Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Since the dawn of creation, there had been the Word, and the Word was God. And in each new repetition of the Word, a fraction of its divinity was lost, like a crumbling flake of snow breaking free from a glacial shelf. So the Word became tarnished, an ugly, deformed caricature of its former glory. Until the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t came to pass, and the Word was lost. For the first time since the Golden Age of the Titans, Fate was no longer bound by the Word, and Destiny, which had been carved in every atom of every nebula across the universe, was shattered.

For some time, nature rebelled. Creatures gained freedoms they’d never had, angels corrupted their own essence to enhance their Heavenly influence, and Hell, as always, was a swirling turmoil of despair overlaid with the cold efficiency of bureaucracy. A new age had begun; the age of Free Will. The Universe was not overly concerned; the Balance was maintained, despite the fluctuating fortunes of the beings that suffered within her depths, and so the greatest of entities turned their massive eyes away, dismissing the agonies of lesser creatures as beneath their concern.

The First Beasts set upon the Earth, and almost devoured it, the angels fell and began to self-destruct, the monarchy of Hell fought brutally for the throne; and still, the Universe slept. And then one day, a small, significant human, (one who had endured the most torture for the continuation of humanity, in the history of all things), made a decision. The Righteous Man took a Mark that was never intended to be his.

Marked by Heaven and Hell both, one human set forth, mired in self-loathing and doubt, to right the wrongs of the uncaring Universe. And from light-years away, a vestige of the Word shivered, stretched forth tentative tendrils of consciousness... and awoke.

---

Sam could barely believe his eyes when Dean awoke from death, as though rising from nothing more than a deep slumber. Of course, as with all things in the life of a Winchester, hope was a unless recourse. For Dean hadn’t returned at all; like their mythical ancestor, Dean had become a demon under the influence of the Mark.

He doesn’t get a chance to see if Dean can be cured; he can only watch, helpless, as Crowley leaves with his brother in tow. Dean moves with detachment, a cold, efficient predator, stalking silently after its master. Sam calls out to him, but Dean doesn’t even flinch, not even when Sam digs down deep into that dark place he swore he’d never touch again. Sam hasn’t called upon his demonic abilities since he inadvertently unleashed Lucifer on the world. But for Dean, he clawed at that malnourished imaginary limb, dragging it out into the light, and with supreme effort, wrenched himself free from the wall he’d been pinned against.

“Stop!” He screamed, flinging out one hand, desperation and rage fueling him enough to halt his demon brother and the King of Hell in their tracks. As quickly as the influence had been exerted, it was lost again. It was a muscle that Sam hadn’t trained for years; it was simply too weak to continue being exerted. But now it was awake, and that sick, dark part of him was crowing in unexpected satisfaction at being released again after so long.

There was a beat of stunned silence, and then Crowley swirled round to face him. Dean turned also, with barely contained fury; he was a lot less flashy about it.

“Interesting,” said Crowley, with a wriggle of his eyebrows. “Didn’t think you could still get it up. Rumour was, you burnt out all your special sauce.”

Sam was panting from exertion, struggling to stay conscious under the relentless battering of a power he’s too weak and unpracticed to contain, writhing beneath his skin. He ignored Crowley’s jibes; didn’t have time to deal with him.

“Dean,” he begged, in barely more than a whisper. “Please.”

Sam was previously unaware that opaque inky blackness in the place of human eyes could convey such scorn and derision, and yet there they were, silently judging him.

“Tell you what, Moose. You renounce your goody-two-shoes days, give in to that delicious rage and demonic ability bubbling beneath that mop of lank hair and ogre body-type, and we’ll see about getting you a position in Hell, hmm? Always in need of a good lacky to hunt down beasties and break things for me.”

“Never,” Sam hissed, a look of acid hatred marring his features. “I will never stop trying to save him, and I will never join you.”

It was a solemn vow, and Sam knew, down to his very bones, that every word was true.

“Shame,” Crowley clicked his tongue dismissively, and in the next moment both he and Dean were gone, in the space of one blink to the next.

Sam staggered as he was finally released from the demon’s wall of resistance. He took in the empty room, before collapsing to his knees, with a howl of anguish that he could simply no longer contain.

