Castiel can remember falling hard and fast and unforgiving.
He was reduced to a small crumpled figure witnessed by beautiful visages twisted in condemnation and righteous fury.
One of his dear brothers and sisters had pried his wings out of him almost hungrily, and a scream was ripped out of his throat. If Castiel had never witnessed his family's spite before, he could now taste it thickly in the crimson froth gathering in his mouth.
Michael smiled then, beautiful and full of light, for this was the first time Castiel had made a sound.
Perhaps there were many of his kin that took turns ripping him of his grace. Grace was such an intimate thing; something only granted access to by God Himself and the lovers of few wayward angels that developed emotion.
Wayward angels that were quickly disposed of. Soldiers that would not fight for their cause; what was the point of their existence? Without purpose, they were simply abominations of free will, similar to lowly humans in the worst ways possible.
Lowly. Castiel must have smiled at that, an effort in his current situation.
How lowly, then, was Castiel for putting those humans above his own existence?
How much of a pariah had he become to his own brothers and sisters for loving and laughing and hoping to be loved in return?
How many of them have felt it, Castiel had thought detachedly as he let his eyes close for a blessed moment, the malformed almost-question floated away from him as a searing incision was made into the tender flesh of his (Jimmy's) pale wrist.
Castiel knew that Michael could have just as easily banished him from Jimmy Novak's body, and the cold realization of just why he was left in his human host dawned upon him through the haze of agony. There was a reason why Michael was not just doing the honor himself, why the endeavor was made into a team effort.
Castiel was the example, the head on a pike warning others with his mindset away.
A fellow archangel severed his nerves inch by inch with his bare hands. The massacre of misled angels was never dealt with any angelic instrument; rather, the honor was saved for those willing to rip flesh and grace apart.
He coughed, once and full of crimson. There was a mass of faces witnessing the spectacle, glorious in their divine judgment. They bore into him and their gazes had stung deep into his soul, the slowly emptying cavity within his being throbbed unforgivingly.
Help
Few looked triumphant, but even fewer looked sickened by the act of brutality. There were some that had simply left the premises; out of boredom or disgust Castiel would never know.
Dean
Throughout the agonizingly slow and drawn out ordeal, his elder brother Michael had cradled him as though a mother would her babe, whispering into his draining grace how much of an abomination Castiel had become in the eyes of their Father. It hurt so much, too much to even focus on Michael's words through Castiel's garbled thoughts.
"-willing to give up our Father for anyone, for even having the thought of loving anyone more than Him is a grave sin, Castiel. You are defiled."
He let Michael hold him completely then for a short while, let his face burrow into the sinew and muscle that was Michael's host.
A soft, defeated hybrid of a laugh and sob tumbled out of Castiel's mouth. He brought his face close to Michael's with much effort and then squinted. They could both feel the time was nearing, and Michael knew it, knew that Castiel would cup his beloved older brother's face and whisper bittersweet apologies to their Father and to him for further tainting their garrison-
"Fuck you," Castiel spat, the words as light and heavy as a prayer.