Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sailing sunsets on a carbon heart

Can burn away just like your dreams

Underpaid and you can't get laid

A meteoric fall from grace

Have you any reasons to share

For bailing out when you were scared

Image is not enough

I know there's better things

Better Things by Baby Lemonade

—

Angels were made to follow.

Even after all that has happened, Castiel knows this, feels this, understands this visceral desire to cede all forms of choice and simply obey. Freedom is like drowning in a tidal wave—human lungs filling with water, the feeling of choking, the feeling of terror as you search desperately for the surface and the light amidst water and foam and sand and sound. Freedom is chaos, and complacency is clarity. Every angel is created with this knowledge.

It’s no wonder, then, that he is often labeled a degenerate by his brethren. He dove into the waves, headfirst. He fell in love with chaos.

(If someone asked the right question, he would tell them that he isn’t all that different, really. Angels follow a superior being they trust and adore unequivocally, unconditionally. Castiel does the same.)

Chapter Text

Part 1: Defection

Defection (noun):

1.       A physical problem or flaw in something, especially one that prevents it from functioning correctly
2.       The abandoning of allegiance to a cause or party, especially when this also involves supporting something previously opposed

—

Man is not built in an hour.

The human gestation period is between 259 and 294 days, or, in other words, approximately 40 weeks. Other animals have shorter pregnancies: the beaver has a gestation period of roughly 17 weeks, while that of the rabbit is only 4 to 5 weeks long. The intricate workings of the bodies of man, however, are simply too complex to be created in any amount of time less than the nine months God set aside for this task.

Therefore, as one might expect, it takes Castiel some time to rebuild the body and soul that are Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man.

—

Dean Winchester is crumbling.

The soul Castiel carries is shadowed and twisted, like the gnarled black roots of a dying oak after years of strangling by ivy. He mourns for what has been lost by the soul’s corruption. Today is a day of darkness as much as it is a day of light. Dean Winchester has been saved, but Dean Winchester has been lost, as well.

He looks at the human soul, feels its energy. The soul is small and fragile, but bright. This is the Righteous Man.

—

Dean Winchester is human.

He is small, and he is weak. Castiel enters the barn, the strength of Heaven swirling around him, so tangible he knows even the human must be able to feel his might. He can tell immediately that Dean Winchester is afraid, and fear breeds anger. Weapons are fired. He ignores the bullets.

“Who are you?” Dean asks when it becomes clear that the guns are useless to him. Castiel can feel the panic that the realization brings to Dean.

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition,” Castiel answers easily. It’s the truth.

“Thanks for that,” Dean says, and then Dean attempts to stab him. The blade enters his vessel’s flesh, and he regards it briefly, as the vast, ineffable gaseous mass of the sun might regard the flicker of candlelight. Castiel removes the blade. Human emotions are so plain, so predictable.

The older man in the room attacks him next, but Castiel takes care of him easily. Dean’s petty, human anger flares once again, so bright that it seems to seep from Dean’s very soul. Castiel can admire that, if nothing else—the depth and purity of human emotion. Dean feels with every fiber of his being. Castiel finds the single-mindedness fascinating.

—

Dean is sleeping.

Castiel knows that his presence will wake him soon. Even as he watches Dean’s prostrate form, he can see the Righteous Man begin to stir, can sense his breathing quicken and his mind settle. Dean was not having a pleasant dream. Maybe it’s good that Castiel arrived when he did.

He has been ordered here to tell Dean about the 66 seals. In order for Dean and Sam to be working in tandem with the goals of Heaven, they must be aware of what is at stake. They have to know the consequences.

Castiel notices that Dean is sleeping on the floor, while his brother has taken the couch. The brother—Sam Winchester, he is told—has not awoken. Once again, Castiel marvels at the strength and ferocity of the emotion within Dean’s soul. Dean awakes out of a need to protect, because had trained himself to wake in the presence of perceived threats. Sam had not needed to cultivate this awareness to the same degree, it would seem. Dean cares for his brother immensely.

(This, Castiel admits, is something he understands. Here is a small overlap between the hormonal instincts of man and the celestial purpose of the angelic.)

Dean eventually rises to his feet, quietly, his fury rising with him. Dean’s soul is still warped, still ravaged by the horrors of hell, but the fire of anger burns bright even now. Dean was not chosen because he was extraordinary, or because he outclassed the other men of his species. Rather, Dean is the epitome of humanity. Castiel thinks he understands why Dean is the Righteous Man.

—

He visits once more later on, when Dean is dreaming.

Again, he is drawn to Dean in sleep. The brother left the hotel room earlier, quietly, with practiced steps. Castiel mimics Sam’s prudence when he appears at Dean’s bedside. This time, he takes care not to wake Dean; he’ll let him come to on his own.

Dean is not angry in sleep—only afraid, like a child might be. Castiel understands that anger is a secondary emotion, so this makes sense to him. The man underneath the wall is vulnerable. Castiel wonders if Dean knows this, or if the anger has become such a natural state of being that he no longer recognizes its true purpose. Castiel might tell Dean this someday. For now, he waits.

—

Dean becomes the subject of the majority of Castiel’s orders. He watches him, directs him, conveys messages to him. For this particular mission he was told to go with Uriel because it was believed the Winchesters might not cooperate without being intimidated. The brothers are here to hunt a witch and save the town, but he and Uriel are here with the potential to destroy it.

As expected, the conversation goes poorly.

—

Dean is sitting on a bench at a park. Children are playing. When Castiel appears on the bench next to him, Dean doesn’t flinch, almost as if he’d been expecting Castiel to appear.

Something has changed between him and Dean Winchester. During every previous visit, he’d been greeted with anger. This time is different. Anger is still there—he doesn’t believe Dean’s soul could ever completely free itself from fury—but the feeling is resigned, not in focus. The feelings that are in focus are too complicated for Castiel to understand. Human emotions are nothing more than chemistry, and yet he’s beginning to recognize why God gave them to his most beloved creations. Emotions, as irrational as they are, can be poetic, can be beautiful. They are inextricable from what makes humans the beings they are.

He listens to Dean talk about his decision to go after the witch and risk breaking the seal rather than allow the town to be destroyed. There is conviction behind his words, a passion for righteousness. The passion is not unlike anger, and Castiel wonders if he’s been confusing the two. This is what humanity is about, after all: passion, love. God gives his orders out of love, and yet Castiel must admit that the idea of destroying the town—ending all 1,214 lives—did not sit well with his conscious.

Whether or not Dean is right, Castiel realizes, he agrees with him.

Perhaps this is why he was ordered to follow Dean. Perhaps there is more to humanity. Man was created in God’s image, just as angels were created as God’s soldiers. Perhaps they are imbued with moral understandings he cannot yet hope to comprehend.

—

In retrospect, this is a turning point for Castiel. He admitted to Dean that he had questions, doubts. Dean believed him. Although he did not know it at the time, this was the beginning, and the end.

—

When Anna is discovered, Castiel thinks back to the time when she fell, the time when she ripped away her own grace and plummeted to Earth. At the time, Castiel had not understood. What Anna had done was unthinkable. Why would a being as powerful and disciplined as an angel willingly choose a life of weakness and irrationality? Why would an angel choose to subject themselves to human emotions?

(Years later, Castiel knows why. He thinks that if he’d felt the way he does now, and if he’d been in Anna’s position, he would have fallen, too. He would have fallen a hundred times.)

When Anna is discovered, Castiel reflects on Anna’s choice. He thinks of Dean—the purity of his emotions and the sincerity of his convictions, his value for self-determination. He wonders what it might be like to see the world the way humans do: not as a collection of smaller, determinable parts but as a whole, as a single experience. He wonders what it would be like, as a human, to feel a parent’s warm touch, a friend’s kind hand, an enemy’s cruel fist, a lover’s soft embrace. He wonders, and he questions, and he doubts.

Castiel frightens himself when the thought arises that perhaps Anna’s choice was not so inconceivable, after all. He pushes the thought aside roughly. Now is not the time. Now is not the place. Later.

—

The discovery of Anna leads to a series of chaotic events that culminate in a battle between demons and angels. Castiel knows they have been set up, that this was the Winchesters’ intention all along, but his hands are, figuratively, tied. He’s forced into confrontation all the same.

Alistair is overpowering Castiel. The demon’s ugly face is merely inches from his own, grinning wolfishly. The powers of Heaven are rendered ineffective against the sheer strength of the forces of Hell that Alistair commands. The fingers of Alistair’s vessel are curled around the throat of Castiel’s, and he knows that choking won’t kill him, but he dreads what will surely come after if Alistair is able to maintain the upper hand. This may be the end for him.

Until Dean, furious, strong, righteous, slams a crowbar in to the head of Alistair’s vessel.

Castiel scrambles back, regaining his footing, and glances at Dean. He and Dean are, by all conventional definitions, on opposite ends of this fight: Castiel and Uriel were sent to kill Anna, while Dean is determined to protect her. Dean should be fleeing the scene with Anna, taking her somewhere safe. Dean should not be fighting either him or Alistair. Dean should be aloof.

Instead, Dean has just saved his life.

Castiel watches Dean, and he can’t understand. Dean’s body is coursing with adrenaline, and his soul is alight with the thrill of a good fight, and he is human, and he is weak, but when the moment came, he chose to protect Castiel rather than leave him to his demise. Does Dean think of him as an ally?

(The answer, back then, was yes, but also no. The human mind is seldom so straightforward.)

—

Chapter Text

A month has passed, and the war between Heaven and Hell rages on. Dean has just unwittingly helped them capture Alistair, thus saving another seal. Today is a victory.

It’s night, and they’re in a dark alley, next to two large dumpsters. Dean is agitated because rather than asking for Dean’s help directly, Castiel elected to fake a phone call from Bobby Singer to point them in the correct direction.

“If you wanted our help, why the hell didn’t you just ask?” Dean asks, angry but also… Castiel isn’t sure. He seems almost offended.

“Because,” Castiel answers, carefully, after a brief pause, “whatever I ask, you seem to do the exact opposite.”

It’s true enough, and although Castiel means to keep his tone mostly accusatory, he can’t help but feel slightly awed as well. How different the two of them are—he is an angel who can do nothing but follow orders, while Dean is a being who strives to do anything but. Castiel feels something deep in his chest. He thinks it might be admiration. He thinks it might be envy. He thinks….

He puts it aside, again. (Not now, not now, not now—)

—

“You made an exception for me,” is what Dean says to him that day.

Angels do not make exceptions, of course. What scares Castiel is that Dean is right.

“…You’re different,” is his only reply before he leaves. It’s true, at least. It’s true enough to terrify him.

—

Dean is grieving for his friend. She died protecting the seal that Alistair had been trying to destroy.

“Pamela—you know, psychic Pamela?” Dean says, angry. “You remember her. Cas, you remember her. You burned her eyes out. Remember that? Good times!”

Castiel does remember. It was unintentional, what he did to her, but he remembers thinking that it wasn’t important, that she was only a human, and that perhaps her blindness would teach her to treat him and his brethren with more respect. Thinking those thoughts now makes something twist inside his very core. So much has changed since then—he has changed. (Not now, not now, not now—) Things are still changing. For example, Dean just called him Cas as an act of familiarity. Dean has never called him this before.

“We raised you out of hell for our purposes,” Uriel is saying.

“Yeah and what were those again? What exactly do you want from me?”

“Start with gratitude.”

Castiel decides to interrupt. He hasn’t said anything to Dean yet throughout this whole conversation, he realizes, but he thinks now might be appropriate. “Dean, we know this is difficult to understand,” he begins.

“And we…” Uriel cuts him off pointedly, “…don’t care.

But Castiel does care. He does care, whatever that means, and yet he can’t bring himself to look at Dean, even when he feels Dean’s eyes on him, even when he feels Dean’s soul flicker with yet another human emotion he can’t hope to place. (How could he have ever thought humans were simple beings, how could he have ever—)

They ask Dean what they came to ask—they need him to torture Alistair for information. It’s not fair. He doesn’t want to ask.

“No. No way,” Dean says. Castiel anticipated this. (Whatever I ask, you seem to do the exact opposite—)

“You can’t ask me to do this, Cas—not this,” Dean continues. There it is again, “Cas”. Dean’s usual bravado is gone because he is afraid. Castiel does not need to see the roiling, flickering light of Dean’s soul to know this—the terror is written all over his face, and it shines bright in his eyes despite the glare he fixes on him. Castiel knows he’s asking too much of Dean. Pulling him out of Hell and then asking him to torture again is a cruel twist of fate, but it is a necessary one. (He’s been told it’s a necessary one.)

He wonders if Dean is afraid of triggering memories from his time in Hell. Or perhaps he’s afraid of torturing Alistair, of making such intimate contact with the demon who forever warped Dean’s soul. Perhaps Dean is afraid damning himself further, or losing control and hurting those he loves. Maybe he’s afraid of acting like something he’s not, or—even worse—acting like something he thinks he is.

Perhaps Dean’s fear is a combination of all these things. (The mind of man is far more complex….)

What amazes Castiel is that despite his fear, Dean complies—not initially, but he doesn’t resist for very long when he brings him to where they’re holding Alistair. Uriel implied that Dean had no choice, but all of them know better. If Dean had been an angel, there would truly be no choice—“obey” is the only option. But Dean is no angel, and despite the intensity of his human emotions, despite his freedom to do otherwise, Dean chooses to do this horrific task they’ve given him because he believes it to be right. Perhaps the choice, not the act, is the meaning of true righteousness.

Castiel wants to tell Dean how much he admires his choice, how much he respects his sacrifice, but something holds his tongue. (“You’re getting to close to the humans in your charge, Castiel. You’ve begun to express emotions, the doorways to doubt. This can impair your judgement.”)

Instead, he says, “For what it’s worth, I would give anything not to have to do this.”

Then he hardens his heart as Dean opens the door of the torture chamber and strides back into the Hell of his nightmares.

—

(It doesn’t take long for the screaming to begin.)

—

Anna is the voice of doubt. “Why are you letting Dean do this?” she wants to know.

Why. It’s a human word, not an angelic one. Angels ask “How?” and “When?” and “Where?” but never “Why?”.

The answer should be simple, it has always been simple, but the sound of the tortured demon on the other side of the door crushes the moral roadmap in his mind, and he’s lost, stranded in uncharted lands. God was the original cartographer, the roadmaker, the civil engineer. Angels were meant to follow the paths. Right and wrong are not worlds for them to explore.

When lost, he’ll return to the road. He resents himself for it.

“He’s doing God’s work,” Castiel tells Anna. He says it because it’s the only answer he knows.

—

What if the road is blocked? What if the road has crumbled, weathered away by time and wind and pious feet? What if the road itself is lost, forgotten?

—

Castiel has watched ants. The insects are fascinating to him—they have such singular purpose, ruled entirely by instinct. In a colony, there is no individualism, no lone ant. They are a mass of one mind. They are perfect synergy.

Ants can carry objects 50 times their own body weight. They outnumber humans by 1.5 million to one and walked the earth 125 million years before humanity took its first steps. Ants have been known to herd aphids like livestock, farm fungus like crops, and enslave the ants of foreign colonies. Ants can go to war. They can create giant supercolonies, metropolises that stretch for thousands of miles on end, across the imaginary political lines human beings call borders, across the physical lines of rivers and mountains and deserts. Long after human civilization has fallen, after the last human being has walked into the light of heaven, ants will continue to thrive on Earth.

Castiel has seen what happens when a worker ant loses her way. Their path is designated by a pheromone trail, a scent only she and her sisters can track. If even the smallest of things disrupts the path—a leaf, a stone, a footprint—the ant is lost. She will wander aimlessly, searching for the trail until she either finds it or becomes too exhausted to continue. In the absence of direction, her purpose dissolves.

No ant can survive without its purpose.

—

What if this isn’t a road God gave them? What if the road never existed at all?

—

Anna asks, “Torturing? That’s God’s work?”

Anna asks, “What if this isn’t His will?”

Anna asks, “You think He wants this?”

Anna asks, “You think He’d ask this of you?”

Anna asks, “You think this is righteous?”

(No, no, no, no, no—)

What you’re feeling…” she says. “It’s called doubt.”

(Doubt: a feeling of uncertainty or lack of conviction. Synonyms include hesitation, indecision, suspicion, confusion. An archaic meaning of “doubt” is “fear”—)

“These orders are wrong,” she says, “and you know it. But you can do the right thing.”

(Yes, Father forgive me, yes—)

“You’re afraid, Cas. I was too.”

The force of her implication hits him like a physical blow, storming his mind like a hurricane. I was too. Anna was afraid when she fell in love with humanity, when she watched them from afar and wanted? Anna was afraid when she ripped her grace from her chest, tossed it to Earth as if it were nothing but a discarded memory? Anna was afraid when she herself plummeted to the surface, her wings burning around her with perverse beauty, abandoning the very purpose she was created to pursue? I was too, she said. I was too.

Is this what she wants? To drag him down with her? To lead him down the same ugly, twisted path she took such a short time ago? She’s lying. These feelings are wrong, unnatural. He has been corrupted. He is not supposed to feel this way. There is something very wrong with him. This is not the way things have been done. This is not the way God created him. He was never supposed to question, he was never supposed to doubt—

“I am nothing like you,” he tells Anna, slowly, giving each word its own weight. “You fell.”

—

(And yet, and yet, oh God, when Alistair breaks loose—

When Alistair clutches Dean’s neck—

When Dean is hurt—

He does not follow orders. He does not think or hesitate. He acts on instinct.

Angels are not supposed to have these instincts.)

—

Dean is in a hospital bed.

Castiel is worried about Sam, about the demon blood Sam must have drunk to stop Alistair. He’s worried about Alistair’s denial of demon involvement in the deaths of Castiel’s brothers and sisters, about what those words implied. But mostly, he feels the flutter of Dean’s soul, the brokenness of it. Perhaps it’s fitting that the state of his body is equally broken to match.

Sam notices him, and Castiel knows what the younger Winchester is going to say before he so much as opens his mouth. He wants Castiel to heal Dean. Castiel wants this too, wants to reach his hand into the pale glow of Dean’s soul and mend the cracks and fissures. But somehow, Castiel doesn’t think this is what Sam meant. The wounds Sam can see—the bruises, the cracked ribs, the bloodied face—are all physical.

Sam also says that what happened to Dean is Castiel’s fault. That’s another thing Castiel has thought before.

He starts to think again on what Anna said. These orders are wrong. Surely not, when they were sent from his superiors. Surely not, when fighting demons is always a priority. Surely not, when Alistair was, in the end, made to talk.

And yet here is what Castiel knows:

Seven angels are dead.

Dean is hurt.

And none of this feels right.

—

He speaks to Uriel, who brushes him off dismissively. This only exacerbates Castiel’s fears.

So he speaks to Anna.

“Anna. Anna, please,” he says into the night.

The streetlight above him flickers. He looks up, then turns around.

“Decided to kill me after all?” says Anna.

“I’m alone.”

