Because you requested it, and because we both know I'd prioritize Destiel over chicken no matter what, even if the Croatoan virus infected everyone and chicken was more important than toilet paper.
Castiel awoke painfully, his limbs screaming in protest to his awkward position on the cold forest floor. Despite his acclimation to mundane pain, the angel fought to restrain a pained gasp, his throat stinging painfully in retaliation, and he carefully maneuvered his body into a slightly less uncomfortable position.
His stolen grace proved far more toxic than humanity ever was, though heaven decreed the severity of falling substantially greater than theft, even if it was another's grace.
His mind ached though his body's pain gradually subsided, fading into a dull throbbing, a light drumbeat to his scattered memories. Faintly, he remembered Gabriel, their brief car ride, and their gas stop turned nightmare. Castiel's heart sank as he realized that the archangel hadn't truly provided assistance, hadn't truly returned from the dead.
He knew better than to hope for the best when it came to his family.
Castiel stood and scanned his surroundings. The thick forest surrounding him was shrouded in darkness, the only illumination a faint moon-like glow blanketing the leaves that rustled occasionally in the light breeze. He couldn't sense monsters or demons anywhere, though the tall trees and eerie silence proved more unnerving.
The sound of angry footsteps assaulted his ears, and the angel followed the auditory trail as best he could. Mere moments after they began, however, the crinkling of twigs and leaves underfoot ceased, abandoning the angel and stripping him of his sense of direction.
"Dean?" Castiel called, and he ignored the way the name seemed to caress the air, caress his lips as they formed the name of the Righteous Man. It seemed his name always held a certain amount of power; Anna was certainly affected by it. Fallen angels were not redeemed through words alone, not when they'd fallen naturally, and she'd torn her own grace out.
Dean Winchester is saved.
Ironic, that. It served Castiel right that his purpose, his ultimate charge, was his downfall. It served Castiel right that the very reason he was fighting aided in his decaying.
"Dean?" He repeated, quelling the rising sensation of foolishness. Of all the beings to trail Castiel at the moment, Dean was less likely than most; the hunter currently focused on Sam and Gadreel. Their paths wouldn't cross, not now.
Despite this, "Dean" was the only name that Castiel could murmur. Whether his name was uttered with reverence or revulsion remained uncertain, though it hardly mattered. No matter how his name sounded, there was no point in denying that it slowly came to replace "God" in his vocabulary.
It was blasphemous, he knew, but he'd sinned for Dean before, and there was little chance of it ever ceasing. He'd raised the hunter from perdition, and, in doing so, the angel arguably initiated the degrading of his being.
They can't handle free will like we can.
Castiel scoffed. Free will? Gabriel honestly believed Castiel acted purely out of free will? His profound bond with the hunter was more enslaving than his status as an angel of the Lord. If anything, he advocated an existence worse than slavery, a life where emotional ties were forged with mortal, emotionally-stunted creatures with penchants for dens of iniquity and crappy food.
A strong wind, reminiscent of wings, shattered the forest's peaceful, if not ominous, atmosphere as it rushed past the angel. Instinctively, he followed the strange interruption into a clearing. The gust, visible at last as a singular entity, shimmered in the moonlight and slithered through the air, dissipating in a perfect circle around a statue.
Heart hammering, echoing throughout his being like a sacrificial drumbeat, Castiel trudged to the statue, gripping his angel blade anxiously. As he drew near, the air thickened with ominous tension, polluted with the stench of blood and chocolate.
Familiar, intense stone eyes bore into Castiel, whose confusion escalated as he beheld the stone form of Sam Winchester. What was he doing in the middle of the forest? Better yet, why were they trapped in a strange environment, a manipulation of reality? Surely, they were ensnared in an alternate universe; what other explanation was there?
Castiel reached for his torn pocket and sighed when the fabric remained unblemished. The confirmation of his hypothesis, though helpful, stirred his anxiety rather than quelled it.
Where was Dean? Wherever Sam was, Dean followed, so surely he was there too. Perhaps he'd gone to find a cure for Sam; perhaps the elder hunter's footsteps were what disturbed Castiel earlier...
No. Those hadn't sounded like Dean's, nor had Castiel properly sensed the hunter, not until now. The soul he'd spent forty years repairing only just flickered into existence, a beacon of familiarity, of home, in this world of falsehoods and manipulations.
