Title: Republic of Heaven
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Um. Swearing, I guess?
Spoilers: None. If you know who Castiel is, you're in the clear.
Wordcount: 3571
Summary: AU. Dean could've killed him, but he didn't. And now he's left to face the consequences.
Author notes: Written for the 2010 Deancas_xmas change on el-jay! Prompt prison AU. I'm working on a longer version, but it might take a while before I finish it. Cheers!

Background info: this takes place in an Orwellian-esque sort of verse, with bits of the movie Equilibrium thrown in (more specifically, the bit about no emotions. :D Enjoy!)

Dean should hate him.

He would've killed him, back in the car chase. Anna had stayed his hand that time, but look how that had turned out: Anna had been captured, Sam was taken as well and all he had to show for that disastrous run was an unconscious angel bleeding to death in his backseat. That temptation to leave him there had been so strong—he'd lost Sam, for fuck's sake. Why not make the angel pay for it?

But no. He'd lost that chance. He'd taken Castiel to Ellen, let her patch him up. And then came the painful Grace detox, something that Dean had seen before and quite frankly never wanted to see again. Castiel had spent the better part of two weeks puking his guts up, shitting himself and bleeding from every orifice possible. Croat would've helped him ride it out, but no. The stubborn dick didn't want any because it was impure and would violate the will of God, whatever the fuck that meant.

(To be honest, it wasn't much different from what he himself said to Sam back when he thought there was a chance that Sam would listen. Croat was just as bad as Grace in its own way, and the fact that it was manufactured and sold by demons was hardly a ringing endorsement. Better to stay away from drugs altogether. But Sam hadn't listened, had he? And now it was too late.)

So he waited and brooded while Castiel recovered. Made plans, tore them up, interrogated Gabriel the best he could. Gabriel had been his usual flippant self, and the questioning was spectacularly useless: Sam was in the Nest of Love (and that was a fucked-up name if he'd ever heard one), and there were very good odds that he was undergoing torture at the hands of the angels. Anna, well, best not to think about what she was going through. Was there any chance of getting them out? Slim to none, Gabriel said. A rescue mission on the Nest of Love pretty much equaled a suicide run. More to the point, they didn't even know where the Nest was. The angels are a tightfisted bunch; what's theirs stays theirs.

And it was all Castiel's fault.

(Strictly speaking, it had been Dean's own shitty planning. He should've known that it was a trap. The supply exchange was his responsibility; he should've cased the meeting place better. Still, the fact remained that Castiel had been the one responsible for taking Sam down. He would've taken Dean as well, if Dean hadn't managed to blow a hole in the wall and get away. And the fact that he was a brainwashed angel soldier was no excuse, because this was Sam who was suffering. His baby brother.)

(Gone.)

Detox had left Castiel weak and vulnerable, the way they all were once the drugs had left their system. Wobbling, weak, barely able to stand. That would have been the perfect moment for Dean to swoop in and taken his revenge out of Castiel's skin piece by piece. Angels had fucked them over since the beginning of time; they'd betrayed his mother and thrown his father to the demons. And here was one of their agents, there for Dean to destroy. If he'd learned nothing else from the demons, it was how to inflict pain. Pain was clean. Pain was good.

But he hadn't.

He wasn't a demon. He wasn't an angel. He was just plain old boring human, and he was not going to stoop to the level of either. And even without his intervention, there was enough going on for Castiel. After years of Grace, he was going to have to learn how to deal with that eternal bitch, emotion. Without that preternatural calmness to rely on, Castiel was going to have to become like everyone else. And Dean might have enjoyed the thought more than strictly necessary.

While he might have been too squeamish to pick up the knife again, though, others had no such scruples. Lilith was one of the first to bay for Castiel's blood; it wasn't just humans who had been captured on that disastrous supply run, after all. Crowley had been netted as well as a few others that Dean couldn't care to remember. As Lilith laid down her ultimatum in that meeting, Dean had expected to feel a rush of glee mixed with relief: glee because the angel would be punished for what he had done to Sam, and relief because Dean himself didn't have to do it. Instead, he found himself standing up, one of the opposing votes to her plan.

