colieduck (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
colieduck) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
srs2012_r32013-01-26 11:18 am
colieduck) wrote in srs2012_r32013-01-26 11:18 am
FIC: Empty Chairs at Empty Tables (Team Castiel/Crowley)
Summary: (Les Miserables fusion/AU) Crowley always believed he had the sense of mind to avoid ridiculous ideas like revolutions that would end in him getting killed. If only the leader of said revolution wasn't so good at worming his way into Crowley's head, and even his heart too.
Word Count: 2989 words
Characters: Crowley, Castiel, Dean Winchester, Balthazar, Gabriel, Bela Talbot, Meg, Jessica Moore, Alastair, Sam Winchester (mentioned)
Pairings: Castiel/Crowley, implied Sam/Jess
Tags: Character death, spoilers for Les Miserables
Empty Chairs at Empty Tables
Though it is known to just about everyone as Balthazar’s revolution, Crowley knows that it’s really Castiel’s brainchild. He wonders sometimes if Balthazar is even that dedicated to the cause, or if he just goes along with it because Castiel needs someone with the charisma and enthusiasm to lead an uprising. Crowley thinks it odd that Castiel wouldn’t consider himself to be enough to inspire others to join him; anyone with working eyes would be powerless to resist Castiel’s earnest demeanour. Either way, Balthazar’s a fool for agreeing to it, and Castiel an even greater one for coming up with the ridiculous idea in the first place. And here Crowley had always thought of Castiel as the smart one, the one with a head on his shoulders, though it might just be that he’s naught but a pretty face after all. Pity.
Crowley can see why they think that an uprising against the hard fought for regime was worth their while, after all, usurping the former king Michael to have him replaced with the (allegedly) more liberal Raphael had done fuck all to improve the lives of the common Parisian man. Crowley still has to work double shifts at the Roadhouse to make ends meet, and maybe he doesn’t have it as bad as some, like that little urchin boy who’s always hanging around with the students, but that doesn’t mean he’s not above bemoaning it to the patrons. The ones who listen at least.
Which was exactly how he’s ended up embarrassingly smitten with the young Castiel. If only the kid was cocky and loud-mouthed like all the other ones his age, but no, he just has to be reserved, and polite, and turns his head to really listen when Crowley vents in his general direction. If Castiel wasn’t such a special snowflake, Crowley could’ve avoided all the sappy heart flutters and the locking of gazes over the slumped bodies of drunkards and all this revolution nonsense.
The fact remains clear to Crowley; a ragtag bunch of students are never going to be able to overthrow the regime. Again. No matter how many patriotic crowd songs they break into. It just isn’t happening.
But damn it all if Castiel doesn’t look positively adorable when he smiles at his little band of eager soldiers prepared to die for his cause. Which they are. Horribly. Because, as Crowley’s mentioned at least a dozen times before now, it’s going to end up with a few students against real French soldiers who really know how to shoot a gun.
Balthazar is making yet another rousing speech to the bar at large, with Castiel sitting demurely at his side and doing his best impression of a man who isn’t practically vibrating with excitement. Apparently their big plan is going into action tomorrow and it, of course, required another spontaneous burst into song (they’re all surprisingly good despite the fact Crowley knows none of them are studying music) followed by some actual strategy talk. Crowley’s too busy with other patrons to get a good idea of what their plan is supposed to be, but the gist of it seems to be; hijack General Shurley’s funeral procession, shout at soldiers, a lot of ‘vive le France!’, run away, build a barricade, and somewhere along the line, cut the fat ones down to size.
Students.
Despite the lack of an actual cohesive plan, the students all take it remarkably well, if their jubilant shouts are anything to go by.
“Imagine the peace and quiet once you’re all lying dead in the streets.” Crowley mutters as he sets down their next round of drinks. Balthazar laughs his obnoxious laugh and throws an arm around Crowley’s shoulders as though they’re actually friends. From the corner of his eye he can see Dean Winchester crinkle his nose up in sympathy, and there’s another would-be revolutionary who definitely is in it for reasons other than Balthazar’s stunning social skills. Crowley’s starting to suspect that this endeavour would have been just as popular regardless of whether Balthazar or Castiel was the one at the helm. As it is he just wishes it could have been Castiel so he wouldn’t have to deal with this moron draping himself across his shoulders and drunkenly shouting very close to Crowley’s ear.
