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Coda to 5x18. Getting it in before the next episode, I guess, given that it will almost defintely be AU afterwards ...
Title: Dulce
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Gabriel, Castiel
Summary: Gabriel finds Castiel on the field of battle, after his fight with the four angels at the end of 5x18
Wordcount: 1153, not including the quote at the end
Warnings/Spoilers: coda to 5x18, warnings for aftermath of violence
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine
A/N: Title and end quote from the poem "Dulce et Decorum Est", by Wilfred Owen
Silently, carefully, Gabriel looked around him before approaching. Taking in the scene. Understanding what had happened. Four angels lay around his little brother. Four angels who were, themselves, his brothers, his sister. Four angels, and four blades. Four killing blades, and five warriors on the field.
No prizes for guessing who'd had to come without.
The ozone of banishment lingered in the air, and Gabriel gave a bitter little smile for what must have been Castiel's last ditch gambit. Change the field, disorient them, take them by surprise. Go down fighting, like a good little soldier, like a good little angel. And, knowing Castiel, take the enemy away from his charges. Let himself be the only casualty. More a sacrifice than a battle. More a murder than a fight. But he had taken them first.
He stopped above his brother, behind him, his feet not a foot from Castiel's hidden head. So close he nearly felt the tremor that ran through the curled form, so close he saw the fingers of one torn hand twitch towards the nearest blade. Only barely. A tiny gesture, readiness, waiting. The sign of a warrior aware, even fallen. The sign of an angel going down fighting.
"You won't need that," he said, very softly. "I'm not here to finish you, little bro."
Castiel stilled, froze. Blood gleamed weakly, still oozing from the wounds, his Grace too far gone to heal them. He didn't uncurl, didn't raise his head, didn't try to look at Gabriel. Didn't move at all, in fact. Too tired, maybe. Or just too despondent. If Gabriel decided to kill him, there was nothing Castiel could do about it, now. Not that there'd ever been much to start with. So the angel didn't move, lying broken on the field, curled at his brother's feet, and waited for Gabriel to do as he pleased.
The sight almost made the archangel physically sick. Something uncurled in his belly, a poisoned bloom of memory, the twisted faces of a Fallen Legion, the cries of rage against the judgement he'd been forced to deliver to them, God's Messenger bringing the order to cast his brothers down. He remembered. Oh, how he remembered. And all the indulgences in this distant Earth could only hold it back so long. All the sugar in the world could only lift that bitter regret for a moment at best. He remembered.
He didn't want to.
"Oh, little brother," he whispered, crouching down, laying one hand very, very gently on a trembling shoulder, fingers sliding, staining red. Red handed, once again. "Little brother, why does it have to be us? Why did it have to come again?"
Castiel shifted under his hand, his head coming free a little, enough to give voice, just softly. A pained, inquisitive breath. A question without words. Gabriel felt his mouth twist, something jagged unfurling in his chest.
He'd seen this before. He'd been here before, crouched over his broken brothers, holding tight to bleeding Grace, mourning the enemy who'd been, not so very long ago, the brother at his back. He'd been here. He'd seen it echoed, time and again, angel and human, war after war after war. None to equal that first, perhaps, none to match that first screaming horror, that first endless betrayal, that first loss. But the echoes never stopped, rippling forward and back, and one day he'd stood on a human field, and watched poppies bloom in endless rows over the bodies of uncounted brothers, and he'd just ...
"Why us?" he begged, a broken plea, desperate and deformed. "Why us, little brother? Why does this have to be?"
Castiel didn't answer. Castiel couldn't answer, had no answer, had never understood. Brothers, row on row, handed blades and sent to die. Children, bleeding for a betrayal never theirs. For a war that never seemed to stop, for a war that was never over, could never be over, not while angry blood cried for vengeance until there was no-one left to satisfy it. For a war that wouldn't stop until angel and human lay dead by their brothers' hands, and there was no-one left to carry on.
But not this brother. Not now, not here. Not by this brother's hand. Not by his hand. Never by his hand. Never again. Even if he died for it, never again.
