What Castiel said, raising his voice so Dean could hear him over the clattering roar of Raphael's approach, was, "I'll hold them all off!" And he put his hand to Dean's forehead and sent him to Sam before Dean could think to wonder exactly how Castiel was planning on doing that. Dean didn't need to know that he simply wasn't; it would only distract him.
Instead he spent the moments he had obscuring the trail. Castiel was not as strong as an archangel, but he had learned subtlety in the siege of Hell; it would take Raphael longer to work out where Dean had gone than Dean would need to accomplish his goal.
Raphael's fury shrieked in Castiel's ears; he could understand the words even if the prophet, standing next to him, could not, and he knew there would be no explanations, no excuses. He had rebelled; there was only one penalty for that. There was a moment of physical pain as his vessel was torn apart, and then he would have screamed if he'd still had a throat to scream with; his Grace shattered, shredded, and spiraled into darkness.
He had not expected...anything, ever again; the afterlife was for mortals, not angels. So the mere fact that the darkness cleared was surprising enough. Then he realized he was in a form that approximated his vessel's, and he peered down at the familiar limbs in shock so huge it left him essentially calm in its wake. He felt limited, restricted to near-humanity in what he could detect around him.
"Castiel."
He looked up. The room resembled one of the motels the Winchesters favored, though it lacked either of the scents Castiel associated with such places, being neither musty nor over-clean. But the room itself was secondary to the being standing in it with him.
Physically it appeared as a human man, on the cusp between middle and old age, tall and thin and severe, wearing a suit much like Castiel's vessel's. But for all that Castiel's senses were dull and remote, he could feel the real nature of it, and a breath he didn't need caught in his throat.
"You're Death," he said. He could feel the urge to fall into a defensive posture crawling through his Grace, and resisted only because he was perfectly aware it wouldn't help.
"I am," Death said, studying Castiel with a cool regard that did nothing to soothe his frayed nerves. He realized that Death was holding a hot pretzel (he knew the name because Dean liked them), and the incongruity of it startled him.
"I didn't know you personally attended the deaths of angels," Castiel said, hoping desperately that that was all it was—that he wasn't being singled out for some reason. He'd disobeyed, and paid for it; what could Death want from him?
Death favored him with a small, wintry smile and said, "I don't." Castiel's Grace trembled. He didn't bother trying to hide it, but he didn't step back or allow his expression to change. "You angels have no afterlife; no need for an escort. I suppose it's commendable that you assume I do this for all your kind, but no, Castiel. You are special."
"I'm not," Castiel protested. "I'm a soldier."
"I assure you, you are," Death said, and took a bite from the pretzel. "How often do you think angels actively defy Heaven?"
"Anael—" Castiel began, but Death overrode him.
"She fell, yes. She did not assist a human in attempting to stop the celestial plan."
"Uriel, then," Castiel said, feeling on firmer ground.
"Uriel would not have gotten as far as he did if your superiors hadn't been turning a blind eye to his…extracurricular activities," Death said.
The idea was so startling that it took Castiel a moment to understand; the knowledge felt like a blow to his true self. "They were letting him kill? Our brothers and sisters, they were allowing it?" His Grace pulsed with wrath and he found his fists clenching.
"Not precisely, no, but they weren't looking into it too closely," Death said calmly. "However, that is not what I'm here to talk to you about."
Castiel forced his hands to relax and bit off the urge to pursue the subject. He'd known already that the leaders of Heaven were willing to make sacrifices in pursuit of Armageddon; it should not surprise him that some of those sacrifices would be angels. But he didn't have to like it. "What then?" he asked, trying to keep it from being a demand. "What could you possibly need from me? I'm supposed to be dead."
"Oh, you are dead," Death said. "I'm here to ask if you'd like not to be."
Castiel's eyes narrowed and the part of his Grace that humans called wings drew up in surprise. "Raphael smote me," he said. "I'm dead no matter what I'd like."
Death raised one razor-thin eyebrow and said, "As if I can't reverse a smiting if I want to."
"I don't understand why you would want to." His control was slipping; his voice was sharp, and some small part of him marveled at his own presumption. "I'm nothing special."
