over by sarcasm. “I could do with a little less meaning.”
It’s not entirely true, but Castiel indulges Dean anyway. “What would you do with your less meaningful life?
Dean makes a ruminative noise in his throat as he tips his head back and contemplates a future he’ll most likely never have. “I’d like five acres in the Midwest. An old two-storey fixer-upper sitting right in the middle of it.” Castiel doesn’t tell him that he already tried that, the perfect house with the ready-made family that welcomed him with open arms. “Plenty of room for Sam to stay when he wants to. A guestroom for Bobby in case he stops by.” Dean nods across the table, head swaying from the buzz of alcohol. “You could come by, too.”
In Heaven, Castiel is a feared warrior, the leader of an army of angelic soldiers. Here, he is Cas, loyal friend to Dean Winchester. Pride is a sin, but he knows he feels it anyway. He has given everything to be Dean’s friend, would give anything to be everything to Dean, and nothing less. Dean isn’t the only one entertaining idle fantasies tonight.
“And none of this ‘I’m too busy’ crap,” Dean continues. “You’ll have to stop by and stay a while. ‘Cause I said so.” Dean smirks like he’s made some particularly convincing argument. “It’ll be awesome.”
Castiel feels his lips curve into a fond smile. “I’m sure it will.”
Dean nods. “We could, you know…hang out or something.”
“And talk?”
Dean vehemently shakes his head. “Talking is Sam’s thing. We could…I dunno. Drink?”
“We’re doing that now.” Castiel slides his glass across the table, and Dean leans forward to
refill it.
After pouring the last of the whiskey into his own glass, Dean parks the empty bottle on the floor. “We could do other stuff, too. Like fishing. That’d be nice. I could teach you how to take apart an engine. Every guy should know how to do that.”
Dean continues, voice rising and falling as he rattles off all the things he’ll do with Cas one day. Most of them are mundane, idle tasks that Castiel never once considered doing, but the thought of doing them with Dean makes them suddenly seem magnificent. Castiel drinks in Dean’s wistful expression, and he muses that he would fight a thousand wars if it won him the peace that meant he could spend the time it would take to mark each item off Dean’s wish list.
“Sounds good, yeah?”
Castiel smiles and promises himself that Dean will have this one day, all of it. “It sounds perfect.”
Dean slumps further down in his chair, eyes drifting closed. “That’s what I thought.”
Castiel allows himself a moment to appreciate every fine detail that comprises Dean. “You should sleep,” he says finally.
Dean’s eyes open to slits. “Thought that’s what I was doing.”
Castiel nods to the bed. “Proper sleep. In a bed.”
Dean sighs as if he’s the most put-upon man in the world. In many ways, he is. “Yeah, I suppose.” He pushes himself up on shaky legs, leans back and winces when his back pops in three places. He stumbles to the bed, falling face-first on top of the covers, rolls his face back and forth over the pillow several times, then relaxes into a boneless heap.
Castiel pushes up and moves to stand next to the bed. “Your shoes,” he says tentatively.
Dean grumbles something and makes no effort to move. Castiel tugs off the first boot, and Dean lifts his leg a couple of inches to help with the second. His fingers touch the barest hint of skin on Dean’s ankle, and he feels something deep inside himself break, reconnect and break again. It’s in the simplest of gestures that Castiel finds himself, the act of service to another.
“Thanks, Cas,” Dean murmurs.
“Of course, Dean,” Castiel replies quietly, because it was never even a question. If he could, he would serve Dean always.
Dean will have his fantasy one day, he decides, his farmhouse on five acres with room for what’s left of his friends and family. This will be Castiel’s final gift to Dean.
He leaves Dean to his alcohol-induced slumber, his hand ghosting over Dean’s head one final time before he disappears in a flutter of displaced air. His resolve strengthened, Castiel returns to the fight, holy light causing his sword to shine bright. When the battle is over, Castiel knows he won’t be there to see Dean live his dream. He knows what he must do, and he has accepted his fate. His existence was forfeit the moment he laid siege to Hell to retrieve the most contrary man he’d ever come to know, and to love.
He feels regret for nothing. Because, in the end, his life had meaning.