“Don’t you worry about any of that, pet, we’ll be back to Garth trying to get his paws on some of your finest beverages before you even realise we’re gone.”
The skinny little boy seems to take this as his cue to swipe a full glass of wine right off the table and proceed to gulp as much of it down as he can before Castiel swats him away. The damage is done anyway; the kid’ll be swinging from the ceiling in a moment or two.
Castiel gives Crowley a little half-shrug and a shy smile, the red dusting on his cheeks more than enough to boot Garth right to the back of Crowley’s mind.
“You’re always welcome to join us Crowley, if you wanted to.” Castiel says, his face as indifferent as always but the hopeful look in his eyes betrays his feelings.
Crowley had considered it at one point, joining Castiel in his plight, maybe finally getting as close to him as he’s always wanted, but common sense won out as usual, Crowley deciding instead not to risk his neck for a pretty pair of pale blue eyes.
“Sorry darling, I’m not suicidal.”
Crowley can just about see the hope shatter in Castiel’s eyes, and he has to keep reminding himself that this was for the best for the rest of the evening.
Bloody students and their bloody revolutions.
---
Dean Winchester is the first to die at the barricade.
Crowley first overhears it from Meg and Bela (he has the sense of mind not to ask them anything, Bela being the sort who doesn’t let anything go for free), who are chatting very animatedly about it when Crowley comes on for his shift that night. As much as he hates having to use them for information - they aren’t exactly sharing the news in a delicate manner - they are usually a reliable source of gossip.
“…and so brave little Dean leaps to the aid of his beloved-”
“Meg,” Bela warns when her younger partner starts adding in her own interpretations of the tale (Crowley is disgusted at the stab of jealousy he gets from it anyway) to the crowd amassing around them at the bar.
“Sorry,” Meg says without a hint of remorse, “So Dean bravely jumps in front of Castiel, just in time for a bullet to lodge itself right between his eyes.” She taps the top of her nose with an unsettlingly cheery smirk. Bela just rolls her eyes.
“His stomach.” She hisses in Meg’s ear.
“Details. It’s not as if they know any better.” Meg whispers from the corner of her mouth, dark eyes scanning over the crowd like a cat watching its prey. “So Dean’s lying there in Castiel’s arms,” Crowley ignores the twinge of possessiveness “and Cassy’s trying to tell him that it’ll be fine, that he’ll be okay, but of course that’s never going to happen. Not that Dean seemed to mind, said it didn’t hurt at all, keeping up that manly man façade till the very end. All he had to say was that it was a shame he couldn’t say goodbye to that giant of a brother of his.”
Meg pauses to look through the crowd again, but Bela only looks to be halfway through picking the pockets of the rapt patrons, and there isn’t much story left to tell.
“What’s going to happen to Sam?” asks Jessica, Sam’s little admirer, her eyes already bright with tears.
Meg leers at her. “Not my brother, not my problem.”
“But without Dean he won’t be able to pay for school-”
“I said, ‘Not my problem.’” Meg snarls at the poor girl just as Bela finishes up with the crowd and tugs at her elbow, a signal to leave.
“Well there you all go, the end of Dean Winchester, the local whores will be devastated.” Bela announces before dragging Meg out of the Roadhouse, probably to have some stern words with her.
Jessica sits at the bar for another twenty minutes, staring into her empty glass but making no move to order another. Crowley thinks he knows how she feels. He’s not quite sure what to do with the news either. He wasn’t overly fond of Winchester senior, but that isn’t to say he isn’t sad that he’s dead. He was a good customer. Not to mention Castiel’s best friend. Crowley’s never really had friends; associates yes, but never friends, so he can scarcely understand what Castiel must be going through right now. He doesn’t envy him, not at all, but at the same time, the side of him that acknowledges just how far gone he is for Castiel doesn’t want him to feel bad because Crowley, in his infinite selfishness, doesn’t want his mood to get dragged down by it too.
Eventually Jessica sighs and gets to her feet.
