A/N: Just started rewatching Season 4 of Supernatural. Lord, I forgot how intense Cas was in the beginning! And watching the earlier seasons reminds me of Sam's positive qualities, too, which is good, because he gets pretty bitchy in later seasons and I forget why I ever liked him. DEMONS ARE BAD, SAM. ALSO, DON'T KILL CIVILIANS. Not a hard concept...

Also, I realize that Crowley officially joins Team Free Will after discovering Jesse, but I'm conveniently ignoring that. Just assume that little fact happened earlier, yes? And the Winchesters therefore have the Colt.

EveninStar

And with that the angel Castiel turned his back on humankind and joined forces with Lucifer, condemning humanity to an early apocalypse.

-Book of Chuck, 66;6

The moon is just cresting into sight when the Fallen angels appear in the clearing. Dusk is deepening into twilight, the brightest stars already peering down through dark leaves to twinkle merrily, obliviously. Castiel could identify each one by name, could remember watching their creation, their making, and often at the side of this same Brother. He knows, too, that some of the light he sees is still streaming down from a black emptiness, a bright shadow cast by a dead star, and the realization is oddly disturbing.

Lucifer is watching him, silently. The Morningstar's dark wings block out the starlight behind him, but radiate a brighter glow of their own.

Castiel looks around; wind tousles the grass so that it waves back in long ripples of silver-green. Castiel had expected them to fly to some dark area to begin planning, not to land in an empty place miles from civilization.

Why are we here, he almost ask - and then he remembers.

A slash of rippling energy, buffeting him. Torn wings, air streaking by, spinning downwards, slamming into the ground -

"This is where I fell," the angel realizes, quietly. "When the Leviathon cast me down."

"This is where we met," the devil agrees.

And Castiel, looking over the cold land, finds that there is nothing else that needs to be said.

They stay there the rest of the night.

Dean has often doubted Castiel.

Less so, recently, but at the beginning he was very hesitant. Castiel had good intentions; Dean has always known that. It was the one thing that made the angel so damn likeable. But Castiel was an angel, built for loyalty, and he had always struggled with disobeying orders. Dean had waited anxiously for the inevitable time when Castiel would refuse to help them, or try to flee to Heaven to beg pardon for his rebellion.

It never occurred to Dean once that, after trying so hard to prevent Lucifer from rising, Castiel would leave them to stand by the devil's side and watch the world burn.

The ride to Bobby's passes with something between a manic and shell-shocked silence. Neither Winchester speaks, the screeching tunes of ACDC or Zeppelin thundering in the lonely air between them. At one point Dean abruptly pulls over to the side of a bare, pot-holed road and just sits there, hands clenched around the Impala's steering-wheel, nostrils flaring in tempo with the stuttering rise and fall of his chest. His eyes are perfectly blank, focused on some inward demon. Sam waits, mutely, until Dean finally starts driving again twenty minutes later.

They rattle into the autoyard as dawn breaks, and the dismayed scrap-heaps scattered through the yard seem morbidly appropriate. It is only as they pull to a stop that Sam wonders what, exactly, they have come to Bobby's for.

But Singer's auto is as much a safe haven as they have, he supposes. Dean, without need for dialogue, jumps out and makes a beeline for the door.

By the time Sam has followed, an irate-but-concerned Bobby is watching Dean down a shot of some murky alcohol; then he starts pouring another. Bobby turns to Sam, raising an eyebrow in a way that's both question and demand.

Sam eyes Dean warily, but there are only so many ways to say it.

"Cas joined Lucifer."

The shotglass clinks against the table, hard, and shatters. Dean just takes a swig from the bottle instead, face stony, eyes still staring straight ahead.

"What?"

"We saw him - Lucifer, I mean. he just asked Cas to join him, and - " Sam hesitates, glancing dubiously at Dean, " - and, Lucifer mentioned that they'd been close, once, back in Heaven. He called Cas the 'Eveninstar'."

Bobby seems to be trying to wrap his head around the idea.

And that's when Crowley shows up.

Castiel isn't certain how to deal with demons, so he hovers at the back of the expensive hotel room as they wander in and out. He is no longer an angel, and the Grace within him burns like hot oil, dark and greasy and unholy. But it is Grace, so the demons avert their gazes from him, and no one wanders too close.

Lucifer finishes conversing (read, barking orders) with a demon, and approaches Castiel. The demon pops away, but another walks forward. She's taken a young woman as a host, with dark hair and dark eyes. Not very pretty, but not ugly; nondescript.

