Title: Open Pages

Author: 1_with_Russia (Kari Kurofai on )

Recipient: seraphim_gracePairing: Dean/Castiel, implied Crowley/Bobby, suggested Gabriel/SamRating: TWarnings: Angst. Possible season 6 spoilers. Vague fairytale references, British demon gay-ness, and a relationship that could be seen as slightly pedo-ish. If you're a perv like that.Spoilers: All of S5, and the beginnings of S6 from what we've been lovingly spoiled with so far. :]Word Count: 36,317 (Last I checked. And that's total)Notes/Prompt(s): "There is a grain of truth in every fairy tale" said the witcher quietly. "Love and blood. They both possess a mighty power. Wizards and learned men have been racking their brains over this for years, but they haven't arrived at anything except that-"Except what, Geralt?""It has to be true love." excerpt from The Last Wish by Andrzej SapkowskiSummary: Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.

In April of the year 2010, Castiel the angel Fell. In May of the year 2010, he was restored to power and he returned to his rightful and well earned place in Heaven.

This is a story of choices.

Open Pages

Part 1

In April of the year 2010, Castiel the angel Fell. In May of the year 2010, he was restored to power and he returned to his rightful and well earned place in Heaven.

This is a story of choices.

Castiel wished above all else that he could enjoy his newfound place and position in Heaven, he really did. But that was just the thing, wasn't it. As an angel, he wasn't supposed to enjoy anything. He should have been void of all emotion, just as his perfected brothers and sisters were. That's what they were made to be, after all, the ideal soldiers meant to fight on Heaven's orders, and nothing else. They had no free will.

Which was something Castiel found that he valued above almost anything else. It was what they had fought for, himself and the Winchesters. It was what many of their comrades had died for. It was one thing he didn't want to lose now that he once more resided within the boundaries of Heaven.

Except the once lengthy list of things he never wanted to lose was quickly starting to dwindle down to next to nothing. He'd lost God, and then Gabriel, the one brother of the thousands who had believed in their cause. He'd lost Sam, victim to the fates that left them no other choice. And then he'd lost Dean, bound by the fruitless promises he'd made his brother to fulfill a dying wish, pushed away by Castiel's deliberate cold shoulder.

He had never wanted that, never wanted to abandon Dean who, more than anything else, was terrified of being left behind. But he too had made a promise to Sam, to look after Dean. And he meant to do just that. Dean would be safest if he ceased Hunting all together, if he gave up every aspect of that life he had clung to for so long. Every aspect.

Which meant that Castiel, too, had to vanish from his side.

After Dean, Castiel found he was beginning to lose himself. The longer he spent in Heaven, the more he began to forget.

The feel of the wind against the skin of his vessel was the first thing he realized he could no longer recall. Heaven was unchanging, without weather save for the sun that didn't even warm his Grace in the slightest. Soon after come the faint memories of taste. The taste of White Castle hamburgers, of salty sweat stinging his tongue as it streaked long lines down his cheeks and forehead during the heat of battle. The taste of blood as his all too human body succumbed to the pains Pestilence inflicted on him. The raw fire of alcohol burning its way down his throat when Ellen and Jo passed him shot after shot. He found that after a few weeks ( days that translated into immeasurable years in Heaven) he couldn't recall a single one of these sensations. Realization of this fact hurt him more than he knew it should.

He had hated being human, hated the weakness that came with the sudden flood of emotion. It had felt like dying, because that was exactly what it was. Once as ageless as God himself, he'd been trapped in a body that was slowly dying around him. Coming back to Heaven had been his choice because of this, and yet, Castiel knew that the more he forgot, the more he would miss. Those human sensations were as much of a part of who he was as his wings were, and he could feel them slowly peeling away exactly like his Grace had done not too long ago.

He forgot the smell of rain after a hot summer's night, the twinge his senses and the tingle in the air when lightning struck during a storm. Sam's laugh, light but utterly false in the face of the darkness he knew existed just beyond his sight, was the first real memory to vanish, the angel reaching for it as he found himself unable to recall it. But the thing slipped away from him like smoke through one's fingers. Soon to follow was Gabriel's satisfied smirk, flashing brightly behind his eyes before Castiel looked around and realized that it was simply no longer in his mind, replaced with Heaven's unwavering calm.