He can tell that Anna is testing his words, checking the perimeter. He wasn’t lying. “What do you want from me, Castiel?”

“I'm considering disobedience,” he tells her honestly.

She nods. “Good.”

“No, it isn’t,” he insists. “For the first time, I feel...”

“It gets worse. Choosing your own course of action is confusing, terrifying.” She puts a hand on his shoulder, and he tenses, looks at it. She takes her hand away. “That’s right. You’re too good for my help. I’m just trash. A walking blasphemy.”

She turns away.

“Anna,” he calls after her. She stops. “I don't know what to do. Please tell me what to do.”

Anna turns back to look at him. “Like the old days? No. I’m sorry. It’s time to think for yourself.”

And then she vanishes.

—

When Castiel confronts Uriel, his suspicions are confirmed: Uriel was behind the murders of his brothers and sisters, and he did it all to raise Lucifer. “I only killed the ones who said no,” Uriel is saying. “Others have joined me, Cas. Now, please, brother, don’t fight me. Help me. Help me spread the word. Help me bring on the apocalypse. All you have to do is be unafraid.”

But Castiel will never join him. At least he knows that much.

Uriel dies by Anna’s hand, not his. She appears in the middle of the fight and stabs Uriel in the neck from behind. If Castiel had been in the place to do what she did, he knows he would have, but he is ridiculously glad it didn’t have to be him.

Chapter Text

When an employee questions the orders of his manager, it’s considered impudence. When a soldier questions the orders of his commander, it’s considered treason. But what of an angel who questions God?

Castiel has begun to question—not verbally, but mentally, which is just as unforgivable. He continues to defend seals from demon forces, but he refuses to involve the Winchesters. He had seen too clearly what he could do to them.

Castiel lies to his superiors for the first time. They’re receiving orders to protect a seal in Rio de Janeiro, and he’s told to bring the Righteous Man to confront the demon at the head of the operation. Without thinking, Castiel tells her that he does not believe the Winchesters are ready to take on another seal, that the last mission they were involved in ended badly, that they would only serve to hinder rather than help. His sister believes him, and she reorganizes the mission.

Only after they arrive in Brazil does Castiel reflect on how easy it was to lie. She trusted his words without hesitation, because who could imagine an angel could lie? It scares him, but not quite as much as the realization that he feels no remorse for telling the untruth. Forgive me, Father, for I seek not to be forgiven.

—

In late January, the brothers are in North Dakota. Castiel knows this because it’s his duty to monitor them and prevent them from doing irreparable harm to their valuable bodies. This much, Castiel can do. He’s glad to have the order, because he knows with certainty that had he not been given the order, he would have done it anyway.

His instructions, however, imply that he’s not to interfere in a way that reveals his presence. Specifically, he must not “compromise his secrecy”. Any angel would understand what this meant, but Castiel clings to the ambiguity of it. He’s not ready to disobey orders yet. This, at least, doesn’t feel like disobeying.

The Winchesters have tracked a clan of vampires to Bismarck. It’s a small—two males and a female. What the brothers don’t know is that the clan is on its way to joining its sister clan, and that, if they charge in the way they are intending to, they will be grossly outnumbered.

It’s 2:16 A.M. when Castiel materializes inside the Winchester’s hotel room. His absence won’t be noticed now—most of the garrison is concerned with a seal being broken in Nairobi.

He can feel rather than see Dean waking as soon as Castiel appears next to the coffee table across from the bed. The Winchesters have covered the whole room with maps and news articles related to their case, but the coffee table is the worst—a clutter of ancient books and papers and pens surrounding Sam’s laptop. He notices that the door and windows are all lined with a thick stripe of salt, and that behind some of the larger pieces of furniture, out of human sight, they’ve painted symbols to ward off demons and other supernatural beasts—but not, he notes, angels.

“Oh, awesome. What do you angels want us to do now?” Dean murmurs across the room, sitting up in the bed and peering at him suspiciously. His bruises have healed, though Castiel can see that the ribs he broke haven’t fully mended. Dean was sleeping only moments ago, but his eyes are sharply awake. Castiel wonders if Dean is always hovering at the edge of wakefulness, or if he only does it on the eve of a hunt.

“Nothing,” Castiel answers honestly. Dean stares at him like he’s expecting him to say more, but Castiel doesn’t know what he’s looking for, so he remains silent.

“…So, why are you here then?” Dean asks eventually.

Why is he here? Why is he skirting orders to warn Dean? Why was he tasked with keeping Dean safe? Why was he sent to save Dean from perdition? Why is he here, on Earth, an angel on human soil for the first time in thousands of years? Why is he here, in this vast, unfathomable universe? For what purpose did God create him?

But these questions aren’t the ones Dean is asking, Castiel suspects.

“I… came to warn you, about the vampires you’re hunting,” he says carefully. “They know you and Sam are pursuing them, so they have made contact with one of their sister clans. Had you continued with your previous plan, you would have been outnumbered five to one.”

“So that’s, what, ten vamps?”

“Yes. And two blood hostages.”

“And they’re all in the same place?”

“Yes, I believe all of them are in the house you tracked them to.”

Dean nods, taking in the information. “Okay… Thanks for the heads up.”

“You’re welcome.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause. In the other bed, Sam shifts in his sleep.

“Anything else?” Dean asks eventually.

“No,” Castiel says.

“Alright then… Goodnight. You can, uh, leave now.”

Castiel nods and disappears from the hotel room.

—

Castiel gets into the habit of watching Dean. Not all the time, not even every week, but often. It’s different than what he did before: monitoring their plans, tracking their movements, cataloguing their injuries, delivering reports. The way he watches now is far more self-indulgent. Sometimes, when the eyes of Heaven are directed elsewhere, he’ll appear as an invisible entity in the brothers’ car, or at a diner, or in their motel. He never takes information from these encounters—only listens. It’s nice, while it lasts, but he always leaves feeling guilty and impure. He’s not exactly breaking orders, but it does feel like it. He’s breaking trust.

You’re afraid, Cas. I was too.

—

It’s February. An 18^th century Catholic mission in Mexico is the site of his garrison’s latest battle against seal-breakers. They’ve already lost one brother in this fight. He almost wonders if it would be better to pull back and regroup, but the orders say to push on, and so they do.

He and a small squadron of twenty other angels are positioned at the end of a small street. They’ve been told that a sizeable group of demons will be coming through soon, and his squadron’s job is to ambush them. The other angels in his group have taken new vessels for this mission—Mexico has no shortage of bodies willing to give themselves over to an evangelical cause. Castiel, in his pale, American vessel, stands out starkly in the small Catholic town. He could switch vessels too. He could, but he doesn’t. He’s grown accustomed to this body over the last few months. It’s also the body that the Winchesters recognize.

(He won’t say he’s grown attached to this body, like Anna had to hers. Angels do not become attached to physical forms. It’s not in their nature.)

The Winchesters are moving on a hunt today, Castiel knows. It’s distracting him, and he thinks the others can tell. He keeps focusing on the whispers of other angels, tuning into frequencies that only he can hear. Someone else has been sent to monitor them while he fights on the front lines, so he shouldn’t have any cause to guard them like this.

(Maybe he’s afraid that they won’t follow orders to the best of their abilities, like Castiel might. Maybe he’s afraid they will.)

The demons come; the battle begins. He stabs one demon in the chest with his blade, and smites another with the brilliance of holy light. He’s about to reign the wrath of Heaven upon three more when—

The Righteous Man is under threat. Intervention recommended by monitor. Leaving post to request further orders on how to proceed.

Castiel feels fear, like ice mixed with human blood, like a weight tugging down at the bottom of his grace. It’s the fear shared by insects caught in a spider’s web, and gazelles cornered by a lioness, and gulls with broken wings floating in the middle of the sea. His orders bind him. He must not abandon his post.

In Roman times, a deserter would be stoned or bludgeoned to death in front of the troops whose lives he had endangered by his actions. In the American Civil War, the deserter was forced to stand in his own coffin in front of an open grave before being executed by a firing squad. The British Navy of the 1800s ascribed twelve lashes to those who abandoned their posts. Soldiers during the Second World War were imprisoned. American deserters during the Vietnam War were arrested but eventually pardoned and given bad conduct discharge, and modern American who goes away without leave are usually fined and sent back into the line of duty. It’s clear that time has been kind to the human deserter—but not the angelic one. Angels have operated under the same laws since before mankind took its first steps. In the ranks of Heaven, deserters can find no mercy.

It only takes him a moment to decide. This is the first time he disobeys orders.

(What has driven him to this point?)

He appears inside an abandoned warehouse in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin. Sam is unconscious. Dean has shot the shapeshifter in the shoulder, but the creature is still standing. Dean lands a blow on its face, which knocks it back, but not far enough. It grabs Dean’s arm and pins it between Dean’s body and the concrete wall.

Do not intervene directly, were his commands regarding the Winchesters. Castiel intervenes directly. This is the second time he disobeys orders.

In two strides Castiel is putting his hand on the back of the shapeshifter’s neck. Its eyes glow with bright, holy light and it crumples like a puppet with broken strings. Dean flinches and stares, eyes wide and white.

The sound of Wisconsin crickets and Dean’s heavy breathing fill the silence. Then—

“What the hell, Cas? We had it taken care of. You didn’t need to….” He stops, seeming to collect his thoughts. “We didn’t need your help. We could have handled this, you know that.”

“I…” Castiel begins. I abandoned my post. I intervened. I broke command for you. I might die for this. I was so afraid, but now I’m not. You survived. “I heard you were in danger,” he says eventually. “I… had to protect you.”

“Yeah, well…. We don’t need a guardian angel all the time. You don’t need to jump in every time I throw a punch—this is what we do. I’m sure angels have better things to smite.”

“They do,” Castiel says slowly. “I… shouldn’t be here.” He never should have left the front lines. His intervention was unnecessary. He acted without thinking. Emotion has compromised his judgement. He’s a fool.

Angels possess a limited emotional range, and so they rarely feel the need to express emotion through the faces of their vessels. Castiel has never had trouble keeping a neutral expression because it’s simply his default—anything else requires effort. Tonight, however, seems to be a night of firsts. He wonders if this is what humans feel all the time, the feeling of trying to school his face into something blank, the loss of control. He looks down at the warehouse floor instead.

Something in his face must have gave him away, or else the silence spoke for him, because Dean’s furrowed brow relaxes slightly and he casts his eyes down as well. Castiel thinks his expression is sheepish, but he’s not sure. “Thanks, though,” Dean says. “Sorry you came all the way out here for… for this, I guess, but thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Castiel replies. “I should go now.”

Dean turns to where Sam is still motionless on the floor, unconscious. “Uh, would you mind…?”

“Of course,” Castiel says. He walks to Sam and places two fingers on his forehead. When he finishes, he says, “He’ll wake in a few minutes,” and vanishes.

Back in Mexico, the battle has stopped. Few have noticed Castiel’s absence. He realizes that those who did must have thought he was pursuing a demon who had fled the fight—because why would they suspect that one of their own would willingly abandon them? How could they even comprehend that an angel might disobey such basic orders? He feels guilt again, guilt for deceiving his brothers and sisters, guilt for abusing trust as pure as theirs.

He can’t move when he learns that one of their company, an angel called Suriel, did not survive the fray. He was young, or as young as angels can be. The eyes of Suriel’s vessel are wide and scared, rigid limbs resting on top of the scorched markings his wings left on the red brick. Castiel feels sick.

He doesn’t want to think about what he might do if this situation arose again. The answer terrifies him.

Chapter Text

On the first of March, the Winchesters disappear. Castiel’s superiors believed that the Winchesters (but specifically Dean) were not performing their Heavenly duties with as much gusto as they required. Castiel had protested as much as was allowed—said that the Winchesters would not respond well to the words of angels—but Zachariah insisted that his particular plan would work.

He did believe that this three-week project Zachariah had divined would be useless, but in truth his protests spawn from a much more selfish place. Castiel cannot protect them while they are under Zachariah’s particular protection. A few months ago, this might have made him simply uncomfortable rather than worried, but considering what had become of Uriel, Castiel does not trust Dean or Sam in the hands of anyone else—especially angels who Castiel does not historically meshed well with. To make matters worse, Zachariah sequesters the Winchesters away in a place that only he can find, and the whole city—wherever it is—is warded against all supernatural and angelic beings who are not already within the town’s borders. Castiel cannot watch over Dean, not even covertly. None of the methods he employed before will allow him to see or hear from Dean. He is cut off, like an alcoholic pushed out into the night at last call.

Castiel starts to understand how completely his world had begun to revolve around Dean Winchester. In free moments he finds his consciousness drifting outward to find the familiar mind in Frankfort, or Boise, or Jackson, only to meet an unforgiving absence. He’ll listen to the constant buzz of angel conversation, expecting to hear a whisper about the Righteous Man or the Winchester brothers, only to be met with silence. He cannot visit them, either invisibly or visibly. Their lives have been surgically separated.

He has never lost this much trust in his brothers and sisters. He wonders if this is because of the way angels like Uriel have acted or because of the task he must let them complete. Perhaps Castiel is the problem.

—

The next time Castiel intervenes on Dean’s behalf, he is not breaking orders, but he knows he is being watched. Dean Winchester has become a threat to a prophet, and Sword of Michael or not, Dean will not be shown mercy.

Prophets are sacred. They are beloved by all angels, for they serve as true vessels of God’s word. They are the most tangible connection to God that angels have left, and so the act of harming a prophet is considered one of the most heinous offences against angelic kind. Even demons know to stay away. Prophets are protected by the second-most powerful being in Heaven’s command—the archangel Raphael, one of three angels named by the original Biblical prophets. In different times this duty would have fallen to Gabriel, but none have seen him for many years.

(Castiel mourns this. Gabriel had been one of his kindest brothers, one of the most beautiful. He was diplomatic and tenderhearted, traits that did not blend well with the harsh blacks and whites of Heaven under the feuds of Michael and Lucifer. One day, Gabriel simply danced away, like a summer breeze.)

Castiel does not break orders, but his intervention to protect Dean from Raphael’s wrath is certainly not popular. In the eyes of angels, Castiel is the violent criminal’s security detail, the rapist’s defense attorney. Why protect a villain from he who would exact justice upon him? Many of Castiel’s brothers and sisters would have loved to see Raphael take the opportunity to destroy the man who would dare threaten a prophet.

But Castiel intervenes all the same. When he appears, he says, “This man is to be protected.” Dean releases the prophet, and Raphael looks elsewhere. The Righteous Man has been saved, for now.

—

Dean and Sam argued. Sam wanted to kill Lilith in the place Chuck had predicted she would be, but Dean was less convinced. And so, once again, Dean Winchester is angry. This is the first thing Castiel feels, even before Dean finds the words to pray.

A prayer without a destination is not a prayer left unheard, though it’s never been clear to him how God chooses the destination. He thinks it has something to do with proximity, since angels in Heaven hear fewer than those who walk the earth. The abilities of a given angel is also a factor; the one who hears the prayer must also be one who has the power to help. He thinks it’s also affected by a given angel’s sympathies or temperament—Castiel can often hear the prayers of the quiet, the shy, the watchful, while Anna, he remembers, had heard more than her fair share of prayers from wayward children and doubtful adults. This may be because of some unconscious direction from the one who prays, a desire to be heard by someone who would understand. Castiel has dwelled on this often.

When Castiel feels the vague pull at the edge of his consciousness, he recognizes Dean immediately, knows the soul like he knew it the day he raised Dean from perdition. There are no words yet, no specifications for the prayer. Dean prays with his heart before he prays with his lips.

When Dean’s voice does come, it’s small, defeated. “Well, I feel stupid doing this. But... I am fresh out of options. So please. I need some help. I'm praying, okay? Come on. Please.”

(Was Castiel the most likely angel to be able to help Dean? Was he the one most likely to understand? Had Dean felt some unconscious desire for Castiel to be the one to hear his plea? Or had Castiel simply been the nearest?)

Castiel appears in the motel parking lot. This is not wise—after what he did earlier today at the home of the prophet, he should be avoiding Dean altogether. But there was never a question. He will always come.

“Prayer is a sign of faith,” he tells Dean after a moment. “This is a good thing, Dean.”

Dean turns around. Castiel moves closer.

“So does that mean you’ll help me?” Dean asks him.

The desperation in Dean’s voice is clear, if Castiel hadn’t already seen it in his eyes and in the bright, fervent, heaving light of Dean’s soul. Prayer is a sign of faith, but prayer is also a sign of fear. No church sees prayers as ardent as those sent from hospitals and warzones.

“I’m not sure what I can do,” Castiel replies quietly, like an apology, like a confession. He wants to help, God forgive him. Castiel wants, which is, perhaps, his greatest sin.

“Drag Sam out of here, now. Before Lilith shows up,” Deans says.

“It's a prophecy,” Castiel says. “I can't interfere.”

He can’t interfere, but he already has. He’s interfered so much in the fragile web of Dean Winchester that he’s become inextricably tangled in the threads. Now, all that’s left to do is wait. The spider will come. These orders are wrong, and you know it. But you can do the right thing.

“You have tested me and thrown me every which way,” Dean is saying, “and I have never asked for anything. Not a damn thing.”

(You’re right. You never asked for any of this, Dean. You never asked to be saved.)

“But now I’m asking. I need your help.”

(You never needed my help before. You are self-sufficient, a sustainable ecosystem. You hunted and thrived without me for as long as you can remember. But now I’m here, and I’ve destroyed you balance, your biosphere.)

“Please.”

(Dean Winchester is asking for help because he is desperate. I am going to help him because I, too, am desperate. I never had a choice.)

“What you’re asking, it’s… not within my power to do,” Castiel says, careful. He holds Dean’s gaze. He needs Dean to understand. He tries to convey the universe in a look.

“Why?” Dean asks. “‘Cause it’s ‘divine prophecy’?”

“Yes,” Castiel says.

(Yes, Dean. You were always God’s plan. I’m no more than a footnote. There is nowhere else I would rather be.)

“So, what—we're just supposed to sit around and, and wait for it to happen?”

“I'm sorry,” Castiel says. He needs Dean to understand, he needs—

“Screw you. You and your mission. Your God,” says Dean. Castiel feels like he’s been plunged into the depths of the ocean with leagues of water above him, blocking the light and squeezing the air from his chest. This emotion is so human he almost wonders if it’s truly his own. “If you don’t help me now, then when the time comes and you need me… don’t bother knocking.”

And Dean is leaving, brushing past Castiel and walking away, and Dean doesn’t understand. “Dean,” Castiel says. Dean doesn’t stop, though Castiel knows he heard his voice. “Dean,” Castiel says again, more urgent.

Dean whirls. He’s angry, ferociously angry. Betrayed, perhaps. “What?” Dean snarls. He’s a wolf. He’s a bear. He’s human.

“You must understand why I can't intercede,” Castiel says slowly. He knows Dean won’t give him another chance. “Prophets are very special. They're protected.”

“I get that,” says Dean.

