"I am not your father."

The words were not meant to be cruel. They were simply a statement of fact: the human Jimmy Novak was now gone, nestled—if not comfortably, then at least safely—away in his own subconscious, the angel Castiel in his place. The angel's essence, blinding white as heaven itself, had penetrated Jimmy, become Jimmy. Every tendon, every muscle, every nerve of the man had been infiltrated, miniscule fibers of light searching and twisting until Novak had become imbued with Castiel's Grace. And so a good soldier had been put in the place of a good father.

Castiel had not possessed a human in over two-thousand years, and so even his first breath—the feeling of the autumn air, sharp in its low temperature, sliding down his throat into the tiny sacks which swelled and filled this body's, his body's, lungs—had been nearly overwhelming. Overwhelming not because of the cold, but because of the incredible beauty of the process. His eyes had flickered from side to side as they focused; the dimness of the night and what those eyes could process from it was refreshing. In heaven his people had lived nearly destitute of vision, the impenetrable light everywhere to keep those unworthy from seeing their Father's face (as some said), forcing them to rely on hearing, smell, and touch to recognize one another. Castiel had lifted his hand before his eyes, gradually curling his fingers into a fist before opening them just as slowly, relishing how the skin creased and smoothed itself out again with perfect flexibility. His Father had created many things, ugly and beautiful, and the humans were truly works of art.

Somewhere a deep, staccato cry had begun to sound. Behind him a door had opened with a short squeak; light footsteps had begun and abruptly stopped.

Claire. The softest sigh, the wind carrying a thousand whispering voices, traversed his mind like the gentlest breeze. More than one of those humans, those special humans who could perceive his true visage, had told him his voice sounded like that: a sweet vapor bearing a constant murmur. How ironic it was for him to hear a human speak his own tongue back to him. Claire. The name was wistful: the source knew the sound of those footsteps and longed to meet them with his own. Claire.

Be careful, Jimmy Novak. I told you that the task I would set before you would be painful. I am sorry, but it will be safer for you if you do not intercede.

"Daddy?"

He had flinched at the hesitance in that high voice; no human, no child, should fear one of his people, unless that human had done great wrong. He had turned, brow knitted, and a knot had formed in his stomach as he stared at the girl. She was no more than twelve, her hair long and pale in contrast with his body's shorter, dark strands, but their blue irises were the same. Color! So varied, so different from the plain brilliance he had been subjected to for millennia. He hadn't care that at this distance he couldn't see the individual strands in her sweater; all that mattered was that he could perceive its deep shade of cerulean. The pastel yellow of her blouse seemed to glow faintly in the darkness. She had no idea how grateful she should be for the opportunity to be surrounded by such hues every second of her life—and then he had turned away, and with five simple, five complex words he had taken some of that beauty away from her. He had been forced to do it, because it was better for Jimmy, better for Claire, better for himself. Because he hadn't been able to discern whether the desire to give her one last hug, to tell her everything would be okay even when it probably would not, had been Jimmy's or his own.

Claire...

Uriel would have said that mud monkeys—even now, after hearing the moniker for hundreds of thousands of years, Castiel still cringed at its derogatory implications—didn't deserve to be comforted. Uriel would have said that he and his brethren served heaven, not insignificant, emotional pinpricks who couldn't look a problem in the face without running to their Father for guidance first. Uriel, whatever he said, would have come dangerously close to blasphemy, as usual. But Uriel wasn't here.

Now he followed the sidewalk, unconsciously seeking the point of origin for the first sound he had heard in this body as he pondered how to go about telling Dean Winchester that their Father had work for him. In heaven his people didn't do a great deal of walking—flight was usually the best method of travel anywhere, really—but Castiel now felt a small degree of pleasure in literally stretching his legs after so long, in feeling the muscles grow taut and loose again respectively as he advanced, in feeling his heart pulsing with his casual stride, even in feeling the tails of Jimmy's beige trench coat flapping gently behind his knees. Perhaps someday he could walk to a cathedral—watch the devout kneel in worship, smell the incense, see the light bend into a gloriously wide array of colors as it passed through the stained-glass windows... Yes, he would certainly take advantage of the opportunity if it arose.

