(no subject)
Three Days Spent at the Bottom of the Ocean
[wanted-to-be-dean/castiel-but-it-turned-out-gen-because-i'm-a-lazy-fuck]
Castiel was born a muse.
There is a night in a motel room when all the lights are off, and Dean can barely see Castiel standing in front of him through the lights peeking in through the thin curtains, and Sam is taking too long having some existential crisis over what TV dinner to bring back, and Dean yells at Castiel, "you're just a soldier, you're just a goddamn tool of God, born with no other purpose to serve and that's while you'll never understand that I can't do what you're fucking asking me to do."
"No I'm not," Castiel replies. "I was born to be a muse."
There is a night when Dean is taken aback. Dean is taken aback by such a small thing he has to reconsider everything that's happened in the past few months.
"What?" He says. Words fail him, and he crosses his arms, fingers pulling at his own shirtless skin.
"I was born a muse," Castiel says again, voice unwavering, "before war was ever invented. I was created to inspire."
Dean has this conception of Castiel, that he just speaks for the vengeful part of God, that he is some sort of personification of war.
"You mean like, what. Some greek harpy or some shit?" He just doesn't know what to say, or even think. Castiel not used as someone's soldier, as a weapon in a fight is like thinking of eating with no hands, breathing with no lungs; he's just a tool crucial for his purpose. But--
"No, I was just," Castiel grasps for words, "I was here to dream. Before time, I was inspiration. We were muses, made for you, not how it is now, you for us. But that was before. Before everything."
Car headlights on the other side of the window make the room more of a grayish-blue than a black. Dean is understanding Castiel less and less, but at least it's no longer misunderstandings. Castiel smiles, tugs at his trenchcoat collar twice in a very human way, looking at everything but Dean.
"Sometimes Dean," he finally continues, "you just have to go along with what happens, whether it was originally in His plan for you or not. And hope."
There is a key twisting in the lock. Dean blinks. Castiel is gone.
*
Dean leaves when Sam falls asleep. He's full of uncertainty, and there hasn't been trust in his heart for awhile, but he's not sure who is to blame. He drives until morning, when he's in another state and off a highway. When he feels the springs of a single king mattress press into his back, he wonders why he doesn't feel so alone.
Castiel had told him Sam had a darkness growing in his heart, a darkness that would consume the souls and thoughts of those around him. Sam is dangerous, he's been feeding off you, Dean, but your soul won't keep him satisfied forever. Your dreams of hell are keeping you safe now, but they are temporary to a darkness that could feed for eternity.
Dean had said, that's my brother you're talking about.
Castiel said, that's the antichrist you're talking about.
Dean feels lighter already. He realizes that the burden is Sam when Castiel finds him hours later, still flat on his stomach on the hotel's polyester comforter. Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't know what to say when he realizes Castiel was right. Sam was draining him of his soul. Castiel sits on the desk and kicks off his shoes.
"We are both creatures born with free will," he says. "I have trouble sometimes believing too, belief isn't just ingrained in my--well, blood wouldn't be the word. My being, I am not restrained to any beliefs Dean, just knowledge."
"What are you trying to say," Dean asks, mouth dry and voice tired. His heart feels weary.
"Thank you," Castiel replies, "for believing in me."
*
If you looked at a map, you would probably see a crescent of empty space between Dean and Sam. There started to be news reports of a plague, spreading from town to town. Middle America begins collapsing outwards like dominoes, towns falling prey to this strange, sudden death.
"It's Sam," Castiel murmers while he and Dean watch the news in a Louisiana hotel. He looks at Dean and wheels are spinning in his eyes.
Castiel, once a muse has become an architect of war. He senses the direction in which time moves, and tells Dean where to go and how to lead people to a salvation away from this hunger, this feeding of souls from the heart of his little brother. People from all over start to follow Dean, go where he says to go as they are pursued by death.
Once Dean answered a phone call from Sam, weeks after he had left. Sam had been crying out for help, he had yelled, "I haven't had a conversation in days, Dean, because whenever I reach a town, or a home, or a gas station, they're dead because of me. I need you, Dean, I need you here now, I'm going crazy. I can't stop killing, but it's not my fault--"
The phone shocked Dean and he dropped it to the floor. He looked up to realize Castiel there, staring at it intensly. He averted his gaze to Dean.
"There is no one to replace you if you sacrifice yourself to this," he had said. And even though sometimes Dean wonders if he is at fault for the monster Sam is becoming, for abandoning Sam in the first place, Castiel's words replace that regret by inspiring him and saving thousands. After that first admission from Castiel, Dean has been seeing more and more of the angel's original purpose through his actions.
Dean's driving southwest to spread the word of God and move the people out of harms way, Castiel in his passenger seat. There are few words said between them, but sometime Dean can't help but look for more. He needs that connection with Castiel for justification in his actions.
They're passing mile after mile of light brown dirt and stalks of wheat, weeds, and Dean asks, "what's the best thing you ever, like, created. What did you do, up in heaven that you think was so great."
Castiel is silent for a bit, takes a bite of a granola bar, something he's grown a bit of attachment to on the road, and sighs, "you. I dreamt of you. Thousands of years ago."
