Cornerstone
Castiel was floating on a poison sea, rocking back and forth slowly as waves of acid lapped at him. It burned. He burned all over, not just where his back met the surface, so perhaps he wasn't actually on the surface, but sunken deep within the boundless depths. Perhaps the acid water was smothering him. He could not cry out, he couldn't make himself move. He could only lay, burning, aching, trapped in this strange dark prism of agony, his mind struggling faintly to make sense of it all. For a long time, he drifted, unable to grasp anything but sensation. His thoughts were muddled and slow. It was like fighting his way through thick mud to conceive an idea. He tried to remember where he had been before, what he had been doing. There was a flash of pale red, a hand on his chest, but he could conjure nothing more. Perhaps his brothers had finally caught up to him and this was his punishment for rebelling.
It was so dark here.
ooo00ooo
After an endless stretch of time, he thought he could feel cloth pressing against him. Clothing on the flesh of his vessel, a papery touch against his chin. They still burned, as though his entire body were raw. He tried to shift, to push the burning fibers away, but he had no strength. Something turned and knotted in his stomach, the movement tight and sharp, as if he had swallowed broken glass. The jagged shards moved restlessly, raking at his insides, clawing their way up his chest, his throat. Liquid forced its way into his mouth, bitter and tasting of iron. Somehow he thought it wanted out of his lips, but it was fighting gravity and couldn't escape. It slid back down, clotting in his throat, causing his vessel to choke. It hurt, and he wanted to turn his head, to reach up and touch the new source of pain, but his head and his limbs were impossibly heavy, filled with far too much lead. He was trapped, helpless.
Something fluttered in the air above his head, and suddenly hands gripped his arms and jerked him upright. He would have cried out, but the blood was still thick in his throat, cutting off any sound. The hands leaned him forward - one moved from his arm to press against his back - and then the blood was sloshing sluggishly out of his throat, shoving eagerly through his lips. He retched, expelling the bitter liquid, alternately whimpering and gagging as more forced its way upwards, tearing at him from the inside out. He thought he heard rustling, and there were voices, sounds, distant and muffled. He caught words, but couldn't give them meaning.
Cas?
Aim for the bowl, Cas.
Cas, can you hear us?
He coughed out everything he had, slumping weakly against the hands that held him. He was lost, fragile, useless. They could kill him with a thought. He almost begged them to, to end his pain, not to force this on him for eternity. But he couldn't speak, and even if he'd been able to, they wouldn't have listened. He sank back into the sea, waves churning over him, scalding his skin, drowning out his cries. Prison was black and silent, the pain washing down to pricks from insects. He was grateful for the reprieve, but he struggled to move all the same, to get out of the locked box. The ocean weighed down on him.
ooo00ooo
Eventually, slowly, he felt himself shift, moaning into air and cloth scraping against him. He fought against his bindings, a great, suffocating expanse holding him down, trapping his wings. There were more sounds, indistinct, and he curled away from them, terrified. He wondered what they had done to make him so weak. His Grace fluttered feebly in his chest, unable to take him away from all this. A pressure landed on his left side, then his left shoulder. He cringed. Though the pain of the contact was dull, it could easily become fire. He whimpered in fear, pleading, trying and failing to form words. But the sounds that came to him were soothing, the pressure gentle. It was hands on him again, he realized - a hand on his shoulder, another on his forehead, soft and careful.
It's okay. Relax, Cas. You're okay.
The words filtered through his confusion, bled through the thick haze of pain and fear. He understood some of them, but still they didn't make any sense. Nor the touches on his skin that didn't burn, the soothing tone to the reassuring words. He didn't understand. He had rebelled, he was hunted, Heaven hated him, wanted him dead, wanted his suffering. Every soldier in every garrison must know that he was to be executed, that any prolonging of his existence after capture would only be for torture, interrogation. Who among his brothers would dare to offer him comfort? He struggled to speak, to push out air through his raw lips.
