Lucifer burns out in a bright flare of agonising, all-consuming light and a blast of sheer power that levels trees and bushes, flattens everything to the ground in a three mile radius of destruction.
When Castiel regains consciousness he's on the ground, warm, burned earth under his palms and he gasps at the pain pulsing in his essence. It feels like he's been ripped open, a deep cleft inside him, where a part was violently torn out, leaving him bereft, with a festering wound in its place.
The unnatural feeling of emptiness aches inside his chest, his grace feels wobbly and lost without the familiar white-hot pressure of his brother's presence, all the space frightening after spending so much time crammed up together, sharing a singular vessel.
This is when it finally dawns on him - Lucifer is truly gone.
The Morning Star has been defeated once and for all. Another archangel purged from this world. The sadness doesn't come as a surprise exactly, he's never been unaffected by the death of his brothers and sisters, and Lucifer was his brother, despite his ruthless actions and mind-games the devil would always remain a part of heaven.
No, Castiel doesn't mourn him, his brother committed too much evil for him to truly feel that way, but he does feel regret at the path Lucifer chose to walk. Now only Michael remains, still locked in his cage, where he will possibly remain for eternity.
The body of James Novac moves at his thought, a second, familiar skin he slips into seamlessly and he carefully pushes himself upright, kneeling. The last months are a haze of vague images and sensations, with occasional glimpses of Sam and Dean strewn in between. Lucifer had suppressed him completely, banished him to a corner of the vessel and cocooned him in layers upon layers of oblivion. A security measure most likely, after Castiel had managed to stop him from killing Sam that one time. It is a heady feeling to be back in control, but he doesn't dwell on it, more concerned with the sight that greets his eyes.
A body slumped in the dirt, bloodied, face-down, but still recognisable as one of the few humans that ever had any impact on Castiel's existence. Confusion overtakes him for a short moment, because he doesn't understand, this is - impossible, and yet the eyes of his vessel don't lie.
He remembers the scrawny figure of the prophet, who wrote the Winchester Gospels. Not very well written books, at least in Dean's opinion, yet immeasurably precious in their purpose. Castiel had developed a fondness for the man in the short time he'd known him, because despite his fear and scepticism Chuck had always tried to help them in any way possible. Two prophets shouldn't be able to exist at one time and with the awakening of Kevin Tran, Chuck's death was an unwelcome but expected consequence, even though Kevin proved to be a far superior prophet. Chuck should have died years ago and looking at the lifeless corpse of the prophet now makes him feel incredibly wary.
The sound of movement to his right distracts him from the puzzle of Chuck's death, and then there is Sam, a bloody heap of human flesh lying on the side, and Dean kneeling in front of him with a dazed, unreadable expression on his face.
For a long, horrible moment he thinks that his friend is dead.
Somehow the thought is unbearable in its finality. Strange how once it wouldn't have taken him more than a snap of his fingers to resurrect him. Only, he didn't see the value in human life then, in many ways he'd been like Uriel and meeting Dean and Sam Winchester changed him on a fundamental level. What he would give to possess such effortless angelic power now. Noticing the shallow rise and fall of his chest is a relief.
He honestly doesn't know how Sam survived this. He's a resilient man, an excellent hunter, but ultimately human. With all their incomprehensible strength and fragility.
Perhaps -
He can't imagine Amara moving a fingertip to ensure the other Winchester's survival, so maybe it's not quite such an absurd thought to think of his Father. But why would he interfere after all this time? Yet Castiel is alive as well with his vessel intact and that is miraculous enough to make him -for one second- believe that this could be it, this could be the day God, in all his glory, decides to take a stand for humanity, to fight, to help - after all the years of fruitless search finally prove to Castiel he still cares about his creation.
Then Dean stands up and walks forward, his steps jerky, eyes glazed over, unseeing as they sweep over him, and the spark of hope sputters and dies. In the field of destruction Amara stands calmly, unmovable, except for the slight flutter of her dress in the non-existing wind. The dark - fabric?- moves around her like a living thing, black tendrils grasping for something to hold on and sucking the life out of everything they touch. The few plants that survived Lucifer's destruction shrink away and wither at her closeness. In truth, she looks like one of those ancient, greek statues, flawless and cold, while dark shapes twist around her chosen human form, as she holds her hand out to Dean in an eery show of serenity. Chills run down his spine and Castiel has never seen something more frightening or more beautiful. He watches Dean being steered like a puppet, a marionette with its strings pulled like chains, forced to move against his will.
