A/N: This is not at all like my usual fics, but it's been begging to be written so I finally got it all down. It's very angsty, and be warned there's not as much comfort in the traditional sense. But bad things end, too. I promise. You just have to hold on long enough for the pendulum to swing the other way :)
It's the dawn of the Earth. Castiel has never doubted his place, never doubted his family, never doubted his worth. His enemies tremble before him, preceded by a reputation of greatness. He is an angel of the Lord, and that is a solid, honorable claim. Castiel is a warrior, bathed in glory but humble enough to honor his commanders and his comrades as the pillars from which he flies.
Heaven has been quiet since the fall of Lucifer. After Michael locked him away, a new reign of peace has spread its dazzling tinges upon even the darkest corners of the celestial plains. Castiel has won prestige and recognition in the battles to silence Lucifer's loyalists, allowing him to follow Anna's garrison to their coveted position over the Earth. He is joined by his closest friends. They share battle scars and stories of mighty campaigns with the carefree laughter of those doomed to forget the truth.
If anything troubles Anna, it doesn't show in her smile.
Castiel watches these tiny creatures as they crawl from the mud, and their victories are his victories. He guards them with the rash certainty of his own significance, too modest for greed but too arrogant for wisdom.
It's a golden age with no threat of ever ending. Castiel can't imagine anything in creation strong enough to throw the angels from their seats of power.
But life punishes us for what we cannot imagine.
And darkly the pendulum swings.
Castiel can no longer hear his brothers and sisters' voices, and finally he can't ignore the truth that he's fallen as Lucifer fell. He believes in his cause. He is shaken by the inevitability of it all. The world was destined to end… he thinks… but at the same time, the angel wonders if perhaps it was in fact destined to survive. What once was clear now turns his mind in unending riddles that frighten him because only God can comprehend these puzzles, but his father left him long ago.
The abandonment doesn't just rankle; it poisons. Castiel has no idea how much of the liquor he's consumed, he only knows that it still doesn't burn his insides as much as the knowledge that his life has been that of a fool. How willingly he believed… how eagerly he stood in line to be made a tool. How proudly he counted himself an empty, toy soldier in a farce of a war.
The angel fights for the humans now, because his heart tells him that he might as well. When the last of the angel voices are silent in his mind, though, Castiel feels something break. They have always been there with him, part of him as he was part of them. He doesn't know what he's part of anymore.
Anything? Nothing?
The notion of being alone is more horrific to an angel of the unified Host than the idea of death. Death can be given meaning, purpose. To be alone is to mean nothing, unremembered until he finally fades from all record of time.
Sam and Dean are there, but he is not one of them. They call him in times of need and of course he will respond, yet he is given every sense that the humans he fell for don't intend to bring him any closer than arm's length. The angel has nowhere to belong. And it's cold outside.
Castiel is a warrior. He has experienced pain. But pain is easy, compared to doubt. He doesn't know what's right and there's no one left to advise him what he should do. Castiel is on his own.
He's frightened, though he dare not admit so even to himself. He's clinging by fingertips and beginning to slip. Castiel will fight but he privately thinks this is probably the end of everything. Lucifer will never be defeated and who indeed is he, Castiel, to stand in the way of fate?
But calmly the pendulum swings.
Things have not gone the way Castiel expected, but he's learning how to deal. The angel—no, he's not an angel anymore, though it's hard for him to wrap his mind around that still—examines his hands with new appreciation for the human condition.
These were once Jimmy's hands. Jimmy hasn't occupied the vessel in a while, which the angel—no, the ex-angel—realizes is in fact a blessing for the human. Jimmy was a good man. He deserved better than to be chained to a fallen angel tearing up the cosmos.
Castiel isn't used to being hungry, but at least he's been fed.
He isn't used to being cold, but the Bunker has good water pressure, and the heat soothes him like nothing he's ever known.
He isn't used to being vulnerable, not like this, but at least he's with Sam and Dean. In truth, Castiel has been powered down often enough that he thinks becoming fully human was only the next natural step. He can handle this. It's difficult, and in fact almost tedious, but Castiel isn't afraid.
He isn't afraid.
Castiel marvels. The hot water trickles down his back, but a warm feeling floods his insides like the peace he used to know in a Heaven that has long since forgotten peace. When was the last time he had no fear? For once, once in a long, long lifetime, Castiel feels safe. This bunker and the humans who live there are a safe harbor. Only now does the angel—ex-angel—realize how desperately he has yearned for this exact thing.
As the last remaining aches and pains are soothed away by the warm, comforting shower, Castiel closes his eyes and breathes a sigh of relief. Finally. Finally, things will be okay.
He is safe.
But cruelly the pendulum swings.
Castiel huddles as far under the doorway as he can, shivering from the cold biting his bones. It isn't enough to shelter him from the punishing rain. He misses his trench coat almost as much as he misses his wings; to be so broken is bad enough, but to be broken and drenched and freezing is an insult.
But he has been judged.
