It definitely feels weird, to be here. Back here. Back where he'd started, but not like how he'd started at all. As evidenced by the pills and the weed stuffed in his duffle bag among a few changes of clothes. He thought about leaving all that behind, starting fresh. But the end times weren't his core problem, and he knew that. So he'd brought his stash with him, just in case things got too hard to handle and he needed to just... be, for a while.
He tosses his duffle onto the floor of the hotel room and stretches his arms over his head, popping his shoulders and a few vertebrae as he does. "So what now, fearless leader?"
"Okay, first of all, let's go ahead and nip this fearless leader crap in the bud." While it might sound annoyed initially, Dean's attitude generally has layers. Annoyed is typically its resting default state, but right now that's just a shell. It's a coat of paint slapped over fatigue, trepidation, guilt. A defensive need to prove himself to both of them.
It didn't happen yesterday, his vacation with Bad End Cas. Couldn't. His Cas is the only reason this whole thing was possible, and he didn't have the mojo for it until after the apocalypse got all nice and tied up. Nobody knows exactly how it is he's back again considering God apparently checked out, but he's practically sporting enough mojo for the both of them.
Mojo that he apparently can't share, for mysterious and concerning reasons.
At any rate, the point is, "I'm not him. I'm not leading anybody anywhere."
Cas heaves a sigh and cracks his knuckles, next. "Right, you hate the nickname. Forgot. Sorry." He hadn't forgotten. In fact, he specifically uses it to needle him. The other him. Both of hims.
This may get confusing, and he's stone cold sober at the moment.
"So what's the plan, then, Dean? I camp out with you guys? Maybe go on some wacky adventures with you, fight the bad guys."
Dude hasn't been here five minutes and Dean already feels tired. He sighs, drops his duffel into a chair with a note of resignation, then sits down heavily on the corner of a bed like he's conceding a battle.
"I don't know, Cas, what do you wanna do?" He fires back. He saw what he-- they-- were like back there. Douchebag Him dictated just about every friggin' move anybody made. That's not him, that's not what he does, that's not what he wants to do. Hell, he went to bat for free will, didn't he?
He's letting Sam burn in hell for free will, isn't he?
If he can stand by and let something like that happen to his own brother, he sure as hell shouldn't be in charge of anybody.
"Sorry, friend. Not really used to this whole uh -- free time thing. Stuff was pretty strictly regulated. I mean sure, we had down time, but we had to be ready on pretty short notice in case something came up.
It's why I got into meditation and yoga. Lets me chill out for defined periods of time."
While he talks, he toes off his shoes and pulls off his jacket, draping it over a chain. Dean seems -- stressed, to say the least. But Dean usually seems that way. His Dean. Are they technically both his Deans? Kind of confusing.
"So go-- open up a yoga studio. The world is your oyster, man, you're free." He seems just a touch incredulous that he has to spell all this out, even though deep down... he gets it. He does. He gets that Cas— this Cas— has gone from the strictly regimented armies of Heaven straight down to the strictly regimented armies of Winchester, he just hates that. He hates who that guy was. He hates that he had the potential to become that. He hates the fact that that guy is somewhere inside of him still, probably, and he hates that he's more that guy to this Cas than who he actually is.
And he's not altogether sure there's a significant enough difference for that to matter.
"I never really saw myself as a business owner. But I could look into being hired at a place like that. Do you think they drug test? Cuz that could be a problem." He rubs the back of his neck with an awkward smile. Trying to make light of his addiction, hoping Dean doesn't tear into him for it.
He knows his Dean would, but he's also working on differentiating between the two of them. How this Dean operates, what his particular quirks are.
The pastor who runs the the church and its adjacent poor house had been kind enough to give him work, when he'd asked for it. It wasn't much, it wasn't what he was used to, in his service of the Lord, but it was something. It was all he could do, in the state he was in. Keep the place tidy. This is what he was relegated to, now. No longer a soldier, perhaps not really even an angel any longer. He hadn't heard His voice in quite some time.
So here he stays, trying to keep sober. Trying to keep away from the temptations of the flesh. Trying to straighten out the crooked path he'd been wandering down.
He can't help but notice the only other person in the chapel at the moment, and decides that in and around the altar needs sweeping. He gives her a passing glance -- and then another, when he sees what she's reading? "Angels," he says, his voice low and rough. "I didn't think people still believed in angels."
