Through the Eyes of Father's Child, a supernatural fanfic

disclaimer: I don't own SPN or any of its characters.

SPN7x17. Upon death, Castiel was resurrected de-aged to an infant, with his memories locked away; Emmanuel is an earthbound celestial newborn, and this is the world seen through his eyes. ("You don't eat. I'm sure there's more.")

I do not believe baby angels will look or act remotely similar to baby humans. This story is not humorous nor cute.

Through the Eyes of Father's Child

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. - Hebrews 13:2

He looks into the murky depth of the lake. Unclothed, but not bare.

I'm the son of my father, he repeats wordlessly under his breath, at the waters and at the trees and at the wind. I'm the son of my father. I'm the son of my father. I'm the son of my father.

He remembers only this one thing, but he does not remember what it really means.

Emmanuel could see that the oven was currently heated up to exactly 328.267 ℃ as it slowly baked the chicken breasts, the neighbor three houses over was arguing with her husband on the phone about signing divorce papers, and he was listening in on every radio station that were playing different tunes when the police band informed him that a cop was wounded five blocks away.

Daphne called from the dining room.

And Emmanuel turned off the sounds and covered his eyes with feathers not there. He told himself, he couldn't see the temperature of the room or the exact heat of the oven, and he couldn't hear the cell phones or radio waves or the two hundred and eighty-six faceless people whispering silent prayers in his ears seeking for advice or guidance or salvation.

He looked to his wife, inwardly debating whether to tell her about that officer dying of blood loss from the bullet wounds, before ultimately deciding against it. Emmanuel still had much trouble understanding the importance of a human life, though he never addressed it out loud.

And he told himself he couldn't see the specific shades of souls hiding just underneath human skins, the streaming of thoughts racing through random passers' head, or the colors of emotions dancing behind people's eyes.

The officer died.

And Emmanuel felt nothing.

The smile on his face remained serene and undisturbed and genuine, as he reached into the wooden cabinet to take out the plates and cups and spoons for the dinner table. A joke from the universe: he was empathic, yet he lacked empathy.

So Emmanuel just told himself, he was merely a human... allowed to be fallible and flawed... even though he knew he was not.

There is an old fashioned clock on the mantelpiece in their living room.

Daphne told him once, that it is a device to keep track of time. But it seems broken, is Emmanuel's first reply, yet the nice young lady only reassures him that it is not. So he is left politely confused.

From his observations, the clock hands only move in one direction: forward. Seconds to minutes to hours, one tick follows after another. Never stopping, never rewinding, and never looping back on itself. But Emmanuel is so sure that the movement of time does not behave in that way, it is more fluid and less solid.

To prove himself right, Emmanuel finds an occasion to click open the delicate glass casing and holds the ever ticking metallic hands in place.

He remembers there is a sudden gust of gentle wind, breezing in from the open windows and picking up the orange muslin curtains, and the fabric is then suspended in midair, freezing where it flutters.

Time pauses, as expected.

And he does not realize he should find that strange.

The business man dressed in immaculate black suit that stood alone to the side and was being ignored by all, was scowling disapprovingly and sending him a reproachful glare. Emmanuel pretended to not see, and he kept his head down and eyes leveled at the young girl sitting before him. A case of ventricular septal defect, Emmanuel could easily tell by her scent, and if he concentrated a little more, he could see the eleven years of history trailing after little Alicia in invisible threads of fate... and the ending in two months time.

Emmanuel did not decide who lives or who dies.

The threads linked and intertwined with many, from before and after the concluding of its time.

At age twelve, a boy in school will play an innocent prank on Alicia, and by accident pushing her into their homeroom teacher, who is pregnant at that time. It will end in a haphazard miscarriage, for that baby's life is what will be sacrificed for Alicia to live past the age of twelve.

At age nineteen, a young man will overdose due to a worsened case of major depression, hours after being turned down by Alicia for the sixth time, for that man's life is what will be sacrificed for Alicia to live past the age of nineteen.

At age twenty-four, Alicia's mother will end up in a coma from a car crash when she tries to call her daughter while driving. The crash will claim two other victims from a different vehicle of the opposite lane, for they are what will be sacrificed for Alicia to live past the age of twenty-four.

At age twenty-six, Alicia's father will die of heart attack resulted from heavy drinking in a cold winter night, after thirty years of alcohol abstinence, because of an announcement the same morning that her mother's life has just ended in the hospital care, for their lives are what will be sacrificed for Alicia to live past the age of twenty-six.

At age thirty-two, a Fate will come, to collect what is rightfully hers, finally stopping this life of misfortune at a mental hospital. Alicia will die of delusional suicide.

