Everything was shaping up according to plan. Metatron pushed the button for the very last 'period' on his typewriter with an air of smugness that positively filled the room. Gadreel watched him tensely as the new god pushed himself away from his desk and stretched. "Metatron," he began, but the other put up a hand to silence him. "It's begun, Gadreel. The snowball is running. It'll only pick up speed. There's no stopping it now." He pulled the paper from the typewriter and set it down on the stack of already finished papers, turning it over. "I'd let you read it," he said, "But….spoilers. It'll be much more interesting to watch it all play out if you don't know." He grinned, and Gadreel felt a strange sinking sensation in his gut. He'd felt it more and more lately, ever since the incident where the Winchesters had caught him. Metatron had said that had been a surprise….but he'd been typing away the entire time, Gadreel knew that. If he was truly the new god, shouldn't he be omnipotent? Shouldn't he have known? And then of course….all must play their parts. He was getting a bad feeling Metatron intended Gadreel to sacrifice himself in the end, never mind promises of being second in command. He'd made promises to Castiel too, promises he'd broken.
Gadreel left the room. He had a job to do. In the end…he didn't know what side of this he'd come down on. He'd only ever meant to help—humanity, at first, and then, the fellow angels. He gave them all a choice, didn't he? And God was…gone, and now Metatron was the only one with wings, he had changed everything… He'd do the job assigned him. He would try to stop questioning. And if he didn't get out of this alive (which he was beginning to think he wouldn't), then so be it.
Dean stared at his face in the mirror. He almost didn't recognize himself anymore. He looked…old. Tired. More worn down than he'd ever been before. He pressed the Mark on his arm, and closed his eyes. He missed the feeling the jawbone had given him. It had hurt, but he'd been filled with such….purpose. He'd known exactly what to do, and the power he'd been filled with had been amazing. The Mark was changing him already, he knew that. He'd beaten Gadreel senseless with his bare hands, even after the angel had been dragged out of the protective circle. He'd stopped himself killing the creature only because he'd had information. It had saved Cas, in the end, his restraint, but he hadn't known at the time….he splashed water on his face, and turned away from the mirror. What if he had killed Gadreel? Cas would be dead, he thought. He flexed his arm again, then dried his face. He shoved his shirtsleeves down, over the Mark. Cas had been….pissed? Possibly just worried. And he'd known immediately that something was wrong, which was….more troubling than Dean wanted to admit. The Mark was changing him, and he didn't think it would be for the better. He exited the bathroom, found his way to the main study, where he and Sam seemed to spend most of their time.
Sam was researching, of course, trying to find ways to rout out Abaddon. "Any luck?" asked Dean. Sam jerked his head slightly, hair flopping in his face. Negative. Dean sighed, and went to the small fridge, cracking open a beer. Sam was making a face at him, he could feel it. He'd been drinking more and more lately. Another way the Mark was changing him. It seemed no matter what he drank, no matter how fast he drank it, that glorious, alcohol induced fuzz eluded him. He wanted so much not to feel anything, for just an hour, maybe two. But that bliss was out of his reach. And so he drank his beer, and ignored his brother's bitch face, and pulled a new book towards himself. Maybe Crowley had lied, maybe there was a way to reverse Metatron's spell. Sam could handle the Abaddon research for a bit. Dean wanted to get those winged dicks back where they belonged. It was too much right now, to fight both heaven and hell at once.