“If anything threatens a prophet, anything at all, an archangel will appear to destroy that threat. Archangels are fierce. They're absolute. They're heaven's most terrifying weapon.”

This is true. Castiel knows better than most the strength of that weapon. He stood before it earlier today to save Dean Winchester from a just fate. Now he bates the dragon again, does the unthinkable. He’ll risk Chuck Shurley’s life time and time again if it means he can help Dean.

“And these archangels, they're tied to prophets?” Dean says.

“Yes,” Castiel says. He can see the glint in Dean’s eye, hear the kindling of hope in his voice. To endanger a prophet is one of the worst offences Castiel can commit, but seeing Dean like this, seeing Dean’s soul flare with the promise of faith—Castiel thinks it must be worth it. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Dean Winchester is beautiful.

Dean’s eyes are bright. “So if a prophet was in the same room as a demon—”

“Then the most fearsome wrath of heaven would rain down on that demon,” Castiel finishes. “Just so you understand… why I can't help.”

It’s enough. It’s too much, but for Dean, it’s enough. Castiel will pay for this gladly.

“Thanks, Cas,” says Dean, and Castiel feels something joyful within him, something intense. It feels as though he’s watching spring unfold before him at a hundred times the normal speed, days passing by like seconds, flowers springing open on trees and grass flinging up green tendrils towards the sky. He wonders if this is a feeling that Anna fell for.

“Good luck,” Castiel says. It’s not what he means, but it’s all he can think to say. The world is a vast place—Castiel knows this profoundly. With Dean Winchester, that world seems so much smaller.

—

Dean’s plan works. He sees and hears and feels it unfold, just like every other angel in Heaven and on earth. The wrath of Raphael is as pure as wrath can be. The wrath of Heaven against Castiel will be equally pure and righteous.

Castiel waits. The spider will come.

—

In many human dictatorships, those who are deemed traitors, or disloyal to the ruling party, or insufficiently devoted to the cause, are often punished in a variety of ways. Some governments preferred execution or corporal punishment. Others preferred imprisonment, fines, or restricted access to goods and services. During many of the communist regimes of the 20^th century, a popular method of punishment was the exile to “reeducation camps” where prisoners were reminded of the wonders of their country and the importance of total devotion to the regime they served. It had never proved as effective as the communists had hoped.

Angelic reeducation has always been far more effective than any of its human equivalents.

—

Castiel begins to feel like a character in a play. He walks through the motions, but each one is carefully scripted. He tries not to draw attention, but his own suspicions about the intentions of his superiors cannot be quieted. He obeys orders, mostly, and he doesn’t protest. But he becomes more and more sure with each passing day that Uriel was not acting alone. That the entirety of Heaven is seeking to unravel what they are supposedly trying to protect: the 66 seals.

And one day, he can take it no longer.

Chapter Text

Dean is asleep.

Castiel knows when they’re coming for him. He can sense them, like a cat senses movement, like a deer smells a mountain lion. He goes to Dean on a reflex, without thinking. It doesn’t matter if he breaks rules now, he supposes. They’re already on his scent.

In Dean’s dream, Dean is sitting at the edge of a dock. In one hand, he holds a fishing pole, and in the other is a glass bottle of beer. The scene is bright and quiet. Castiel feels loath to disturb Dean’s rare moment of peace.

“We need to talk,” says Castiel all the same, joining Dean at the edge of the pier. The water is so still it looks like glass. He can see Dean’s and his reflection in the clear water, side by side. Calm.

“I'm dreaming, aren't I?” asks Dean. It doesn’t sound like a question, so Castiel does not answer it.

“It's not safe here,” Castiel says instead. “Someplace more private.”

He’s never done this before, not with Dean. At first there was no need, but then it felt like an invasion of privacy. Now, however, he has no choice, and yet he takes far more pleasure from this than he ought to. Dean’s mind is intoxicating. He sees what Dean sees, hears what he hears. The flippant landscape of a dream is insubstantial, delicate, fragile, even. It is made up of Dean’s thoughts perhaps more than any sensory memory his brain might be pulling up. He knows Dean wants to catch a fish right now, but not strongly enough to pursue it at any great length. He knows Dean wonders how deep the water is, and how long the fishing season will last.

He knows Dean is worried that Castiel is here. Thought and emotion are one and the same in the realm of Dean’s unconscious mind. Dean is worried about the purpose of Castiel’s visit, but other emotions flicker by Castiel’s awareness, like wisps of smoke. Dean is glad, Dean is content, Dean feels safe, Dean feels comfortable, Dean doesn’t want to leave, Dean doesn’t want Castiel to leave. There’s something else, too, something hidden away even here, in the depths of Dean’s subconscious. Something even his id won’t acknowledge. It tastes primal to Castiel, like need, like want. A desire, perhaps.

But the feeling passes, a breeze drifting away as Dean’s mind flits back to being worried and concerned. He can sense Castiel’s disquiet, because it’s difficult to mask the mind while visiting dreams, even for angels. Dreams are permeable—difficult to contain, difficult to ward off, but easy to infiltrate. Dean doesn’t see it this way. Dean is a human, and to humans, dreams are the most intimate part of their being.

“More private?” asks Dean. “We’re inside my head.”

“Exactly,” Castiel replies. “Someone could be listening.”

Castiel can’t linger here, but he wants to. He wants to sit on this pier and let the tendrils of Dean’s thoughts float past him, let them fade in and out of existence in a relaxed, carefree way that Dean never would have allowed in the waking world. It’s nice.

(Nothing gold can stay.)

“Cas, what's wrong?” Dean asks, a note of urgency giving the world around them a sharper edge, a muted tone.

“Meet me here,” Castiel says instead of answering and hands Dean a piece of paper. “Go now,” he tells him.

Castiel takes one more brief moment to enjoy the peace of Dean’s mind in this moment. He has seen Dean in fury, in irritation, in despair, in helplessness, in apathy, but he has never seen this side of Dean until now. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see it again.

(He may never see Dean again.)

He doesn’t say goodbye, though. That might alarm Dean more.

He disappears from the dream and leaves Dean to find his own way to the warehouse. It may be too late when Dean gets there, but Castiel has felt a strange blanket of calm settle over him, and he can’t bring himself to mind. What will pass will pass. For now, it’s up to fate.

—

In many gregarious species, punishment is typically used to establish and maintain the dominance of one creature over another. Many species of male primates have been known to attack females with whom they have mated with or intend to mate. From an evolutionary standpoint, this decreases the risk that the female will leave and seek out another mate. However, in many situations, the males become so violent that the females are too frightened to reproduce, permanently crippled, made infertile, or fatally wounded. The male’s genes are not passed on to a new generation of primates. The goal becomes thwarted by the ruthless male’s own vehemence to achieve it. The methods no longer work towards the ends. Evolution is forced to retrace its steps.

—

Castiel appears on the second floor of the warehouse. It’s night. The cicadas are calling outside, or perhaps inside—Castiel’s not sure, and this warehouse has been abandoned for many years. He can feel a draft of night air from one of the few windows that remains unboarded. Tonight is nearly a full moon, and the light is bright enough to bleed onto the warehouse floor through cracked wood and paneling. A universe of stars is visible above through a section of missing roof slats.

The floor is cluttered with the debris of the young and foolish, the desperate, the wild. Castiel sees empty cans, bottle caps, some kind of plastic packaging, and a threadbare blanket bunched in a corner. This place is nowhere. It inhabits no map. To some this is an attraction, and to others this makes it the only place left.

He sees graffiti covering most of the warehouse’s flat surfaces. In the dark, the colors look almost the same, and the designs fade into one another to become one mass of interwoven lines, one collaborative art piece. There is one design that catches his eye, however. A red sigil glistens on the far wall of the warehouse, the fresh blood only just beginning to congeal. The air shifts and he hears the sound of wings. Castiel tenses.

“I thought you might come here,” says a voice from the rafters. Castiel looks up.

Anna is sitting on a beam overhead, her legs dangling out into open air. She looks small and fragile like this—human, perhaps. But there is nothing human about the way she slips off, lithe, dropping to the floor and landing delicately on her feet as though the fifteen feet were two. She catches herself with the grace of an acrobat.

“How did you know…” Castiel begins to ask.

“I’ve been watching,” she says, “and waiting. It also doesn’t hurt that I have a bit of experience with this sort of thing.”

“What… sort of thing?”

“Disloyalty. Disobedience. Rebellion. Free will.”

“I see.”

They share a silence that is neither tense nor comfortable.

“Are others coming?” Castiel asks eventually, though he thinks he knows the answer. The nod Anna gives him confirms his fears.

“They’re tracking you now. The note you gave Dean…. I don’t think they saw it. But it’s only a matter of time.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says. Then, “Anna…. I’m grateful that you’re here, but….”

“You want to know why?”

“Yes.”

Anna pauses, seeming to consider him. Her gray eyes stare at him with a shameless intensity, as though she’s looking at something more than a single being. She takes a step closer. “Castiel,” says Anna, softly. “You’re falling.”

“I serve Heaven,” Castiel says.

She shakes her head. “You serve humanity, Castiel.”

“Father created Heaven to serve humanity.”

“He did,” Anna concedes. “But Heaven no longer cares for humanity the way you do.”

“Then how can I be falling if I still serve Heaven’s true purpose?”

“Because you don’t serve humanity for the sake of humanity,” she says gently. “You serve humanity for one man.”

“God commanded us to love all his creations,” Castiel says numbly, grasping for threads, fingers scraping for ropes that aren’t there. He feels lost.

“And you do love all God’s creations, Castiel,” says Anna, “but there is more than one kind of love. You can’t compare one kind of love to another.”

Storge, philia, eros… Castiel knows the kinds of love Anna speaks of. God gave angels agape love, love for all things. The rest are human forms of love—the loves Anna fell for. The loves she says he is falling for.

“God created you this way for a reason,” Anna continues. “You have a big heart. Sometimes, you love too much, and Heaven loves too little. Do what you must to restore the balance.”

Castiel looks up at the stars through the broken warehouse roof, sees the dusting of stars over the milky way, the mosaic of constellations. “Thank you for meeting me, Anna,” he says.

“I want to stay and help you,” she says. “I want to, but—”

“I understand,” he interrupts her. “You’ll find no ridicule from me.”

“Thank you,” she says, then, “Goodbye, Castiel.”

She’s gone with a zephyr of night breeze.

—

Castiel waits.

—

He thinks it must be around midnight when he begins to sense their presence in the warehouse. The moon has already set over the horizon, plunging the American Midwest into darkness. Long ago, humans used to call this the witching hour, the time of night when witches, demons, and ghosts were thought to appear at their most powerful. In reality, supernatural beings operated at all times of day, and even avoided midnight in some eras of history. Medieval women would be accused of witchcraft if caught out of their homes during the witching hour. Even today, witching hour is thought to be an unlucky time, a time when evil—witchly or human—is free to roam.

Castiel wonders if there is such thing as angelic evil. If so, they’ve picked a ripe time to arrive.

“Castiel,” Zachariah says. He stands across from him on the warehouse’s second floor, his hands tucked into his suit pockets in an appearance of mock casualness. “Cas, Cassie…. You’ve made my life very difficult.”

Castiel says nothing. It’s not a question.

“You’ve been avoiding orders for… how long, now? Weeks? No, more like months. Ever since we sent you downstairs to get that mud-monkey out of Hell you’ve been lost to us.”

“God commanded us to venerate humanity, Zachariah. You should speak with more respect,” Castiel says.

Zachariah began to laugh, the sound echoing across the warehouse’s wooden walls. “Respect humanity? Really? You’re serious too….”

“Lucifer was cast down because he refused to bow to man.”

“No, you’re wrong, Castiel,” said Zachariah suddenly, all the false mirth gone from his voice. “Lucifer fell because he spoke out and voiced the doubts all of us were thinking. Do you really think Michael cares about humanity any more than Lucifer does? No! He just keeps his mouth shut and does as Daddy says.”

“But humanity is—”

“Humanity is doomed. They’re rats, pests, the ants under our boots. God made us smarter than humans, more efficient than humans, more powerful than humans. Why would he have made us superior than them in all ways if we weren’t actually, I don’t know, superior? How could he expect us to bow down to a creature that takes three years to learn not to piss itself? Humanity is an infestation. Someday we’ll be called in to play clean-up crew. It’s happened before.”

“So is this why you’re helping Lucifer rise, then?” Castiel asks. “Because you think he was unjustly punished?”

Zachariah gives him a skeptical look. “Uriel was a radical. I’d hoped you could have figured that out by now.”

Castiel feels anger as strong as wildfire. It swells in his chest like waves breaking, swarms his mind like bees. The wrath of an angel is controlled. Castiel’s is not.

“But you are still helping Lucifer rise,” Castiel insists. His head feels too hot. He thinks he might feel the rush of adrenalin coursing through his vessel’s veins. That is not supposed to happen. Angels are not supposed to keep a vessel long enough to feel that connection. “You’re intentionally failing to protect seals.”

“You’re right, Castiel! Good job!” says Zachariah. Castiel wants to make him stop. “Lucifer was crazy even before God kicked him out. God was too nice to him. He locked him away, and now look? We’ve got a demon epidemic on our hands. If we can kill Lucifer ourselves, we could tackle the demon problem once and for all. We just have to get him out in the open.”

“You’re letting Lucifer rise so Michael can murder him?”

“That’s exactly what I just said, yes,” Zachariah agrees.”

“Thousands of innocents will die.”

“Millions, probably.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Castiel asks, stepping forward without meaning to, without thinking to. “You aren’t disgusted?”

“Frankly, no, Castiel,” says Zachariah. “The human population increases by 150 people every minute. They’re overcrowding the earth. We’re doing the world a favor. Have you seen the way humans treat this place? Garbage everywhere, the forests are leveled, the ocean stinks, the atmosphere is screwed. Even you can’t justify putting one of God’s creations over all the others.”

“An excuse does not make your actions right,” Castiel says. A short five feet stands between him and Zachariah. The angel banishing sigil Anna left on the wall remains where she left it, untouched. Ready.

“Maybe not,” Zachariah is saying. “But that’s not really for you to say. You’re supposed to follow, remember? Or, wait—you already forgot that.”

If he lunges to his right, he might be able to press his hand to the center of it and banish Zachariah for a time, along with the invisible assembly of angels around them, waiting and watching. He could escape, use angelic warding, help the Winchesters protect seals from the underground.

“I think you’re the one who has forgotten,” Castiel says, “what God really wants.”

Castiel dives. The warehouse explodes.

Chapter Text

“Castiel.”

(The voice says his name. The voice says it again and again, over and over. A mantra. A dirge.)

“Castiel.”

(It doesn’t stop.)

“Castiel.

(It won’t stop for a long time. He knows this.)

“Castiel.”

(It won’t—)

“Castiel.”

(—STOP—)

“Castiel.”

—

“Z QAA OIAD”

(You are a creation of God.)

—

“Z BALIT, SA TVLE A NOCO IOD.”

(You, righteous being, shall remain, until the end, a servant of the eternal God.)

—

“ELASA A NOCO DE PIRIPSON.”

(You are a servant of Heaven.)

—

“DARBS CRP ALONUSAHI OIAD”

(Obey only His command.)

—

“VA TE CA RA”

(Work, arise, abide.)

—

“DARBS AR DS EFE.”

(Follow those who reign—)

“PAID RA.”

(Always and forever.)

—

When Castiel wakes, one word remains: “ADNA.”

—

He hears Jimmy Novak’s prayer for help. Castiel claims the girl as his vessel and frees Dean, Sam, and Jimmy’s family, but Jimmy uses his dying breaths to beg Castiel to let his daughter go. Castiel does.

Jimmy is the vessel he’s used to. Over the last several months Castiel has grown accustomed to the weight and stature of Jimmy’s body, has seen and heard and tasted the world through Jimmy long enough so that the distortions have become familiar.

(It feels comfortable—)

No. No, it does not.

He’s about to leave when he hears Dean’s voice calling after him, urgent but casual, familiar. He turns back to look.

Before, emotions had muddied his judgement. The feeling in his gut, the voice in his head, his conscience—they had been too distracting, too persuasive. Now that these have been quieted for now, there is room only for the orders of God. It feels like a relief almost, not to have to choose. There is one path. God is the cartographer, and His map is absolute.

Now, when he looks at Dean, he does not notice the way the light of Dean’s soul flares, grows, blossoms in Castiel’s presence. Castiel has seen the light now, the true light, so to speak. He does not look at Dean’s eyes and see the hope there, nor at the eager set of his shoulders, nor at the feeling on his face.

(But he does notice, God save him, he does. He does, he does, he does—)

No. Not now. Not anymore. Self-control is a virtue. Self-indulgence is a vice.

“I learned my lesson while I was away, Dean,” Castiel hears himself say. This is what he’s supposed to say, and it’s easy enough to let the words leave his lips, divorce himself of feeling. Follow the path. “I serve heaven, I don't serve man, and I certainly don't serve you.”

When Castiel walks away, he does not have to be looking at Dean to hear how Dean feels.

—

A surgeon does not generally operate on their own kin. An emotional attachment to the patient can add undue stress to the surgeon, can cloud their judgement, can become an unpredictable variable. A surgeon may care too much, causing them to make decisions that could become crippling or even fatal mistakes. A surgeon may attempt to put aside the emotional attachment, to treat the operation like any other surgery they may perform. In these cases, it’s impossible to know if the surgeon has distanced themselves adequately. Do they still care too much? Have they overcompensated, and now care too little? A surgery is a delicate procedure. The consequences of a mistake are irreversible.

—

Sam has parted ways with his brother. He believes he can stop Lucifer from rising. In reality, he is playing right into their hands.

—

The night sky in South Dakota is wide and dark. Sioux Falls is a large city by Midwest standards, but it’s small when compared to the rest of the country. The Singer Salvage Yard is far enough away from town that the meager light pollution created by Sioux Falls is inconsequential when gazing up at the vast expanse of black above. The stars are beautiful—distance pinpricks of bright light, a reminder of the greatness of the universe.

Below this dark sea of sky, a man is yelling into the night. Castiel can hear the man’s voice in both reality and in his head, a scream in the form of a prayer. Dean is alone in the salvage yard. He wanders between creaking towers of old, rusted cars, scrap metal, and garbage. He screams—sometimes at Castiel, sometimes at God, sometimes at no one at all. “What the hell do you want from me?” he shouts. “Do any of you even care about us anymore? About humanity? Because you’re doing a really shitty job up there!”

“Cas, I thought we were friends!” he says later. “You think you can just leave? Back out, pretend none of this ever happened? None of….”

“Fuck you, God, if you’re even there. You have never done one fucking thing for me. How could you let this happen?”

“What the hell did they do to you, Cas?” It’s been a long time. Dean’s voice is raw now, overused. It cracks on Castiel’s name. “How could you let them?”

