Author's Note: This fic was my entry for DCBB 2013. There are two storylines: Castiel's origin story in flashbacks, and the apocalyptic S4 parallel in the present. Warnings for attempted rape/noncon, torture, blood drinking, addiction.

Also, thanks to Wish (inthebackoftheimpala on tumblr) for betaing, and daksgirl, for creating the artwork for this fic. I can't insert links in the text of this fic, but I'll put a link to her art on my profile.

I. Creation

It's dark when he wakes, lying on some hard, flat surface, and he starts to lift an arm, but it runs into something less than a foot from his body. He runs both hands along the barrier and finds that it's all around him. He seems to be trapped inside a narrow… box? When he reaches into his pocket, his fingers encounter a familiar lighter, and he clicks it on. Dread rises in his gut as he realizes what this is. Coffin. He's buried underground. How the fuck…?

Memories appear before his eyes in flashes.

Blades slicing through the air, through flesh. Blood splattered across walls, across a never-ending tangle of chains and barbs. Smoking guns. Red everywhere. Black smoke of a thousand demons. And then—

Sammy. Shit.

He remembers gashes in his chest, claws ripping through flesh as easy as knives through butter. He remembers the two huge, vacant pits in the hound's face where the eyes should have been. Remembers Sam screaming his name.

And then he was in Hell.

So where is he now? How did this happen?

No, those questions can wait. He needs to get out before he runs out of air. Why the fuck is he buried underground anyway? Sam was supposed to give him a hunter's funeral.

"Damn it, Sammy," he tries to say, but it comes out a croak—his throat is painfully dry and scratchy, and apparently trying to talk was a horrible idea, because it sends him into a coughing fit.

Water. He needs water.

He doesn't even know how he makes it out of the grave, only that it feels as though an eternity has passed between the moment he kicks out the wood of the coffin and the moment he breaks the surface, gasping for air.

And then he's stumbling down a dirt road, hoping against hope that someone will come driving by preferably not a serial killer, because it would suck to get out of Hell only to get shot by some whacked out psycho—will come driving by and give him a lift to... well, to anywhere that isn't here. Anywhere that'll get him closer to Sam, or Bobby.

He doesn't let himself linger on the idea that they might not still be alive. Dean has no idea where he is, or how long he's been gone, but... it's just not possible.

But no cars pass by, and eventually Dean sees a building in the distance. He quickens his pace, spurred on by the sight. He really needs some water. And then he's gotta find a way to call Sam and figure this thing out.

He should have been locked down in Hell forever. What's happened?

Castiel flees. His wings give him an edge over Alastair and Lilith when it comes to traveling between the planes of existence, and he takes full advantage of it now. He'd had a slight lead on them coming out of Hell, but he'd all but lost it when he'd stopped to put Dean's body back together—something that went surprisingly well, all things considered.

They're too close for comfort, and Castiel beats his wings harder, hunched over as though his precious cargo is still in his hands. He makes sure to draw his pursuers away from the soul that is now caged in vulnerable flesh and bone before flying halfway across the world in an attempt to shake them off. But Alastair and Lilith are dogged, and Castiel starts to worry that he may have to turn back and face them head-on.

Then he senses a surge in angelic presence on Earth—the angels must have discovered Dean's absence and withdrawn from Hell.

Castiel feels a shiver of dread. The others will be looking for Dean, just as Lilith and Alastair will soon be. Castiel's mind whirs as he flies, wings aching with the strain of maintaining a high speed for so long. He needs a way to ensure that Dean will be safe.

It occurs to Castiel that he can use his pursuers to his advantage. He abruptly turns back toward the United States, flinching when Alastair's blade glances off his side as he passes. Fortunately, Alastair and Lilith are not as efficient in changing direction as Castiel is, giving him a tiny bit more of a lead. But he's in pain now, moving below optimum speed.

Moments later, he hones in on Dean's grave—the man has apparently dug his way out already. Castiel then traces the presence of Grace to an abandoned gas station. There, he can sense Dean inside the building. One of his brothers is attempting to communicate with the hunter. Castiel highly doubts that any progress is being made on that front, but there is a small chance that Dean will be able to understand angels.

Castiel pauses for a moment, just a split second, brushing close enough to the gas station that it's impossible for the other angel not to notice his interference. And then he's flying away again, rapidly, halting a safe distance away and clutching his side as he waits. The angel emerges from the gas station just in time to encounter Lilith and Alastair, both of whom are distracted from the chase by this new threat.

A nasty fight ensues, expanding into another dimension. Castiel sees other angels approaching, coming to help, and he quickly and surreptitiously returns to the gas station. They're all so distracted by the action that none of them see the brightly shining soul getting back to its feet just within the nearby building.

The human, of course, cannot see the fight. It's beyond his realm of perception. Castiel takes a risk, steps over to the human as he exits the building, and extends a large wing around him, shielding them both from sight. Not that any of the angels or demons are paying attention—actual fights don't often break out between the forces of Heaven and Hell, but when they do, they are all-consuming.

He hovers near a payphone, waiting for Dean to make some phone calls before following him to a car. Castiel continues to cloak Dean, as well as the car, until they're safely on the highway.

Only then does he take off, reluctant to approach Dean. To appear before the hunter now would call suspicion to himself. Better to let Dean come to him.

His vessel is suffering, and Castiel presses a hand to his side, thinks about healing the wound. But he's used this vessel for over two centuries, and perhaps it is time to let him go. Castiel sends his thoughts out, casts about for potential vessels in the area, and comes up with one in the city.

Yes, it's time for a change.

All of Heaven weeps—tears of fury, of mourning—when the Light departs.

The lower level angels feel panic, fear, confusion. They don't know the events that have been unfolding since the first humans walked the Earth. They aren't intimately familiar with Lucifer, aren't aware of the way he grew colder and colder toward the end, losing the warmth of his love, the beauty in his Light.

Michael stands in Heaven, listens to the cries of his brethren, and prays.

Father, if you can hear me, if you still love us at all, you will return to us. Help us. Help Lucifer. He needs your attention more than anyone else. Please, Father.

But his requests go unheeded for the months following Lucifer's descent, and Michael knows that he cannot delay any longer. His brothers have asked for information regarding Lucifer's departure, have wanted to know why the Light has gone, and he's put it off for long enough.

He tells the truth, tells them of Lucifer's poisonous envy, and because he's resentful, because he loves his brother so strongly that it transmutes to hate upon this callous abandonment, he tells them all of how sinful Lucifer has been. Tells them that Lucifer can never return to Heaven, not now that he's fled and left them all behind.

"And these are… the words of our Father?" Leliel asks, tearful.

Michael nods, lies to his brothers because they cannot know that God is not in Heaven. Only three others, Lucifer excluded, are privy to this knowledge. Raphael understands the necessity, but Gabriel throws Michael a look of contempt at the lie. Joshua just looks sad.

"But Lucifer was the favored son," Leliel says, soft, and Anael steps forward to lay a hand upon his shoulder, to provide some comfort.

"He was discontent with all that was already rewarded him, and in wanting more, in lusting for more, he sinned," Michael says. "We have lost him forever."

The others break away, return to their mourning. Soon, only Gabriel, Anael, Azrael, and Raguel remain.

Gabriel frowns at Michael's trusted three and waves at them dismissively. "Leave us."

They look to Michael first, and at his nod, they depart.

"Brother, I understand why you think you have to lie, but don't you think—"

"The truth would cause disorder. Chaos. A frantic search for Father that will return no results."

"No results, really?" Gabriel challenges. "If every single eye in Heaven turned outward, if every one of us ventured out in search for Father, I am certain that we would find him."

Michael shakes his head. "He is the Creator, the most powerful being in existence. Do you honestly think that we would be able to find him if he did not wish to be found?"

Gabriel sighs. "As for Lucifer, is that really what you've decided? That he should never set foot in Heaven again? I thought you loved him. I thought you loved this family."

"I do love this family. That's why I must protect it."

"Protect it? From what? From Lucifer?" When Michael doesn't respond, Gabriel shakes his head, pained. "You think he… you really think that he would…?"

"I know it," Michael admits softly. "He and I… we did not part on civil terms. Lucifer has left us forever, of his own volition, and nothing will change that."

"Not even if he repents?"

Michael smiles even though it hurts to do so. "Lucifer would never go back on his beliefs. You and I both know that. He loves absolutely, but he hates absolutely as well. And his hate for the humans… it grew so much that it dwarfed his love for us. I am sorry, Gabriel, but this is the truth."

Gabriel shakes his head, backs away. "I will leave you now."

With that, he takes flight, leaving Michael alone in this empty realm. The first angel stares wistfully down at the Earth and wishes he could have his little brother back.

But that's impossible now.

He's a young man, even by human standards, devout and kind. He doesn't go to church every week, but he prays every night before bed. He doesn't say grace, but Castiel always thought that that was excessive anyway. The man is an accountant, working at some large investment company, but in his downtime he takes care of animals at a shelter. He's a regular volunteer at a soup kitchen.

It's always harder to kill innocent people, good people. Castiel likes to think that he's better than them, better than the others. So he's been keeping track of several potential vessels in the area, because he's better than them, won't just mass-murder all devout human beings within a hundred-mile radius the way they would, were they in his position.

When the angel fails at establishing contact with Dean for a second time and starts circling this particular young man, it's a shame. Castiel already knows he'll regret killing this one.

But he understands the choice, he really does. The kid is twenty-two years old, fresh out of college, and still very idealistic, firm in his beliefs. He has brown hair, kept at a length slightly longer than is average for a male human being, and his dark brown eyes are earnest, seem to demand trust.

Castiel is grateful that he never learned the man's name, only the idea of him. But even that much knowledge hurts, is difficult to reconcile with the fact that Castiel will be taking his life. Angels don't resurrect humans to be vessels because it's wrong to steal souls from Heaven, no matter what the intent is. And that makes all of this vital—Castiel needs time, needs to stall, and this, this is the best way.

This murder is necessary, so Castiel will do it. He's always been capable of doing what is necessary.

Sam looks up as Ruby comes back into the room, head still buzzing a little the way it does after each time he exorcises a demon.

"Getting pretty slick there, Sam," Ruby says, smiling. "Better all the time."

Sam gets to his feet. She's done so much, been so much, for him, and her approval really does mean a lot. When he looks down and sees the dead body of the waitress, frustration comes crashing back down onto his shoulders—when will he be able to succeed? How many more people will he be unable to save?

But this is something he's been struggling with for some time, and he can handle it. What's more important is the situation at hand. It can't be normal for Dean to just wake up topside all of a sudden, with no clues and no apparent memory of Hell—Sam isn't exactly sure Dean wasn't bullshitting him when he said that, but... well, one problem at a time. Ruby's brought him a lot of useful information in the past months—if anyone knows what's going on, it'll be her.

"What the hell is going on around here, Ruby?" he asks.

"I wish I knew," Ruby replies, shrugging.

"We were thinking some high-level demon pulled Dean out," Sam says.

"No way," Ruby answers. "Sam, human souls don't just walk out of Hell and back into their bodies easy. The sky bleeds, the ground quakes. It's cosmic. No demon can swing that. Not Lilith, not anybody."

"Then what can?" Sam asks, sure that he's not gonna like the answer.

"Nothing I've ever seen before."

Sam nods, because there's nothing else he can do. That is definitely not what he wanted to hear. He's really fucking grateful that Dean's out of Hell, and with the life he's lived, he's learned not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but this time around, he doesn't think he can avoid it. The only major player he can think of is Lilith, but Ruby's already said that she couldn't have been behind it. So who else is there? What could lift a person from the pit, and why would it want Dean out, specifically?

Sam collapses into a seat at the nearest booth. This thing burns people's eyes out—it burns demons' eyes out. It's the end. We're dead—we're all dead, the demon had said before he sent it back to Hell. Dean was definitely right about one thing—that demon was scared.

It's still quiet, and Dean doesn't understand. It's a summoning spell. Usually don't those work faster than this? He grabs the knife beside his leg and idly presses the tip into the surface of the table he's sitting on, because boredom's a bitch. Sure, he'd complained when Bobby had him climbing that ladder to spray-paint the walls of the barn with every friggin' sigil he could think of, but at least he'd been doing something.

"Are you sure you did the ritual right?" Dean asks, and Bobby shoots an exasperated look at him. "Sorry," Dean says, backing off. "Touchy, touchy, huh?"

Just as he finishes speaking, the roof begins to rattle violently. Dean slides off the table, grabbing a shotgun as he does so. Bobby does the same.

"Wishful thinking, but maybe it's just the wind," Dean says, looking up at the roof.

