As the Dew of Hermon
By Darklady
Who disclaims all ownership of Supernatural and the characters therein, lays no claim to either Heaven or Hell, and also warns the gentle reader about the risk of good slash, bad theology, and terminal snark. I'll try to avoid blasphemy, but make no promises as to heresy.
Pairings Dean/Castiel (so far)
How good and pleasant it is
when brothers live together in unity!
It is like precious oil poured on the head,
running down on the beard,
running down on Aaron's beard,
down upon the collar of his robes.
It is as if the dew of Hermon
were falling on Mount Zion.
For there the Lord bestows his blessing,
even life forevermore. – Psalm 133
They were losing. Hell, Dean thought, they were screwed.
Sam's blood dripped down onto the mud where Dean had fallen, his leg broken or maybe just too battered to respond. Sam's was worse, his thigh pierced by one shattered branch as he hung in mocking crucifixion - an echo of the shattered church behind them.
The final battle had exploded at… Dean had no idea. If Bobby Singer had named the town or the church, Dean hadn't listened. Some nowhere corner of corn-belt America, where virtuous fathers had raised white clapboard steeples between the barns and silos, only to watch their sons had abandon the lot for suburbs and factory jobs. Where forgotten priests drank or slept their aging days waiting on their faded congregations. The farms were gone now, their foundations just empty patches beside the asphalt, their graves holding this narrow acre of holy ground.
Dean gripped a shattered gravestone with his good hand, pulling up and trying to steady the shotgun on his twisted knee. Not that it would help now. The holy ammo was spent, and he didn't think rock salt was likely to phase the devil. Might distract him, though. Win Sam another second.
The shotgun clicked, pin broken.
Lucifer raised his hand. He laughed.
Sam's body twisted, pulled down to roll at the feet of the King of Hell.
Only one weapon left.
Dean opened himself. For Sammy's sake, he let loose the sword. But not to Michael. Never to that prick Michael. Dean spoke a single name, and the power ripped from his flesh.
The Sword of Heaven went forth, bright and fierce.
Castiel clutched the burning hilt and, filling it with all he was, with all his strength and all his grace and all his divinity and all his humanity he thrust the flame *straight* *into* *his* *brother's* *heart*.
Again
Again
Again.
Lucifer screamed.
Not just from the throat of his vessel, although that flesh screamed too. Lucifer screamed with a finality of sound that roared beyond hearing and slashed at souls. Screamed to the lost heaven of the angel that Lucifer was and had been, a cry bursting like a nova from the core of the Morning Star.
Birds fell.
Clouds shattered.
Light itself broke.
White light, rolling out like the ground effect of a nuclear blast. The light of heaven, and if Dean's swollen eyes could have seen it would have blinded him.
Black wings covered the horizon, bursting flame at the tips as the fullness of Castiels's grace burned Hell from every atom and boson and wave.
Newly angelic Powers and Thrones and Dominions soared upward in a rush of praise and power.
And the earth fell silent.
Silent as the blackened body in the scorched tan coat.
"Dean. Boy." Bobby Singer had somehow made his way over the pitted ground. His thick fingers swept the filthy hair back from Dean's brow.
"Sam?" Dean whispered.
"Padre's with him. Gotta call into the paramedics." Bobby tilted his flask against Dean's lips, letting the holy trickle ease the young man's throat. "Sam's gonna need a hospital, but he'll live. Not like your angel friend."
Dean forced his eyes open. Then he slammed them shut again. His angel's – his *friend's* - hand lay inches from his own; three remaining fingers twisted in a rictus of melted flesh and burned bone. His gaze followed up the heat-blasted arms to the destroyed corpse that once had held Castiel. The horror was matched only by Dean's most depraved memories of hell.
Then – to make it worse then Hell – the body moved.
"Cas!" Dean lurched over the broken ground to where the angel lay, "Cas. What…?"
"Healed him." The thin words slipped from Castiel's ruined lips. "Luc… back in heaven. No more war." The head turned, as if melted eyes could seek a beloved face. "You're safe Dean."
"And you are damned." A bitter voce came down from above.
Dean looked up. "Well if it isn't the life of the party. Zachariah." With a sneer, Dean took in the unruffled hair and suit of the vessel. Not even his tie was out of place. Even if angels could breath hard after battle, this one wouldn't be. "Crawled out from behind your cloud now that the fighting is over?"
"And not exactly bringing a cookie basket." Bobby Singer pushed himself to his feet. "What, you pissed that you don't get to end the world this week? Or maybe you just don't like to share daddy's attention with the rest of the kids."
"Castiel." Zachariah glared down at the dying angel. "Not content to sully yourself cavorting with the monkeys, you have taken on the stain of Hell itself. You are no morning star. You are abomination."
"It matters not." Castiel tried to breath in. The air rattled in his chest. "Dean will live. Sam will live. The earth will live."