He'd tried to tell himself that it was only natural. The mark of good ethics, something that he'd thought that he'd lost. Or maybe it was loathing for Lilith; just because they were allied with the demons didn't mean that he had to like them. But Dean knew that it was because Castiel would never survive the demons' torture, and that he could not in good faith allow his death to happen. He'd been the one to wipe the vomit off Castiel's chin, to watch as he fought the cramps of Grace detox. He'd felt the fragile strength in Castiel's hands as the angel tried to fight off hallucinations and dreams. And now, whether he would like to admit it or not, Castiel was his. His to destroy? Or his to protect? Dean didn't know. But no demon was getting their hands on Castiel after that.

After detox came initiation: a bitch under any circumstances, but especially for fallen angels. Emotions were tricky things. The newly detoxed often used Croat to trigger a wild rush of adrenaline that could leave them in hysterics; it was a messy but efficient way of propelling them into the world of lust and love, sorrow and joy. In the interests of keeping Castiel's body all 'pure,' though (not to mention that drugs were bad), they had to go the long way. Gabriel experimented with a few of the more usual methods: paintings, books, music. For Dean, his own initiation had begun with blaring rock music: the forbidden relics of a forgotten age had been enough to trigger the flood. Castiel seemed unresponsive to all of them, something that Gabriel chalked up to tight angel control. "They make them good these days," he'd said with a flippant shrug. "We take our brainwashing seriously, what can I say."

On all other fronts: same old, same depressing news. There was nothing coming in from their limited intelligence resources. No idea where the Nest of Love was, much less how to get in. Gabriel couldn't tell them; it'd been years since he Fell. And to make matters worse, Anna was executed, and it was broadcasted on the sole television channel for the entire Republic to see. The charges: betrayal of the Republic. Abandoning the Host and her duties. Let the Lord have mercy on her soul as she burned to death.

Castiel saw the execution. It was enough.

Initiation was not for the weak-hearted. Some of the paper-pushers could tell you all about the psychology behind it, how the flooding of emotion was equivalent to letting in the sunlight after years of living in a dark enclosed cell: in other words, far too fucking overwhelming. Dean remembered only bits and pieces of his own initiation, but he could recall Sam's vividly. Sam's had been triggered by Jess. Sweet, lovely Jess. Dead Jess. No, best not to think of Jess, not when Sam could easily be dead as well.

Castiel had been rigidly controlled during his entire stay: saying little, eating little, and glaring at them all like they were evil incarnated (which to his mind, they probably were). But watching Anna die snapped something in him, and he became violent enough that he had to be sedated. Much to his dismay, Dean felt responsible. No doubt the psychologists had another explanation for that; the nesting syndrome or something. (Psychology was a surprisingly big science, considering that they were living in an underground base trying to fight an impossible war.) But he just felt plain old guilty. Damn it, it wasn't his fault!

But tell that to Castiel, who had subsided into an eerie silence after watching Anna die. Dean knew little about Anna's past and even less about Castiel's, but he could tell from what few hints he'd picked up that the two were close. It wasn't his job, it wasn't his duty, but he wasn't about to lose someone that he could've saved. Call it penance for the four months he'd spent as the demons' lackey. The labels didn't matter.

He took Castiel to a park, one of the few that still existed in the more decrepit part of the city known as Oldtown. It wasn't much of one, to be honest—the light here was secondhand and the trees were scraggly as a result. Still, this was where the children were. The few free children that had grown up never knowing Grace or the Republic, and with any luck, never would.

They sat in the park in silence that was strangely enough, not uncomfortable. "These are our Father's creations," Castiel had said after a long moment, his voice cracking slightly from disuse. Dean looked quickly at him, but Castiel had lacked conviction in his voice.

"Well, be that as it may," Dean said, "the 'Father' won't have any say in who they are. They'll be free to choose their own lives, and that's the way it should be."

"You advocate anarchy," Castiel said quietly as he looked down at his hands. "The Republic maintains order. Human nature is chaotic and brings about its own destruction. Emotion is—" he stopped and took a deep breath. "It's unnecessary."

"No, it's natural. It's part of who we are. You can't have one part without the other; you have to take the good with the bad. That's what being human is, Castiel."

