For Dean - A beating part II

[godless_son]

Number six hundred seven had been nearly perfect.

Nearly.

It had been smart to snap Dean's arm right away, he understands that but there was too much hesitation between that and the final blow. He'd left enough time for him to beg and Castiel gained no satisfaction from it. If anything, it was irritating and displeased his general which meant that next time, the final time, would be perfect. And as promised, once this mission is complete, he can rest and he can come home. Heaven will once again open its gates to him; Father will welcome him back.

He will be restored to his correct place as a warrior of God.

He can stop trying so hard. Everything will make sense and his purpose will be renewed.

He just needs this to be perfect.

He steps out of a bedroom and into a common area. It is a residence and the target has recently arrived. His body temperature is still slightly elevated and he is carrying a weapon Castiel has not entirely anticipated. It has never been a part of the training and he feels uneasy, the uncertainty spurring him on to walk over, ready to put this to an end. Hesitation and unease is swiftly and severely punished and he cannot stand another second of it.

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[always_enduphere]

Slinging bags onto the kitchen counter, Dean calls, "Hey," over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps. "I thought we'd do something fun tonight." He turns with a grin, waving a jar of salsa, but the tacos announcement that was meant to follow dies swiftly in his mouth at the look on Castiel's face.

"Cas," he gets out, one hand outstretched and the other reaching for the sword at his back.

[godless_son]

His movements are precise and practiced as he grabs the target's extended arm, neatly applying just enough force for a clean break. He swings his free hand, aiming for a solid strike to the jaw. Perhaps it will convince him not to beg this time, if it hurts enough. They promised that expediency would reap greater reward, greater chance at peace.

[always_enduphere]

By the time Dean realizes his mistake, Castiel's fingers have closed around his arm like a vise, and nausea floods his system on the heels of pain. He jerks back, manages to absorb most of the punch that follows with his cheek, but it's still enough to addle him.

"Cas," he tries again, spitting blood as he scrambles along the edge of the counter that's trapped him and into the open room. "Cas, please. It's Dean. I know you don't want to hurt me."

It worked last time. It can work again. Dean feels the sword dangling at his back, and he pulls it forward with his good arm, holds it like a plea as much as a defense. "Please don't."

[godless_son]

This was badly done, again. They will not be pleased with him. He stalks around the counter, kicking a chair out of his way and raises his weapon. He very much dislikes the feel of the target's own weapon and would like this ended immediately. He raises his free hand, sending the table between them flying against a wall as the creatures inhabiting the apartment flee.

[always_enduphere]

Dean registers Annie's yelp as if from a great distance, and he shuffles back, forcing her with a harshness he'll regret later into the bathroom. His broken arm protests its use in angry spasms, but Dean gets the door slammed behind her with a muffled groan.

Cas has him up against the wall again, one armed with a sword that needs two, and there's nothing else for it. Dean draws his blade. It seems to sing from its sheath, strength and comfort flowing from the sight so palpably Dean almost thinks he can feel it in his broken arm. The ache is duller than before, in his arm, if not his heart.

"Cas," he says, licking red lips, "I'm begging you. Stop."

[godless_son]

He hesitates, only for a moment, at the sight of the blade. It is not a normal blade and its familiarity sends flashes of stabbing pain through his head. He knows it on some level and he is clearly to be punished for it.

That thought drives him to strike, hoping he is strong enough to destroy both the target and that blade. He swings a little wide, hoping to open up a space to strike if the blade holds.

[always_enduphere]

Dean's been in enough fights with angels to anticipate their tactics, and he counters, sweeping Castiel's blade away and slicing out to drag a long, neat line down the length of his bicep. There's no satisfaction in the red that blooms in the wake of the blade, but Dean is hopeful.

He'd stopped last time. First blood could be enough.

[godless_son]

He gasps, stumbling back as he clutches at his arm. That is not an angel blade and it shouldn't be possible but more than that is that hint of familiarity now burns through him. His grace reacts violently to the whatever power runs through the weapon and he doubles over, head pounding. He knows that power, he recognizes it and that undoubtedly makes it more dangerous.

He sheathes his own blade, arm still weak and burning as he raises his eyes to the target. He can finish this without a weapon.

[always_enduphere]

Dean watches with sharp eyes, and when Castiel slumps, feels the fight bleed from his own shoulders, guilt rising up for the pained look on Castiel's face. "I'm sorry," he says as Castiel straightens and finally puts that damn angel blade away. Dean sheathes his own and slings it onto his back.

"I didn't want to. Are you okay?"

[godless_son]

He flies and in the blink of an eye he has him by the throat, squeezing hard as he slowly pushes him towards the floor.

"Accept this," he says, voice dull and eyes blank as he watches the target's face redden, feels the same familiar power underneath his skin. He wants it extinguished, now.

[always_enduphere]

Stupid, Dean thinks, eyes bulging as the pressure builds. Already the apartment is darkening around him, but Dean curls his fingers around Castiel's and starts to pull, a few desperate millimeters only, but it's enough to draw a shallow breath.

It may be the only one he gets, and Dean doesn't waste it, putting all his energy into a hard left hook to Castiel's cheek.

[godless_son]

He reels back, hand slipping a little from the target's neck from shock as much as the blow. He'd not expected this kind of fight, none of the others had fought quite this hard. His training was not fully adequate, it seems. He tosses him, hard against the nearby wall, patience wearing thin.

He closes his eyes for a moment, wings spreading out as he summons his grace. His eyes glow blue as they fix on the target, ignoring his commands. They wanted it to be an up close kill, to desensitize him to the act, but this needs to be over. He can't keep doing this.

[always_enduphere]

Dean lies where he's fallen, more black in his vision than not when he can drag his eyes open. His ribs are busted, something wrong in his jaw and cheek when he tries to speak, but his left hand still works.

With the last of his strength, Dean begins to draw, painting the lines with his own blood on the floor in front of him.

[godless_son]

Castiel strides over, grace pouring out of his fingertips as he reaches for the back of the target's head. He is glad he will not see his face when he burns him, he dislikes seeing the corpses up close, despite the conditioning they think he has achieved.

[always_enduphere]

Dean gasps for breath, jaw spasming until he's sucking air through clenched teeth, head pulled back to a painful degree, but he's almost done. He draws the last of the sigil as the fingers that trap his head begin to heat, throat working around an agonized scream at the pain already searing somewhere deep behind Dean's eyes.

Dean's broken arm trembles as he lifts it, but his hand finds its mark with a wet, desperate slap.

[godless_son]

He does not even anticipate it, can't fathom that this frail, broken man beneath him could have done it but as he is blasted from the apartment with an agonized scream, he knows there will be no forgiveness for such an utter failure.

He lands somewhere dark and windowless. His grace feels muffled and incomplete. They have forsaken him.