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#did anyone order some paiiiin
thisisapaige · 2 years
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Castiel loves Dean.
He knows this to be true.
The drill whirs.
Castiel loves—
Who?
The facsimile comes toward him, green eyes vacant. The figure is familiar. Something stirs in Castiel's chest. He tightens his grip on the blade in his hand.
The shape speaks, "Cas," and he becomes a person, becomes Dean.
Castiel drops the blade.
The drill whirs.
But Castiel loves. Castiel loves. He knows this to be true.
But who?
This fifteenth facsimile has more light in his eyes, the smirk on his lips familiar, his walk bowlegged and beloved. Castiel does not defend himself when the clone of Dean rushes at him.
He falls to his knees instead.
The drill whirs.
Castiel screams.
But he still loves. He still loves. It is who he is; no one can take that from him.
Number fifty-two does not attack right away. Instead, he says terrible things. "You’re nothing to me."
Castiel nicks Dean on the cheek before he remembers.
The drill whirs.
And Castiel—
Castiel—
The one hundred and sixty-sixth clone begs, declares his love, face bloody broken and bruised. Oh, God. Castiel hurt him. Castiel did that to him.
Castiel's knuckles are stained with red when he reaches out, holds Dean’s face between his hands.
It hurts when Dean stabs Castiel with the dagger hidden in his fist.
The drill whirs.
Castiel knows the truth.
He...
Three hundred kisses Castiel before he falls. Four hundred and fifty-seven cuts Castiel from chest to navel when he falters. Six hundred and three shots him right away. One thousand and twelve begs for mercy as Castiel brings down his blade, his eyes hot with unshed tears. Two thousand and twenty fights him for an hour before Castiel prevails. Three thousand never says a word. Three thousand and forty-five calls him darling. Four thousand and five hundred grabs him by the coat, leaving two bloody smears on the lapels as the life drains from his body.
But still, Castiel hesitates. He hesitates because...
The drill whirs.
The drill whirs.
The drill whirs.
It takes ten thousand copies, but Castiel no longer hesitates. Dean begs, Dean cries, Dean declares love and it no longer stops Castiel.
Thousands upon thousands of Dean clones lay across the floor, each dead by Castiel’s hand.
It is done. He is fixed.
He is ready.
"I need you."
Dean looks up at Castiel, hand weakly clutching his wrist, face broken and bloody, lips split and swollen.
Castiel looks down at Dean, who is on his knees as if praying, and knows this is different. This is different. This is different because this is Dean, the real Dean and not some recreation of heaven.
Heaven may have created the figure of Dean thousands of times, but they could never capture his defiance, his fire, his light.
And Castiel— Castiel, he—
There is a snap deep within his being, and Castiel feels the chains of heaven release. He hears a holy scream and then he is free. He is free.
Castiel reaches out, cups Dean’s cheek, heals him. Castiel tells him everything.
"What broke the connection?" Dean asks.
Castiel stares at the tablet in his hand. He thinks.
Because he—
There is something. There is a reason. Castiel knows it to be true.
Because...
The phantom sound of a drill whirs in Castiel’s mind.
"I don't know," Castiel replies.
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