He found the dog lying in the middle of a lawn overgrown and crowded with weeds; it scrambled to its feet, a muted growl in its throat, as he approached. Most animals seemed to mistrust possessed humans; one of Castiel's theories was that the occupied still smelled human, but the scent was affected, changed, as though diseased. Or perhaps the creatures carried another sense within themselves, one that permitted them knowledge of the supernatural? Millennia of existence hadn't taught Castiel everything, he recognized that, and being as low in the system of angelic hierarchy as he was had not granted him the ability to go before his Father and ask Him such questions. For Castiel did have many questions, and many doubts.

Cas-Castiel, I don't think we should—

The angel found a few small pieces of saliva-basted kibble in the grass and held them out to the dog flat-palmed; the animal sniffed at them before pressing its soft, wet muzzle into his hand and devouring them in one swallow with a great schlop-pingnoise. Castiel found a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth: there would have been a great many fewer wars if humans could be so simply appeased. Relief sighed through his head; a phantom tension in his shoulders evaporated; a second heartbeat slowed.

It was a massive animal, muscular and as high as his waist. Its coat was rough and long, feathering off the wagging tail and the backs of the legs, large brown patches on the white fur. He stroked the broad, dark head, the triangular, flopping ears, the black blotches on the wide, brown face and the white stripe between them; he relished in the soft textures of the fur here. This was certainly another of his Father's more aesthetically pleasing achievements.

The glint of metal caught his eye and he reached under the dog's neck, cupping the small tag attached to the large leather collar in his palm: Kalah. "Shalom, Kalah," murmured the angel—and the dog jerked its head to the side as it began to bark at a passing car. Loud music—if that was what it was—shrieked from the small, dark green vehicle as it sped down the street. Exhaust fumes assaulted the nostrils of both angel and dog; the former's eyes watered and the latter sneezed.

"You! Get away from my dog!"

Castiel watched the man stagger out of the small house toward him. A few silver hairs sprouted from the man's shiny pate; his sweatshirt and jeans were ragged, and like his home were so faded that determining their original colors was nearly impossible. A black yarmulke was crumpled in one hand; the other clutched the neck of a small brown bottle with sweating fingertips.

The ghost of tension was back. Oh, oh God, I don't like confron—

"You!" the man began again in slurred Yiddish, "Are you deaf, you bastard? Get away from my dog!"

Castiel pressed two fingertips against the drunk's forehead. Holy energy flowed outward from his core, pale threads searching once more, through his shoulder, down his arm, and into the man's brain amidst a chorus of whispers. A groaning sigh passed from the man's lips as his eyes rolled up and he crumpled to the earth.

Another thunderous bark caught the angel's attention; the dog was standing beside a large hole Castiel had previously failed to notice—a large hole that was filled with variously-colored bottles.

The angel felt the corners of his mouth lift once more. He took the bottle from the man's hand and dropped it into the hole; the sound of glass clinking together was pleasing to his ears. "Good boy," he murmured, rubbing the crown of the dog's head—and when he turned to follow the disruptive green vehicle deeper into town, the animal followed.

Castiel turned back around to face the dog, his gaze piercing. "Go home." He could use the company, but in the long run it would be safer for the animal if it kept its distance.

The dog sank down beside its master and uttered a long sigh...

The stoplight ascended from green... to yellow... to red.

The angel stood at the corner of a busy intersection, struggling to prevent his jaw from dropping. So much had changed since he had last been stationed on Earth. The buildings were taller, in shapes and sizes of increasing complexity; even the houses were made of different materials. Mirrors had been fashioned from bronze, silver, tin—even gold—during his most recent stay here, and so the glass now used had hardly surprised him; he had long been intrigued—and impressed—by the creativity possessed by these of his Father's creatures.

The stoplight descended to green.

"Hey, stranger."

Castiel pivoted rapidly to face the voice, and blinked rapidly, abruptly not trusting his newly-regained sense of sight.

A woman stood in the gray alleyway a few feet behind him, balanced precariously on stiletto-heeled pumps that might have once been white. A few inches of very pale thigh peeked out from where black fishnet stockings ended and a very short leather skirt of the same hue began. The sequins on her deep green, long-sleeve blouse glittered in the light of a nearby streetlamp; the first few buttons were undone, baring a nearly translucent brassiere of black lace. Her hair was long and curly, but what struck him most about it was that the locks tumbling about her shoulders were a violent shade of orange he thought he had quite possibly never seen before. Her heavily-made-up eyes were the same color as her blouse; the paint covering her lips was such a deep red, at first he had thought they were bleeding.