Castiel moved his base of operations regularly. He put up wards, had only small meetings, with just a few angels at a time. It was getting harder, as more and more joined his cause. He knew this was what Metatron wanted, him to lead the angels. He'd even gone so far as to pretend Gabriel was living—or maybe he had resurrected Gabriel and somehow had him on a leash, forcing the archangel to do his will; he was the messenger after all, bringing the message to Castiel to lead the angels—but in the end, Castiel knew what Metatron wanted. He wanted Castiel to be a leader, to bring the angels against Metatron, to unite them, to ultimately send them all to their deaths. He was tired of being controlled and manipulated by his 'superiors.' By Michael, by Zachariah, and Naomi, and now Metatron. He hated Metatron perhaps more than any of the others. And so, Castiel would fight back. He didn't want to lead. And he didn't want to be the villain of Metatron's story, no matter how the other angel (and he was an angel not God, never Him) wanted to cast him. But he would lead. He would also not lie, to the other angels. He would give them what information was needed. That Metatron expected all who fought against him would die, that he intended Castiel to be the scapegoat, the villain, that those who fought with him would likely be treated as rebels if they lost. He didn't lose any followers. They trusted him. It was foolish of them perhaps, naïve, but Castiel meant to repay that trust with a victory. He would not play God again, he knew that didn't work out well, and he was banking on Metatron's arrogance to betray him, as Castiel's had. He was in a unique position to defeat Metatron he knew. Apart from Lucifer, Castiel was the only angel to aspire to godhood, and unlike his fallen brother, Castiel had succeeded, however briefly, and to whatever end. But he knew what pitfalls Metatron might make, he knew how to counteract them. He wasn't a general. A captain, a strategist, but not a general. There were no generals in his army. He modeled his leadership on Dean Winchester. He listened to advice given by other angels, to their suggestions and thoughts, but ultimately, he made his own decisions. He hoped it would be enough to counteract Metatron's ultimate plan. He wasn't sure that anything would be enough, in the end. But he would try.
Dean threw the book across the room. Sam was on a supply run, but he'd be back soon. God. Dean needed a hunt. Just a good old fashioned, hunt, like they'd used to have. But the signs of War were getting clearer. More angels dead weekly, demons popping up almost everywhere, soulless people acting out. The monsters were laying low. Heaven and Hell were gearing up again. What number of apocalypse was this? He wondered wearily. Three? Four? Was there a plural of apocalypse? Apocalae maybe? He groaned, head thudding onto the table. He wasn't expecting to fall asleep. But when he found himself on that old dock, fishing, he found himself glad he was. "Hello, Dean." He smiled a little. He could always count on Cas. Same old Cas. More or less, he amended the thought when the angel sat in the chair that hadn't been next to him just moments before. "How are you?" Dean opened his mouth to say he was fine, but Castiel continued, "and if you say you are fine, I will throw you in the lake, Dean." He turned his wide, blue-eyed gaze to the hunter. "You took the Mark of Cain. You didn't know what it was, what it would do. It's burning you out Dean. It will be your undoing."
Dean scowled. "I did what needed to be done Cas," he said. "We need it to kill Abaddon."
"We could have found another way," said the angel, stubbornly. "An archangel blade could do the trick as well."
"I don't have one of those tucked away anywhere, do you?" Castiel's silence was all the answer he needed. "I didn't have a choice," he said again. "We need that bitch dead. And this is how it's gonna happen.""I can't remove the Mark," replied the angel. "It would take all I have in me. Possibly more. You can pass it along, or Cain can take it back himself, but….the burden of the Mark is great. You've begun to feel it already. Lust for blood, for power. It will only get stronger." He paused. "Do you know of Cain's curse, Dean?"
"Uh…killed his brother, had to wander around right?" He shrugged. "I do that anyway."
"He was cast out. From society, from his family. He was never allowed to be with them, never allowed to speak to them. Cain wasn't just a wanderer, Dean, he was an outcast. And everywhere he went, people knew what he was, at least on a subconscious level. He knew….that those that could would try to kill him. He pleaded with God. And God gave him the Mark. The curse….intensified. But there was blessing in it as well. Any that tried to kill or harm Cain would have their bad deed returned to them sevenfold. If they attempted to rob his pack, for instance, they'd find their own house burgled, burned, their family grievously injured or dead. But Cain would find no respite, no escape from the darkness within himself, no kind words, no warmth. Alone. He didn't die to become a demon. That happened naturally. He was a human that turned into a demon. As such, he is different than the others. And that is the fate that awaits you, should you not get rid of the Mark in time. "
Dean was silent. "Will…the people I care about be safe?" he asked. "With this Mark…I mean, I'll be on my own, but will they be alright?"
"I don't know," he said. "I'm sorry, Dean. I don't know."
Dean groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "I mean. Jesus. I always fuck everything up. But there wasn't a choice Cas. Not this time."|
"Maybe not," agreed Castiel. "But we can worry about that when the time comes. You have the Mark. You have to kill Abaddon, and quickly, before the Mark can poison you anymore. "
"Yeah, we've been trying," snapped Dean, "But finding the bitch is harder than it looks. Where are you in all this anyway?" 'The angels,"
"Yeah, yeah, I know," he grumbled. "Still Cas. One thing at a time maybe? Help us with Abaddon, and then we can help with the angels."
