A little tradition is a good thing for Castiel right now. Everything's changing rapidly, throwing him off course. It feels good to do something he knows about, when the rules of his entire life are currently changing, and he hardly has a grasp of what the coming day, much less the near future will bring.
"I think I would like that. Thank you, Gabriel."
They sit and talk maybe a little longer than Castiel should have stayed up, but he's grateful for it. It means by the time he sleeps, he's almost too tired to worry a lot, to think about his duties in Sam's bed, about pain and blood and the more humiliating tradition of presenting the sheets for inspection. He's worried that Zachariah will show up demanding proof of that the day after tomorrow, or that he will show up tomorrow after all to insist on the archaic tradition of a public mating. More than anything, Castiel hopes he'll be spared that.
Still, the next morning comes too soon, and finds him digging through his things. There's not a lot he has these days, and most of the space was taken up by the tailored, pure white suit now resting on the bed for him to put on.
Castiel doesn't think he can eat, nerves nibbling at him and refusing to let him feel calm. The white suit makes him look the part of the pure, untouched omega, but it also makes him look like a statue. He'll like cold and dead among a pack that's alive and warm, and he's not sure how to cope with even that tiny little detail.
He will probably spill wine on himself trying to ease his nerves for the duties he has to perform at night.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2014-11-30 10:48 pm (UTC)"I think I would like that. Thank you, Gabriel."
They sit and talk maybe a little longer than Castiel should have stayed up, but he's grateful for it. It means by the time he sleeps, he's almost too tired to worry a lot, to think about his duties in Sam's bed, about pain and blood and the more humiliating tradition of presenting the sheets for inspection. He's worried that Zachariah will show up demanding proof of that the day after tomorrow, or that he will show up tomorrow after all to insist on the archaic tradition of a public mating. More than anything, Castiel hopes he'll be spared that.
Still, the next morning comes too soon, and finds him digging through his things. There's not a lot he has these days, and most of the space was taken up by the tailored, pure white suit now resting on the bed for him to put on.
Castiel doesn't think he can eat, nerves nibbling at him and refusing to let him feel calm. The white suit makes him look the part of the pure, untouched omega, but it also makes him look like a statue. He'll like cold and dead among a pack that's alive and warm, and he's not sure how to cope with even that tiny little detail.
He will probably spill wine on himself trying to ease his nerves for the duties he has to perform at night.