[ Nothing is quite the same after the Flood. They lose a lot of buildings. People, too. It's as if Beacon gets torn asunder.
Little remains when all is said and done. Mostly the cabins in the old village, the church, the museum. Sam and Dean are still there, and for that Castiel is endlessly grateful. He doesn't wish this place on them, but... he knows what awaits him if he returns to his own universe. And he knows that as he is now, he will never meet them as they are now, either. Even if his own future runs the course they've been on rather than diverting. He might have Sam and Dean and home - but they would not be this Sam and Dean.
So... in a twisted, selfish way... he is glad for their continued existence.
In the aftermath, there is no sign of Dr. Solis. The lanterns remain, though now no one knows what death might bring. The bonfire is dim, and the world feels...smaller. Darker. More opressive. They soon realize it's become more dangerous, too. The benevolent spirits are gone. The ferry arrives, still, ominously silent and listing sideways in the dark water. It doesn't bring any new arrivals anymore, just supplies - necessities. Bare minimum food, the occasional weapon.
The forest has grown darker. The light has grown dimmer. In the dark sky, it feels like something is watching.
They make due, the three of them and what allies they have. They set up more rigid patrols along the forest, they shrink the hub of civilization down to keep people safe more easily. They hunt at the edges of the forest, making sure nothing can get too far in.
Stometimes, something gets too far in.
The church is dark and silent. The candles on the altar are incredibly dim. The trap door is silent. Castiel sits on a church pew next to Dean's body, a hand on his chest. Every now and then, he sends a small spark of grace through his palm - he can't heal Dean, but he doesn't know what else to do - they don't know if people come back without Dr. Solis. He's had to put Sam to sleep - they're both too worried, too exhausted.
Castiel keeps his vigil. Wills Dean to wake up, to live again. There are few lights left in the dark.
( the deaths of dean winchester have not always been kind; rarely so, in fact, because it simply isn't his lot to die without tragedy or pain or regret. he tells himself he's willing to die, to lay down his life for others, but if given a choice? if there were ever another way, would he still choose to die? there's so much work he has yet to do, so much life he has yet to live. the truth of the matter is: he never wants to die. but it's always been easier to lay down his own life if it means saving another's; his greatest value has always been his willingness to sacrifice, to go out in that blaze of glory. what better legacy is there?
dean winchester gave it all up for one man.
it hurts like hell this time — hurts like getting dragged to hell all over again, except, somehow, worse. it feels like being on the rack, being ripped apart bit by bloody bit, until there's nothing left but bits of bone, unrecognizable pieces of flesh. he screams until his throat is raw, until that too is torn from his body, claws desperately at the thing biting into him, but it's no use. the pain is everywhere, sharp as a thousand knives, like taking a dive into molten lava. and just before it all ends — the agony, the suffering, his will to fight seeping out of him like all the blood he's lost — he wonders if he deserves this.
he comes to with a ragged gasp. this part is familiar, too. only he isn't buried six feet under, doesn't have to claw his way out of the ground. there's just the church and the pews and the candles (less of them now, less than there have been in months) flickering dimly on the altar. the altar where everything went wrong, where he might have broken things irrevocably (because he wasn't ready, because he was scared, because faith is synonymous with love).
and then there's cas.
cas, who raised him from perdition, who fell for him, who has died for him, who he can't bear to live without — who he never should have pushed away.
he blinks wearily as his eyes focus in the dim light, but even blind he would know cas' presence, the weight of his hand, the warmth of his grace. )
Cas? ( hoarse, strained. he tries to sit up, but he only manages to reach out weakly, grabbing hold of cas' forearm. ) We gotta stop meeting like this.
[ Something old and rusted over moves in his chest, like a long abandoned machine reawakened, and even though Castiel does not need to breathe, he finds that he can breathe again.
Dean is back.
Dean is alive.