They were always small details. Little things that didn't do much to contribute to the story in it's entirety. One day he shifted out of his state of rest to find he couldn't remember the color of Jo's eyes, or what she had last said to him the night before she died.

Castiel thought briefly about simply walking into her Heaven and remedying this part of the situation with action, physically reminding himself of those things by seeing her. But he knew what a riot it would cause among the rest of the Host. An angel could not simply stroll through the human side of Heaven, let alone converse with the souls who resided there. It was simply not allowed, and with all the trouble Castiel had gone through just to connect the individual Heavens to make them accessible to whoever wished to move about in them, he wasn't about to push the matter.

Every once in awhile, he'd talk to himself, closing his eyes and relating the activities and chores of the day to no one in particular. Listing the things he had forgotten, the images fading fast before disappearing from his mind entirely. He knew, even though he spoke to no one, that there were listeners. That Ash was listening, tuned in to his angel radio, Jo leaning heavily against him with a beer in hand and Ellen wiping down the counter of the bar not far away. He didn't think they really cared what he said, but it made him feel better to know that somewhere in Heaven, someone was listening. If only for awhile.

Some days, he looked down from his duties of reorganizing the chaos that was his home towards Earth. He watched with detached satisfaction as Dean went about the apple-pie-life he'd promised Sam, as though he was really making an effort to stick with it this time. False movements and empty promises that left Dean sitting on Lisa's front porch most nights, cradling a beer between his knees and his stomach, muttering things to himself, eyes half glazed.

But Castiel heard him, as he always did whenever Dean called his name. Curses, drunken accusations of abandonment and untrue loyalty. Screams that Castiel was nothing but the good little soldier daddy had always meant him to be, and that any humanity he had gained died when Lucifer had snapped his fingers. After a minute or so of Dean rambling on about Castiel being a traitor, the angel listening in silence from his place far above, Lisa would appear to drag him back inside, away from the prying eyes of the neighbors.

It didn't happen often, a few times a month whenever Dean was at the end of his rope with his fake life. But after the months began to wind into a year, Castiel's name ceased to be uttered from his lips, let alone in his mind. So the angel turned his back to watching Dean, concentrating on the impossible task at hand, returning faith to Heaven itself.

He only looked back one other time, when his name was once more spoken on the middle plane. Sam's appearance at Dean's side was of little surprise to him, he'd witnessed the younger Winchester clawing his way out of Hell to appear under a streetlamp just outside Lisa's adobe just over a year ago after all, though he'd expected their reuniting to take a bit longer. Dean's face portrayed nothing as Sam asked, finally asked, where Castiel was. Nothing but a cold and empty, "How should I know, he's not my angel," before he turned viridian eyes back to the road, the highway as dark and forsaken as he felt. Castiel did nothing.

The day Raphael broke free from the circle of Holy Oil and Fire Dean and he had trapped him in, Castiel felt it. His Grace, still shining bright after God had restored him, flickered in what humanity might call fear. Distantly, Castiel reached out and touched the people and places he cared for, making sure Raphael had not found them. Dean, Sam, Jo and Ash's Heaven, Bobby's house. A surge of relief coursed through him before the second wave of panic caught up to him.

With as much ferocity as he could muster, he gathered the angels most loyal to him, ordering them to block Heaven's gates, prevent Raphael from entering, force him to stay on earth where his Grace would slowly dwindle and die as Castiel's had done.

Castiel stood with them, defiant that this was just as worth dying for as fighting Lucifer had been. Except that it wasn't. He wasn't doing this for Dean, or for the world, he was doing this to protect himself, and before an hour had even passed on earth, Castiel banished the other angels from his side, sending them away until he alone stood to bar the last archangel from the Gates. If he was going to die, then he wasn't about to let others die for him first.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Sam leaned his head against the passenger side window as the Impala rumbled along the inner streets of a well populated suburb. The glass was warm where his skin touched it, the fall sunshine dappling the windows with shadows of leaves that had not yet fallen from the trees they passed. Dean sat straight-backed in the drivers seat, eyes trained directly ahead as they cruised through the town of their next job. He had never wanted to come, and Sam knew that, but after what had happened with Lisa, he'd really had no choice. The monsters of this world were stirring up more trouble than before in the wake of the Apocalypse- That-Never-Was and there had been too many casualties for either of them to just drop out this late in the game.