Castiel shook his head. "I don't think they'll let us," he said. "It all seems to be coming to the end, don't you think? From both sides. They'll meet in the middle. Angels and demons on the battlefield, and this time….with the angels fighting each other, the demons will have the upper hand." He sighed. "It's a bad situation, Dean. We have to resolve the issue with the angels, and we…I have to do it quickly." He stood, and squeezed Dean's shoulders. "I must go. Sleep well."
Castiel was tired. He'd told Dean to be careful, that the Mark would burn him out, but truth be told, Metatron had been right too. The stolen grace was going to burn him out, and quickly too. It hurt a lot of the time. He ignored it. Pain was something to be endured. But he tried not to use his power when he didn't have to, preferring to use what human technology he could. He knew that the other angels were a little concerned about that, but they never said anything. They wouldn't say anything. He was pretty sure they knew what was happening to him, but he, like them, held out hope that it would at least last until the war was over. He pulled Hannah aside. "I need to speak to Ishmael and Daniel," he said. "We need to talk about what is being done on the Malachi front."
"Castiel," she said, hesitantly, "I know…look, I would follow you anywhere, I would, but…"
"We need to get more of his people on our side," said Castiel firmly. "I know that his methods are….unorthodox, and…wrong, but we don't have enough to go against Metatron, Malachi and what is left of Bartholomew's crowd. We simply don't. Now…both groups have reasons to hate me, but Ishmael and Daniel are the ones to convince Malachi's followers to…switch. Even getting Malachi…." He sighed. Malachi wouldn't come, he knew. Malachi would never take orders from him. Still. The more angels he could get to his side the better. Hannah nodded, and turned to stride away. Castiel watched her go. She'd do as instructed. Hannah was a good solider, a good tactician. She understood why he did things, even if she didn't always like it. He had people in Bartholomew's camp as well, bringing people to his side. More angels than he'd anticipated joined his side. And more were coming every day. They had a chance. Almost no chance, of course, but honestly? He'd faced worse odds.
"You let him go?" asked Abaddon coldly. The demon in front of her, once so proud, quailed beneath her gaze. "No," he said. "No,, I had them trapped. It was…" She closed her hand in a tight fist, the demon's voice caught. "You turned your back," she whispered, red lips enunciating each syllable. "I left you in charge, and you….delegated." She could feel it's fear now. She breathed it in. Delicious. "No. You don't make decisions. I do. You follow my orders, you don't make your own." It nodded. "I will," it squeaked. "I promise next time…" 'No," she said again. "Examples need to be made." She squeezed her hand again, and the demon screamed, scorching out of it's host, burning marks on the floor. She shook her hair back from her head, turned to the other, quaking demon that she'd been ignoring until this point. "Now. I have some orders for you," she said. "Are you going to follow them?"
"We got a hit!" called Dean, grabbing his coat, plunging his hand in his pocket for his keys.
Sam poked his head out of a door half way down the corridor. "Yeah?" he asked ducking back in and grabbing his shoes, hopping out of the room trying to put them on without slowing down.
"Tucson, Arizona. Massive demon activity, I think it is fuckin'her." Sam pulled his coat on and followed Dean out the door. They had loaded the trunk of the car with every piece of weaponry they had or could find laying around the bunker. They were stocked up on holy water and demon bombs from when Kevin had made the notes about how to do it. They were as ready as they were going to be. Gravel spat out from under the wheels as the Impala sped out of the garage and toward the highway that would take them to Tucson.
"Castiel!" Hannah ran into the motel room he was staying in, staring at a collage of notes and strings he'd made, trying to figure out Metatron's next plan. He turned and nodded, urging her to speak. "We know where he is going. Well. We know where he is. His troops are camped just outside Tuscon, Arizona. "
He ran his tongue over his teeth. "Then that is where we will go. We aren't going to be more prepared than we are. And he is clearly gearing up for war. "
"Castiel," she hesitated. "There's a lot of demonic activity making straight for Tucson too." He took a deep breath. "Fine," he said. "It makes sense. If Abaddon has noticed Metatron there, she knows that we will come. She'll see it as a way to divide and conquer. Metatron's troops trying to kill us, and us trying to kill them, meanwhile she cuts in and her demons go for all of us. Both our strengths will be divided. It's brilliant." He sighed. "We could let them start duking it out, the two of them….but I don't think Abaddon will start until we are there, and Metatron…He won't start the fight against them. He'll wait for us too. And if we don't go…they'll find a way to make us. Both of them are certain they will win." He touched his fingers to his head. Father, he was tired. Tired and he hurt.
