Dean Winchester has never been able to get a grip on the idea of corruption. He’s an optimist, you know, underneath all that self-sacrificial metal and denim. He thinks that the people he loves are made of golden apple cores deep, deep down, and that time and constant forgiveness are enough to dig that wholesomeness out into the bright sunshiny day, where it can grow up tall to be a human.
The only person that’s ever been true of is Dean, himself. Sam has got a permanent crack split through the middle of him, and despite his very best good intentions, the darkness he has in there is a mouth wide enough to swallow a yellow afternoon. Bobby’s never been entirely the shape of the rest of his species, and it’s not only his intelligence that sets him apart. His soul is like a poker game where the cards have been stacked with heroism and cold blooded murder. Kevin…Kevin is a victim, as was intended he should be. That is how all my prophets are: empty, passive, upright wine glasses, waiting to be filled. Kevin will always be strong, always be good, but he’ll never win his fights.
Cas does not even have humanity. Cas is inertia. Ions in the atmosphere. Crackling white light in the sky and fires on the ground.
The thing about my angels is that I built them with bodies to live almost forever, and minds to conceive of the passing of time. And to keep them alive, I had to balance the disjunction.
Nothing can exist in a single state very long without self-destructing. So I had to make the angels variable, I had to put everything into them so that they could be everything, and persist. I put in the light of Eden, the dark of creation, and the ruthless heart of all the empty spaces in between in this universe. They’re not evil. But they are states of nature. They are filled to the brim with motion and collision and impunity.
But when Dean looks at Cas he sees a friend who has made bad decisions. He sees a person (and that is the root of Dean’s grief; because of course Cas isn’t a person at all) who needs support and guidance. Dean looks at Cas and instead of seeing a natural disaster in motion he sees blue eyes and confusion.
And Cas, my poor, poor child, sees what Dean is seeing, and tries to remake himself in that image.
It’s more like an unmaking, really. And it will either save him (in a sense, for belief shapes reality) or it will bury him. I can’t stop it. And I wouldn’t even if I could.
Because, shamefully, I am an optimist myself.
It is Dean bottomless capacity for naive misunderstanding that makes him one of my favorites. One of my more beautiful mistakes. No matter how many times his brothers and his lovers, his fathers and his friends, disappoint him, he will go on believing they are capable of more.
I did not make man in my image. I am too vast, too cruel, too unaccountable a thing to squeeze into a mortal casket. But I do wish sometimes, for the betterment of all this small existence, that they had made me in theirs.