"Come here, little bro," he whispered, reaching out to gently uncurl the shaking body, to pull ravaged arms away from a face streaked with tears, with blood. Reaching out to gather his brother close. "Up you come. Come on. Time for a little rest, Castiel. Just a little one. Come on, come with me ..."
Castiel came. In part, perhaps, because he simply hadn't the strength to refuse anymore, because he couldn't have fought a human at that point, let alone an archangel. And maybe, in part, because he didn't want to refuse, didn't want to fight, didn't want to resist. Not now. Not here. Not with the blood of four brothers on his hands, and his own staining their blades. Not with all in ruins around him. Not when Gabriel was, for the first time, so gentle.
His baby brother. Born for war. Did he even remember what compassion was like, anymore? Compassion for him, from another? Had he ever known in the first place? Gabriel had left Heaven so long ago, had forgotten peace longer still. He didn't know if the First Fall had destroyed it for all of them, or just him. He didn't know. He should. He should. But he didn't.
Maybe no-one did. Maybe, like him, they all tried to forget. Maybe they couldn't bear to remember.
Poppies didn't bloom in Heaven. Only humans raised memorials.
Angels just marched to the next battle.
"Just a little rest, Castiel," he whispered, holding tight, flying fast. Away from battle and blood and pain and a war that wouldn't end. Running, because he didn't know what else to do, and couldn't bear to think on it. Running, because it was all he had left. Running, with his brother in his arms. "Just you and me. Just for a little while. Just until you're better."
Just until then, because Castiel wouldn't stop. Just until then, because Castiel didn't know how to stop. Just until then, because war was all an angel knew, and this one could not be outrun. Not even by him. Not even by the fastest of the fast, not even by Gabriel.
War couldn't be outrun. His brother couldn't get better, couldn't be fixed.
That didn't mean he couldn't try.
"If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum Est
Pro Patria Mori"
Wilfred Owen - Dulce Et Decorum Est
Title: Dulce
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Gabriel, Castiel
Summary: Gabriel finds Castiel on the field of battle, after his fight with the four angels at the end of 5x18
Wordcount: 1153, not including the quote at the end
Warnings/Spoilers: coda to 5x18, warnings for aftermath of violence
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine
A/N: Title and end quote from the poem "Dulce et Decorum Est", by Wilfred Owen
Dulce
Castiel was still on the field of battle when Gabriel found him. Still lying where he'd fallen. Not dead. Not quite. But exhausted. Hollowed, his Grace a withered husk, his soul battered almost beyond recognition. His borrowed body, too. Beaten. Bloodied. Fallen. Castiel didn't even notice him arrive. He simply lay there, curled in on himself, his head buried beneath savaged arms, the slick folds of his bloodied trench masking his body. He didn't move.Silently, carefully, Gabriel looked around him before approaching. Taking in the scene. Understanding what had happened. Four angels lay around his little brother. Four angels who were, themselves, his brothers, his sister. Four angels, and four blades. Four killing blades, and five warriors on the field.
No prizes for guessing who'd had to come without.
The ozone of banishment lingered in the air, and Gabriel gave a bitter little smile for what must have been Castiel's last ditch gambit. Change the field, disorient them, take them by surprise. Go down fighting, like a good little soldier, like a good little angel. And, knowing Castiel, take the enemy away from his charges. Let himself be the only casualty. More a sacrifice than a battle. More a murder than a fight. But he had taken them first.
He stopped above his brother, behind him, his feet not a foot from Castiel's hidden head. So close he nearly felt the tremor that ran through the curled form, so close he saw the fingers of one torn hand twitch towards the nearest blade. Only barely. A tiny gesture, readiness, waiting. The sign of a warrior aware, even fallen. The sign of an angel going down fighting.
"You won't need that," he said, very softly. "I'm not here to finish you, little bro."
Castiel stilled, froze. Blood gleamed weakly, still oozing from the wounds, his Grace too far gone to heal them. He didn't uncurl, didn't raise his head, didn't try to look at Gabriel. Didn't move at all, in fact. Too tired, maybe. Or just too despondent. If Gabriel decided to kill him, there was nothing Castiel could do about it, now. Not that there'd ever been much to start with. So the angel didn't move, lying broken on the field, curled at his brother's feet, and waited for Gabriel to do as he pleased.