But right after he says this, the lights overhead explode, one by one, and Dean ducks instinctively to protect his head. And then the barn doors are swinging open, and some creature—most likely Castiel, whatever that is—in the guise of a man enters, walking through the shower of sparks.

Dean fires before he even gets a decent look at the guy, but his and Bobby's shotguns do nothing to hurt the thing. Dean glances at the older hunter, but Bobby looks just as confused as he is.

Then the man is getting close, and Dean backs up against the table he'd been sitting on before, grasping Ruby's knife behind his back. As Dean tightens his grip on the handle, the man stops moving, and Dean gets his first really good look at the guy.

Christ, his eyes are blue. His hair sticks up in all directions, like someone's been tugging at it, running their fingers through it. He's wearing a black leather jacket, and underneath is some dark blue fabric, but Dean doesn't dare let his eyes slip any farther down, focusing back on the creature's face.

"Who are you?" he demands.

"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition," Castiel responds, and his voice is much more gravelly than Dean would have expected, coming out of that face.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Thanks for that."

The guy's lips quirk slightly, like he means to smile but doesn't know how, and Dean decides at that moment to lunge forward, stabbing the blade into his chest. But the creature doesn't fall, doesn't even make a sound, and Dean backs up a step, startled and more than slightly afraid, though he would never admit to that.

Meanwhile, the creature just looks down at the knife protruding from his chest. When he looks back up at Dean, his lips are stretched wide in a grin, and Dean swallows hard. What the fuck—

The guy calmly pulls the knife out, letting it drop to the ground with a clang. Behind him, Bobby swings a crowbar at his head, but the guy's arm flies out, stopping the blow seemingly effortlessly. He reaches up and presses two fingers to Bobby's forehead, and the old hunter collapses.

Dean freezes, mind clogged up with disbelief—is Bobby even still alive?

"We need to talk, Dean—" those intense, blue eyes are fixed on him again "—alone."

Dean just blinks at him for a moment before walking around him to crouch beside Bobby. If the creature is powerful enough that nothing they have can hurt him, there's no point in being scared. He reaches down, places two fingers to Bobby's carotid artery, and is relieved to feel it pulsing healthily.

"Your friend is alive."

Dean looks up at the guy, who's moved over to one of the tables and is flipping through a book. "Who are you?"

"Castiel."

Sure. Pamela already told him that. "Yeah, I figured that much. I mean, what are you?"

Castiel looks up from the book on the table and says, "I'm an angel of the Lord."

Dean stares at him for a long moment, taking him in. Still the same mussed hair, too-bright eyes, leather jacket and dark shirt. He wears a pair of comfortable jeans, slung low on his hips. He can't be a demon, because the demon knife didn't take him out, but he sure as hell isn't an angel.

"Get the hell outta here," Dean says. "There's no such thing."

"Oh, believe me, there is."

"Mhmm, right, and I'm supposed to just believe that angels walk around looking like the rest of us on a daily basis? How come I've never run into one o' you before?"

Dean pauses, but instead of a response, there's a flash of lightning from behind him, casting huge shadows of wings extending from Castiel's back.

Okay. So that's new.

"Some angel you are," he says. "You burned out that poor woman's eyes."

Castiel blinks. "It was her—" he starts, then stops. When he speaks again, his voice is measured, as low as ever. "I warned her not to spy on my true form. It can be… overwhelming to humans. So can my real voice. But you already knew that."

Dean makes the connection, remembers the deafening siren, the pain. "You mean the gas station and the motel. That was you talking?" The not-angel nods. "Buddy, next time, lower the volume."

"That was my bad," Castiel says, and something doesn't add up in the way that he says this—how can someone who says my bad also say something like gripped you tight and raised you from perdition? "Certain people," Castiel continues, "special people, can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them. I was wrong."

"And what visage are you in now, huh? What, holy runway model?"

Castiel's lip twitches again in that weird smiling-but-not-smiling thing that he did last time, but now Dean knows that the guy—the thing—can smile, and this just doesn't make sense.

"This?" Castiel says. "This is… a vessel."

"You're possessing some poor bastard?" Dean blurts out, this overriding the less significant thoughts in his head for the moment. How are angels—if this is an angel—better than demons if they have to possess people too?

"He's a believer. He prayed for this," Castiel says, eyes flicking to the right, away from Dean, for just a second.

Dean follows the direction of his gaze but sees nothing interesting, and it doesn't look like the dude's looking at anything in particular, anyway. But Dean knows his visual cues from years of interrogating suspects, victims, bystanders, you name it, and it seems like the guy's bullshitting, making this up on the spot. That, or he's remembering a lie that he thought up a short while back.

"Look, pal, I'm not buyin' what you're sellin', so who are you really?" Dean asks.

Castiel frowns, tilts his head in a way that seems meant to convey confusion, but his eyes are clear, like he knows exactly what Dean's thinking. "I told you," he says.

"Right," Dean says, playing along for now. "And why would an angel rescue me from Hell?"

"Good things do happen, Dean." Weirdly, this statement is the only one that's seemed to ring true in Dean's ears ever since the not-angel showed up here. Could be a fluke.

"Not in my experience."

"What's your problem?" And there it is again, that weird slip of vernacular into the guy's speech. But Castiel continues, eyes wide and locked on Dean's with freaky intensity, "You don't think you deserve to be saved."

"Why'd you do it?" Dean demands, because this is eating at him. With all the things that he's done…

But he gets distracted from his thoughts by the flicker of something across Castiel's face. It's gone too quickly to identify, but Dean's positive that he saw it. Something that Castiel's trying to hide.

"Because God commanded it," Castiel says, almost robotically. "Because we have work for you."

"Nice try, buddy, but I can tell that you're lying," Dean says.

Gradually, the grin from before returns, and while Dean feels a bit triumphant, he can't deny that this look on the guy's face scares him.

"It's good to know you're not an idiot."

Dean wants to ask what exactly Castiel is trying to hide from him, but there's a crash of thunder in the distance, and Castiel's head jerks in that direction. He's suddenly still, so still that he could be a statue, and god, the dude can't really be an angel, can he?

"Well, that's my cue. Dean, try to stay out of trouble." Dean starts to answer, but then Castiel steps closer to him, and before Dean can do anything, Castiel presses a hand to his chest. There's a sudden flare of pain that fades almost instantly.

Dean grunts. "What did you do to me?" he demands, hand wrapping around Castiel's wrist to keep him there, make him explain. He jolts, surprised—it's like he can feel power radiating from Castiel's arm.

"For protection. Just in case," Castiel says with a secretive smile.

Dean starts to speak, but Castiel is gone. And Dean swears that in the last moments before Castiel disappeared, he heard the sound of wings.

An angel. Dean shakes his head. There's just no way.

Ruby sighs and lets her forehead fall against the steering wheel with a thud. She doesn't like lying to Sam—she's never liked lying to Sam. But it needed to be done. It's for his own good.

I don't even know if I trust you, he'd said.

Sam's right not to trust her, Ruby thinks bitterly. She can't tell him anything. Hell, if she were Sam, she wouldn't trust her either. But telling him what she knows would only spur more questions, sticky questions that she wouldn't be able to answer.

At least it wasn't a complete lie. She'd said that it was something she'd never seen before, and she really hasn't seen an angel before—doesn't plan to see one anytime soon. Even topside, with limited access to sources, she's heard of the siege that the angels laid on Hell, so it's only logical that an angel pulled Dean out. Ruby hasn't received any new orders, though, so it appears everything is to proceed as planned.

Dean's return really throws a wrench in her plans. Sam's been cooperating so well, but Ruby knows that Dean disapproves of his brother's powers—his disapproval had been what made Sam so reluctant to work with Ruby toward the beginning. Sure, Sam thinks he wants to keep going right now, but it's only a matter of time before Dean finds out what they are doing and goes berserk trying to get them to stop.

Ruby wants more than anything to take Sam away from Dean before that can happen, to convince Sam that the two of them would be better off without Dean, or that Dean would be better off without them—whichever argument works.

But that approach isn't feasible. Sam would die for Dean—hell, he was doing his goddamned best to trade places with Dean only a few months back—and to try to separate them now, so soon after Dean's return... it wouldn't go over well. Really, Ruby's only been in Sam's life for maybe a year and a half, on and off, while Dean's been with Sam for practically his entire life. And although that is an obstacle that Ruby can and will overcome, she has to allow Sam and Dean time for the honeymoon period following their reunion before she can get down to chipping away at their relationship.

Yes, she needs to be patient. She needs to keep Sam coming back and just hope that when Dean does find out and the brothers have their inevitable fallout, Sam will be far enough along that he'll choose to come with Ruby rather than knuckle under to Dean's demands.

For the first two months, Lucifer wanders the Earth, walks among the glorified apes, unseen, and watches as they struggle through the days, watches their primitive lifestyles. And he wonders why, how. How are these inferior, imperfect creatures, these animals better, more loved by Father, than all of the angels? Than all of his perfect children?

But though he may have threatened to destroy humanity in his last fight with Michael—his entire being pulses with hurt at the memory of his beloved brother's fury, disapproval, disappointment—he knows that if these are his Father's favorites, outright killing might not be the best thing to do.

So he moves among the earliest humans, observing. The more he learns, the more disdain he holds for them. They have a constant need for everything, hunger for everything—sustenance, stimulation, rest, companionship, sex. How can these confused, tangled masses of need and want be more worthy of God's love than the legions of perfect, devoted angels?

One day, a woman dies before him, succumbing to disease. Angels all know that the souls of humans come to Heaven upon death of the flesh, just as those of monsters go to Purgatory, but angels seldom walk the Earth, and they are not familiar with the journey that these souls take to Heaven.

Fascinated, Lucifer watches as the woman's soul lifts out of her body, watches as a reaper approaches and speaks to her. She nods, and he takes off, ferrying her toward Heaven. Lucifer tracks his progress through the dimensions until he's at the gates. This is where the reaper stops, deposits the soul without a second glance, and returns to Earth.

It occurs to Lucifer that he may not be allowed to kill the humans, but he can certainly steal their souls and torment them in this secret way. It'd be almost too easy for him to intercept a reaper. So he continues to track that reaper, and the next time it stops to reap a soul, Lucifer makes sure to stay close and hidden. He snakes out a tendril of Grace, brushes it against the reaper's clutches, and it releases the human soul in its hold.

There's an instant of confusion in the reaper, but Lucifer strokes its cold hands again with his Grace, gives it the illusion of cargo, and sends it away.

His prize quivers under his touch, and he smiles. "Are you frightened, my dear?" he asks.

This soul is dim, so dim, as are all human souls in comparison to angelic Grace, and he just doesn't understand. Why do the others think that these souls are so beautiful? How can they even begin to compare to Grace? It is difficult to believe that all other angels hold such disproportionately low opinions of their own essences. It's disturbing, really.

The soul doesn't respond to his query, and perhaps it doesn't know how. Lucifer harbors more than a little disdain for human languages, after all, so his question was asked in Enochian.

He gives a gentle tug at the soul, and it screams in agony, pleads in its primitive tongue for him to stop. But he can't—this is perfect. This is the soul's just punishment. Why should it usurp his Father's attention? It's dirty, trapped so near the ground, unable to fly.

He twists and tugs at the human soul, experimental, but he eventually gets too worked up, pulls too hard, and the soul snaps, disintegrates with a thought. But right before it snaps, Lucifer thinks he sees a tiny flare of defiance, a final stab at survival, and he is… intrigued.

From then on, Lucifer begins to steal souls, just one at a time, and tries hard to stretch them to their limits. Each and every soul emits that same final flare of brilliance, but he can't seem to keep them in that state, can't seem to draw it from them. As an archangel, it seems that he's too strong; it's too easy to rip them apart, to grind the souls into nonexistence.

There must be a solution to this. Lucifer just hasn't gotten there yet.

When Castiel enters Dean's mind, the human isn't dreaming, so Castiel prods at his subconscious, and Bobby Singer's house materializes around him. Castiel leans back against the kitchen counter, rests his hands on either side of his hips, and waits for Dean to come to him.

Dean seems surprised when he sees Castiel, which makes sense. The human gets to his feet and enters the kitchen area, eyes laser-focused on Castiel.

Castiel waits until he's close enough and says, "Excellent job with the witnesses."

"You were hip to all this?" Dean asks, and he looks surprised and angry.

"I was uh, made aware."

"Well, thanks a lot for the angelic assistance. You know, I almost got my heart ripped outta my chest!" Dean growls.

"But you didn't," Castiel says matter-of-factly—if Dean had truly been in mortal danger, Castiel would have stepped in. Hell, after all the energy Castiel spent to bring Dean back, it'd be nothing to fight off the reaper that came for Dean, even if Dean's soul had already left his body.