Hannah touched his arm. "We're behind you, Castiel," she said. "Always, to the last. " He nodded, and the two of them left the motel room. It was time to go to Tucson.
Dean almost spun off the road when Crowley appeared in their backseat. "Calm down squirrel."
"Get the fuck out of my car."
"Temper," tsked the demon. "I'm here with glad tidings. Namely, it's time. I've got something you want. "
"Give it," snarled Dean, hands whitening on the wheel.
"Um.." Crowley pretended to think about it, "No. Soon as I give it to you, you'll try to kill me with it. Or have Moose here do it with that demon killing knife he's tapping on." Sam scowled, fury almost pulsing out of him. "Love you boys too," he said. "Anyway. You are about twenty miles from where it's all gonna happen. Pull over here and get as ready as you're gonna get. You won't have much time when we get to the camps."
"Camps?" asked Sam, despite his resolution to not say anything to Crowley, unless it was to gloat when he punched him. "Camps, Moose," he said, pleased. "You think it's just Abaddon? No. Abaddons people, my people, of course. But Metatron's people. Cassie's people. Few of the other angel bit players people. Everyone's there, waiting."
"On us?" asked Sam, dubiously.
"Don't be daft. The generals haven't arrived. Metatron is waiting for Cassie, who is probably taking his people slow as he dares to bide more time before the fighting starts. Abaddon won't attack till the angels are all fighting, and I'm keeping my people well out till there's room for attacking her people. It's all very complicated." There was a noise that sounded a bit like an explosion. "And that's my cue," he said with a grin, vanishing from the car, leaving behind a curved jawbone in his wake.
"That's," began Sam.
"Yeah," grunted Dean. "Much as I hate to rely on him…Crowley was right. Get whatever you can carry from the back, we won't have time to load up. " Sam could have the angel blade. After all, he had the jawbone. They had three things, so far as he figured, might kill an angel or a demon.
The Jawbone, the Sword, and a Spear they'd found in the bunker. The spear of destiny, apparently. Or the Spear of Longinus, as it's 'proper' name. Anyway, it wouldn't hurt to try, and at the worst, it definitely had Enochian markings on it. It would do something. Sam did as he was told, getting the Sword and the Spear, grabbing as many demon killing bits and pieces as he could. They started onward again, this time in silence.
Castiel had known the battle would begin quickly. He was stunned though, to see how quickly. He didn't know how Metatron knew when he arrived, but he did. There was a barricade of Metatron's people standing there, most with blades in hand. The line of cars that was Castiel's troops stopped, angels almost tripping over themselves to get out. "Good job, Castiel!" said Metatron, from where he suddenly stood in front of Castiel. "You led these poor angels to their death. " To the amassed angels, he said, "He knew you would die. I have three times your number, and much more power. I know how the story ends. You will die, and Cas here…gets to suck on your graces forever." He grinned, but his words had almost no effect.
"I told them," said Castiel calmly. "I told them of what you said to me, of your plan. I told them that I said no."
Metatron's smug smile faltered. "Well. Look who's learned the art of telling the underlings everything," he sneered.
"Not revealing everything has come back to haunt me in the past," was the reply. "I was candid this time, and lost no one. I didn't have to coerce anyone to join me," he continued, gaze sliding to Gadreel, standing sullen and stony faced. Metatron narrowed his eyes, and vanished. It was, apparently the signal. He angels charged, and Castiel's needed no urging to meet their brethren in combat. Metatron's angels though….seemed far more willing to kill their brothers than Castiel's. At least, at first. Swords clashed, fists struck flesh, grace flashed.
Ashy wings started to turn the ground slowly black.
And then Ishmael screamed. Six demons (and where had they come from?) had converged on him. "Now!" cried Castiel, unable to get anything else out. It was unnecessary. His garrison (his host was well trained. They'd known that the demons would be a factor. 'Do not kill any of Crowley's demons that do not attack you first,' he'd told them.
