♰ˢʰᶤᵉˡᵈ ᵒᶠ ᵍᵒᵈ;

MEME  //  ACCEPTING  //  @createdmayhem

        part of Castiel wants to tell Sam that he’s not here to FIX HIS MISTAKES, but he knows that’s not true. it’s absolutely not true--Castiel lives to SERVER HUMANKIND  ( an angel’s RIGHTFUL duty!   chores of the celestial: as if humans were his Father’s pets but his sons were the ones left to clean up their complicated messes ).

ASK MY SON THINGS!!  //  ACCEPTING!!

☼ : Does your muse like daytime or nighttime more? 

     demons ? it seemed rather odd to speak of demons outside the context of how humans could be; least, she assumes it’s what he means. she’s already met plenty of demons within her lifetime, but none that weren’t humans with greed and a lust for power making them in such a way. 

    ❛   demons; i haven’t met any on midgard yet - they exist here ?   ❜  

    ❛   perhaps they have not made it to any other planes or DIMENSIONS then.   ❜        

               perhaps the difference in them is how they react to not having God at the backs of their wings; Castiel can live without it, but Lucifer must learn to live without it. Perhaps the difference there lay that Lucifer was Gods’ favorite && now that favor has shifted to the angel before him. Castiel, so wary of maintaining eye contact with him. Castiel, forgiven time and time again for slights that Lucifer would have been condemned for eternity on. At one point Lucifer would have died upon the cross to be forgiven. Now the window of forgiveness has long passed. 

  He inclines his chin, observing, and his mouth lifts into a small smile upon his face. 

                        “They are all rather…?” Lucifer echoes in question, fidgeting something in his hands, and he perches himself up seated on the desk. Long legs dangle. In this form, he is still a little taller than Castiel’s head. “I’ve grown attached to this one. It must be nice, to stay in one.” Is there envy on his voice? He remains patient. 

        the corner of Castiel’s mouth perks up as he casts his eyes downward, following the length of Lucifer’s body--long, thin, ELEGANT, beautiful in a way that Lucifer could only make it. perhaps it’s the face. it doesn’t do justice to the essence hidden beneath it, the beauty of angelic presence and golden grace. Lucifer’s grace isn’t golden.

                IT’S WHITE. 

     purest in its form, the first of many later graces breathed from their Father’s lips, giving soul to dutiful creators bent on only loving and serving a singular being, a singular Father. Lucifer has not forsaken his original duties, has never left his post, has never strayed from the love he feels for God--but he was the CONDEMNED SON, cast aside to make room for more obedient children. Perhaps, Castiel should’ve been in Lucifer’s place instead.

     well, she wasn’t expecting THIS - someone to seemingly know just what was contained within, brows rising if only for a brief moment before relaxing once more. for once, there’s not an incline of concern within, but a minuscule smile that rises on her features, allowing cerulean hue to overcome previous chestnut within her gaze. there was something off about him; he appeared fairly human, yet held a gaze that spoke of age, energy that spoke of something rather different - not much like anything she’s quite encountered.

    ❛  honestly, i can handle myself pretty well, sir. ❜

         he wouldn’t doubt she could handle herself, wouldn’t doubt she could knock him flat on his ass and torch the entire building. she’s powerful--and Castiel doesn’t know where that limit hits, where it ends. it’s quite amazing, astounding, and he doesn’t dare come near her, doesn’t dare let two different celestial planes clash for fear that the earth shake beneath their might. the earth wasn’t meant to HARBOR THEIR KIND.

“course i’m bloody upset.” michel resumes his spot on his coffin, curling his legs underneath his small frame. “i was seventeen and…i was seventeen and i was afraid and i remember my crucifix being ripped off my neck because they couldn’t touch me when i was wearing it and i remember begging Him for it all to end. and now…” he exhales and he wants to cry but he won’t give him the pleasure of seeing him break down. 

“now i’m doomed to hell.” michel supposes that would be appropriate enough a place for him to go. “you know, castiel, there’s a legend in the vampire councils library. in old withering paper that’s older than i am. older than the oldest elder is.” he pauses. “the legend. it claims that the first vampire made a deal with the devil. doomed the rest of us to hell.” he slams a hand down on his coffin, the wood cracking slightly under his fist, and he can hear the breaking of his knuckles but he knows they’ll be fixed soon enough. 

