The first time he heard the prayer it was quite accidental, nothing more than a random string of words that stood out amongst the thousands of others like it as he flew across the landscape in search of his father. They drew him to them, calling him like a moth to a flame. Curious, Castiel had paused his search long enough to follow the words to where ever they would take him. He soon found himself in a rather posh hotel room, in the middle of what appeared to be a massacre.
Dead bodies lay strewn everywhere, their blood staining the plush white carpet. He perceived a man on his knees, staring at his dead fellows with wide and frightened eyes. The angel stood invisible in the corner and watched as two men (brothers, his senses immediately told him) poised above him with twin guns pressed to the back of the cursing man's skull. The beautiful words flowed from their lips, and for a few seconds the angel was mesmerized by them. The angel's head tilted as the prayer drew to a close. The man's life was extinguished and he fell forward limply, now no different from the rest of his kin.
Castiel had seen no need to stay, so he spread his wings and continued his search.
Though as he did, as he searched through every nook, corner and shadow for any sign whatsoever to God's wherabouts, the words of that one prayer cycled through his head. He pondered the verse, picked it apart word for word and decided that it was beautiful. It seemed perfect for lost angels needing solace. It offered redemption and mercy, something that for his kind was considered quite a commodity.
It would be not even a year before he would find himself actually needing the prayer for himself, before he would find the two brothers again, drop to his knees and make his request.
Of course they didn't think it was such a good idea.
"What are you, insane? You, an angel?" the taller of the two glared down at him, his hands on his hips and a deep frown adorned his face as though to scorn him for being so unbelievable. Castiel sighed. Yes, he was insane-or at least so far from what he once was that he may as well be. It was for that reason that he needed this.
"I am an angel. Or I was, at least. I can prove it to you, if you like," he offered desperately, ready to manifest what was left of his wings if needed. The glaring man scoffed.
"You look like you escaped from an institution."
"I did," to which he is greeted with a mutual and sharp groan from both men, "but that doesn't make it any less true." The dark-haired brother sighed and ran a hand fretfully through the flattened strands.
This time the shorter, spiky haired brother who reminded him so much of Dean spoke. His voice was gentler, more reasonable and admittedly less Dean-like.
"Look, it doesn't matter whether you are or aren't. We aren't going to shoot you. You're a good man who has done nothing-"
"Yes I have!" Castiel's voice bit at them. "I am responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent lives. I've killed my brothers and sisters. I've lied and manipulated and betrayed everyone who has ever loved or cared for me and in doing so I've unleashed an worst evil on this world than anything you could imagine," his confessions flew from his mouth without pause, his frayed mental status slowly unhinging further as wave after wave of guilt poured forth. "I wanted to help, I wanted to just..." he trailed off and shook his head to catch his retreating train of thought. " I just wanted to find my father and save my friends but it seems that in my search for family I've destroyed it's meaning to the very core. So please, do this for me. Judge me. Release me. Please." He gazed up at them, his eyes wide and searching. Pleading.
The brothers stared at him, the looked to one another. They were shocked by what they had just heard, he could tell, but at the same time reluctant to believe him.
"Please," he tried again, and this time it produced a result: The shorter pressed the barrel of is gun to the angels forehead. Castiel's eyes fell closed and he breaths a sigh of relief.
"Thank you," he breathes.
"You're obviously haunted by something, something big," the man spoke quietly, "and I don't know if I believe everything you've said. But you are suffering in such a way-"
"Murphy-" the brother interrupted, only to be cut off with a hissed 'Conner' The brother quieted, looking troubled.
"We're doing this." and the gun pressed more insistently to his skin. Again Conner protested. "Now, Conner." his brother warned, to which the dark haired protester groaned and prodded his own gun to his skin alongside it's twin.
"If we go to hell for this I'm haunting you." he growled. Castiel shook his head, no.
"Of course not. I'm sure...I'm sure my father would approve, after what I've done. And if He does not, I will pull you from Perdition myself. I swear."
"This is nuts." one of them says. "Please," he pleads again. He hears the click of cocked barrels and his heart beats even faster.
"Say the words," he whispers. Again the taller Conner begins to protest until his brother, bless him, begins. Castiel's fingers find the hem of his coat and clenches tightly as the words wash over him.
"And shepherds we shall be-"
Castiel closes his eyes again, and his lips quirk into a sort of a half smile. Yes, he thinks. Following his brother's cue Conner falls in with him and together they bring the prayer into perfect unison, a perfect chorus.
"For thee, my Lord, for thee-"
Castiel thought that this prayer should be sung by the Heavenly choruses, and he wonders where they learned it.
"Power hath descended forth from thy hand, that our feet may swiftly carry out thy command-"
For a moment Castiel opens his eyes again and he gazes up at the two men. He stares into them andsees their bright souls. They're beautiful and shining, and Castiel wishes that the Winchesters could still look as pristine and radiant as these two did. Wished they could still look so full of life and innocent.
They had once. A long time ago, before he came along. Before Dean had gone to Hell and Sam had flung himself into the Cage.
"And we shall flow a river forth to thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be-"
Send him to Purgatory, where he belonged. Let him die in peace. His eyes fell closed again and he whispered the last part to himself, giving the prayer and the act taking place a sense of finality and closure.
"In nomine Patris, et Filii, Spiritus Sancti."
Gunfire, the smell of fire and burnt powder. Pain mixed with the scent of copper. Then nothing.
Thank you.
When his eyes open again, his wound is healed. The blood is gone, returned to his vessel. The torn tissue and bloody tissue had knitted itself back into clean and unblemished skin. His shattered skull is whole. He's lying on his back, his arms crossed in funeral preparation, and he hears the cling of coins falling to the floor. He is alone.
And yet the burden he bears seems alleviated, and he feels to a certain extent free. He has been judged and given penance. He smiles.