( well, that would have been a little bit comforting if he'd known. maybe. ( he's spent a little too long in the pit with all of those tortured souls, many of which have been tortured by him to think that there is no joy at all to find in such a thing, because even though he's far from admitting it aloud or even to himself in his own head – consciousness? since he doesn't currently have a physical form – there had been some taken on his end, and it's a slippery slope he's been stumbling down ever since he'd been taken downstairs. surely, he can't fall any further than he already has, but it's always been, for him and sam, that just when they start to think things can't get any worse, that's when they choose to take a nosedive.
suffice it to say that this – this pain – might not be the worst thing he's ever been put through, but by now, he's pretty sure he's been put through the ringer a couple of times over. at least there's no joy being taken in it. )
dean doesn't intend to be puzzling; he's never been in the habit of beating around the bush, always giving the most precise and, more often than not, blunt answers that come to mind – mostly because he has never been possessed of a brain-to-mouth filter and it all just comes tumbling out of him without so much as a second thought to offending someone. whether or not a joke he makes might be taken as off-color, or if it would have simply been better to keep his mouth shut from the very start. he's coherent enough, all things considered, and the fact that castiel happens to think that he's speaking in riddles or possibly another language entirely isn't even a blip on his radar. for the very first time since he'd been dragged to hell, he doesn't feel the layer of grime clinging to him, the slick sort of sin and ruin that encompasses everything it touches.
it's … there are no words for it. and even given that he's never been all that great with them, he's almost convinced that the word he's looking for hasn't been invented yet. the closest he can come is thinking that he feels whole for the first time in years, having bits and pieces and shards of himself unerringly chipped away, left to turn stale, erode for so long that he'd simply resigned himself to it.
yeah. whole fits.
it's a moment, maybe more before he gives anything back to the angel, so overwhelmed by everything that he still has no idea just how long they've been there, how long it's been since they made the climb away from the grips of hell itself, castiel himself running on nothing but angel fumes and the strongest will of anything he's ever seen. he can't think, can't wrap his head around the idea that he might not remember this, because how could he not? surely, when he wakes up topside, he'll –
i might not? the hell am i supposed to think when i just … wake up? there's a grim sort of pause, and if anything bleeds into his words next, it's the slightest bit of uncertainty. … am i gonna remember hell?
he can't help but to ask, because there's a part of him that won't let him get away with not, even though the rest of him is nearly terrified of the answer – because he's pretty sure he knows it. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 24 Dec 2015 02:11 (UTC)suffice it to say that this – this pain – might not be the worst thing he's ever been put through, but by now, he's pretty sure he's been put through the ringer a couple of times over. at least there's no joy being taken in it. )
dean doesn't intend to be puzzling; he's never been in the habit of beating around the bush, always giving the most precise and, more often than not, blunt answers that come to mind – mostly because he has never been possessed of a brain-to-mouth filter and it all just comes tumbling out of him without so much as a second thought to offending someone. whether or not a joke he makes might be taken as off-color, or if it would have simply been better to keep his mouth shut from the very start. he's coherent enough, all things considered, and the fact that castiel happens to think that he's speaking in riddles or possibly another language entirely isn't even a blip on his radar. for the very first time since he'd been dragged to hell, he doesn't feel the layer of grime clinging to him, the slick sort of sin and ruin that encompasses everything it touches.
it's … there are no words for it. and even given that he's never been all that great with them, he's almost convinced that the word he's looking for hasn't been invented yet. the closest he can come is thinking that he feels whole for the first time in years, having bits and pieces and shards of himself unerringly chipped away, left to turn stale, erode for so long that he'd simply resigned himself to it.
yeah. whole fits.
it's a moment, maybe more before he gives anything back to the angel, so overwhelmed by everything that he still has no idea just how long they've been there, how long it's been since they made the climb away from the grips of hell itself, castiel himself running on nothing but angel fumes and the strongest will of anything he's ever seen. he can't think, can't wrap his head around the idea that he might not remember this, because how could he not? surely, when he wakes up topside, he'll –
i might not? the hell am i supposed to think when i just … wake up? there's a grim sort of pause, and if anything bleeds into his words next, it's the slightest bit of uncertainty. … am i gonna remember hell?
he can't help but to ask, because there's a part of him that won't let him get away with not, even though the rest of him is nearly terrified of the answer – because he's pretty sure he knows it. )