"...Why?" he croaked at last.
You time travelled, Cas. You're... sick. But you're okay. Dean and I are here.
Dean... Dean... The word meant something. It was why his brothers wanted to kill him, why he was so afraid. It was important, very important. It needed him. It had asked him, to... to... He struggled again against the wide binding, still pinning him down to a firm surface. The hands kneaded soothingly at his flesh. Dean... Dean was...
"Dean," he gasped faintly, his throat rough and painful.
Cas?
Dean couldn't be here, couldn't be in Heaven. It wasn't safe, they would torture him until he agreed to be Michael's vessel. Castiel had to get him out, send him away. Maybe his brother would help, his brother who was treating him so kindly for no reason Castiel could understand. His brother had said something about time. He hadn't quite grasped what had been done with time, but perhaps it was somehow related to Dean being here. Castiel groaned as a fresh curl of pain blossomed in his stomach, raking him with its sharp claws. His brother whispered, soft and incomprehensible, running a hand down the side of his face.
"Please," Castiel begged him. He had to help. Castiel was in no condition to aid in Dean's escape, he would be here, pathetic and helpless, crawling through agony until Heaven chose to end him.
Cas? What do you need?
"Please," he struggled to get out, the glass surging up out of his stomach. He convulsed. "Help. Dean," he whispered.
Dammit, get the bowl!
The hands tugged at him, pulling him out of his bindings easily. Metal blood was in his mouth again, and again there was a hand on his back. He coughed harshly, the wet, viscous metal pushing out of his throat. He moaned, leaning against his brother, curling into his side, desperate for warmth and comfort even if he didn't know why it was being offered. The hand on his back patted him gently.
You're okay, his brother repeated. You're okay.
He expected the acidic sea again. Instead, he fell into oblivion.
ooo00ooo
He was stiff and aching, turning this way and that beneath a cloth sheet, his head spinning and pounding. He tried to remember why he was here. Dean... the word crept into his thoughts, the name of his charge, his friend, the man he'd died to protect. Dean and... Sam. The second name clicked suddenly in his mind. Sam, Dean's brother, his second friend, also someone to protect. Sam had been talking to him, Dean, and okay, and time... They had gone through time, he remembered now, gone after Anna so she couldn't kill their parents. Was he still there, in 1978? Or he was back, in 2010? He groaned, pained and confused, the smothering blackness still clinging to him, try to shove him back down again. But he had to get up, he had to know...
Cas hey, calm down, man.
Answers, he needed answers.
"Y... year..." he stammered out. A hand on his shoulder again.
It's 2010, you made it back, Cas.
The hand kneaded against his shoulder.
Take it easy.
"Anna," he gasped. What had happened to his sister?
She's dead, Cas.
"No..."
He had told Anna that he would kill her himself if she got near Sam, and yet the grief at her death was overwhelming. It slammed into him, pressing, shoving, cold and stifling. It squeezed his heart and withered his veins. Anna, who had commanded for millennia with strength and assurance, who had dared to disobey, dared to become human, shown him that defying Heaven's will was possible. She was gone now, gone, and like home and the rest of his brothers and sisters, forever lost to him. He curled sideways on the bed, shaking.
"I'm sorry," he said brokenly.
It was his fault, in a way. He hadn't told her to kill Sam, but he had betrayed her, sent her back to Heaven when he'd thought he'd had no choice. Perhaps if they had not punished her as they had done to him... Perhaps...
"I'm sorry," he gasped out again. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
Cas. Cas, hey.
He couldn't stop saying it, he couldn't stop shaking. Hands on his shoulders tried to still him as he shuddered violently, whispering over and over his apology that Anna would never get to hear.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
Sam! Sam, get over here!