“I ought to go tell Sam.” She says to her glass. “Better he hears it from someone he trusts than awful gossips like those two.” She nods to herself, pays for the drink, and walks out with determination in her step.
Crowley wonders if that’s what real love is, going to someone when they’re about to be at their worst, and not running from it. Where does that leave him and Castiel then?
---
Balthazar had told Castiel from the beginning that revolution wasn’t going to be as glamorous as he thought it would be. Castiel had always reassured him that he harboured no romantic gestures towards the idea, that he knew full well how much of an uphill battle it was going to be.
He could laugh looking back on his own naivety. Funny how much can change in one day.
In all of the situations Castiel had envisaged, none of them featured his closest friend bleeding out in his arms, or himself standing atop the barricade, nose to nose with a group of smug soldiers, a barrel of gunpowder in one hand and a lighted match in the other.
The closest soldier, whose voice is unsettlingly silky , doesn’t even look remotely fazed by the proximity of explosives.
“You do realise that you’re only going to kill yourself and all your little friends too, right?” He practically purrs.
Castiel is no longer the wide-eyed idealist he was before. He’s witnessed first-hand the damage brought on by the system, and now he’s seen how much worse he’s made it. The bartender back at the Roadhouse was right; this is suicide, and Castiel’s forced it onto every one of his friends, who are all still here to stand with him, even after he took Dean from them. If he makes it out of this alive he has no idea how he’s going to face Sam. If he’ll even be able to.
The thing is, he’s tired of it all. He wanted to make life better for everyone, but the path there is so full of pain he can’t help but wonder if it’s even worth trying. Wouldn’t it be so much easier to end it now in one flaming swoop? No one would need suffer this again.
He tilts the match closer to the barrel. The soldiers are starting to look uneasy.
“Come on, little boy.” The sinister one goads him on, an unidentifiable glint in his eye that makes Castiel’s skin crawl. “You don’t really have it in you.”
Castiel lifts his chin in defiance. “Do you wanna take that chance?”
One of the other soldiers seems to decide that this game isn’t worth playing, suddenly heaving the leering man out of Castiel’s face and pulling him away from the barricade, barking at the rest of the soldiers to fall back.
Castiel barely has time to process what’s happened before Gabriel pulls the gunpowder off him and blows out the match. He stares at Castiel uneasily, and Castiel abruptly realises that he very nearly just destroyed his friends’ lives without even consulting them first. It’s clear from Gabriel’s expression that he’s scared to die, that he was scared of what Castiel might have been about to do. Castiel was just going to make it even worse than he already thought it was. Why can’t he do anything right?
“Good show Cassie, you really sorted that lot out.” Balthazar congratulates him, clapping a hand on his shoulder and grinning. “Bit risky, but you’d never really blow us up would you? Just one of your clever gambits, eh?”
“Of course.” He lies.
---
The next day, when Crowley sees Castiel again, it’s all over. They’re dead. All of them. Even little Garth. Castiel is the sole survivor, and no matter how relieved Crowley is to see him intact, he doesn’t even think he’s looking at the same person.
He’s been slumped over one of the tables in the corner for a little over two hours, his eyes blank and empty. Crowley’s not sure if he should try and talk to the guy, but what could he ever say to make it better? Sorry isn’t going to mean anything to him, nor is it going to bring all of his friends back.
“Do you know what the worst part is?” Castiel’s voice is thick and rough, probably with unshed tears or something equally emotional from that ‘all my friends are dead’ thing.
Crowley looks around at the nearly empty bar, assuming he’s the one Castiel is addressing.
“I couldn’t possibly.” He answers honestly.
“I didn’t kill a single soldier.” Castiel says to the table. “Everyone else managed to, but I couldn’t even do that.” He lifts his gaze to Crowley, expression as dead as it’s ever been, but somehow emptier than before. “Why do I deserve to live when they’re gone?”
Shit. Crowley was prepared to play the sympathetic barkeep, not have to answer any existential questions. This wasn’t what he signed up for.
“Nothing’s even changed. Nothing got better.” Castiel continues anyway, thank God. “If they could ask me what their sacrifice was for, I would have nothing to say to them. I’m worthless.”
