Summary: It's 2011, and the Angels are leaving. Castiel is left behind.
Warnings: Drug use, spoilers for events referenced in 5.04
Characters: Castiel, Michael, Dean
Notes: For my hc_bingo card from Livejournal: the prompt was "Fallen Angels."
Disclaimer: I do not own SPN. The title is a reference to the very good Pink Floyd song of the same name.
Smoke curls up from the crudely-made joint and lingers in the frigid December night air for a few seconds before vanishing to some place unperceivable by the human eye. It leaves behind a light, herbal scent that Castiel knows will linger on long after he's breathed in the last curl of smoke or watched it dissipate into the night. He can rub the ashes in his fingers and crumble them down to something finer than dust, but that smell, dizzying and intoxicating and calming, will remain clinging to him and to the air, in places beyond his reach. It always does.
And if he can smell it, then Dean probably will be able to, too. He won't be very happy about it; would actually probably be furious if he found out that Castiel was smoking when he was supposed to be patrolling around the lake, but that's a risk he'll willingly accept. There isn't much Dean will do except shout and maybe threaten to turn him away from Camp Chitaqua, if he's in that sort of mood.
He'll never follow through on that, of course. Others have done worse things than getting high when they're on duty, and he's never turned them over to the Croats. Either Dean lacks the courage to punish justly, or he honestly doesn't care as much as he makes out to. Castiel has yet to be out of his head enough to ask him.
He breathes in and enjoys the gentle rush as it fills his senses. Dean doesn't understand: he needs this; needs it to fill him in the places where his Grace once was, needs it to keep him from thinking about all that he lost or is losing, as what remains of the Heavenly essence he once carried in abundance fades away, like smoke or breath in the freezing air.
And he isn't foolish enough to be smoking it when he's somewhere important (this hardly counts: the Croats aren't intelligent enough to take a boat and cross the lake, and there are half a dozen other people patrolling through the forests that begin where the short, rocky stretch of shore ends. He's only here because Dean refuses to let him stay in and do as he pleases all day; insists that he needs to somehow contribute to the ongoing fight, despite his diminished abilities.)
Really, he barely ever complains about being given this fool's job, even though he knows that it symbolizes Dean's lack of trust in him. It's quiet here, and the night is clear. The stars sparkle endlessly above him in an almost hypnotic way, reflected in the lake as it extends out before him. It is a place that radiates peace at nighttime, and it's such a convincing illusion that he almost believes it.
And here, he can stretch his abilities without anyone seeing him. Here, he can find out the exact measures of his not-so-distant limitations.
A week ago, he could still heal a small scrape, inflicted upon his hand with one of the many sharp rocks lying on the shore. Now, he can't even do that.
It's been a year since Sam went to Detroit, since the virus went international, and since he's heard from his Siblings. Somehow, he doesn't think that the three things are unrelated.
The joint has almost burned out, ashes to ashes, and he digs around in his jeans' pockets and finds another. The coat he wore for so long was burned a few months ago -splattered with Croat blood- and he's yet to get another, so he's taken to carrying around the lighter and handmade cigarettes next to where his gun is tucked in his belt. It's cold, but he doesn't mind. He doesn't feel it so much when he's in this heightened state of mind. Physical being doesn't matter.
It reminds him of flying, to some degree, and is the closest replication of it that he's been able to find. Castiel doesn't regret the first time he tried it; choked on the smoke like a child taking his first breath. He's come too far for regrets.
There's a rustle behind him just as he's about to light the second joint of the night, and he jumps up, drops the lighter and spins around, hand going instantly to his gun.
"You have fallen far, brother," says the figure standing several meters in front of him, and before he can react the gun is yanked out of his hand by a force he can't see.
He identifies the figure, tries to deny it, and knows that it's true. "Michael."
"Castiel." Adam Winchester's voice is calm and emotionless, not the fury that he would expect to be unleashed upon him, a sinner and deserter.
"If you've come to kill me…" he trails off, not sure how to complete the statement. Does he welcome death? This life holds nothing, not now, but what appeal does nonexistence have? "Don't drag it out," he finishes, knowing how foolish he sounds.
"Kill you? No, Castiel. What good would that do? I wouldn't even have any satisfaction, not anymore." He looks at him, and even in the dark Castiel can see pity in his eyes and sense it with the last bit of Grace he has, and it makes him ashamed and furious.
"Then why are you here? To kill Dean? Or the Prophet, maybe." For all the good that that would do –he knows, and so Michael must as well, that the Prophet has seen nothing since the first thousand victims made themselves known.
"We don't need either of them. Their deaths would, perhaps, offer some of the Host satisfaction, but you know what would be waiting for them at the other end. Life is a much crueler punishment, isn't it?"