He'd stayed away for a whole year, and realized too late what a mistake that had been. All he'd wanted was to give Dean the chance to be something other than a Hunter, something other than Sam's older brother. And by doing so, he'd merely only widened the gap that had begun to grow between them ever since Ruby. It hadn't taken much to make Dean believe that it was really him, or that he'd been alive the whole time. But it had taken everything he'd had to finally get his brother to accompany him on the road once again. In many ways, it was all too similar to way their whole journey had begun, seven years ago beginning with Jess' death.

Only this time, Dean was the one looking only ahead, not letting his mind linger on Lisa or what had become of her, rather than Sam.

Sighing slightly, he gazed at the world outside once again, watching with glazed eyes as houses that all stood eerily identical on the side of the road flashed pass. Every once in awhile, they'd drive by a jogger, or a little old lady walking her dog, sometimes a group of school age children playing within the safe boundaries of yard and sidewalk. Dean didn't cast any of these a glance, and Sam wondered for a moment if they reminded him of what he'd left behind.

The younger Winchester bit the inside of his lip as they drove slowly past a playground, the motel they'd booked for the night coming into the view. The sun was beginning to sink behind the tallest buildings of the town, the shadows lengthening over slides and swings as they became abandoned, mothers tugging whining children away for dinner. Sam blinked as he noticed one small boy still sitting forlornly on the swings, small fingers wrapped tightly around the chains as the Impala passed him. It reminded him all too much of summer nights left alone with Dean when they were small, being told to stay put on the swings while his brother ran to the nearest convenience store to buy them something to eat. He turned his gaze away, stretching his arms out in front of him as Dean pulled up in front of the motel, climbing out of the car and slamming the door shut as he went to get the keys to their room.

"What're we Hunting anyways?" he asked as he got back into the driver's seat, backing the Impala into a spot just outside room number 195.

Sam shrugged, tapping the top of the laptop case on his knees, "I'm not sure exactly. So far it looks like a bunch of practical jokes gone wrong, or something. One guy woke up to find that his wife simply wouldn't wake up. She was in a coma or something and the man claimed they'd had a fight the night before because she found out he'd been cheating on her. She was snapped out of her coma when their gardener showed up and kissed her." He took a breath, noticing Dean's eyebrow starting to raise, "And, uh, these two children wandered off after school and were missing for three days. When they were found in the woods a few miles away, they claimed to have discovered a house made of candy where an old lady tired to eat them for dinner and-"

"Isn't that that one story," Dean interjected at this point, "the one with the bread?"

"Hansel and Gretel, yeah," Sam said, pursing his lips in faint annoyance at being interrupted. "Anyways, a third case claims that he was lured out of his home by a young girl, who tried to take him down the street. But he turned back when he noticed that she seemed hazy around the edges, flickering out of sight every once in awhile. And that even though it was the middle of the day there wasn't a single sound from his neighbors houses."

"Classic spiriting away experience," Dean said decisively, getting out of the vehicle once again to open up the door to their room. "That's kind of a varied mix there, Sam. What does it look like we're dealing with?"

A Trickster. The unspoken words echoed between them, hollow with guilt. But Sam dared not be the one that voiced that idea. Sure, there were probably hundreds of other Tricksters in the world, but they'd only ever encountered one. And the regret of Gabriel's death still hung raw in the air as it had the first time they'd watched the Casa Erotica DVD over a year ago. "Umm . . ." Sam cleared his throat, "Well, since the events don't exactly seem a 'Just Desserts' sort of deal as much a random thing of chance, I'm going to say that the culprit is more likely a child."

Dean had already spread his stuff across one of the beds, taking out overly well cleaned guns and knives before he began to set about repeating the ever boredom-fixing task of cleaning them again. "Jesse?" he asked quietly, glancing up at Sam with questioning eyes as he spoke the name of the antichrist. Though they'd told Bobby to spread the word about keeping an eye out for the kid, they hadn't heard anything since he'd disappeared almost two years ago. Dean shook his head suddenly, "I don't know, man. It just doesn't seem right. Let's see what else we can dig up. Maybe it's just some low-class Trickster."

Sam inhaled sharply, flinching visibly at the word. Dean cast him a glance, before going back to his guns, as though he hadn't said anything at all. "It wasn't our fault," he whispered suddenly, the silence getting to him, combined with Sam's dejected puppy-look pointed in his direction. "He was the one that hung back and told us to go on ahead. There's nothing we could have done." He shrugged his shoulders, looking away as if that was the end of the matter. "Anyways, let's see if anyone has moved here just before these things started happening, look into anyone that has and see if they fit the Trickster bio."