But Dean doesn't walk towards Amara, instead he goes past Sam's slumped form and Castiel has to turn his head to keep him in his sight. He approaches a blocky object with a dirty blanket thrown on top - Castiel recognises it as the brown blanket Dean stows in the Impala, useful in all kinds of situations, to hide blood spatters and provide warmth in emergencies - and bends down, hands shuffling in the dry, charred dirt until they grasp something to heave it up on one side. Wooden poles. With a determined pull the - chest maybe- moves and the blanket shifts at the force of the jolt.
Castiel's eyes widen at the sight and his breath hitches.
Impossible. This cannot -
The revealed gold gleams faintly in the dull light of dawn. Particularly the two cherubim are beautiful to look at, their wings spread upward and touching at the ends, frozen in kneeling positions of supplication and reverence.
Could this -? Could this truly be - ?
Even as an angel, he has never been privileged to lay eyes upon it.
Once he would have taken one look at it and seen everything down to its molecules, he would have been able to recognise the acacia wood underneath the gold gilding and feel its holiness.
Now he's left with guesswork, powerless, reduced to the inadequate tools of a mere human.
The feeling of a slumbering, ancient entity sweeps over his senses and he shrinks back at the sheer magnitude of power encased in the chest.
Dean doesn't seem to feel any such thing, he just keeps dragging the chest roughly over to Amara, not sparing a glance for Sam and him.
There is no more room for doubt, and Castiel cannot remember the last time, if ever, he's experienced such an amount of bitter desperation - because this must be indeed the Ark of Covenant.
Sam and Dean have found the impossible. It isn't even that surprising, the brothers had always had a penchant for beating the odds. Only this time it won't help. With the Ark and all its power in Amara's possession, Castiel doesn't believe even his father could stop her.
Despite everything, he's still an angel, a warrior of heaven, it is his duty to do something.
Anything.
Moving his legs, he tries to push himself to a stand, only to end up doubled over in a crouch, a lightning pain tearing through the left leg. Bewildered, he looks down and for the first time notices the telling wetness seeping through the dark pants and the unnatural positioned knee.
To say it in Dean's simple yet expressive words: The leg is mush.
Which shouldn't be possible, yet is undeniable in its truth. Unconsciously he's done his best to shutter the pain away, split it from his awareness by using his grace like a figurative blanket that dampens the feeling down. He doesn't notice anything wrong, until shifting the limb in question. Straining the muscles of his vessel results in a kind of searing agony foreign to angels and yet somehow deeply intertwined with humanity.
He needs to heal this body and move, but it's useless, his grace reduced to a mere spark, where he needs a crackling fire.
The scrapping noise ceases abruptly and he watches Dean halt in front of the woman that represents darkness in this and all worlds. Watches him lower the poles carefully to the ground, bending his head in a gesture of submission that is wholly opposed to the nature of the soul Castiel has once raised from the depths of hell and consequently devoted his existence to.
Almost from the beginning it had been clear that the stubborn human would not resign himself to his designated role of heaven's weapon.
No, Dean Winchester does not bow down for anyone and to see him reduced to this leaves Castiel cold, an unexplainable stabbing sensation in his gut.
"Oh Dean", Amara says, lifting his chin with her fingertips, "thank you for this gift." Strangely her eyes dart to the former prophet and linger there on his prone form, something like satisfaction flitting across her alien visage.
"My final victory", she whispers and smiles benevolently, as she cups Dean's cheek in her hand and he just looks at her with dull, resigned eyes. Then she leans forward and touches her lips to his in a farce of a loving kiss. It's over as soon as it began, a brief contact of lips lasting barely a second before Amara withdraws. She almost floats to the chest, her movements of such otherworldly grace and fluidity, he couldn't remember possessing even as a full fullfledged angel. Every step she takes increases the faint buzzing of the energy caged inside. He watches how she stretches her hand out, just shy of touching it, as she studies the ancient relic.
Eyes shutting on their own accord, he wishes this would be enough to blend out reality. Alas, his own senses are not so kind, more sharpened and merciless than those of any other creature.
In his essence he is still undeniably angelic. He cannot hide from the truth.
This is it.
The end of all things.
The darkness he senses is ruthless and allconsuming, slowly smothering the space around it, like an infection, an illness that grows and grows, until it destroys the organism it inhabits. Though there seems to be a vague light emitting from its center, in all probability the Ark.