They are deliberating, the sisters. Deciding whether she should be given a place among them. When she had told them about her meeting with Gabriel, the Mother Superior had been obviously shaken and exchanged glances with another of the elder nuns. Their deliberations have, so far, taken two full days. The night in between, Madeleine has spent in the poor house for which the church is responsible. She shan't ever return to her aunt's house to live. The existence she led there is over.
Having sought shelter in the church, she sits near the altar, on the first row of pews, reading Dionysius' The Celestial Hierachy, a book her aunt decided to gift her among others, when she heard what plans Madeleine had made. Bless you, child, she had muttered, kissing her hair, you are stronger than I were.
He is nothing but a passing shadow at the edge of her vision, until he speaks. Madeleine marks the spot she has reached with her finger and looks up. "People can be very blind. Angels are all around us whether we believe or not."
"A very, ah. Optimistic viewpoint." Though he knows it to be true. He's living proof of that. Or is he? Even he's not certain anymore, and God doesn't seem to be listening to him at the moment. Or, if He's listening, He isn't answering.
Frowning, she looks past him for a moment, at the golden altar and the ambo. Is it truly a matter that comes down to her? She is not the heavenly messenger, nothing is in her hands. She is to obey or to perish in Hell, there are only two ways.
"I would know if they revealed themselves to me." She sighs and closes the book, holding it gingerly between her hands, lifting it to her chest and pressing it to her breast. "The holiness is not mine but theirs, His. My task is merely to believe, when they show me the sign."
"And if they have no means to reveal themselves to you?" he asks, leaning against his broom a little. "If they had no proof. Would you take them at their word? Blind faith? Or would you require some form of proof?"
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for [righteously]
He tosses his duffle onto the floor of the hotel room and stretches his arms over his head, popping his shoulders and a few vertebrae as he does. "So what now, fearless leader?"
no subject
It didn't happen yesterday, his vacation with Bad End Cas. Couldn't. His Cas is the only reason this whole thing was possible, and he didn't have the mojo for it until after the apocalypse got all nice and tied up. Nobody knows exactly how it is he's back again considering God apparently checked out, but he's practically sporting enough mojo for the both of them.
Mojo that he apparently can't share, for mysterious and concerning reasons.
At any rate, the point is, "I'm not him. I'm not leading anybody anywhere."
no subject
This may get confusing, and he's stone cold sober at the moment.
"So what's the plan, then, Dean? I camp out with you guys? Maybe go on some wacky adventures with you, fight the bad guys."
no subject
"I don't know, Cas, what do you wanna do?" He fires back. He saw what he-- they-- were like back there. Douchebag Him dictated just about every friggin' move anybody made. That's not him, that's not what he does, that's not what he wants to do. Hell, he went to bat for free will, didn't he?
He's letting Sam burn in hell for free will, isn't he?
If he can stand by and let something like that happen to his own brother, he sure as hell shouldn't be in charge of anybody.
no subject
It's why I got into meditation and yoga. Lets me chill out for defined periods of time."
While he talks, he toes off his shoes and pulls off his jacket, draping it over a chain. Dean seems -- stressed, to say the least. But Dean usually seems that way. His Dean. Are they technically both his Deans? Kind of confusing.
no subject
And he's not altogether sure there's a significant enough difference for that to matter.
no subject
He knows his Dean would, but he's also working on differentiating between the two of them. How this Dean operates, what his particular quirks are.
for Madeliene
So here he stays, trying to keep sober. Trying to keep away from the temptations of the flesh. Trying to straighten out the crooked path he'd been wandering down.
He can't help but notice the only other person in the chapel at the moment, and decides that in and around the altar needs sweeping. He gives her a passing glance -- and then another, when he sees what she's reading? "Angels," he says, his voice low and rough. "I didn't think people still believed in angels."
no subject
Having sought shelter in the church, she sits near the altar, on the first row of pews, reading Dionysius' The Celestial Hierachy, a book her aunt decided to gift her among others, when she heard what plans Madeleine had made. Bless you, child, she had muttered, kissing her hair, you are stronger than I were.
He is nothing but a passing shadow at the edge of her vision, until he speaks. Madeleine marks the spot she has reached with her finger and looks up. "People can be very blind. Angels are all around us whether we believe or not."
no subject
"How would you know an angel, if you saw one?"
no subject
"I would know if they revealed themselves to me." She sighs and closes the book, holding it gingerly between her hands, lifting it to her chest and pressing it to her breast. "The holiness is not mine but theirs, His. My task is merely to believe, when they show me the sign."
no subject