But he can't say any of this, and his terse response only seems to anger Dean further. Castiel is annoyed by the script, but he chose to play things this way—it's safer, anyway—so he's gonna have to stick with it, at least for now. Maybe later, when the dust has settled, he will come clean.

"I thought angels were supposed to be guardians," Dean is saying. "Fluffy wings, halos, y'know. Michael Landon. Not dicks."

Castiel can't hold back a smirk. "Read the Bible. Angels are warriors of God."—yeah, of a God who's not fucking there—"I'm a soldier."

"Yeah? Then why didn't you fight?"

"I'm not here to perch on your shoulder. We had larger concerns."

"Concerns? There were people getting torn to shreds down here!" Dean hisses, infuriated. "And by the way, while all this is going on, where the hell is your boss, huh, if there is a God?"

"There is a God," Castiel says. Yes, an absent God who's too cowardly to show his face.

"I'm not convinced," Dean says. "'Cause if there's a God, what the hell is he waiting for, huh? Genocide? Monsters roaming the Earth? The freaking apocalypse? At what point does he lift a damn finger, and help the poor bastards that are stuck down here?"

Castiel echoes all of these sentiments and more, but the only thing he can say is, "The Lord works—"

"If you say 'in mysterious ways,' so help me, I will kick your ass," Dean interrupts.

Castiel makes as though he's surrendering the point, but internally, he crows with glee. This human channels emotion so strongly, reeks of delicious anger. Yes, this was completely worth the trouble it took to haul him out of Hell.

"So, Bobby was right," Dean says. "About the witnesses. This is some kind of a… sign of the apocalypse."

And they're back to the script. "That's why we're here. Big things afoot."

"Do I wanna know what kind of things?" Dean asks.

"I sincerely doubt it, but you need to know. The rising of the witnesses is one of the sixty-six seals," Castiel begins to recite.

"Okay, I'm guessing that's not a show at Seaworld."

Castiel holds back a grin. He'd been half-worried that the man wouldn't live up to his expectations once they actually met, but he hadn't been disappointed by their first meeting, and really, he likes this guy. "Those seals are being broken by Lilith," Castiel says impassively.

Dean catches on immediately, proving again that he's a sharp one, despite what other demons have told Castiel about Dean being the "dumb" Winchester. "She did the spell," he says. "She rose the witnesses."

"Mhmm," Castiel says. "And not just here. Twenty other hunters are dead."

"Of course. She picked victims that the hunters couldn't save so that they would barrel right after us."

"Lilith has a certain sense of humor." And oh, does Castiel know it.

"Well, we put those spirits back to rest," Dean says.

"It doesn't matter. The seal was broken."

"Why break the seal anyway?"

Castiel frowns—he's wading into murky waters now. His memory is remarkable, but he definitely should have paid more attention when his father talked about these sorts of things—destiny, the grand story, the Righteous Man. At the time, he'd never thought it'd come in handy.

But he's always been stellar at improvisation, and he knows the gist of the idea… and it's not as though Dean's going to know the difference between the script and what Castiel actually says. "Think of the seals as… locks on a door."

"Okay," Dean responds readily. "Last one opens and…?"

This Castiel remembers verbatim. "Lucifer walks free."

Dean stares at him in disbelief. "Lucifer? But I thought Lucifer was just a story they told at demon Sunday school. There's no such thing."

"Three days ago, you thought there was no such thing as me," Castiel says. "Why do you think we're here, walking among you now for the first time in two thousand years?"

"To stop Lucifer," Dean murmurs.

"That's why we've arrived," Castiel confirms. And he realizes that he honestly has no clue what else he's supposed to say. Is this the point when he leaves?

But then Dean says, "Well… bang-up job so far. Stellar work with the witnesses." He leans back against the counter, right by the refrigerator. "It's nice."

And while Castiel appreciates Dean's sense of humor and his spirit, the sarcasm in his voice here irritates him—the angels are doing the best they can. What gives Dean the right to pass judgment on them? "We tried," Castiel says. "And there are other battles, other seals. Some we'll win, some we'll lose. This one, we lost."

Dean scoffs, and his insolence really grates on Castiel's nerves.

"Our numbers are not unlimited," he says, letting his Grace flare a little so that his eyes take on more of a menacing glint. "Six of my brothers died in the field this week—"

Castiel had watched from a distance as their Graces were snuffed out. There's a traitor in Heaven, and he knows who it is, but no one would believe him if he told them. He can only bide his time.

Meanwhile, Castiel leans in closer to Dean and continues, "You think the armies of Heaven should just follow you around? There's a bigger picture, here. You should show me some respect." He lowers his voice for the final threat, something that probably doesn't jive with being an angel but that he can't resist adding, "I dragged you out of Hell. I can throw you back in."

He stares at Dean for a moment longer, to make sure his words sink in, before spreading his wings and departing from Dean's mind.

And now he really isn't sure what comes next. He lands just outside Singer Salvage Yard, outside the fabric of human existence, and tests the cloak that he placed around the property, ensures that it hides the Winchesters and the Impala from both angelic and demonic sight.

Satisfied, he takes off. He needs more information if he is to continue in this vein. The next step in the grand plan has to do with testing how battle-ready the Righteous Man is, but Castiel can't remember the specifics.

A brother would do perfectly as a source of information, but he needs the right incentive. Dean, of course, will have to serve that purpose, but how can Castiel make him harder to find for his brothers? Dean won't stay in the salvage yard forever, and Castiel can't just kill every viable vessel on Earth. And when they can't find Dean directly—the etchings on his ribs have proven effective so far—they'll realize that they can find him through Sam.

So what would make a human extraordinarily difficult to find?

Ah, yes. Time.

It's been a few short decades since his departure from Heaven when a potential solution occurs to Lucifer.

Human souls are dim, flawed, and most importantly, weak. They can't withstand the torture it takes to bring them to that final point of brilliance, of power, and by the time they've reached that point, it's already too late, and they're well on their way to disintegration.

So why not choose a more powerful starting point?

Lucifer extends his senses up towards Heaven, spreads his wings, and flies near the gates.

Here, so close to his old home, he feels sorrow again. But as much as he yearns for his home, he will never be welcome there again. That much Michael made absolutely clear.

In his mind, he recalls the ranks of angels. So many brothers to choose from… but he must select the right one. Lucifer needs him to be strong, but not so strong that he'll be partial to Michael—the eldest is known for favoring those with high might.

Anael, Azrael, and Raguel are definitely off-limits—those three are Michael's most trusted and loyal warriors. Gabriel and Raphael are nearly as strong as Lucifer himself, and there is no way that they would sit by meekly and allow Lucifer to experiment with them, so they are out as well. But there are many more to choose from.

Hester is too headstrong. Rachel too loyal. Zachariah is powerful… but Lucifer just doesn't like him, so he moves on. Gadreel is strong, but he may be too loyal, like Rachel. Leliel is powerful, and he's taken Lucifer's side in past squabbles. Perhaps he will be a good choice. Arariel is a worthy candidate as well. Ariel? No, Ariel is too meek. Cassiel would be a smart choice—he's solitary, might not even be missed for a length of time. But he's not powerful, and he lacks conviction. Too passive. Nuriel?

Lucifer deliberates for a length of time, weighing and measuring the benefits and downfalls of each choice, narrowing down the angels of Heaven until he's left with Leliel and Puriel.

Leliel is the angel of night, perhaps slightly stronger than what Lucifer would prefer. Puriel, on the other hand, is fiery, completely detached in a way that most other angels are not, and he has what Lucifer feels is the perfect strength for what he hopes to accomplish.

Puriel examines souls when they are brought to Heaven—if Lucifer strains his Grace enough, he can sense Puriel's presence just beyond the gates. It would be so easy to call to him, lure him through the gates and ensnare him. But his presence would instantly be missed. Dokiel would certainly alert the others, and Lucifer cannot capture Puriel quickly enough that Dokiel will not notice. Puriel is also less likely to submit to Lucifer's will.

And so Lucifer chooses to call to Leliel, soft, so that it's unlikely he'll be overheard by the rest of the Host. There's an instant of nothing, an instant in which Lucifer worries that he's made the wrong choice—Leliel could be going to Michael even now with knowledge that Lucifer is attempting to reach the inhabitants of Heaven.

But then it's there, a thready connection between them, tethering Leliel's Grace to Lucifer's, and Lucifer gives a light tug, summoning him.

Then he flies down to Earth to wait.

Not a minute later, Leliel lands before him. "Brother," he says, eyes full of wonder.

Lucifer smiles. "I thought you wouldn't come."

"We aren't supposed to be outside Heaven," Leliel says, hushed, but Lucifer knows that there are cracks in the boundaries of Heaven, that the gates are far from the only entrance to Heaven.

"I know."

"Why did you call for me?"

"I have a task for you. It's very important."

Leliel draws himself up to his full height. "What can I do for you?" he asks, and yes, this was a perfect choice indeed.

"Withstand torture."

"Torture," Leliel repeats, surprised.

"Yes," Lucifer replies—he could never lie to his brothers. "I will make you scream. I will make you wish you were dead. I will push you until you can be pushed no farther."

Leliel is silent for a moment, and Lucifer wonders if he'll have to force him. That would be much less pleasant, but he is willing to do what must be done.

Then Leliel asks, "Why?"

"To test a theory," Lucifer responds.

Leliel takes another moment to consider it. Just as Lucifer is bracing himself for Leliel to take flight, preparing himself to intercept and capture him, Leliel drops to the ground, submissive.

"I am yours to use as you wish," the seraph whispers.

And Lucifer slowly smiles.

It's never gonna be over.

Dean tells this to himself over and over again, no matter what that demon Alastair says. Because he's not gonna do it. He's not gonna turn into a demon, into a monster.

Oh, but it hurts. Christ, it hurts.

He wishes he could die here, permanently. Just die and stay dead. It'd be bliss, compared to this never-ending cycle of pain.

He watches others get off the racks, angry and twisted and demonic, and he wonders what he looks like, wonders if he's turned just as dark as they have. There are no mirrors here, so he cannot see himself. He doesn't want to see himself, doesn't want to see proof that he's steadily turning into what he never wanted to be.

Alastair tells him it's only a matter of time. Dean looks around, takes in all the blood and guts, hears the screams, inhales the wretched smell of this shithole that he's been in for over two decades, and wonders if he's right. Hell, Dean doesn't know how much longer he can last, how much more he can take.

There's a draft of cold wind against his skin, and Dean blinks awake, his last thought being that there's no cool wind in Hell.

"Hello, Dean," a deep voice says, and Dean jerks back, lifts himself onto one elbow to see Castiel perched on the other side of his bed. "What were you dreaming about?"

Dean sighs. "What, do you get your freak on by watching other people sleep? What do you want?" he snaps, irritable. Though really, he's relieved that the angel woke him up—he has no doubt that that's what happened, because it sounds like the angel knew exactly what Dean was dreaming about—but he's not willing to admit that yet.

"There is something that you need to know."

"Okay, then tell me."

"You need to see it."

Does he have to be so fucking pedantic? "Okay, show me," Dean says shortly.

Castiel's lips quirk upward, and then his hand's coming toward Dean's head. Dean starts backing away, but he feels two fingertips press against his forehead, and the world drops away.

"Move it, buddy—you can't sleep here," someone says, waking Dean up. Wait—when did he fall asleep?

Groggily, he mutters, "Okay… sleep where?"

"Anywhere but here."

Here. Where the hell is here?

Dean sits up, looks around. He's on a bench. He was just sleeping on a bench, and he doesn't recognize this place at all. How did he even—right. Castiel. Dean pulls out his cell phone, but there's no signal. Figures that the angel would send him to some place that doesn't have cell signal.

"Perfect," Dean grumbles.

He spots a diner across the street. Jay Bird's Diner—bit of a weird name. Well, the locals will be able to tell him where he is, so that's a start.

Castiel stands perfectly still, waiting. He sent up the signal, one that would be recognized as a call for help, a short while ago, just after returning from 1973. Sure enough, he senses an impending arrival and braces himself for combat. He isn't sure how he will be received by his estranged brothers, and he doesn't know if they've found out that it was he who destroyed that vessel in Pontiac.

He turns around when the new arrival lands behind him. This must be the angel whose role he's usurped.

"You're young," Castiel observes, and it's true—this angel is one of the younger generation, younger than Castiel, that's for sure. He's unfortunately managed to find a vessel after all, but Castiel supposes it was only a matter of time. The man is blond, about the height of Castiel's vessel, and used to work at a law firm. Castiel looks past the vessel and into the Grace, searches for the name of the angel inside.

"It's… it's you," the angel says, apparently recognizing him first. This isn't surprising—Castiel's wings and Grace are pretty distinctive.

Castiel smirks. "Me. What do they say about me these days, Inias?"

