bakerstreet | the betrayal/redemption meme

the betrayal/redemption meme

BETRAYAL MEME

You have done something unspeakable to the people closest to you. How did this come to be, and how will you make amends?

Instructions

Post with your character with their name, series, and whether you're the betrayer, the betrayed, or simply leave it blank! Then, either make up your own scenario to your liking, or use our prompts (RNG totally optional) and go wild!

(Example: for organization's sake, denote b3+2 where you killed someone and are trying to hide it or r5+3 for a situation where you side-hopped and now want nothing more than to make things right, so that people know at a glance whether you're betraying or being redeemed and what you did.)

betrayal; you've turned your back on everything you once stood for

1) you're innocent. it's not your fault, but they can never know. maybe you're protecting someone. maybe you're being blackmailed. whatever the case, it's your dark secret.
2) you're hiding. you've done something terrible, but no one knows it yet. how far will you go to bury what you've done for good?
3) you're uncertain. everything is in place now, but nothing's been set into motion yet. maybe it's not too late to turn back. or is it?
4) you're slipping. you thought you could change. maybe for a while you even managed to. but now you find yourself falling back to your old ways, and everyone around you is at risk.
5) you're reacting. they betrayed you first. you're not in the wrong. they deserve this. they brought this upon themselves. you're not really betraying anyone if they pushed first.

redemption; you've done something that can never be forgiven

1) you're trapped. they caught you red-handed, or maybe you turned yourself in. now those you betrayed are free to face you one by one and have their revenge.
2) you're false. this whole betrayal thing isn't working out quite the way you'd hoped. maybe if you play your cards just right, you'll be able to get your old life back.
3) you're selfless. whatever forced your hand to begin with doesn't matter anymore. you'll destroy yourself and play the role of a villain to the very end if that is what it takes to make things right.
4) you're lost. what you did was wrong, and you know that now. you can never be sorry enough, and you've lost your way. all you want to do is find home. won't anyone out there show you the way?
5) you're tortured. you have to make amends for what you've done. you have to. the thought consumes you, possesses you. you have to find them, help them. but after what you've done, will they even want to see you again?

what you've done;

1) you sold them out
2) you killed
3) you joined the other side
4) you stole
5) you lied
6) you simply are. you were never 'good' to begin with.

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Dean is ready, in case Castiel has any defenses for his dear old dad. But he doesn't, so, well, that's nice.

He does look so small like this, though, no stormclouds or wings or growling voice. Just a regular old human being, in regular old clothes. It makes Dean irrationally angry.

"Listen to me, Cas," Dean says, and he presses a finger into the man's chest. "You and your fucking brothers and your bum father and everyone downstairs fucked up every which way. You all picked me up and threw me around until I was good and tender, and I bet you're all getting a great kick out of watching me cook myself. So don't you fucking come to me about how hard it is that you have to shit and shower once in a while. And don't you dare start with this 'guilt' bullshit. Your chest aches? That's called dooming humanity. Get used to it."

He gapes, and half of him just wants to slug the man. "You want to do anything? Get your daddy on the phone and tell him to fix this shit his kid made. That's what dads do. They clean up after their kids."

And there it is, that part of him washing over. One fist curls up and plants itself squarely in Castiel's stomach. "And while we're at it, that's called pain. Get the fuck used to it."

Angels are wrathful beings. They tune into violence and vanity more than any other emotion. Were he still metaphysical, were he still an angel, Dean's speech would probably fill him with a kind of rage. Make him square his jaw and shove the man against the wall, ground out something alien about deserving respect. As a human, not a single of these things apply.

Rather than being filled with anger, he is only filled with shame. Hurt. Humiliation. He should have never come back here. He knew, it was all but to be expected, and yet he'd come anyway, with the absurd hope that- what- Dean would be as forgiving to him as he was to Sam? Sam may have done a whole lot of shit, but Sam was Dean's brother. He was not. That was made abundantly clear.

The blow to the gut comes as- well, exactly that. A blow. It sucks his breath away, sends a pain rushing to his kidneys, and his arms curl around himself as he staggers back, dropping to one knee with a cough. This body is thin, not muscled like the hunters', not providing very much cushion for defense. He takes it like a girl, by comparison, and heaves out another cough before he can focus.

"Dean-" He works to unlock his throat. "You are the only family that I..."

His mouth closes again, his jaw works, and he wiggles his head a little, shifting his gaze from one place on the ground to another, bringing along with it an acceptance. He should not have come. He should leave now. With a grunt, he pushes himself to his feet and turns away. He should stand and face this before ducking out, but... well, he really doesn't want to get hit again, much as he deserves another few hay-makers to the face.

"You are not my family." He says, and every word is pushed out behind gritted teeth. "And I'm pretty sure you strongly agreed with that after you called me and Sam and Bobby your pets," he practically spits the word. The urge to beat up on the ex-angel rises in him again, but he quashes it down. No real reason in leaving him bloody in a motel hallway, after all, as good as it might feel.