The human soul next to it is more dark than light, full of spiritual scars and deep stains. It should be repugnant in its desolate state, yet Castiel can only feel wonder. Even wrapped in darkness, there is still pure goodness and selflessness at its core.
His eyes snap open, unerringly focusing on that beloved, human form.
"Dean."
There are no words. He's useless, helpless in this critical moment, like always.
"Please."
Dean's shoulders stiffen like he has really heard his whispered plea and Castiel is unprepared, when he abruptly turns and looks at him, green clashing with blue. The horrible emptiness in his eyes is gone, replaced by confusion, as his mouth twitches into an involuntary, familiar smile. But it doesn't last longer than a moment, before Dean has assessed the situation and the smile dies on his lips. Waking up to the sight of his brother's half-dead form and the Darkness about to absorb the only possible weapon strong enough to harm her would make anyone stop smiling. Though Castiel would have liked to enjoy it for a little bit longer, before the unravel of creation.
Dean's eyes pause on the prophet and his features distort into a grimace of desperation before he gives him an unrecognisable look. Castiel has a split second to notice the sudden determination there, that particular twitch in the fingers of his left hand that announces his intention of doing something incredibly reckless and stupid - it happens too fast and Castiel is sitting frozen on the ground, as Dean takes a step back, past Amara, and lays his hand flat on the chest without hesitation. Right on the mercy seat.
Nothing happens for several heartbeats, Amara and Dean just stare at each other in a strange tableau of surprise and betrayal. Castiel feels static gather in the air. The need to swallow is strange and overwhelming, as a light metallic taste gathers on his tongue.
"No", Amara says, the word almost soundless and for the first time there is something like fear in her alien expression.
Dean doesn't die like Uzzah, the man who was the first to so foolishly touch the Ark of Covenant.
From one moment to the other, the world is dipped in a hue of brilliant whiteness. The light is all-compassing where it blazes out from Dean's left palm and waves of searing heat and icy cold pulse from the point of contact.
Then it changes, a flow of colour entering the world, as a deep red stains the sky. In a breath it turns to orange, then smoothes over into the brightest of yellows.
Dean flinches with every change of colour.
"Fuck, Cas", Dean grits out, voice raw and trembling. The muscles in his arm spasm, yet despite the strain his hand remains glued to the relic, drawn by an invisible pull. His gaze turns to Sam and it's easy to interpret the emotions behind it, after all, he's so often seen them play over the familiar features. Sorrow, concern, guilt. Love.
Always love.
That immeasurable, selfless feeling, which had first attracted and convinced Castiel of the goodness in his soul. Because even in hell, through all the agony, enduring and executing countless amounts of torture, Dean had never forgotten about his little brother.
Green.
Dean sinks down to one knee.
"Take care of Sammy for me, will ya?" He winces and the corners of his mouth turn up in what is supposed to be a small smile. Castiel is an angel, and yet Jimmy's heart clenches at the sight.
Blue shines through the cracks in Dean's smile and the human shivers violently. It deepens into indigo and Dean cannot suppress the wild trembles anymore. When violet blazes through his body, the skin visibly disintegrates, flaking off like sunburned skin, layer after layer. He's being flayed from top to bottom, languorous stripes of skin being peeled of by invisible hands.
Dean screams.
It's the most horrifying sound Castiel has ever witnessed.
The dry crack of bones breaking fills the air and the remaining skin peels off like from a ripe tomato, leaving bloody flesh behind.
A living puppet screaming, screaming in endless, infinite agony.
He doesn't know how long it lasts, but his hands aren't enough to muffle the sound and every second feels like a small eternity, until the screams stop.
The flayed figure of the righteous man has crumpled to the ground, bathed in violet light, one hand still stretched and barely touching the Ark with its bloody fingertips, when the last colour change occurs.
Once more whiteness draws from the chest, right to his fingers, sweeping across the whole body, until it's enveloped in a cocoon of light. The bones knit together seamlessly and the skin reforms without the familiar scar tissue.
Castiel catches the faint twitch of the body on the ground and the relief is indescribable, when he watches Dean stand up unharmed, completely healed, and face Amara.
She cringes back from the light, stumbling a little as she takes a hesitant step backwards.
For a fraction of a second Dean looks at him and his eyes aren't green. Instead a turbulent mixture of swirling colours greets him, ancient and otherworldly in its essence.
He has time to think that this is not Dean, before the impenetrable whiteness reaches out and engulfs him.