The air chilled, and the shimmering presence rumbled, shrinking until it surrounded Castiel. It exuded power and grace, an angelic presence to contradict (or support) the ominous tension. The angel turned his back on the statue.
"Where would you have me go?" Castiel muttered, squinting at the end of the rectangular clearing. His grace demanded he move forward, and the angelic presence seemed to agree. It shot towards the other side without warning. The angel trudged forward, his body moving of its own accord, though he couldn't find it in him to complain.
He could hardly discern the difference between his will and the foreign control.
As Castiel drew near to the opposite end of the clearing, he couldn't help but toy with the idea that it was Gabriel in control. It wasn't entirely implausible to link the situation to the mischievous archangel, given his history with the Winchesters and alternate universes, though it was definitely improbable.
Gabriel was dead, imprisoned in oblivion. It was pointless to imagine or pretend otherwise.
The only other option Castiel could comprehend for the situation was Metatron, and the thought of him sent shivers down the angel's spine and bile rising in his throat.
In the parables of old, there were always lessons to be learned; it was a tactic both God and Jesus employed to instruct humanity, and the angels adapted it into their methods of guidance. He'd witnessed and assisted in the teachings on numerous occasions, but never before had they targeted him specifically. Perhaps, at one point in his existence, Castiel would've followed the shepherd blindly, bumbling along the trail without thought or will; however, any dormant inclination to relapse into past obedience was obliterated by the sight at the opposite end of the clearing.
Dean Winchester stood before him, frozen in time through stone, cracks and leaves marring the otherwise perfect craftsmanship of his most prized charge.
"You like it?" A voice questioned, interrupting his internal turmoil with barely-suppressed pride and mirth.
Metatron.
Castiel ignored him in favor of inspecting the statue closely, his hands lightly brushing the cold shoulders, loathing the absence of body heat. A speck of Dean's soul flickered within the statue, buried beneath the broken, heart-shaped hole in his chest.
"What have you done to him?"
"Nothing that will kill him, if that's what you're concerned about, though I really don't see why you would be, Castiel. He's only human, and a rather shoddy one at that."
"I wouldn't expect you to understand," Castiel replied as he turned to face the direction of Metatron's voice.
"Oh, that's right; I forgot. You've got a, what did you call it? A 'profound bond' with him?" Metatron laughed. "It doesn't really matter-"
"If it didn't matter," Castiel interrupted, his voice dangerously low, "then why did you remove my mark?"
The scribe scoffed. "Like that scar held true importance. All it did, Castiel, was remind everyone that it was you who rescued Dean from hell. Which, by the way, was unnecessary, considering we're all well aware of your role in the seal being broken. You didn't tell him the whole truth about that, did you?"
"There's nothing to tell."
"Oh please, don't make me force it out of you too," Metatron whined, and the angel heard a flicker of genuine disappointment in his sharp tone. "It's not quite as much fun when I have to do all of the work."
"There's nothing to tell," Castiel repeated as he shuffled awkwardly, shifting his blade from one hand to the other.
Silence fell, and the angel felt his chest tighten and his head spin as an uncontrollable urge to speak, to unleash verbal hell upon the hunter's stone replica; however, he refused to entertain desire. He knew immediately what the scribe was trying to do, and he vowed that he would fail.
"Allowing me to loosen your tongue is probably the most painless course of action; ask anyone. Gabriel wouldn't relinquish control, so I forced him into obedience." Metatron silenced momentarily in consideration. "Though, I don't think I can do quite the same with you, seeing as you're alive, relatively speaking."
Pain exploded within Castiel, pulsing throughout his being, his stolen Grace, "meat suit," and angelic manifestation, yet his resolution never faltered. He refused to give in, to purge himself of secrets and suppressed emotions.
"See? You're not bound by my will, nor by holy mandate."
"And where," Castiel gasped, the pain receding though by no means nonexistent, "did you get the assumption that I no longer served Heaven?"
Metatron laughed. "You, Castiel. A good little angel would've called upon God to save them, but you didn't. You called upon Dean Winchester. 'It's amazing how fire exposes our priorities.'"
"Fire?" Castiel tilted his head in confusion.
"Seriously? Is there anything you do besides screw everything up and make goo goo eyes at Dean? When you get a life, Castiel, come see me. I'll give you a list of shows and books to delve into."