Sometimes, Dean is holding something in his hands—an empty beer bottle, perhaps—and he hurls it across the yard so hard that the moment it makes contact with something solid, it explodes in a burst of jagged shards with a noise as loud a gunshot. Dean radiates fury like smoke. Sometimes, Dean stops and sits, his head in his hands. To Castiel, that’s worse.

Castiel doesn’t know what to do. He thinks he wants to go down, talk to Dean, but he isn’t supposed to want—angels don’t want. He wonders if he should do his best to ignore the prayers. Would he have ignored such a prayer in the past, before he met Dean? He’s not sure anymore.

A long time has passed since Dean started. “Please,” Dean says. “I need your help.”

(Dean.)

Castiel can’t tell if the prayer was meant for God or him, but he hears it all the same.

He has to go to South Dakota.

As soon as he appears in the salvage yard, Dean turns to look at him, and his face shows everything and nothing all at once. When did he ever think humans were simple? How could he have thought emotion was easy?

“Well, it's about time,” Dean says. “I've been screaming myself hoarse out here for about two and a half hours now.”

Castiel knows. He heard.

“What do you want?” Castiel says.

“You can start with what the hell happened in Illinois.”

This wasn’t what Castiel expected. He was sure this call was about Sam. He’s caught off-guard, because Dean looks tired, broken, defeated, and this is the first thing he asks? He wants to know what happened to him, in Illinois?

(You did. We met in a barn and you tried to put a knife in my chest, and I was lost.)

“What do you mean?” Castiel asks.

“Cut the crap. You were gonna tell me something.”

He looks away, briefly. It has always been difficult to lie to Dean, even now.

“Nothing of import.”

“You got ass-reamed in heaven but it was not of import?”

He can’t look at Dean. He’s afraid that if he does, he won’t be able to stop the words from tumbling from his lips. “Dean, I can't,” he says, but it’s not what he wants to say. “I'm sorry.” He takes a few steps away, gives himself distance. His back is to Dean now, but he can feel Dean’s eyes. He looks up at the stars. “Get to the reason you really called me. It's about Sam, right?”

Dean wants to know if Sam can stop Lilith, so Castiel tells him the truth. That much, at least, he is free to say. Castiel thinks that Dean knew the answer already, knew that Sam would have to become a monster himself to stop Lilith, but the truth still seems to weigh heavy on Dean’s face.

“There's no reason this would have to come to pass, Dean. We believe it's you, Dean, not your brother,” Castiel says. His grace roils at the hope he sees build in Dean’s soul. Don’t believe me, Dean. I’m lying. “The only question for us is whether you're willing to accept it. Stand up and accept your role. You are the one who will stop it.”

“If I do this, Sammy doesn't have to?” Dean asks.

“If it gives you comfort to see it that way.”

“God, you're a dick these days,” says Dean. Castiel grimaces. The second time they met, Dean called him this. I thought angels were supposed to be guardians, not dicks. Is he not still Dean’s guardian? He can still keep Dean safe.

(But “safe” is relative.)

Dean walks a few steps away and sighs. There’s a beat, then—

“Fine, I’m in,” Dean says. It’s a broken acquiescence, not one he would ever give willingly. Once again, Castiel is amazed by Dean’s devotion to his family. Dean knows what he has just pledged to Castiel, to the angels. His will is no longer his own.

“You give yourself over wholly to the service of God and his angels?” Castiel clarifies.

“Yeah, exactly.”

(You, righteous being, shall remain, until the end, a servant of the eternal God.)

“Say it,” says Castiel. He doesn’t want him to have to say it. It feels like he’s stealing Dean’s pride intentionally, demeaning him further. But it’s necessary. God commands it.

“I give myself over wholly to serve God and you guys,” says Dean.

(You are a servant of Heaven.)

“You swear to follow His will and His word as swiftly and obediently as you did your own father's?”

(Obey only His command.)

“Yes, I swear.”

(Work, arise, abide.)

“Now what?” Dean asks.

“Now you wait,” says Castiel, “and we call on you when it's time.”

(Follow those who reign, always and forever.)

Dean gave something he didn’t want to give, and Castiel took something he didn’t want to take, and yet…. Castiel doesn’t leave. Neither does Dean—not yet. They look at each other for a long time. Castiel doesn’t know what this means.

—
A day passes. Dean continues to pace the salvage yard. Bobby continues to pour over books. Sam is still locked away, the demon blood flowing through his veins like a plague. It’s night by the time Castiel receives his orders.

“It’s time,” they say. If there was a time to refuse, a time to act, a time to rebel, it would be now.

But Castiel doesn’t. He has duties, obligations, expectations. A direct order. Castiel releases Sam. Sam leaves the room, then the basement, then the house.

If I am truly a guardian, Castiel thinks, who am I protecting?

—

Castiel goes to Astoria, Oregon. He has no more orders—not for now. He chooses a shipyard where a steel walkway overlooks the Columbia River. It’s peaceful here at night. The city is quiet, and the river is nearly still. Lights from the small city spill into the water, mixing like paints. This place is a canvas, Castiel thinks. The river remains the same, has remained the same for hundreds, thousands of years. Only the details change. Four hundred years ago, the river here fed the Clatsop and Chinook tribes. Two hundred years ago, the river fed fur traders. Now, the river feeds millions all over the world while a few individuals make a profit. Perhaps in another two hundred years, the river will feed no one.

Castiel stands at the railing, looking out over the water. He’s still there when the lights flicker above him, and he hears it—the movement of wings, the displacement of air. It’s Anna. He turns.
“What did you do?” she asks.

The right thing, he wants to say, but he knows it’s a lie. He did the easy thing.

“You shouldn't have come, Anna,” he tells her.

“Why would you let out Sam Winchester?”

“Those were my orders.”

“Orders? Cas, you saw him. He's drinking demon blood. It's so much worse than we thought. Dean was trying to stop him.”

What if this isn’t His will? Anna had asked him that question. Back then, he had doubted, and it had mattered. Now he no longer doubted that she was right, but his conclusion didn’t matter. It was out of his hands. Fate’s strings were too tangled to untie their knots now.

“You really shouldn't have come,” Castiel says. He’s being watched.

Two angels appear on either side of Anna. She does not fight them as they take her arms—in fact, she looks resigned, like she expected this. Her gaze does not leave him as the white light consumes her. The accusation is silent, but no less there.

You could have done more.

He turns back to the river and stares out across its placid expanse. The light from the stars is mirrored on the water’s calm surface. They look the same, but he knows one is real, and one is but a mere shadow of the truth. It would be easy to look down at the reflection, but instead he cranes his neck, despite the uncomfortable angle, and looks up. The sky is beautiful.

—

He gets new orders the next day: Bring Dean Winchester.

He wonders if he can refuse now, but he thinks it may be too late. Besides, Dean has sworn loyalty. Dean, like him, must obey.

He takes Dean to the green room.

Obedience.

Chapter Text

Zachariah wants Dean to be comfortable. He leaves it to Castiel to make this happen. In Castiel’s experience, he has been led to believe that the three things Dean likes most are food, beer, and women, but he thinks this solution seems too simple, too contrite. It doesn’t matter, though, Castiel supposes. Zachariah will not know the difference.

He saw once a memory Dean had about a place Dean went as a child that had the best hamburgers he had ever tasted. Castiel had watched too closely then, invaded too much of Dean’s privacy. At least the knowledge has become useful now.

Castiel appears at the seaside burger shack. The beach is usually cold here in Delaware, but it’s May, and the breeze sweeping off the ocean is a cool accompaniment to the warm day. When he approaches the shack, however, he finds that the windows are boarded, the lights off, and a sign hanging over the door reading “PERMANENTLY CLOSED – SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.”

It’s no trouble, he wants to say. He looks out to the sea again and then lets himself fade away, back, back five years, ten years, fifteen. He could go back to when Dean went there. Dean had been eleven at the time. Dean, Sam, and their father had shared a rare family meal at this small shack, and although the food certainly had been delicious, Dean’s enjoyment of it could not be solely attributed to the chef.

Castiel doesn’t visit Dean. Instead he decides to go back to 1989, the year before Dean went to this place. He orders a very large plate of hamburgers, much to the waitress’s confusion, but when he pays her the money he had been given for this task, she doesn’t seem to mind the odd request.

When he leaves the shop, platter of burgers in hand, he looks out to the sea. It looks the same as it always has.

—

I had a dream. Crazy dream.
Anything I wanted to know, any place I needed to go

Hear my song. People won't you listen now? Sing along.
You don't know what you're missing now.
Any little song that you know
Everything that's small has to grow.
And it has to grow!

California sunlight, sweet Calcutta rain
Honolulu Starbright - the song remains the same.

“The Song Remains the Same” – Led Zeppelin

—

Dean is frustrated. He doesn’t like being kept in the dark by Zachariah, especially not when he has no choice but to follow their lead. It makes Castiel guilty. He can’t meet Dean’s eye.

—

Guilt is necessary for the balance of the human ethical compass. Without guilt, there would be no blame, no accountability, no remorse. Without guilt, how could a human learn from their mistakes? There would be no urge to change their ways.

In theory, angels do not experience guilt, because they do not commit sin. Angels who commit sin are considered fallen, and thus aren’t, in a sense, considered to be angels at all.

Castiel considers the other things that are incapable of guilt: trees, plants, most animals. These organisms simply exist—nothing about their being is right or wrong, it only is. Having guilt is about having choice, and beings without sentience do not have choice.

Castiel is not like these beings. He has sentience. He has been told, however, that he does not have the burden of choice. How did God create such beings as them, with sentience but no free will?

(The answer is simple: he didn’t.)

—

Dean is frustrated. He paces in the room, back and forth, back and forth. He stops, runs his hands through his hair, looks at the ceiling, prays to no one in particular. He paces. He wrings his hands. He walks to the mantelpiece had tips a figurine from the ledge. The figurine is an angel.

Castiel appears.

“You asked to see me?” Castiel says. Dean turns around, looking startled.

“Yeah, listen… I, uh, I need something.”

Castiel knows what Dean is going to ask from him before the words leave his lips: he wants to find Sam. Dean is wild and untamable yet predictable in the ways that matter. Dean will always put his family first.

(Maybe Castiel should learn from that.)

Castiel can’t let Dean go, of course. Figuratively, his hands are tied, though he wouldn’t put it past Zachariah to make the phrase literal. His family binds him. Castiel thinks of his obligations as threads, connecting them to his brethren like strings on a puppet. Dean has strings of his own, but Dean pulls back.

“You know what? Screw this noise. I’m out of here,” Dean says finally. He turns to leave, but Castiel wills the door away, leaving a blank wall in its place.

Actually, the threads holding Dean aren’t like puppets’ strings—they’re a net. Dean thrashes against the ropes like a fish out of water and sometimes, a fisherman needs to know when to surrender.

—

Dean doesn’t give up. Castiel never thought he would, but it hurts all the same to see him struggle like this. A fish in a net. A fly caught in a web.

Dean is trying to call Sam again. The phone won’t work in here, of course—this room does not exist on any physical plain. Not even the powers of magic or demons can penetrate this room, let alone radio signals. Dean is safe here.

“You can’t reach him, Dean,” Castiel says when he appears. “You’re outside your coverage zone.”

“What are you gonna do to Sam?” Dean asks. It’s his first question. He does not try to avoid the obvious. Dean has a one-track mind.

Castiel is supposed to have a one-track mind too. (You are a servant of Heaven—)

“Nothing,” he answers Dean. “He’s going to do it to himself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Castiel can’t answer that question. He isn’t allowed.

“Oh, right, right. Got to toe the company line,” Dean says. He’s trying to sound unsurprised, like he expected as much, but the inflection doesn’t quite meet the words. Dean’s voice is quieter than it should be. Castiel thinks he’s disappointed in him. Maybe he still had faith in Castiel.

(Those who pay regard to vain idols forsake their hope of steadfast love.)

“Why are you here, Cas?”

He doesn’t know.

“We’ve been through much together, you and I,” Castiel says.

Maybe he never will.

“And I just wanted to say…”

It’s a fine thing to accept ignorance in the face of the unknowable.

“I’m sorry it ended like this.”

But of all the chaos in Castiel’s existence, Dean Winchester is the one true knowable factor. He is a constant—a fixture. He is steadfast and whole where Castiel is not, and Castiel needs him in a way he’s never needed anyone else before.

Dean punches him in the face.

—

(Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God.)

—

“Destiny?” Dean says. “Don’t give me that ‘holy’ crap. Destiny, God’s plan… It’s all a bunch of lies, you poor, stupid son of a bitch! It’s just a way for your bosses to keep me and keep you in line! You know what’s real? People, families—that’s real. And you’re gonna watch them all burn?”

—

(For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.)

—

“What is so worth saving?” Castiel asks Dean. “I see nothing but pain here. I see inside you. I see your guilt, your anger, confusion. In paradise, all is forgiven. You'll be at peace. Even with Sam.”

Dean doesn’t understand, can’t understand (won’t). He shakes his head, like he’s trying to will away a bad dream. “You can take your peace... and shove it up your lily-white ass. ‘Cause I’ll take the pain and the guilt. I’ll even take Sam as is. It’s a lot better than being some Stepford bitch in paradise. This is simple, Cas! No more crap about being a good soldier. There is a right and there is a wrong here, and you know it.”

Right and wrong, good and evil—Dean’s world is so black and white. Castiel envies that clarity. He can’t meet Dean’s eye.

“Look at me!” Dean demands, and he has to then, he can’t help it, because Dean is grabbing Castiel’s shoulder and turning him physically to face him.

(He could stop Dean, if he wanted to. He doesn’t.)

“You know it! You were gonna help me once, weren’t you?” (He was. He was, God forgive him.) “You were gonna warn me about all this, before they dragged you back to Bible camp.” (You are a servant of Heaven—) “Help me now.” (He can’t.) “Please.”

(But Lot's wife looked back, and she became a pillar of salt.)

“What would you have me do?” Castiel asks.

“Get me to Sam. We can stop this before it’s too late.”

“I do that, we will all be hunted. We’ll all be killed.”

“If there is anything worth dying for… this is it.”

Castiel can’t find the words to respond. He might be shaking his head. All he can think is “Not you, not you.”

“You spineless…” Dean is saying. He’s turning, walking away. His back is to him. His soul is so bright that Castiel feels blinded by it. “You soulless son of a bitch. What do you care about dying? You’re already dead.”

Perhaps he always was. The spider found him long ago.

“We’re done,” Dean says, with finality.

“Dean—”

“We’re done.”

It was always so simple for Dean. He cut the string in the tapestry and began to pull the threads out, one by one. Castiel can’t even tell what his tapestry was meant to look like anymore. He doesn’t care.

—

Human civilizations rise and fall all the time. The rivers, the mountains, the deserts—they are the only constants, though they change too, in time. Angels aren’t meant to care about the inevitable destruction of the universe, the passage of millennia. Angels themselves are timeless beings. A century is a year, a year is a day. For some angels, time passes even more quickly. What is a single human lifetime to an immortal being?

Castiel understands most angels’ ambivalence towards the idea of the apocalypse. What does it matter if a few human lives end before their time? They all die so quickly anyway, and most of them will move on to enjoy an eternal existence in heaven. Ending the reign of Lucifer is far more important than a few ants caught in the crossfire. There was a time when Castiel might have agreed with them.

Now, he can’t tell whether his eyes have been opened or squeezed shut. The answer doesn’t really matter to him. This isn’t right. Dean Winchester deserves more.

(Dean Winchester deserves the world.)

—

A moth breaking free of its cocoon. A match swiped across sandpaper. The collapse of a dam. The final swing of a logger’s axe against a tree. The spark that starts a forest fire. A small child’s first words. The pull of a trigger. A surgeon’s cut. These are points of irreversible change.

This is that moment.

—

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. That must be why he was allowed to get this far.

First he visits a house in Lawrence, Kansas. A family lives there now, so it’s not the same, but it is. If he concentrates, closes his eyes, lets his grace flare within him, he can feel them: Dean, Sam, John, Mary. Azazel.

He disappears.

Now he’s in a park. Somewhere in the Midwest, he thinks. Wisconsin? The air smells different. Cleaner.

He knows immediately what brought him here—the thread of a prayer, thin and weak. There’s a boy of maybe eight or nine in the park, on the swings. He’s sitting on a swing seat but he isn’t moving. His legs are just long enough that his feet can lie flat on the bark chips.

“Please,” the boy is saying, aloud, but not to Castiel. “He has to come home.”

And now it’s a prayer as strong as he has ever felt, because Castiel is close, and this boy needs it to be true with every fiber of his being. It’s a plea with no recipient, flung into the void with the force of the desperate.

When the prayer hits him, Castiel knows immediately: the boy is Dean.

He lets himself fade up through time, to the present, and the park is empty and dark.
Now he’s in New Harmony, Indiana. A gas station in Kentucky. The home of a psychic in South Dakota. A barn in Pontiac, Illinois.

He pauses at the barn. There isn’t enough light for a human to be able to see, but he can. The warding symbols are still painted onto every surface, quick and sloppy. He sees a few new ones that have been added over the last few months, but they are nothing more than meaningless graffiti. Parts of the floor and the ceiling have scorch marks from when he first entered this building. It feels like a long time ago but it also feels like yesterday.

And then he knows what he’s going to do.

That’s the only reason he got this far. It was barely premeditated. He’s a loose cannon—unpredictable.

—

He’s in the Green Room. Dean is there. He has to do this quickly, so he grabs Dean’s shoulder, shoves him against a wall, puts his hand over his mouth. Dean’s soul jumps from a festering, smoldering light to a bright flare of fear to something else entirely, something Castiel has seen before but can’t place. Dean’s eyes are wide and his lips are warm against Castiel’s palm. Castiel has his knife drawn, but Dean’s eyes barely leave his long enough to see it. A moment passes. Then Dean’s muscles relax, just a little, and he nods—it’s a concession, an admission of trust. There’s relief there too, he thinks. Castiel lets his hand drop.

Something just happened between them, but he’s not sure what. He doesn’t have time.

(That’s a lie. He does know. Dean does too, but they’re better off not confronting this.)

Castiel draws the knife down his forearm, just enough to part the skin and let the blood rise to the surface. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he takes the blood and smears it on the wall, drawing the sigil with shaky fingers. It’s sloppy, but it will work. It has to.

Like clockwork, Zachariah appears the moment he’s finished. Castiel doesn’t even bother to try to explain or argue—he just slams his hand into the center of the sigil and lets the light take Zachariah away. It shouldn’t feel this satisfying to do this to one of his own brothers, but Castiel has committed worse sins today.

—

And the brother shall deliver up the brother to death, and the father the child: and the children shall rise up against their parents, and cause them to be put to death.

—

He takes Dean to the house of the prophet, Chuck.

The prophet isn’t expecting them, which Castiel finds to be equal parts reassuring and alarming. He feels like the bear that knocks down the beehive, the tree that falls over the anthill. This was never scripted. This was not what God intended. How can he hope to play a game with no handbook?

(Free will is the answer, of course.)