"I…" Inias pauses and shakes his head—not the gossiping type, Castiel sees. "I cannot find the Righteous Man. What have you done with him?"

"What makes you think it was me?"

"Hell is in an uproar. They would not have let him escape, not even with the forces of Heaven storming them as a distraction. I know of no other who could have removed him."

"Well, brother," Castiel says, and Inias flinches, the sensitive thing, "I don't know what to tell you."

"Tell me where you've put Dean Winchester."

Castiel pretends to consider this for a moment, hoping to get a rise out of the angel, but Inias is too patient, and Castiel finally says, "I can give you a hint. But I want something from you, first."

Inias looks guarded. "I cannot give everything freely—this you must know."

"I am not asking for anything I shouldn't already know," Castiel responds. "It's been a while since I last brushed up on the story. I would appreciate a tiny bit of a review."

"Indeed, this is something you should already know," Inias says, frowning. "Why would you need—"

"Humor me, brother. It is a small price to pay in exchange for a clue to the Righteous Man's whereabouts, is it not?"

Inias hesitates, then nods. He launches into the narrative, into the story, and Castiel listens, and remembers. There's a flash of red Grace, followed by a flash of gold, and Castiel wonders who they were, whom he's just recalled. It's been so long…

After some time, Inias finishes his speech and turns to Castiel expectantly. "Now, I would like to know where the Righteous Man is."

"It's not a question of where, but when," Castiel answers, giving away a hint that really only makes his brother's job more difficult, and he feels smug when Inias's eyes widen.

"How…" he murmurs, and Castiel knows that he's thinking—how am I ever going to find him?

"Good luck, little brother," Castiel says, and takes off before Inias can respond.

He loops around rapidly, stops in several random spots around the Earth to ensure that any sort of tail put on him has been shaken off. Only then does he return for Dean. There's work to be done, and now that Inias is going to be busy, he has some more time.

First order of business—he must fetch Dean before Inias finds him. But when that's over with, he has an old friend to visit.

Lucifer senses when the first brothers leave Heaven to scour the Earth.

Leliel's disappearance couldn't go unnoticed forever, but Lucifer is still dismayed by how quickly they caught on. It's only been about a week, and Leliel has not broken yet, but he's close.

Leliel screams, cries, begs for mercy, and Lucifer twists and tugs at his Grace, tears chunks of it away. He rips at Leliel's wings, in and out of the human plane of existence, and Leliel shrieks, shrill. Lucifer mutes all of this, makes sure to keep hidden from the seraphs' search. He's an archangel, so this is no difficulty.

But a day later, he gets fed up. Lucifer hasn't completely ripped Leliel's wings off just yet, has only torn them and allowed them to heal partially before breaking or tearing them again. He sets to work on ripping them apart again, but this time, he doesn't stop until the wings are completely gone, obliterated. The screams are shrill, hard to listen to, but Lucifer forces himself to hear the near incoherent cries. His brother's pain deserves his full and undivided attention.

And then, suddenly, Leliel's Grace flares up, white-hot and powerful and… and perfect, because it is maintaining this brightness. Then, just as rapidly, the bright power collapses inward, hardens to obsidian, black as night, and Lucifer steps back, waits for his brother to wake.

Leliel regains consciousness quickly, and the first thing he says is, "Father?"

Lucifer frowns down at him—God is nowhere nearby, but Leliel is looking at him, eyes full of awe.

"Father," Leliel repeats.

"Leliel—" Lucifer begins.

"My name is Lilith."

And it occurs to Lucifer that he has twisted his brother into something new, that he has created, much as Father once did. "Lilith, my dear child," Lucifer says, and Lilith beams.

Oh, if only the occupants of Heaven could see this.

And then it occurs to him that they can, if he lets them. Lucifer uncloaks his presence and instantly feels several seraphs zoning in on his location.

"The angels are coming to take you away from me," Lucifer informs his new child.

"You won't let them, will you?" Lilith asks, worried.

"That depends on how much you want to stay with me. I will leave now—if you wish to stay with me, prove it," Lucifer says. He grants Lilith a smile before departing.

Dean wakes with a start, the image of his mother leaning in to seal the deal still too fresh in his mind. This was pointless—it was all pointless. He didn't—couldn't change anything. He sits up, turning sideways as he does so to get his feet on the ground. He needs to be standing, needs to not feel so fucking useless.

"I couldn't stop any of it," he says. "She still made the deal—she still died in the nursery, didn't she?" And when he asks, he glances at Castiel, wishing that the angel would contradict him.

"Don't be too hard on yourself. You couldn't have stopped it."

Dean gets to his feet. "What?"

"Destiny can't be changed, Dean," Castiel says, turning. "All roads lead to the same destination."

And that's just fucking infuriating. Why didn't he bother to mention this earlier, when he was talking to Dean about how his actions would change the future, and all the people he'd saved would die? So much bullshit. "Then why'd you send me back?"

"For the truth. Now you know everything we do," Castiel says, as maddeningly cryptic as usual.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Instead of answering, Castiel tilts his head toward the other bed, Sam's bed. Dean follows his line of sight and notices for the first time that his brother is missing.

"Where's Sam?" he asks, worry seeping into his tone.

"We know what Azazel did to your brother. What we don't know is why, what his endgame is. He went to great lengths to cover that up."

"Where's Sam?" Dean demands.

"425 Waterman," Castiel says. Dean stalks past Castiel and moves toward the door, grabbing his jacket and shrugging it on. Meanwhile, Castiel continues, "Your brother is headed down a dangerous road, Dean. We're not sure where it leads, so stop it. Or we will."

The angel doesn't raise his voice at all, yet he still manages to make his tone more intense—the last three words make Dean turn to look at him, because there's no doubt that Castiel is threatening him.

And it's different from the last time. In Bobby's kitchen—Dean still isn't sure if that was a dream or what, because he only remembers waking up, doesn't remember lying on the ground to go back to sleep—Castiel had been intimidating, but deep down Dean had been sure that the angel wouldn't actually send him back to Hell, not after all the effort it must have taken to pull him out.

Now, Castiel's words are menacing, with intent, and when Dean meets his eyes, he can tell that Castiel will act, if he needs to. This isn't an empty threat.

Dean blinks, and Castiel's gone.

He frowns, but then he's on the move again. 425 Waterman—he needs to find Sam, find out what he's up to.

The angels all land close but not too close, and they look wary.

"Leliel," one of them says, and Lilith remains still, waiting.

These are the angels that want to take her away from Father. She remembers them, abstractly, recognizes the varying shades of their Graces, but she feels none of the fondness she once did for her brothers. They wish to take her away from Father, so they must be defeated.

"Leliel," another says, concern coloring his voice, and still she remains unmoved.

She's outnumbered, and she remembers how skilled of fighters these three winged creatures, these former brothers, are: Arariel, of the waters; Barachiel, the princely guardian; Azrael, the fastest blade of Heaven and Michael's favorite. Yet despite what she knows, she feels no fear. They will never take her alive, and she fears not death. The worst fate would be living without Father. She won't endure that.

Azrael extends a tendril of his Grace toward her, hesitant. She no longer has her wings, and she can smell their concern, their fear, and this is her advantage. This is her salvation.

She grasps that branch, that manifestation of mercy, and rips into it ruthlessly, her only intent to cause as much pain as possible. He cries out, and the forest around them flattens to nothing. Stunned, Barachiel and Arariel do not react at first, and Lilith struggles with Azrael, ducks his blade and tears harder into him, into the heart of his being.

But he thrusts her away, and she dances out of reach of Barachiel and Arariel. They take flight, cornering her, but when Barachiel lunges, she skips to the side, shoves him forward so that his momentum carries him into Arariel. However, Arariel is too quick and vanishes with a flap of his wings. She hears him land behind her and spins, catching his blade before he can sink it into her middle.

And then Azrael is upon her, having recovered from her attack far too quickly for her liking. This is why he is one of the most fearsome warriors of Heaven.

Pinned, with the point of a blade hovering just above her right eye, she makes a show of submitting, of surrender, and as expected, Azrael takes pity and sheathes his blade.

"What has happened to you, Leliel?" he asks, eyes filled with sorrow as he looks down at her.

She looks as well, sees the sleek black of what used to be Grace, perfect bright light that used to carry just the slightest hint of teal. But this beautiful darkness, this is true perfection. Not the Grace that Azrael and the others still possess.

She lifts herself up slightly, enough to bring their forms close together, and whispers, "My name is Lilith."

And before Azrael can respond, she musters all of her strength and thrusts a fist through his Grace, twisting and pulling to siphon off some of that raw power, ignoring his cries of agony as she backs away.

Barachiel and Arariel approach, but she throws her hands to either side, palms facing out, and the angels are pushed back, tossed to the ground. She feels them struggle to get back up, but she uses her borrowed strength to tighten her hold on them, fixes eyes of white on Azrael as he staggers back to his feet. He's too powerful for her to pin, and besides, both of her hands are occupied.

"What are you? Brother, what has become of you?" Azrael asks, horrified.

"I was reborn," Lilith answers.

Then she hears Father calling for her, summoning her. Simultaneously, Lilith senses the approach of more angels, more foes. Father is protective of her, wants her to avoid capture—the realization makes her so happy. She has proven herself, and he has deemed her worthy. She releases the two angels and shifts, flees the scene to find Father. It's harder without her wings, but she manages just the same.

The angels don't follow her, and she smiles.

"You really should have taken that man to the ER," Castiel says.

The demon freezes on the way to her car. "Fuck," she mutters under her breath.

"He died by the side of the road a few minutes ago—a reaper just collected him. It was before his time. If Sam knew, he'd be so disappointed in you."

"Are you here to kill me?" she asks without turning to face him.

"Ruby, you wound me."

She turns around, and her eyes widen as she takes in his identity. "You," she breathes, clearly relieved. "Oh, wow. You're so much more…" she shakes her head. "I hardly even recognize you in that pretty little meatsuit. Where'd you find it?"

"Pontiac, Illinois. I think he's my favorite so far—I'm inclined to keep him," Castiel says. "He didn't exactly have the best style, but a wardrobe change was easy enough."

Ruby shrugs. "And of course they'd let you break the rules," she says, and Castiel can tell she's only just stopping herself from rolling her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

So the lower level demons still don't know what he's done. That's a good sign—means Lilith and Alastair are worried. "Gathering information," he says, and it's not even a lie.

"Mhmm," she says, eyeing him skeptically. "And what do you think I would be able to tell you?"

"Not much, at the moment," Castiel says. "I see Sam's… honing his abilities."

Ruby looks back and forth warily. "I don't think it's a good idea for us to be talking like this. Are you… are you even supposed to be on Earth?"

"Of course I am," Castiel says, the lie springing to his lips as easy as anything. "Why shouldn't we be talking like this? What is there for us to fear?"

Ruby actually does roll her eyes this time. "You don't understand—of course you don't. You don't have to worry about angels or demons hunting you down. Look, I'm not just going to stand out here in the open with you. So either get in my car, or flap off right now. Because I'm leaving."

With that, she turns around and walks the rest of the way to her vehicle.

Castiel's sitting in the passenger seat before she even gets the door open. "What do you know about Dean Winchester's resurrection?" he asks.

"They're saying an angel took him," Ruby answers as she starts the car. "Obviously I wasn't down there when it happened, but I heard dozens of angels stormed Hell—more than anyone's seen in millennia."

"Where'd you hear this?"

"Sources. If I tell you who they are, they won't talk to me anymore. They still think I'm—you know."

"Fair enough. You're sure that it was an angel who raised Dean, though."

She nods. "Sam confirmed it."

"Any idea which angel it was?"

"No." Ruby frowns at him. "Why… why are you asking me? Shouldn't you already know? I thought you were supposed to be—"

"You don't need to know my part as long as you do yours properly. Speaking of which, you need to be more careful. Meg's back on Earth, and she's looking for you. She was getting close when I approached you," Castiel says. Ruby's eyes widen, but Castiel reassures her by saying, "I sent her in the opposite direction—don't worry."

Ruby groans. "Ugh, I hate this. Tell that to Lilith for me, will you?"

Castiel smiles. "I don't need to tell her anything. Trust me, she knows."

"And she doesn't give a damn. I know," Ruby says, glaring at the road. "Are we done here?"

"I have a parting gift for you."

Ruby looks at him suspiciously but says nothing. Castiel reaches into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a hex bag, holds it up briefly before placing it on the dashboard.

"What's it for?" Ruby asks, wrinkling her nose.

"Yes, I apologize for the smell," Castiel says. "It's a hex bag. Should keep you hidden from angels, demons, pretty much anything supernatural."

She arches an eyebrow. "And you're giving it to me. For free."

"For your cooperation."