"I'm putting you in charge of twenty demons," Lucifer said. "More will replace them, if they're exorcised, so don't worry about that." Demonic casualties had never concerned Lucifer. "Just in case you need to delegate for anything we're working on. This one - " he waves lazily at the girl, "will lead them."

"Does she have a name?"

"No. Does she need one?"

"It would be easier. His gaze flickers to the demon. She gazes back with barely-contained hostility - and maybe a little fear. "...I'll call you Elel."

Lucifer laughs a long time.

Elel leaves. Castiel wonders what they'll be focusing on. Lucifer shouldn't try accessing most of his powers without Sam, so presumably Castiel will be delegated to any 'heavy lifting', as it were, for awhile.

When Lucifer has finally dismissed the last of his minions (because there really isn't a better term for them), he turns to Castiel.

"Brother; I presume you're wondering what task I have for you?"

"I am."

Lucifer's teeth flashed white. "Isn't it obvious? You're the greatest of my followers, after all, and the only one I would entrust to this."

"...Angels."

"Yes. Take out anyone aiding the Winchesters, for a start; but any angels interfering at all with our plans need to be taken care of." Lucifer smiled, this time a little more gently. "But don't risk yourself if you don't feel up to a task, Castiel. If you find yourself matched, call me. I am not Father, and you are not cannon fodder."

"Yes, Brother."

Castiel wishes he could be surprised when Lucifer gives him the sword.

"This is an achangel's blade."

"Yes - it was Raphael's."

It's a silly thing, to be disturbed by the propriety of holding an archangel's blade after Rebelling, but Castiel frowns. "I am not an archangel," he points out.

"Yes, you are. The archangels were the first of Father's creations, the first order of angels, as you are first among the Fallen."

"No, am I not."

"Are you referencing those who rebelled with me? They were never mine, Castiel - not truly. They were angels through and through, and in the end they belonged to Father. You are the only one with a part of myself - my first and only creation. If I am the new God, you are my right hand."

Castiel says nothing, because what is there to say?

But he does take the blade.

Crowley has downed about half of Bobby's impressive stache of liquor; it's a testament to the seriousness of the situation that Bobby doesn't protest.

"A fucking angel," Crowley says, finally, "has given up on stopping the apocalypse. The same angel who bloody well rebelled to prevent it." He takes another swig, eyes flashing blood-red; he looks more frightened than intimidating. "And, oh, he's now stronger than ever and fucking buggered off and JOINED THE DEVIL!"

The shot glass smashed against the far wall. Dean's jaw clenches, but he says nothing.

"Why'd you come here, Crowley?" Sam asks quietly.

"Why? Fuck if I know, now." Crowley laughs bitterly. "Damn - look. There's an antichrist."

"A what?"

"You heard me. An antichrist. Even angels cower at the thought of that - archangels, too. Hell, Lucifer would hesitate to go against an antichrist."

"Antichrist. Antichrist, like, Lucifer's son?"

Crowley scowls. "Lucifer is still an archangel, you know; if he had a kid it'd be a nephilim, which is no longer physically possible, due to a lot of unpleasantness you two idiots are lucky enough to not need to worry antichrist can be born of any human and demon, but the angels usually intervene before birth."

"Intervene, as in...?"

Crowley just gave Sam a Look.

"...Okay." Dean grimaces. "Do you know where this guy is?"

"Of course not. If the demons know, don't you think we'd be using him? His name's Jesse, he's about eleven, and he's very powerful. That's all I know. Do your damn dirty work yourself."

And he's gone.

It's... strange, being in service to the devil. Yes, strange is the best word for it. Not really that different than serving Heaven, except, well, in every way that it is.

Castiel is guarding a group of demons right now. Those demons have barricaded a town to experiment with the Croatoan virus, and Lucifer imagines that the angels will be curious; they might want the Apocalypse to happen, too, but Heaven is banking on a final battle with Michael as the glorious victor; they're still happy to slow down any other plans.

Lucifer is correct, of course; when is he not? Three angels appear, furtive scouts, and the demons don't even notice until Castiel quietly flies to their leader. The demon - Yintin - stiffens and leans away, and at the same time bows his head. "My lord?"

"There are three angels to our South," Castiel murmurs. The demon flinches. "Prepare the sigils and be ready to abandon the project."

"Yes, my lord." The boy-demon flinches and scrambles to bow as Castiel flaps away.

(Castiel isn't fond of demons, but then, neither is Lucifer, so that's okay.)

He finds the angels sitting in a slender young tree outside the secluded town, watching with piercing, far-seeing gazes. The whistling wind doesn't move them, nor the laws of gravity; three angels shouldn't fit on the bare tree branch, but they do.

