Title: One to Make You Small
Pairings and Characters: brief mention of canon Dean/Anna, slight Dean/Castiel (could be viewed as strong friendship), Anna POV
Word Count: 938
Spoilers: Through S5.
Warnings: mentions of abuse, psychological disorders
Prompt: H/C Bingo, "telepathic trauma"
Summary: She was beginning to wonder if she really was crazy, if all these visions that kept slip-sliding through her brain were just manifestations of an ill mind.
The mesh grating that sat in between the double paned glass was the worst part, Anna thought. It made it so that even if you were lucid enough you could never get a clear view of the outside world. Sometimes she thought this was on purpose; if you can't clearly see something than you can't miss it as much.
It was starting again, and Anna didn't know how to stop it this time. She wasn't successful the first time, or the second, or even the twentieth. She was beginning to wonder if she really was crazy, if all these visions that kept slip-sliding through her brain were really just manifestations of an ill mind. That's what her doctor kept telling her, anyways, and even when you're convinced bone-deep on the truth of something, you hear something else enough times and you begin to doubt yourself.
“He needs Castiel,” Anna murmured. In all the visions—however many she'd had by now, a few dozen, hundreds, maybe—the variable that always, always shifted the tide away from the end of the world and back towards humanity and free will was Castiel. She'd watched the world burn and she'd watched it be saved; she saw the Righteous Man succeed, but more often, she'd watched him fail. All the times he'd failed, it'd been in a situation where Castiel was not by his side; Zachariah never suspected Castiel because Zach lacked the imagination to even consider that an angel might rebel for reasons other than power. Anna was determined that she'd work it out so that Dean and his angel trusted one another, some how, some way. Even if by doing so she was just feeding into what was really a delusion of telepathic trauma.
From what Anna (thought) she remembered of him from her favorite childhood dreams, Castiel had always been one of the most steadfast of the seraphim. His faith was like his sword—swift and absolute. The current Castiel, the new Castiel—Cas, she corrected herself, because it really did suit him better—had more faith in humanity than God, and one human above all the rest. If she'd still given a fuck about what heaven thought she might have marveled at the level of blasphemy Dean seemed to be able to inspire in all angels (she vaguely recalled having sex with Dean in one of her visions, but she couldn't be certain if that was something that'd already happened, had yet to occur, or was just a very vivid dream).
The orderly would be back around soon with his rolling tray of brightly colored pills. Anna scribbled faster in her notebook, snapping the soft tip of the pencil she was using clear off. The jagged wooden stub that was left rendered the pencil useless. She tossed it aside. Here she was, drawing, when she could be out doing. Dean needed Castiel, and she was desperately afraid that the angels would get impatient with the games Zachariah was playing, that soon they would suggest alternate courses of action, like she'd witnessed in a few of her more fire-and-brimstone-y flashes.
The door creaked open while Anna was still rocking slightly back and forth, running through situations and scenarios in her head. There were other ways to start the apocalypse besides the breaking of Seals—there are just as many versions of the Christian end of days as there are apocryphal angels, all spreading their own propaganda on what their role was going to be. If she had to place bets, though, Anna believed they would try to go the easiest route. It was, after all, the version of events that most often played out in her head. If Seals were out of the question, they'd have as many soldiers as possible start filling vessels and begin to sound the trumpets. She snorted; the angel Uriel had sarcastically told Castiel in one of their telepathic communications that it felt like Raphael had been wanting to toot his horn for centuries, and he could only imagine how antsy he was to do it by now.
Uriel was not a fan of the Seals plan. Or, more precisely, he wasn't a fan of how the previously steadfast Castiel reacted in to the presence of the Righteous Man, and thought that any plan that bypassed human interaction was the way to go.
“Hey there Annnie Banannie, it's time for your medicine!”
Ugh, they'd sent him again, the one who always tried to touch her after administering her meds. Well, at least she wouldn't feel too guilty then for what she was about to do. Had she any faith in God left, she might have thought the most loathed orderly in the building's presence a sign.
Desperation fueling her, Anna concentrated as hard as she could—and was gratified to see that her gamble was going to pay off. The rolling cart full of medication the man had wheeled into the room crashed into him, sending him careening into the wall. Glass splintered as the back of his head met it, and he slumped forward, unconscious. The headache when it blossomed through her skull was sharp and bright; Anna didn't know if it was from the strain of using long-dormant telekinesis or if it was feedback from the man she'd just knocked out, but either way she didn't care. She was free, free to find Sam and Dean Winchester, to find Castiel, to warn them of what was to come and to try to steer them towards the correct path. That was worth any amount of pain.
Pushing the orderly aside, Anna slipped out the door and began to run.