"Yeah, I suppose," Sam muttered, flopping down on the opposite bed and opening his laptop. He'd rather they didn't take the job at all, as no one had been physically harmed. Rather traumatized, maybe, but never harmed. The faster they got the hell out of this town, the better, in his opinion.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Castiel slipped back into his human body as easily as water flowing down a drain. He had waited just inside Heaven's Gates for hours, becoming more and more restless the longer Raphael failed to show up, sensing the archangel's Grace shifting and moving about on Earth's surface. Surely, an angel denied Heaven for nearly two years would race back there as fast as possible. Though it seemed Raphael had other things on his mind, which made Castiel uneasy.

In the end, he had left, placing his most trusted follower and advisor, Aziraphale, in charge until he was able to return. If he was able to return. But the fear that had coursed through him at the thought of Raphael wandering Earth in search of the Winchester's had all but forced him to come back to Earth. Even if he had promised himself to stay away, for Dean's sake, he couldn't stand by and watch the archangel slaughter them.

Jimmy Novak's empty body was right where he left it, suspended between space and time, ageless with no soul to retain the life inside it. Castiel wiggled his fingers experimentally, testing out different muscles he hadn't used in over a year. The trench coat and loose hanging blue tie were as familiar to him as his wings were, and he sighed in contentment, rolling his shoulders as he opened blue eyes to the world he hadn't seen from any perspective other than above for so long.

The feeling of Raphael's Grace pulsing with life across the land made him shudder, the sensation that much stronger now that they existed on the same plane. It washed over him in waves, distinct and clear as the rising sun in the distance, making him shudder with cold rather than the warmth and heat an Archangel's Grace should have contained.

Straining his senses outward, Castiel couldn't help but breath in deeply, though he had no need for air. The cool crisp sting around the air of Stull Cemetery in the late fall made his spine tingle, made him feel alive. He shouldn't have felt anything of the sort, the pure joy that coursed through him at the feel of the wind whipping up around the ends of his all too familiar trench coat, the fabric brushing against the back of his thighs. The utter contentment he took in such a small familiarity made him feel sick, disgusted at his own weakness. But only for a moment, as another flare of Raphael's distant presence hit him, cold and ruthless. No, he was not the flawed one among his brethren. He was not the one prepared to slaughter the innocent just to get achieve his goal.

Breathing in again, he relished one last time in the sweet tang of the air that, of a cemetery as it was, should have reeked of death, especially after all that had happened here. But to Castiel, who's own blood had spilled here too, it rang with justice, victory, and free will.

He stretched his Grace around him, searching for the souls he recognized. One of the first things he'd done after his power had been returned to him was to alter the carvings in Dean's ribs just so, to allow himself to find him, and him alone. And if Raphael was not going to return to Heaven, he had no doubt in his mind that he'd go after the Winchesters. He hoped that he had not yet been able to locate them, and he exhaled a slow breath of relief when his Grace was able to prod at the presence of Dean's soul. The action sent a shiver down his frame. Even if the archangel had yet to lay a finger on them, Castiel could feel that the area Dean and Sam were in now overflowing with power, and his eyebrows creased in confusion.

Even for Raphael, the overflow of Grace seemed off. He was the fourth born, the youngest, and weakest, of the archangels. Castiel lifted his wings, invisible to the human eye, and where he'd stood on the outskirts of Stull Cemetery a moment before was nothing but displaced air and a few upset fallen leaves.

Castiel felt firm ground under the soles of his shoes in a matter of milliseconds, frowning as dying grass whipped up at his sudden appearance outside the Speight Motel. A dog barked nearby, locked inside its owners car, and the angel craned his neck to cast the animal a bored glance. To his other side, he could hear Dean pacing around in the motel room he and his brother were staying in, mumbling something that Castiel didn't bother to try and listen in on, remembering the number of times the elder Winchester had scolded him on "Eavesdropping."

Besides, Dean had refused to say, let alone think, his name in months. Castiel, though oblivious to many of humanity's mysteries, knew when someone just plain didn't want to see him. Leaning back against the grubby motel wall, he closed his eyes, searching for the presence of an archangel apparently too stupid to hide the light of his Grace. Castiel smirked to himself, folding his arms over his chest.