There were hands all over him, it seemed. Fighting him as he twitched and jerked, trapping him again in the hot sheet, running over his face, his neck, his shoulders. Words came to him from above the blackness, but he could no longer understand them. He jolted helplessly in their grasp, repeating his words over and over until they too lost meaning and he exhausted himself with the weight of them. When the silence came to meet the blackness, he embraced them eagerly.
ooo00ooo
He drifted back into foggy awareness, another name screaming through his nerve endings.
Michael.
He struggled upright before he knew which direction was up, pushing the sheet away from him with trembling limbs.
Michael.
His brother was coming, he had felt his presence, they needed to flee, they needed to run... He leaned against molded wood, panting, peeling back his eyelids at last. The motel room was stark and much too bright as he looked about wildly. He floundered in the sheet and the pale knit blanket, struggling to see clearly as loud colors and sharp sunlight assaulted his senses. He felt unreal, disconnected, like the world he was looking at hovered in some other dimension. He blinked, hoping the orange and green walls and black iron railing would resolve themselves into normal apparitions. The room still shouted strangely at him. His teeth chattered, and he caught his head in his hands, digging his fingers into his hair in a pointless attempt to compensate.
The room was empty.
"Dean?" he said, his voice soft, his mouth dry. "Dean, Sam, where are you?"
He received no answer. Fear gripped his heart. Had Michael taken them? But why would Michael take them and not kill him? Drums played slowly in his ears and his fingers shook against his skull. The room swayed. He forced himself to put his hands down and crawl to the edge of the bed.
"Dean!" he tried again. "Sam!" But still there was nothing.
He put his feet shakily on the floor, confused when he saw that he had no shoes on. Why would they take his shoes? Did they not trust him to wear them? His coat was gone, his tie, his jacket. His panicked mind could find no explanation. But it didn't matter. He had to find Dean and Sam, send them away before Michael caught them. His heart pounded in terror of his powerful brother, so much more powerful than Raphael, who'd killed him, and so much more adamant about obedience to Heaven. Castiel pushed off of the edge of the bed and stood, stumbling and listing with vertigo. It was as if the floor were rolling and tossing beneath his feet, trying to knock him off.
Castiel grabbed at the iron decorations, leaning on them heavily. He shut his eyes briefly against the loudness of the room, then opened them and pushed off of the metal rail, staggering toward the door. He was five feet from it when he tipped, losing the battle to stay upright against the shifting floor. He slammed heavily into the carpet, the floor solid now, and hard, unforgiving. He rolled onto his back, and the room went out of focus for several seconds. It was disorienting, but he was glad of the respite from all of the colors. If only he could get the pounding drums out of his head. His eyes fell shut. He was going back to the darkness, the black silence where everything would be easy and quiet.
But no, he had to find the Winchesters! To warn them. Michael...
"Dean," he called weakly. Where had his charge gone? Michael was coming and everyone was lost...
The carpet was rough against the back of his head. He tried to get up, and succeeded in falling onto his side instead. Now the carpet was rough against his cheek. He couldn't open his eyes again, he was swimming through a cloying black mud, trying to find the Winchesters.
A loud bang startled him and he curled into himself reflexively, crying out against the spike of pain in his head. Somehow his fingers found his hair again and he whimpered, trying to remember why his chest was fluttering so desperately. Jumbled sounds and words fought their way through the roiling chaos.
Ah, Cas...
Told you we shouldn't have left him alone.
He didn't twitch for three hours! Then we're gone twenty minutes so he climbs out of bed?
Sh, sh, Cas, can you hear me?
The Winchesters, they were back, this must be them.
"Michael," he panted, clawing blindly at the air. His hand found cloth and fisted in it, pulling someone toward him.
Whoa, hey.
"Michael," he repeated. "Michael, run, please, run..."
His warning trailed off into pained whimpers, his head spinning and lurching.
Michael? Michael here?
We already met him, Cas. He's a dick, but he sent us back.
"Run," Castiel whispered, curling up again.
Cas, are... are we in danger now?