"And speaking of my family," he says, suddenly, thoughts surging through him. "Real bang-up job you did with Sammy, back there. Now he's got Satan as his imaginary friend and half the time he doesn't even know if I'm real or not. Maybe that's where that twisting in your gut is coming from. Pretty sure family doesn't do that to one another. Family listens to each other. Family asks for help, when the alternative is working with Crowley."

He pauses, trying to get over that feeling of stitches on an old wound ripped open and salt rubbed into it. Then, he works his jaw, looking at the door behind him, down the hall, and at the man formerly known as his friend. "We done here? You can talk to Sam, if you want. Knowing him, he might actually forgive you for totally wrecking his brain."

Nothing has ever been more painful to him than that sentence. Not falling, not dying, not rebelling from heaven. Nothing is more painful than you are not my family. Nothing. It's a new and different sort of pain, stripping everything from him and leaving him hollow. The world almost feels false, he almost feels dizzied by it. Oh.

He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows so well. He knew Dean would never forgive him- he did the one most unforgivable thing in the universe. He hurt Sam. Really, truly handicapped him. That... is just... there is no coming back from that. He may as well be Lucifer, or Zachariah, or Lilith. That's who he is to them, now. One of the leaders of a long list of people they considered mortal enemies. That they consider evil. That they hate. They hate him.

Dean hates him. You are not my family. Yes. They were done here. No, he wasn't going to talk to Sam. He knows he should apologize, but he can't stay here anymore. He wants to see Sam so very badly, but he can't... he can't stay here anymore. Not after that. He might break in and cave, might shatter and surrender to the feeling in his chest, and then what? He's not sure he wants to know, and he definitely doesn't want to do it in front of Dean.

So, rather than saying anything, he just... ducks his head and walks away. His face is wet. That is troubling. He should get that checked out, as soon as he gets far, far away from here.

Dean watches him leave his head bowed. He doesn't feel as good as he'd hoped, as he does when he imagined this scene, over and over. Usually he felt redeemed, like this had made things better - like somehow tearing Castiel down to shreds and teaching him a little fucking lesson in being a giant douchebag fixed everything. Cured the Leviathans, left Sam on his own, put everyone back the way they were.

Apparently, that isn't how the real world works. Because watching Cas practically stagger away just makes him hurt all over, makes him tired and sore like a bad hunt, makes his stomach hurt and his chest feel like someone took all his guts out. It enrages him, mostly, that Castiel's slouched back makes him hurt his much. He didn't do this to Sam, didn't do this to the world. He should be scot free.

No, instead he practically wants to break down into sobs, and there's Cas, all perfect human being. He lets his anger consume, lets his feet walk the three steps down the hall. He lets his hand yank on Castiel's shoulder, and lets his fist crack against the man's face.

Cas was more than happy to walk away with his tail between his legs and never see the hunter again. Well, not happy, so much as... indefinitely and horrendously resigned. Dean won. Twice. He'd died, for one. And then he came back, had the audacity to show his face, and Dean ripped him so low, tore him so thoroughly, he'd likely be supporting some serious emotional problems for the rest of his meaningless, short human existence because of it. Dean won.

So naturally, the hand on his shoulder caught him by surprise. Not nearly as surprised, though, by the punch to the jaw. And god damn it hurt without any angel mojo to make him all Edward Cullen. Oh his dad in heaven, Jesus and Mary and all things holy, did that hurt. He stumbled back again, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

Before he could think, before he could put a leash on his righteous temperament, he surged forward, locking his hands on Dean's wrists. They weren't angelic anymore, but the grip was surprisingly strong for such a slender dude. His eyes bore into Dean's, wide and serious. "Enough."

He kept his hands locked there, leveling the challenging stare. He was done. He was finished. No amount of hitting would make him feel any lower, because there was no worse feeling than the one he had now. His eyes said as much, and he repeated again, "enough."

Castiel's face feels surprisingly soft under his fist, perhaps subconsciously expecting all that angel strength to flood back into him. It doesn't, though, and he goes for another haymaker only to have those hands wrap around his wrists. Castiel's body is surprisingly strong without the angel mojo, but Dean knows how to fight, and now he's running on purely adrenaline. He surges his weight forward, pushing Castiel off balance and down the hallway. "Let go of me, you fuck," he snarls, eyes hard. "Unless you're gonna give me Michael as an imaginary friend, let go of me, of I fucking swear, I will put you in the goddamn hospital."

"You're going to put me in the goddamn hospital anyway!" The statement is much more human than it would have been before, he doesn't stumble over the minor blasphemy of saying his father's name in vain. It comes out determined and desperate, but he does stumble back, and lets go of Dean's wrists.

It's true. If Dean keeps it up, he hasn't really got any way to stop it. He can't fight. Most of his fighting skill came from the Host, with the combination of angelic strength and the ability to disappear and reappear, he'd been a worthy adversary. As a human, he's not particularly strong, not particularly agile. Not particularly sturdy. His lip is already swelling and bleeding, and a lovely bruise is spreading across his jaw. The same is likely true for that gut-punch from a second ago.