[wanted-to-be-dean/castiel-but-it-turned-out-gen-because-i'm-a-lazy-fuck]
Castiel was born a muse.
There is a night in a motel room when all the lights are off, and Dean can barely see Castiel standing in front of him through the lights peeking in through the thin curtains, and Sam is taking too long having some existential crisis over what TV dinner to bring back, and Dean yells at Castiel, "you're just a soldier, you're just a goddamn tool of God, born with no other purpose to serve and that's while you'll never understand that I can't do what you're fucking asking me to do."
"No I'm not," Castiel replies. "I was born to be a muse."
There is a night when Dean is taken aback. Dean is taken aback by such a small thing he has to reconsider everything that's happened in the past few months.
"What?" He says. Words fail him, and he crosses his arms, fingers pulling at his own shirtless skin.
"I was born a muse," Castiel says again, voice unwavering, "before war was ever invented. I was created to inspire."
Dean has this conception of Castiel, that he just speaks for the vengeful part of God, that he is some sort of personification of war.
"You mean like, what. Some greek harpy or some shit?" He just doesn't know what to say, or even think. Castiel not used as someone's soldier, as a weapon in a fight is like thinking of eating with no hands, breathing with no lungs; he's just a tool crucial for his purpose. But--
"No, I was just," Castiel grasps for words, "I was here to dream. Before time, I was inspiration. We were muses, made for you, not how it is now, you for us. But that was before. Before everything."
Car headlights on the other side of the window make the room more of a grayish-blue than a black. Dean is understanding Castiel less and less, but at least it's no longer misunderstandings. Castiel smiles, tugs at his trenchcoat collar twice in a very human way, looking at everything but Dean.
"Sometimes Dean," he finally continues, "you just have to go along with what happens, whether it was originally in His plan for you or not. And hope."
There is a key twisting in the lock. Dean blinks. Castiel is gone.
*
Dean leaves when Sam falls asleep. He's full of uncertainty, and there hasn't been trust in his heart for awhile, but he's not sure who is to blame. He drives until morning, when he's in another state and off a highway. When he feels the springs of a single king mattress press into his back, he wonders why he doesn't feel so alone.
Castiel had told him Sam had a darkness growing in his heart, a darkness that would consume the souls and thoughts of those around him. Sam is dangerous, he's been feeding off you, Dean, but your soul won't keep him satisfied forever. Your dreams of hell are keeping you safe now, but they are temporary to a darkness that could feed for eternity.
Dean had said, that's my brother you're talking about.
Castiel said, that's the antichrist you're talking about.
Dean feels lighter already. He realizes that the burden is Sam when Castiel finds him hours later, still flat on his stomach on the hotel's polyester comforter. Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't know what to say when he realizes Castiel was right. Sam was draining him of his soul. Castiel sits on the desk and kicks off his shoes.
"We are both creatures born with free will," he says. "I have trouble sometimes believing too, belief isn't just ingrained in my--well, blood wouldn't be the word. My being, I am not restrained to any beliefs Dean, just knowledge."
"What are you trying to say," Dean asks, mouth dry and voice tired. His heart feels weary.
"Thank you," Castiel replies, "for believing in me."
*
If you looked at a map, you would probably see a crescent of empty space between Dean and Sam. There started to be news reports of a plague, spreading from town to town. Middle America begins collapsing outwards like dominoes, towns falling prey to this strange, sudden death.
"It's Sam," Castiel murmers while he and Dean watch the news in a Louisiana hotel. He looks at Dean and wheels are spinning in his eyes.
Castiel, once a muse has become an architect of war. He senses the direction in which time moves, and tells Dean where to go and how to lead people to a salvation away from this hunger, this feeding of souls from the heart of his little brother. People from all over start to follow Dean, go where he says to go as they are pursued by death.
Once Dean answered a phone call from Sam, weeks after he had left. Sam had been crying out for help, he had yelled, "I haven't had a conversation in days, Dean, because whenever I reach a town, or a home, or a gas station, they're dead because of me. I need you, Dean, I need you here now, I'm going crazy. I can't stop killing, but it's not my fault--"
The phone shocked Dean and he dropped it to the floor. He looked up to realize Castiel there, staring at it intensly. He averted his gaze to Dean.
"There is no one to replace you if you sacrifice yourself to this," he had said. And even though sometimes Dean wonders if he is at fault for the monster Sam is becoming, for abandoning Sam in the first place, Castiel's words replace that regret by inspiring him and saving thousands. After that first admission from Castiel, Dean has been seeing more and more of the angel's original purpose through his actions.
Dean's driving southwest to spread the word of God and move the people out of harms way, Castiel in his passenger seat. There are few words said between them, but sometime Dean can't help but look for more. He needs that connection with Castiel for justification in his actions.
They're passing mile after mile of light brown dirt and stalks of wheat, weeds, and Dean asks, "what's the best thing you ever, like, created. What did you do, up in heaven that you think was so great."
Castiel is silent for a bit, takes a bite of a granola bar, something he's grown a bit of attachment to on the road, and sighs, "you. I dreamt of you. Thousands of years ago."