"Someone thinks otherwise," Death said. "I've been asked to deliver the message and help you to whichever end you choose."
"I have a choice?"
"Yes." Death gestured, and Castiel followed the motion to two doors set in the wall side-by-side. He had not seen them before; perhaps they hadn't been there. "Forgive me for the tired metaphor, but I rather enjoy the classics," Death said. "The door on the left leads to your death—your real death. I am not going to tell you what that entails, except that it is not oblivion, nor is it a punishment." Castiel opened his mouth, but Death continued to speak so he shut it again. "Whether you like it or not, you are special. Now the door on the right, that's the more entertaining one. That one will return you to life. You won't remember this conversation, and I have reason to believe your existence in the near future will be…exciting, perhaps? But you'll have an existence."
Castiel waited a moment, but Death just watched him. "I can go...back to life, or to something unknown?" he said at last. "That doesn't seem like a difficult choice to make."
Death shrugged. "I can guarantee you that whatever waits through the left door will be more peaceful than anything you'll have on Earth. You've rebelled. Your brothers and sisters will be searching for you." Castiel winced.
"Why are you doing this?"
"I told you—I was asked to." Death paused, as if waiting for Castiel to ask the obvious question, but shrugged again when he didn't. "By your Father."
Castiel's Grace flared in wild hope. "My—God? God asked you to speak with me?"
"I believe I just said that," Death replied, dry as old bones. "Now, Castiel, your choice. Life, or afterlife? I'm not going to answer any more questions."
"But I—" Death's sharp look cut across his protest and he clenched his fists again. "Fine. Life."
Death gave him that cool smile again and said, "I thought you were going to say that." Neither of them moved for a second. "Go, Castiel," Death said, and took a careful step back to leave Castiel's way clear. "It's not a trap."
Castiel crossed the room in a few strides, and had his hand on the doorknob when Death murmured, "You'll want to find them as quickly as possible." Castiel glanced back, but Death was carefully chewing a bite of the pretzel and appeared to be in no hurry to swallow it.
He opened the door. On the other side there was a broad green field. As Castiel stepped over the threshold he felt a moment of whirling disorientation; when his head cleared he was standing in the midst of an expanse of tall grass, perhaps ten yards from the side of a two-lane road.
For a moment he could hardly move. He knew he should have been dead; the last thing he remembered was the pain as Raphael ripped his Grace apart. He shouldn't be here—he shouldn't be anywhere. The physical remains of his vessel should be splattered over the inside of the Prophet's kitchen, the man's soul gone to its reward in Heaven, and Castiel himself should be…gone. But he wasn't. He felt carefully for the awareness of James Novak within him, and found nothing; that, at least, was right. At least he wouldn't be dragging an innocent man into his rebellion with him.
It was a risk, but Castiel had to know if that rebellion had accomplished its goal; he concentrated on the voices of his brothers and sisters—carefully, and without adding his own to the chorus. What he heard there made him wish he was capable of feeling physically sick. Lucifer had risen after all. Dean had failed. Castiel felt a stab of panic that almost escaped into the song of the Host before he closed his connection down again as much as he could. He needed to find Dean, find the Winchesters, as quickly as possible.
Fortunately it wasn't difficult to locate Dean's soul—but Castiel realized just before he arrived that the Winchesters were not alone; Zachariah was there as well, and two other angels, and both the humans were in pain. Castiel was far enough away that his siblings hadn't sensed him, but when they did he doubted their reaction would be welcoming.
Castiel hesitated, not yet manifested, for only a moment before he realized he'd chosen what he'd have to do now as soon as he'd helped Dean escape. He dropped into the physical world, pulling his sword to his hand.
"Did you just Molotov my brother with holy fire?" Lucifer demanded.
The stab of anger at that phrasing (Michael was his brother just as much as Lucifer's) made Castiel give the foolish question an equally foolish answer. "Ah…no?" he said, as if Lucifer hadn't seen it perfectly well.
The Devil narrowed Sam's eyes and held up a hand, and Castiel realized what was going to happen just in time to wonder if he was human enough for an afterlife. "No one dicks with Michael but me," Lucifer said, and snapped his fingers.
