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]

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.