Castiel leaves the hospital with the intent to get on a bus and make his way out of the Louisiana heat to where Sam and Dean have located Pestilence. He has money in his pocket, enough to get him where he needs to be (along with a sandwich and a drink somewhere, and the cash he already used to fill his prescription for Vicoprofen), a donation from a kind older woman in a room down the corridor from him, who believed him when he said that he had important work to do and no means to get there. "Whatever it is," she told him, as she handed him the bills, refusing to hear him try to explain the situation, "you go and make sure that it gets done." As he heads out the glass double-doors and into the humidity, Castiel vaguely hopes that she'll find peace and a respite from the cancer that eats away at her insides — and that he, Sam, and Dean save this world, so that she can enjoy whatever time in it she has left.
Her pain radiates up through his chest, spreading out from the scars he gave himself so Sam and Dean could get to Zachariah — and as he falls into the stream of other people walking up and down the street, Castiel feels everything that they do — this one's anxiety (her job at the office might get cut, her ex-husband owes her child support, and her daughter is about to turn thirteen), and that one's pain (there's rain in the future; his bad knee is giving him fits again); here, a depression (…and, really, what is the point of everything when no one likes her anyway? She can't connect with anybody because she's terrified they're judging her, and the meds don't work, and she's convinced that her psychiatrist is telling everyone she knows about why she took those two weeks off last fall — it's not a long walk to the bridge, and she could get some rocks, just like Virginia Woolf…), and there, an arousal (Oh, that blue-eyed man in the trench-coat looks like such a sub. Have I seen him at the club before?)… But as he pounds down the sidewalk and tries to get away, all he finds are new voices to hear and new emotions to ripple through his chest and down his limbs — They tingle, these feelings, and they make his muscles quake…
But he can keep on. He must keep on — the stench of demons and their Revelation omens reeks through the city streets, creeping around the buildings and through the alleyways — he passes by parks and office buildings, by mothers and fathers and grandparents and aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, children — Castiel sees one woman, recently vacated by her demonic host, and he wonders what lies beneath the playful smirk on her face — can she tell that he's an angel, or that he was until the sigil banished him as well? Perhaps it doesn't matter, he tries to tell himself, his steps fevered as he rounds a corner — he's a few blocks off from the bus station, yet, and any time now, Sam and Dean will be going up against a Horseman without anyone's assistance, and everyone he passes by is someone or another's relative, just like those brothers and their notions of saving this planet…
There's a power in the family, one he feels low inside his chest, a warmth that keeps him walking, even though his legs quake as he does so — he tries to reach out to Jimmy, to get some input from his human host on whether or not it's normal to feel such a twisting in his chest when he sees a lonely girl, with streams of tears drying on her face and a hornet's nest of poison thoughts about how some boyfriend was supposed to love her forever, and how she gave him everything, even her virginity. Jimmy tells him nothing, and his presence, for the first time that Castiel can notice, isn't where it's meant to be, in the back of Castiel's mind, whispering bits of understanding at him… Castiel swallows thickly, and keeps going toward the bus depot. Even if he's without his powers, and even if, when he ducks between two buildings and, out of sight, he tries to spread his wings, they only creak and collapse back into him, he needs to be there for those two boys and their reckless crusade — his Father's fragile creations get such notions in their head, and none of the hearts that scream their secrets in Castiel's ears come close to rivaling the ones he's seen within the Winchesters — those hearts that pound with one conviction only: that the world is in trouble and that, so help them, they will put it right.
As he pounds up the steps into the station, Castiel has no idea what's in store for him — echoes from the circus of thoughts bombard him, but they only seem to buzz within his ears in what he imagines is a purposefully irritating fashion. But then he storms through this new set of doors, into the air conditioned, high-ceilinged room with the marble floors, and he hears everything these people think — the pain shoots through him with the force of an explosion — He winces, and grabs at the bridge of his nose, trying to give himself something else to focus on. It doesn't work — all his muscles twitch, convulse; his knees wobble and finally give out underneath him, and trying not to scream, Castiel collapses on the ground. Some people run towards him, crying out for help and 911, but he doesn't hear them for long before the world around him goes black. His last thought is that not a bit of this makes sense… Why can he hear their thoughts and feel all of what they do when his wings don't even work?
