Chapter One
Castiel is familiar with death and the torture of coming back to life. He will never truly understand the reason why he keeps coming back, even when he thinks he is done and he deserves the peace and silence of eternal rest. For a couple of deaths, Castiel felt unsatisfied with his end, like he wished he could have stayed a little longer to do something more. Most times, he expected to die, like when they tried to stop the apocalypse or when the Leviathan clung to his insides with their dripping black claws. With his most recent demise, Castiel did not expect it at all.
He and Dean and Sam were in battle. Castiel felt good, like he was back in the swing of being topside, like he was doing something right, for once. He had dealt with his sins as best he could in purgatory, and even though deep down he knew it wasn't quite enough, Castiel chose to stow his crap and deal with their current problems. He was back on earth with the humans (with his humans) to help them, and that was what was important. It was the time to fight, and in that particular battle they fought to the point where victory was on their teeth.
They had fought many other fights like that one, but it ended so unlike the others, mostly because Castiel, with Dean an arm's length away, felt the blade pierce his back and emerge right in the middle of his chest, tearing through the middle of his tie. The glow of his grace blinded him, but not before he saw Dean turn around. Castiel caught one glimpse before, like a forceful, content exhale, all the lights around him faded. For once, death felt truly final for him, and he could accept it. The last thing Castiel saw was Dean Winchester, and even though his face was painted with horror, his lips forming a single horrible syllable, Castiel was glad he at least had that in death, no matter how selfish a comfort it was.
Castiel felt he had done his job; he had helped the Winchesters to the best of his abilities. He felt that, after all he had gone through, after all the times he had bled for his friends and his cause, he deserved the peace of death. So when Castiel woke to a cold blue sky and air that smelled far more like damp fallen leaves than the promised fragrance of intoxicating cleanliness (at least according to stories his brothers told him back in the day), he could not help but be furious.
Castiel has been wandering for days, searching for signs of life. Wherever he is, he knows it is not the earth he left behind, nor purgatory, nor heaven or hell. There is no one, neither monsters nor men. Every house he examines is empty; every car is covered with refuse and rust. When he searched the globe for human life, hardly a blip registered. Upon returning to the ground, however, Castiel felt weak, and he realized that he is not as strong as he thought.
In near-panic, he rushes to heaven, desperate for someone, but he finds the place as deserted as earth.
"Hello?" he called, walking the halls of one of the heavens that his garrison used to frequent. Castiel recalls very clearly how he had slaughtered the brothers and sisters who had not bowed down to him. He knows that those who remained were those who, in his mad, power-drunk state, he had deemed his allies. They loved humanity, too, and were glad for the averted End. In those empty halls, Castiel still regrets and feels a familiar desolation tug down on the space on his back between his wings.
Yet, the halls are entirely empty. All of them. All the angels are gone, even the ones he had spared. He finds signs of struggle, but they only remain because no one bothered to clean them up upon leaving the battlefield. It is clear that the remaining angels were no match for whomever came to slaughter them.
Or send them away. They might not be dead, Castiel reminds himself occasionally.
Castiel searches as much of heaven as possible for any signs of what happened, but he found very little apart from the empty armory. It was there where Castiel had put all the weapons Balthazar had stolen back during the civil war. Castiel found it empty but for a thick coat of dust. By the time he finishes at the armory, he starts to feel unwell, for numerous reasons. Confused and exhausted, Castiel returns to earth where he at least can be among life, even if not human life.
Since his trip to heaven, Castiel has been exploring this new earth on foot. He knows that with the angels gone he is weak and will grow even weaker with time. He knows he must use his powers carefully. He can hardly feel his wings, which at first felt like dead weight. Now they feel like wispy leaves about to break off a tree branch. At the same time, he begins to hunger after a few weeks. He needs water from time to time. When it rains, he feels the cold as the wind runs under his arms along his sides.
Worst of all, Castiel has nothing to do but wonder about what became of Dean and Sam and how their battle ended. After approximately two months of aimless meandering across the North American continent, Castiel decides to return to his final battlefield.
