.

.

It's goodbye.

Quick and dirty, Castiel's mud-filthy hands shoving Dean's out of reach.

The warping blue energy of the closing portal… how beautifully it surrounds Dean's astonished and betrayed expression. It swallows the man Castiel has died for again and again, the glowing-red, self-inflicted wound on his arm and all, whole, and coughs silently out of existence.

A wash of unbidden relief descends over Castiel, sagging his vessel's — his — shoulders, feeling it melt and trickle down to settle in his marrow and tips of his wings. Back to Earth. Where Dean belongs. One last mercy on Castiel, though he does not deserve an inch of it.

Purgatory seems unchanged to spitting out its only human passenger, forever bathed in the colorless, gray dayspring, exuding the malodorous foul of its land and its dying, gore-dripping unhallowed creatures with their monster, craggled faces and intentions. What a sublime punishment, to trudge among the unforgiven for their very existence.

Overcome, for the moment — complacency, fear, sorrow — Castiel senses the approach on a new herd of Leviathan. Several yards. They come upon him like a locus swarm; a thick, black, ancient cloud. His arms rising, crossing over his face. Helpless. The Leviathan, more of them than Castiel can keep accounted for, surround him and purge away the world around him. Night-black instead of Dean's blue, blue salvation.

The Lord is my Shepherd… I shall not want.

Slick, like motor oil residue between fingernails, and viscid matter enters his orifices, fills his mouth and nose with putrid, slimy burning — it fills his throat and lungs and skull until he's swollen, stretched, and wishing to claw inside himself to relieve the building pressure.

"Castiel."

Voices, neither female nor male, nor human or angelic consciousness or comforting, gather together and whisper for him. Voices, soft and familiar, pressing brutally against his recesses. His Grace shrinks against the invasion, so weakened already.

There's nothing here. Nothing but the living darkness, and a barest hint of blue.

It's goodbye, perhaps.

"Castiel."

He doesn't want.

"Ours."

.

.


SPN Kink Meme prompt:

"Castiel mired in the primordial ooze of a multitude of goo-form Leviathans, invaded and welcomed and losing his sense of self again in a horrifyingly familiar embrace."