[ Is this the point spectacularly whooshing over Castiel's head, or is he just being deliberately obtuse because he's a little shit sometimes? Who knows. ]
[ Castiel finds his way upstairs... eventually. He gets distracted by some artwork or other on the way there, and if his steps aren't quite as steadfast as they tend to be otherwise, well. He's not going to think about that.
He thinks about other things that he desperately wishes he could stop thinking about.
He's inebriated, and quite obviously so, but not so badly as many humans can get. Mainly he sways a little when standing still, and feels his mind flowing like water through cupped hands. 'shitfaced' is not a status he can achieve with his lantern full and the reserves of alcohol available here. Even a few years ago, when he'd tried to get utterly wasted it had taken the full contents of a well stocked liquor store. He'd still not been as drunk as he's seen Dean be.
When a light and a figure come into view, Castiel squints, then decides that shadowy flutter of a soul must be Bruce. Beautiful, like hazy smoke billowing within a delicate glass figurine. And Castiel sees the cracks, he always does, but just like the scars on Dean's mangled soul, he doesn't see them as flawed. Humans are beautiful for all their imperfections, vibrant with life despite everything they're going through. Even Bruce, while perhaps not having a firework of a soul like Miriam did, is so much more vibrant and alive than he realizes.
How do humans go throug their entire existence, unable to see this within one another and within themselves?
Castiel, for a dizzying moment, wants to take Bruce by the shoulders and tell him just how precious and breathtaking he is beneath the skin and flesh and bones... but something tells him that he might be misunderstood on that statement.
[This is not the first time that someone Bruce has become friends with has died. Though he has yet to experience Beacon's death and rebirth himself, he's seen enough hollow gazes and vacant expressions to recognize them at a glance. And like every other notification to the network, he keeps an eye on the newsletters, maintains a morbid watch on the obituaries. Bruce keeps a record of the dead, something he doesn't publicize, but something that- something that should be done. But it isn't the obituary that alerts him to Castiel first, it's Vanitas- who seems to know in some elemental way, before any true announcement is made.
After that it's a matter of time; though Bruce doesn't travel to the church often, doesn't stand vigil outside waiting for familiar faces to emerge, he's aware of the passage of days all the same. He sends a message to Castiel before the man will be back to see it, and he doesn't know for certain if he'll get an answer. There's silence until there isn't.
He keeps busy because that's what he's best at. Bruce does feel loss, he does worry that it will be the last time he sees someone and he'll never know when that moment will come. But grief and anxiety don't hang on him like a shroud. He's been powerless before already, even this small thing, the tasks he leaves for himself- it's something. So when Castiel's message arrives, Bruce pauses what he's doing to make his way downstairs and boil water. He heads back upstairs to rummage for spare clothes. Like almost everything else he owns, it's dark- not black, but a deep blue sweater. He hears Castiel not on the stairs, because he's quiet, but because he's laid a number of small traps, alarms to let him know when the museum has been approached. It's the reason he doesn't jolt with alarm when the voice comes over his shoulder.]
[ Castiel squints the the article of clothing, train of thought grinding to a stuttering halt. ]
Uhm.
[ For a moment it's the only thing he thinks to say. The expression, he thinks, is whiplash - from emotionally charged, painful reunions to utter misery and depression, to alcohol and now to... confusion.
Does he think it will fit him?
What?
Castiel looks down at himself, puzzled. Pulls the fabric of his trench coat and suit jacket open further, away from his body, as if trying to take the measure and cut of his vessel underneath.
Things he never had to think about before: ... This. ]
I... believe so.
[ It reminds him of Emmanuel, briefly. Of that time after the Leviathan feasted on his grace and let him drown in a lake, when he was brought back and washed ashore naked and without memory, to be taken in by a kind woman. He'd given himself the name, because perhaps part of him, unburdened by the truth of his existence, had still believed it then: God is with us. He'd healed people without knowing how he was doing it.
Castiel remembers it, this time without memory of himself. It had made him gentle, he thinks, and kind.
[It doesn't look like he's in any rush. Castiel is visibly puzzled by the question and Bruce has anticipated this to some degree; he knows that thinking of himself and his needs isn't something that comes naturally. That it requires some prompting. So as Castiel looks down at himself, looks beneath his coat and scrutinizes his body, Bruce waits without interrupting. When the reply does come, he nods briefly, then folds the material over his arm. Begins leading them in the direction of the staircase.]
Thank you.
[He acknowledges that it's a little unfair to have made him come all the way up only to head back down again, but in his defense, he didn't know how long the journey would take, or if he'd find something suitable on the first try.]
[ Castiel follows, too distracted by the turn of conversation to really contemplate the logistics Bruce is imposing upon him. He just follows - the one thing in life he's good at. Or rather... he's better at it then at making his cown choices, and sometimes despite all that he's fought hard for free will, following is still a comfort he all but craves.
So for now, he does. Bruce leads. Castiel trails after. Gets momentarily distracted by something on a side table, picks it up and observes it before putting it back and following - if Bruce watches on their way, he will notice that sometimes. The way Castiel likes to look at things, intoxication writing the wonder clearer onto his features. It's not childlike - he does understand what things are and what their purpose is - for the most part. Still.... humanity fascinates him.
Angels do not produce art, they don't dream, they aren't even designed to feel.
And yet... and yet.
Castiel never lets himself fall far behind. Though sometimes he obviously gets distracted a little more, and has to close the distance with a soft flutter of wings. He manages not to fly into walls either, which Castiel personally counts as a win.
