"You know, I disobeyed once. Nothing big, not like you…but I did."

Castiel cut his eyes to the forlorn-looking man who had just spoken. He was slumped over the end of the bar, elbows framing a glass of beer that seemed to have gone almost untouched, even though Cas was pretty sure he'd been sitting there for a good half hour. Not that he'd been paying much attention; he was far too busy watching Dean hustle a couple of biker types at pool. Now though, he narrowed his eyes and gave the man—clearly more than he seemed—a good once-over.

He was a little on the pudgy side, with a soft round face and a little beard that made him look scruffy without actually aging him any. He stared at his beer like it held the answers to the universe, and Cas felt an ache of sympathy accompanied by a sharp stab of guilt. He knew he was looking at one of his many fallen brothers and, if his first words were to be believed, he knew exactly who Castiel was.

He slid over, keeping one empty bar stool between himself and the unknown former angel, wary and yet intrigued. The man didn't seem belligerent at all, just sad. And apparently also an angel who didn't always follow his orders. Castiel wondered if this was one of the many who rebelled with him against Raphael.

"Tell me," he said in a low voice, not threatening so much as discreet. The man looked up at him then, vacant hazel locking onto curious blue. Castiel thought suddenly that he looked oddly familiar, but his sluggish human brain wouldn't dredge up the image and connect the dots.

"I was given a match, and I didn't make it," the man whispered, ashamed.

He's a cupid, Castiel realized, and he relaxed immediately. Cupids were a lower order of angels, and not given to violence. They simply weren't built for it. The wariness dissolved, morphed into pity; here was a mere child, innocent of the machinations of the archangels and probably a victim of Naomi's mind control himself, whose existence had been dedicated to helping lonely humans find companionship and love. And yet he was thrown from the only home he knew, stripped of his life's purpose and cast defenseless into the dark, confusing, all-too-loveless world to make his own way.

Not for the first time, Castiel felt a hatred he didn't like to think he was capable of well up in his stomach until he could taste it in the back of his throat. Metatron was as bad as Michael, Lucifer, or Raphael, and one day—one way or another—he would share their fate.

"I had a lot of matches to make. It was Valentine's Day," the cupid offered as if he were hinting at something, and alarm bells went off in Castiel's mind. He looked harder, trying to see through the fog of humanity gathering closer around him every day. He saw this man once before, only…less beard. And less clothing. Castiel's eyes went wide.

"You're the cupid we met in Sioux Falls."

The man toasted him half-heartedly, with a bitter little smile that shouldn't belong to him. A disillusioned cupid is a true tragedy, Castiel thought.

"Got it in one."

"You made many matches that day. How did you disobey orders?"

"Like I said…there was a match I was s'posed to make. I didn't make it."

Castiel was silent. The alarm bells were still going off, and a pit of dread was sitting heavy in his stomach. He was afraid to ask. Luckily, the cupid didn't make him.

"Funny thing…I didn't really need to do anything anyway. They were already in love, although I don't think either of them knew it yet. I could've helped them along, but any idiot could see where they were headed. And after meeting them, I got the impression—" here he rubbed his jaw rather pointedly—"that they wouldn't appreciate the assistance. So I left 'em alone."

Castiel turned on his bar stool to gaze across the dimly-lit room. Dean was counting his winnings, shuffling through the stack of bills quickly and efficiently. He looked up, caught Castiel's eye, and smiled. It was a real smile, soft-eyed and genuinely happy. It faded into a wicked smirk as he waved the handful of money and waggled his eyebrows. Castiel grunted a laugh and rolled his eyes, unable to keep his own mouth from twitching up at the corners. Sometimes he felt like he'd assigned himself to babysit an overgrown kid, but he was also—against all odds, and not without some measure of what Sam called survivor's guilt—happy. It wasn't perfect, and it certainly wasn't easy…but it was theirs. Their one choice among many that wasn't guided by some divine, all-seeing hand, and it was good.

He imagined how it would feel to find out that the life he'd made for himself had actually been more of Heaven's hands in his mind and heart, guiding him to his destiny. He imagined how Dean would feel.

Cas slid off his seat, slipping a twenty from his wallet and sticking it under his glass. He pried his eyes away from Dean just long enough to nod at the sad man sitting next to him as he folded his wallet and stuffed it back into the pocket of his jeans.

"Thank you," he said sincerely. It felt too small, but it was all he could offer for now.

As he made his way toward where Dean was already waiting at the door, he promised himself yet again that he would not stop until Metatron had paid for his sins. And, thanks in part to a rare angel who knew when to leave well enough alone, he wouldn't take that journey alone.

Author's Note: So in between working on getting the next chapter of The Bee Charmer written and more of that story's details plotted out, this happened somehow. It's not very polished, but it grabbed my head and wouldn't let go.