Castiel clearly hadn't been convinced, but he hadn't argued the point further, either. Dean felt obscurely pleased, because even though he was supposed to hate Castiel, this still felt like a step forwad.

(In what direction, though, he had no idea.)

But hey, progress was progress, right? It wasn't as if there was progress on any other front. It had been nearly a month since Sam's capture. The Nest of Justice hadn't executed him onscreen, but that didn't mean that they hadn't quietly…disposed…of him. What few leads they had—tentative, terrible leads—vanished when further pursued. They were no closer to finding out anything about the Nest of Love than the day they had begun.

Castiel was still technically a prisoner at this point, but considering that he wasn't actually confined to quarters, the title was in name only. Dean supposed that he stayed because…well, where else was there for him to go? If he went back to the Host now in his Grace-less state, they'd kill him. Never mind that he had been a prisoner of war and all that; the angels practiced a strict no-tolerance policy. That might not have stopped him originally: angels weren't supposed to be afraid of death, and especially not their own. But now, well. Now. Who knew?

"I don't know," Castiel said when Dean asked him the question. "I've been an angel all my life, Dean. I've always served the Republic." He looked at Dean, his expression bleak. "Who am I supposed to serve now?"

"Yourself, maybe?" Dean asked.

Castiel shook his head. "That's not how angels work."

"Oh, I don't know. It worked for Gabriel. I mean, he larks around all day, doesn't do anything to help, eats all the candy by himself…" As Castiel's expression didn't change, Dean sighed and changed tactics. "I'm sorry, man."

It was inadequate, but all he had to offer, really. Castiel studied Dean for a long moment, his eyes softening with something that Dean couldn't quite identify. He certainly didn't expect Castiel's next words to be what they were.

"Perhaps I could serve you, then," Castiel said. As Dean looked at him in surprise, Castiel added, "I've spent all my life being an agent of something I didn't understand. Not fully. And I think that now that I have the chance, it's best not to repeat that mistake. There's little that I understand fully, but I believe that I can comprehend you to a greater degree." He reached up and trailed fingers down Dean's face. The touch was clinical, but Dean found himself leaning into it nonetheless. "It's the logical decision."

Dean had to laugh a little at that. You can take the Grace out of the angel, but you can't take an angel from Grace…

"Well, I don't know," he said. "What exactly does serving me entail? If you think you're going to be dressing me or getting me drinks, think again. I've got hands."

Castiel didn't laugh at the invitation. He leaned in close to Dean's face, his eyes dark and intense. "I can get you want you want," he said, his voice low enough that Dean had to strain to hear.

"Not beer, I presume—"

"I can tell you where the Nest of Love is."

And then it stopped being a joke and started being deathly serious. Sam. Castiel had taken Sam from him, and now he was offering Dean a way back. A way that might or might not have been a trap, because if it was real, it meant that Castiel was finally severing his ties with the Republic. "Why would you do that?" Dean asked, holding his breath for the answer.

Castiel gave a small half-shrug. "Because I can." He looked up. "Because I want to."

That wasn't all, Dean knew, but by now the blood had started roaring in his ears and he was beyond caring. They would find the Nest using Castiel's information and burn it to the ground, save Sam, avenge Anna. That was a good start.

"How do we know he's not lying?" Rufus asked, skeptical. "Dean, are you going to take his information at face value?"

Castiel stared steadily back at Dean. He was still new at the business of hiding emotions, though, even with rigid angel control and training. Dean searched his face to find the answers he wanted and laid his bets. "Yes," he answered finally, not looking away from Castiel.

"You sure?" Ellen said, her arms crossed. "There's no turning back on this, Dean."

"I'll lead the party myself, Ellen," he said.

"If it all goes wrong, Dean…"

"It'll be a result of crappy planning, not because he's lying," Dean finished grimly for her. He looked at Castiel. "Will it?"

Castiel returned his questioning look and very slowly, shook his head.

"Fine, then," Dean said. "Let's do this."

Castiel gave them the layout, the guard rosters, and most importantly, the location itself. "It might have changed since I was last posted there," he said, his face impassive. "But I'll tell you what I can."