---

Dean was not obedient. He barely spoke, and though he followed Crowley’s bidding, most of the time, he appeared to be tolerating the King rather than obeying him. It was trying. Crowley did his best to reorganise Hell into some semblance of order, after that bitch had taken over and torn his careful structuring to shreds. Having a Knight like Dean appearing to be under his command went a long way to solidifying his rule. The lesser demons, in particular, fell over themselves trying to please their new boss and stay out of his way. Dean was ruthless, and brutal when annoyed, which appeared to be how he spent the vast majority of his time. Many a demon perished in the first few days when Dean took up the mantel of a Prince of Darkness.

Time, as always, moved swifter in hell. One week on Earth is roughly two and a half years in the pit; the hours down here elongated, in order to stretch out the delicious torment of the damned souls screaming all around them. In that time, Dean learns to control his powers, and gathers around him a select group of demons who are far more inclined to bend to the will of a Knight, than a jumped-up crossroads demon clinging to the crown by the skin of his fingertips.

Crowley never catches Dean in examples of outright disobedience, but his orders are accepted grudgingly, and with the kind of condescending smirk that tells him it won’t be long before Dean abandons him; to carve his own path through Hell, or even make a bid for the top spot. One thing Crowley knows for certain though; he won’t go down without a fight. He’s come too far, outwitted too many major contenders, to be undone by one little upstart who spent his glory days on the rack rather than revelling in all the delights the pit has to offer.

---

Death has existed in some form since the universe was no more than a spec on God’s eyelash, barely a consideration in His grand scheme. He does not waste his infinite time on the petty requests of humanity, a race he finds distasteful on a good day; and downright egregious on others. But even Death sits up and pays attention to the Word. And when the Righteous Man accepts the Mark of his decreed opposite, a shiver runs down Death’s ancient spine.

This, as they say, is not going to end well.

---

Sam drank himself into a stupor most nights, Men of Letters files spread out all around him, ancient books with his badly translated scribbles illegible in the margins. Cas intervened eventually, when Sam’d drunk more whisky in the past week than he’d eaten food. Apparently he’s on the road to liver failure. Naturally, Sam’s belligerent response was a slurred assertion that organ failure is exactly what he was aiming for. Cas was quiet, but looked at him with big blue eyes glimmering with unshed tears and pity. Sam couldn’t stand it.

He lashed out, as Cas tried to wrestle the bottle from his clutches, saying horrible, untruthful things. Such as; Cas doesn’t understand what he’s going through, because he’s just a robot angel who doesn’t know what grief feels like. Staggering and towering over the angel, roaring that Cas never really loved Dean anyway; didn’t know how to love, wasn’t capable of it, wasn’t even capable of real friendship.

Cas slapped him across the face.

It was enough to shock Sam from his drunken stupor, though not enough to get him to apologise; not yet. When he’s sobered up, he knows he’ll feel like shit for talking smack about the best friend Dean’s ever had. But at this current point, Sam was only capable of sobbing in a disgustingly messy fashion, all over Cas’ shoulder. Somehow, Cas half-dragged him to the shower room, and after he was clean, forced him to get a few hours of decent, artificially deep sleep.

Sam surfaced feeling like the most worthless person on the planet. Cas was silent, accepting his apology with only a nod. As if he believed that shit about himself, which only served to make Sam hate himself even more.

Cas had made him a simple breakfast; toast and eggs. Sam sunk further in on himself, not sure how to make amends. He eventually summoned up the courage to ask Cas if he needed help with anything. The angel sighed, long and weary.

“Metatron twisted many things in Heaven for his own benefit. We are slowly unravelling his tampering, but it is an arduous process. Angels were not intended to be creative, and his haphazard fumblings have torn chasms in the delicate frameworks which hold the universe in Balance.”

Sam can only nod, to show he’s following. There’s nothing he can do to help fix Heaven, so Cas must need something else from him.

“We have recently discovered a... resonance in the Garden. Joshua died in the fall, and we have no one else to turn to, to try and interpret it.”

“What do you think it is?” asked Sam.

“We believe it is the Word.”

“The Word?” Sam’s face crumples up with confusion, before the serious set of Cas’ chin enlightens him. “The Word... of God? Like the tablets?”

Cas nods, with gravitas. Whatever it is, it’s serious. “Akin to the tablets, but new. Fresh.”

“You mean...” Sam doesn’t know what he means. Something of this magnitude is too big for his brain to adequately process.