Sighing, Crowley moves himself out from behind the bar and takes a seat next to Castiel.
“Look, you messed up. No two ways about that. But that doesn’t mean you’re just supposed to give up now.”
Castiel stares at him like he can’t understand a word Crowley just said. Going well so far he thinks to himself.
“I mean, yeah, okay, so you think you’ve ruined your whole life, and all your friends’ too, but this isn’t the end. You’re still young, you can still make a difference like you wanted to.”
The corner of Castiel’s mouth quirks upwards slightly. “You don’t believe a word of that.”
“Alright, you got me, but the point still stands.”
They sit in silence for a few moments, Castiel’s face contemplative. Crowley’s never observed Castiel’s thinking face this close up before, and it’s most definitely not the time to be thinking about that, but he can’t help but enjoy the moment.
“I need to help Sam.” Castiel announces.
“Winchester?”
Castiel nods. “I’ve already taken his brother from him, he needs someone to get him through his schooling. At least a familiar face, though whether he’ll even be able to stand to look at me is debateable.”
Crowley remembers Jessica, her determination to be there for Sam. How he’d begrudgingly admired her for it.
“It’s a step in the right direction ducky.” He gets to his feet, ostensibly to get back behind the bar, but in reality he’s just run out of quasi-supportive things to say.
Castiel gets to his feet too, scrutinising Crowley like he always has done, which is a lot more intense at this proximity.
“Thank you for this.” Castiel says. “You didn’t need to do anything, but you did.” He tilts his head to the side like a giant kitten, which is really a lot more adorable than it should be.
“I’ve got a spare room upstairs if you ever need one.” Crowley finds himself blurting out. Bloody hell. He definitely didn’t sign up for this.
But there’s a smile, a genuine smile, working its way onto Castiel’s lips, and damn, Crowley could get addicted to a smile like that.
Suddenly there’s pressure against his lips, soft but firm, and he can barely even believe that this is happening before it’s gone again, and Castiel is staring down at him, pink spreading across his cheeks. He nods, looking satisfied.
“I’ve wanted to do that for far too long. If you’re serious about that room, I’ll be back within the hour.”
“I suppose I’ll see you then.”
Castiel’s gone before Crowley can fully process what he just said. Because it seems as though he’s just gained a live-in partner and maybe an adopted son. And he’s not even sure that he minds.
Bloody revolutions.
Word Count: 2989 words
Characters: Crowley, Castiel, Dean Winchester, Balthazar, Gabriel, Bela Talbot, Meg, Jessica Moore, Alastair, Sam Winchester (mentioned)
Pairings: Castiel/Crowley, implied Sam/Jess
Tags: Character death, spoilers for Les Miserables
Empty Chairs at Empty Tables
Though it is known to just about everyone as Balthazar’s revolution, Crowley knows that it’s really Castiel’s brainchild. He wonders sometimes if Balthazar is even that dedicated to the cause, or if he just goes along with it because Castiel needs someone with the charisma and enthusiasm to lead an uprising. Crowley thinks it odd that Castiel wouldn’t consider himself to be enough to inspire others to join him; anyone with working eyes would be powerless to resist Castiel’s earnest demeanour. Either way, Balthazar’s a fool for agreeing to it, and Castiel an even greater one for coming up with the ridiculous idea in the first place. And here Crowley had always thought of Castiel as the smart one, the one with a head on his shoulders, though it might just be that he’s naught but a pretty face after all. Pity.
Crowley can see why they think that an uprising against the hard fought for regime was worth their while, after all, usurping the former king Michael to have him replaced with the (allegedly) more liberal Raphael had done fuck all to improve the lives of the common Parisian man. Crowley still has to work double shifts at the Roadhouse to make ends meet, and maybe he doesn’t have it as bad as some, like that little urchin boy who’s always hanging around with the students, but that doesn’t mean he’s not above bemoaning it to the patrons. The ones who listen at least.
Which was exactly how he’s ended up embarrassingly smitten with the young Castiel. If only the kid was cocky and loud-mouthed like all the other ones his age, but no, he just has to be reserved, and polite, and turns his head to really listen when Crowley vents in his general direction. If Castiel wasn’t such a special snowflake, Crowley could’ve avoided all the sappy heart flutters and the locking of gazes over the slumped bodies of drunkards and all this revolution nonsense.