He's hallucinating or something. If Michael wanted to nab us he'd have done it when we were in front of him.
That was 30 years ago! What if he changed?
Then I don't think Cas'd still be here.
The blackness was tugging at him, pulling him back under. He clung to the lifeline of the cloth in his fist, raising his swaying free hand to try to send the human away. He wasn't sure where his forehead was, so he stabbed out blindly with what he hoped were two fingers. He pushed against something fleshy and pliant, calling on his Grace to spread his wings.
White hot pain erupted from his chest, yanking him back and forth, screaming. He collapsed against the floor, his hands useless, gasping for breath and wheezing out pained cries in between his pleas.
"R... run, go, g... go, I can't, Michael..."
He wasn't sure what he was saying anymore. Had Michael found him? Captured him? He shivered in fear of what his brother would do.
Cas? Cas!
"Michael..."
It was a useless entreaty. Michael would show him no mercy. Castiel knew what Michael thought of rebellion, how easily his brother would carry out his will against a lesser angel. He twisted desperately, fear swallowing him whole.
Cas!
Hey! Cas! You hearing us? Calm down, okay?
He trembled, unable to stop himself.
Cas, you're fine, you idiot! Calm the hell down!
Michael was shouting at him. Of course Michael would shout at him - Castiel was only surprised that the mere force of Michael's anger hadn't killed him already. Castiel curled up into a tight ball, withdrawing into himself in terror. Surely he was only awaiting discipline, awaiting Zachariah and reeducation, the searing pain that had broken his mind and left him unable to think of defiance. They would burn him and tear him and rip into his Grace until he could hardly remember what it felt like not to be punished. He would scream over and over until they were satisfied, for as long as they wanted.
They had already started, he realized, there was pain clattering down over his head, aching through his shaking limbs. He cried out, desperate and alone, Zachariah's sharp tones telling him how he'd strayed, how wrong his disobedience was, he deserved this discipline because he had dared to go against his orders and he would suffer until Heaven was satisfied with his penance and his renewed loyalty...
Cas! Hey! Listen to me, you son of a bitch!
"I'm sorry," he shouted, panicked and overwhelmed. "I didn't tell them, I didn't tell them, I'm sorry, I was wrong, I'll follow my orders, I'll obey, just stop, please. Stop. Please, brother."
Silence greeted his confession and he moaned in fear as the pain continued.
"Please," he tried again, his voice weak and pleading. "Please, stop. Stop the pain. I'll... I'll obey..."
There was a touch on his cheek, feather-light and gentle. He flinched away from it all the same, not trusting that it wouldn't turn poisonous and burn the side of his face.
"Brother, please," he said softly. "We're... we're to love each other. I don't want..."
Cas.
There were hands on him again, and he cringed as he was lifted, struggling feebly in fear of restraint.
"Brother..." he whispered again, too exhausted to say anything more.
It's okay, Cas. You're okay.
Yeah, your asshat brothers are never gonna touch you again.
Dean...
What?
He was pushed down, but gently, onto soft, yielding cloth. He was still afraid, but he had no strength left to fight, no power to resist whatever was done to him. Confusion swirled as a palm swept over his forehead, fingers ghosting through his hair. Voices spoke with soft words, quiet and reassuring. He had begged for mercy, but he had never expected it to be offered. He had disobeyed, gone against everything Heaven had ever told him, and yet, unbelievably, he was being given warmth and care. He craved it, drank it in desperately, let himself be consumed by the trappings of love being gifted to him. He had never been so grateful.
"Thank you," he whispered.
He sank back slowly into rest.
ooo00ooo
Castiel felt warm and comfortable – tired, but with only a slight ache at the back of his head. He was wrapped in sheets and a blanket, he realized, his head resting on a cheap motel pillow. He blinked his eyes open, twin lamps and a second bed, unmade, coming into focus. The room was quiet, its colors normal, and no drums pounded behind his ears. Castiel breathed a sigh of relief and tried to sit upright, faltering as the room spun unexpectedly.
