Castiel and the Phantom of the Opera [Destiel]

Chapter 8: Monsieur Winchester Tells a Tale

          “I don’t remember my brother when he looked . . . well, normal. And he did look like a regular human being at one point in his life. But that was before I was born. My parents, from what I told, were happy then. My father was a productive member of society and not a lonely, bitter drunk. He loved my brother and me – cared for us without question. They both did. My brother always told me how beautiful our mother was. He said that she was like an angel. Every night, she would sing him to sleep . . . And I guess she was part of the reason why he loves music so much – she was the one who initiated it.

          “And then one night, everything fell apart. Our house caught on fire – it started in my brother’s room. At least, that is what I have always been told. Our mother ran in to get him while she sent my father outside with me. My brother got out but my mother . . . the ceiling caved in and she got trapped underneath one of the beams. He tried to pull her out, but he was still just a little boy. He wasn’t strong enough, and she’d told him to get out and save himself.

          “When my brother came out of that house . . . The right side of his face was burned beyond recognition – to the point where it didn’t even look like a face anymore, but something out of a Gothic novel. Our father – John – never forgave him for walking out alone. He wanted our mother to walk out of that house, not him . . . He couldn’t cope with her death – he was delusional. He actually thought my brother intended to burn the house down; that my brother had wanted to kill our mother. Of course, he was insane – completely unstable. I knew that it was just a story he’d made up to make himself feel better. Although he never admitted it and my brother would kill me if he ever knew I thought this, I think it was John’s way of comforting himself. He blamed his eldest son when I think he truly blamed himself for not being there to save her – for not sending her outside with the baby.

          “From that moment on, my brother wore a mask to cover the scarred side of his face. It was many years before I saw him without it – almost a decade, in fact. I was ten-years-old when he finally believed that I could handle the sight. I had always been curious – always asked – but he refused each time. He told me that it wasn’t something for kids to look at. I didn’t understand it then – he was only four years older than me, after all. I thought that he was just as much a child as I was. But no matter what, he would never let me look until my tenth birthday.

          “I remember it vividly. Our father was asleep in his room. We lived in the country then. My father believed that the further away we were from civilization, the less chance people would see my brother’s face. He had to travel to town each night for work so he spent most of the day sleeping. My brother pulled me aside and gave me a little speech about how he thought it was finally time for me to know the truth. I pretended to listen and nodded wherever I felt the need to. I think he knew that I wasn’t paying attention, but he took the mask off anyway. His mask back then wasn’t like the one he has now. It was made of wood – something our father had carved for him. It wasn’t a gift – it was like a brand. Our father gave it to him and forced him to wear it because he was ashamed of his face. My brother complied and never took it off, as far as I knew. But when the mask finally came off, I remembered shrinking away in fear.

          “It was involuntary, and to this day I feel awful for it. I remember the wounded look on his face – the agony in his eyes. His own brother had rejected him. I apologized afterwards. I tried to tell him that I wasn’t afraid of him, but the face just startled me, you know? He just nodded and told me he understood, but I know he didn’t.

          “Even after he showed me, he never felt comfortable enough to not wear it around me. Of course, I don’t doubt that he believed that I was scared of him, now. That and I knew that our father forbade him to take it off. But he always had chances too – opportunities when our father was passed out drunk. He could have taken it off, but he never did. He always had to have it on, as if it was his security blanket. It was just something that soothed him.