The fact remains clear to Crowley; a ragtag bunch of students are never going to be able to overthrow the regime. Again. No matter how many patriotic crowd songs they break into. It just isn’t happening.
But damn it all if Castiel doesn’t look positively adorable when he smiles at his little band of eager soldiers prepared to die for his cause. Which they are. Horribly. Because, as Crowley’s mentioned at least a dozen times before now, it’s going to end up with a few students against real French soldiers who really know how to shoot a gun.
Balthazar is making yet another rousing speech to the bar at large, with Castiel sitting demurely at his side and doing his best impression of a man who isn’t practically vibrating with excitement. Apparently their big plan is going into action tomorrow and it, of course, required another spontaneous burst into song (they’re all surprisingly good despite the fact Crowley knows none of them are studying music) followed by some actual strategy talk. Crowley’s too busy with other patrons to get a good idea of what their plan is supposed to be, but the gist of it seems to be; hijack General Shurley’s funeral procession, shout at soldiers, a lot of ‘vive le France!’, run away, build a barricade, and somewhere along the line, cut the fat ones down to size.
Students.
Despite the lack of an actual cohesive plan, the students all take it remarkably well, if their jubilant shouts are anything to go by.
“Imagine the peace and quiet once you’re all lying dead in the streets.” Crowley mutters as he sets down their next round of drinks. Balthazar laughs his obnoxious laugh and throws an arm around Crowley’s shoulders as though they’re actually friends. From the corner of his eye he can see Dean Winchester crinkle his nose up in sympathy, and there’s another would-be revolutionary who definitely is in it for reasons other than Balthazar’s stunning social skills. Crowley’s starting to suspect that this endeavour would have been just as popular regardless of whether Balthazar or Castiel was the one at the helm. As it is he just wishes it could have been Castiel so he wouldn’t have to deal with this moron draping himself across his shoulders and drunkenly shouting very close to Crowley’s ear.
“Don’t you worry about any of that, pet, we’ll be back to Garth trying to get his paws on some of your finest beverages before you even realise we’re gone.”
The skinny little boy seems to take this as his cue to swipe a full glass of wine right off the table and proceed to gulp as much of it down as he can before Castiel swats him away. The damage is done anyway; the kid’ll be swinging from the ceiling in a moment or two.
Castiel gives Crowley a little half-shrug and a shy smile, the red dusting on his cheeks more than enough to boot Garth right to the back of Crowley’s mind.
“You’re always welcome to join us Crowley, if you wanted to.” Castiel says, his face as indifferent as always but the hopeful look in his eyes betrays his feelings.
Crowley had considered it at one point, joining Castiel in his plight, maybe finally getting as close to him as he’s always wanted, but common sense won out as usual, Crowley deciding instead not to risk his neck for a pretty pair of pale blue eyes.
“Sorry darling, I’m not suicidal.”
Crowley can just about see the hope shatter in Castiel’s eyes, and he has to keep reminding himself that this was for the best for the rest of the evening.
Bloody students and their bloody revolutions.
---
Dean Winchester is the first to die at the barricade.
Crowley first overhears it from Meg and Bela (he has the sense of mind not to ask them anything, Bela being the sort who doesn’t let anything go for free), who are chatting very animatedly about it when Crowley comes on for his shift that night. As much as he hates having to use them for information - they aren’t exactly sharing the news in a delicate manner - they are usually a reliable source of gossip.
“…and so brave little Dean leaps to the aid of his beloved-”
“Meg,” Bela warns when her younger partner starts adding in her own interpretations of the tale (Crowley is disgusted at the stab of jealousy he gets from it anyway) to the crowd amassing around them at the bar.
“Sorry,” Meg says without a hint of remorse, “So Dean bravely jumps in front of Castiel, just in time for a bullet to lodge itself right between his eyes.” She taps the top of her nose with an unsettlingly cheery smirk. Bela just rolls her eyes.
“His stomach.” She hisses in Meg’s ear.