Instantly there were voices, then hands grabbing his arms, steadying him.
"Cas hey, take it easy."
"Why don't you lay back down?"
Castiel blinked, and the hands and voices resolved themselves into the Winchesters, Sam on his left side and Dean at his right, crouched beside him on the mattress. Dean was trying to push him back flat, but Castiel resisted. From his jumbled fragments of memories, he had already lain on this bed a great deal.
"N... no," he got out, his voice scratchy, his throat painful. "Please, I..."
"Hey no, you're fine Cas, you hear me?" Dean was gripping his shoulders, turning Castiel to face him. The human's eyes searched his face, dark and concerned. "You're here, with us. You're safe, you got that?"
Castiel looked back at him, confused. What exactly had he done while suffering the effects of expending too much effort? But Dean was looking at him for confirmation, so he nodded, wincing as he felt slightly dizzy again. But still he fought Dean's attempts to make him lie back.
"I... I want to sit. Please," Castiel rasped.
Dean shared a look with Sam, who smiled and said,
"Yeah, I think we can allow that."
Together they helped him sit up, leaning him carefully against the headboard. Sam sat down on the unmade bed and Dean went back on his haunches, eyeing Castiel critically.
"How you feelin'?" he asked.
"Tired. But better," Castiel added as Dean frowned. "Much..." Something seemed to move in his raw throat, and he was surprised to find himself suddenly coughing.
"Whoa, easy."
The Winchesters each held one of his shoulders as he coughed painfully, knife points scraping up his throat. Fortunately the coughing didn't last long, and in a few moments he was merely gasping for breath, screwing his eyes up against the fire traveling through his chest.
"I'll get you some water," Sam said, and he felt the younger Winchester pat his shoulder and stand.
"I don't... I don't need..." he wheezed.
"It'll make your throat feel better," Sam said, immediately silencing any further argument. Castiel was unaware that water had any pain-killing properties, but he would gladly try some if it meant tamping the fire back down. Sam moved to the small sink and filled a cup while Dean tilted Castiel back against the headboard.
"Thank you," he said softly, nearly whispering in fear of more coughing. Dean patted his shoulder absently, still frowning at him.
"Just... you know, rest your voice," he said.
Since his voice was incapable of resting, Castiel assumed this meant Dean didn't want him to speak. He remained silent as Sam brought a small plastic cup of water to him, placing it carefully in his hand.
"Go slow," Sam said. "Just sips, so you don't irritate your throat."
His throat was just as incapable of being irritated, but Castiel guessed at what Sam intended. Human language contained many casual instances of metaphor, but Castiel was beginning to understand more of them more easily. He brought the cup to his lips and drank with care, pleased to find that the coolness of the liquid as it trickled down did soothe the burn.
"Thank you, Sam," he said after he'd finished. "It feels improved."
Sam smiled.
"I'll get you some more. You don't have to drink it now if you don't want to," Sam added quickly as Castiel opened his mouth, "But you might want it later, all right?"
"All right," Castiel agreed, and Sam went back to the sink, refilling the plastic cup and returning to place it on the small chest of drawers beside the bed.
"You want anything else?" Dean asked, settling back on his haunches again. Strangely, Castiel missed the hand on his shoulder. "Pizza, beer, a burger...?" Dean suggested.
"No, I..." Castiel glanced back and forth between the brothers. "Dean, what happened? I don't... remember everything."
Dean looked away, a flash of... regret? passing over his features. The hunter licked his lips and turned back to Castiel, locking gazes in a way that made Castiel feel oddly nervous.
"What happened in 1978?" Dean asked, instead of answering Castiel's question. "You wake up like this?" He gestured with a short jerk of his head. Castiel swallowed, feeling a small burn flare up again.
"More or less," he admitted. "I was unwell for several days before I regained enough Grace to return to you."