"I don't like it."

"Take it or leave it. But Meg's back, and you know how good at tracking she is."

Ruby considers this for a moment. "If I copy the ingredients from this hex bag…?"

"Yes, it's replicable."

She deliberates for just a bit longer before conceding. "Fine, I'll take it," she says, snatching the hex bag from the dash and pocketing it.

"Wise choice," Castiel says. "I'll be seeing you."

"Yeah, look forward to it," Ruby scoffs.

Castiel spreads his wings wide and takes off.

It is currently September 23rd. According to Inias, the angels will soon attempt to establish contact with Dean and test whether or not the Righteous Man is fit for battle—whether or not he is ready for the apocalypse. But… is there any way for them to plan this ahead of time?

Perhaps there is a seal that has some sort of a time limitation.

Castiel once had all of the seals, six hundred or so, memorized. But he hadn't cared about them, decided that they were safe to forget, because surely, surely, the apocalypse wouldn't be happening anytime soon, and even if it did, Castiel wouldn't be participating in it.

Now, he's neck-deep in this crap, and all for what? A pretty soul from the pit.

He hates himself sometimes.

The other angels arrive in time to see Leliel—no, the thing that used to be Leliel—toss their brothers to the ground as though they're mere puppets. Azazel hovers on the brink of breaching the membrane onto the human plane, as do the others. But Azrael had told them to stay back, not to approach unless he asked it of them, and because they are obedient, they stop, watch, and wait.

Then Leliel vanishes, and it's astonishing that he is able to do that, even though he obviously lacks wings.

Azrael gives the signal then, the one for them all to return to Heaven. Azazel lingers, watches as Arariel and Barachiel go to support Azrael. Then he turns toward home.

Upon arrival in Heaven, all of the angels hear Michael's call and go to him, prepared to report even though they know that only Azrael will be speaking. Azazel stands with the rest of his brothers and waits for their eldest brother to speak, waits for the word of their Father.

Soon, Azrael appears, flanked by Barachiel and Arariel. He holds them back when they try to support him, steps forward so that he stands separate from the rest, alone before Michael.

"Brother," Michael says gravely. "What has happened to Leliel?"

Azrael hesitates for a moment, and Azazel wonders how he plans to explain this, the impossible change that Lucifer has wrought upon their brother. But then Azrael speaks, and the entire Host listens.

"Leliel is no longer a brother of ours," he says softly. "His Grace has gone, has been corrupted into a dark and horrifying shape that bears some resemblance to the soul that each human possesses. We could not see how Lucifer forced this change upon him, but Leliel could have killed me today—could have killed all three of us. He calls himself Lilith, now, and speaks of rebirth as though Lucifer has granted him new life."

It is silent for a moment, and the Host waits.

"I am afraid, Michael," Azrael says, and this is not a small confession—admitting to fear is something done in private, and admitting to it before the entire Host is practically unheard of. "Lilith is a new kind of creature, something we have never encountered before. His strength is remarkable. We were unprepared for combat."

This makes sense, Azazel reasons, because they hardly fight in Heaven. There's never been a need. But now, it appears that power matters, and that Leliel seems to have just as much power, if not more, than Azrael and, by extension, Anael and Raguel. Azazel can't help but wonder what it would feel like to have all of that power, resting at his fingertips, his to command at will.

Finally, Michael speaks. "This is grave news. Father has warned me of the coming of this new threat, and he has declared it to be against his will. We angels were made to be perfect, unchanging—incapable of being changed. Yet Lucifer has set about changing one of our brothers and has succeeded in corrupting him. This act of disobedience, of blasphemy, cannot be forgiven."

Michael pauses, clearly pained by the words. All of Heaven knows of the strong bond between Michael and Lucifer, the first brothers. It is not a surprise that Michael feels Lucifer's betrayal more keenly than any other.

"When he deserted us, he became an exile. But with this act, he makes himself our enemy."

It was already silent before, but after this declaration, the entire Host stills, because these are words that cannot be taken back, words of God, and they demand war, for surely with the rise of an enemy will follow war.

"Michael," Gabriel says. "Surely Father wouldn't want Lucifer to be our enemy—wouldn't want us to turn against each other. Brother against brother… how could he possibly—"

"Are you questioning God's will, then? Father has chosen to speak to all of you through me. Do you doubt the authenticity of my words?"

Gabriel looks angry, mutinous, but he subsides. Azazel looks around at his brothers. They're all looking to Michael for the next words of God, but Azazel finds himself watching Gabriel instead, wondering why he would dare challenge the eldest so brazenly. Is there something he knows that the rest of the Host does not?

Probably, yes. But Michael is the eldest, and God speaks to him, so he must be right.

Then, Michael speaks the words that they've all been dreading. "War is coming. Father has shown me the path we must take. It will be long and arduous, will test us all. But as long as we have faith in the plan, we will prevail."

Azazel dislikes the idea of war. He is not the strongest fighter, and he does not think himself favored if paired in battle against one of his brothers. After seeing today what Leliel—Lilith—has become capable of, he wonders how it happened, how Lilith grew to be so fearsome and powerful.

The angels disperse with permission from Michael, and Azazel flies away, to a realm with which he is familiar.

Hours later, Arariel appears beside him. "Hello, brother."

Azazel turns to look at him. "Arariel. What are you doing here?" He and Arariel have never been close, and it is strange that he has come to visit now.

"You were thinking dangerous thoughts, earlier."

Azazel stiffens. "How did you—"

"Because I was looking for the signs."

"You were…" Azazel lets his voice trail off, really looks at his brother, and the realization hits him. "It is because you want it, too."

Arariel nods. "I am ashamed. But you were not there, brother. You did not feel how it was to be completely helpless, held down in such a way and entirely at his mercy."

"I saw enough," Azazel murmurs. He looks at Arariel again. "And no other in the Host—"

"None. They are too blinded by faith, unable to see where true power lies," Arariel responds. "But I fear what will become of us in Father's eyes, if we leave."

"You truly are considering this, then. Leaving Heaven," Azazel says.

"Yes. Our brothers—we —are weak, compared to Lucifer and Lilith. The humans that Father has asked us to worship are weak, too. You've seen their souls, bright and beautiful but as useless as crystalline urns. Hierarchies are based on power. Should we not strive for the end that gives us the most power?"

"Your words ring true to me, brother."

"Lilith should not have been possible," Arariel continues. "As Michael said, we were made to be unchanging. Yet Lucifer managed to create Lilith from Leliel. Doesn't that mean he knows more than Michael? He has created. He is closer to Father than any other one of us."

Azazel is silent for a long moment, taking in the truth of his brother's words. Then he says, "I do have one concern, if we are to abandon Heaven to join our lost brothers."

"Speak."

"How will we convince Lucifer of our sincerity? After his latest action, he will surely know that Heaven has declared war upon him and Lilith. He will not trust us."

"A valid concern," Arariel says, "but it is one that I do not think we should trouble ourselves with. Lucifer is far more powerful than the two of us combined. I doubt he will think of us as a threat if we present ourselves before him and submit to his will."

Azazel nods. "When shall we leave, then?"

Arariel thinks upon this for a moment. "Soon. I will come for you."

Someone—or something—has been circling the Winchesters.

It's dangerous, that much Castiel knows. Whatever it is, it's dogged, won't give up the chase. Castiel's been kept plenty busy, making sure to distract it from their trail. Every time he returns to them, he can sense its presence just starting to get close, and he has to draw it away, shield them as best he can behind some temporary wards on their car.

But the wards never hold—they're not meant to be used on moving objects, after all, so it's a wonder that they're holding at all.

He doesn't understand what would be hunting them so diligently. He knows it's not an angel, knows it's not a demon, because they're safely hidden away from either of those two sides, at least for the time being—Castiel's made sure of that.

Why hasn't Ruby passed the hex bag on, yet? He'd counted on her giving it to Sam, because he knows that Sam trusts her. He would attempt to pass it on to Dean, but that wouldn't work so well, given that Dean hates witches and anything that remotely resembles witchcraft. Hex bags unfortunately fall directly into this category.

Oh. Sam's stopped trying to use his powers. It makes sense that he'd have stopped talking to Ruby, too. Well, that blows a hole in Castiel's plans.

He looks over at the two men in their motel room and—there. There it is again, brushing close but not close enough, like it's searching in the general area and hasn't quite figured out where exactly the Winchesters are.

Castiel instantly murmurs a few words, sees the shimmering quality settle over the human plane—it's invisible to them, of course, but Sam and Dean should be untraceable for the next two days, provided this hunt lasts that long. He doesn't pay much attention to their hunts, and he realizes now that he probably should, if only so that he knows where they're headed.

He takes flight, shifting quickly between multiple dimensions to draw the thing's attention. And then he flees as fast as he can, the unknown creature following determinedly behind him.

Castiel knows that he'll be able to shake it off, just like the other times, but he worries. What if one time he doesn't get to the boys soon enough, and the thing, whatever it is, catches them? He went through more than a little trouble to pull Dean out of Hell, and he's not about to let it all go to waste at the hands of some unnamed foe.

He also worries for himself—he's not exactly the most invulnerable creature in the universe. And it's not as though he isn't on the run already. There's a tentative balance he's maintaining right now, a tenuous line he's walking. He's in perilous waters, and there's not much he can do—sink or swim.

It'd be a hell of a lot easier to just sink, but for Dean Winchester, for this tiny, insignificant pinprick of a human, he's swimming.

Just the usual stuff, Sammy. Nothing I can't handle.

The words echo around in Sam's head, and he doesn't like them. He remembers the look on Dean's face when he asked about his hallucinations. Dean had looked at Sam, and… Sam's positive that Dean had looked scared of him.

He closes his eyes, tries to think of something else. But the next thing that pops into his head is the wild look on Jack Montgomery's face as he lunged for Sam. He wishes that Jack could've resisted, wishes he were still alive right now, because it'd be proof. Proof that it doesn't matter who you are, only what you do. Sam has to believe that, has to believe that he's more than the blood Azazel fed to him.

God, he wishes it were gone, wishes it were out of him. He knows that that isn't gonna happen, so the least he can do is help people with it. He also can't deny that he likes how it feels, all that power coursing through his veins. It makes him stronger, makes him feel like he can do anything.

But he saw what happened to Jack, saw how a perfectly reasonable person became… that. And he can't let that happen to himself. He hasn't heard from Ruby in a while, but he hasn't tried to contact her, either. He figures she's probably lying low, at least for now. Is he really going to turn her down the next time she gets in touch with him? She was the one who came to him, took care of him while Dean was gone, and helped him so much with his abilities. He can't just… turn her away.

Dean refuses to understand, refuses to open his mind a little and even try to see things from Sam's perspective. But, Sam reminds himself, Dean doesn't know what it feels like, doesn't know how it feels to have this disease in his body.

And really, Dean's one to talk. All that stuff about keeping secrets is utter bullshit. It's not as though Dean's been completely straightforward with Sam. Really, has he ever been? He never talks about things, always makes Sam force it out of him, like it's a burden to have someone who actually cares about him. Dean needs to grow up.

Nothing I can't handle.

Bullshit. But Sam's not going to call him on it yet. He's got years' worth of experience dealing with Dean, and now's not the right time.

Sam's startled out of his thoughts by Dean, rapping on the window. Sam opens the door, and Dean thrusts a room key into his lap.

"Room 11, that way," Dean says, pointing to his left. "Get a move on, Sleeping Beauty."

Sam wasn't sleeping, but he doesn't bother to point that out.

He gets to his feet, shuts the door and looks over to see Dean pulling the trunk open, digging their bags out. Sam heads over toward the room with two metallic 1's nailed onto it. One of them is crooked, and Sam wonders how long it's been like that. Or maybe it's always been crooked, because motels like these don't care as much about these kinds of details.

He sticks the key in the lock and turns it, swings the door open.

There's someone sitting on one of the beds, his back to the door, and Sam's instantly on the offensive. "Who are you?" he demands, dropping the keys and drawing his gun.

"Sam! Sam, wait!" he hears Dean shouting, and then his brother's in the room, hand pressing down on Sam's arm. "It's Castiel," Dean says. "The angel," he adds needlessly—Sam recognizes the name.

And then the man—angel, the angel who pulled Dean out of Hell—is standing, moving around the bed to face Sam and Dean. God, all the years of praying, and being teased by Dean for having faith, and now, finally, right before him stands the proof that he was right to have faith. That there is a God.

"Hello, Sam," the angel says in a low voice.

"Oh my god—" shit, taking the Lord's name in vain, shouldn't have done that "—er, uh—I didn't mean to—sorry. It's an honor, really. I—I've heard a lot about you," Sam says, stumbling over his words. He extends a hand, and when Castiel doesn't immediately move to shake his hand, he realizes that angels mostly likely don't greet each other this way, and he might be unfamiliar with the concept.