Isda had protested, and he'd explained. 'Crowley wants to run Hell. Honestly, I'd rather him than Abaddon. In any case, his followers will be under orders to kill as many as hers as they can. Let them. We focus mostly on the angels, kill the demons only when necessary until we have no other choice.'
And sure enough, once the demons were finished with Ishmael, his ashy wings burnt black into the dirt, more demons appeared out of nowhere, a red tint to their smoke, and they fell on Abaddon's crew with a fervor, before disappearing again, on to the next group.
Dean switched seats with Sam, letting his brother drive as he aquainted himself with the Jawbone. It hurt, God, it hurt like fire and hell, and everything awful. But the power it offered along with that was hard to ignore. It was wonderful. But he needed to control it, not the other way around, and he needed to master the bone, or he feared it would overcome him. It nearly had before. It wanted to be a part of him so badly. Something thundered past their car, nearly flipping it. Dean's heart stopped as he saw the tail end of a hellhound dashing away. He could see it. He tightened his jaw, and his grip. Side effect, he figured. Side effect of the jawbone. They got out of the car, Sam clutching the angel Sword. "I'm sorry," said Sam, after a moment. "I know you…you did what you thought was right. And now I'm glad you did. You shouldn't be doing this alone."
"No chick flick moments," growled Dean, eyes so dark they were almost black. "Let's kill these sons of bitches. And then….the queen bitch." He took off into the killing fields. Sam wasn't sure who he was supposed to be killing and who he wasn't. In the end, it wasn't hard to work out. Castiel must have told his people not to harm the Winchesters, but the other angels were not so lenient. They attacked with a ferocity that surprised Sam. But in the end, the angels were not so focused on two humans slicing their way through crowds of demons.
And Dean with the blade was terrifying. He killed thoughtlessly, with a singleminded determination to get to Abaddon. He didn't care who was in his way, demon or angel, just stabbed the jawbone straight into them, or sliced through their body like he was slicing cheese. "Abaddon!" he yelled. "Come and face you cowardly bitch!" And Sam lost sight of him, converged in a group of half demon-half angels all fighting each other and occasionally taking a swipe at him. He fought as he never had before, whirling the blade as fast as he could, throwing demon bombs when he had a free moment, tossing holy water or salt bombs when he could.
Dean found Abaddon standing off by herself, smiling at the carnage. Her grin widened when she saw Dean. "You came. And aw. You brought the Jawbone. It doesn't work without-"
"The Mark of Cain?" he growled. "I know. Guess who I ran into a few months back?" She paled a little and snapped her fingers. Six demons appeared rushing him. He sliced, he kicked and punched. He was barely even tired, didn't feel the gash above his eye. Fury raced through him, filling him like blood. A hatred so deep it stretched to the first humans was sunk into his marrow. Abaddon threw her hand out to send him flying backwards and Dean laughed. "That isn't going to work on me. Not anymore." He advanced and she vanished. She appeared behind him and sliced with a knife of her own. He twisted just in time, slashing. He ignored the cut, didn't feel it, focused instead on feeding the fury. He'd missed. She attacked again knocking him off balance, bringing an angel sword (where had she gotten that? Irrelevant) down toward his head. He rolled, jumping to his feet and slashing again. It became a dance, Abaddon with but a tenuous grip on her control, fear still present though she didn't show it; Dean, ruled by fury, by hatred, eyes black as a demons.
Metatron watched it all. It wasn't going as well as he'd anticipated. Many of Cas' troops were dying, yet, but a lot of his own troops were too. He tapped his pen to his lips. He'd have to rewrite the ending again. They were all here, after all. All the players were in place, all he had to do was…tweak things a bit. He set pen to paper. A sword touched his hand, and he followed the blade up to a cold, angry gaze. "Don't."
