Oneshots, imagines, and ideas, oh my! *discontinued*

Castiel Imagine

Castiel Imagine

Warnings: Cursing, sexually implicit content. 

Note: Hey ya'll.

Song: Like Real People Do, Hozier

Castiel Imagine

There was an empty space in the world, which her laugh had filled. It hadn't seemed like anything, barely even a gap, until it went empty. Suddenly, it was a gaping, glaring tear in the universe, a wound destined to never heal. An invisible wound, quite unlike the one in her forehead, which was obvious.

There were no teary goodbyes. He did not feel her breath leave her, he simply felt her leave the world. The world was as it always had been until it suddenly wasn't, and he had known at once. 

"There are people in this world...we won't ever forget."

Eulogy became routine, routine became reprieve from the grief which threatened to rip them to shreds. He watched Sam and Dean drive away, heading towards a case, chasing the setting sun. He stared after the car until it was out of sight, and he wondered again at the nature of humans. That they could press through it, the unnatural pain. The overwhelming emotions which threatened to overtake. Then again, they had a lifetime of experience. They had lived and loved and lost far more than he had, they were human and they'd always been that way.

He had just recently come into it. The protective urges, the unity, the loyalty, and the feeling of her skin which contradicted his initial urges, to love all god's creations equally. How could he, though? He wondered how anyone could love anyone as much as he loved her. As he had loved her. And the Winchesters had had years over him, so much longer to know her and need her and cherish her, and they were driving away when he still wanted to fall on his knees.

"Cas, she--she wouldn't want us to stop and cry over her. We have to keep going."

He somehow doubted that they were pressing on in her honor. Rather, as they always did, they were running from the truth. From the guilt, the pain and the loss. And as appealing as that may have been to them, he didn't want to run. He wanted to sit on her bed and think of her and remember every detail he could, and he wanted those terrible emotions to eat him alive. Perhaps this was because he felt it was the only way to really honor her. Perhaps this was because he felt it was the only way to keep her with him. 

And he did. He idled in the bunker, which went so often unused, and he lingered everywhere but her bedroom, and he thought. He thought about the sudden snap he'd felt when she died, and the stone that dropped when he snapped into the hotel room, to see her body on the bed, covered by a sheet. He thought of her body, six feet under in a pine box in the middle of nowhere, Missouri. He remembered the story a frantic, red-rimmed Dean had relayed. Of the shapeshifter who'd simply shot her, right between the eyes, right in the middle of their fight. He imagined he was there when it happened, and the vivid picture in his mind was of her suddenly glazed eyes staring blankly as she fell limp and lifeless to the ground.

"A hunter's funeral is all she wanted. Quiet dignity. Fucking--shit."

He hadn't understood a lot of things, like Wi-fi or telenovelas, until she pointed it out to him and explained it. He hadn't even understood how he loved her until she outlined every painstaking detail of her affections for him to him, and called it what it was. Even still, he didn't need a guide to process the fact that he was mourning, or explain why he was sitting at the table crying. He'd never felt loss like this, not in this way, and maybe that was why it was impossible for him to just move on. It was all so poignantly human--he wondered why it wasn't different. Why he didn't regard her death with angelic coolness. Perhaps it was because she'd taught him how to act like a human, or perhaps it was because she simply had that much power over him.