Supernatural and its associated characters belong to Eric Kripke (lucky duck!)

Author's Note: So I've been playing with the idea for this fic for a while and after I spent a few long afternoons puzzling things out with my beta and e-twin, QuettaRaiths, I completed this first chapter...which I give now to you. Enjoy.


Castiel is not there to see it, and in this above all things he finds shame.

He's not there when Dean gasps out a yes as cancer eats at his belly and blood dribbles down his chin onto Sam's blue cheek, desperate to save his brother and end the agony. He's not there when Zachariah places a hand on Dean Winchester's forehead, spreading his stone-coloured wings with no regard for Sam's wide, dying eyes. He's not there when Michael rockets into the mortal plane, heat lightning and blindness crackling in his wake as he responds to his brother's victorious call. He doesn't hear Dean's choked scream as the archangel slams into him with all the mercy and gentility of a freight train, too eager to claim his vessel to waste time with formalities. He doesn't taste the desperation as Dean fights the Warrior of God for custody of his most prized possession, nor see the moment when his soul is thrust away from its windows on the world and the body becomes Michael.

No, Castiel arrives to see all that is left of Dean Winchester fall to his knees as Michael shifts under flesh and blood and bone and leaves no room for the tiny human soul... he can hear its cries in the depths of his grace, raw and frightened and PleaseGodno. And he drops with a hollow thud and all of Heaven tickles the edges of his consciousness, holding its breath and waiting for Michael while Castiel weeps (silently) for Sam and Dean and suffering yet to come.

Light begins a slow burn through his eyelids, lush pinks and oranges, as Michael unfurls his wings for the first time and Zachariah joins Castiel on the floor and the smaller angel chokes on the bitter smell of blood. His shoulderblades ache where his wings press into the skin, Jimmy's body recalling with perfect and unwanted clarity the pain of its first time; it will be worse for Dean, much worse, since God gave Michael such beautiful wings...he looks up through his eyelashes and sees the great span, the feathers all the prettiest shade of dove-grey and stretching out behind tight shoulders and carefully crafted torso. And he falls in love for the first time (but he doesn't realize it then), gets to his feet and walks past--or maybe through-- Zachariah, places a hand over Dean's bicep and feels it slide perfectly into place over his mark. Michael takes note of his presence for the first time and slowly folds in his wings, tucking the raw power of his essence away behind laughing Winchester eyes.

"Castiel," he murmurs. It is Dean's voice, still, underpinned by the velvet rumble of thunder and fire, and Castiel's ears bleed at the sound. "It has been a long while since we met last, brother."

"Michael." Castiel whispers, pressing his fingertips into the tender flesh of his mark and watching Dean flicker behind the stone mask of an angel's face.

His elder brother smiles a smile that is meant to be warm but breaks oddly on his lips, and kisses him gently and full on the mouth. It is a sweet, chaste moment that tastes of Dean and Castiel and the words they never had time to say; in his moment Castiel learns that heartbreak is not just a human expression. He is shoved to the side by thick, wrinkled hands and the younger Angel likes to think that Michael doesn't kiss Zachariah as sweetly, that Dean's loathing is strong enough to affect Michael's own mannerisms. Because that would mean that he is still present, still fighting... that when this is over and his body has served its purpose, Castiel can ask to have him back.

Sam is revived when Michael finished with Zachariah, his soft eyes (full of hope and worry) sliding in and out of focus... and fall on his brother's body, standing shoulder to shoulder with the angels, his palm full of light, and the hope fizzles out.

"Oh God," he gasps, scrubbing Dean's blood off his cheek and pitching forward like he's trying to regain his balance. Or maybe he's about to be sick' the room is thick with the smell of ozone and steel and even Jimmy's experienced stomach is churning. "Oh no, Dean..."

And then Castiel throws up on the floor in front of Michael, and Sam is the one to struggle over and wrap long arms around his shoulders as he gags and chokes under the weight of Dean's extermination. He can taste illness on Sam's breath too and eases out his ebony wings, gets them both as far away as possible as quickly as he can while he spits and bile splatters his shirtfront; Dean's blood is on the walls.

Castiel! Michael's voice echoes in his head, long after he feels the familiar itch of Bobby Singer's scrubby carpet against his knees, throbbing through space and time and bone and muscle and each plane on which the angels exist. I will come for you, brother. You still have a part to play in this.

The Angel slumps forward onto the floor, feels Sam's hands at his shoulders and the frantic jumble of human voices, and he has never prayed for his Father to sweep him into Oblivion as fervently as he prays in that moment.


End o' Chapter One...

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