The sight almost made the archangel physically sick. Something uncurled in his belly, a poisoned bloom of memory, the twisted faces of a Fallen Legion, the cries of rage against the judgement he'd been forced to deliver to them, God's Messenger bringing the order to cast his brothers down. He remembered. Oh, how he remembered. And all the indulgences in this distant Earth could only hold it back so long. All the sugar in the world could only lift that bitter regret for a moment at best. He remembered.
He didn't want to.
"Oh, little brother," he whispered, crouching down, laying one hand very, very gently on a trembling shoulder, fingers sliding, staining red. Red handed, once again. "Little brother, why does it have to be us? Why did it have to come again?"
Castiel shifted under his hand, his head coming free a little, enough to give voice, just softly. A pained, inquisitive breath. A question without words. Gabriel felt his mouth twist, something jagged unfurling in his chest.
He'd seen this before. He'd been here before, crouched over his broken brothers, holding tight to bleeding Grace, mourning the enemy who'd been, not so very long ago, the brother at his back. He'd been here. He'd seen it echoed, time and again, angel and human, war after war after war. None to equal that first, perhaps, none to match that first screaming horror, that first endless betrayal, that first loss. But the echoes never stopped, rippling forward and back, and one day he'd stood on a human field, and watched poppies bloom in endless rows over the bodies of uncounted brothers, and he'd just ...
"Why us?" he begged, a broken plea, desperate and deformed. "Why us, little brother? Why does this have to be?"
Castiel didn't answer. Castiel couldn't answer, had no answer, had never understood. Brothers, row on row, handed blades and sent to die. Children, bleeding for a betrayal never theirs. For a war that never seemed to stop, for a war that was never over, could never be over, not while angry blood cried for vengeance until there was no-one left to satisfy it. For a war that wouldn't stop until angel and human lay dead by their brothers' hands, and there was no-one left to carry on.
But not this brother. Not now, not here. Not by this brother's hand. Not by his hand. Never by his hand. Never again. Even if he died for it, never again.
"Come here, little bro," he whispered, reaching out to gently uncurl the shaking body, to pull ravaged arms away from a face streaked with tears, with blood. Reaching out to gather his brother close. "Up you come. Come on. Time for a little rest, Castiel. Just a little one. Come on, come with me ..."
Castiel came. In part, perhaps, because he simply hadn't the strength to refuse anymore, because he couldn't have fought a human at that point, let alone an archangel. And maybe, in part, because he didn't want to refuse, didn't want to fight, didn't want to resist. Not now. Not here. Not with the blood of four brothers on his hands, and his own staining their blades. Not with all in ruins around him. Not when Gabriel was, for the first time, so gentle.
His baby brother. Born for war. Did he even remember what compassion was like, anymore? Compassion for him, from another? Had he ever known in the first place? Gabriel had left Heaven so long ago, had forgotten peace longer still. He didn't know if the First Fall had destroyed it for all of them, or just him. He didn't know. He should. He should. But he didn't.
Maybe no-one did. Maybe, like him, they all tried to forget. Maybe they couldn't bear to remember.
Poppies didn't bloom in Heaven. Only humans raised memorials.
Angels just marched to the next battle.
"Just a little rest, Castiel," he whispered, holding tight, flying fast. Away from battle and blood and pain and a war that wouldn't end. Running, because he didn't know what else to do, and couldn't bear to think on it. Running, because it was all he had left. Running, with his brother in his arms. "Just you and me. Just for a little while. Just until you're better."
Just until then, because Castiel wouldn't stop. Just until then, because Castiel didn't know how to stop. Just until then, because war was all an angel knew, and this one could not be outrun. Not even by him. Not even by the fastest of the fast, not even by Gabriel.
War couldn't be outrun. His brother couldn't get better, couldn't be fixed.
That didn't mean he couldn't try.
"If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum Est
Pro Patria Mori"
Wilfred Owen - Dulce Et Decorum Est
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