[ he shouldn't have brought this on her - jo had enough pain keeping the ache of her own love and yearning in check through this ordeal with dean. it's impossibly cruel of him to suffocate her under the rubble of his own. what had he hoped to accomplish with this?
an ugly, angry, self-loathing core of him demanded he be transparent with her. a piece so convinced of dean's disgusted drawl it seeks to drag this wound into exposure, present it for judgment and reinforce the conclusion he's already come to.
it needs to see the protest in her eyes, hear the rebuke of this supernatural creature greedily creeping across the boundary line. punishment, he realizes. that's what he's sought out, that's what he's miserably asking. a new wave of guilt and sickened shame washes over him, clogs his throat and lungs and drowns him. if there's nothing else of certainty or soothing he can find within himself, cas wanted someone to tell him no, don't, stop - it's not yours. jo deserves so much better than this. how utterly selfish, broken, vicious of him. a violent whirlpool sprung from a sudden typhoon at sea that rocks him far past anything he's ever known how to control. castiel can't contain it — he can't contain himself.
cas never considered what emotion-adjacent feelings he carries as concentrated or overwhelming as genuine human sentiment (certainly not as monumental and all-encompassing as dean's). jo panics beneath his skin through the memory, and he can't comprehend how his rough approximation of soul could be an anchor lashed to her ankles, dragging her down. it's too late to cut her free from him. ]
I— [ a gasp, like slamming back into his body from an objective distance only to observe the ruin of a devastating explosion at his feet. bare feet sizzling against the smoking, smoldering remains of pompeii, sulfur fumes and carbon choking him. look what you have wrought. ] I'm so sorry, Jo, I shouldn't have pushed that on you.
[ no room to backpedal now, when "it was nothing, don't worry about it" would be such a grossly transparent lie, after she lived through the gut-punch dean floored him with. she saw every moment of it, every prickle, stab, poisoned stinging searing cut in 3D, IMAX, technicolor surround sound and there's no amount of waving his arms and lathering up bullshit that can distract from it now. ]
This isn't yours to carry. [ eradicate it? impossible. weather it, perhaps. he's acclimated to eternity, evolved to be a sentry on the wall of time. what more is this? ] I can bury it.
[ in his mind, it's the right thing, the responsible thing, to do. these feelings, there's no point to them, no productive gain, no possible happy ending he can fathom. only a wrench thrown into a beginnings of love dean could truly find peace in with jo. the antithesis of all he set out to do for this breathtakingly, beautiful soul he found mired and gleaming through the agony and weight of creation and damnation. it's a test, just another test to overcome, and like all the rest, he's stumbled and fucked up the execution royally. ]
no subject
an ugly, angry, self-loathing core of him demanded he be transparent with her. a piece so convinced of dean's disgusted drawl it seeks to drag this wound into exposure, present it for judgment and reinforce the conclusion he's already come to.
it needs to see the protest in her eyes, hear the rebuke of this supernatural creature greedily creeping across the boundary line. punishment, he realizes. that's what he's sought out, that's what he's miserably asking. a new wave of guilt and sickened shame washes over him, clogs his throat and lungs and drowns him. if there's nothing else of certainty or soothing he can find within himself, cas wanted someone to tell him no, don't, stop - it's not yours. jo deserves so much better than this. how utterly selfish, broken, vicious of him. a violent whirlpool sprung from a sudden typhoon at sea that rocks him far past anything he's ever known how to control. castiel can't contain it — he can't contain himself.
cas never considered what emotion-adjacent feelings he carries as concentrated or overwhelming as genuine human sentiment (certainly not as monumental and all-encompassing as dean's). jo panics beneath his skin through the memory, and he can't comprehend how his rough approximation of soul could be an anchor lashed to her ankles, dragging her down. it's too late to cut her free from him. ]
I— [ a gasp, like slamming back into his body from an objective distance only to observe the ruin of a devastating explosion at his feet. bare feet sizzling against the smoking, smoldering remains of pompeii, sulfur fumes and carbon choking him. look what you have wrought. ] I'm so sorry, Jo, I shouldn't have pushed that on you.
[ no room to backpedal now, when "it was nothing, don't worry about it" would be such a grossly transparent lie, after she lived through the gut-punch dean floored him with. she saw every moment of it, every prickle, stab, poisoned stinging searing cut in 3D, IMAX, technicolor surround sound and there's no amount of waving his arms and lathering up bullshit that can distract from it now. ]
This isn't yours to carry. [ eradicate it? impossible. weather it, perhaps. he's acclimated to eternity, evolved to be a sentry on the wall of time. what more is this? ] I can bury it.
[ in his mind, it's the right thing, the responsible thing, to do. these feelings, there's no point to them, no productive gain, no possible happy ending he can fathom. only a wrench thrown into a beginnings of love dean could truly find peace in with jo. the antithesis of all he set out to do for this breathtakingly, beautiful soul he found mired and gleaming through the agony and weight of creation and damnation. it's a test, just another test to overcome, and like all the rest, he's stumbled and fucked up the execution royally. ]