Castiel placed his hand on the forehead of a demon, exorcising it. His scream echoed the demons. He was exhausted, his grace depleting. It wasn't his, he was reminded, and it hurt. He needed to expel it, and he needed to do it soon. Hannah was shouting something, but he didn't hear her. He sensed something though, and ducked as her sword flew through the air where he had been just moments before, and struck the chest of Malachi, who had been attempting to stab him in the back. Castiel blinked, gasping, before yanking the blade out of Malachi's chest and tossing it back to Hannah, who caught it and whirled, decapitating a demon with the same motion. Castiel tightened his grip on his sword and flung himself back into the fray, blade flashing, coat flapping behind him. He heard a familiar yell. "Dean!" And battled his way towards Sam Winchester, who was desperately trying to hold his own against foes far too powerful for him. Castiel grabbed his arm and Sam jerked, before his eyes cleared and he nodded. They stood at each other's back Castiel taking the angels and Sam the demons. "Duck!" called Castiel and Sam did as the angel twisted and dug his blade into the eye of an angel coming up from Sam's blind spot. He pivoted and Sam stood, blade driving upwards under the ribcage of a demon that sparked and dropped to the ground.
Dean slashed, and opened a thin line of flesh on Abaddon's meat suit. He grinned, blood dripping from his mouth where she'd landed an effective punch. She screamed, the wound flickered, and she attacked again with a vengeance, using everything she had at her disposal. More demons, that she called up over and over, forcing Dean to waste valuable time and energy dispatching them before returning to her, throwing rocks, telekinetically moving knives that he had to block, slice through, or in one case, just let it hit him, raising his arm and letting the blade slice across it. He was past petty taunts. He was his blade, and she knew it. She vanished hit him from behind again, and disappeared. This time though, he didn't turn to slash at empty air. He stilled and waited, and when she appeared next, he dug the jawbone deep through her chin, barely feeling her own knife as it pierced his ribs.
Metatron froze in shock. "This isn't supposed to happen," he said, a little weakly. Gadreel twisted the blade slightly, digging it into Metatron's hand. "What happens to a lousy writer?" he asked, "especially if he has no hands?" Metatron vanished, appearing behind Gadreel, but the other angel was ready for him, hand closing around Metatron's neck, sword pointing directly under his ribcage. "All I have to do is flick," he whispered. "And you are dead." He shoved the archangel, who banged against the desk. Gadreel plunged his sword into Metatron's hand. The other angel screamed. "You made me kill for you. Over and over. Angels that had been friends of mine. That had started over, proper lives. Angels I wanted to kill to, but…most of them I had no cause for malice toward." He took a pair of the angel holding cuffs that the Winchesters had trapped him in. He cuffed Metatron, hand still trapped by the sword. "And for what? So you could be the new god. So you could wage war against all that disagreed with you? You lie, and you cheat. You wouldn't have given me a seat beside you." He leaned close. "I read ahead," he whispered. Metatron paled. Gadreel pulled the sword out, and swung it.
Dean stumbled back slightly, hand still firmly clasped on the jawbone as he watched Abaddon shake. She sparked, her true face visible like every demon kill, but her human form withered as she shook. The true price at being the vessel for a Knight. Josie lay, crumpled on the ground, hair thin and white, patchy in places. Her skin was wrinkled and patchy, burned looking a bit, like Nick's had when Lucifer had possessed him. She was tiny, a husk of a person. Dean stabbed her again. And again.
The cry rose up: "Abaddon is dead!" It echoed through the battlefield. The demons started vanishing. They'd finish their war, but they'd do it where it was meant to be fought. And with no new Knight to rally behind, those that fought for her would likely flee, to avoid the King's wrath.
The respite for the angels did not last long. No longer having to worry about the demons, they resumed their attacks on each other with renewed vigor.
Castiel touched Sam's forehead, sent him to Dean. Had to get him away from the fighting. Castiel was struggling. He didn't want Sam to die, not when he could protect him. Hannah screamed, as a blade was shoved through her back, grace flickering in her eyes as she dropped. Castiel sliced through one of his brothers, and barely felt the sadness of it. Sam grabbed Dean, was roughly shoved aside by him, almost getting cut by the jawbone.
The demons converged on the brothers then, the killer of their queen. Dean shrugged the Spear off his back, out of it's sheath. "Come on!" he screamed at them, eyes as dark as theirs. They tore at him and he back at them, jawbone in one hand, spear in the other. Sam struck out with the angel blade and the demon killing knife, slashing throats as fast as he could.