And he has been cast aside.
Castiel's stomach clenches, so hungry that the ex-angel feels like his body is devouring itself from the inside. He has known for millennia that humans can die of hunger. Until now, it has always been a calculated fact deep in his memory, meaningless trivia that is suddenly the only fact that matters. Castiel might die.
Here. Alone. Cold. Homeless. Hungry.
A shudder wracks his fragile form as he wraps his arms around his knees and struggles to preserve what little heat is offered from the moth-eaten sweater that clings to his frame. People passing by don't look at him. When a mother pulls her child to her other side, away from him under her warm umbrella, Castiel adds a new agony to his list of inconceivable emotions:
Shame.
It was those such as these that humans were meant to care for, in his father's perfect plan. Give shelter to those in need… feed those who hunger… love those who are unlovable. But no one stops. No one even looks. And Castiel is ashamed, and unwanted, and the pain in his stomach is outmatched only by the pain in his heart.
Father, he thinks, though no one will be listening. The prayer does not continue. There is nothing left to say.
The rain pours down, torrents from the heavens that now lie still as tombs in the celestial skies. But his condition, his episodic ruin, is nothing but a season. He has seen the lowness of life, and he has ridden its highs. If he holds on long enough, someday the rain has to end. Castiel has no current desire to endure, but he will anyway, because this is just the newest verse of a cyclic song.
And always the pendulum swings.
Castiel hunts with Sam and Dean and in his heart he feels he finally belongs. He rides in the backseat of the Impala which has started to dip a bit in the middle where he customarily sits. It isn't much; in fact it's nothing at all, a square foot of space in a car that doesn't belong to him. But Castiel smiles because it's everything.
Their foes and worries seem interminable, though not insurmountable. Not when they are united, a team and a family like those the angel has long since lost. He has been angel, he has been fallen, he has been human, he has been restored. The world takes another ride around the sun and he has seen each season's passing.
Now is a season of calm. Dean is arguing with Sam in the front seat; Castiel's smile widens. He's lost track of the debate, probably about music or women or food… the important things in Dean Winchester's life. The little things. The details. The ones that give creation color and meaning.
Castiel opens his mouth when Dean asks his opinion, but the hunter quickly changes his mind when he realizes the angel isn't likely to agree that Metallica and Survivor are the definitive artists of the 20th century. Castiel is just as happy to listen as to participate, anyway. They carry on, and the angel enjoys the solid ground of this peaceful moment.
First was Lucifer, who they threw back to the Cage.
Then was Raphael, who Castiel sacrificed himself to destroy.
Then were the Leviathan, who were returned to Purgatory at a tremendous cost.
Then was Abaddon, who they paid dearly to kill.
Then was Cain, whose Mark nearly took Dean from this world.
In the end, they had killed even Death himself.
True, the new enemy that has awoken is formidable indeed, but Castiel thinks their track record of surviving is impressive, to say the least. They stand on a mountain of successes, and the view from this precipice is a comforting and a precarious one. Still, he'll bask in this moment because these moments were never built to last.
Even now, the pendulum swings.
He's enjoyed a time of light. Now is a time of Darkness. With each turn of the glass, Castiel has learned a little more. He isn't as afraid as he once was, when every age and every day felt like it was eternal. He's been a warrior of Heaven, and he's been a homeless man in the rain. Nothing lasts forever. Not even now, as Lucifer takes control. It is the only choice Castiel can see in order to save the world he's vowed to serve.
Lucifer has drugged his mind somehow. Castiel's thoughts are sluggish, and the world is dim and numb. The Devil sequesters him in the kitchen of the Bunker and turns on the TV. Castiel obediently sits in front of it, not sure why he complies, the idea of fighting just beyond his befuddled grasp. His brain can't quite remember what to think but his heart is heavy and scarred. His crushed spirit wants to give up, for the situation has never been so dire.
Close by is a clock, monotonously ticking the passing of time. It catches Castiel's eye and he wonders if the clock in the real bunker reads the same for Sam and Dean. Even that smallest connection makes the prison more bearable.
Time is fluid, but carries on as it ever has. Tick… the pendulum rises… tock… the pendulum falls. Tick… for the peaks and the highs… tock… for the valleys and the lows. Tick… tock… it's just a countdown to the end of the day. To the passing of night. To the change of the season.
Castiel turns back to the TV and props his chin on his hand, heaving a sigh. He has seen hard times before, has survived agonies that couldn't possibly end but did, has outlasted the coldest and most frightening of days. He doesn't have much hope but for the wisdom taught by unbearable pain. Sam and Dean will make things right. He knows, groggily, they're out there fighting for him.
That thought brings a tired smile to the stupor on his face. He'll endure this. He has to.
Nothing lasts forever, not even the hopelessness in the dark; that was just the nature of life. Tick… tock… tick… tock… The clock carries on and he'll do the same, still fighting even now. He can't imagine how things could ever get better, but the one constant he knows is that tides always change
and the pendulum swings.