But then Castiel is grasping Sam's hand and saying, "And I you, Sam Winchester." He brings his left hand up as well to sandwich Sam's hand between them as he adds, "The boy with the demon blood."

And Sam wants to flinch, pull back, because that—is that how the angels think of him? The boy with the demon blood? He swallows hard, unsure how to react.

"Glad to see you've ceased your extracurricular activities," Castiel continues, eyes wide and earnest, seemingly oblivious to Sam's discomfort.

"Right, great," Dean says, and Castiel's eyes flick away from Sam, though his hands don't release him. "What're you doing here?"

"A man died four hours ago. His name is Luke Wallace," Castiel responds.

"Okay…" Dean says, frowning. "People die all the time. What's so special about Luke? And you can let go of my brother's hand, now."

Castiel looks down, mildly surprised, as though he hadn't even realized he was still holding Sam's hand. He lets go and steps to the side, closer to Dean, and Sam takes the opportunity to get a good look at him.

He looks… decidedly more human that Sam would have expected, even though Dean did say—blasphemous as always—that he looked like a holy runway model. He's wearing a high-quality black leather jacket with an expensive-looking dark blue shirt underneath, but Sam finds his eyes drawn most to the intense blue of Castiel's eyes, hardly blinking and focused on Dean like nothing else matters in the world.

Well, Dean is the human that Castiel was ordered to drag out of Hell—it makes sense that the angel would pay special attention to him.

"It is a case. He died due to ingestion of razor blades in Halloween candy," Castiel says.

"People actually die because of that?" Dean says.

"Apparently, Luke Wallace did," Castiel says, deadpan.

"Okay, and you want us to check it out?" Dean asks. When Castiel nods, Dean says, "Dude, why can't you do it on your own? You're an angel, a 'soldier.' You can deal with this yourself."

Castiel shakes his head. "This witch is… very powerful. He has managed to hide himself from supernatural beings. I need—"

"Oh, so it's fine for you to ask me for help, but when I tell you that you shoulda helped us out with the witnesses, you give me this spiel about not perching on shoulders," Dean says, and Sam glances over at his brother for a moment because he's never heard about this before. There—another example of Dean being a hypocrite and keeping things from Sam.

"Dean," Castiel says, sounding exasperated, "this is not personal. I have orders. I intend to follow them."

"Why is this witch special?" Sam breaks in before Dean can speak.

"He is attempting to raise Samhain. The raising of Samhain is one of the sixty-six seals—he cannot be allowed to rise," Castiel explains.

"So this is about your buddy, Lucifer," Dean says.

"Yes. The town is Mahnomen, Minnesota, and the ritual will be performed on Halloween night."

"But today's the twenty-ninth," Sam says. "We don't even have two full days."

"Then I suggest you hurry." The angel vanishes abruptly, and Sam backs up a step, shocked.

"Yeah, he does that," Dean says—he doesn't look fazed in the least by Castiel's sudden disappearance, and Sam wonders exactly how many times Dean and Castiel have spoken, because it seems like Dean is pretty damn familiar with him.

"We should probably get on the road, then," Sam says.

They're in Missoula, Montana, ready to investigate a potential vamp case, but Minnesota is at least a fourteen hour drive from where they are, and that's just to the border. If they need to get there and finish the case before Halloween night, they'd better get moving.

"I'll just give Bobby a call, let 'im know that there's a potential case out here," Sam says, pulling out his cell phone.

Dean groans and picks the bags back up from where he'd dropped them at the door. "Wonder if we can get a refund on the room, huh?"

Sam rolls his eyes as he follows Dean out of the motel room. Bobby picks up on the third ring, and Sam explains the situation to him. Bobby's unhappy—he doesn't think very highly of Castiel, mostly because of Pamela, and god, Sam doesn't know how he managed to forget that Castiel was the one who burned her eyes out.

He hangs up a few minutes later and glances at Dean. "You want me to drive for a bit? You drove most of the way here—it was more than ten hours."

"Nah, I'm super."

"You sure? I mean, you did almost die of fright."

"I'm fine, Sammy. All right? Cured."

"Okay, then," Sam says, leaning back in his seat and getting comfortable.

"Man, I hate witches," Dean grouses after a moment.

"I know, Dean. I know."

Lucifer is pleased by the two new additions to his following. He'd been right to consider Arariel a worthy candidate, but he hadn't anticipated that Azazel would be tempted by the power he saw in Lilith. It was a pleasant surprise, certainly.

While working on Arariel and Azazel, Lucifer took his time, experimented some more. After all, it seemed Heaven wasn't particularly keen on sacrificing angels to the cause without more training. So no angels were coming after these two runaways, which meant Lucifer had all the time he wanted to work with them, twist them to his liking.

But he soon found that the only way to turn these two angels was to permanently rip their wings to shreds as he did with Lilith. The rest of the torture did not help his cause, though it was rather interesting.

Azazel has chosen to keep his name, but Arariel has rechristened himself Alastair.

After commanding that they fight each other a few times—without killing each other, of course—Lucifer has deduced that Lilith is more powerful than Alastair and Azazel. The two new arrivals are tied when placed in direct combat—one is just as likely to win a duel as the other. But their strengths lie in different places. Alastair has more overall strength, while Azazel is sly, winning most of his battles by strategy.

This also pleases Lucifer—he likes that his latest followers balance each other out. The fact that they are evenly matched is also convenient, because it encourages competition, which in turn accelerates self-improvement.

But this isn't enough, not if what Alastair and Azazel have said is true.

Michael—Lucifer knows that God is not in Heaven, that Father has left the building, and thus that Michael is the one giving orders—has declared Lucifer to be an enemy of Heaven. The fact that Alastair and Azazel came to Lucifer despite makes him value them all the more, because they are loyal to him.

It is extremely rare for an angel to truly lose faith; it is far more likely that the angel will transfer that faith over to something else. So the brothers' choice to join Lucifer is a sign that they have transferred their faith in Heaven over to faith in Lucifer, and this is something he appreciates.

Still, he doesn't have enough power to truly stand against Heaven, if that is going to be the game they play. Lilith, Alastair, and Azazel may be more powerful than their angel counterparts now, but this is because the occupants of Heaven are grossly out of practice—it has been centuries since quarrels had to be settled through violence, and the warriors of Heaven are not what they once were. When Michael has them all trained into top shape, their strengths should become comparable again.

What Lucifer needs is more fighters. After all, there is strength in numbers.

But it's highly unlikely that any more angels will fall prey to the lure of Lucifer's power, not now that Michael has already declared him to be an enemy. Alastair and Azazel were a surprise, something that Lucifer had not been expecting.

He resolves to think on it for some time before sharing his concerns with his new flock. Let them think themselves invulnerable for the time being.

Castiel senses that strange presence around the Winchesters again and wishes it would just show itself, because the suspense is getting to be too much. He spreads his wings wide, flaps them once, twice, three times, and feels the creature take note of him.

Tiredly, he lifts off and flies away at a manageable speed, not wanting to wear himself out too quickly. Last time was a fucking close call. This thing has excellent stamina—it doesn't seem to get tired at all, because it never slows its pace.

Castiel had only gotten away last time by pulling a dangerous, stupid stunt. He'd put on a last, reckless burst of speed and shifted through several different planes in rapid succession, even briefly dipping into Hell. He'd finally stopped in New Zealand, waiting several long minutes to ensure that he'd really lost it before making his way back.

It had taken a lot out of him, and even now, his wings still feel sore.

He spirals upward for a short while, but then he notices that the presence is gone. What—is it not chasing him anymore? He swoops back, takes a long arc around so that he can see the town where the Winchesters should be.

And the mystery creature is there, circling the town but not moving in. It clearly knows where the Winchesters are, but it isn't trying to take them, as though it's waiting for something, and for a long moment, Castiel doesn't understand.

And then it clicks. Sam and Dean Winchester are just bait—the thing isn't after the humans.

It's after him.

Dean's still thinking about the chubby little kid in the astronaut suit when Sam jerks into attack mode, gun drawn and cocked. Dean rapidly follows his brother into the motel room, a hand on his gun for backup, but the two men in the room don't move. One is black and bald, standing close to the window with his back facing the door. The other is sitting on the bed farther from the doorway, facing Sam and Dean. He looks up and smiles faintly at Dean.

"Who are you?" Sam demands.

The strangers exchange glances, and Dean lets his eyes flit to the beds for a moment. It looks as though nothing's been touched, but he can't be sure.

"Hello, Dean. Sam," the sitting one says. He gets to his feet, starts toward them.

"Don't move," Sam says, brandishing his gun, and the man stops.

"That gun won't hurt me," he says. "My name is Inias. I am an angel of the Lord. This is my associate, Uriel."

"Oh, god," Dean mutters under his breath.

Sam lowers his gun a fraction but brings it right back up. "Dean?" he says.

Dean shakes his head. "I've never seen them before—hell, you've met Cas. This isn't—"

"Cas?" the dark-skinned man—angel—says. His voice is low, booming. He turns toward them, an angry look on his face. "Not Castiel?"

"Yeah, Castiel," Dean says. "Your buddy, huh?"

The sour look on Uriel's face might suggest otherwise, but before Dean can comment, Inias is speaking. "Castiel is busy with other matters," he says. "He asked for us to come in his stead."

Dean frowns. "Yeah, and why are we supposed to trust you on that? Cas hasn't ever mentioned you before."

Inias looks down, and Dean doesn't really know what to think. Is the dude really an angel or not? But then it gets dimmer around them, and Dean glances back out the open door to see that the sky is turning dark. Sam tenses visibly, and Dean reaches out to put a hand on his arm, because he doesn't want Sam to shoot, not yet. Besides, if these guys really are angels, Dean already knows how that course of action would turn out—he's tried it himself.

And then there's the loud, unmistakable crack of thunder, accompanied by the flash of lightning that somehow manages to shine into the fucking motel room and cast shadows of large wings behind Inias. Dean can't help but notice that Castiel's wings looked bigger, much more impressive, and where the hell did that thought come from? He hadn't even seen wings—they were shadows.

Dean's hand drops, and he realizes that it's because Sam's lowered his gun.

"Oh wow, uh. Wow," Sam says, and really, this kid went to college? But Dean's not really one to talk—he was pretty damn shocked by the whole wing display thing when Cas pulled it.

"Okay, great. So Cas sent you. Why?" Dean asks.

"Where is Castiel?" Uriel asks, and that doesn't really make sense.

"Shouldn't you know?" Dean responds. "He's one of yours, anyway."

Uriel says nothing, and Inias answers, "My brother is worried about Castiel."

Dean snorts. "Oh, is that what this is? Concern? 'Cause it sure doesn't look like it to me," he says. For some odd reason, he feels strangely protective over Cas. Or maybe he just doesn't like the look on Uriel's face when he says Cas's name.

"It is…" Inias pauses, eyes screwed up as he thinks, before continuing, "…difficult. These human vessels are limited, and it is difficult for us to express our emotions through them, especially when we have not inhabited them for a long enough period of time."

"So what you're saying is that you're not used to your meatsuits yet," Dean says.

"Precisely."

Dean shakes his head, because that's something he's never thought about before. Demons have always taken over and been completely comfortable, but he supposes that makes sense, given that every demon was once a human at some point. But hell, this train of thought isn't even relevant right now. "Why are you here?" he asks.

"The raising of Samhain," Inias answers. "Have you stopped it?"

"No," Dean says.

"Well, have you located the witch?"

"Yes, we've located the witch."

"And is the witch dead?" Inias asks.

"No, but—" Sam starts.

"We know who it is," Dean finishes.

Inias moves over to one of the nightstands. "Apparently, the witch knows who you are, too," he says, picking up a hex bag and showing it to Sam and Dean. "This was inside the wall of your room. If we hadn't found it, surely one or both of you would be dead. Do you know where the witch is now?"

Dean glances at Sam. "We're working on it," he says.

"That's unfortunate."

"Yeah, but we already know who she is," Sam says. "So we can work together—"

"Enough of this," Uriel cuts in.

"All right, what the hell is your problem?" Dean says, and ignores the chastising look his brother sends his way, because it doesn't matter whether or not the dude's an angel—if he's being a dick, Dean's gonna tell him so.

"My problem is the same as yours," Uriel says. "The seals cannot break. Lucifer cannot rise. We do not have time for your petty discussions."

"Okay, fine. What do you suggest?" Dean asks.

"We're going to destroy the town," Inias says bluntly.

Dean looks over at Sam to see worried eyes looking back at him. What the fuck? "So this is your plan—you're gonna smite the whole friggin' town?"