“Details. It’s not as if they know any better.” Meg whispers from the corner of her mouth, dark eyes scanning over the crowd like a cat watching its prey. “So Dean’s lying there in Castiel’s arms,” Crowley ignores the twinge of possessiveness “and Cassy’s trying to tell him that it’ll be fine, that he’ll be okay, but of course that’s never going to happen. Not that Dean seemed to mind, said it didn’t hurt at all, keeping up that manly man façade till the very end. All he had to say was that it was a shame he couldn’t say goodbye to that giant of a brother of his.”
Meg pauses to look through the crowd again, but Bela only looks to be halfway through picking the pockets of the rapt patrons, and there isn’t much story left to tell.
“What’s going to happen to Sam?” asks Jessica, Sam’s little admirer, her eyes already bright with tears.
Meg leers at her. “Not my brother, not my problem.”
“But without Dean he won’t be able to pay for school-”
“I said, ‘Not my problem.’” Meg snarls at the poor girl just as Bela finishes up with the crowd and tugs at her elbow, a signal to leave.
“Well there you all go, the end of Dean Winchester, the local whores will be devastated.” Bela announces before dragging Meg out of the Roadhouse, probably to have some stern words with her.
Jessica sits at the bar for another twenty minutes, staring into her empty glass but making no move to order another. Crowley thinks he knows how she feels. He’s not quite sure what to do with the news either. He wasn’t overly fond of Winchester senior, but that isn’t to say he isn’t sad that he’s dead. He was a good customer. Not to mention Castiel’s best friend. Crowley’s never really had friends; associates yes, but never friends, so he can scarcely understand what Castiel must be going through right now. He doesn’t envy him, not at all, but at the same time, the side of him that acknowledges just how far gone he is for Castiel doesn’t want him to feel bad because Crowley, in his infinite selfishness, doesn’t want his mood to get dragged down by it too.
Eventually Jessica sighs and gets to her feet.
“I ought to go tell Sam.” She says to her glass. “Better he hears it from someone he trusts than awful gossips like those two.” She nods to herself, pays for the drink, and walks out with determination in her step.
Crowley wonders if that’s what real love is, going to someone when they’re about to be at their worst, and not running from it. Where does that leave him and Castiel then?
---
Balthazar had told Castiel from the beginning that revolution wasn’t going to be as glamorous as he thought it would be. Castiel had always reassured him that he harboured no romantic gestures towards the idea, that he knew full well how much of an uphill battle it was going to be.
He could laugh looking back on his own naivety. Funny how much can change in one day.
In all of the situations Castiel had envisaged, none of them featured his closest friend bleeding out in his arms, or himself standing atop the barricade, nose to nose with a group of smug soldiers, a barrel of gunpowder in one hand and a lighted match in the other.
The closest soldier, whose voice is unsettlingly silky , doesn’t even look remotely fazed by the proximity of explosives.
“You do realise that you’re only going to kill yourself and all your little friends too, right?” He practically purrs.
Castiel is no longer the wide-eyed idealist he was before. He’s witnessed first-hand the damage brought on by the system, and now he’s seen how much worse he’s made it. The bartender back at the Roadhouse was right; this is suicide, and Castiel’s forced it onto every one of his friends, who are all still here to stand with him, even after he took Dean from them. If he makes it out of this alive he has no idea how he’s going to face Sam. If he’ll even be able to.
The thing is, he’s tired of it all. He wanted to make life better for everyone, but the path there is so full of pain he can’t help but wonder if it’s even worth trying. Wouldn’t it be so much easier to end it now in one flaming swoop? No one would need suffer this again.
He tilts the match closer to the barrel. The soldiers are starting to look uneasy.
“Come on, little boy.” The sinister one goads him on, an unidentifiable glint in his eye that makes Castiel’s skin crawl. “You don’t really have it in you.”
Castiel lifts his chin in defiance. “Do you wanna take that chance?”
One of the other soldiers seems to decide that this game isn’t worth playing, suddenly heaving the leering man out of Castiel’s face and pulling him away from the barricade, barking at the rest of the soldiers to fall back.