The night before the mission was set to begin, Dean found himself unable to sleep, tossing and turning in an attempt to keep the nightmares at bay. Sam, Anna, the dungeons, the demons. Maybe Castiel was lying. Maybe he wasn't, and they were fucked anyway because the Nest itself had changed. Maybe there were traps.

Maybe Sam was dead.

He opened his eyes to find Castiel sitting in a chair next to his best, and nearly jumped out of his skin. "Dammit, Cas!" he said. "How'd you get in here?"

Castiel turned his head. "Angels have their ways."

"Oh, don't give me that crap." Uneasy, Dean sat up, pulling the blanket around him. "What's going on? You look like you've got something on your mind."

Castiel didn't look like he was going to speak for a long moment. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, looking uncertain.

"Hey, man. Spit it out," Dean said, rubbing his eyes. "Hell, you already woke me up. What's going on?"

"If we find Sam…"

"When. Not if."

Castiel looked at him, but he didn't contradict him or correct his presumption. "When. Of course. When we find Sam." He hesitated. "Will my purpose be fulfilled?"

Dean blinked. "How do you mean, Cas?"

"I had information of value," Castiel said, not looking at him. "I had tactical value which you now possess."

Dean sucked in a sharp breath. "And so you think that you're worthless, Castiel?"

Castiel shrugged, looking around him distractedly. "When sacrifices must be made, and the expedient logically should go first."

"Since when have humans been anything close to logical, man?" Dean said, exasperated and maybe just a bit amused, although he'd never let Cas know. "Who do you think we are—angels? C'mon, Cas. We're human, remember? Fuck logic."

Castiel blinked. "Cas?"

Dean raised an eyebrow, reviewing what he had said. He grinned a little as he came to the source of the confusion. "Yeah, why not? Cas sounds short, snappy. Anael changed her name when she Fell; you should too."

"It's very…human," Castiel said.

"Is human bad?"

"Historically speaking, yes. The annals of history are littered with pain and war. That's why the Republic exists. That's why Grace exists."

Dean reached out and gripped Cas' shoulder. "I know all about what's in the history books," he said softly. "World War Four, the nuclear holocaust, the famines and plagues. But that's only one side of it all, Cas. They left out all the good stuff—music. Rock n' roll. Sex. Family. While the wars rage, Cas, life goes on."

Castiel finally turned to look him in the eye. "Angels don't have families. We're raised to serve the Host."

"So, stop being an angel," Dean suggested.

"It's not that simple."

"Rarely ever is, man." Dean was quiet for a moment, his hand rubbing Cas' shoulder absently. "Tell you what. If we don't get killed tomorrow, I'll take you through initiation—a new kind. Rebels are a fucked-up lot, but I have to tell you, the Winchesters win the prize for being the most screwed-up of them all."

"That hardly sounds positive," Castiel said, a small frown on his face.

"You and your labels. Trust me, it's a lot better than it sounds. I'll take you through the Ten Commandments of Winchester life, and you'll feel right at home in no time."

"I dread to hear what those Commandments would be," Castiel said solemnly, but Dean knew him well enough by now to hear a faint note of amusement in his voice. "Do they involve blasphemy?"

"Of the very worst kind," Dean assured him. "Tons of vice. We're good at vice."

"Angels don't do vice, either," Castiel said. "I don't think—" he paused, gave a tiny smile, and continued. "I don't think that I'll be a very good angel after this."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, well, got that right. So stop bitching. There, Commandment One: Winchesters don't bitch, and we don't do sissy talk on the last night of our lives. Go to sleep, you idiot."

Castiel nodded and stood up obediently to leave. At the doorway, he hesitated. Dean looked up as the door didn't close. "Yeah?"

Castiel didn't say anything. He was silhouetted by the light from the hall, but Dean knew without seeing his face that Cas was studying him intently, no doubt with a crease between his eyebrows. Dean stared back, determined not to give way.

"Good night, Dean," Castiel said at last, and without another word, left. Dean was left staring at a closed door, bemused thoughts spinning through his head.

"Good night yourself," he said to the door, shaking his head. Manners. Huh. Obviously he picked that up from Ellen or somebody. Hasn't quite gotten the hang of it, though.

Still. We'll make a human of you yet.