"Cas." Dean gripped a bit of torn coat, afraid to touch ruined skin. "You…"
"Presumptuous creature." Zachariah almost spat the names at Castiel. "You will not waste the Lord God's air for another minute. I will send your worthless spirit down to the damnation you have inherited."
"Wait a darned minute." Bobby shouldered his way between Castiel and the other angel. "You're saying that your boy here redeemed Lucifer, and now he's gonna go to hell for it? Where in tarntion does that make sense?"
"He took on the Sin of the Pit." Zachariah sounded his loathing in every word. "Worse, this creature defied His commander."
"And heaven doesn't forgive." Dean sighed. "You said that before."
"Maybe heaven can't, but I can." A fourth voice spoke from behind Zachariah.
The angel turned.
The priest was standing there, the one whose church this was. He had been salting the door when last Dean had seen him. From the torn cassock and bloodstained robes, Dean guessed the salt hadn't held and the old man had finished the battle fighting the infernal court on more physical terms. He also guessed that the good Father was tougher than his white hair and grandfather cheeks suggested, given that the man was still here and the demons weren't.
Father Josepha, Dean suddenly remembered, although he didn't know if that was the man's first name or his last.
"A dressed up monkey playing at power." Zachariah's laugh held no humor. "What can you do?"
"Castiel." The priest dropped to his knees. "Do you love God? Do you accept him as your Father, and his son your savior?"
"My father. I…" Castiel's chest fell still.
"I'll take that as a yes."
"You pray over nothing." Zachariah protested.
The priest ignored him. "He still has a pulse. Bobby, will you stand for him?"
"Gladly." Bobby Singer sank into the mud on Castiel's other side.
Blurring the words in his rush, the priest asked "And do you, Castiel, renounce Satan, and all his works and all his promises."
"He does." Singer answered in Castiel's stead. "Did. Whatever."
Feeling around the wet ground, the good Father scooped up a palm full of dirty water. He shook the drops onto Castiel's forehead "Then I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit and…" Here he looked up at Zachariah. "Hell can fuck off because the clock starts again from now."
"Your monkey ritual can not heal him."
Bobby Singer smiled up, given the looming angel his best southern shit-kicker grin. "Never said it could, but it can sure as heck redeem him. Least that's the way I'm betting." He nodded at Zachariah, then down at Castiel's dying form. "Cas here kicks the bucket, then it's an E-ticket ride straight up to the throne of God. One stop at Saint Peter, and by breakfast our boy here will be telling Daddy the whole story."
"Corinthian's does say that the saints shall judge angels." Josepha also smiled up, kinder and gentler and no less implacable. Pausing in the recitation of the Last Rites, he added. "Our new brother Castiel is both a Martyr and a Holy Innocent."
"Heck of a combination." Singer pretended to be talking to the priest, but his attention was on the watching angel. "Wonder what sort of a mansion they save for that?"
"I'm sure they'll find one large enough for the legions of angels." The priest answered Bobby, but like the other man his real target was Zachariah. "You know, angelic servants that Saint Teresa mentioned as being at the service of the blessed." He quoted with deceptive simplicity "For as the angels are above man, so the saints are above the angels."
"Hey Zach?" Singer made of show of scratching his head. "How many angels in a legion anyway?"
"That's not the question he ought to be asking himself." Dean was still gripping Castiel's coat, but he had recovered enough to automatically follow Bobby Singer's lead. "He ought to be asking himself, is he gonna be one of them."
"Seems only fair, turnabout being a bitch and all." Singer pulled off his flannel overshirt, shaking out the looser dirt before tucking it tenderly over Castiel's still flesh. "You got to figure those brothers who trashed Cas have a little smite-back coming. So once he dies and he goes upstairs?"
"Hey Zack?" Dean leaned back so he could meet the angel's eyes. "You got to ask yourself one thing today. Do you feel lucky?"
"Very well." Zachariah raised his hand, and with a vicious swipe sent down a wave of grace. "Be healed!"
The power of heaven went forth, and where it touched even the stones grew smooth. Branches lifted, and flowers sprouted from the battered earth. Wounds sealed, pain vanished, and as the three humans watched the blackened flesh in their midst turned pink and whole.
"What was that?" Castiel sat up, confusion on his features.
Dean took his hand. "Just your brother Zack, wishing you a long and healthy life."
Author's Note #1: This is a stand-alone (for now) but may spawn a universe. It depends on how the television show goes.
Author's Note #2: FYI, the rather *ahem* "abbreviated" ceremony herein is known as a provisional baptism. Unlike the usual sacrament, a provisional baptism may be performed if the officient believes it is sincerely desired by the recipient, provided the baptise-ee is in immediate danger of death and no more conventional facilities are at hand. Presumably it only 'takes' if the person in question actually wants it. (The ultimate version of "God Will Know His Own" – so to speak.") Medieval canon law (or at least church custom) held that a person was 'alive' for purposes of receiving sacraments as long as there was breath felt and/or the body was warm. Father J is pushing the limits hard – with both hands - but he isn't actually breaking church rules. Bending them maybe.