"We're out of time. This witch has to die. The seal must be saved," Inias tries to reason, but those are crap reasons. Cas would never do this. And whoa, Dean really needs to analyze where that thought came from, because apparently these guys were sent by Cas.

"There are a thousand people here," Sam's saying in the meantime.

"One thousand, two hundred fourteen," Uriel says.

"And you're willing to kill them all?" Sam says, incredulous.

"This isn't the first time I've… purified a city," Uriel sneers.

"Look, I understand this is regrettable," Inias says.

"Regrettable?" Dean repeats, eyebrows raised.

"We have to hold the line. Too many seals have broken already."

"So you screw the pooch on some seals, and this town has to pay the price?"

"It's the lives of one thousand against the lives of six billion. There's a bigger picture here," Inias says, and Dean instantly hears the last five words in Cas's voice, back in Bobby's kitchen, and shit, maybe this is what Cas wants.

"Right," he says, "'cause you're the 'bigger picture' kinda guys."

"Lucifer cannot rise," Inias says. "He does, and Hell rises with him. Is that something that you're willing to risk?"

"We'll stop this witch before she summons anyone," Sam says. "Your seal won't be broken, and no one has to die."

"We're wasting time with these mud monkeys," Uriel says impatiently.

"I'm sorry, but we have our orders," Inias says to Sam and Dean.

"No, you can't do this," Sam argues. "You're angels. I mean, aren't you supposed to—you're supposed to show mercy."

Uriel smirks. "Says who?"

And Dean has to watch his brother's face fall with surprise, disappointment, and he's pissed at these two dicks who are chipping away at Sam's faith.

"We have no choice," Inias says.

"Of course you have a choice," Dean says, angry. "I mean, come on, what? You've never questioned a crap order, huh? What are you both, just a couple o' hammers?"

He thinks of Cas, and his orders, and wonders if Cas can even think for himself. He remembers that wide grin Cas had given him when he'd still had a knife sticking out of his chest—it had been knowing, clever, almost fucking coy, now that Dean thinks about it—and it's impossible to imagine that God would have commanded an angel to give Dean that look.

"Look—even if you can't understand it, have faith. The plan is just," Inias says, and he seems to be getting a bit worked up now.

"How can you even say that?" Sam asks.

"Because it comes from Heaven. That makes it just."

"Oh, it must be nice, to be so sure of yourselves," Dean says.

Inias frowns, steps closer to him, and Dean glares at him, takes a step back. "Tell me something, Dean. When your father gave you an order, didn't you obey?" he asks.

Dean stares at him for a moment, can't help but imagine the same words coming out of Cas's mouth, wondering if Cas is just as much of a hammer as these two lumps obviously are.

For some reason, he finds himself thinking that that would be extremely disappointing.

"Well, sorry boys," he says. "Looks like the plans have changed."

"You think you can stop us?" Uriel says, voice full of disdain.

Dean turns and steps closer to Uriel, an intimidation tactic that'll probably do nothing against an angel, but he does it anyway. "No," he admits. "But if you're gonna smite this whole town, then you're gonna have to smite us with it, because we are not leaving. See, you angels went to the trouble of busting me out of Hell, I figure I'm worth something to the man upstairs. So, you wanna waste me? Go ahead. See how he digs that."

"I will drag you out of here myself," Uriel threatens.

"Yeah, but you'll have to kill me, then we're back to the same problem," Dean says. "I mean, come on, you're gonna wipe out a whole town for one little witch? Sounds to me like you're compensating for something." He turns to Inias, and he can see that the angel is already wavering. Just a little bit more persuasion. "We can do this. We will find that witch, and we will stop the summoning."

"Inias!" Uriel says sharply, having noticed that Inias is leaning toward Dean's side now. "I will not let these peop—"

Inias holds up a hand and says, "Enough!" He looks over at Dean and says, "I suggest you move quickly."

And then both angels are gone.

Sam and Dean exchange glances, and Dean wants to say something, but Sam just turns around and heads right back out the door. Those dicks—as much as Dean likes to tease Sam about his faith, it obviously means a lot to him, and to have someone take that faith away… next time Dean sees them, he's gonna punch at least one of them in the face. Preferably Uriel.

He heads out, slams the door shut behind him, and follows Sam back toward the Impala. But there's something wrong—as he gets closer, he sees streaks of white… eggs. Fucking—this is his baby!

"Astronaut!" he barks, furious.

Alastair is watching a group of human males participating in a wild boar hunt when he hears the call, feels the summoning from Father. He is instantly on the move, slipping between dimensions with some difficulty. He lost his wings when he was reborn, and he is still unaccustomed to traveling without them. It's so much harder than it used to be.

But his eyes have been opened, and his powers unlocked, and he will never begrudge Father for taking his wings away.

Alastair reaches the others in a clearing, twisted, stumpy trees growing around them. Father stands in the center and smiles when he sees Alastair.

"Hello, my children," he says with a smile.

"Father," Lilith and Azazel chorus. Alastair says nothing, only nods.

"As you know, Michael has declared war upon us. The three of you are powerful, yes, but there are hundreds of angels in Heaven. We are only four, and there is strength in numbers," Father says. He pauses, letting them think about it.

"We can capture more angels," Lilith says. "We'll lure them out—"

"You forget the nature of your former brothers," Father says. "It is difficult to steal their allegiance from Heaven. It'll be even more difficult now, because Michael will be reinforcing their faith."

"What do you suggest, Father?" Azazel asks. This earns Azazel a smile from Father, and Alastair feels a stab of envy. He wonders if Lilith feels it, too.

"Follow me," Father says to them.

Then he takes flight, and Alastair marvels at the beauty of Father's wings. They are not pure white anymore, shot through with streaks of grey, but they look all the more beautiful for it. He, Azazel, and Lilith hurry to follow, and Alastair feels a phantom twinge from limbs that are no longer there. He still can't help but wish that he could have retained his wings.

Father leads them unseen through a number of human settlements, some with collections of tents and domesticated animals, some with permanent shelters made of earth or wood or straw, and still more that live in caves, taking advantage of natural rock formations.

They return to the clearing, and Father waits for them to land around him before asking, "What did you see?"

"Humans," Azazel says, and Father smiles again.

"Precisely. We are surrounded by them," Father says. "Reapers are powerful creatures, servants of Death, and we've always been told to respect them. But I have learned that they are easy to manipulate, easy to trick. To steal a human soul, I have but to lift a finger. It will not be quite so easy for you, now that your Graces are changed—" when Father speaks this word, Alastair's mind automatically supplies tainted instead, an echo from another life, but he suppresses that thought instantly "—so I will take care of acquisition of souls."

"What do you want us to do with them?" Lilith asks.

"You will transform them, in the same way that I changed you," Father says.

This is intriguing—Alastair has spent most of the past few days watching humans while Lilith and Azazel fought each other to increase their strength, and he feels that he's learned much about them. Now that he's had a chance to look at them up close, he's learned to distinguish between the many varied shades of human souls. He's formed opinions on which are prettier, which are not.

"In the beginning, I attempted the process on humans," Father continues, "but they were too fragile, too weak to survive the transformation. However, I suspect that this may because I have too much strength. I nudge, and they disintegrate. So I have gathered three souls, one for each of you to try, and we will see whether or not my theory holds."

Alastair glances over at Azazel and Lilith and wonders if this is a test, or a competition.

Then Father says, "Come. I have created a new realm, one in which time moves at a different speed, so that we have more time to build our following."

He spreads his majestic wings once more, and Alastair, Azazel, and Lilith cross into this new territory with him. The air feels cool, lighter and easier to move through. Father stops before a long rack, on which dangle three souls, manifested in their human shapes.

"Begin," Father says.

Azazel and Lilith rip into their souls immediately, as eager to please as ever. But Alastair hesitates, takes the time to really observe the soul that has been left to him. It shines bright, as all human souls do, but upon closer inspection, it shows glimmers of red, the red of fury and violence. An unhappy life, then.

The soul shudders as he draws near—it hears the cries of the other two and has surely divined its fate by now. So humans are still coherent after death, Alastair discovers.

If he concentrates a little, he can see that this was a man, exiled by his tribe for some crime or other, and Alastair pulls back for a moment, reeling from the use of this power left over from another life.

But at this point, he feels acutely aware of Father's scrutiny, so he steps closer and lifts his blade. He can smell the fear radiating from this soul, almost more potent than the pain that comes from Azazel and Lilith's work.

The first glide of his blade into the center of the soul is smooth and slow, and the scream that tears from it is beautiful, louder than the cries that Lilith and Azazel have drawn from their projects. Encouraged, Alastair presses harder, moves faster, observes carefully the flares of pain as they rise to the surface. It is undeniably satisfying, watching the soul attempt to shy away, screaming for mercy all the while.

A very bright flash comes from Alastair's left, and he looks over to see that Lilith's soul has disintegrated.

"Continue," Father says to Alastair and Azazel.

As Father shifts closer to Lilith, Alastair turns back to his own work. He knows that Lilith is stronger than he is and that she was working faster, so he needs to use restraint and drag this out in order to succeed.

But as he continues to bury his blade in the soul, carving meticulously, nothing seems to change, and Alastair grows frustrated. Since the soul retains a human shape, he chooses to rip its limbs off, discarding the pieces to the side. The redness grows in intensity as the soul is pulled apart, and Alastair works steadily, tearing out chunks of its chest when he's removed all that he can of its arms and legs.

Another flash of light, and Azazel's soul is gone as well.

Father's attention is solely on Alastair now, so he continues to work, slowly enough that he notices a shift in brightness, much like the change that occurs when clouds break apart to reveal the sun.

So he stops, even though instinct tells him to keep going. The soul is silent now, misshapen to the point that it is unrecognizable as a human soul. Then, very, very slowly, Alastair sheathes his blade in the soul one last time.

Instead of glowing brighter, light seems to collapse in on itself, and Alastair backs away, surprised by this result.

"Interesting," Father murmurs, moving closer to the transforming soul.

When it stops pulsing, it is a dark, ugly shape. It shies away from Father but doesn't—can't—escape. Father lays a hand on the quivering mass, and it arches into the touch, grateful for any contact that doesn't bring pain.

Alastair retreats to stand beside Azazel and Lilith, watching as Father learns the shape of the creature, begins to mold it into something more recognizable—legs take shape, followed by a body, and finally a head. It takes a moment for Alastair to identify the form.

"This is a canine," Azazel says.

"Yes," Alastair agrees, and he thinks he understands. "Father has given it a form so that it will know its place and its function. It is to take commands from us, as dogs do from humans."

Azazel shakes his head. "That is insulting, placing us in any position comparable to humans."

"No," Father says. "Your brother is right. It was once human, so we must give it a form that it will understand." He looks at Alastair, graces him with a smile. "You created this beast, so to you it will answer first and foremost. Azazel and Lilith, follow your brother's example. This particular beast cannot reason, but I am hopeful that one of you will twist these human souls into a form of soldier that is more useful."

Alastair, Azazel, and Lilith spend the next several days working on human souls collected by their father. Alastair becomes familiar with the length of time it takes to sufficiently mangle each soul until it is vicious and powerful, but near mindless.

But he hasn't found out how to preserve their minds yet—Azazel and Lilith have had no luck, either.

They've created about fifty of these canine creatures—hounds, they've started calling them—when Alastair thinks to speak to one of the souls. He is not sure which language it will understand, but when he speaks Enochian, it seems to understand the meaning behind his words, if not the individual words themselves.

He looks into the soul's former life, sees that it—she—was a high priestess, dabbling in all sorts of magic but mostly those of offensive, violent natures. He looks into her past and searches her memories, all the while carving leisurely through her soul. At this point, Alastair is comfortable enough with his knowledge of the limits of the average human soul, and he can drag out the process or accelerate it as he wishes.

He discovers that she was abandoned at birth, brought up in a tribe that had a shortage of fertile women. There were no other children in that tribe, and she was kept separate, secluded, safe from anything that might cause her harm.

But then her tribe merged with another, one that had a much more balanced population, and while her tribesmen still cared about her safety, it was not of utmost importance anymore. Because of her seclusion, she had trouble integrating with the other children, who teased her mercilessly, primarily based on her status as an outsider.

He stills his blade, and her cries peter off until she's hanging from the rack, shivering in silence. "You never did manage to fit in, did you, my dear?" he asks, voice soft enough that only she can hear him. Intimate. "They never accepted you. And when you tried to ignore them, they sought you out for more."

"W-Why are you doing this to me?" she asks.

"All you ever wanted to do was become one of them. Isn't that right?"

"Please don't hurt me anymore," she says.

Alastair smiles, wicked, and looks to the right, where his next victim hangs. Azazel and Lilith are far from him, working their ways down separate racks, and no one is watching him. And besides, these souls are weak—they would not be able to escape anyway.