His eyes flickered open again, black lashes clouding sky blue, and he shifted, letting his gaze fall on the playground just down the road from where he stood. Strange, had Raphael rotted so long in his confines that he had really forgotten how to hide his presence? It seemed odd, even to an angel such as he. But then again, Raphael was the least familiar with humanity of all the archangels, though he was one of the most well accustomed to war. Castiel stood up straight once more, his hands falling to his pockets as he strode purposefully towards the park in question, casting a short glance over his shoulder towards Dean's Impala, parked safely a few feet away. He couldn't help but smile to himself at the sight. Wherever the Impala went, that was where home was for Dean and Sam, and for awhile, for Castiel as well.

Straightening his shoulders, his hands still shoved into his pockets, Castiel paced towards the abandoned playground, the swings still waving on their lonely path in the late autumn breeze. His fingers reached out to pause one in its movements, the metal chain cold against the tips of his fingers. It was here, there was something nearby that he knew he should recognize. He could still sense Raphael, somewhere in this town, but this was not him. The Grace he felt, trickling along the tips of his fingers, residue from the angel that had touched the chain of the swing, was not cold. Instead, it made his own Grace flood with warmth. If he could describe it in human terms, he'd say it was like laughter, bubbling up from his contact, warm and familiar in a way Raphael never was.

His eyebrows furrowed, the angel unaware of the human expression he made without even thinking about it. He should know this presence, but he just couldn't place where he had felt it before, who he had felt it from.

He tensed as the ends of his trench coat were suddenly tugged, the fabric wrinkling under small hands. The angel turned his head over his shoulder, peering down into honey gold eyes alight with curiosity.

"Mister, do you have any candies?" the boy asked, blinking up at Castiel with stubby fingers dug deep into the bottom of the angel's tan trench coat.

"No," Castiel said bluntly, staring blankly at the child.

"Snap," he muttered, looking away. "Weirdos like you are sup'post to have candies." He frowned, lower lip sticking out at the angel in disappointment, as though it was all Castiel's fault.

Castiel blinked at the term "weirdo," before saying slowly, "You shouldn't take candy from strangers." He'd heard the phrase before, as Dean had repeated it often to both him and Sam as some sort of precautionary tale. And he always took Dean's words as truth.

"Yeah, I know," the little boy said stubbornly, "But candies is candies." He tilted his head to the side, watching Castiel with an unreadable expression, "What is your name, mister?"

"Castiel," the angel replied evenly, reaching down to pry the child's fingers off of his coat. "Where is your family?" a boy this small shouldn't be out alone at the trail ends of dusk, he couldn't have been more than four, maybe five years old. Castiel knew he still had much to learn about humanity, but recognizing when basic parenting had clearly gone wrong was simple.

The boy shrugged, and Castiel raised an eyebrow. "Dunno. I'm always . . ." He turned his gaze to the ground, before casting it over the playground equipment, the bright colors now streaked with quickly lengthening shadows. "Here . . . I'm always here . . ." He frowned, the change in expression causing his cheeks to crease, "Tastiel is a weird name."

Weird seemed to be the only verb this boy knew. "My name is Castiel," the angel corrected shortly, reaching down to thread his fingers through the child's slicked autumn-brown hair. "How long have you been here?"

"Forever," the boy whispered, staring straight up into Castiel's blue eyes with rapt attention. It was an exaggeration, Castiel assumed, as all children's explanations were. But the words rang eerily true all the same.

"What is your name?" Castiel asked softly, turning to crouch down in the sand in front of the child. The power he'd felt earlier radiated under his fingers from where they kept in contact with the boy, curled into his hair. Whoever this boy was, Grace pulsed from his form at the angel's slightest touch.

The child tugged at the edges of his coat again, pulling Castiel towards him until his lips were near the angel's ear, breath ghosting over his skin, "My name is-"

Castiel snaked an arm around the boy just before the streetlamp to his right exploded, electricity sparking up into the darkening sky, pieces of metal and Plexiglas raining down onto the concrete. The child shrieked in terror, gripping the lapels of the angel's coat tight in his small hands, candy-gold eyes closing in fright.

"What have we here?" a voice mused coolly, heavy, ill-disguised footsteps echoing in the wake of the snaps and pops of the destroyed streetlight. "A little angel, lost and alone."