The first thing Castiel sees when he comes to is the bright, sterile light that dangles overhead, and he thinks he must be in the hospital again — except for the fact that, wherever he is, it smells of shrimp and holy oil — and the fact that the light sparks briefly, just before it shatters — and were that not enough, he isn't in a bed, but rather on a floor somewhere, with his head in someone's lap. For a moment, as he waits for his sight to correct itself and focus properly, Castiel does not question whose — he feels a chill as a set of fingers strokes up his face, but the accompanying wrongness ebbs away because the sensation of something other than heat, and humidity, and all those people's thoughts is a welcome one. It's quiet here, wherever he is, and the cold hand on his face even starts to feel comforting until he hears the voice start speaking:
"The answer is simple, little brother," it says in a smooth timbre that Castiel wishes his didn't recognize — one that makes him flinch again, and think of fire, of imprisonment, of the burning need to do harm in the name of what is good and right — even as he shivers underneath the iciness that lands in the bottom of his stomach. "Your telepathy has stayed, and started working in ways you did not expect, because you've let yourself become attached to these filthy humans… these meat puppets."
He sees Lucifer clearly now, and the shadow of his Grace that radiates around his temporary vessel, the only source of light around them for the time being — the one with the dirty blonde hair and the bright blue eyes, and the angry red marks all across his face, places where the Grace he contains has burned him when it's tried escaping. The light coming off the archangel does not drown out the shadows that surround them, but instead, just makes them seem that much darker. Before he can pause to consider this argument, Castiel raises an arm and jams his elbow into Lucifer's thigh; the archangel only gives him a pensive hum in return. "You shouldn't call them that," he snaps, hating the quiver in his voice the same way that he hates the Morningstar and what he's done to this planet. "They understand more than you ever could."
Lucifer tuts and shakes his head; the backs of his fingers, as he traces them down Castiel's face, feel like encroaching glaciers. "They don't even understand how to save themselves… and the ones who do, don't bother." This statement tapers off, lingering in the air between them with an unspoken threat that Castiel can't fathom; as he tries to piece together what the Morningstar might want, Castiel makes himself oblivious to the archangel's motions, to the fact that Lucifer shifts his legs, and moves Castiel around with one arm wrapped across his shoulders' front — he doesn't notice this until he leans into his elder brother's chest and moans at their sudden proximity, at the feeling of Lucifer's breath against the back of his neck. "…But, then, I suppose you must empathize with that condition, don't you, Castiel? You've known how to save yourself for months now and yet, you refuse."
"Because I know what you are," Castiel protests, trying to grunt instead of moan again, struggling against Lucifer's caress and only getting the other arm holding him to his brother. Even so, he writhes and bucks his shoulders — and the archangel gives him no leeway, just a gentle, frozen kiss on the side of his neck. "You're a monster, Lucifer, and the Winchesters will destroy you. I'll see it done or die before I even think about joining you."
"You think you're so righteous," the archangel says in a whisper whose tenderness shakes Castiel's bones and makes all his feathers tremble with the threat of falling off. "That indignation is a good start… I'll need it in the angels who stand with me at the end. But…" One arm leaves Castiel's shoulders behind, its hand running down his chest (and the Siberian freeze that accompanies the touch nips at Castiel's skin, even through his shirt), coming to a rest on Castiel's thigh, where it rubs the muscle with an expert eye for where the tension is; as much as he knows that this is wrong, that this is his brother and that he wants to destroy everything their Father stands for, a moan escapes Castiel's lips and he feels himself melting into Lucifer's embrace. "You brought up joining me before I did. It was nagging at you, lurking around the back of your mind… waiting for you to acknowledge it."
Castiel mutters, "No… No," a whine coming into his voice as, once again, he attempts to get away — but Lucifer's too strong for him, and as the archangel's hand rubs against the front of his trousers, Castiel feels the body react, the erection harden.
Lucifer's hand gets the fly open and worms its way into Castiel's pants; he wraps his fingers tight around Castiel's dick and works up and down the length. Brushing his lips up the back of Castiel's neck, through his hair, and against the rim of his ear, Lucifer does not stop his stroking, not even when Castiel trembles and shakes underneath his hold — "Brother, this would be so much easier," he says, "if you would just admit how much you want it."
Castiel does not try to get away again — but he brings one hand up to meet Lucifer's — and he grunts, and digs his blunt nails into the back of it until he feels the archangel's blood beneath them. "You're wrong," he tells his older brother through gritted teeth. "And I'll never join you."
With a jerk of his wrist, Lucifer brings Castiel to climax — quickly, far too quickly — the scars on his chest throb and his heart beats like a twenty-one gun salute, blood pulsing through him as though it needs to shove its way to its destination — the ejaculate sticks to Lucifer's hand and all over Castiel's front. "Go get on your bus, Castiel," Lucifer instructs him. "I'll see you soon."
And before Castiel can respond, Lucifer disappears in a rush of rustling feathers.