~Finished~
Title: A Life is Judged by Meaning
Author: nightrider101
Artist: vail_kagami
Recipient: dropout
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Vague spoilers from season 6
Word Count: 2598
Summary: “In some ways, suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice.”
― Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning
Author notes: This was a tough one for me because I tend toward the sappy side of things. I hope I fulfilled at least some of your likes. Also, thanks to zatnikatel for the beta. This fic wouldn’t be half of what it is without her mad editing skills.
Time is not different for angels. It merely doesn’t exist. It’s the ebb and flow of existence marked by times of conflict and fleeting moments of peace. It’s creation and destruction melding and molding until one cannot be recognized without the other.
Angels have not existed for all eternity. There was a beginning that Castiel remembers explicitly: being constructed from light and energy, the breath of his Father bringing life to his form. He shouted for joy when his Father laid the foundations of Earth, creating life from nothing. He watched with distant fascination as humans spread across the planet, embraced free will, fell in love and waged war.
Castiel never thought he’d walk among them, not until he was asked to lay siege to Hell to retrieve the Righteous Man. He went with his brothers, fought and bled for a man he did not know, simply because he was told to. He gripped the man tight and raised him from perdition, sheltering the battered soul within his grace as he gathered his waning strength and flew. He watched from a distance as the man clawed his way through the soil and pulled his body up from the ground where it had rested. He continued to watch as the man fought endless battles that he could not win, for a purpose he had yet to understand. He was truly remarkable, and Castiel allowed himself to hope.
Castiel asked much of the Righteous Man, the man who did not think he deserved to be saved. He asked for his allegiance, for his obedience, and got little in return. Sharp words were exchanged from blasphemous tongues; threats were hurled from behind the blades of knives and the smoking barrels of guns.
In the end it was Castiel who didn’t understand, who couldn’t comprehend free will until the Righteous Man taught him the concept, taught him what it meant to stand alone in the crowd and fight for the basic right to choose your own destiny.
Now it is Castiel who stands in battle alone, fighting against his brothers, against those he has loved for as long as he has walked the golden halls of Heaven. He stands alone because he has to. This is not a battle for mortals, a battle that can be fought solely on the sands of Earth. The war rages on, his supporters growing fewer by the day, and he feels his strength lessening even as his resolve grows, fortified by his unremitting need to protect the planet and the people he has promised, if only to himself, to keep safe. He fights on the front lines because he leads by example. He will not ask his followers to do what he is not prepared to do himself. The battles are measured by the flutter of wings, the glow of grace, and the slashes of archaic weapons that were never meant to be used again. Each death is palpable, and his grace weeps inside him.
Castiel knows he’s weaker now, because he feels what his brothers cannot. Although his grace has been fully restored, he can’t simply forget what it felt like to eat, to drink, to want, and to need. Dean Winchester is at the center of it all, Castiel’s reason, his answer even if he doesn’t even really know the question. If Dean could stand strong against the will of angels and the call of Hell, Castiel could do the same. His brothers might not understand his motives, but Castiel feels it as well as he senses his own grace surrounding him.
He watches his human charge when he can, safely concealed in the space between Heaven and Earth, lurking in the shadows where no human can sense his presence. When Castiel was first given the task of protecting the Righteous Man, Dean’s stolen moments of free time were often filled with beautiful women, laughing in his ear, kissing his neck, the promise of more whispering across his skin as he nursed a beer in the corner of a bar. More would take place in a dark alley or a motel room, as cries and grunts of pleasure signaled primal release.
As time progressed, the physical encounters happened less and less. Comfort was not sought from another human being, but from a bottle, and Dean would pour the amber liquid down his throat and stare into the distance without seeing.
“Go to him.”
Castiel pauses, his wings fluttering as he senses Rachel behind him. “I am needed here.”
“But you’re not here,” Rachel replies. “We need you, Castiel. All of you. Deal with this distraction, and return to us whole.”
It’s not as simple as distraction, and it’s not something Castiel can explain even if he wants to. His ties to Earth are as complex as the human he’s bound to.
“Go to him,” Rachel repeats. “We’ll hold our position.” She’s a warrior, his lieutenant, and he trusts that what she speaks is the truth.
