( yeah. they can't stay here. no way that he could be that lucky, just to be able to take a little bit more time to catch his breath, let it all sink in. castiel, this angel out of nowhere has other things he needs to attend to now that he's rescued the righteous man, and he can't be expected to babysit him for the rest of forever. ( not that dean would call it as much, hell no, but it's still going to take him a while to get his head back in the game, and having a little bit of help along the way never hurt anyone.
but that's neither here nor there. )
the angel has made his promise – because it's been made clear that this isn't over, that even though he might not remember what's transpired here, they aren't finished with one another. he can't really think to wonder what it all means, what else is going to be in store for him or his brother, but having gone to all this trouble just to bring him topside again must mean there's something in the works, gears turning and wheels rolling even if he has no idea what it's going to be.
he supposes it comes with being a winchester. their lives are never going to be easy, even when those lives have effectively been forfeited, there's always going to be some sort of loophole that drags him back into the thick of it all over again, a never-ending circuit of heartache and pain the likes of which he's convinced no human being should ever be put through. he's been run through the ringer, dropped into hell and strung up and hung by chains, and who the hell knows what's going to be waiting for him once he's back above ground.
castiel brings him in close again, and the warmth that emanates from the touch of his grace fills him once more with that pleasant thrum of electricity, peaceful in the sense of security. he's never felt safe like this before in his entire life, and damn it all, he wants to be selfish and stay like this – even though there's no way in heaven or hell or the middle ground that it could ever be that way, so he tries not to get all that comfortable, even with as simple as it would be to lull himself into the happy place brought on by the other's close proximity.
it happens all too quickly, at least, that's what it feels like; breaking through spacetime, back into the dimension he belongs to, and of course the transition from the intangible to the tangible is blocked from his consciousness. he doesn't remember those last words, the grate of them over every inch of his being as his soul is bound once again to his body. a body that lay broken and bloodied and decayed in an unmarked grave, a hole in the ground meant for nothing but a hunter, because their kind could never deserve anything more than that.
his mouth tastes like dirt, dry and gritty and there isn't a single point on him that doesn't hurt – ache from disuse – and clawing up through the clumps of grit and grime finds him gasping out a thick breath once he's broken the surface, eyes narrowed into slits from the too-bright shine of the sun overhead. it's sensory overload, too much too soon, and he's so damned disoriented that his stomach momentarily revolts against the rest of him, twisting and turning in that painful i'm gonna hurl way that upends everything and turns the earth upside down until it sees fit to right itself.
he doesn't puke. holds all that bile at the back of his throat by sheer force of will as he pulls himself up from the shallow grave, head feeling as though it might just split itself open, but it's driving force enough that he walks the empty road for what feels like a lifetime – maybe more than one – the sun beating down at his back, asphalt shimmering from the heat in front of him until he finds the abandoned convenience store.
and a mirror.
of course he's going to check himself out – because you can't remember being made into kibble for a hellhound and dragged to hell, hell itself and then find yourself digging up out of a hole in the ground and not check for anything weird, out of place. ( can you? no, of fucking course you can't. ) and there they are, the same old familiar scars in all the same familiar places, no broken bones or marks that he's never seen before until he raises the left arm of his shirt. there it is, plain as day, darkened and standing out in stark contrast even against tanned skin, raised and almost angry.
the print of a hand as though laid in paint, burnt sienna over golden brown, shining like a new scar. he places his own hand over it, the brush of fingertips in a test as his eyes narrow at his mirror image. he tries to remember – because there has to be something there – and he can't, and it scares him so badly and makes him so angry that it's all he can do to pull his shirt back down into place. ignore it. because he has to find sam, has to find bobby, take everything as far back to normal as they can go.
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Date: 26 Dec 2015 01:07 (UTC)but that's neither here nor there. )
the angel has made his promise – because it's been made clear that this isn't over, that even though he might not remember what's transpired here, they aren't finished with one another. he can't really think to wonder what it all means, what else is going to be in store for him or his brother, but having gone to all this trouble just to bring him topside again must mean there's something in the works, gears turning and wheels rolling even if he has no idea what it's going to be.
he supposes it comes with being a winchester. their lives are never going to be easy, even when those lives have effectively been forfeited, there's always going to be some sort of loophole that drags him back into the thick of it all over again, a never-ending circuit of heartache and pain the likes of which he's convinced no human being should ever be put through. he's been run through the ringer, dropped into hell and strung up and hung by chains, and who the hell knows what's going to be waiting for him once he's back above ground.
castiel brings him in close again, and the warmth that emanates from the touch of his grace fills him once more with that pleasant thrum of electricity, peaceful in the sense of security. he's never felt safe like this before in his entire life, and damn it all, he wants to be selfish and stay like this – even though there's no way in heaven or hell or the middle ground that it could ever be that way, so he tries not to get all that comfortable, even with as simple as it would be to lull himself into the happy place brought on by the other's close proximity.
it happens all too quickly, at least, that's what it feels like; breaking through spacetime, back into the dimension he belongs to, and of course the transition from the intangible to the tangible is blocked from his consciousness. he doesn't remember those last words, the grate of them over every inch of his being as his soul is bound once again to his body. a body that lay broken and bloodied and decayed in an unmarked grave, a hole in the ground meant for nothing but a hunter, because their kind could never deserve anything more than that.
his mouth tastes like dirt, dry and gritty and there isn't a single point on him that doesn't hurt – ache from disuse – and clawing up through the clumps of grit and grime finds him gasping out a thick breath once he's broken the surface, eyes narrowed into slits from the too-bright shine of the sun overhead. it's sensory overload, too much too soon, and he's so damned disoriented that his stomach momentarily revolts against the rest of him, twisting and turning in that painful i'm gonna hurl way that upends everything and turns the earth upside down until it sees fit to right itself.
he doesn't puke. holds all that bile at the back of his throat by sheer force of will as he pulls himself up from the shallow grave, head feeling as though it might just split itself open, but it's driving force enough that he walks the empty road for what feels like a lifetime – maybe more than one – the sun beating down at his back, asphalt shimmering from the heat in front of him until he finds the abandoned convenience store.
and a mirror.
of course he's going to check himself out – because you can't remember being made into kibble for a hellhound and dragged to hell, hell itself and then find yourself digging up out of a hole in the ground and not check for anything weird, out of place. ( can you? no, of fucking course you can't. ) and there they are, the same old familiar scars in all the same familiar places, no broken bones or marks that he's never seen before until he raises the left arm of his shirt. there it is, plain as day, darkened and standing out in stark contrast even against tanned skin, raised and almost angry.
the print of a hand as though laid in paint, burnt sienna over golden brown, shining like a new scar. he places his own hand over it, the brush of fingertips in a test as his eyes narrow at his mirror image. he tries to remember – because there has to be something there – and he can't, and it scares him so badly and makes him so angry that it's all he can do to pull his shirt back down into place. ignore it. because he has to find sam, has to find bobby, take everything as far back to normal as they can go.
it'll all come around.
it has to.
doesn't it? )