“God is speaking to us. Or at least, some part of his divine path has been uncovered. This is His equivalent of a message on an answer-phone. Unfortunately, no angel in Heaven possesses the ability to interpret it aside from Metatron. We do not trust him to translate it, and we have not yet determined how to re-establish the line of the Lord’s Prophets on Earth.”

Sam is humbled, that Cas, who deals with such important matters every day of his existence, would choose to seek his assistance; or even just share his frustrations with him.

“So what are you going to do?” He prompted, when Cas didn’t say anything more.

“I wish to see the translations that Kevin Tran made of the tablets. It is my hope that some of that knowledge would help us to understand what God’s message is.”

Gadreel stole some of it, but what remains, tucked away in Men of Letters boxfiles, Cas is welcome to. Sam showed him where it was; it was the least he could do. He knew Cas was suffering, just the same as him, but he’s managed to pull his shit together. It’s time for Sam to do the same.

Chapter Text

Castiel runs on autopilot when his followers are present. He has been a 'leader' many times in his existence, especially since meeting the Winchesters, but never before has he been so apathetic towards his goals. He cares little for the plight of Heaven versus the loss of Dean Winchester. All his concerns about penance, and fixing Heaven's corruption, pale in comparison to the black hole in the center of his chassis; the physical manifestation of his grief.

If the Word had been discovered, during the Apocalypse, or the civil war that followed, Castiel's enthusiasm would have been ludicrous in its intensity. Now, he can barely muster a flicker of interest. There is no angelic equivalent for his current emotion. Angels commemorate their dead through a song of lamentation; and then they move on. They mourn, but they do not... grieve. No one in Heaven can relate to his loss, and so he turns to the only other person who understands what it is like, to bask in the nuclear fission that was Dean's affection, and lose it to the bitter poison of Hell. Sam.

Samuel Winchester is a mess. He has laid waste to Dean's meticulous upkeep of the bunker. The main rooms are in disarray; books, papers and other research materials strewn haphazardly. Leftover plates of half-eaten foodstuffs are dried-up husks, quietly growing mold. There are empty bottles of alcohol in every crevice. And the man himself is not much better.

Greasy-haired, dirty and sleep-deprived, Sam's volatility was dampened by his despair. However, it didn't take him long to become incensed, when Castiel attempted to clean him up a little. Sam will self-destruct if left to his own devices, as shown, repeatedly, every time when he lost Dean in the past. Castiel berated himself for not checking in on the young man sooner. Dean, the real, human and loving Dean, would never forgive him for not looking out for Sam - again. 

It was an arduous process. Sam does not want to accept his help. He was vocal in his disapproval, lashing out with harsh half-truths; which Castiel's insecurities whisper to him are indeed his greatest shortcomings. He pushed down the nauseating feeling which erupted in the face of Sam's honest thoughts about him; and when the next morning rose, accepted his apology with little more than a nod of his head. But he did not forget. 

---

Death does not intervene when his Reapers go into some kind of cosmic meltdown. He was furious, of course, that their sacred occupation has been tampered with. If he had money, he would bet on those implausible men, the Winchesters, and their arrogant angel, having something to do with it. But Death has an eternal calling, and the destination of the souls he reaps has never been his remit. He does not interfere. It is not his place.

Even when Reapers begin committing suicide; obliterating their tiny sliver of God-given grace to annihilate their so-called enemies, Death turns his infinite eyes elsewhere. However, when he feels the familiar hum of the Word, Death knows it is time to find out what God has to say about the current situation.

As loathe as he is to admit it, the upstart angel that almost destroyed the Universe - more than once - is probably his best bet for information. But Death does not have an intimate knowledge of where to find any creature in the Universe at any given time. Despite his impressive array of powers, he is not, in fact, God. So Death elects to go through a middle man, since he can find any human soul on Earth: especially those he will be reaping soon, or those he has been in presence of before.

---

Sam was researching on his laptop when Death came to him. It was the tapping of the cane which alerted him to the Horseman's presence. Sam heard the sound of it clang against the floor and a familiar voice said; "Nice place. Love the decor; obsessive profiler meets serial killer. Interesting niche."

Death was standing placidly in the bunker's library, taking in the mass of scribbled research papers, intermingled with various weapons and spell ingredients. Sam stared at him with mounting horror.