The pain was exactly the same.
He opened his eyes to dark wallpaper covered in gilt flowers, and felt a sudden recognition. "I've been here before," he said aloud.
"Yes," Death drawled. Castiel turned, throwing a glance at the wall. Sure enough, there were two doors.
"This can't be right," Castiel said. He could hear the annoyance in his own voice. Death didn't appear to care, or indeed notice. "This makes no sense. I didn't help them. Why should I be given another chance?"
"Ours—or yours, really—is not to reason why, Castiel."
"It isn't even a meaningful choice!" Castiel snapped. "Why would I choose to leave Dean alone? Assuming Lucifer hasn't killed him already, which is far more likely."
In the tone of someone pointing out a mildly embarrassing truth as delicately as possible, Death said, "You might not want to go back to being mortal. I believe you know one way that can end poorly for you."
Castiel paused, considering. Dean had not wanted to tell him about the mortal Cas he'd met in Zachariah's future, but he'd dreamed of it a few times before Castiel lost the ability to monitor his sleep. Castiel had to admit the vision had unsettled him, but he shoved the unease away; he was aware of the danger, so he'd avoid it. The more important question was what had happened to Dean and Sam.
"Is Dean alive?" he asked bluntly. "Does he need me?"
"I am hardly the best judge of that," Death said. "But he is alive, though he's badly hurt."
"Fine," Castiel said, absently aware that he'd said the same thing last time. He turned and marched to the right-hand door.
"Castiel," Death said, and he looked over his shoulder. "Things will be difficult if you go back. There will be choices to make, and you may not make the right ones."
"My Father is giving me this choice," Castiel said. "So I'm making it."
"Mmmm. I suppose you know best," Death said silkily, and if there was anything else Castiel didn't hear it; he yanked the door open and stepped through it in the same motion, and found himself back in the cemetery.
There was no sign at all of Lucifer, and Bobby Singer's body lay on the grass with its head at a lethal angle, but Dean knelt near his car, shoulders slumped. His breathing was shallow and Castiel reached out his senses instinctively to see how badly Dean was hurt—and realized with a surge of joy that nearly stunned him that he could; he wasn't penned in his vessel, he could feel his Grace humming under his skin as it hadn't in months. He could hear Heaven, all the voices; they were confused and their harmony imperfect, but they were there.
Dean didn't notice him at first, which Castiel had expected; he had been badly beaten, probably by Lucifer, and one of his less severe injuries meant that he couldn't hear properly. Castiel had to get quite close before Dean reacted, a jerk of surprise. His voice was hoarse with strain and grief but Castiel didn't think he was imagining that Dean sounded glad to see him when he spoke. "Cas...you're alive?"
"I'm better than that," Castiel replied, and smiled, and laid his fingers on Dean's forehead.
Castiel didn't know if the Leviathans didn't know he could hear them, or if they didn't care. He supposed it didn't make any difference, since no matter how he clawed and twisted he couldn't regain control of his vessel. Every time he thought he'd found a weak spot, a corner he could pry loose, another tendril wrapped around him and yanked him away. He could have overcome any one of them, but there were...well, he really didn't know how many of them there were.
He listened in horror to the manic, gleeful babble, half mob and half mind arguing with itself, and fought harder. He couldn't make a dent. He could only distantly feel the cool water climbing up his vessel's legs as the Leviathans walked into the reservoir. They shrugged off his coat, and Castiel was blindsided by irrational relief—that, at least, would survive his impending dissolution.
Soon the water was deeper than he was tall, and the Leviathans swam to the center of the reservoir, where it was deepest. And then they simply stopped swimming. All the air that had been in Castiel's lungs bubbled out. James Novak had not had much fat on his body; without the extra buoyancy Castiel and his passengers sank immediately.
Castiel tried one last time to wrench back control, but the Leviathans were everywhere and he felt himself beginning to unravel, tiny pieces of his Grace pulled away with each of the monsters as they departed his dissolving vessel. It was like being smitten, but excruciatingly slower.
Oh, forgive me, Castiel thought, just before thought deserted him entirely, and he wasn't sure who he was asking.
