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It has been five days.
He knows by punishing himself he is essentially also punishing Dean who worries but he cannot help it. His hands still bear scrapes from Dean's face, the floor stained with blood from Dean's mouth, the table gone because he'd destroyed it and nearly killed Annie in the process. He remembers the feel of Dean's snapped arm, his bruised skull. He remembers thousands and thousands of atrocities he'd carried out and he just cannot justify doing anything that he might enjoy.
Dean has been, as always, forgiving, almost too much so. Castiel wishes he cared more about his own well being, wishes he understood how amazing it is that he'd saved him.
But until then, he sits. The animals will not yet get too close, even Ernest is avoiding him. His grace is damaged and torn, a constant ache in his chest and that's the only thing that is comforting. That he is still being punished.
He hopes, at least, that everyone enjoyed the fruit baskets.
He knows by punishing himself he is essentially also punishing Dean who worries but he cannot help it. His hands still bear scrapes from Dean's face, the floor stained with blood from Dean's mouth, the table gone because he'd destroyed it and nearly killed Annie in the process. He remembers the feel of Dean's snapped arm, his bruised skull. He remembers thousands and thousands of atrocities he'd carried out and he just cannot justify doing anything that he might enjoy.
Dean has been, as always, forgiving, almost too much so. Castiel wishes he cared more about his own well being, wishes he understood how amazing it is that he'd saved him.
But until then, he sits. The animals will not yet get too close, even Ernest is avoiding him. His grace is damaged and torn, a constant ache in his chest and that's the only thing that is comforting. That he is still being punished.
He hopes, at least, that everyone enjoyed the fruit baskets.