Castiel blinked and frowned. He didn't want to see Metatron ever again; what made the scribe think he'd return? What kind of a fool would he have to be to visit him for literary references? Metatron made him never want to pick up a book again.
"In all seriousness, Castiel, if you don't confess, I'll have to take drastic measures. I may not be able to control you, but I can control him." Dean's grace constricted as cracks stretched across the statue. "Tell him why he was so holy, so pure; tell him how a sleazy, lowlife drunkard was deemed righteous by the holiest creatures in the universe. Because blood only goes so far, and a powerful bloodline doesn't cleanse anyone so deeply."
The cracks deepened, and the soul withered. "I infused him with my grace," Castiel blurted. "And I took his blemishes and absorbed them. I played God."
"Played Jesus, more like."
"It doesn't matter," Castiel snapped. "I repaired Dean; I did not change his personality or his desires. I rescued him in the only way that I could."
"There were other, less invasive ways to rescue him. More powerful angels with more experience and strength."
"They wouldn't have wanted him alive. I saw him, and I needed to assist him. He was my charge all of his life; it was instinct."
"Instinct to disobey God's orders?"
"Were they truly God's orders?" Castiel argued. "I don't understand why God would order us to initiate the apocalypse. All of the angels desirous of the mission were selfish or manipulated by Lucifer, neither of which accompany compliance with Heaven."
"The Lord works in mysterious ways; that does not mean you can blame him for your circumstances. You knew full well what would happen should you heal Dean, yet you did it anyway because you were supposed to, because you two were 'meant to be,'" Metatron replied as he materialized. "Heaven's very own star-crossed lovers."
Castiel froze, his eyes locked upon the statue. He didn't like the direction their conversation took. Avoidance was becoming impossible, much as he was loath to discuss his emotions.
He'd always known Dean would find out someday; Castiel wasn't stupid. Foolish and naïve, perhaps, but not idiotic. The revelation was the subject of many nightmarish musings, and the only occasions he discarded reality in favor of unrealistic scenarios where Dean didn't reject him were few and far between. Those fantasies only surfaced in times of suffering, when the angel's sanity could only be spared through perversions of reality, or when his suffering wasn't painful enough.
This was not something Castiel prepared for. This was not something Castiel would discuss with Metatron in front of the hunter in question's statue, where a sliver of his soul resided.
Speaking of which...
"How did you get Dean's soul into the statue?"
Metatron smirked. "Spoilers. Now, back to your predicament."
"My feelings were not preordained," Castiel spat.
"As it was prophesied, so shall it be."
"Your prophecies mean nothing to me. I am not bound by them; you could not begin to comprehend the situation. You ran and hid, whereas I was on the front lines, trudging through the sludge of hell. You shirked your duties, and I was ensnared by the Righteous Man's soul in hell. My feelings are real, not some cosmic manipulation."
"Regardless, your feelings were the second half of the first seal. An angel falling for the Righteous Man, who fell into hell's iniquity. It doesn't make your affection any less real."
Castiel glared at Metatron. "Heaven has tainted everything I've ever known or cared about. It manipulated me, lied to me, cast me away and then imprisoned me, and you wonder why I don't want its prophecies having anything to do with my feelings? Heaven forced its angels to be dispassionate warriors, and corruption is the sole survivor of our legacy. Now, suddenly, I, an angel, fell in love with a human, and-"
Metatron laughed. "My my, Castiel, how the mighty have fallen. I didn't think you'd admit your feelings so quickly. Now you're rather dull, though. I was just beginning to have fun." The scribe strode to the angel and allowed his hand to hover over the angel's forehead. "Until next time, Castiel."
Metatron's clammy hand clamped down onto his forehead, and Castiel was plunged into darkness.
Dean was enveloped in the darkness of sleep, his only company Cas' voice.
The dream possessed all qualities of angelic interference; the hazy, illogical settings or memories darkened by his subconscious, twisted into misrepresented monstrosity. Emotional horrors stripped of glamour, clothed in exaggerated darkness.
Castiel's interferences were the only time he'd ever slept peacefully, wonderfully. The angel continued to chase away his demons, even the imaginary ones.
My feelings were not preordained.
I was ensnared by the Righteous Man.
My feelings are real, not some cosmic manipulation.
I, an angel, fell in love with a human.
