A/N: Some lines and events lifted from the episode "Book of the Damned," but obviously with this AU twist. And there's only one more chapter after this. Yet another story coming to a close. *sadface*


Chapter 7: Life and Death

Sam had been on many uncomfortable car rides in his time, considering half of his life had been spent on the road, but this one was topping the charts into downright miserable and infuriating. And it'd only been an hour. Hannah was in the backseat with Metatron, and the newly-ex-angel was as squirmy as a two-year-old. He'd been regaling them practically nonstop on how everything felt so different as a human.

"I had no idea these sensations could be so powerful. Hey, can we stop for ice cream? You know, it never tasted all that great as an angel, but now…"

Hannah made a disgusted noise and turned her head away to look out the window.

"Party pooper. Hey, Samtastic," Metatron leaned forward to rest his cuffed hands on the back of the driver's seat. "What do you say? Pit stop for hot fudge sundaes?"

Sam craned a peeved look over his shoulder. "No. Cas could go critical at any moment, and don't forget you're still in the blast radius, so sit back and shut up unless you have directions to give."

Metatron heaved a dramatic sigh and slumped back in the seat. It was a really good thing Dean hadn't come along, or the douche ex-angel would have been thrown out of the vehicle at ninety-miles-an-hour. Sam was just beginning to get used to the silence when a peppy tune started humming from behind him.

"How do we get rid of the Mark?" he asked abruptly, wondering if Metatron's newfound touchy-feelyness would make him more charitable. Sam wanted to believe Cas could do it without causing irreparable harm to himself, but if that wasn't the case…no, Sam couldn't ask Cas to sacrifice himself like that. So they were back to Metatron.

"Truthfully?"

Sam snorted. "If you can even be that." He caught sight of Metatron in the rearview mirror rolling his eyes.

"I don't know. It's old magic…God-level magic. Or Lucifer level, but you can't ask him, exactly, can you?"

Sam gritted his teeth. "What about the tablets?"

"No, there's nothing in them about the Mark."

"So when you said you could help us, that was—"

Metatron shrugged one shoulder guilelessly. "I was just trying to buy time till I could screw you over."

Sam's fingers whitened around the steering wheel. It was a good thing the dick was currently out of arm's reach, unless Sam wanted to crash the car.

"He's telling the truth," Hannah put in unhelpfully.

"Yeah," Sam muttered, and turned his focus back on the road.

Twenty minutes later, Metatron finally directed Sam to pull up in front of an old Victorian style building. Even though it was late afternoon, no lights were on from what Sam could see, and the parking lot was empty.

"What is this place?" he asked as they got out of the car.

Metatron sighed wistfully. "An under-appreciated treasure trove."

They marched up the platform steps, and Sam took a moment to pick the lock. When it clicked, he pulled the door open for Hannah to drag Metatron in first, and then he followed. The three of them stopped in a grand foyer lined with shiny hardwood floors and Greek-style support pillars.

"Oh, come on," Sam muttered. "You expect us to believe that you hid Cas's grace in a library?"

"Nobody goes to libraries anymore. It's the safest place in the world."

Rolling his eyes, Sam flicked on the lights, illuminating rows and rows of bookshelves packed with volumes.

Hannah stepped away from Metatron, her head tilted in that weird bird-like manner that socially awkward angels did. "I can feel Castiel's grace. It's here, but you've hidden it somehow."

Okay, guess that was progress. At least Metatron hadn't been lying to them about that. "Where is it?" Sam asked.

Metatron bunched up his shoulders. "Honestly, I have no idea."

Sam whirled on him, pushing him into a chair and clamping a hand around the poorly bandaged gunshot wound in the ex-angel's leg. Metatron yelped and writhed to get away, but Sam squeezed harder. "Where is it?" In his peripheral vision, he saw Hannah start to move forward as though to intervene, but she ended up holding herself back.

"Oh! Gah! I don't know, I swear! I had another angel hide it, even from me." He threw his head back and howled again, spittle flying from his mouth. "You know, in case someone tries to torture the information out of me! Case in point!"

Sam straightened, releasing his grip. Righteous fury was boiling inside him, but he had to work at keeping himself in check. He couldn't blame an outburst on the Mark, after all. "Where is the grace?" he asked in a low, measured tone.

Metatron shifted in the chair. "I told the angel to hide some clues in some of my favorite books." He held up his handcuffed wrists. "Mother, may I?"

Sam inhaled sharply and glanced at Hannah. Her expression was carefully neutral, which was also getting on his nerves. How were they supposed to work together if he couldn't read her? But she was an angel and Metatron was a measly human now, so he wasn't much of a threat. Sam reached into his pocket for the key and undid the cuffs.

Rubbing his hands together gleefully, Metatron limped over to a shelf and pulled out a book. Sam snatched it out of his hands and flipped it open. There was a note stuck between the pages.

"'What is the maddest thing a man can do?'" he read, and then glowered at the ex-angel. "It's a riddle? What's the answer?"

"Um, the—the answer to the riddle will lead to another book. And inside that book, you'll find Castiel's grace." Metatron grinned. "We're gonna work this out together, okay? Teamwork."

Sam snorted, and slapped the book against Metatron's chest before striding away to search the shelves.

"You know," the douchebag called after him. "We really can make a good team. Kind of like a buddy comedy, without the comedy."

"Or the buddies," Sam shot back. "You killed my brother, remember?"

"Eh, good point." Metatron turned to peruse the book spines in front of him.

