[ Cas' eyes are trailing after the liger, tension bleeding out of him slightly. He's... not sure how to feel about anything right now, how to feel about that great cat that seemed to want to eat him, then seemed to want to cuddle up to him, and his now strolling along with Dean who seems to find this... horrifically normal.
Cas licks his lips. HIs hands are trembling. He pulls on the breaded bracelet so hard it almost snaps, but digs into his skin uncomfortably.
By the time the next active thought filters through the white noise of his overwhelmed psyche, he's already got the rifle slung back over him, the ammo stored, and has fallen into step behind Dean, except...
Except Dean pointed the Colt at him.
Cas can feel the patchwork stitches pull on his torso as he moves. Can feel the cool night air seep through the thin, slashed shirt and the tears in his jeans. His hands tremble, and he deliberately flexes them against the cool weight of the rifle, feels the way the strap pulls along his shoulder with the motion.
Cas stops walking. Looks at the ground. Smiles at it, shakes his head. Remembers Dean can't see that, never sees Cas, barely ever hears him.
Dean... sent him to his death, and he went gladly for both their sakes, to give Dean his shot, to remove a useless, broken thing from the board, something expendable, and they both know he is. But more than that... because Dean wasn't satisfied with that, and the first thing he did was point the Colt right into Cas' face, and the only thing that made him not kill Cas right there was... whatever happened with the liger.
So Cas stands there, takes a breath, weighs the word on his tongue, tastes bile at the back of his throat at the very thought, but he's tired, he is oh so tired, and everything is too much - more so than usual. And then he says the one thing he never thought he'd ever say to Dean. ]
No.
[ And he knows it's a lie. Knows he'll fold like a leaf in the wind, but just for a moment, just for a second, he has to pretend that he could ever not choose Dean, that he could ever walk away. But they both know he'll let Dean lead him to the next slaughter. Like the guru act, it is just that, a mirage, an attempt to seem like something he's not while he no longer knows what he is, and to whom it matters. ]
no subject
Cas licks his lips. HIs hands are trembling. He pulls on the breaded bracelet so hard it almost snaps, but digs into his skin uncomfortably.
By the time the next active thought filters through the white noise of his overwhelmed psyche, he's already got the rifle slung back over him, the ammo stored, and has fallen into step behind Dean, except...
Except Dean pointed the Colt at him.
Cas can feel the patchwork stitches pull on his torso as he moves. Can feel the cool night air seep through the thin, slashed shirt and the tears in his jeans. His hands tremble, and he deliberately flexes them against the cool weight of the rifle, feels the way the strap pulls along his shoulder with the motion.
Cas stops walking. Looks at the ground. Smiles at it, shakes his head. Remembers Dean can't see that, never sees Cas, barely ever hears him.
Dean... sent him to his death, and he went gladly for both their sakes, to give Dean his shot, to remove a useless, broken thing from the board, something expendable, and they both know he is. But more than that... because Dean wasn't satisfied with that, and the first thing he did was point the Colt right into Cas' face, and the only thing that made him not kill Cas right there was... whatever happened with the liger.
So Cas stands there, takes a breath, weighs the word on his tongue, tastes bile at the back of his throat at the very thought, but he's tired, he is oh so tired, and everything is too much - more so than usual. And then he says the one thing he never thought he'd ever say to Dean. ]
No.
[ And he knows it's a lie. Knows he'll fold like a leaf in the wind, but just for a moment, just for a second, he has to pretend that he could ever not choose Dean, that he could ever walk away. But they both know he'll let Dean lead him to the next slaughter. Like the guru act, it is just that, a mirage, an attempt to seem like something he's not while he no longer knows what he is, and to whom it matters. ]