Castiel looks across the battlefield, at the scorched remains of grace burned into nothingness, of soldiers and brothers who have fought and died on both sides. He swallows, an unnecessary gesture, and nods. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”
It’s not comfort Castiel seeks when he appears in Dean’s motel room. Dean is in no position to give what he doesn’t possess. His desire for closeness, to be in the proximity of the man he’s grown to respect, to care for…Castiel needs that tonight. He needs to find the will to continue in a war he’s dangerously close to losing.
“Hello, Dean,” he says.
Dean inclines his head and pushes his chair around, eyeing him with little more than a nod of acknowledgment. “Hey, Cas. Been a while.”
Castiel steps closer, reacquainting himself with the limitations of a human body. “I’ve been-”
“Busy, I know.” Dean waves his hand dismissively. “Fighting your holy war.”
Castiel’s eyes narrow, and he welcomes the anger seeping into his body, an emotion he can’t show on the battlefield. “Don’t speak of what you do not understand.”
Dean raises an eyebrow and sets the liquor bottle aside. “Fine.” He pushes out the chair in front of him and points to it. “Explain it to me, then.”
Once again, in the presence of this man, Castiel finds that he wants. If the English language possessed the words to explain it, Castiel would allow them to pour from his lips. But there are so many things that Dean wouldn’t understand, and Castiel knows simply saying I’m doing this for you wouldn’t be enough. So he stands there and says nothing, knowing he should leave but wanting to stay.
Dean nods once and pours another drink, pushing the glass across the table. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Castiel wants to apologize, for things he has done, for things he has yet to do, and for things he has nothing to do with. He owes Dean nothing, and yet he returns to him time and time again.
“You gonna sit down or just keep taking an eyeful?” Dean asks. Castiel sits almost immediately and Dean picks up his glass and tilts it in his direction. “Better,” he mutters, before swallowing the contents in two long pulls. He refills his glass and leans back, his thumb tracing around the rim as he gazes across the table at Castiel. “You look like shit,” he accuses.
“You’re drunk,” Castiel replies evenly.
Dean stares at him through glassy eyes, winks, and gives him a lopsided grin that’s more tragic than humorous. “At least I ain’t drinking alone.”
“No, you’re not,” Castiel agrees. There were many nights Dean didn’t drink alone, nights where Castiel hid in the shadows and soothed broken nightmares into dreamscapes carved from childhood memories and stolen moments of peace.
Dean relaxes into the chair, arms and legs stretching out to a boneless sprawl. When Dean’s at a bar, even when he’s drunk, he’s still on alert, eyes still scanning the shadows, always facing the entrance and sizing up each newcomer. Now he seems to be giving himself completely to the hazy buzz induced by heavy alcohol consumption, and he nods to the still-full glass. “Thought you said I wasn’t drinking alone.”
Castiel takes the drink and swallows half the liquid. It won’t affect him, but he knows Dean appreciates the gesture. It’s human, something he can relate to, a shared drink between friends.
Dean has the uncanny ability to fill the void of silence with meaningless words that never actually say anything at all. Tonight he stays quiet, and Castiel sits with him, an eternal being in a world that’s running out of time. Glasses are refilled, emptied and filled again, a cycle that’s as familiar to Dean as hunting.
“S’ never gonna end, is it?” Dean mumbles eventually.
There’s a change in his voice, it’s subtle but Castiel knows what he’s just said carries weight. “What isn’t going to end?” he queries.
“This.” Dean gestures with his glass, slopping whiskey across the table. “This bullshit that’s our lives. It’s never gonna end, is it?”
It’s been one hunt after another, one fight after another, Castiel knows, knows that both Winchesters have lost friends and loved ones at every pass. He folds his hands on the table, the liquor wetting the sides of his hands. “It’s our-”
“If you say destiny, I swear I’ll throw this bottle at your head.”
“I was going to say lives.”
Dean’s eyes are hooded as he gazes across the table. “You’re saying this is our lot in life?
Not much for the pep talk, are ya’ Cas?”
“At least it’s not a life without meaning.”
Dean considers this, and Cas sees the impact being smoothed over by sarcasm. “I could do with a little less meaning.”