Gadreel stomped through the battlefield, bottle of glowing grace in one hand, dragging Metatron by the scruff of the shirt with the other. One of his hands was missing. "Behold!" he cried. "The grace of Metatron! He is nothing! Not a god, not an angel! He has deceived you." He dropped the once angel to the ground, where he moaned, piteously. The bottle glowed brightly in his hand, and exploded. "We were never going home." He stomped on Metatron's good hand. "Tell them the truth."
"Those…loyal…could…have been with me. But I can't….open the gates…need a spell," sobbed the angel. "No ingredients." Angels dropped their weapons, stared at the battlefield around them. Was it really all for naught? Metatron couldn't even bring them home.
Castiel looked around, two people in particular, and he saw them. More of Abaddon's demons were there, no doubt to try to avenge their queen. He forced himself to run, his stolen grace was trickling out, burning as it went. The demons fled in the presence of an angel. Sam crouched, breathing hard, keeping his distance from Dean, who stood, still tense. Castiel touched his shoulder. He could lose himself in this new fight. This is what he was meant for, fighting, killing, anything that got in his path. He could hear Sam, vaguely, but Sam didn't register. Then…the demons were gone. They were gone and there was nothing to…a hand on his shoulder. He sniffed. Supernatural. Not human. He passed judgment. Death. He whirled with the spear, jabbing it straight into the creature's chest. Blue eyes widened in surprise and pain, as it stumbled back. It's mouth moved, a single word. Dean. One hand clutched at the hand that held the bone, the hand with the Mark.
The jaw bone fell to the ground with a heavy clunk, And what must have only been a moment later, but felt like a very long time, Castiel fell too, collapsing to his knees, grace and blood pouring out of the wound in his chest. Dean screamed. No. NO. Nononononononono. He caught Cas as he fell, clearheaded, the Jawbone forgotten. "Cas!" He pressed his hands against the wound. "Don't move, we'll…we'll fix this, oh god, what did I do?" He was babbling. Nothing made sense. Castiel's hands batted slightly at the spear. "We have to leave it in," said Dean, alarmed at the sudden wetness on Cas' face. Crying. Who was crying? Him? With a shock, he realized it was Castiel. He reached a hand up and touched Dean's face briefly. He tried to smile. "Dean," he murmured. His hand touched Dean's hand the one that had held the jawbone. Dean felt a tingling there, a pain, and then it was gone. He looked down at Cas again. His blue eyes were wide and unseeing. No breath escaped his lips, and though the wound still bled, there was no grace there. And within seconds, even the blood stopped.
And Dean's world came to a standstill. Sam knelt beside him, pulled the spear out of Cas' chest. Dean waited in vain for the pained noise, for a gasp or a cough, but there was nothing, just a sick sort of sticky noise, grating as the point passed ribs, and a jerking of Cas' body before it was still again. "Cas?" whispered Dean. "Castiel?" He couldn't breathe. Please, god, he thought. Please god no. I didn't just kill my best friend. Please god no. But Castiel didn't answer, and God didn't either. Sam touched his arm and he looked down. There was a faint scar where the Mark had been, but the Mark itself was seemingly gone. He pressed his forehead to Cas'. "You stupid son of a bitch," he whispered. "Why'd you do that?" He should have kept that grace to himself. He'd needed it, more than Dean had. Why had he chosen to heal Dean? Dean had stabbed him through the chest, Dean had killed him.
Someone sobbed, and he only knew it was him because of the pain in his throat, in his chest. Sam stared blankly around. Angels stood over fallen brothers and sisters, looking just as lost as Sam felt. It was Dean's animal, pained cry that drew them toward the Winchesters. They circled around the tiny group. Someone asked in a hoarse whisper where Cas' wings were, if he was dead, where were the charred and broken outlines of wings, even the destroyed wings of the angels after Metatron's spell. Dean had startled at that, but slumped. He remembered, as Sam did, that Metatron had made Cas human first, and his grace was only borrowed. Grace didn't come with wings, even broken ones. Someone started to sing. It was a song in the language of the angels, and it was soon taken up by all of them. Sam closed his eyes. The song spoke of loss, of bravery, of love, of despair. He didn't understand the words, but the meaning was clear. He tipped his head back at the cruelly sunny sky and imagined the lament going all the way up into the heavens, punctuated only by Dean's broken sobs. He imagined those following the song , imagined that somehow, somewhere, someone would hear it, and know what it meant. That someone would fix it. The sun shone, the angels sang, Dean sobbed. No one came.