“i’m upset that i won’t see my mother again. i’m upset that i won’t be able to enjoy her presence, the presence of my fiancee who i left back in London. I’m…just upset.” he doesn’t say anything for a minute. 

“i had no one but giovanni. our creators abandoned us. my god abandoned me. it’s a continuous cycle, castiel.” his voice shakes. “i can’t understand any of it. and i don’t think i want to. i’ve never killed anyone. i’ve never taken more than i needed and yet because of one individual i am doomed to hell despite my years of belief. despite being as FAITHFUL as I could manage to be.”

    he’s talkative. maybe that’s something about mortals, or formerly humans. they always talk, like to waste time they don’t have--well... this boy certainly has the TIME now. Castiel’s learned that with age, people get quiet. they learn to embrace silence--because the world was full of too many voices, too many thoughts and ideas and worries, complaints, complaints, complaints......

    Castiel’s barely listening to Michel--not that he doesn’t care, but he’s heard it all before. all angels hear prayers, respond to them when convenient or necessary. he’s heard this prayer from millions of voices, billions of voices--an echoing of a question that not even angels can answer, because they CANNOT ANSWER for their Father. 

    ❛   legends are often misconstrued,   ❜         Castiel finally says, standing up and walking to the window.     ❛   in many cases... they’re FABRICATED.   ❜        

           he turns to look at Michel, and he wonders when that fire will be doused, when Michel can finally move on from his dependency on God. 

    ❛   the rules by which you GOVERN YOURSELF by are also fabricated--by humanity. death... is natural, as is killing. ever since and Adam and Eve unleashed knowledge and evil into the world, there’s no avoiding these things. diseases, violators, murderers. blood doesn’t end life. it begins it. i’m sure God appreciates your faithfulness and your abstinence, but there is no reward for it. eternal life, perhaps--but you’ve achieved that at this point, haven’t you. you should learn too be a better vampire rather than being a former human if you want to survive properly.   ❜        

“did giovanni send you here? did he find this funny?” he avoids looking at the angel, the stinging in his eyes fading as he looks at the poster of elvis taped to the wall next to a protest poster for the Vietnam War. michel stands from his desk chair, going to sit on top of his coffin instead, feeling the wood underneath his fingers was immensely calming. he bites his lip with the tip of a fang, letting the blood spill from his lips, drip down his chin. perhaps it’d make his innocent face look more deadly. he was after all one of the most dangerous creatures in existence, behind angels and werewolves. although if you asked michel he’d say vampires outranked werewolves. those damn furballs. 

there’s a sickly sweet smell in the air and he knows it’s coming from castiel and it makes his stomach churn, the woman he fed offs blood stirring oddly in his stomach. 

“does your presence disturb me? yes. i can’t look at you without my eyes burning. explain me this, castiel.” he vanishes, appearing behind the angel. “i was a religious boy. oh i was religious. i went to church every single day it was open. i prayed every night. yet…yet i was turned into a fucking monster. and if that’s not bad enough…” he exhales. “damn it look at me! i can’t even look at you properly without my eyes burning. touching you would burn my hands. I CAN’T EVEN STEP A FOOT ON HOLY GROUND. AND IT’S ALL HIS FAULT.”

         the air turns from sour to bitter. perhaps in this context, Castiel understands Michel’s anger for once, UNDERSTANDS why he’s so upset and annoyed, frustrated not only with himself but with his Father. the angel is barely swayed by the words spat at him, yelled. Michel’s tone makes to sound as if he’s cursing Castiel, but Castiel can only think how Michel looks like a FRIGHTENED PUPPY--lost without his master, his religion, the rock that he depended on by faith alone. Castiel can relate, but he cannot help.

     ❛   i asked if i made you uncomfortable, not disturbed, but i suppose the two are SYNONYMOUS to you at this point. angels are... quite disturbing when met in the wrong context--the wrong place, the wrong time.   ❜        

                   ANGELS WERE FRIGHTENING.

      Castiel grabs for Michel’s chair, the one he’d been sitting in previously, and sits in it. he finds that people sometimes feel more comfortable when he sits down, an unconscious power play between those looking up and looking down. perhaps that’s why humans think God is almighty, because he looks down on everything. you see everything from the clouds.