Eventually he managed to stutter; "Am I dead? I- Um-" before trailing off in embarrassment.

Death gave him a kindly look, the kind of expression on his face that Sam imagined fond Grandpas wore, in reaction to the cute actions of their offspring's children. "No. Rest assured; I am not here in my professional capacity. I am making what one might term a 'social call'."

Sam was even more confused at the sound of that, but let out a small breath of relief anyway. There wasn't much he could do to help save Dean if he was trapped in the spirit world, after all.

He doesn't want to offend Death (ever), but Sam wasn't sure how to politely ask what the hell he could possibly want, and how Sam could help with those needs. Maybe he just wants to know where Dean got those pickle-chips from, that one time. Who the hell knows anymore? Sam's life is an inversion of the natural order of existence.

"I desire to speak to that sorry excuse for an angel, Castiel. I believe you can help me with that."

"Er...sure." Sam agreed, because if there's one being you don't want to piss off by questioning the motives of, it's Death. He quickly called Cas, who had recently gotten his wings back (via Heaven's power-up potion, as far as Sam can tell), and a second or two later, the angel joined them with a familiar fluttering sound. Death promptly ignored Sam in favour of the more powerful creature in the room.

Cas looked at Death in surprise, but wisely didn't question his presence. He was probably remembering their last confrontation, judging by the uncomfortable look on his face.

"I have been made aware that a remnant of the Word has been found." Death said, no preamble.

"Yes." Cas nodded, but did not elaborate.

"Does He have a solution for the current crisis among my Reapers?" asked Death. "Or perhaps a method of saving your errant brother-" he nodded at Sam, "-before it is too late?"

Cas took a minute to consider his response. He shuffled from one foot to the other awkwardly, and then said; "We are working on opening the Gates of Heaven to the population of spirits inhabiting the veil, without the assistance of God. We do not anticipate it will take much longer."

Death nodded, satisfied, but Sam was alarmed.

"What did you mean, about saving Dean before it's too late?"

Death appeared to be contemplating his response; he raised an inquiring eyebrow at Cas, who avoided both their gazes, dropping his eyes to the suddenly interesting floor.

Sam wanted to ask again - possibly yell - but he didn't get the chance to, since Death was even more impatient than him, to get them to the point. "Your brother is still the Righteous Man; servant of Heaven, that has taken on the abilities of a Hell-creature. It is unsustainable. Did you ever wonder why Lucifer never simply became a demon? He was in Hell long enough, before the Cage was invented to stop him from doing further damage to humanity. Heaven and Hell cannot be represented within the same creature. You brother is a nuclear bomb about to implode. The resulting hole in the fabric of reality would be cataclysmic, even if it 'goes off' in Hell."

As he took in the enormity of the danger facing them, Sam swallowed thickly, and then turned his betrayed gaze to the angel. "Did you know about this?"

Cas winced. "I... suspected."

"And you didn't tell me?" Sam shouted, no longer caring about making a scene.

"As thrilling as these dramatics turns are," Death interrupted, "Did God have a solution for you, or no?"

"We are unable to understand all of God's message at this time." Cas admitted, with no small amount of reluctance. "However, we have been able to translate part of it, and according to the Word, our greatest hope lies in Raguel."

"Raguel? An angel?" Sam said, a little more calm at the chance of saving Dean. "Great, lets find him and ask."

Death chuckled darkly in the background, while Cas shook his head and said; "It is not so simple, Sam. Raguel the Destroyer is a story. The closest angels have to a fairy tale, like your human children are told of a fat man who brings them gifts once a year. Raguel is said to be the angel of vengeance, who will cleave his way through the unrighteous and smite the unworthy when Heaven has become poisoned with corruption."

"So he's not real?" Sam asked, feeling a wave of hysteria rising in his stomach. How typically Winchester; to find their only solution in a half-baked myth.

"Oh he's real," Death argued, "A last resort. A being God found so despicable that he locked the possibility of his creation away lest Raguel annihilate all his precious creations, non of which were completely free from sin."

"So, it's an idea? How do we make him real? A spell, what?" Sam was becoming desperate, and snappy with it.