And after a while, the answer to the question comes, slightly hesitantly because he has a feeling that his answer won't quite satisfy the criteria of the question: ]
I don't require sustenance. Which is to say, I can eat, I just typically don't. Most things just taste like molecules.
[ He's been enjoying coffee though, which Bruce will be aware of - coffee dates with Riku were originally how Castiel "smoothly" justified checking in on the inhabitants of the museum, after all. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
no subject
[ He was there for it. Cas still doesn't understand. ]
You're going to make me walk, aren't you.
no subject
no subject
I had some alcohol.
no subject
no subject
no subject
Another popular coping mechanism is talking to someone.
no subject
[ It turns out 'monkey see, monkey do' works with angels, too. Or it does with Castiel, at least. ]
I'm not "good" at "communication".
[ Those quotation marks are all over the place today. ]
no subject
Communication, like everything, takes practice.
I'm not very good at it either. But drinking hasn't worked.
It's time to try something new.
no subject
[ Is this the point spectacularly whooshing over Castiel's head, or is he just being deliberately obtuse because he's a little shit sometimes? Who knows. ]
I'm at your front door now. Hello.
no subject
text -> action
He thinks about other things that he desperately wishes he could stop thinking about.
He's inebriated, and quite obviously so, but not so badly as many humans can get. Mainly he sways a little when standing still, and feels his mind flowing like water through cupped hands. 'shitfaced' is not a status he can achieve with his lantern full and the reserves of alcohol available here. Even a few years ago, when he'd tried to get utterly wasted it had taken the full contents of a well stocked liquor store. He'd still not been as drunk as he's seen Dean be.
When a light and a figure come into view, Castiel squints, then decides that shadowy flutter of a soul must be Bruce. Beautiful, like hazy smoke billowing within a delicate glass figurine. And Castiel sees the cracks, he always does, but just like the scars on Dean's mangled soul, he doesn't see them as flawed. Humans are beautiful for all their imperfections, vibrant with life despite everything they're going through. Even Bruce, while perhaps not having a firework of a soul like Miriam did, is so much more vibrant and alive than he realizes.
How do humans go throug their entire existence, unable to see this within one another and within themselves?
Castiel, for a dizzying moment, wants to take Bruce by the shoulders and tell him just how precious and breathtaking he is beneath the skin and flesh and bones... but something tells him that he might be misunderstood on that statement.
So instead he says the next best thing: ]
Hello, Bruce.
no subject
After that it's a matter of time; though Bruce doesn't travel to the church often, doesn't stand vigil outside waiting for familiar faces to emerge, he's aware of the passage of days all the same. He sends a message to Castiel before the man will be back to see it, and he doesn't know for certain if he'll get an answer. There's silence until there isn't.
He keeps busy because that's what he's best at. Bruce does feel loss, he does worry that it will be the last time he sees someone and he'll never know when that moment will come. But grief and anxiety don't hang on him like a shroud. He's been powerless before already, even this small thing, the tasks he leaves for himself- it's something. So when Castiel's message arrives, Bruce pauses what he's doing to make his way downstairs and boil water. He heads back upstairs to rummage for spare clothes. Like almost everything else he owns, it's dark- not black, but a deep blue sweater. He hears Castiel not on the stairs, because he's quiet, but because he's laid a number of small traps, alarms to let him know when the museum has been approached. It's the reason he doesn't jolt with alarm when the voice comes over his shoulder.]
Hello Castiel.
[He turns around, sweater in hand.]
Do you think this will fit you?
no subject
Uhm.
[ For a moment it's the only thing he thinks to say. The expression, he thinks, is whiplash - from emotionally charged, painful reunions to utter misery and depression, to alcohol and now to... confusion.
Does he think it will fit him?
What?
Castiel looks down at himself, puzzled. Pulls the fabric of his trench coat and suit jacket open further, away from his body, as if trying to take the measure and cut of his vessel underneath.
Things he never had to think about before: ... This. ]
I... believe so.
[ It reminds him of Emmanuel, briefly. Of that time after the Leviathan feasted on his grace and let him drown in a lake, when he was brought back and washed ashore naked and without memory, to be taken in by a kind woman. He'd given himself the name, because perhaps part of him, unburdened by the truth of his existence, had still believed it then: God is with us. He'd healed people without knowing how he was doing it.
Castiel remembers it, this time without memory of himself. It had made him gentle, he thinks, and kind.
Sometimes he misses Emmanuel. ]
I don't... understand.
no subject
Thank you.
[He acknowledges that it's a little unfair to have made him come all the way up only to head back down again, but in his defense, he didn't know how long the journey would take, or if he'd find something suitable on the first try.]
Have you eaten today?
no subject
So for now, he does. Bruce leads. Castiel trails after. Gets momentarily distracted by something on a side table, picks it up and observes it before putting it back and following - if Bruce watches on their way, he will notice that sometimes. The way Castiel likes to look at things, intoxication writing the wonder clearer onto his features. It's not childlike - he does understand what things are and what their purpose is - for the most part. Still.... humanity fascinates him.
Angels do not produce art, they don't dream, they aren't even designed to feel.
And yet... and yet.
Castiel never lets himself fall far behind. Though sometimes he obviously gets distracted a little more, and has to close the distance with a soft flutter of wings. He manages not to fly into walls either, which Castiel personally counts as a win.
And after a while, the answer to the question comes, slightly hesitantly because he has a feeling that his answer won't quite satisfy the criteria of the question: ]
I don't require sustenance. Which is to say, I can eat, I just typically don't. Most things just taste like molecules.
[ He's been enjoying coffee though, which Bruce will be aware of - coffee dates with Riku were originally how Castiel "smoothly" justified checking in on the inhabitants of the museum, after all. ]