Castiel watches the entire bloody, violent thing unfold with the lofty, fearless judgment that only an angel could possess, like he's at the movies on a Sunday morning, a part of the thing, but not really. He came here, agreed to this to be a spectator, and sure, beneath the angel nonsense Castiel has a kind heart, and if anything were to happen, if this were to fly out of control in any way he would be quick to smite the thing, to come out guns blazing with all the righteous and holy fury of the Lord behind him.
He doesn't need to.
The spell is uncomfortable in the rare sort of way that it actually touches him, him, not this human suit he's wearing, not Jimmy Novak's old body, but his truest self beneath it, the form and Grace that make up a seraph, that make up Castiel. It feels like being probed somewhere deep, like a part of himself is being coaxed away, and Castiel's breath rushes sharp at the sensation, his Grace recoiling beneath his skin. In his eyes a faint glow flares pale blue, and behind him on the far wall flickers the shadow image of his great wings stretching broad and elegant over the painted walls and curved rafters, enormous in the slanting of the light. The sharp scent of ozone and rain fills the space around them.
Castiel doesn't waver. For all it feels invasive, it does not hurt, only rouses, and Castiel knows that he is not the one in danger here.
When the thing at last coalesces, Castiel feels the same lurching ire that he always does, the hallowed fury of God made manifest through His servant, because in the end Castiel is a blade, a warrior built to answer the call to arms, and his Grace cannot abide the nearness of such an abomination without itching for a fight. Adding insult to injury is the sheer amassing of human souls. Castiel holds a special place in his heart for the demons who would dare harness, capture, or bend the power of a human soul to his will, using his Father's great work toward their own ends, it is a particularly foul sort of sin, one that strikes home for Castiel in particular for his love of all things human. Whether or not the souls were great sinners being punished for their mistakes is of no consequence to him; certain things should simply not be, and this thing he sees is an anathema, heinous and unholy in a hundred different ways. It takes all of Castiel's schooled self control to keep himself rooted to the spot, to not take the thing apart with his own hands and keep it suffering for its intolerable trespass.
He lets John do his work. In the end, Castiel is not here to destroy a demon, he is here to take the measure of a man, and John had not asked for his help in this, not past, apparently, the hijacking of his Grace. So he's the backup plan, if all of this blows up in John's face, and nothing more. It doesn't, though. All of John's posturing seems in fact to have been based in fact, and it would be impressive if it weren't so dangerous, but then again, he's watched Sam and Dean pull this sort of stunt a hundred times, always pushing themselves to their limits but pulling through in the end. John's methods are, perhaps, a bit different, and that's what concerns him, but for now he's passed the test, if that is what this was.
Stepping out of the sigil and over creaking floowboards, Castiel brushes tiny shards of blue glass off of his shoulder as casually as a leaf, and walks steady toward the pulpit to find the poor whiskey bottle has not, in fact, gone undamaged. But the bottom half is intact at least, and still half full of the stuff, so Castiel plucks it up and carries it over to John like he's some great Holy Delivery Boy (oh how the mighty have fallen).
"Don't cut yourself," he says, businesslike, while he drops into a kneel and offers the broken thing forward.
no subject
He doesn't need to.
The spell is uncomfortable in the rare sort of way that it actually touches him, him, not this human suit he's wearing, not Jimmy Novak's old body, but his truest self beneath it, the form and Grace that make up a seraph, that make up Castiel. It feels like being probed somewhere deep, like a part of himself is being coaxed away, and Castiel's breath rushes sharp at the sensation, his Grace recoiling beneath his skin. In his eyes a faint glow flares pale blue, and behind him on the far wall flickers the shadow image of his great wings stretching broad and elegant over the painted walls and curved rafters, enormous in the slanting of the light. The sharp scent of ozone and rain fills the space around them.
Castiel doesn't waver. For all it feels invasive, it does not hurt, only rouses, and Castiel knows that he is not the one in danger here.
When the thing at last coalesces, Castiel feels the same lurching ire that he always does, the hallowed fury of God made manifest through His servant, because in the end Castiel is a blade, a warrior built to answer the call to arms, and his Grace cannot abide the nearness of such an abomination without itching for a fight. Adding insult to injury is the sheer amassing of human souls. Castiel holds a special place in his heart for the demons who would dare harness, capture, or bend the power of a human soul to his will, using his Father's great work toward their own ends, it is a particularly foul sort of sin, one that strikes home for Castiel in particular for his love of all things human. Whether or not the souls were great sinners being punished for their mistakes is of no consequence to him; certain things should simply not be, and this thing he sees is an anathema, heinous and unholy in a hundred different ways. It takes all of Castiel's schooled self control to keep himself rooted to the spot, to not take the thing apart with his own hands and keep it suffering for its intolerable trespass.
He lets John do his work. In the end, Castiel is not here to destroy a demon, he is here to take the measure of a man, and John had not asked for his help in this, not past, apparently, the hijacking of his Grace. So he's the backup plan, if all of this blows up in John's face, and nothing more. It doesn't, though. All of John's posturing seems in fact to have been based in fact, and it would be impressive if it weren't so dangerous, but then again, he's watched Sam and Dean pull this sort of stunt a hundred times, always pushing themselves to their limits but pulling through in the end. John's methods are, perhaps, a bit different, and that's what concerns him, but for now he's passed the test, if that is what this was.
Stepping out of the sigil and over creaking floowboards, Castiel brushes tiny shards of blue glass off of his shoulder as casually as a leaf, and walks steady toward the pulpit to find the poor whiskey bottle has not, in fact, gone undamaged. But the bottom half is intact at least, and still half full of the stuff, so Castiel plucks it up and carries it over to John like he's some great Holy Delivery Boy (oh how the mighty have fallen).
"Don't cut yourself," he says, businesslike, while he drops into a kneel and offers the broken thing forward.