It’s not entirely true, but Castiel indulges Dean anyway. “What would you do with your less meaningful life?
Dean makes a ruminative noise in his throat as he tips his head back and contemplates a future he’ll most likely never have. “I’d like five acres in the Midwest. An old two-storey fixer-upper sitting right in the middle of it.” Castiel doesn’t tell him that he already tried that, the perfect house with the ready-made family that welcomed him with open arms. “Plenty of room for Sam to stay when he wants to. A guestroom for Bobby in case he stops by.” Dean nods across the table, head swaying from the buzz of alcohol. “You could come by, too.”
In Heaven, Castiel is a feared warrior, the leader of an army of angelic soldiers. Here, he is Cas, loyal friend to Dean Winchester. Pride is a sin, but he knows he feels it anyway. He has given everything to be Dean’s friend, would give anything to be everything to Dean, and nothing less. Dean isn’t the only one entertaining idle fantasies tonight.
“And none of this ‘I’m too busy’ crap,” Dean continues. “You’ll have to stop by and stay a while. ‘Cause I said so.” Dean smirks like he’s made some particularly convincing argument. “It’ll be awesome.”
Castiel feels his lips curve into a fond smile. “I’m sure it will.”
Dean nods. “We could, you know…hang out or something.”
“And talk?”
Dean vehemently shakes his head. “Talking is Sam’s thing. We could…I dunno. Drink?”
“We’re doing that now.” Castiel slides his glass across the table, and Dean leans forward to
refill it.
After pouring the last of the whiskey into his own glass, Dean parks the empty bottle on the floor. “We could do other stuff, too. Like fishing. That’d be nice. I could teach you how to take apart an engine. Every guy should know how to do that.”
Dean continues, voice rising and falling as he rattles off all the things he’ll do with Cas one day. Most of them are mundane, idle tasks that Castiel never once considered doing, but the thought of doing them with Dean makes them suddenly seem magnificent. Castiel drinks in Dean’s wistful expression, and he muses that he would fight a thousand wars if it won him the peace that meant he could spend the time it would take to mark each item off Dean’s wish list.
“Sounds good, yeah?”
Castiel smiles and promises himself that Dean will have this one day, all of it. “It sounds perfect.”
Dean slumps further down in his chair, eyes drifting closed. “That’s what I thought.”
Castiel allows himself a moment to appreciate every fine detail that comprises Dean. “You should sleep,” he says finally.
Dean’s eyes open to slits. “Thought that’s what I was doing.”
Castiel nods to the bed. “Proper sleep. In a bed.”
Dean sighs as if he’s the most put-upon man in the world. In many ways, he is. “Yeah, I suppose.” He pushes himself up on shaky legs, leans back and winces when his back pops in three places. He stumbles to the bed, falling face-first on top of the covers, rolls his face back and forth over the pillow several times, then relaxes into a boneless heap.
Castiel pushes up and moves to stand next to the bed. “Your shoes,” he says tentatively.
Dean grumbles something and makes no effort to move. Castiel tugs off the first boot, and Dean lifts his leg a couple of inches to help with the second. His fingers touch the barest hint of skin on Dean’s ankle, and he feels something deep inside himself break, reconnect and break again. It’s in the simplest of gestures that Castiel finds himself, the act of service to another.
“Thanks, Cas,” Dean murmurs.
“Of course, Dean,” Castiel replies quietly, because it was never even a question. If he could, he would serve Dean always.
Dean will have his fantasy one day, he decides, his farmhouse on five acres with room for what’s left of his friends and family. This will be Castiel’s final gift to Dean.
He leaves Dean to his alcohol-induced slumber, his hand ghosting over Dean’s head one final time before he disappears in a flutter of displaced air. His resolve strengthened, Castiel returns to the fight, holy light causing his sword to shine bright. When the battle is over, Castiel knows he won’t be there to see Dean live his dream. He knows what he must do, and he has accepted his fate. His existence was forfeit the moment he laid siege to Hell to retrieve the most contrary man he’d ever come to know, and to love.
He feels regret for nothing. Because, in the end, his life had meaning.
~Finished~