"Nothing that easy, I am afraid." Death took a measured step towards them. "To 'create' such beings is God's remit alone. To call forth Raguel would mean a combination of Heaven and Hell - such as your brother - coalesced into one and transcending both. But those warring abilities; the light and the dark, swirling around in one being? It's unendurable. Unbearable. That your brother isn't writhing in agony, unable to speak or perform basic motor functions, is a small miracle in itself. It takes an incredible willpower to harness such powers. But in his current demonic form, he is suppressing the Heavenly aspect, and eventually it is going to burst free, and start a war within your brother's flesh."

"So how do we save him - turn him into this Raguel or whatever?"

"You need a catalyst, an item that will unlock both Heavenly and Hellfire abilities, and allow him to control both. Preferably something neutral."

"I don't know of anything like that." Sam frowned, not sure what Death was getting at.

"Don't you?" Death's smile crept across his face like a shadow lengthening in the sun. "A ring, perhaps?" He lifted up his hand, drawing their attention to the white ring glimmering on his own skeletal hand.

Cas sucked in a breath, clearly just as shocked as Sam that the answer could be within their grasp already.

"I believe you are still in possession of my brother's rings?" Death asked, not waiting for an answer. "War would be a most adequate choice. Raguel the angel of vengeance is a fitting successor to the post. Famine and Pestilence's abilities are too far removed to be of use."

"You are suggesting we ask Dean to become the next Horseman of War?" Cas clarified. "Can he be both Horseman and angel?"

"He can't be an angel and a Knight of Hell, more to the point." Death argued. "My brothers and I are neutral; neither light nor dark. To force Dean to take on that mantel is the only way this mess has a positive outcome."

"How are we gonna manage that?" Sam asked, not holding out much hope. Death was more of the 'voice in the wilderness' type than a go-getter. 

"That is not my problem." Death said. "Just get it done; before we all suffer the consequences."

---

In the end, it was stupidly easy to fix the monster he'd become. Dean was summoned - actually summoned, like the demonic creature he is - back to the bunker. Sammy was there, with Cas, and they had some half-cocked story about angel legends, War's ring and new abilities. Dean didn't get most of it, but he certainly understood the concept of going boom if he didn't wear the damn ring. He put it on, because even though he might no longer remember what loving them and trusting their judgement feels like, he has no wish to die right then. Not when he'd been having so much fun as a Knight.

At first, he believed they had betrayed him, when a crippling pain tore through his spine, and he collapsed in the Devil's trap, blacking out from the agony.

When he woke up, Dean was immediately aware he was no longer a demon. For one thing, he felt calm, and then horrified, as he remembered all the things he'd done in his short spell as hellspawn. He was no longer in pain, but when he tried to sit up, a weight on his back made him flop uselessly to the side instead.

"What the-" he squawked. He had looked over his shoulder and found goddamn wings - giant, grey eagle's wings, silky feathers rippling and twitching with independent movement - attached to his back.

The sound of his voice brought Sam running.

"Dean!" he yelled, a bright smile on his face, when Dean looked at his little brother with his patented 'what the fuck, Sammy?' face.

"Sammy- what? What is the hell is this?" He waved a hand over his back, to encompass all the ridiculousness.

"We saved you," Sam grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a goofball. "Me and Cas- but it was Death's idea. We couldn't have done it without him."

"So you turned me into the Great Bird-Man instead? Am I supposed to join a circus now?" Dean scoffed, but it was a front, and he knew Sam knew it. Bird-Man or no, it was still preferable to being a demon.

"No, you're- don't you remember? War's ring?"

Sam pointed at him, and Dean followed his finger to where a shiny golden ring was innocently sitting on his right hand.

After Sam's long explanation, Dean eventually roped his wings into doing his bidding, and managed to stand up. Then he hugged the shit out of his fantastic brother, who had saved him, yet again, against all the odds.

---

Dean found Castiel sitting in his room, on top of the covers of his bed. He had not wanted to hinder the brothers' joyful reunion with his own bittersweet reconciliation with Dean. So he waited, in quiet approval of the outcome of their scheme, for Dean to come to him.

"Hey," said Dean, slowly entering the room, his beautiful wings flapping slightly.

Castiel stood, and a subdued smile settled on his face. "Hello, Dean. I am gratified to see you safe, in this form."

Dean chuckled. "It's good to see you too, buddy."

