[ This isn't solace Castiel offers, because he doesn't know how. Of course he's lost people before: Ana, and Uriel, and so many other angels. No one like Dean, though. Nothing so intimate as feeling like a piece of yourself has been amputated, and burned, and given to the wind. He feels enfeebled and powerless, barely able to care for Dean's possessions, but acting with rote loyalty, for Dean's sake. That's all this hand on Bolin's shoulder is. It's ephemeral, and Castiel thinks that he should leave.
Castiel has said what he came to. Bolin will tell others, and word will spread across Dean's network of changed lives while Cas isolates himself in a glass diorama of Dean's left behind things. With a half-hearted attempt at reassurance, he squeezes Bolin's shoulder, then turns to leave.
But there's the altar in front of him: the plate of apple, and mushroom, and a very red spider lily that's been cut but hasn't begun to wilt yet. Castiel pauses, and looks around the room again, at the dirt walls, the scorch marks, the single small bed. He doesn't want to go home in isolation. He doesn't want to live in a world without Dean. The feeling is like an old scar that, after all this time, still aches when it rains. But now it's on fire.
He turns back to Bolin, without reaching out this time. Cas's eyes narrow, and his chin lifts, and his voice rises with it, fueled with a tired but warm sort of energy, the opposite of grace. ]
no subject
Castiel has said what he came to. Bolin will tell others, and word will spread across Dean's network of changed lives while Cas isolates himself in a glass diorama of Dean's left behind things. With a half-hearted attempt at reassurance, he squeezes Bolin's shoulder, then turns to leave.
But there's the altar in front of him: the plate of apple, and mushroom, and a very red spider lily that's been cut but hasn't begun to wilt yet. Castiel pauses, and looks around the room again, at the dirt walls, the scorch marks, the single small bed. He doesn't want to go home in isolation. He doesn't want to live in a world without Dean. The feeling is like an old scar that, after all this time, still aches when it rains. But now it's on fire.
He turns back to Bolin, without reaching out this time. Cas's eyes narrow, and his chin lifts, and his voice rises with it, fueled with a tired but warm sort of energy, the opposite of grace. ]
How would you like to get shitfaced?