#aneeway

   A LIGHT NET OF SOBS AND PRAYERS INTERWEAVES NEATLY WITH HIS FILIGREE-HARD WIRES OF THOUGHT.   castiel is used to it ;  but sadly,  flatly,  as one gets used to mourning.  he is used to eyeing her sweaty and quaking form rolled uncomfortably on the side over some uneven ground,  curled sometimes like a mammal cub.  appearing smaller than she is.  looking to take up less space.  sometimes they’d argue,  because at night listening to the dark rumble of ellie’s dreams is a little less than akin to prying.  sometimes he’d say nothing,  and sometimes he’d not be there.  ellie knows he listens,  regardless of his absence,  and for a while allowed herself to rewarm up in her girl skin.  leave the wolf fur for the dawn.  

   i’m sorry,  cas.  echoes of her voice wave,  back and forth.  i’m sorry,  i’m sorry.  it’s a vicious admission of guilt.  castiel is here tonight,  perched atop a burnt trunk,  his hands joined in something like a prayer and his bent knees almost touching.  in some old,  forgotten way he is praying ;  [ to what,  for what? ]  only because old habits die hard.  ellie jerks to the side.  in her dreams,  she’s off to war.  castiel can tell because though a stranger to sleep,  he knows war the way a gull would know of flight.  like a pushing draft,  a tidal wave.  she cries,  she says his name again,  and castiel tries not to listen,  not to see :  her dreams are hers,  he forces himself to swallow,  bad and good,  her dreams are private.  

   it works,  it does,  until ellie says his name again in a desperate huff.  then,  without wanting but without stopping himself,  the solid flow of her dreams washes him like foreshore waters.  it’s dark and earthy,  but the angel knows enough of smothering to navigate it with smooth impassibility.  no more,  castiel thinks.  standing up,  he walks up to her,  settled near the embers of a once-fire.  above their heads,  a owl watches.