Castiel has no response for that, or at least none that he can think of in this state of mind: he's still coherent enough to know what's going on and to speak in what he's fairly sure isn't a slurred voice, but the world seems to be moving slower than it should be. It isn't enough, though: he doesn't want to know what's going on; doesn't want to want to know why Michael has come.
He does, though, because curiosity is an instinctive human desire, and really, he's not much more than a human now. "Then why?"
Michael is silent for a moment before he replies, "For the sake of finality."
"So you are killing me."
"No. You turned on us. You left Heaven when we needed you most. For that, you don't deserve death."
"Then why are you here?" He's getting sick of asking his brother that, but even now he knows not to express his irritation out-loud; not if he doesn't want to repeat the punishment Raphael bestowed upon him.
"Because we are leaving, and you're too strong to not be dealt with."
The first part of his statement doesn't even register at first. "'Too strong?' You think I'm too strong? What am I to you?"
"You're a fallen Angel, whose Grace has not fully depleted." Michael's gaze is unwavering, as if he's trying to see how Castiel will react.
Only the last of his restraint is keeping him from stepping forward and driving his fist into Adam Winchester's face, and that's when he realizes the words that the Archangel previously said. "And leaving? Aren't you already gone?"
"We have been... watching," replies the Angel. "Observing, without interference. And we have concluded..."
"What?" Michael seems hesitant to speak, but he wants to know -has to know.
"That this is a lost cause. I have no vessel –you can tell, of course, Castiel, that this is simply an aspect." He waves his –Adam's?- hands over his body. "Something to disguise my true form for a few minutes, to remain... inconspicuous. It's not a vessel."
He hadn't been able to tell that, actually, even though it should have been obvious. He doesn't call attention to his lack of observational skills, though. "Then why don't you get one? Dean… Dean would be willing." The words hurt to say and taste like bile in his mouth, but he knows that they are true: after everything he gave up –after everything Dean gave up- he'd say "Yes" without having to think about it these days.
What's more, and what pains him the most to admit, is that it would be the best thing for all of them.
"It's too late."
"So you're just leaving. Heading to a different world, and giving Lucifer this one? You cowards."
He sees the anger flare upon Michael's face, even in the all-encompassing dark. "It is wisdom, not cowardice. This is no longer a war that will end with the desired prize, so why should we continue to fight it?"
"For the sake of the ones that have held out?"
Michael laughs with the same bitterness that Castiel feels every day that he wakes up, Graceless and hungover. "This was never about them. Do you really think that we'd waste our energy -our lives- now? There are better prospects out there."
"Then why haven't you left already?"
"Haven't we? Castiel, when was the last time you felt any sort of call from us? When was the last time that your resident Prophet had a vision? I am the last Angel on Earth who still serves Heaven. The rest have gone already."
"Where to?" This is the chosen world, the one upon which Paradise was to be brought –but of course, nothing ever seems to go according to the Plan.
"To greener fields," replies Michael, "And I will be going with them shortly. But first…" he steps forwards and Castiel tries to back away, but Michael is faster than him and grips his shoulder with one hand and presses the other to his chest.
Castiel cries out as a sensation like flame beneath his ribs fills his chest and then travels through his blood, burning him from the inside without leaving a stray mark. His head jerks back and only Michael's hand keeps him from falling to the rocky shore.
It lasts for less than a minute, he thinks, and the pain is gone as soon as Michael pulls his hand from his chest and places it on his other shoulder to steady him, but something else is different.
"I am sorry," his brother admits. "Even after everything that you've done, it pains me to have to remove your Grace, but I couldn't leave you here unsupervised, with access to Heaven, as minimal as it might have been."
"You didn't have to," gasps Castiel, and he grips Michael's arm and stares into his face, finds a trace of sympathy and tries to focus on it. "Please. If you took it, you can restore it…"
"I won't. You lost your right to consider yourself an Angel of the Lord long ago," says Michael in an almost chiding voice, "And you long ago made the choice to call Earth your home, and the Humans your people. You brought this upon yourself, my former brother."
"I take it back," he begs, feeling the void within him. Where fragile strands of Grace once clung to him, promising him that as long as he could feel them he would still be an Angel, there is nothing. This is emptiness too complete for drugs or physical pleasures to fill. This is the absence of something that was always, doubtlessly a part of him. It is an amputation of soul far more than it is of limb or appendage.
"It's too late for that," says Michael as he gently lowers him to the rocky shore, and then straightens. Castiel sees a gentle bluish glow begin to intensify around the edges of Michael's form, and he realizes that he needs to shield his eyes. For the first time, he cannot look upon his siblings as they truly are.
Michael disappears in a blaze of glory as Castiel cowers on the bed of stones, and as if his Grace were all that had been sustaining him, he finds that he cannot muster the will to get to his feet and continue on with the night, so he just stays in that position, alone and Human, as the night continues its slow transformation to morning.