It is dark when he hears the explosion, even though he sees the light first. The magnitude of it makes it difficult for Castiel to gauge how far away he is from the disturbance. The pure white light fades only after several minutes of deafening silence. Only once the birds clear away and the trees settle down again does Castiel sense something. It comes on slowly, and then with the strength of a hurricane. He falls to his knees, landing in mud, and holds his head. His vision clouds; he can hardly feel the ground beneath him. Castiel cries out, the pain forcing him prone on the ground.
Abruptly it all ends. He raises his head and his eyes adjust to the darkness. There is a strange tension in the air, something electric and vital running between the trees, and it is all focused on him. He looks up. The night sky is clear. For a few minutes, Castiel feel some relief. As soon as he stands to keep moving, however, he hears the darkness come alive, and not in the way that Castiel wishes it would. He moves through the trees, careful not to trip, but his heart races and he can hardly watch where he runs without looking back to ensure that nothing is about to snap at his heels.
The woods thin out and he finds himself close a small town, judging by the number of building. He runs down the main street, searching for any store that might have weapons of any sort. At the end of the third block, there is a gun shop. Castiel grabs a pistol and a box of rounds; he loads the gun, watching through the window of the shop. His breathing slows and becomes more regular.
How has it come to this? he wonders, staring at the palpable darkness beyond the window.
Castiel turns around and walks to the back of the store where he finds staircase behind a door. Upstairs is the home of the owner, wherever the man is. There is a kitchen with food and a bedroom, complete with unmade bed, closet of clean clothes, and a stack of half-read books. Castiel gingerly lowers himself onto the bed. It creaks under his weight. He looks at it and can feel the echoes of the happy couple that once lived here with their potted jalapeno plants and vacation scrapbooks filled with photos of far-off places taken off the internet.
"There is no world to travel now," Castiel murmurs as he puts one of the books back on the shelf. He rubs his sore eyes. He is tired, especially of the running. Castiel looks at the stacks of canned food in the pantry. "I don't know what to do with these."
He does not even want to use them, not when they remind him so clearly of one of his last good memories with Sam and Dean.
He and the Winchesters had cooked a dinner after a tough day. They had gotten the information they needed, and they had killed all the demons they had encountered along the way to that information. Instead of deep-fried diner food, Sam suggested they actually make something.
"What? A real meal isn't that hard to make," Sam said.
"Right. And, uh, how many recipes do you know, Bobby Flay?" Dean asked, pulling a beer out of the fridge.
"Plenty," he said, jabbing a finger toward his laptop. Dean conceded, draining half of his beer, and agreed, so long as he didn't have to eat Sam's rabbit food.
Castiel remembers the dinner fondly, especially the preparation. Dean and Sam used their knives to cut up vegetables, for once. Castiel had been given the duty of boiling the broth. Cas stared at the knobs and dials on the stove.
"Dean—"
"What now?"
He stopped cutting the eggplant and walked over to the stove. Castiel remembered posing the problem: that he didn't understand the notations on the dials and how exactly the broth was supposed to boil on the coil if it would simply evaporate if he poured in onto the stove. That was when Dean started laughing.
"Here."
He filled the pot with water from the tap and put in on the back right burner. Dean turned one of the knobs and a flame jumped up, lathering the bottom of the pot.
"Simple enough, right?" he asked.
"I suppose."
"Cas, you could have just used your angel mojo," Dean said pointedly. "Boiling water can't be that hard when you've got the power of God at your fingertips."
"I know," he said, mildly ruffled, "but I want to learn."
"What? Human things?" he asked, surprised. "Why the hell would you want to do that?"
Cas shrugged, even though he knew very well why. He turned away and watched the pot, giving it a little boost when Dean and Sam sounded ready to put the vegetables in the broth.
Now Castiel boils some water, though he does nothing with it. He watches it bubble on the counter. After a moment, he plunges his hand into the scalding water and holds it there. He feels nothing, and for that time, he has a little hope. Castiel pulls his hand out of the water and sees it red and mildly blistered. He watches the redness recede and starts to regret using some of his angel mojo so carelessly. Frustrated, he shuts off the lights, leaves the kitchen, and settles on the mess of sheets on the bed. Castiel closes his eyes; it is almost as dark as when his eyes are open. He has no choice but to try and sleep.