He came back to himself in that same damned room, dry and whole and wearing his coat. "No," Castiel said, hearing how his voice cracked. He stumbled to the couch that sat against one wall and fell onto it heavily, propping his elbows on his knees so he could put his face in his hands.
Death let him sit for a minute or so before saying, "Well, you've made a mess."
"Please tell me you're here to kill me for good," Castiel said. He lifted his head and forced himself to sit up straight.
"I'm afraid not," Death said, then continued thoughtfully, "I could, you know. Your Father asked me to give you a choice, but he neglected to specify that you be restricted to the choices he offered." Suddenly Death was holding the scythe, turning it so it caught the light. Castiel watched it with weary longing. "But I somehow don't think you're going to take true death, Castiel. You're...not the type."
"I deserve it," Castiel said, savage and low. "I betrayed my friends—I killed Balthazar. And Rachel. I let the Leviathans loose. I called myself God. I deserve death." His eyes narrowed. "For that matter, why do you keep letting me go back?"
Death made an expression that conveyed a shrug and said, "I'm not Fate. Why should I care when you die? I take everyone in the end."
Castiel tilted his head in confusion. "Your Reapers aren't so flexible."
"They have their orders; they carry them out. I'm the boss. I get to make judgement calls." Death turned to the armchair that sat across from Castiel's couch and settled gracefully into it. When the motion was done, the scythe was gone, and in its place Death held an ice cream cone, pale green with brown spots. "Regardless, you still have a choice to make. You can go back, you can go on, or you can go...nowhere. Take some time to think it over."
"What would you do?" Castiel asked.
Death's expression didn't flicker. "That is not a meaningful question, as you know quite well."
"Please. I can't—my choices are all bad. I don't want to cause any more suffering."
"So you're asking me to choose for you? I somehow doubt you thought that one through completely. Besides which, you're the one who wanted free will. That means living with the consequences of your choices."
It seemed that there had been just the tiniest emphasis on the word "living", and Castiel felt his shoulders slump even further. "You think I should go back," he said.
Death stared at him over the ice cream cone. "It's not my job to make these decisions for you. I only point out that you have caused a serious problem for people you claim to care about."
"I can't die," Castiel said, and closed his eyes in despair. Not that it helped; even with the way his senses were limited here, in Death's place, he could imagine things. He knew what the Leviathans were, what they did; they would consume everything that lived. Sam and Dean had no way to stop them—humanity as a whole had no way. The angels might try, but there were prophesies about who would defeat the Leviathans and Gabriel had been dead for two and a half years. "I have to go back." His voice sounded dull in his own ears.
"I'm shocked," Death said, sounding not shocked at all, and Castiel opened his eyes. He wanted to glare, but he was too tired.
"I thought it would be over," he said instead. "But I can't."
"Indeed. Well, then, I believe your Dean would say 'You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here'."
My Dean? Castiel thought, but that was unimportant. He stood—slowly. He remembered this feeling from the year of the Apocalypse; he was physically tired, as he had not been since the night before Stull.
"The door on the right," Death said, in a tone of helpful reminder. Castiel nodded, regarding the door with loathing.
"Next time, will I stay dead?" he asked, his hand on the doorknob. He didn't feel hopeful about it.
"I don't know," Death replied, sounding remarkably gentle. "It depends on whether I'm asked to stop offering the choice by then. It's been quite some time since I've seen your Father." There was a long pause, while Castiel stared at the door. "You can still choose to die, Castiel."
"I can't," he muttered. "I have to help them."
"There is no guarantee you'll be in any condition to help anyone," Death said; Castiel turned back even as he pulled the door open.
"I thought you said you didn't care when I die."
"I don't," Death said, with an elegant shrug. "But I do feel this is a situation in which you should have all the available information."
Castiel paused for a second, trying to think over his grinding fatigue, but the conclusion was still the same no matter how many times he examined it. He'd made this mess; it was his duty to help fix it. "Thank you," he said, and stepped through.
On a shore in Kansas, a man opened his eyes.
This story was written for spn_reversebang on LJ, which you should go check out for the many awesome stories that are going up. My artist was holy_wings; check her out for her lovely art!