"Sorry we weren't there," Sam muttered, looking ashamed for some reason. He was close by, sitting on the other bed again.
"You had to leave me behind, Sam," Castiel said. "It was good of you to procure a hotel room for me."
Dean snorted, as if Castiel had said something amusing.
"Right yeah, better than the street," he said.
"Yes, it was."
Dean shook his head, running a hand through his hair.
"Yeah well, sorry you keeled over in the first place," he said quietly.
They felt guilty for having been the cause of his suffering. Castiel felt guilty himself that they should feel bad over a situation that had offered little choice. But he also felt... touched that they would have such a depth of feeling for him. Perhaps reluctantly at times, but he had aided in manipulating them, starting the Apocalypse, and even though he had given his life to rectify those mistakes he did not expect them to love him for it. And yet, perhaps now they did. His heart lifted at the same time that he regretted their pain.
"I was your only avenue to your parents," Castiel said, hoping to ease their burden by impressing upon them the logic of what they'd all done. "It was necessary."
"Yeah, except it probably wasn't," Sam said, fiddling with the end of his shirt. "Your archangel brother showed up and deep-fried – "
Sam broke off, looking stricken. Castiel looked down at his lap, remembering the conclusion he had drawn in the past, and Dean's confirmation of his sister's death as he lay ailing and half-delirious. There was still guilt and grief over the loss, but now that he was conscious, his Grace somewhat restored, he was able to push back the feelings, remind himself that it could not be undone and that he must move forward accepting that.
"It wasn't your fault, Cas," Dean said firmly. "Yeah, maybe you got her locked up and that was bad, but she went to crazy town on her own."
"No," Castiel said. "She didn't just..." He swallowed hard, his mouth dry and his throat smarting. He wanted to reach for the water again, but he didn't trust his trembling fingers not to spill it everywhere. He stared at his hands, unwilling to look at his friends. "Heaven... does things to those who disobey." He struggled to keep his breath from catching, his words even. "She would have gone through a great deal." He shut his eyes, trying to block out the images that were suddenly springing to mind. "I... I sent her to... to..."
There was a hand on his shoulder again, the grip sudden and fierce.
"I'm sorry, Cas," Dean said huskily near his ear. "I'm sorry for all of the crap you've gone through for us, okay? Not just the time travel and the dying, but, you know... what they did to you up there..."
Castiel drew in a sharp breath, remembering.
He had been barely conscious, confused. He had thought Michael was screaming at him, Zachariah torturing him again, and he had begged for it to stop, just like he'd begged in Heaven after they'd broken him, over and over again. At the time, he'd actually believed them, that the discipline was nothing more than what he deserved for daring to disobey, that the pain was necessary to remind him of his place, to reinstall his humility and his sense of duty to Heaven's will. Now he looked back on the memory with horror and shame, that he had let himself be so easily controlled, that he had been so weak as to give in in a matter of days. It was his greatest mistake to allow them to convince him that the Apocalypse was needed and Anna's arrest just.
And the Winchesters knew.
He had told them himself, he had pleaded shamefully for mercy like a frightened dog while they watched him writhe in terror on the floor of the motel room. Anna had surely been tortured for much longer, and Dean had held out in Hell for thirty years, but Castiel was such an irresolute coward he couldn't even last one. How could Dean apologize to him for his own failing? Castiel buried his face in his hands, shaking. Why should he have their kindness, their friendship, when he had not been strong enough to deserve it?
"I'm sorry," he gasped, shuddering in shame. "I..." He needed to get out, to get away, they shouldn't need to waste their time on him here. He jolted forward, moving to climb out of the bed. "I should go..."
"Whoa, whoa, hey!"
"Cas, stop!"
They caught his arms again, his chest, pushing him back. He had regained enough strength that he could likely break free if he wanted, but he was shaky, uncoordinated. What if he damaged them?