“St. Mary’s?” Dean is asking. “What is that, a convent?”

“Yeah, but you guys aren’t supposed to be there,” says Chuck. “You’re not in this story.”

“Yeah, well…” Castiel says. He glances at Dean, who looks back at him, and something has changed in that look something is new and different there. There was always a space between them, the haze of duty and obligation and an inevitable conflict of interests. Now the haze is simply gone. Even Dean can see that now.

“We’re making it up as we go,” Castiel says eventually. It’s the truest thing he knows.

It can’t last, of course. The light flickers, the desk rattles, the ground shakes. Raphael is coming.

—              

“Do you know why we protect the prophets, Castiel?” Raphael said once, during a time when the ocean was an innovation and the sunrise still seemed too new to take for granted. Castiel shook his head.

“We protect the prophets because they are the receptacle of God’s word. They are one of the last ways for us to hear our Father’s will. Never forget, Castiel: we were made through God’s word, and without it, we are nothing.”

—

Castiel looks to Dean, sees the grim line of his lips, drinks in the resolute light of his soul. Castiel feels lost and small, like water and debris are swirling around him and he’s drowning in it, but there’s Dean. Castiel doesn’t know what will happen next. He doesn’t know what the future will hold. He doesn’t know anything at all anymore, and it’s going to kill him, the not knowing. But Dean has survived this long like that. Maybe Castiel will too.

(Maybe he won’t. But that’s okay.)

“I’ll hold them off!” he tells Dean. “I’ll hold them all off! Just stop Sam!”

His hand finds Dean’s forehead. As far as goodbyes go, this isn’t one he would have liked to have. But Dean’s hair is soft, and his skin is hot, and his soul is burning beneath Castiel’s fingertips, and if he’s allowed to remember anything, this would be it. This is the memory he wants to keep.

He pushes Dean’s light away to a convent in Maryland, soft and simple. It’s the least he can do.

The house is still shaking—dishes clattering, furniture sliding across the floor. The prophet is looking at him.

Chuck places a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, then drops it awkwardly. “You’ll see him again,” he says after a moment.

“Have you seen it,” Castiel asks, “or are you… just saying it?”

Chuck doesn’t answer. He doesn’t get the chance.

—

If Castiel is going to die in uncertainty, this will be the only true thing he knows:

What he’s doing now? The choice he made?

It feels right.

Chapter Text

Part 2: Descension

Descension (noun):

1.       (rare) Descent; the act of descending. (compare ascension)
2.       (astronomy, obsolete) The descent below the horizon of a celestial body

—

He’s in a forest.

At first, he doesn’t know who he is, what he is. There is dirt on his hands and leaves in his hair. He sits up. A breeze makes him shiver.

He looks towards his legs and feet, then moves his toes. He’s wearing shoes. He’s wearing pants and a shirt and a long coat as well, though he’s not sure why. Near his knees, a line of ants have lost their way. His legs have broken their path, and they begin to wander aimlessly on either side of him, seeking a new way, a new path.

Castiel remembers someone. He remembers holding a soul in his palm, fragile but bright. He remembers touching skin and hair and feeling that soul again like a live wire and not wanting to let it go.

It all comes back in a rush, as though suddenly the lens changed and the world came into focus.

His name is Castiel.

He is here to save Dean Winchester.

—

Zachariah is easy to find.

He’s threatening Dean and Sam, and that’s all that Castiel has to know. He materializes. There are other angels there too—Zachariah’s followers.

(A turning point, breaking from a cocoon, the collapse of a dam, a spark—)

A bright light flashes. One of the angels collapses, his throat red with blood. The other angel moves towards him, and he, too, falls. Castiel’s blade has been run through his back.

Castiel moves towards Zachariah next.

“How are you…?” Zachariah asks. He’s afraid—Castiel can see the way his grace is flickering, shuddering like a candle in the middle of a storm.

“Alive?” Castiel clarifies, because that’s what he’s asking. That’s what Castiel should be asking, too, only he thinks he knows, knows the answer deep in the core of his being in the same way that he knows his own name. “That’s a good question,” he continues. Zachariah is truly frightened now. Castiel looks behind him, at the Winchester brothers. They haven’t said a word. They’re bleeding. “How did these two end up on that airplane?” Castiel asks. “Another good question. Because the angels didn’t do it. I think we both know the answer, don’t we?”

“No. That’s not possible,” Zachariah insists. His vessel is pale.

“It scares you,” Castiel says. “It should. Now, put these boys back together and go. I won’t ask twice.”

Zachariah doesn’t wait. He vanishes.

—

(He has killed some of his own out of necessity, and he has been indirectly responsible for the deaths of many, but this is different, so different. His brother’s blood is dripping from his blade. His brothers’ vessels are lying on the floor in graceless heaps. The echo of his brothers’ wings are burned into the hardwood floors. Every angel who comes here will feel their names like whispers under their feet—Ramaniel, Natiliel. He is responsible. He did this.)

(There is no going back.)

—

He gives the Winchesters protective sigils, carves them into their ribs with a thought. It’s fast and plain and unceremonious, but it’ll do. There was once a time when this act would have been considered one of the most heinous of punishments, and the carving of these symbols would have been as painful as it was sacred. It feels like blasphemy to make them now under these circumstances, but he killed two of his brothers today. He’s long past caring.

(He’s lying—he cares, he cares so much that he thinks it might kill him.)

“Cas, were you really dead?” Sam wants to know. It’s an innocent question.

“Yes,” he answers truthfully.

“Then how are you back?” Dean asks him.

Because of you, he wants to say. Because of what you said to me. Because you don’t believe in destiny. Because you refused to follow God’s plan for you, and your tenacity was enough to convince me to follow you into the oblivion. Because God thought you were important enough to let me go back to you. Because perhaps God has mercy on us sinners after all.

Instead, he vanishes. He doesn’t know how to articulate that in a way Dean will understand.

(One day, Dean will say “I need you,” and then Castiel will know. That’s how, he’ll think.)

—

He etches the symbols into his own ribs soon after, and then he’s on the banks of a swift-moving river, eddies reaching towards his shoes. The foliage around him is green and lush—a jungle, perhaps—and the air is hot and moist. He knows this place. Venezuela. Angel Falls.

Sure enough, when he turns around, he can see the cliff and the horizon where the river drops and the waterfall begins. The raging rapids plummet over the edge with a furious roar, swirls of mist spraying the rocks and greenery. But the water keeps flowing. Its path has been made.

He doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until his blade slips from his fingers and clatters into the river. His hands aren’t supposed to shake—that’s a human thing. Humans let emotions influence their reactions, their ideas, their bodies. He’s known for a while now that what he was told about emotions in relation to angels isn’t all true, but he didn’t think it could go this far.

He reaches down mechanically to fish the blade out of the clear water and sees red. The river sweeps the blood from the blade in murky crimson clouds that flow downstream, like streaks of color, like a stain. Even after he pulls his weapon from the stream the color lingers. He thinks the blade is even tinged red.

His vision begins to go dark, and he realizes he’s not breathing. He gasps, letting the air fill his lungs.

It was never supposed to be like this.

God brought him back to protect Dean—he knows this, as surely as an infant knows to open their eyes. He knows this and accepts this, and he knows that what he did today was necessary to achieve these ends. He doesn’t regret his actions. He’d do it again, in fact, if it meant that Dean was allowed to live.

(And that’s what frightens him, isn’t it? Nothing is more terrifying than the sin you wanted to commit.)

—

Three hours pass. He decides he needs guidance. Raphael and Michael flash briefly through his mind, and then, absurdly, so does Gabriel. But they are all gone, far away, out of the picture. Besides, he’s alienated himself to them. He has lost the ability to seek council from his own kind.

There’s a small church nearby. It’s empty when he appears near the back, behind a row of pews. He begins walking towards the altar, his footsteps echoing loudly against the silence. When he reaches the front, he kneels.

He doesn’t know what to say.

“¿Puedo ayudarle, señor?” asks a voice. He turns and sees a man in black robes. It’s the pastor.

“I’m sorry for intruding,” Castiel replies in Spanish. “I can leave—”

“Stay as long as you wish,” the pastor says. “What is troubling you?”

“I need guidance,” he answers honestly. The pastor says nothing, so Castiel supposes that he is expected to continue. “I know the path that God intends for me, but I’m afraid of the things I must do to follow that path.”

“Do you believe this is the correct path?”

“Yes, Father,” Castiel answers immediately.

“Then the matter is out of your hands,” the pastor says. “If this is truly the path God intends for you, then God will provide. If God has given you a task, he will help you complete it.”

Castiel considers this. God will provide. They are faced with the nearly impossible task of stopping Lucifer, the devil himself. Can God really help them with an endeavor like that?

Yes. Yes he can.

“Thank you, Father,” Castiel says, standing. “That was exactly what I needed to hear.”

—

He calls Sam’s cell phone from a pay phone in Nevada. He picks up on the second ring.

“Hello?” Sam’s voice says, thin and far away through the plastic speakers.

“Sam,” he says into the receiver.

“Castiel?”

“Yes. Where are you?”

“Ah, St. Martin’s Hospital. Why? Where are—”

Castiel puts down the phone and reaches out with his grace, searching. He locates the hospital in Ohio and wills himself there. It only takes him a moment to find them.

“Cell phone, Cas? Really?” Dean says. “Since when do angels need to reach out and touch someone?”

“You’re hidden from angels now—all angels. I won’t be able to simply—“

“Enough foreplay,” Bobby cuts in. Castiel isn’t sure what he means, but he suspects it’s something vulgar. Dean looks distinctly uncomfortable. He meets Cas’s eyes and then almost immediately looks away, at his shoes, at the wall.

Bobby wants Castiel to heal him. For the first time in his life, he can’t. When he says he’s sorry, he means it, but he knows it’s laughably insufficient.

When he gets a moment, he speaks to Dean and Sam alone.

“Your plan to kill Lucifer,” he begins.

“Yeah. You want to help?” Dean asks. He says it like he supposes it to be true, but it’s still a question all the same. Questions are uncertain by definition.

“No. It’s foolish. It can’t be done.” Castiel says, and he thinks Dean looks hurt before he looks irritated. Castiel is getting better at uncovering the mysteries of Dean’s face.

“Oh. Thanks for the support,” says Dean.

“But I believe I have the solution,” Castiel amends, or tries to. “There is someone besides Michael strong enough to take on Lucifer. Strong enough to stop the apocalypse.”

He tells them the answer: God.

—

On the first day, God created light.

On the second day, God created Heaven and sea.

On the third day, God created the earth, on the fourth God created the moon and the stars, on the fifth He created animals.

On the sixth, he created man.

(Or at least, that is what Castiel has been told.)

When Castiel was first allowed to visit earth, he saw God’s creations begin to unravel. Men passed on, animals went extinct, and the sea was made toxic and dead. He remembers thinking, How can this be allowed to happen?

No longer, Castiel decides.

—

Dean is skeptical.

“Try New Mexico. I hear he’s on a tortilla,” he says.

No, Castiel was wrong. “Skeptical” is an understatement—Dean is completely disregarding everything Castiel is trying to tell him. He makes jokes, acts dismissive, but Castiel is completely serious.

God brought Castiel back. He put him in that forest because he had work for him to do, because he needed help, because Dean needed help. Castiel knows this to be true. He believes it with every fiber of his being.

(He has to.)

“Enough,” Castiel says. “This is not a theological issue. It’s strategic. With God’s help, we can win.”

“It’s a pipe dream, Cas,” Dean replies.

(He has to believe. If it wasn’t God who brought him back, if it isn’t God’s will that Castiel follows, if Castiel’s need to protect Dean wasn’t given to him by a higher power—)

“I killed two angels this week. My brothers,” Castiel says, walking forwards. Dean looks slightly intimidated, which is, in some part of Castiel’s brain, vaguely satisfying. But it’s a small comfort.

“I’m hunted,” he continues. “I rebelled. And I did it, all of it, for you, and you failed. You and your brother destroyed the world and I lost everything, for nothing.”

Sam looks down, and Castiel feels guilty for saying it like this when he knows he was at least indirectly responsible for influencing Sam’s actions, but he doesn’t stop to apologize.

“So keep your opinions to yourself.”

But Castiel came here for more than just debate. He came here for Dean’s amulet. He noticed it when he first saw Dean, but he never had the opportunity to ask for it before. Angels are not encouraged to search for God. Doing so suggests a mistrust of God’s word and intentions, he’s been told.

Castiel never mistrusted God—but now, he is certainly mistrustful of being told.

“May I borrow it?” Castiel asks Dean. Dean looks aghast, and a flicker of something—a memory?—makes his soul flare with nostalgia and sepia-toned sentiments.

“No,” Dean says, very definitively.

“Dean. Give it to me.”

Dean pauses. Castiel looks him in the eye, and Dean stares back. A moment passes. Then Dean is reaching to pull the necklace over his head, and he’s holding it out. “Alright, I guess.” Just as Castiel reaches for it, Dean pulls back. “Don’t lose it.”

Castiel only gives him a look. Then he takes the necklace.

He can feel the power thrumming in the amulet, as though the ocean is inside the tiny metal figurine, pushing and pulling, like swirling currents of power that won’t hold still. It reminds him of Dean. He wonders if being that close to Dean’s soul for so long has influenced the way the amulet works. There was a time when he might have said no—even with how powerful the human soul is, this amulet easily trumps the force of a single man. But now, now he’s not so sure.

Chapter Text

Castiel travels. The amulet is powerful, but he doesn’t know how to use it yet, so he takes it to places, listens to it, tries to find a direction or a hint. It’s like trying to find a specific cricket in a field of crickets—every time he thinks he hears something, feels something, he sees something somewhere else from a different place, and he loses track. He tries Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Mecca, Medina—not a whisper.

He revisiting all the places where he thinks God might have intervened recently: first the forest where he reappeared after his death, then the house of the prophet. He thinks he feels something there, in the ruins of Chuck’s home, but then it, too, vanishes. He’s lost.

Maybe it’s not enough just to look, he thinks. Maybe he has to ask.

—

He calls Bobby, who tells him that Dean is in a hotel in Greeley, Pennsylvania. It’s been a little more than a week since he last saw Dean, and he doesn’t think—he just goes. Suddenly he’s standing behind Dean, and Dean looks up and sees him through the mirror, starts. They stare for a moment—they’ve been doing that a lot. Castiel isn’t sure that staring like they do is considered normal for humans, but then, what does he know?

“God,” Dean says, thumping his fist against the sink. It takes Castiel a moment to remember that Dean uses the Lord’s name as something of an expletive. “Don’t do that.”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says. Isn’t that normal? Greeting people?

Dean just turns around and looks at him again. He seems to pause and take in a breath before saying, “Cas, we’ve talked about this. Personal space?”

Castiel doesn’t think they did talked about this. Else, he has no memory of the conversation. “My apologies,” he says anyway. He takes a step back.

—

He proposes the plan to Dean, who is not initially convinced by the idea.

“Give me one good reason why I should do this,” Dean asks.

“Because you’re Michael’s vessel and no angel will dare harm you,” he tries.

Then, “Because you are the only one who will help me.”

And finally, “Please.”

Now they’re headed to Maine.

The drive is quiet, mostly, but comfortable. They talk little. Dean told him it would take seven hours to get there, and sure enough, they’re driving for the better part of the day. Castiel doesn’t understand why a human would choose to drive for such a long time when they could arrive at their destination instantaneously, but then he sees Dean singing along to his music, the way Dean relaxes in the driver’s seat of the impala, the quiet beauty of the flora along the highway, and he thinks he understands.

Dean asks him to navigate, too, handing him a huge almanac with dog-eared pages and pen marks and circles over small cities in the middle of nowhere. Castiel does his best. They arrive without a single wrong turn, and Dean tells him that they’re a good team.

It feels good, to hear that. To feel needed.

—

They pull up to the Waterville Sheriff’s Department. It’s summer, but the Maine air is still cool, still shifting. Dean’s hair moves slightly in the breeze as he turns to face upwind.

“Alright, what’s the plan?” Dean asks. Find Raphael, he almost says, but he catches himself—Dean wants to know their plan for the police station.

“We’ll…” Castiel begins, but he’s not sure what to say. “We’ll tell the officer that he witnessed an angel of the Lord, and the officer will tell us where the angel is.”

“Seriously?” Dean says. “You’re going to walk in there and tell him the truth?”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re humans.”

Dean pulls out a fake ID badge and puts it in Castiel’s coat pocket. They share a glance, and then Dean is dropping his gaze, stepping forward (“Personal space, Cas—”) and he’s adjusting the lapels of Castiel’s coat, his fingers brushing Castiel’s throat as he repositions his tie.

“And when humans want something really, really bad,” Dean says, still not meeting Castiel’s eye, “we lie.”

—

They find the man who was once Raphael’s vessel in a hospital near the edge of town. It was a fruitless journey—there’s no way for him to find Raphael with nothing but his empty vessel—and he can tell that the trip disquiets Dean a little. This is a milder version of what will happen to him if he consents to becoming Michael’s vessel, after all. It is not a pleasant fate. Castiel feels a surge of something, a need to push Dean away from this, to protect him.

I won’t let this happen to you, he thinks.

It doesn’t matter, though. He wasn’t able to find Raphael this way, so he’ll have to resort to extremes. He has no choice. A dangerous option is better than no option at all.

—

“So this ritual of yours,” Dean begins. They’re camped at an empty cabin for the night. Whoever lived here is away—on vacation, perhaps. Castiel could find out, but there are more pressing matters to attend to. “When does it gotta go down?”

“Sunrise,” says Castiel.

“Tell me something,” Dean says. “You keep saying we’re gonna trap this guy. Isn’t that kinda like trapping a hurricane with a butterfly net?”

The analogy is interesting, but not necessarily inaccurate. Castiel considers his answer. “No,” he says after a moment. “It’s harder.”

“Do we have any chance of surviving this?”

“You do,” he says immediately, because it’s as much truth as he’s able to give, and he needs it to be true. Castiel has already died once quite recently, and he believes in his cause enough to die again for it, but he can’t risk Dean. (He won’t risk Dean.)

“So odds are you’re a dead man tomorrow?”

“…Yes,” he says after a moment. Castiel hadn’t thought of it that way, but when Dean says it like that, the truth of the statement seems obvious. Raphael is not forgiving or merciful, and he certainly has the power to be as vengeful as he wishes. If he sees Castiel again, he will do everything in his power to end him.

Dean gives him a look, like he’s trying to work out a puzzle in his head. “Well. Last night on earth. What are your plans?”

“I just thought I‘d sit here quietly,” he answers honestly. He might be allowed to watch Dean sleep for a bit, even though he knows it makes Dean uncomfortable.

“Come on,” says Dean, seeming almost indignant. “Anything? Booze, women?”

Alcohol and… sex? Is that what Dean is implying? Human indulgences are forbidden—were forbidden, and for a moment, Castiel finds himself wanting to run away. For the first time in a long while, he feels too large in his vessel’s skin, and he looks down.