Castiel barely has time to process what’s happened before Gabriel pulls the gunpowder off him and blows out the match. He stares at Castiel uneasily, and Castiel abruptly realises that he very nearly just destroyed his friends’ lives without even consulting them first. It’s clear from Gabriel’s expression that he’s scared to die, that he was scared of what Castiel might have been about to do. Castiel was just going to make it even worse than he already thought it was. Why can’t he do anything right?
“Good show Cassie, you really sorted that lot out.” Balthazar congratulates him, clapping a hand on his shoulder and grinning. “Bit risky, but you’d never really blow us up would you? Just one of your clever gambits, eh?”
“Of course.” He lies.
---
The next day, when Crowley sees Castiel again, it’s all over. They’re dead. All of them. Even little Garth. Castiel is the sole survivor, and no matter how relieved Crowley is to see him intact, he doesn’t even think he’s looking at the same person.
He’s been slumped over one of the tables in the corner for a little over two hours, his eyes blank and empty. Crowley’s not sure if he should try and talk to the guy, but what could he ever say to make it better? Sorry isn’t going to mean anything to him, nor is it going to bring all of his friends back.
“Do you know what the worst part is?” Castiel’s voice is thick and rough, probably with unshed tears or something equally emotional from that ‘all my friends are dead’ thing.
Crowley looks around at the nearly empty bar, assuming he’s the one Castiel is addressing.
“I couldn’t possibly.” He answers honestly.
“I didn’t kill a single soldier.” Castiel says to the table. “Everyone else managed to, but I couldn’t even do that.” He lifts his gaze to Crowley, expression as dead as it’s ever been, but somehow emptier than before. “Why do I deserve to live when they’re gone?”
Shit. Crowley was prepared to play the sympathetic barkeep, not have to answer any existential questions. This wasn’t what he signed up for.
“Nothing’s even changed. Nothing got better.” Castiel continues anyway, thank God. “If they could ask me what their sacrifice was for, I would have nothing to say to them. I’m worthless.”
Sighing, Crowley moves himself out from behind the bar and takes a seat next to Castiel.
“Look, you messed up. No two ways about that. But that doesn’t mean you’re just supposed to give up now.”
Castiel stares at him like he can’t understand a word Crowley just said. Going well so far he thinks to himself.
“I mean, yeah, okay, so you think you’ve ruined your whole life, and all your friends’ too, but this isn’t the end. You’re still young, you can still make a difference like you wanted to.”
The corner of Castiel’s mouth quirks upwards slightly. “You don’t believe a word of that.”
“Alright, you got me, but the point still stands.”
They sit in silence for a few moments, Castiel’s face contemplative. Crowley’s never observed Castiel’s thinking face this close up before, and it’s most definitely not the time to be thinking about that, but he can’t help but enjoy the moment.
“I need to help Sam.” Castiel announces.
“Winchester?”
Castiel nods. “I’ve already taken his brother from him, he needs someone to get him through his schooling. At least a familiar face, though whether he’ll even be able to stand to look at me is debateable.”
Crowley remembers Jessica, her determination to be there for Sam. How he’d begrudgingly admired her for it.
“It’s a step in the right direction ducky.” He gets to his feet, ostensibly to get back behind the bar, but in reality he’s just run out of quasi-supportive things to say.
Castiel gets to his feet too, scrutinising Crowley like he always has done, which is a lot more intense at this proximity.
“Thank you for this.” Castiel says. “You didn’t need to do anything, but you did.” He tilts his head to the side like a giant kitten, which is really a lot more adorable than it should be.
“I’ve got a spare room upstairs if you ever need one.” Crowley finds himself blurting out. Bloody hell. He definitely didn’t sign up for this.
But there’s a smile, a genuine smile, working its way onto Castiel’s lips, and damn, Crowley could get addicted to a smile like that.
Suddenly there’s pressure against his lips, soft but firm, and he can barely even believe that this is happening before it’s gone again, and Castiel is staring down at him, pink spreading across his cheeks. He nods, looking satisfied.
“I’ve wanted to do that for far too long. If you’re serious about that room, I’ll be back within the hour.”
“I suppose I’ll see you then.”
Castiel’s gone before Crowley can fully process what he just said. Because it seems as though he’s just gained a live-in partner and maybe an adopted son. And he’s not even sure that he minds.
Bloody revolutions.
no subject
no subject
no subject