So Alastair repeats his query—"Isn't it true that all you ever wanted was to belong?" When the soul nods, Alastair says, "Well, then. If you do me a favor, I will make you belong here, and you won't have to feel this pain anymore."

The soul doesn't respond, but it seems to vibrate in fear and anticipation when he tosses his blade back and forth between his hands. He soon grows impatient, waiting for her response, and catches the weapon a final time, spinning it in his hand so that the sharp end faces her.

"If you get off the rack and torture that soul, right there, I won't hurt you anymore," Alastair says, indicating the next soul on the right.

"Promise?" the soul asks him.

Alastair smiles widely. "I give you my word."

The soul nods, and Alastair cuts the binds keeping her fastened to the rack. She drops down and takes a moment to steady herself, hand flying out to grip the rack. She draws her hand back just as quickly, seemingly disgusted by touching it again of her own will. When Alastair passes her the blade, she accepts it without hesitation.

Alastair backs up a step and watches as the soul steps closer until she is standing right in front of her victim. He waits patiently for her to lift the blade, and then it sinks into the fresh soul. As surmised, a tendril of darkness blooms in the depths of her soul, and Alastair beams. He'd guessed that the key to preserving the mind lay within the mind and not within further torture of their souls, and it appears that he is correct.

The soul works fast, rips apart the other soul, but when she finishes, the shredded soul slowly knits itself back together, piece by discarded piece. Alastair's chosen one peeks at him, worried, but he gives no indication of a response. He wants to see what she'll do next.

Instead of asking him for instructions, she merely starts ripping into the soul again. Human souls are resilient, Alastair has discovered, and it is easy for them to fix themselves after some forms of rough treatment. Angels can apparently tear them apart permanently, but it appears humans cannot inflict the same level of damage on each other.

Alastair allows his chosen soul to work for a long time, and he sees that the more she rips apart the other soul, the darker her own soul becomes, until it's a swirling mass of obsidian.

He lays a hand on her shoulder, and when she turns to him, her eyes have turned black.

She grins at him, sharp and predatory, and he can't help the rush of pride in his chest.

"My name is Meg."

Castiel's still hovering over the town, trying to figure out why a mysterious supernatural creature would be hunting him, when he realizes that he doesn't know what's happened to Sam and Dean. He's been overly preoccupied with his own plight, and now he's lost track of them.

Panic briefly takes hold, and he searches the town—carefully, because he sensed the arrival of two brothers today, and he doesn't want them to know that he's here. Inias and Uriel. He doesn't know much about Inias, but he remembers Uriel, remembers that Uriel hadn't wanted him around.

He quickly locates Sam Winchester at the cemetery, but he's in a room that's filled with sigils warding against angels. Castiel won't be able to enter. He stills, casts his senses out, but doesn't detect that supernatural creature anywhere nearby. It must have given up for the time being. He doesn't feel safe going into the cemetery, but he can't stand the idea of staying away. This is Samhain, not just some regular run-of-the-mill hunt that the Winchesters can easily handle. Dean could die.

So he lands just outside the mausoleum, watches two teens race out the door before entering, moving down a flight of steps.

At the bottom, there's a crypt where he finds Dean, surrounded by the undead and a number of spirits recently disturbed from their rests. Castiel fully shifts into the human plane, steps forward into the crypt.

"Dean!" he roars over the din.

Dean, who's wielding a stake and swinging it wildly, looks startled. "Cas?"

"Shut your eyes!" Castiel barks.

Two of the undead are biting at his arms, but Castiel propels them away from him with a flick of his wings, waits until Dean's covering his eyes before unleashing his Grace to smite these creatures—he has more than enough Grace for that.

Their screams last for about fifteen seconds, and then they're all dead, and the crypt is silent. Dean lowers the arm that he'd been using to cover his face and takes in the damage.

"Where's Sam?" he instantly demands.

Castiel points to his right, farther into the mausoleum. Dean starts to rush past him, but Castiel places a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. Dean opens his mouth to protest, so Castiel speaks quickly. "Dean, be careful. I… I cannot enter."

Cannot protect you, he doesn't say, and he wonders for the millionth time why he's so protective of this single insignificant human soul.

Dean blinks, another flash of surprise in his eyes, but then he's nodding and waiting impatiently for Castiel to release him. Castiel does as Dean wishes and removes his hand, watches as he lopes down the hall in search of his brother.

He exits the mausoleum—there is nothing left that he can do here—and catches a glimpse of Inias.

"Castiel!" Inias calls.

That's bad news, very bad news. Castiel quickly turns tail and runs. He can hear Inias behind him, trying to keep up, but Castiel is older, much more experienced, and it's easy to shake him off.

It belatedly occurs to him that Dean must have met Inias and Uriel by now—curse that mysterious distraction for keeping Castiel from making sure that Sam and Dean remained properly shielded from his brothers. But Dean… he can't possibly know what Castiel is, yet, because he hadn't reacted to Castiel's appearance in the crypt. And well, it makes sense for Uriel and Inias to have gone with the ruse, at least temporarily, so that Dean would listen to them.

But Castiel sees now that the game is almost up. He just needs to… determine his choices and the consequences of each one, and then choose the best path.

Michael is standing in Heaven, watching as Raguel and Azrael spar. It is only a matter of time before Lucifer returns and stages some attempt at retribution, and Michael intends to have his warriors prepared for battle by then. Angels at all different ranks are sparring, but Michael is primarily focused on his favored three—Anael stands beside him, recovering from a duel with Azrael.

Raguel has just narrowly avoided being jabbed in the side by Azrael when Puriel appears before Michael, landing unobtrusively and waiting for Michael to acknowledge him. Michael could keep him waiting, but he likes Puriel, so he says, "What is it?"

"Some souls have been going missing."

This in itself is not a surprise. Reapers are due souls at regular intervals, so the less righteous human souls are deemed fair prey for reapers when these intervals come to a close. Michael waits for Puriel to explain what is troubling him.

"It has happened far too often," Puriel continues. "I know how many reapers there are, and half that number of souls has not arrived in Heaven. Reapers never claim so many souls simultaneously. Dokiel noticed as well."

"You have my attention," Michael says. "I will determine what is happening. Return to the gates, now."

"Yes, Michael." Puriel departs silently.

Michael watches Raguel and Azrael circle each other, intently focused. He isn't sure what the disappearance could mean, but he does have a good idea—Death would not call for so many souls, not without reason. Perhaps he would not come to Michael directly, but he would certainly make clear the reason for the punishment before carrying it out. That leaves only one real possibility.

"Do you think it's Lucifer?" Anael asks.

Michael nods. "Arariel and Azazel have left us—they could only have gone to him. Lucifer knows what Father has declared, and he surely wishes to expand his power. Human souls are a formidable source of power. It is completely logical for him to steal them on their way to Heaven."

"I don't like this, Michael. What will he do to those souls?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he'll just use them as fuel."

Anael looks horrified by the possibility. "That's a terrible fate. They don't deserve to be burned up like that," he says softly.

"No, they don't. Help me keep an eye on the gates, Anael. Stay hidden. If any brother of ours is helping them from the inside, we need to know."

Anael's surprise radiates from him. "You're suggesting that there's a traitor in our midst?"

"I think it highly unlikely. But I am not dismissing the possibility, not after Arariel and Azazel's desertions."

"Yes, of course. I take my leave, then."

"Thank you, Anael."

"Tomorrow," a deep voice says, and Sam jumps, startled. He turns and sees one of the angels from the previous day—Uriel. "November 2nd," he continues. "It's an anniversary for you."

"What are you doing here?" Sam asks.

"It's the day Azazel killed your mother, and twenty-two years later, your girlfriend, too," Uriel says, completely ignoring Sam. "It must be difficult to bear, yet you so brazenly use the power he gave you, his profane blood pumping through your veins."

"Excuse me?"

"You were told not to use your abilities."

Bigoted asshole. "And what was I supposed to do? That demon would have killed me, and my brother, and everyone."

"You were told not to," is all Uriel says, and that's just stupid.

"If Samhain had gotten loose in this town—"

"You've been warned, twice now."

And that's just fucking enough. "You know? My brother was right about you—you are dicks," Sam says.

In the blink of an eye, Uriel is standing right in front of Sam, inches away from his face, and Sam flinches, can't help it. "The only reason you're still alive, Sam Winchester, is because you've been useful. But the moment that ceases to be true, the second you become more trouble than you're worth, one word. One, and I will turn you into dust." Uriel backs away, but he continues, "As for your brother… tell him that maybe he should climb off that high horse of his. Ask Dean what he remembers from Hell."

Sam's eyes widen despite himself. What—

He wants to ask Uriel to just tell him, but there's a flutter of wings, and then the angel is gone. Sam turns around, but he's nowhere to be seen.

Well, he's just gonna have to talk to Dean, then. Before, he'd suspected that Dean wasn't telling him everything, but now… now he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Dean's keeping secrets. And god, how can Dean be so hypocritical? He accuses Sam of keeping things to himself when Dean's doing pretty much the exact same thing.

Sam sighs and goes back to packing his bag. When Dean gets back from… wherever he is, they're talking about this, and Sam's not gonna let it go this time.

Dean's sitting on a park bench, staring out at a playground, watching some kids play.

They're swinging, sliding, climbing up and down the jungle gym, and he feels… conflicted. There's the part of him that's grateful for them, because they give him something to fight for. Their lives are the prize at the end of the day. But he's also envious of them, envious of their innocence, their lack of responsibility, of freakin' destiny.

Then there's a shift—subtle, but Cas has dropped in enough times that Dean feels him coming.

"Where are your two pals?" Dean asks without looking at him.

"Elsewhere."

"Good, 'cause I'm really not that fond of them." Cas chuckles but says nothing, and Dean glances over at him. "Uriel sounded pretty eager to find you," he comments.

"He would be," Cas answers cryptically, and Dean frowns.

"Why?"

"It is not of import," Cas says, and Dean's about to protest, but Cas just keeps talking. "What happened here, it was a test. My brothers' orders were to follow your orders."

Dean frowns, because that makes no sense. "Their orders were to follow my orders?"

"It was a test, to see how you would perform under… battlefield conditions, you might say," Cas says.

"It was a witch, not the Tet Offensive," Dean says, and earns a smile from Cas. It's strangely gratifying, and he immediately presses on. "So I uh, failed your test, huh? I get it. But you know what? If you waved that magic time-travelling wand of yours, and we had to do it all over again, I'd make the same call. 'Cause see, I don't know what's gonna happen when these seals are broken. Hell, I don't even know what's gonna happen tomorrow. But what I do know is, that this, here? These kids, the swings, the trees… all of it is still here because of my brother and me."

"There's no need to get so defensive, Dean," Cas says. "I am glad that you chose to save the town."

"You are?" Dean can't really understand the strange rush that comes with those words, Cas's approval.

"These people, they're all my father's creations. They're works of art," Cas says, looking out at the kids.

Maybe Dean doesn't really see his fellow humans that way, but he's a hell of a lot happier with the way Cas talks about humans than the way Uriel does.

"And yet," Cas continues, "even though you stopped Samhain, the seal was broken, and we are one step closer to Hell on Earth, for all creation. Now that's not an expression, Dean. It's literal. You, of all people, should appreciate what that means."

Dean nearly winces at the memories, at the possibilities. He looks over at Cas and is surprised by the amount of understanding, of compassion he sees in the angel's eyes. Is this still the same creature that threatened to throw him back into the pit? Dean prides himself on reading people, and he knows for a fact that last night, when Cas stopped him to tell him to be careful, he was genuinely worried about Dean. And what… what is that supposed to mean?

He focuses in on Cas again, notices that Cas seems to be thinking something over. "Cas, I uh. I just wanted to say thanks," he says.

"You are welcome."

Dean shakes his head. "Not just for smoking those bastards last night. For… for dragging me out. I know that you were following orders, but still… I never thanked you."

Castiel gives him this pleased little smile, and it makes something stupidly warm and happy unfurl in Dean's gut. "I had a choice, Dean. Dozens of my brothers stormed Hell. I did not have to be the one to drag you out, nor did I have to rebuild your body as I did."

"You… you never told me."

"You never asked."

Dean's eyes drop to the ground. "Thank you sounds pretty insufficient at this point, huh?"

Cas smiles again, eyes fixed on something in the distance, and Dean wonders if he's looking beyond the playground and into another dimension or something. "You said that given the chance to do it over, you would make the same call," he says. He turns his head toward Dean. "I would, too."

There's something heavy in his gaze, something that scares Dean with its intensity, and he has to look away, at the kids in the playground. He hears the sound of wings, and when he looks back, the angel is gone.