"Please," he said hoarsely, his eyes screwed tightly shut. "Please, let me go."
"Cas, it's okay," Dean said, his voice rough. "Sit down, you gotta rest up."
"Yeah, relax," Sam soothed him, rubbing a hand up and down his arm. "You don't need to... be embarrassed or anything, okay?"
Castiel's head snapped up. He opened his eyes to glare at them.
"Embarrassed?" he spat. "That my reeducation was so effective? That I gave in, that I broke so easily?" His voice was shaking as badly as his body, now.
"Huh?" Sam sounded surprised. "No, Cas... you... We're not blaming you."
Why not?
"I betrayed you," Castiel whispered. "I hurt you and Anna and the whole world. How can you simply..." He swallowed again, wishing for the water badly now. "Forgive that?"
"Cas, you were tortured," Sam said softly. His eyes were gentle with compassion. Castiel couldn't bear it.
"Dean was tortured," Castiel answered, his tone cold. "He didn't break, not for decades."
"Yeah, 'cause I knew who the bad guys were," Dean said. The words were sharp, Dean's eyes glaring. "I wasn't being cut into by my own family. What about you, huh? What'd they tell you while they had you on that rack, that it was all your own fault? That they were 'fixing you'?"
Castiel looked at him, his mind numb, heart thudding painfully in his chest. Dean's eyes bored into him.
"...Yes," he said weakly. "I... I tried to disobey my orders, the strictest..." He shook his head. "Heaven's will is..."
His throat hurt too much to go on. Dean's fingers clenched against his collarbone.
"They put their brainwashing hooks in you," he growled. "They made you think you screwed up just by giving a damn."
Castiel tilted his head in confusion.
"Giving...?" he said scratchily.
"Dammit Cas, you know what I mean!" Dean snapped. "You tried to care about something and they ripped into you and then had the gall to say you deserved it! I mean hell, they called it 'reeducation'?" Dean's face contorted as if he'd eaten something poisonous. "How sick is that?"
Castiel stared back at him, exhausted, trembling, not wanting to speak through the pain and not sure what to say, anyway. He knew now that Zachariah had been wrong, that orders from Heaven were not always just, that his rebellion had been the right choice in the end. But back then...
"Cas? You uh, you want the water now?"
Sam was offering him the plastic cup. Castiel nodded, reaching for it, but he couldn't steady his hand and he nearly dropped it, water spilling over the sides to splash on the quilted blanket.
"Here."
Sam clasped his hand around Castiel's, bringing the water to his lips. Castiel drank, feeling again the relief of cool liquid drowning out the fire in his throat.
"Thank you, Sam," he mumbled when the cup was empty. He wasn't even strong enough to hold a cup of water on his own. Dean caught both of his shoulders, turning Castiel to face him again. Castiel forced himself not to look away – Dean deserved his attention.
"Cas, you listen to me," Dean said, his eyes hard and determined. "You do not feel guilty because they twisted your head around until you thought you were the bad guy for trying to help. Those dicks got you to apologize for trying to prevent the friggin' Apocalypse." Dean leaned down, eyes searching his again. "That is what you wanted to tell me, wasn't it? Why they hauled you back?"
Castiel nodded.
"I'm sorry I didn't," he said miserably. "If I'd been more careful, maybe..."
"Maybe, if, whatever," Dean said. "There'll always be maybes. The point is, even after all that, you still decided to help. You died for it, Cas. That's some damn fine dedication right there."
"We're all to blame for what's happened, Cas," Sam said. He gave a half smile. "No one knows that more than me. But you can't blame yourself for what they did to you."
Castiel looked at Sam, the boy with the demon blood and yet so kind, so compassionate, much more so than the angels whose job it was supposed to be to shelter and protect.
"I let you out of the panic room," he said suddenly. It needed to be said. "Those were my orders and I... I followed them."
He expected surprise, outrage. Sam just smiled a little more. Dean rolled his eyes.
