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PAIRING: Castiel/Dean Winchester
TAGS: Castiel POV, s15e06 "Golden Time" Coda, Angst, Castiel Angst, Song Inspiration
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tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
Castiel sits staring at and slowly turning his cold, quarter-cup of quite terrible black coffee.
A quarter to the right; three quarters left; back to centre; repeat.
According to the nineteen-seventies-made Abelo clock on the wall, he has now been ensconced in this squeaky vinyl booth aside the large and grubby window for precisely one hour, eleven minutes and forty-three seconds.
Forty-four; forty-five; forty-six; forty-seven...
The dismal truck-stop diner, Susie’s, just outside of Soda Springs, Wyoming, is seemingly not a popular spot. The server—Susie? Castiel didn't look at her name badge—has refilled Castiel's cup twice by this point, but has left him to stare blankly out into the gloaming and juxtaposing amber glow of the newly blinking street lamps for a while now.
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
Castiel has counted sixty-one vehicles drive past in the time he's spent in this dreary place.
Sixty-two. This one is a motorcycle.
He pointedly ignores the question.
Having no answer to it is beginning to irritate Castiel.
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
Sixty-three. This latest car is a vintage model. It's big and black and not unlike—
Castiel clears his throat, peering down at the coffee. He now knocks it back, pouring the stale bitterness down in one gulp, wincing slightly before placing the cup back onto the Formica table-top.
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
A quarter to the right; three quarters left; back to centre; repeat.
Whilst aware and fully able to hear all that's occurring both inside and outside of the establishment he is currently wasting his time in, Castiel hasn't really listened to anything particular in a while, instead letting the sound waves or "ambiance" simply wash over him like a stream's current. Zoning out was the term that Dean—
Castiel shifts in his seat, lips pressed together into a neat line. He's just... he needs to be occupied, is all. He tries filling his head with only thoughts of the the nearby case he'll begin work on tomorrow morning.
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
Then at eight twenty seven, twelve seconds post meridiem and counting, a new sound slices through the monotony. A vaguely familiar sound.
Castiel is now very much listening.
"no one knows what it's like
At once sardonically amused, Castiel almost laughs aloud at the uncanny parallelism to his circumstance which he hears in the lyrics of the song being played through Susie’s speakers.
This one could have been written for him, as Dea—he would've said.
However, the sharp blade of such cosmic mockery then cuts painfully deeper with the cruel words that follow:
"no one knows what it's like
Filtered into quiet, tinny musings via the diner's kitchen radio, all amusement previously attached to the song lyrics becomes at once sickly and beguiling to Castiel.
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
Billions of humans know what it is to be hated. The species hate on a level that can rival even Lucifer's hatred of his—and Castiel's—Father. The atrocities people will commit in the name of hatred is unparalleled. But for Castiel to be hated by him...
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
Castiel thinks about not taking his phone out from his coat. Ruminates over checking or not checking.
He turns his empty cup again.
Sixty-five. A modern, silver two-seater. He doesn't know the model.
Ignoring a glare from the previously friendly server—who has no doubt now become disgruntled at Castiel's lack of a food order—he slips a hand slowly into the pocket of his trenchcoat like he's performing some unsavory act. Runs an unsure fingertip over the slim edge of his cell.
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
Castiel's hand grips the casing. It's cool to the touch.
I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
Flips it over in his palm.
Sixty-six. A truck pulling in.
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
Castiel closes his eyes and he can hear it again, like Chopin's Sonata No.2…
"The plan changed, Dean. Something went wrong. You know this. Something always goes wrong."
"Yeah, and why does that something always seem to be you?”
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
His phone is half-way out of his pocket…
"but my dreams they aren't as empty
as my conscience seems to be
I have hours, only lonely
Castiel was wrong. The song isn't only about him. It is not only he who has done wrong. Just like it's not only up to Castiel to fix what's broken. It wasn't him who broke it, not this time.
"no one knows what it's like
This part of the song is all Dean's.
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
Quarter to the right? Or is it—
Castiel loses his grip on the cup and it slides along the Formica, careering from the table and falling to the floor, the ceramic handle breaking as it lands just off to the right of his feet.
"no one bites back as hard
And, just like that, the song is Castiel's again.
He allows the phone to slide back into his pocket and now filters out all noise, not wanting to hear the rest of the words. Instead, he tunes into the white-noise of angel radio, fully aware he won't hear anything from his own near-extinct kind. There are too few left of those he had once thought of as his brothers and sisters. Heaven is fading by the day.
In all of creation, Castiel has never felt so alone.
After retrieving the cup and its handle and placing them down gently on the table-top, Susie or Not Susie glares at him once more. This time, Castiel glares back.
The server doesn't look in his direction again.
Forcing himself to tune back into the diner—back into the world—Castiel heaves a breath he doesn't have to take but has never needed quite so much.
He leaves enough bills on the table for both the coffee and the broken cup, also leaving his last dregs of hope behind for what once was.
He steps out into the evening and as the diner door is closing, he just catches the last verse of The Who song, the very same one that an old friend—the man Castiel had believed loved him—had once played to him through shared earplugs.
"no one knows what it's like
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written for @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover's @angsty-angstweek and
inspired by the who's "behind blue eyes".
p.s. chopin's sonata no.2 is more commonly known as "the death march" and was tradtionally played at funerals.