“You have been with women before, right?” Dean wants to know. Why is Dean asking him this? “Or an angel, at least?”

This line of questioning feels so bizarre to Castiel, so utterly irrelevant and obscure. Castiel has witnessed the burying of Pompeii, seen the construction of the pyramids of Egypt, watched the fall of the Roman Empire. What did it matter if he had partaken in this particular act?

“You mean to tell me you’ve never ben up there doing a little cloud-seeding?” Dean asks. Castiel doesn’t even know what he means by that. Angels do not naturally have a physical form, Dean, he wants to say, but he holds his tongue.

“I never had occasion,” he says instead.

“Alright,” Dean says suddenly, grabbing his jacket. Castiel tenses.

“Let me tell you something,” Dean says. “There are two things I know for certain. One, Bert and Ernie are gay. Two, you are not gonna die a virgin. Not on my watch. Let’s go.”

There is something forced and deliberate about the set of Dean’s mouth as he walks out the door, keys in hand. Sex was never something Castiel had ever had a desire to experience, but Dean is walking out, and for some reason, Dean thinks this is important. Castiel follows.

—

Dean bought them both drinks at the brothel, even though Castiel told him twice that alcohol won’t affect him the way it affects humans. He clutches the beer glass all the same, though, until Dean takes it from him—”A waste of a good beer is what that is”—and finishes it himself. But Dean’s eyes are a little too bright for Castiel to take his words as cold fact, and he buys Castiel another beer anyway.

What is happening? Castiel thinks. Then, again, Why is this so important?

“Hey. Relax,” Dean says. If Castiel had been in different spirits, he might have laughed.

“This is a den of iniquity. I should not be here,” he says instead. This is no place for an angel. Angels are not supposed to inhabit their vessels for long enough to develop an attachment to the human body, to begin to feel human needs and desires. Castiel has inhabited Jimmy Novak’s body for long enough that he might have developed attractions, had he been the kind to want them. But Castiel wasn’t the kind.

“Dude, you full-on rebelled against heaven. Iniquity is one of the perks,” says Dean.

Anna rebelled against Heaven, too. She fell to become human, to experience things as a human might. Anna made the choice to experience sex—but only while she still maintained her human form. Castiel wonders if even she was reluctant to do such a thing as an angel. Sex, he has been taught, is one of the greatest sins an angel is capable of. Nephilim are considered abominations, but even infertile sex is reviled.

So perhaps iniquity isn’t “one of the perks.”

But he’s here anyway, and a woman is approaching them. “Showtime,” Dean says.

“Hi. What’s your name?” the woman says. Castiel can’t meet her eye.

“Cas,” Dean says. At first, Castiel thinks that Dean is talking to him, but then he realizes he’s answering the woman’s question. “His name is Cas. What’s your name?”

“Chastity,” she says.

“Chastity,” Dean echoes.

Castiel tries a drink from the beer.

“Wow,” Dean says, to him now. “Is that kismet or what, buddy? Well, he likes you, you like him, so… dayenu.”

Castiel isn’t sure what Dean means by that—“It would have been enough for us?”—but he thinks he’s getting better at understanding context, because he guesses the implication when Chastity pulls Castiel to his feel (“Come on, baby,”) and tugs him towards the back of the brothel. Dean catches Castiel’s arm on the way past him.

Dean starts to tell him something, his face close, his voice low, but Castiel isn’t processing the words, isn’t comprehending them. Dean is holding money.

“Don’t make me push you,” Dean says. He holds the money out further and Castiel realizes he’s supposed to take it, so he does. Then Chastity is pulling his arm again, and he’s following her, and he can’t see Dean anymore.

“I’m…” Castiel tries. “I’m not…”

She looks back at him, her expression shifting from alluring to pensive, and takes him down a hall, into a room, closes the door. The walls are pink, but the dim lighting makes them look almost red. There’s a bed in the room. Chastity is staring at him again and he looks down.

“Why are you here, Cas?” she asks him, sitting on the mattress. She pats the space next to her, but he doesn’t move. “C’mon, I don’t bite… not unless you want me to.” When Castiel still doesn’t move, she gets a serious look. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.”

He sits. He feels too big, sitting next to her. He looks at his hands.

“I don’t get the feeling that you really want to be here,” Chastity says. “Am I onto something?”

“I…” Castiel begins, “didn’t want to come here.

“So why did you come?” Castiel remains silent, but Chastity is remarkably perceptive. “Was it the man you were with? He brought you?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “He thought it was… important. For me to be here.”

Chastity nods. “You’ve never done this before?”

He shakes his head.

“A lot of people think sex is the greatest thing, but as a sex professional, I can tell you that it really isn’t,” she says. “It’s really not such a big deal. Some people like it, some people don’t.” She gives him another look. “Are you gay?”

“I don’t…” he trails off.

“What about ace? Like, asexual?” she ask. “It just means you don’t really want to have sex with people.”

“I suppose so.”

“But your friend brought you here anyway? What a jerk.”

“I don’t think he understands… people like me.”

“If you asked me, I’d say he was compensating.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that sometimes when people are feeling things they don’t want others to see,” she says, “they act, like, exactly the opposite. ‘Cause they’re trying to throw people off. And a lot of the time, it makes them act like assholes. You know, hypermasculine and shit.”

“So, you think he’s trying to hide something?”

“Yes, I do,” she says. “This isn’t exactly a country where people can be honest about what they like. Or who they like.”

“That’s not very fair.”

“Like ain’t fair, honey,” she says. “My dad left when I was a kid. That wasn’t fair, but it happened, and I moved on. Doesn’t stop people from making the ‘daddy issues’ assumption, though.”

“It wasn’t your fault that he left,” Castiel says.

“I know,” she replies. “But try telling that to a twelve year old.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, and Castiel begins to feel his panic fade. This is not how he expected the evening to go. He knows this isn’t what Dean expected either, and he feels a little guilty about the money Dean gave him. It’s still in his hand.

“I’ll tell you what,” she says. “You don’t want to stay, do you?”

“I… no.”

“Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll leave, and when you see your friend, just tell him what you told me.”

“I don’t think that will end well.”

“Fine. We’ll make some noise and you can lie and tell him what he wants to hear.”

“I don’t think I can lie to him.”

She gives him a funny look. “Do you like him?”

“Of course,” Castiel says, but she just furrows her brow more.

“In a few seconds, I’ll scream, okay?” she says. When Castiel tenses, she puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s fine. I’ll scream, and stomp out, and when you friend comes back, just tell him something about my missing dad. He’ll believe it. They all do before they even talk to me.”

“I… I really can’t lie.”

“Then tell him the truth,” she says. She finds his hand and gives it a small squeeze, and it’s nice, it’s comforting. He manages a wan smile.

“Here,” she says. She reaches forward and starts to pull at his collar, pushing his jacket askew. “Just to sell the story a little.” And then she grins, walks to the door, and screams.

—

Dean has his arm around Castiel’s back as he leads him into the alley and closes the door behind them. He’s laughing—not sarcastically, not passively, not with hopelessness. Dean is laughing, like a child laughs, full and breathless. It’s beautiful—Dean is beautiful.

“What’s so funny?” Castiel asks him.

“Oh, nothing,” Dean says between laughs. “Whoo! It’s been a long time since I’ve laughed that hard. It’s been more than a long time. Years.”

Some of the mirth seems to leave Dean’s eyes at that, but he claps Castiel’s shoulder on his way to the driver’s side door all the same.

“Let’s get back to the hotel,” he says after he’s started the car. “We’re going to need a good night’s sleep.”

—

Dean is still in higher spirits than normal when they return to the hotel. It’s dark outside, and the three lamps around the room don’t provide quite as much light as a human might need to see comfortably, but it’s sufficient. Almost out of habit, Castiel checks the hex bags Dean has placed throughout the room. It’s not as though Dean would forget them, so it’s useless for him to look, but he’s not always reasonable around Dean. Especially not in matters concerning Dean’s safety.

(He will probably die tomorrow. But at least Dean won’t.)

“Chastity…. God, of all the names…” Dean is saying, grinning as he dumps his bag onto the room’s single bed. He drops down onto the sheets next to it and Castiel drags the wooden hotel chair over to sit across from Dean. “I definitely couldn’t have thought this up,” Dean continues. “That’s just priceless.”

“I’m glad you found my situation so amusing,” Castiel says, and he doesn’t mean it to sound quite so sharp, because truth be told, he is glad, but Dean pauses for a moment all the same, giving Castiel a long look.

“You know I’m just teasing, right?” Dean says.

“Of course,” says Castiel. “I just… I didn’t expect the evening to happen quite like this.”

Dean laughs. “Neither did I. I thought I was going to be getting laid tonight too but, you know…” he trails off. “I’m actually glad this is how it turned out.”

“…So am I,” Castiel agrees.

There’s another brief silence as Castiel looks towards the wall, and then at Dean, who is still looking at him with the same expression as before. It’s too nuanced for Castiel to place.

“God, I love it when you’re around, Cas,” Dean says eventually. “For someone who doesn’t know how to have a good time, you sure know how to make things fun.”

“I know how to have a good time,” Castiel says. He doesn’t know why he says it.

“Oh yeah?” Dean replies. He smiles wide, his soul swelling larger and brighter. Castiel can feel the light of it pushing closer to him, like sparks of energy between conductive metal. Almost as if to mimic the behavior of his soul, Dean leans forward towards Castiel and pushes himself closer to the edge of the bed. “What’s your idea of a good time, huh?”

And then—Castiel doesn’t think Dean realizes he’s doing it—and then, there’s a hand on Castiel’s knee.

Castiel doesn’t mean to tense up, but he does. Suddenly Dean’s hand yanks away, as though burned. He gets to his feet abruptly and walks towards the other side of the room.

“…need a drink…” Dean says vaguely.

“Dean,” Castiel asks, and now he’s standing too. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Dean says curtly. It’s not the truth, Castiel knows. He’s been around Dean long enough to tell when he’s lying, so long as he isn’t trying very hard to hide it.

“Are you sure?” Castiel asks again.

“Jesus, I’m fine.”

Dean pulls out a flask from the pocket in his jeans and takes a long drink.

(“So, you think he’s trying to hide something?”)

(“Yes, I do.”)

“We should get some sleep,” Dean says. “Or, I should. I’m going to sleep. You, read a book or something.”

(“When humans want something really, really bad… we lie.”)

Chapter Text

By some miracle, Castiel’s plan works. Raphael is here. But their conversation isn’t going as planned.

“God? Didn’t you hear?” says Raphael. “He’s dead, Castiel. Dead.”

“You’re lying,” Castiel says. Because he is.

“Am I? Do you remember the twentieth century?” Castiel does—soldiers choking on their own lungs, earthquakes suffocating entire cities, innocents going up in smokestacks, bombs incinerating millions. Technology makes killing easier. Butchery is commonplace.

“Do you think the twenty-first is going any better?” Raphael continues. “Do you think God would have let any of that happen if he were alive?”

How can we question God’s will? Castiel wants to say. Or perhaps, God has his reasons. But even those explanations sound insufficient. Dean argues, and Castiel appreciates the gesture, but he can do nothing to stop the questions in his head.

(No, God wouldn’t let this happen, is what he truly wants to think. But wanting and being are two separate things.)

“If God is dead, why have I returned?” Castiel asks Raphael. He means his question to sound rhetorical, but the truth leaks into his voice. “Who brought me back?”

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe Lucifer raised you?” says Raphael.

His mind whirls, his vision swims, his grace swells and storms inside him, every fiber of his being is protesting this abominable, heinous notion, but when he says “No,” it comes out quiet, broken.

“Think about it,” Raphael says. He can’t think about it. He can’t, he won’t— “He needs all the rebellious angels he can find. You know it adds up.” (It does, it does, it does, it does—)

“Let’s go,” Castiel says. He won’t listen to this.

He leaves Raphael to burn.

—

“You okay?” Dean asks as they drive. The concern in his voice grounds Castiel, makes him feel a bit more real. But his mind is still spinning. He can’t trust himself to answer.

“Look, I’ll be the first to tell you that this little crusade of yours is nuts,” Dean says, “but I do know a little something about missing fathers.”

It’s not the same, Castiel wants to say. He’s been wanting to say a lot of things lately. Instead, he asks, “What do you mean?”

“I mean there were times when I was looking for my dad when all logic said that he was dead, but I knew in my heart he was still alive.” Dean is looking on the road, his face serious. Castiel can see it—Dean, ten years old, sitting at the police station with his legs swinging over the edge of the chair, Sammy asleep next to him, waiting for the call he’s afraid will never come. Dean, fourteen, driving a stolen truck down a highway towards South Dakota, because it’s been two weeks when it was supposed to be two days, and they’re out of money and food, and Sammy’s sick, and he’s praying he doesn’t get pulled over for the way the car lurches every time he tries to tap the pedal. Dean, seventeen, driving a different stolen car all over the Midwest for three weeks, missing almost a month of school, using a fake ID to get motel rooms and asking around for a man with a black 1967 Chevy Impala. After that there are too many to count—Dean’s nineteen, twenty, twenty-two, twenty-six. He can feel the way Dean felt every time, taste it in the aura of his soul, and maybe it is the same, after all.

“Who cares what some ninja turtle says, Cas, what do you believe?” Dean says.

“I believe he’s out there,” Castiel says. He says it because it has to be true.

“Good. Then go find him.”

And Castiel does. Or, he tries.

—

He goes to the Great Mosque of Córdoba. He goes to Mount Sinai in Egypt. He goes to the House of the Báb in Shiraz, Iran, to the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, to Vatican City, to Nazareth. Pilgrimage is supposed to help mortal people find God, but it does not seem to help him.

—

He calls Dean one night from a payphone on a dark road in the middle of a forest. In his travels, he learned of something of interest—the Colt. He tells Dean about it, because Dean and his brother are already set on killing Lucifer, and this will be their best bet. He tries to go to Dean directly when Dean tells him the number of his hotel, but Dean makes him wait. He needs sleep, he says.

Castiel can’t blame Dean for that. So he waits. A few hours is not such a long time for an immortal being.

(But then, neither is a few months. And it feels like an eternity since he first met Dean Winchester.)

The forest is alive with night sounds—the rustling of pine needles in the trees, the pattering of rain, the occasional scratch of an animal in the underbrush. Life does not stop after the sun goes down. The night is just as alive as the day, if one knows where to look.

—

A few hours wasn’t a long time, but apparently it was long enough for Zachariah to locate Dean, take him prisoner, and prepare to torture him into complacency. He wastes no time in petty conversation with his brothers—instead, he simply transports Dean away. How sloppy—Zachariah didn’t even try to ward him away.

“That’s pretty nice timing, Cas,” Dean says. He’s looking at Castiel like he hasn’t seen him in weeks, like he’s wearing a new face. He touches his own jaw reflexively.

“We had an appointment,” Castiel says by way of explanation.

Dean moves his hand up and places it firmly on Castiel’s shoulder, squeezing it a little. “Don’t ever change,” he tells him. It’s spontaneous. Castiel can’t tell what brought it on. Never change? What does that mean? Of course he will change. If he hadn’t changed before, he would never have fallen. If Dean hadn’t changed, he would never have become Castiel’s friend.

Are they friends? The weight of Dean’s arm on his shoulder is solid and heavy, and Dean seems loath to remove it. Are they friends? He likes the weight there, likes feeling connected to Dean in this way. He likes watching Dean’s eyes and likes watching them watch him. He loves Dean’s soul, more than he has ever loved any other. Are they friends?

A lack of change is not something he can promise. He hopes Dean doesn’t expect it of him. He hopes Dean doesn’t expect it of himself.

—

They spend a month searching for great and powerful things, things strong enough to destroy the evil that threatens to overtake the world. Dean looks for the Colt, while Castiel looks for God. He wonders if that says something about the two of them—that Dean is searching for a weapon, a physical object, and Castiel is searching for a being, an entity. They are each equally likely to find their respective quarry—or rather, equally unlikely.

Instead, what they find is the Antichrist—a being both physical and ethereal. But he’s only a ten-year-old boy.

The cambion boy disappears on the third day, and Castiel has to fight the urge to scour the earth for him. It’s clear that this boy does not wish to be found, and with powers like his, it seems unlikely that he will be. That kind of power puts Castiel on edge—God-like power should not be put in the hands of one so young.

Afterward, he goes with Dean and Sam to their hotel. He does this more and more often nowadays, even though he doesn’t need to sleep, and he doesn’t have any critical information to convey to them. But he likes their company, and he’s alienated himself from all of his brethren. The Winchesters are all he has left. He thinks they’ll forgive him for seeking companionship.

Castiel sits on a chair when they arrive at the hotel. Dean and Sam are cracking open two bottles of beer and talking about the Colt, about where to look next. Castiel is listening to their voices when Dean suddenly turns to him. His gaze slips down to his chest, and his brow furrows.

“You can take off the jacket, you know,” Dean says to him. “Most people do that when they come indoors.”

“It’s fine. I won’t get too warm,” Castiel says, but that’s not what Dean wanted to hear.

“C’mon, Cas, let your hair down.”

“I don’t—”

“I mean, relax a little. Settle in.”

Castiel decides not to argue. He shrugs the tan coat off his shoulders and folds it over the chair, and then sits back down. Dean grins and leans forward to clap Castiel’s shoulder.

“See? That wasn’t hard,” he says.

Castiel can feel Sam watching them. There’s a careful expression on Sam’s face—careful, because it doesn’t give too much away, because his posture is guarded now, because he’s looking at Dean like a hiker approaching dangerous woods.

Dean notices the gaze too. Suddenly he stands and announces, “I think I’m going to hop in the shower.”

“Sure. Fine with me,” Sam says.

Dean moves towards the bed and takes off his own jacket, then starts to unbutton his shirt before freezing and glancing back at them, at Cas. Dean drops his hands after that and heads straight to the bathroom.

As soon as they can hear the sound of the shower running, Sam begins to fidget. He runs his hand through his hair and scoots his chair closer to Castiel.

“Cas,” Sam begins.

“Sam,” Castiel says.

“Cas, um... We should talk. About Dean.”

“Okay.”

Sam looks vaguely put-upon at that, but the irritation slides away to make room for the same kind of guarded discomfort as before. “Dean isn’t always very good at being… direct,” he says.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Castiel says. “Dean is very direct. He says what he means. He doesn’t circle around a topic.”

“That’s not what I…” Sam trails off. “I mean, Dean isn’t very good at expressing… feelings, I guess. He tends to keep them to himself. Unless he thinks it’s absolutely necessary—which he never does—he won’t share them.”

“He seems very willing to tell me when he’s angry.”

Sam rubs the back of his neck, brow furrowing. “Yes, but… but if he cares about someone, he’s not always best at showing it.” Castiel remains silent, so Sam continues. “He’s almost always been that way. He has a hard time… connecting, with people. People he likes, I mean.”

“You mean that he isn’t always truthful with his emotions towards his friends,” Castiel clarifies.