An acorn falls on the head of a large male; he doesn't notice. Two female-vesseled angels sit on either side of him, one in a prim suit, the other contrasting her with a bikini and shorts. It's too cold out for either this night, but, angels.

Castiel kills the male first.

His scream, and the flare of Grace streaming from the broken husk, alerts the other two; they scramble for their own blades, and the three of them must make a ridiculous sight, a trenchcoat-clad male facing a businesswoman and a bikini-model, all holding tiny silver swords, but there is nothing ridiculous about the fear in the eyes of the female-angels. The suited angel steps back, eyes wide, as she takes in the oily sheen of his Grace.

"Castiel," she breathes. Suddenly, she turns to the other. "To Heaven! Tell them!"

Castiel comes bearing down on her, and then there is no room to talk. Slash, parry, thrust; this angel is just another malakhim, but Castiel is not, not any longer. He is Fallen, he belongs to Lucifer. He is the devil's first archangel, and she falls.

He takes to wing as her light fades, peering around; but the third angel is gone, confused host abandoned; she is in Heaven. It doesn't matter much, really, but the failure stings.

He flies back to camp, blade still exposed. A short male demon starts at the sight of him, mouth twitching open to expel smoke before the creature remembers itself and bows instead, cringing. Castiel just sweeps by without a word.

It's a dark place, this city, but then it should be. Those few humans left have barricaded themselves inside their homes whilst their family and friends wander around, lunging for anyone with the misfortune to wander into sight. They ignore the demons, and Castiel is avoided.

The town is silent, furtive, just the sulfuric scent of demon and the iron tang of blood in the air. Every now and then a distant scream is cut short, and by now Castiel can almost ignore the sound.

The boy-demon tentatively approaches. "My lord? Were you successful?"

"I killed two of them," says Castiel flatly. "The third escaped."

"I will send a messenger to Him," the demon says, quickly, and flees.

Castiel watches him go. He should, he thinks, have called his twenty demons - or at least a few of them - to help attack the three angels. Castiel is strong, but not that strong. Still, he has a certain aversion to working with these taints; an instinct that has held firm for eons is difficult to drop.

Screams echo from somewhere to the east. Glancing around, Castiel hears gunfire, and then a huge explosion; within moment the local schoolhouse is in flames.

Mass Suicide, or accident? he wonders. It doesn't really matter.

Castiel take to the sky again, reveling in the flare and flap of his dark wings, and he circles the camp in silence as daylight moves to dusk, watching as the humans below, ever so slowly, continue to die.

Crowley, you must understand, is not a selfless person.

He is not, in fact, even a good person - and if you're very concerned about semantics, he's not a 'person' at all. He is, at the end of things, a demon.

Angels can differ - obviously. Cold and warm, wrathful and loving, and everything in between. But demons...

Well, there are certainly different types of demons, in the same way there are different types of people. But it needs to be remembered that demons are the products of those who went to Hell. There are no good demons, no better demons - by Crowley's appraisal, demons are weighted on cruelty, pettiness, and stupidity. There is no question that every demon possesses these traits; only the quantity is in debatable.

In that regard, Crowley proudly considers himself rather superior. He is more efficient than cruel - usually - and his moments of petty revenge or selfish haste are typically minor or carefully planned. And stupidity - in that, well, he's probably one of the craftiest demons in the Pit.

Or so he claimed before siding with the Winchesters.

But he has sided with the Winchesters. The devil intends to kill all demons once the apocalypse is done, Crowley is sure of that. Castiel's defection has only solidified the thought. And now he has to either side with the Winchesters or find someway to gain the devil's favor; the latter seems a very unlikely task.

...On the other hand, evidence has shown Castiel to be relatively pliable...

"He killed a Brother and Sister - and you fled?" Zachariah's thunderous voice booms throughout the ether of Heaven, and it falls silent before his wrath. The trembling angel before him - clad, weirdly, in a human bikini that makes her look particularly small - bows her head silently. "He is one malakhim! You were three! How could this happen?"

"Sir - he is not a malakhim. Not anymore. He is something unholy now. Lucifer changed him - his power has grown exponentially. I would never have stood a chance of touching him." She lowers her eyes. "I felt it best to report, but I accept whatever penalty is necessary."

"...No." Zachariah says, finally. "...You did right, Sister." The angel relaxes a little. "Did you notice anything notable about the traitor?"

She hesitates.

"Sister?"

"Sir - I am afraid I must report that the Eveninstar killed our kin with the blade of the archangel Raphael."