Castiel snarled, tightening his arm around the child as he gazed up at Raphael. He would not let the archangel take this . . . Whoever he was, away from him. Not now. His presence was too familiar, too pure for Raphael to touch. The archangel narrowed his eyes at him, his vessel the same as the last time Castiel had seen him, calm and composed with that unchanged glint of fury in his cold stare. A look directed straight at him.

He wasn't looking at the child at all.

A brief wash of relief hit Castiel, and he loosened his grip on the boy, "What do you want with me, Raphael?" he said lowly. His brother had resided in his trap for far too long. If he'd bothered to focus on his surroundings more so than his intent on revenge, he would have immediately seen what the child was. Castiel could use his obliviousness to his advantage.

"Want with you?" Raphael sneered, the look as inhuman as he himself was. "There are so many, many things I could do with you, Castiel. So many things I could do to make you suffer as I suffered. You were a fool. I said I would find you, and your human, and now I have."

The angel stiffened, forcing his eyes not to glance at the motel not far away. It was a lie. It had to be a lie. He would have sensed it if something had happened to Dean. "That does not change the fact that I was still able to outsmart you the first time, brother," Castiel said snidely, pushing the child behind him as Raphael's eyes changed from hidden aggression, to full out rage. This was going to get ugly fast, as Dean would say.

"You are no brother of mine," Raphael snapped, arm raising and arching to the side. Castiel staggered, a force hitting the side of his face, stinging like cold fire before he was flung bodily into the sand. The small boy screamed. "How dare you compare your pathetic existence to me. Just because your Grace has been returned to you does not mean you are an angel! You are tainted with humanity's poison! You are flawed, full of useless emotions!" The dark skinned angel was suddenly upon him, nails digging into the skin around Castiel's neck. "You are so far fallen that not even Heaven can change that now, Castiel," he hissed, teeth bared in the lesser angel's face. Castiel didn't so much as flinch, blue eyes defiant and expressionless.

Raphael drew back a bit, watching the other's blood well up under his fingers. "I will relish in your slow demise, Castiel. First, I will strip you of your Grace once more. Then I will make you suffer until you are on the verge of death." He grinned, his mouth pulled tight into the expression, though there was no joy in it. Castiel flinched at the sight, his whole body shuddering. Raphael sneered, "And do you know what I will do to you then, fallen one?" Castiel inhaled, slowly, carefully. He didn't want to know. Why couldn't Raphael just kill him here and now? It wasn't as if he had never died before, he wasn't afraid of death, or the nothingness that came after. "I'm going to make you watch as I peel the skin from Dean Winchester's body, piece by piece," the archangel continued, "I'll make you watch him bleed and writhe beneath me, and you will be able to do nothing as I tear his soul into so many useless specks that it can never be restored. And then I will heal you, make it impossible for you to die so that you will live for eternity as you were meant to, with no hope of ever saving that miserable Hunter from his pleasantly ceased existence."

Exhale. Castiel shrieked with rage, flailing in Raphael's much stronger, crueler grip. "No!" he yelled. Not Dean. Take him instead, that's always how it had been. His life, not Dean's. Not Dean. "You will not touch him!"

"There is nothing you can do to stop me," Raphael smirked, pinning Castiel's arms above his head, nails scraping along his exposed wrists. "You are weak, flawed as you are. You are nothing compared to my glory. I am the eldest now, I am powerful. And there is nothing you can do to stop me."

"NO!"

The child, forgotten where he kneeled in the sand, frozen in terror, shrieked, the sound earsplitting and hoarse. Raphael cast him a glance, before turning his gaze back to Castiel with a cold smile. Sand flared up from where they had been not a moment before, the indentation remaining where Castiel had lay, blood flecking the grains before it shifted and vanished entirely.

And the boy screamed, hands over his ears and his eyes squeezed shut, hot tears streaking rapidly down his face. A window shattered down the street, quickly followed by another. And he screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

Part 1 Notes: I really liked going over all the things I thought made Castiel who he was by the end of S6, especially giving a reason for his asinine OOC-ess at the end of Swan Song. Also, I'm a fan of Baddie!Raphael giving poor Cass and Dean shit. I've always enjoyed fics that have his revenge.

Also, shame on you if you don't recognize the immense amounts of Gabriel references in this chapter. The Speight Motel is obviously titled so after Richard Speight, Gabe's actor. And the room number is 195. AKA, episode 19 of season 5. The episode where Gabriel dies.