"Hell, we figured that. Who else could get past Bobby's warding? That doesn't matter, Cas, not now. You're on our team, for better or worse, right?"
"You trust me, then? Completely? Despite how... weak I was?"
"You weren't weak, Cas," Sam said reproachfully. Dean let go of Castiel's shoulders, crossing his arms.
"Well what about now, huh?" he asked. "They carve into you a little, you'd hand us right over?
"No of course not, I would never give you up!" Castiel said heatedly. He was repulsed by the very thought. Dean smirked at him.
"There, see?" he said. He slapped Castiel's shoulder gently. "You're with us. Team Free Will, and you just put your ass on the line to save ours. Again. You got nothing to be guilty for."
Castiel looked down again.
"Anna," he said softly. "Heaven... They would have done the same to her as they did to me. For much longer."
"Anna knew the score," Dean said. "And they didn't tell her to kill Sam, she decided that. She could have helped us or left us alone, but she decided she had to kill my little brother. You don't get into my black books any faster than that. But you," and Dean pushed a finger into his chest, "stepped up to stop her. That makes you the good guy, so stop guilting yourself about it, okay?"
Castiel smiled tremulously, knowing that what Dean said was only half-true. It was his fault that Anna had suffered so, and like he had become convinced that unleashing the Apocalypse was the right course of action, however temporarily, the same pain had hardened her will and convinced her that a lesser evil could prevent a greater one. Had Castiel been in Anna's place, might he have chosen the same? He couldn't know. But he had died for the Winchesters, and his will was stronger now, now that he better understood the truth. Dean had helped him to realize that he had a choice, that he could question the orders of his superiors and decide for himself whether or not they were just. If he were captured and taken back to Heaven again, this time he would not be broken so easily. And there had to be some comfort in that.
"But she was your sister, Cas," Sam said quietly. "I'm sorry."
Castiel nodded, burying his grief in the deepest parts of his mind. It would not help him to dwell on it.
"Thank you, Sam," Castiel said again. "Could I have some more water, please?"
He wasn't trembling anymore – he should be able to drink it on his own.
"Sure, Cas," Sam said warmly, getting up to fill the cup again.
Dean settled back on the mattress with crossed legs, eyeing Castiel thoughtfully.
"I don't think you're gonna wanna leave bed today," he said. "You ever learned to play poker?"
Castiel shook his head.
"I have never played any human card games," he said.
Dean smiled.
"Sam!" he barked. "Grab the cards. Cas needs to learn some basic survival skills!"
Castiel didn't understand how playing cards would help him to survive, but Dean was so enthusiastic he couldn't refuse the lesson. For two hours Dean and Sam handed him different assortments of red and black cards and told him lots of nonsensical rules regarding them and gave him strange, incomprehensible advice about what sort of groups to put them in. They told him he had a good "poker face", but by the time he finally won something called a "hand" he was too exhausted to try to understand the compliment. The cards slipped out of his fingers, his eyelids drooping.
"Okay, I think the game has been called on account of sleepy angel," Sam said, his tone gentle and teasing.
Dean cleared the cards away, stacking them up into a small pile that fit in a blue and white box. The box said "Bicycle" on the side, but there had been no bicycles involved in the game...
"Whoa hey, let's lay you down." Sam caught him as he listed toward the side of the bed, guiding him carefully back down until he lay curled beneath the blanket again, his eyes falling shut.
"You rest up good, Cas," Dean said from far away. "We'll be here when you wake up."
Castiel smiled faintly as he fell into slumber, looking forward to the morning.
The End
So I kind of wanted to address Cas' reaction to Anna's death and how he felt about his part in it, as well as bring up a little discussion about what Heaven did to Cas in season four, since neither of those were ever really talked about by the characters on the show. Also, I'm a sucker for hurt!Cas... I hope you enjoyed it - leave a comment if you have time. Thank you!