This, however, could not be a dream. It was impossible. The revulsion of further manipulation by "fate" or "destiny" was overshadowed by the implications of the angel's emotions, of the possibility that his feelings weren't unrequited. Surely, if it were real, the hunter would be angrier, more repulsed.
In this haze, however, Dean could only feel peace and bone-crushing relief.
No, this was nothing if not imaginary.
Castiel reappeared in the middle of the bunker, where Sam was slapping Dean's unresponsive face. Seconds after the angel's arrival, the elder hunter stirred, slurring vaguely about a weird dream. Dean's eyes lost their sleepy glaze as they landed upon Castiel and widened slightly.
The elder hunter rose from the ground, pushing away from Sam's awkward hold, and he locked eyes with the angel.
"Hey, Cas. Good to see you."
"What happened? Where's Gadreel?" Castiel asked. How long was I gone?
"He escaped us yesterday," Sam muttered. "Turned tail and fled back to Metatron."
The scribe's name tainted the air, a thick, tangible presence in their safe haven. Involuntarily, Castiel eyed Dean, scanning the hunter for signs of injury; however, no new blemishes were discovered. The handprint from long ago hummed softly, the grace embedded in the wound a comforting presence.
Castiel's hand twitched, and he yearned to grasp it, to confirm its existence, but he restrained himself.
"Where were you?" Dean asked. "You weren't answering my calls."
"I was detained," Castiel replied.
Dean's eyes narrowed, and the angel barely restrained a shudder. Forcing himself to maintain eye-contact, Castiel tried to identify his emotions, emotions that sent his pulse into overdrive and his stomach into a knot. Was Dean able to overhear him?
Was Castiel supposed to hope the sliver of the hunter's soul was dormant or alert?
Sam cleared his throat, and Castiel's gaze leapt to the younger hunter, thankful for the distraction, though Dean's attention didn't waver. "I'm going to do more research," Sam said. He flashed Castiel a quick smile and glanced at Dean before quickly exiting the room.
As soon as Sam left, Dean spoke. "Is it true?"
"Is what true?" Castiel hedged.
"Was there more to the first seal than me torturing hundreds of souls?"
"Where did you get this information? You know, there are some very unreliable sources out there; anyone can say anything-"
"Cas, I heard it from you. In a dream."
"Dreams aren't reliable sources of information. They're often reflections of the subconscious."
Dean rolled his eyes. "I know the difference between a dream and one of your angel interruptions, and this was definitely real. I need to know the truth, Cas; you owe me that much."
Castiel gulped. "Yes. Yes, it was real, and yes, there was more to the first seal."
Dean sighed roughly, harshly, and he turned away from the angel, rubbing his eyes. Castiel stepped away, preparing himself to flee-
"Don't," Dean muttered. "Don't run away. Not now."
"Why?" Castiel demanded. "Why shouldn't I leave? I have no reason to stay."
"I've given you plenty!" Dean exclaimed as he faced the angel. "And I've apologized for not letting you work with us, but you know why I couldn't."
"I've always come when you called, when I was able to come; why won't you allow me to leave? You cast me out plenty already, and now you want me to stay?"
"I need you," Dean admitted. His eyes strayed momentarily from Castiel's, and if the angel hadn't known him so well, he would've suspected the hunter to be lying.
The angel's head spun as he processed the words. He hadn't been expecting them like this, the sentiment raw and vulnerable, nearly mirroring that night long ago, when Castiel was controlled by Naomi. He was fully aware of the power the words held, of the sheer vulnerability that surpassed society's clichéd expression of affection.
Need was an admittance of weakness, something Dean Winchester buried deep inside and never let loose, something incredibly powerful in its meaning.
Need was a request for assistance, for emotional involvement. Love was a declaration, but Need was a war cry, a call to arms, one Castiel was all too eager to answer.
"I need you too, you know. Just because I leave doesn't mean that I don't."
Dean smiled. "And just because I'm an abrasive ass doesn't mean that I don't need you. I've always needed you." He stepped closer to the angel. "Telling you to leave was one of the hardest things I've done in my life."
The hunter moved closer still, until little space was left between them. There was a moment of frozen silence before their lips met tentatively, impossibly, and uncharacteristically gently. Castiel wasn't sure who'd initiated the kiss; all he knew was that he wanted more.
Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean's waist, and the hunter cradled his face as he deepened the kiss.
It was the only time Castiel was thankful for Metatron's meddling.