Emmanuel could see all of that. And he blinked, looking towards his caretakers Daphne and Father Jonathan from the church for confirmation, both of whom smiled at him in encouragement. So he gently placed his hands onto the young girl's chest, and the sullen reaper turned away with a shake of his head, forced to leave Alicia alone for the next twenty-one years.

Emmanuel never decided who lives or who dies, but he did follow the orders given, verbal or otherwise.

There is a man who drives an off-white convertible van that often follows him on his daily walks to and from the church. Emmanuel instinctively knows the man is named Mark Woodard the first time he lays eyes on him, and learns even more of his history by their second encounter.

But it isn't until the end of the third week does the man finally decide to act. Therefore, Emmanuel climbs into the dirty vehicle as is requested of him, and a short while later is only mildly uncomfortable with having to go on his knees on the threadbare carpets of a dingy motel room at the outskirt of town. Someone keeps trying to talk, from somewhere at the back of his subconscious, but Emmanuel does not ever remove the metaphorical mental gag, preventing whoever it is from making a sound.

Take off what you're wearing, Mark demands in a hushed voice, tightening the grip on his collar and manhandling him with a few violent shakes.

So Emmanuel tilts his head to the side, nodding once before complying, because this is what he does, to follow direct orders without question, no matter how inconsequential the instruction seems to him. And he disrobes the physicality not his, before caressing the man tenderly on the cheek.

Mark sees the most beautiful being in all of God's creation before his eyes melt out of his skull, and when his corpse is discovered a week later, the half of his face where he has been touched is found scorched to crumbling charcoals.

Emmanuel did not sleep.

He had tried, but it never came to him naturally.

Daphne is having another argument with her parents on the phone, over him, again. It is inappropriate, Emmanuel gathers, for a young woman to share a house alone with a man of questionable backgrounds. But unfortunately, this is how it is.

I can leave if I'm being a bother, Emmanuel offers, after the nice lady ends her call. Daphne only smiles a bit apologetically at him, shaking her head as she assures him again that it is no problem at all.

If only you were my husband, Daphne jokes.

But Emmanuel does not understand, frowning slightly as he considers. Okay, he says, softly snapping his fingers and reality wraps, just a little. And when he opens his right hand, there is a pair of silver couple rings lying on his palm.

Two days later, Daphne will find the required papers for their marriage already signed and all certifications authentic, even though logic says it is impossible. And she then proceeds to spend the next two weeks following the stages of grief, combined with the utmost disbelief, as she is forced to gradually accept this man as a fix part of her future life. A husband who is unnaturally obedient and often childlike, born in possession of many miraculous gifts... only sometimes, the talents seem just this side of dangerous and forbidding.

Daphne does not dare to bring it up in conversation, and Emmanuel pretends to not see the visible hues of fear hiding just behind her caring green eyes.

Bruises, migraines, common colds... these usually wouldn't cause much disturbance within the interlocking webs of life and death; cancers, severe congenital defects, cardiac arrests... it was always the more fatal ones that often leaded to problems.

Rarely, the continuing existence of a particular person could bring more positive into the world than the negative, if it were not to be cut short. Most of the time however, the extension of any life that had been marked for the end, would only result in strangling many more others down the road, than the single one saved on this day.

It was never easy, but Emmanuel could always vaguely decipher the outcomes of destiny. And he wondered, ever so often, would as many come seeking for his service, if they could also comprehend the implications behind what he had glimpsed.

The natural order was a harsh mistress. He could help, but at most only to a certain degree... and never once did he consider the freedom of choice to be his.

Dean is right. Emmanuel doesn't eat nor drink unless prompted to. And till this day, he does not see the point of that action for he has never required nourishment to sustain.

But, it is the least serious of the immense wrongness, that has him surrounded.

You, ... ..., have been created to be-

Please tell me what I am, Emmanuel thought. Please tell me what to do.

Emmanuel is an infant, waiting patiently for the given command of his foundational instinct to be completed.

And he will not disobey.

(Or maybe, he cannot, disobey.)

(Here, is a heaven's weapon of destruction remade, that awaits an order... and any will do.)

Until Emmanuel sleeps, Castiel would not wake.

I'm the son of my father.

I'm the son of my Father.

(I'm an angel of the Lord.)

The flipping of verb tenses between each section is intentional. The present-tense parts are in chronological order, and the past-tense parts are snippets of memory from Castiel's time as Emmanuel.

1) This fairly uncommon characterization for Emmanuel to lack any sense of empathy is a deliberate choice, because there is no logical reason for amnesia to be a magic cure for soullessness. And it actually has basis in canon, when he showed little care over the possibility of Dean "having killed a lot of people."
2) There is also no valid reason for amnesia to be a cure for angels' inability to comprehend free will. Thus Castiel losing the memory of his time with Dean, the sensible outcome would be, he will also lose the little freedom he has learned as a fallen angel.