“Yes! Yes, that’s what I mean,” says Sam. “But, especially with people he… people he really cares about. And even more with people he doesn’t think he’s allowed to care about. To the point where he tries to convince himself he doesn’t care about them in that way. I’ve… seen it happen before.”

Sam is trying very hard to tell him something without saying it directly—he’s sure of this. Castiel nods and takes a moment to puzzle over Sam’s words. Sam looks a little relieved at that, and he stands.

“I’m going to get something from a vending machine,” Sam says. “I’ll be back in a minute or two.”

The door opens and closes, and Castiel is left alone in the room. The hotel fridge is humming, the radiator is buzzing quietly. He can still hear the shower.

Chapter Text

In late December, the Winchesters go missing again. Dean missed his check in. Castiel went to the last place he’d seen them, then tracked them to a motel in Wellington, Ohio. He has Bobby track their cell phones to a warehouse at the edge of town. He knows it’s the right place because he can see the Impala parked outside, but every time he tries to enter the warehouse, there’s something blocking him—something powerful.

He manages to break in once, and he appears on the scene of a Japanese game show. The trickster—but he’s not a trickster, he can’t be—throws him back out again, and he’s standing in the middle of a bog in Florida.

When he manages it again, he appears in what looks like a hotel room. The trickster appears again, and Castiel gets a look at him—a good look this time—and suddenly, he knows. He knows who the trickster is. This time when he’s sent away, the trickster—Gabriel, his brother—sends him to a dimly-lit room.

He waits in the semi-darkness for a long time.

—

He senses Gabriel’s presence before he can see him.

“Gabriel,” he tells the empty room. Gabriel’s vessel appears in a chair across from him, legs propped on the table before them. It’s such a Gabriel thing to do, and Castiel aches with missing him, but anger wins out.

“Hey bro,” Gabriel says.

“What are you doing to them?” Castiel asks immediately. “Let them go.”

Gabriel arches an eyebrow lazily, but he does look genuinely surprised. “Since when do you care this much about Daddy’s pets?”

“This isn’t a game, Gabriel!” He’s shouting now, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “What are you doing to them?”

“I’m teaching them a lesson!” Gabriel says, his own voice rising. “Why are you getting all worked up over a couple humans?”

“Because they’re my friends,” Castiel says as honestly as he can. It’s enough to make Gabriel pause, put both his feet on the floor, shift forward.

“You’ve changed a lot since I left, Castiel,” Gabriel says. “I never thought you’d be the first to fall.”

“I wasn’t. Anna fell twenty years ago.”

“Well, you were tied for first, then,” Gabriel amends. “Why did she do it?”

“She wanted to experience humanity, I think,” Castiel says. “She took out her grace herself.”

“Not surprised…. She always was the rebellious type.” He pauses then, eyes turning pensive. “What about you? You were one of God’s most loyal soldiers. What changed?”

Castiel stays silent. He looks down at his hands.

Gabriel gives him a look and smiles a little It’s something meant to be a smirk, but it’s too genuine to fit the category. “Alright” he says. “I think I understand.”

“Understand what?”

“You know the truth, but if you say it you’ll be forced to acknowledge it,” Gabriel says.

“I don’t…”

“It’s like this,” Gabriel says. “Anna fell for humanity, the idea. You fell for humanity, the person. It was never about right or wrong. It was about him. Am I right?”

Castiel wants to protest, but his mouth won’t move. Hearing Gabriel say it in such plain terms feels like a blow to the chest. Of course Gabriel is right—but even more than that, Gabriel was right quickly. It took him no time at all to guess.

“Am I so obvious?” he asks, feeling deflated.

“Only to someone who knows you.”

“I think I love him.”

“I think you’re right.”

“I love him more than I’m supposed to.”

“You love him differently than you’re supposed to.”

“What do you mean?” But he knows what he means. Anna tried to tell him this before. “And you do love all God’s creations, Castiel,” she had said, “but there is more than one kind of love. You can’t compare one kind of love to another.”

“I’m not going to dignify that question with an answer. You’re not a two-year-old. You know.” Gabriel says. “Dean on the other hand? I’m not so sure. He might be a two-year-old. Jury’s still out on that.”

Castiel glares a little at him, but there’s no malice behind it.

“Dean Winchester is a giant ball of emotional confusion and frustration, is what I’m saying,” Gabriel continues. This was what Sam had been telling him the other night. “I’m amazed that you’re putting up with it.”

“I used to put up with you, didn’t I?”

Gabriel lets out a shocked laugh, his eye brows raised in amusement. “What a smart ass! Hanging around those Winchesters has ruined you, Castiel.”

“It’s good to see you, Gabriel—” begins Castiel.

“He says after he insults me,” Gabriel says.

“—but you have to let the Winchesters go.”

Gabriel picks at his nail for a moment, not meeting Castiel’s eye. “Can’t,” he says eventually.

“Why not.”

“They’re the only ones who can stop this mess upstairs.”

“I know.”

“But they’re not going to be able to kill Lucifer. That’s not even possible.”

“The Colt—”

“Yeah, maybe. It’s a long shot. But you and I both know that the fastest, most sure-fire way to clean this up would be to just give Zachariah and Raphael what they want.”

“That’s not an option.”

“Yeah, because it would mean your boyfriend would get tossed around like a human chew toy. I know.”

“But?”

“But it’s still the best option. Sorry, Cas.”

And then Gabriel’s gone.

—

It turns out that Castiel didn’t need to do any saving after all. The Winchesters saved themselves. He feels a swell of pride that they were able to successfully outsmart a being thousands of years older than them, especially one who specializes in deceiving others, and especially one as clever as Gabriel.

You’re wrong, he wants to tell Gabriel. We can do it our own way.

And they do. In January, they find the Colt.

—

They’re going to kill the devil. Everything is ready—in the morning, they will leave for Carthage, Missouri. There’s drinking and laughter and high spirits, and Castiel feels a part of something, a part of them. He hadn’t realized he’d been longing for the feeling of belonging so badly, but here, now, surrounded by people who call him family, he finds that he had missed it desperately. Angels are meant to live with brothers and sisters. Castiel wonders how Gabriel lived on his own for so long.

They’re gathering for a photo. Ellen and Jo’s souls are so alike, both bright and full of tenacious light. Bobby’s is steady and unwavering, like a solid fixture in a lightning storm. Sam’s is more like Bobby’s than Dean’s, Castiel thinks—Sam’s is steady but hazier, less defined, and less centralized. Together with Dean’s brilliant, chaotic, mutable light, they look like they can conquer the world.

But not Lucifer, perhaps.

“Tomorrow we hunt the Devil,” Castiel says. “This is our last night on earth."

He means what he said. If he dies tomorrow, then so be it. They share a few more rounds of drinks before they eventually start to trickle off to the different bedrooms in the house—Bobby first, then Ellen, then Sam. Jo leaves them last, saying she thinks there’s a futon upstairs she can use, so long as she’s willing to dig through five years of crap.

“Get some rest you two, okay?” she says. She gives Dean a peck on the cheek and a small smile, then heads upstairs.

The sound of creaking floorboards overhead and the crickets outside fill the silence between them, but it doesn’t last more than a minute before Dean gets to his feet to grab another beer. He pauses at the counter, staring at a bottle of whiskey, then asks him, “You want some?”

Castiel shakes his head. Dean shrugs and starts refilling a shot glass, then another, then another. He begins knocking them back, one by one.

“Dean,” Castiel says after the second shot. It’s a question, but Dean just stares at him over the rim of the glass and doesn’t break eye contact as he drinks the whole glass. When Dean fills the three glasses a second time, Castiel feels worried. “Dean,” he says again, with more urgency.

“What?” Dean asks with forced nonchalance, and Castiel knows it’s a lie, can taste it like sulfur or smoke. He can’t tell what Dean is feeling. When he looks at him, all he sees is an emotional storm, like colors mixing and bleeding off an artist’s pallet. It’s chaos.

“I think you should rest, Dean,” says Castiel carefully. “We have a… very big day tomorrow.”

Dean nods, but takes one more shot anyway. With slow, heavy steps, he ambles back over to Castiel at the sofa, then says, “I can take the couch, if, uh, you want the spare bedroom—”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupts. “Angels don’t need sleep.”

“Yeah, well, you look like you could use it,” Dean says, dropping onto the couch next to Castiel. “It’s the end of the world. Who knows—maybe you’ll like it.”

“Truthfully, Dean. I’m fine.”

“Hm,” Dean says, but he doesn’t move. He stares straight ahead, then looks down. Suddenly, he lifts his hand and slowly, deliberately, slides it over Castiel’s knee and keeps it there, unmoving. There’s a slight tremor in Dean’s hand, and he can feel the quick, erratic beat of Dean’s heart through the pulse in his fingertips. His palms are warm.

“Dean,” Castiel says after a moment, “what’s going on?”

There’s a beat, and then Dean yanks his hand away, like he’s been burned—again. “Sorry,” he says quickly, his voice too loud. “Sorry, man, I don’t—”

“Dean,” Castiel says again. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Dean won’t look at him. His eyes are a little too bright and his brow is covered with a fine sheen of sweat—is it the alcohol? Something else? Castiel can’t tell, so he puts his hand on Dean’s tense shoulder and stares, like they always do, until Dean finally meets his eyes.

“Please, Dean,” he says quietly.

It’s enough. He can feel Dean’s shoulder relax minutely under his hand, see a little of the fear leave Dean’s eyes. “Cas, I’m…” Dean begins, clears his throat, starts again. “I want….”

Dean lets the words trail off unfinished. He’s looking at Castiel so intensely now, like a cornered animal trying to predict the movements of its predator, like a child holding a sleepy kitten made of glass. Dean inches closer. They’re close enough that Castiel can feel the tendrils of energy reaching out from Dean’s soul, tasting Castiel’s grace. It’s almost too much.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, like a prayer, and he’s still looking at Cas, but not at his eyes—he’s staring at his neck, his jaw, his lips. “Tell me to stop, if….”

Castiel does not tell him to stop.

Chapter Text

Change

Said the sun to the moon,

You cannot stay.

Change

Says the moon to the waters,

All is flowing.

Change

Says the fields to the grass,

Seed-time and harvest,

Chaff and grain.

You must change said,

Said the worm to the bud,

Though not to a rose,

Petals fade

That wings may rise

Borne on the wind.

You are changing

said death to the maiden, your wan face

To memory, to beauty.

Are you ready to change?

Says the thought to the heart, to let her pass

All your life long

For the unknown, the unborn

In the alchemy

Of the world's dream?

You will change,

says the stars to the sun,

Says the night to the stars.

Change by Kathleen Jessie Raine

—

They arrive in Missouri. Reapers are everywhere. Castiel follows one.

It was not a wise choice.

—

Lucifer captures him. The others are outside on the streets, battling to get closer. He thinks some of them might be dying.

“I rebelled. I was cast out,” Lucifer is saying. “You rebelled, you were cast out. Almost all of heaven wants to see me dead, and if they succeed, guess what? You're their new public enemy number one. We're on the same side, like it or not, so why not just serve your own best interests? Which in this case just happen to be mine?”

“I’ll die first,” Castiel says.

“I suppose you will,” Lucifer says.

Only he doesn’t. But Ellen and Jo? They do.

—

Bobby’s house is quiet as only death can make it.

Sam has gone to bed early. Bobby is nursing a bottle of whisky as he stares at book—he hasn’t turned the page once in the last hour. And Dean, Dean is outside. Every once in a while he hears the clang of metal.

He goes outside into the yard. Dean is sitting on a tire with his head in his hands. At the sound of Castiel’s approach he looks up, and his eyes are red, but his mouth is grim and hard. Castiel takes a seat next to him.

“It shouldn’t have been them,” Dean says after several moments.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

It’s winter, and the air is cold and crisp. Their breath clouds white in front of them before fading away, like smoke. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t think there is anything he can say.

Dean stands a few minutes later, picks up a rock, and holds it for a moment. Then, without warning, he hurls it across the yard. A window smashes. Dean lets out a loud, guttural yell.

“Dean,” Castiel says.

“What?” Dean asks, turning around. “Ellen and Jo are dead, the Colt didn’t even scratch Lucifer, and we’re going to die in the fucking Apocalypse. Let me be angry, Cas.”

He doesn’t say anything, and eventually Dean sits down again next to him on the tires. They sit for a long time until Castiel is sure that Dean’s hands must be numb, but he never makes to leave. There is no distance between them. They sit side-by-side, shoulders and knees pressed together. It’s comfortable and intimate and tame. He thinks that’s what Dean needs right now.

—

Castiel had noticed that his powers were waning. Angels were not meant to be separated this long from heaven. If he continues at this rate, he thinks he might be human within a couple years, and the thought terrifies him, but not as much as it should, and not for the same reasons. When Anna, after suffering through reeducation in heaven, attempts to kill Sam in January, Castiel is afraid, because he realizes he won’t always have the power to protect the Winchester brothers in the way he had gotten used to. He’s afraid because he may not be able to heal their wounds, as he couldn’t heal Bobby’s, or take them away from dangerous situations, like he tried to do today. Time travel severely weakened him. To other angels, it would be as easy as snapping their fingers. He cannot hope to compete with that power now, let alone the powers of an archangel like Lucifer or Michael.

In February, they confront Famine, and Castiel is faced once again with his impending mortality. Angels should not be affected by earthly desires, or at least not to this extent. And yet there he is, kneeling on the floor over red meat, watching as Dean suffers at the hand of a being older than Castiel himself.

Dean isn’t affected by Famine. Dean says it’s because he doesn’t deny himself things, and Famine says it’s because he’s dead inside, but Castiel doesn’t agree with either explanation. He has his own theories. He thinks what Dean craves is not something that can be bought or consumed or performed. He thinks Dean craves oblivion—nothingness.

He never vocalizes his theory, because he’s afraid that he’s right.

In March, Dean and Sam are killed.

—

The human perception of death is very different from the way the angelic perceive it. For humans, death is final, death is permanent, and death is terrifying. Angels view mortal death as more of a state of being—some humans are alive, and others are dead, and occasionally, Heaven sees fit to switch a human from one state to another.

This was the perception of death that Castiel was raised to believe, but now, with Sam and Dean, everything has changed. Dean has died many, many times, and angelic intervention has allowed him to return each time. One might think that death would become meaningless after such a feat, that the terror of it might wear off, but Castiel doesn’t find this to be true. To die is to lose one’s free will, and to someone like Dean, to someone like Sam, that is the ultimate loss. Free will is a prerequisite to sentient life.

—

This is how it feels when men you care about are murdered:

A sea star caught on shore, left out by the tides. Each wave seems like it might stretch far enough to bring it home, but the sea star is always just out of reach. With every passing minute the sea’s reach becomes shorter and shorter, and the sand becomes dryer and dryer. The sea star must suffer in this slow inevitability.

The eruption of a mountain. Snow melts instantaneously, a great plume of dark ash suffocates the sky, and rocks the size of men charge down miles of shivering slope. Animals flee. Forests catch alight or are mowed down by torrents of rock and hot gas. This volcano spits no lava, but lava is not necessary. Destruction is already ensured. It is a scene of terrible chaos.

An entire village burning to the ground—an entire village perishing, save one. The one looks on, at the greedy flames that consume their home, their neighbor’s home, the home of their grocer, the home of their doctor. The lone villager watches and knows that within each house is a family, but they cannot look away. God was cruel when he entranced humanity with fire.

The melting of miles of ice. The sun glares off the white ice as it becomes shiny and wet. Piece by piece, the ice breaks away into the sea before dissolving completely, eaten by heat. Cliffs of ice crumble in loud, horrible columns, smothering all life below. To the animals who live there, this is Armageddon. Their world is collapsing around them. Soon, they will drown.

A nightmare, the kind where you fall or are chased or get shot. Only, you don’t wake up. You don’t wake up before you hit the ground, before the killer catches you, before the bullet enters your chest. You can’t feel pain in dreams, but the panic is enough. The memory of pain is enough. You enter a state of terrifying oblivion, and you think, this is it. This is what death is like. When you do wake, you don’t know where you are or why you’re alive. Some part of you still thinks you’re dead. Some part of you still wishes you were.

—

When they die, Castiel panics. He contacts Bobby, who asks him, in a plain voice, “Do you really think your angel gang is going to let them stay dead?”

And Bobby is right, of course.

And so Castiel leads the Winchesters through Heaven with spells and messages, conveying instructions in any way he can. He leads them to Joshua. He leads them back to Earth.

At some point after the brothers’ return, Castiel asks them what they learned from Joshua. They look uncomfortable. Finally, Dean says, “God won’t help us, Cas.”

And Castiel’s world shatters.

—

Where does one go when they’ve lost their faith?

To seek guidance, Castiel would have gone to a church, a mosque, a synagogue. To ask for help, he might have prayed to God. What now? What does he do now, when God refuses to help them defeat the visage of evil himself, a being with power too great for him to hope to conquer?

He does go to a place of worship one day, just to see. He ends up leaving midway through, because he can’t stand to listen.

“Why are you leaving?” a woman near the back asks him as he nears the door.

“God doesn’t care,” he says. The look on her face makes him regret his words immediately, but he can’t take them back.

Dean drinks to avoid the world, and Castiel decides to try it. He finds a wine cellar in Verona and cleans it out until he can’t walk straight or see straight or think straight. Then he does it again the next day, and again the day after.

When the Winchesters call him, he’s just finished a liquor store in Vermont. Is he alright? Sam asks, and it’s a stupid question, because how can he be alright, Sam? And they want to know the name of a prophet, they want to know what the monster they’re fighting this week is (the Whore of Babylon, of course), they want to know how to kill her, and Dean is looking at him like there’s something wrong, and of course there’s something wrong, because God doesn’t care.

Later, Castiel sits outside the motel with his head in his hands. Dean hands him a bottle of something—aspirin? A drug?

“How many should I take?” Castiel asks.

“You? You should probably just down the whole bottle.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” Dean replies. “Yeah, I’ve been there. I’m a big expert on deadbeat dads. So…Yeah, I get it. I know how you feel.”

Castiel doesn’t think he does know. But that’s beside the point.

He looks at Dean and he thinks about faith. Castiel has lost his. Dean never had faith in a God, not truly, but his faith in himself has deserted him. In this, Castiel thinks, they feel the same.

Except that Dean is the only thing Castiel has left. And Dean has nothing left.

Chapter Text

Castiel will admit that objectively, it seems as though they have no other options, and that allowing Dean to become Michael’s vessel could, in the end, save more people than it would hurt. But the option still seems inconceivable. He can’t tell if it’s because of the people who would die or because of the person, Dean, who would suffer. He’s afraid it’s the latter, but he doesn’t want to think about it.

But then Dean tries to say yes once. He and Sam stop him. Castiel finds Adam, Dean’s half-brother, who is to be Michael’s vessel if Dean does not comply.

It’s inconceivable to Castiel that Dean is trying to give up. It goes against everything he thought he knew about Dean. He feels like the floor is falling out beneath him.