That night the far reaches of Heaven are filled with quivering angels, all avoiding the wrathful fury of the regent Commander of Heaven. It is a bitter time.

Some wonder, privately, if Lucifer is a more stable leader.

(He is not. But he is very, very persuasive).

Michael is tired.

This might be questioned, because Michael has done absolutely nothing for more than two thousand years. After the Fall the prince of Heaven grew obsessed with bitterness over the betrayal of Lucifer. Then Gabriel was dead, his vanishing Grace spreading ripples and chaos throughout Creation, and when God left too Michael fled entirely. He abandoned Heaven to Raphael, the youngest and least capable, the most callous, and he flew, flew, flew to the farthest reaches of space. Eventually, when his great wings grew weary, Michael flew to a nearby star, Polaris, and let himself become numb to the world in its fire.

So he sat there, burning with the star, fading in and out of time. He meditated, he thought, he prayed to Heaven, but mostly he remembered. He remembered his brother Lucifer, the most loyal, the most beloved, he who sang unceasing praises to the Almighty and was first to love, forgive, to feel. Lucifer the bright, Lucifer the beautiful, Lucifer the loyal - Lucifer the turncloak...

And always, always, Michael's mind whispered, Father's favorite.

And wasn't he? Lucifer Fell, and God disappeared... No coincidence, surely. Now Heaven was silent and brooding, Earth was filled with sinful humans, the demons waited below in the Pit with Lucifer caged and bound and tortured...

In that dark loneliness the heat of the star seemed a crude mimicry of Hell - to Michael's imagination, at least - and his bitterness grew, fed by the flames and feeding them in turn.

And then, one day, he is not alone.

"Sir?"

It seems to take an eon for Michael to slowly tilt his stiff head, the first movement of any sort in over three centuries. Finding his voice, unused for much longer, is more difficult. "...What?"

It's an angel, he thinks, with a little wonder. He doesn't know the malakhim's name, but he is a small thing, a dim thing in comparison to the star that has been Michael's home for so long. The angel seems uncomfortable in his regard - as though recognizing this failing, Michael thinks - and lowers his gaze.

"Sir. The Apocalypse is nigh. Your presence is required on Earth."

The Apocalypse.

Brother.

Lightbringer.

Traitor -

"Yes," says Michael. The angel tilts his head, puzzled by the non sequitor. Then he's jerking around, struggling to match the streaming fire that is the Warrior of God, and together they streak through the cosmos like twin stars in the night.

"I understand, Little Brother," says Lucifer. "But do try to make use of the demons next time, won't you? I made them for a reason, after all. If they're not put to use as cannon fodder, why bother creating them at all?"

Castiel doesn't have a reply for that. Luckily, Lucifer doesn't seem to expect one. The archangel begins pacing the lavish hotel room. His vessel is starting to peel, just a little, around the eyes; the red sores burn with poisoned Grace. "In any case," Lucifer continues, "my sources in Heaven have informed me that Zachariah doesn't seem overly concerned about the Croatoan virus."

"You have sources in Heaven?"

"But of course." Lucifer smiles faintly. "Cowards all, of course, but what do you expect? I would not trust any individual among them, but they all agree on this point. Zachariah, fool that he is, has dismissed the power of our project. Therefore, I believe it would be best to split your attention between the experiment and a more important assignment."

"Which would be?"

Lucifer's smile is sharp now, deadly, and if Castiel were anyone else he would look away. But he is, after all, the Eveninstar. "There are angels hunting down the weapons of God for Michael to use against me in the battle. Many, through one mean or another, have fallen to Earth."

"I am to find them?"

"No; I have assigned hundreds of demons to that task. I want you, Castiel, to hunt those angels and strike them down."

There is a weighty pause. Lucifer knows what he is asking. He also, quite plainly, does not care.

And Castiel is finding it increasingly hard to mind.

"I will begin immediately."

Lucifer brushed the shoulder of the lesser angel, fleetingly. His Grace shines brighter than the rising sun. "Good luck, Little Brother."

And Castiel flies.

The Eveningstar is on the move, the angels whisper in Heaven. The Eveningstar is coming, the Eveninstar is hunting -

Heaven knows of him, now, the renegade angel who fought for the humans, the renegade Eveninstar who was Lucifer's shadow in the Beginning and who flies with the Dragon again. His wings are as the devil's, they whisper, his Grace is dark and corrupt and strong and the demons bow before him, the new Prince of Hell - beloved of the Devil - He is coming for us - He is coming for you -

- He is coming -