She advanced upon him, pouting. "What's the matter, sugar? Don't like the makeup? It's new," she purred, grasping his tie just below the knot and letting her hand slide gradually down its length. "Of course," she continued, curling her fingers around the front of his belt as she backed him into the side of a building, "it's not to everyone's taste, you're absolutely right. Gives me an excuse to go shopping tomorrow."

The angel stared at her, at the grin that was suddenly, alarmingly large, and although the chill that ascended his spine was both his and Jimmy's, Castiel's face remained stoic.

Castiel...?

Have faith.

She dragged her long nails, painted to match her lips, down the front of his shirt. "In the meantime... we can spend the night together... for a small fee." Her breath tickled the hair by his ear. "Let me see your true form, and we'll skip the cash."

The angel gripped the woman's shoulders and shoved her away from him; her head smacked against the brick of the opposing wall, and she crumpled to the ground. She sat up a few seconds later, groaning and pressing a grit-covered palm to her scalp. "What the fuck...?"

But the angel was already rounding the corner.

The stoplight was red once more.

What happened back there, Cas? Why'd you do that to her?

The angel's lips compressed into a thin line. She... startled me.

Jimmy's silence was almost of agreement. You weren't about to let her... have sex... with you... me... us, were you?

No.

She said she could see your true form... does that mean it's in her blood, like it's in mine? Is she... special?

Yes.

How are people chosen for that? Besides genetics, I mean. Did it begin with Adam, or later on in Creation, or earlier?

Castiel stopped walking and closed his eyes for a moment before resuming again. I... don't know.

Jimmy seemed to have no answer to that, and for this Castiel was grateful—but then a scream rent the sudden peace in two.

A rush of powerful ebony wings brought the angel to the scene of distress; that it was a crossroads was almost to be expected.

Inside him, Jimmy was shivering uncontrollably, overcome by a cold sweat and nausea. But Castiel had warned him of the effects of angelic flight on those possessed. They could not be prevented.

A pregnant girl lay in the yarrow flowers lining the grassy angle in front of a decrepit bar, bloody hands tangled in her long dark hair, screaming as three large, shadowy, dog-like figures—Hellhounds—tore into her legs, neck and shoulders. More blood from the wounds pooled in the dirt and soaked the lower half of her dress.

The silver-haired demon stood a few feet away from her, hands resting comfortably in the pockets of his dark suit, grin broad as he watched the defiling of her flesh, appearing to be completely unaware of the angel standing right behind him. "What's the matter? Wasn't my fault you couldn't get knocked up until five months before your debt was due to be paid. If you'd wanted to have the baby before your time was up, you should've tacked that onto the end of your request, you stupid bitch!" The smirk deepened. "The missus will be glad you didn't. She has a certain... taste for the innocent, you might say."

"I think the missus will be disappointed."

The demon whirled around, mouth opening in a command—

Energy was flowing even before Castiel pressed his palm to the demon's forehead. Light burst from the hell-spawn's eyes and mouth as the sockets were charred. The corpse fell at the angel's feet, and the Hellhounds disappeared.

The angel rose in a flurry of night-born feathers, not bothering to check the woman's body. She was dead, the oils of her painting blurred together in a weeping mess, and she was Hell's property now.

The encounter had reminded Castiel of his purpose in possessing Jimmy Novak, one he should not have procrastinated upon.

But he could not ignore how commonplace, how routine, sending demons from Earth back to Hell had seemed to become for his people...

Nothing could have prepared Castiel for this moment. In his true form, he had tracked Dean Winchester's progress as he reclaimed his friends and family after his time in Hell. He had found Dean unable to comprehend his true speech; unable to see his true face. Dean had shot him just moments ago. Twice. And yet...

And yet he could not tear his eyes from Dean's brown ones. When he inhaled, it was leather, oil, sex, freshly-baked pie—Dean that he smelled, Dean that he took into his lungs. Dean that made him sweat, Dean that increased the rate of his beating heart, Dean that made him bite his lip and his brow contract as he stared at the man who had begun the end of the world.

How could he have possibly been distracted from finding him?

"Who are you?"

The question was inevitable, and Castiel had drawn many answers from its prediction. The one he gave was the one most intended; Dean Winchester deserved nothing less.

"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."

Author's Note: The word "kalah" means "vessel" in Hebrew (from which the Yiddish language was partly born). "Shalom" was a common Hebrew greeting, similar to the English "Hello." I speak neither language, and I apologize to those who do if the results of my research are incorrect.