"I must return to Heaven, there is still much work to be done-"

Dean frowned, crossing the distance between them with urgent, harried steps. "Woah, so soon? I just got topside, Cas! You're not gonna stay and celebrate with us?"

Castiel's smile waned. There was nothing that he desired more than to remain with Dean; in any situation. Always. But he was no longer ignorant of his own feelings, and to be with Dean now was the sweetest torture. Soon, when the danger was far behind them, and his emotions no longer so raw and close to the surface, Castiel would be able to protect himself from the inevitable rejection. But he knew he would reveal himself, if he remained in Dean's presence in the immediate future. His fears, and relief that they had been subverted, were just written too plainly in his every breath. Dean had many burdens already; he did not need to know his angel friend was harbouring a love for him which he could not requite. And Castiel will never again willingly be the cause of hardship for Dean Winchester.

"I am sorry, Dean." he said, "I cannot in good faith abandon my angelic charges again."

The gleam of hope in Dean's wonderfully green eyes flickered and died. "I get it, I do. I just wish you 'fulfilling your duties' didn't mean you were always leaving. In the middle of important conversations."

Castiel blinked in surprise. He was not aware Dean wished to speak to him about anything in particular. But then again, it made sense that he would have questions about his new status.

"There is no need to worry." he said, in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, "I will of course answer any questions or concerns you may have about your new position, to the best of my ability. I wrote a series of notes for Sam, which should outline everything clearly. Essentially, you are a Horseman now, but less neutral than the others; more inclined to do the bidding of Heaven. In as much as you have always been inclined to do Heaven's work - using your own judgement and defying the orders you do not believe in."

"Yeah, I saw." Dean nodded, "And that's great, really. Thanks. But that's not really what I was getting at, Cas."

Castiel frowned, lost. "Was there something else I can help you with?"

Dean took another step toward him, invading what Castiel knew Dean regarded to be his 'personal space'. It was strange to be the receiving end of it. With his new found self-awareness, it was both intoxicating and intolerable to be so close to the object of his love. Castiel felt he finally had an appreciation for why Dean had been uncomfortable in positions such as these.

To his great shock, while Castiel was ruminating on the consequences of personal space invasions, Dean reached out for him. With a tentative touch, Dean slid their fingers together, brushing along the side of Castiel's hand. Castiel stared at the spot where their hands were touching, before his gaze shot back up to the newly-formed Horseman's face. Dean was giving him a half-smile, one side of his mouth quirked upwards. He looked... hesitant. As though he feared his touch might not be welcome. In short, he looked like Castiel felt.

"We've never been too good at talking, you and me." said Dean slowly, as if he were choosing each word particularly carefully. "Guess neither of us is that great at getting the message out properly."

"Perhaps you are right." Castiel hedged, not comfortable in agreeing wholeheartedly, when he couldn't see where the conversation was going.

"Actions speak louder and all that." said Dean cryptically, but Castiel didn't get a chance to ask for clarification, because Dean leaned forwards and sealed their lips together.

It was not like the kisses Castiel had experienced in the past. It was careful, and soft, and there was no edge of danger or lust behind it. It was a simple, reverent kiss. Then Dean pulled back with a huff of breath, glowing with a bright red blush.

"Well, I guess that answers that question." he said.

Castiel blinked, now even more confused. "You did not ask-"

"You didn't uh, reciprocate. That's all the answer I needed, Cas. Look, I'm sorry- I just thought-"

Castiel positively beamed. "You are an exceedingly intelligent being, Dean Winchester. Your only mistake here was not accounting for all variables."

Dean's sheepish stuttering ground to a halt with a single surprised; "What?"

"Your kiss was unexpected. I am ready now." Castiel tilted his face up in anticipation.

"Er-" Dean's mouth hung open, and he seemed unable to take the next step. With a roll of his eyes, Castiel hooked his hand into Dean's layered shirts and dragged him forwards into another kiss, a little deeper and more impassioned, but no less sweet and true.

Then Dean began to kiss him back, and it was quite possibly the loveliest sensation Castiel, or indeed anyone in the world, had ever felt.

The road ahead of them was not immediately clear. Castiel was sure there would be many stumbles ahead; as he assisted in the formation of a new Heaven, and Dean learnt to control his new abilities. But if there was also joy to be found, he was sure it would be found in no greater degree than in the arms of the man that he loved. And that was worth every potential bump along the way.