"You will kill me."

Then again... he probably should have taken that possibility into consideration. His eyes flick to the ground and back up again as the thought rolls through him- Dean may actually kill him, and be completely justified in his actions. He's not... afraid of death, he just didn't think he could be filled with any more sadness than he already is. Apparently he was wrong.

"If you chose that course of action, I only request that you do it with a gun rather than your fists."

"Think I'm gonna fuckin' kill you, Cas?"

Apparently, this is funny. Funny in a desperate, pathetic, half-laugh kind of way. Funny the way things are when you literally want to beat the man who used to be maybe your closest unrelated friend until he's unconscious. Funny the way things are when you are completely and totally out of steam and pride is keeping you on your feet.

A raw laugh escapes Dean's lips, a little twisted.

"Fuck no, what a fucking copout. You're gonna be fucking human. Gonna get mugged and be homeless and sleep in the goddamn rain. Feel worse than dirt. Get hangovers. Feel shame and guilt and disgust. Be hungry. Get constipated." He manages another bitter laugh. "That's a thousand times worse than going straight to heaven. Real classic trick, though. I almost fell for it."

"I don't want- damn it, Dean, I don't want to die," He snapped. This is just... the sadness is giving way to anger and annoyance. The same he always gets during extended periods of exposure to Dean. Dean is always so... fucking annoying and impossible. He hadn't realized just exactly how grating until now. "I just assumed it was your next logical course of action for retribution- very likely, considering you continue to hit me."

He brought a hand up, flexed his jaw. Not dislocated, just really really painful.

Dean was right, though, he probably was going to get mugged, be homeless, and sleep in the rain. He did feel shame and guilt and disgust, and he was starving. No money for food. No way to get a job without a name, a birth certificate, or any quantifiable human skill or trade.

He'd be more angry about the blow, but the initial anger is fading away again, and he just wants to leave. Just let him leave, Dean. He held up a hand, a gesture of submission, and took a step back. Then another, then another. If Dean was going to punch him again, he'd at least like to be expecting it. "I do not blame you- for hitting me or hating me. There is nothing I can do about the second, I'd at least like to avoid the first."

Because he feels a need to justify why he isn't just taking the beating. His fingertips skim the wall as he backs away, nearing the corner leading to the stairs.

"Get out of my fucking sight," he spits, because the adrenaline is turning into more emptiness, and the anger is sucking out of him like a vacuum, and he's a little worried that he won't be able to stand without those two things. And, yeah, he really does not want to collapse in front of Cas. So Cas running works out fine. Running to nothing, just like Dean wants him to. He'll sleep in the cold outside, miserable, and Dean should feel good about this but everything just feels like tiny pins stabbed into his chest.

The motel room door is only a few steps behind him but it's suddenly a million miles away. Sam is going to ask questions - what happened to you, where's the beer, back so soon - and Dean has to prepare himself for that, too. He can't have one fucking ex-friend. No, he has to have the nosy brother too, to make it all goddamn worse. "Don't come back here," he hisses, finally finding the doorknob, thank fucking god.

With physical pain, at least, after a certain point, the pain becomes so great, there is only a feeling of total body numbness. The body releases a chemical to make you giddy, and you go into shock, and for a while, everything is floaty and okay. It is not the same with emotional pain, he's quick to find out. The spitting, hissing, biting words just cut again and again, slicing through an intangible part of him. He's not sure if it's his mind or his heart or his soul, maybe all three, but wherever the injuries are being inflicted, they hurt so much.

He doesn't intend to come back. He doesn't intend to ever come back. He doesn't intend to ever see Dean again, for the rest of his human life. As soon as he's granted permission, he turns to leave, skirting around the corner and taking the steps at almost a jog, fleeing, haste, trying to get away. No. He's never coming back here. Never again.

His feet take him down the sidewalk, down the street, down the block, before he realizes he doesn't actually have anywhere to go. His legs go soft beneath him, and he sinks down, and numbly realizes he's sitting on a bench.

He... he hadn't expected... he wasn't prepared for... he didn't know being a human gave you the capacity to feel... to feel this.

Something is leaking from his eyes. Something is streaking down his face. He's seen Dean cry, but he never considered the possibility that he could cry. His eyes are wide with the realization, and he doesn't... exactly know what to do about it. Lips part in surprise, and just... stay that way, and he stares, lost, out into the empty street.

It starts to rain.

It doesn't matter.

What now? Why would his father send him back, if-- oh. This, he realizes, is his punishment. Maybe he secretly is in hell? Does it matter? This is Earth. If he was in hell, it would still be this. This exact same scene, so he's not entirely sure where he is at the moment. Just... that it hurts.

And so he sits, with no where to go, no direction, no purpose, no point. Suffering, alone, and entirely deserving.

Undoubtedly, for the rest of his life.

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the betrayal/redemption meme

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