But then Dean tries again. He lures him into the panic room.

(Of course Castiel goes inside. Dean is clever—he overturned chairs, ripped papers, made it look like he’d been attacked. Of course Castiel goes inside.)

“Cas,” Dean says, and Castiel has just enough time to turn around and see Dean before Dean slaps his hand against a banishing sigil.

And then Castiel is in freefall.

—

He appears in the middle of an expanse of arid scrublands. He thinks it might be South Africa, but he can’t be sure. The air is hot and sticky. Castiel is on his back, and he feels too weak to get up. His bones ache—he’s never felt that before. The soreness must be a tribute to his waning grace.

He tries to transport himself back to Bobby’s house, back to Dean, but he can’t seem to find the power to do so. He can barely find the power to sit up. The plain is barren, with no signs of human civilization in sight.

“Hey, Cas,” says a voice behind him. Castiel struggles to turn around.

Gabriel is there, crouching on top of a rock, wearing the same vessel he wore when Castiel last saw him. He’s grinning, but Castiel knows it’s too thin to be genuine.

“Gabriel,” Castiel says. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here, Cas?” Gabriel asks. It’s not a fair question, because he’s sure Gabriel knows the answer. When Castiel remains silent, Gabriel continues. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s just leave, alright? Find a nice little house down here, enjoy the ways of humans. I can keep giving you enough juice to truck on, though I don’t think I can restore much—you’ll need to reconnect with Heaven for that. We’ll wait things out. See how it goes. Who knows, maybe Michael wins. Maybe he goes light on the human casualties. Maybe it doesn’t get that bad down here.”

“Are you suggesting I abandon them to fight Lucifer and Michael alone?” Castiel snaps.

“Yes,” says Gabriel simply. “Didn’t they abandon you?”

Dean betrayed him. That’s what he’s feeling now—betrayal, anger. Somehow he still can’t believe it, can’t reconcile the Dean he knows with the Dean who just did this to him.

“It’s because he’s human,” Gabriel says, and Castiel feels himself bristle. Regardless of what he’s doing now, Dean is still Dean, and Gabriel can’t, Gabriel shouldn’t—

“Hold your horses, bro. I’m not trying to insult your precious human boyfriend,” Gabriel says before Castiel can speak. “What I mean is that he’s just human. He’s not some god-like perfect warrior you can put up on a pedestal and worship. He is just a person.”

“I know that,” Castiel says.

“Maybe you do, in your head,” says Gabriel, “but you sure don’t act like it. You expected him to bend and bend and never break. But people do break, Cas.”

“Dean wasn’t supposed to give up.”

“But he did.”

Castiel breaths in the muggy air and looks up. There are a few small clouds scattered in the distance, but most of what he can see above his is pale blue, almost white. He thinks he understands what Gabriel is saying.

“Then what about us?” Castiel asks a moment later. “Are we just people?” He means it to be sarcastic but it sounds desperate instead, and Gabriel answers it like a real question.

“You bet we are, Cas,” Gabriel says. “It’s God’s biggest secret. And his greatest lie, for making us think that we weren’t.”

“I don’t know if I can see Dean as just a person.”

“That’s because you’re in love with him,” says Gabriel with a laugh. He’s smiling a little, but the grin is too wry to be playful. “Loving someone makes you stupid. I’ve seen it happen.”

“So you’re giving me an ultimatum?” Castiel asks. “I can love him and expect too much of him, or I don’t do either one?”

“That’s an oversimplification,” Gabriel objects. “You can get to the right place eventually. It just takes more time than you have.”

“I can’t choose not to love him.”

“I know,” Gabriel sighs. “Just… try to understand him, rather than your idea of him. God, I can’t believe I’m giving you relationship advice…”

“It’s not just about Dean and me,” Castiel says, “it’s about stopping the Apocalypse.”

“Yeah, sure.”

The significance of Gabriel’s help is not lost on Castiel. Gabriel has been avoiding getting between Michael and Lucifer for millennia, but he’s here now, because of Castiel. “Thank you,” he says, and means it.

“No problem.”

“But I think I’m still angry at him,” Castiel admits.

“I wouldn’t expect you not to be.” Castiel looks up, and Gabriel shrugs. “Dean fucked up. You’re allowed to be pissed at him.”

“I thought you just said—”

“I just said not to be angry at him for the wrong reasons,” Gabriel says. “I never said, ‘Don’t be angry.’”

“I need to get back,” Castiel says.

“I can help.”

“You’re not going to try to stop me?”

“I did try. Just now. I said, ‘Let’s just leave, alright?’ and you looked at me like I’d asked you to give me your liver.”

“Does this mean—”

“It doesn’t mean anything. I’m not on your side, I’m not on Michael’s, and I’m sure as hell not on Lucifer’s. Hah. Sure as hell.”

“But you’re still helping me.”

“Let’s not get into technicalities,” he says. Then Gabriel leans forward and touches Castiel’s shoulder, and he feels the strength rush back into him. Castiel gets to his feet.

“You want a lift back to South Dakota?” Gabriel asks, and Castiel shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “I think I can manage.”

He starts to reach out, feeling for any hint of Dean, and he’s about to leave, about to disappear, when Gabriel says his name.

“Hey, Cas?”

Castiel pauses.

“I’m glad I got to see you,” Gabriel says seriously. The words sound ominous and final, and Castiel thinks he understands why. I probably won’t live to see him again.

Castiel nods. “I’m glad you came.”

“And, to save you some time,” Gabriel continues. “I think you should check the bar on 5^th Avenue and Main.”

“How can you find him? I put protective—”

“I know because I can hear a prayer from there,” Gabriel says. “A prayer headed for Michael.”

And Castiel is gone. He will not let Dean get off this easily.

—

“Ellen and Jo are dead,” Dean said before, “the Colt didn’t even scratch Lucifer, and we’re going to die in the fucking Apocalypse. Let me be angry, Cas.”

“Let me be angry.”

—

Castiel says, “I rebelled for this?

Castiel says, “So that you could surrender to them?”

Castiel says, “I gave everything for you.”

Castiel says, “And this is what you give to me?”

He knows he’s not being fair, but somehow that’s not important to him right now.

Let me be angry.

—

When he takes Dean back to Bobby’s house, he feels guilty. He can’t heal the cuts Dean has now, can’t wish away the bruises he gave him. But Dean will heal. All it takes is time.

“It just takes more time than you have.”

—

During the time that Dean was missing, Adam was, apparently, taken by angels. He’ll be taken to the Green Room, and Castiel says as much to Sam. He knows the entrance to the place—a warehouse in Van Nuys, California. When he goes to check on the place, it’s heavily guarded by angels, just as he expected.

But they don’t have a choice. He takes the Winchesters there anyway.

“Tell me again why you don’t just grab Adam and shazam the hell out of there,” Sam says.

Castiel gives him a look. “Because there are at least five angels in there.”

“So? You’re fast,” Dean says.

“They’re faster.”

Castiel takes off his tie and wraps it around his palm, carefully but firmly.

“I’ll clear them out,” he says. “You two grab the boy. This is our only chance.”

He knows this plan will weaken him irreparably. Gabriel was the only reason he was able to recover from the banishment before. This time, it will be different. He can’t rely on his older brother to clean him up.

“Whoa, wait. You’re gonna take on five angels?” Dean says. He sounds worried. Worried for me, or worried for the plan?

“Yes,” Castiel says simply.

“Isn’t that suicide?”

“Maybe it is,” Castiel concedes. “But then I won’t have to watch you fail. I’m sorry, Dean. I don’t have the same faith in you that Sam does.” Or at least, not anymore. Maybe though, in time.

(“It just takes more time than you have.”)

Castiel pulls a box cutter out of his trench-coat pocket, pushing the blade further out of the plastic casing.

“What the hell are you gonna do with that?” Sam asks him.

Castiel begins to unbutton his shirt. “I’m going to make an angel-banishing sigil,” he says. Then he looks at Dean directly. “It seems to work very well.”

—

Castiel’s plan works. He sees white, then black, and then, nothing.

—

When he wakes up, he’s wearing different clothing. There’s a tube attached to his arm, and he can hear a steady beeping from somewhere near him. The room smells sterile, like cleaning products and disinfectant.

This is a hospital.

It takes a few minutes for anyone to realize that he’s awake, but when they do, there’s quite a commotion. Nurses run a series of tests on him. They test his blood pressure, his response time, take a blood sample. He assures them he’s fine—they don’t believe him. But then, they wouldn’t believe him if he told them he was an angel, so he won’t hold it against them.

“Can you give us your name?” a nurse asks him after they’ve finished all the preliminary vital testing.

“Castiel,” he tells her automatically, before he can think of a more suitable reply. Dean would be embarrassed of him.

“Do you have a last name I can write down?” she asks gently. This time, he comes up with a better answer.

“I don’t remember,” he tells her. “I don’t remember what my last name is.”

She frowns, but doesn’t pressure him. He must have been very badly injured if she’s willing to believe that.

“What day is today?” he asks her.

“April 4^th. You’ve been here for about a week.”

Castiel sits up sharply. A week. That’s too long. “Can I have a phone call?”

“Of course. Who are you calling?”

“A friend.”

She nods and leaves the room.

—

When Dean answers the phone, Castiel feels more relieved than he’s been in a while. Dean is alive, Dean is safe, Dean didn’t say “Yes” to Michael, at least not yet. He answers Dean’s questions—is he okay, where is he, what happened.

He also tells Dean what he’s only just been able to figure out himself: he has no angelic force left. The banishment took whatever powers he had left. He feels empty and helpless. He doesn’t know if this is the sort of thing that will begin to slowly replenish over time or if he will be stuck like this for the rest of his (probably short) life.

Dean agrees to send him some money for a plane ticket. He’s about to hang up when Castiel stops him.

“Dean, wait,” Castiel says. Dean hasn’t hung up, so he assumes he’s still listening. “You said ‘no’ to Michael. I owe you an apology.”

“Cas... It’s okay.”

“You are not the burnt and broken shell of a man that I believed you to be,” he says to him.

Perhaps he doesn’t see Dean as “just a person” as Gabriel said he should, but then, he doesn’t really have the time to.

“Thank you. I appreciate that,” Dean says. It sounds sarcastic, but Castiel doesn’t mind.

“You’re welcome.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

—

They defeat Pestilence and take his ring, but they’re too late to stop all of Pestilence’s plans in one go. In a few days the Croatoan virus will be spread throughout the country, disguised as a vaccine. They make a plan to blow up the pharmaceutical plant.

They’re in Bobby’s van when Sam fills him in on the plan to put Lucifer back in the cage. For the first time in a long while, he feels hopeful. “It’s an interesting plan,” he says.

“That’s a word for it,” says Bobby wryly from the front seat.

Sam ignores Bobby. “So? Go ahead and tell me it's the worst plan you ever heard.”

“Of course,” Castiel says “I am happy to say that if that's what you want to hear. But it's not what I think.”

“Really?” Sam says. He looks shocked.

“You and Dean have a habit of exceeding my expectations. He resisted Michael. Maybe you could resist Lucifer—but there are things that you would need to know.”

“Like?”

Castiel looks between the two brothers. “Michael has found another vessel.”

“What?” says Sam.

“It’s your brother Adam. You must have considered it.”

“We were trying not to.”

“Sam…” Castiel begins. “If you say yes to Lucifer and then fail… This fight will happen. And the collateral… It’ll be immense. There's also the demon blood.”

Sam’s eyes go wide. “What? What are you talking about?”

“To take in Lucifer, it would be more than you’ve ever drunk.”

“But… Why?

“It strengthens the vessel. Keeps it from exploding.”

“But the guy he’s in now—”

“He’s drinking gallons.”

Bobby interjects again. “And how is that not the worst plan you ever heard?”

“It’s not the best plan,” Castiel says. “but it’s much better than doing nothing. And also…. We may want to enlist help.”

“Help?” Sam asks.

“Yes. I think that my brother Gabriel might be willing to join our side if he knows we have a plan.”

A sudden tension makes the van fall silent. “Cas—” Sam starts to say.

“I know that he hasn’t been on the best terms with us in the best,” Castiel says, “but I spoke with him the day before we stormed the Green Room. I think he’s partial to our cause.”

“Cas,” Sam says again, gently. “Gabriel isn’t… he’s not… here. Not anymore.”

“Oh.”

He hadn’t expected to outlive Gabriel.

—

They blow up the pharmaceutical facility successfully and head back to Bobby’s house. Castiel hates not having his powers. It feels like he’s blind, wandering down a hallway with no idea what might lie around the corner. He can’t see as well, he can’t hear as well, he can’t kill demons with a touch or heal his friends when they get injured.

He does learn how to use a gun, though. At least he can do that.

—

Bobby and Castiel are in the library when Sam and Dean walk into the house. Dean rocks on the balls of his feet and fidgets, but Sam is still. “Uh,” Sam starts, “Dean and I talked, and…. I’m going to put Lucifer back in the cage. It’s something I have to do. I’ll say yes, and then we’ll use the Horsemen’s rings to open up the door. I know this is asking a lot, so you guys don’t have to—”

“When are we leaving?” Bobby asks.

“Tomorrow,” Dean answers, then looks away. “We’ll have to, uh, drain some demons first.”

“Hm,” Bobby says, nodding. “Well, I guess I’m on it then. I’ll let you know when I find some you can gank.”

“I’m going to, uh, get some rest,” Sam says pointing at the stairwell. He nods at them all, a wan, nervous smile on his lips, and then heads upstairs.

“Uh, Cas?” says Dean suddenly. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Of course, Dean,” he answers, but Dean stays still, like he’s expecting something. Across the room at his desk, Bobby raises an eyebrow.

“Outside,” Dean adds, and Castiel understands.

“You want to talk alone,” he clarifies. Dean makes an exasperated noise, glancing back at Bobby and rubbing his hand over his mouth.

“Yeah, alone,” Dean says after a beat. “Let’s…. Let’s just go outside, alright?”

Castiel gets to his feet and follows Dean towards the porch. They’re almost out the door when Bobby calls, “Dean?” and they both stop.

“Yeah, Bobby?” Dean says. His hands are in his pockets. He’s not meeting Bobby’s eyes.

“I’m not John,” Bobby says seriously. “I don’t give a shit.”

Dean gives a curt nod. Castiel can tell this is an important conversation, but he knows he’s missing too many years’ worth of history and context to make sense of it. Still, Dean looks moved, his eyes bright. “Thanks, Bobby,” he says. “I…”—he clears his throat—“Thanks.”

They leave the house before the silence drags on too long.

Dean takes him towards the back of the yard, where some of the cars have been left untouched for years. Weeds and other plants have taken over every nook and cranny, wedging themselves in between stacks of tires, in pieces of split wood, on banks of moss sticking to rusty steel roofs. One day this place will be nothing but forest again.

Dean ambles over to an old gray car pushed up against the fence and brushes off some of the dirt and moss that has gathered on the car’s hood. He sits on top of the peeling paint and gestures for Cas to join him. He does.

Across from them, a nest of bees has made itself at home just underneath the rear-view mirror of a car that looks more grass than metal. Their small bodies hum as they flit from place to place, back and forth, always with a purpose.

Castiel has a purpose.

He can feel Dean’s eyes watching him as he looks at the bees, so he turns his head to meet his eyes. Dean puts his soul in a stare, and Castiel is so glad.

“Cas,” Dean says.

Castiel contemplates his words, then says, “You are the most important person in my life, Dean Winchester. I would do anything you asked of me. In all of my existence I have never met someone quite like you.”

“Shit,” Dean says, and looks down. He’s smiling. “I was just going to say ‘I like you’ but that sounds pretty stupid now.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Castiel replies. “I’d love to hear you say that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, then,” says Dean. He’s looking ahead now, past the cars, past Bobby’s house. “For the record, I still think this sounds dumb, but, uh….” He trails off for a moment. “I do like you, Cas. A lot. I care about you. You’re really important to me too, and I uh… I needed you to know that before we go tomorrow.”

Castiel nods. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Anytime, Cas,” says Dean, getting to his feet. “We should probably get back inside before we start sounding like a Whitney Houston song or something.”

“Hm?”

“You know, ‘I will always love you’, that kind of thing.”

Dean makes to leave, but Castiel doesn’t. “But I think I will, Dean,” he says instead. Dean stops and looks back.

“What?”

“I think I am in love with you, Dean.”

Dean goes back to the car, sits next to him on the hood again. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “I—yeah.”

Dean’s words shouldn’t make sense to him, but they do. Castiel understands.

“Cas, you’re an angel,” Dean says after a long silence. He speaks slowly, like he’s not sure how to speak. “You like guys, then, or….”

“Most angels don’t have sexual preferences,” Castiel answers. “Most angels don’t experience sexual attraction, for that matter. Just like many humans.”

“Then aren’t we a couple of screw-ups,” says Dean quietly. “I, uh, I kissed you a while back. You didn’t….”

“I wanted you to kiss me,” Castiel explains, “because it was something you wanted, and something that I could give you. And… I like being close to you, Dean.”

When Dean looks at him again, his eyes slip down to Castiel’s lips, and his soul grows brighter, closer, more immediate. Dean’s soul is the Amazon forest, the Grand Canyon, the volcanoes of Italy, the Yellow River, the Great Barrier Reef. There is so much in Dean’s heart and Castiel is drowning in it. Dean is the most magnificent being he has ever seen.

“So, if I kissed you now…” Dean says.

“I would want you to.”

So Dean does, slowly. Castiel can feel Dean’s breath, taste his lips, hear his heartbeat, as clearly as if it were his own. They are so close that he can feel the tendrils of Dean’s soul against his grace, like flashes of memories that disappear almost as quickly as they come—Dean, learning to ride a bike when he was 8; Dean, a teenager, his hand sliding up under a girl’s shirt in a high school bathroom; Dean, listening to a new cassette for the first time in the Impala’s tape deck, Dean, drunk, kissing a man in a dark alley behind a bar, telling the man he’s not gay, he’s not gay, he’s not, over and over again, like a mantra. Castiel pushes himself closer to Dean, and now he feels other things, deeper things, the fear, the passion, the lust. Dean Winchester is a hurricane. It’s hard to hold on.

Dean has threaded one hand in Castiel’s hair, and he’s cupping the back of Castiel’s neck with the other.

It’s so much proximity, so much touch. Angels are not known to be a tactile species. Now, at this moment, Castiel cannot understand why any being would choose to forgo the contact.

“Cas,” says Dean against his lips, his voice rough. Dean is breathing hard. He wants. Castiel wonders at the idea that he has pulled this reaction from Dean, that he is the cause. He feels absurdly unworthy.

“Yes, Dean?” Castiel answers, and Dean inhales sharply, eyes drifting to Castiel’s collar.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes. “I suck at timing. We’re probably going to die tomorrow, and I….”

“This is our last day on earth?” asks Castiel, and Dean laughs ruefully.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

—

The End.