Castiel reaches out, makes it easier for Dean to hold onto his forearm. His fingers twitch momentarily, then curl inwards, a gentle glow and flow of warmth down into that chest, down to where he pulse meets the gentle push of Castiel's grace again. Alive. And all Castiel wants is to hold, to cherish.
The candle burns, still. That precious, fragile light holds, and Castiel wants and needs nothing more than to cup his hands around it, shelter it from the raging storm their existence has become. ]
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ITN Verse
Little remains when all is said and done. Mostly the cabins in the old village, the church, the museum. Sam and Dean are still there, and for that Castiel is endlessly grateful. He doesn't wish this place on them, but... he knows what awaits him if he returns to his own universe. And he knows that as he is now, he will never meet them as they are now, either. Even if his own future runs the course they've been on rather than diverting. He might have Sam and Dean and home - but they would not be this Sam and Dean.
So... in a twisted, selfish way... he is glad for their continued existence.
In the aftermath, there is no sign of Dr. Solis. The lanterns remain, though now no one knows what death might bring. The bonfire is dim, and the world feels...smaller. Darker. More opressive. They soon realize it's become more dangerous, too. The benevolent spirits are gone. The ferry arrives, still, ominously silent and listing sideways in the dark water. It doesn't bring any new arrivals anymore, just supplies - necessities. Bare minimum food, the occasional weapon.
The forest has grown darker. The light has grown dimmer. In the dark sky, it feels like something is watching.
They make due, the three of them and what allies they have. They set up more rigid patrols along the forest, they shrink the hub of civilization down to keep people safe more easily. They hunt at the edges of the forest, making sure nothing can get too far in.
Stometimes, something gets too far in.
The church is dark and silent. The candles on the altar are incredibly dim. The trap door is silent. Castiel sits on a church pew next to Dean's body, a hand on his chest. Every now and then, he sends a small spark of grace through his palm - he can't heal Dean, but he doesn't know what else to do - they don't know if people come back without Dr. Solis. He's had to put Sam to sleep - they're both too worried, too exhausted.
Castiel keeps his vigil. Wills Dean to wake up, to live again. There are few lights left in the dark.
Castiel can't lose this one. ]
no subject
dean winchester gave it all up for one man.
it hurts like hell this time — hurts like getting dragged to hell all over again, except, somehow, worse. it feels like being on the rack, being ripped apart bit by bloody bit, until there's nothing left but bits of bone, unrecognizable pieces of flesh. he screams until his throat is raw, until that too is torn from his body, claws desperately at the thing biting into him, but it's no use. the pain is everywhere, sharp as a thousand knives, like taking a dive into molten lava. and just before it all ends — the agony, the suffering, his will to fight seeping out of him like all the blood he's lost — he wonders if he deserves this.
he comes to with a ragged gasp. this part is familiar, too. only he isn't buried six feet under, doesn't have to claw his way out of the ground. there's just the church and the pews and the candles (less of them now, less than there have been in months) flickering dimly on the altar. the altar where everything went wrong, where he might have broken things irrevocably (because he wasn't ready, because he was scared, because faith is synonymous with love).
and then there's cas.
cas, who raised him from perdition, who fell for him, who has died for him, who he can't bear to live without — who he never should have pushed away.
he blinks wearily as his eyes focus in the dim light, but even blind he would know cas' presence, the weight of his hand, the warmth of his grace. )
Cas? ( hoarse, strained. he tries to sit up, but he only manages to reach out weakly, grabbing hold of cas' forearm. ) We gotta stop meeting like this.
no subject
Dean is back.
Dean is alive.
Castiel reaches out, makes it easier for Dean to hold onto his forearm. His fingers twitch momentarily, then curl inwards, a gentle glow and flow of warmth down into that chest, down to where he pulse meets the gentle push of Castiel's grace again. Alive. And all Castiel wants is to hold, to cherish.
The candle burns, still. That precious, fragile light holds, and Castiel wants and needs nothing more than to cup his hands around it, shelter it from the raging storm their existence has become. ]
Hello, Dean.