|Peter Vincent thinks people see what they want to (smokingmagician) wrote in wariscoming,|
@ 2013-12-26 00:12:00
|Entry tags:||castiel, peter vincent|
Who: Peter Vincent and Castiel
What: Coping with grief in semi-productive ways. And then some less-productive ways.
Where: Amy's room at the new house
When: Wednesday night, December 25, 2013
Warnings: Peter’s foul mouth, tbd!
Status: Closed! Ongoing!
They'd only moved in a week ago. There hadn't had time yet to truly settle into the house. Much of the interior was still under construction, sections of drywall removed around the doorways, giving them access to ring iron pipes full of rock salt all the way around each door. The more protections the house had the better, he'd figured. He'd just wanted them to be safe. His family.
Peter closed his eyes for a moment, chewing the frayed end of his cigarette. Heaving a sigh, he wiped his burning eyes and squinted down at the journal in his lap. Focus wasn't coming easy. Sleep hadn't come at all, but then, sleep never came easy. The way he'd been smoking, one after another after another for hours now, the smell was going to leech into the carpet of Amy's room. She probably wouldn't like that... Wouldn't have liked it. But he stayed, right at the end of the bed on the floor where he'd planted himself, slowly filling his long emptied Midori glass with ashes and cigarette butts.
He should be doing something beyond ransacking the notes he'd compiled during his time here. This was all old material, all the information he'd collected over the past year and seven months on the cage, the seals, the rings, everything. He should be talking to Cas or Crowley or someone. He was so fucked in the head, he couldn't. He didn't want to be near anyone. He couldn't even get himself to look at the boards, check the news, see who was still here. He'd glanced at it, just long enough to add Amy's name to the growing list of those killed or lost to the cage. He couldn't, after. He couldn't deal with whatever post-apocalypse celebrations or consolations were there, or with posts of people asking who was dead, who was in hell, who was hurt.
Here, hiding in Amy's room, he could get at least a semblance of thoughts strung together. He'd thought maybe it would comfort himself somewhat, to be near her things, in her space. It didn't really. It just made his chest ache and his eyes burn. He kept replaying it all in his head: his wounds healing thanks to Rose's golden glow, watching her step into the darkness, watching Amy falling into the cage, watching all the others... and then it just snapped shut, as though it had never been there at all.
If Lucifer got out again, it was all for nothing. Everything that they'd all been torn away from, that they'd sacrificed, that they'd worked for... But they couldn't leave them trapped there. There had to be a way. But he wasn't going to find it in his journal. They'd always been trying to figure out a way to shove Lucifer back in, not break someone out without releasing whatever else was in there.
He stared blankly at the page of the book splayed open in his lap. This was pointless, rehashing old news. His hand, the one holding the cigarette, drifted down to rest against his leg, the smouldering end dangerously close to the dry pages. He toyed with the idea of grinding the cigarette out on the page, and fuck the notes. Not like it was doing him any good. Or he could get out his lighter. He pictured the blood-orange edges of burning paper, black spreading out across all the neat script, the carefully drawn diagrams and symbols. All his careful study and decades of devoted research, and what good was it all anyways?