( 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. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.