Sam forced himself to take a calming breath. All they had to do was find Cas's grace and this special box, and then they could get rid of Metatron—one way or the other.

He turned down one of the aisles and paused at a decorative pedestal nestled in a small nook between shelf units. On top was an old Bible open to Exodus, and next to it was a golden box, five-by-three inches, with two bronze poles looped through metal rings on the sides. On the lid knelt two sculpted angels facing each other, wings folded over their shoulders and extended forward so their tips almost touched.

Sam stared at it for a long moment. Paperweight, huh? He picked it up gingerly, wary of being struck down by lightning, even though technically this wasn't the real Ark of the Covenant. "Hey, Hannah?"

He carried the box back out to the open area of the library and held it up for Hannah to inspect. She didn't touch it, but her brows knitted together with intense concentration.

"Yes, I can sense its power. This is the vessel we need for the unstable grace."

Great, one down, one to go.

Hannah jerked, a choked cough gasping from her throat.

"Hannah?" Sam exclaimed, reaching out to catch her elbow as she dropped to the floor, face contorting in pain. "What's wrong?"

Her mouth moved around desperate gulps for air, but only strangled sounds came out.

"Poor Hannah," Metatron crooned then, stepping out from the next row. "Swam so far just to drown in shallow waters. Isn't it ironic? Don't ya think?"

Sam's eyes widened at Metatron's blood-tipped fingers. "What did you do?"

"What I told you I would—screw you over." He lifted his hand and slammed it against the side panel of the shelving unit. Sam couldn't see what sigil he might have painted in his blood, but there was a sharp crack, and the section of aluminum shelves next to Sam and Hannah started to tip over.


Dean was hovering like a mother hen, as Castiel had heard Sam call it before. He'd never experienced it himself, only witnessed such anxious care directed toward Sam, and Castiel wasn't quite sure what to do with it. With the ice packs all used up, Dean had resorted to soaking a washcloth in cold water and draping it across the back of Castiel's neck. It was a nice gesture, but Castiel didn't tell him that the compresses weren't working anymore. He could feel the flush in his skin that had turned to tingles similar to when he'd been stung by a bunch of bees while gathering honey. It hadn't bothered him then, but now it was quite uncomfortable. And it was getting worse.

Castiel couldn't tell how much longer he could hold the churning grace in. He could feel it ripping him apart on the molecular level, and his natural angelic healing was having a harder and harder time keeping up with repairing the damage. He glanced at the clock. How much more time should he give Sam before taking matters into his own hands?

The alarm clock suddenly whined and 'brrped', sending sparks out from the display as the LED dashes went dark. Castiel gritted his teeth in annoyance. To think at one point he hadn't cared how many electromagnetic devices he blew up when he walked into a room.

Dean arched a brow at the fried clock from where he was sitting next to the bed. "That's one way to hit the snooze button."

Castiel felt a flare of indignation at Dean's apparent nonchalance, though he knew it was just one of the hunter's coping mechanisms. Castiel needed to find a way to manage his roiling thoughts and emotions as well. Which usually involved one particular outlet…

"Perhaps I should try to remove the Mark now," he suggested.

Dean's brow furrowed. "What? Why? We don't have the box yet and you could set yourself off."

Castiel rolled a shoulder awkwardly. "Or I can control the surge. I don't think we should wait, Dean. I may not be in a position to try by the time Sam and Hannah get back."

Hazel eyes narrowed on him like storm clouds over a turquoise sea. Dean didn't respond for a long moment, and Castiel could see the war raging within the Winchester. He wanted a cure, desperately needed it, and yet guilt and fear held him back. How could Castiel reassure him that this was the right thing to do?

Dean leaned forward, interlocking his fingers across his knees. "Was Hannah right? Will removing the Mark hurt you to the point where even your grace won't heal you?"

Castiel glanced at the floor, unsure how to phrase his answer. It was always easier to lie when things were wrapped in half-truths, such as it was possible, but not certain. But he didn't get a chance to say that before Dean let out a derisive snort.

"That's what I thought. Then no. Not now, not ever, Cas. Not at that cost."

He sighed. "Dean…"

"You said you deserved to die for your sins. Well then what about me? I don't deserve to be saved, Cas, not after everything I did."

"That wasn't you, Dean, it was the Mark. It's different."

"The hell it is." Dean scooted to the edge of his chair, lashing out to grip Castiel's forearm like a vice. "All you ever tried to do was the right thing. I see that, Cas. Okay? Crowley, Purgatory, hell, even trusting Metatron—I know you meant well."

"My intentions mean nothing," he ground out. Dean had more or less told him that once, after he'd run off with the Angel Tablet.

"I tortured souls in Hell, killed dozens in Purgatory and enjoyed it. Lied to Sam and let an angel possess him, which led to Kevin's death. I wasn't there for you when you needed help. I tried to paint all those decisions as doing the right thing, but at the root of them all? I was selfish. So tell me why do you deserve death more than me?"

Castiel's chest constricted at the heartbroken plea. How could he explain? How could he make Dean understand? Humans were his father's creation, souls that could choose to be good or bad, and in either case deserved mercy and forgiveness. Protecting them was Castiel's mission.

The grace pulsed inside him, continuously building in intensity. His shoulder blades buzzed and twinged from the blockage where wings used to be. He didn't have long, and refused to let this chance go to waste.

Castiel clasped Dean's arm in return, resolution giving him strength. "That's not it, Dean. It's that you deserve life."

Dean's eyes wavered with the frayed ends of hope and despair. He'd been fighting the good fight for so long, against impossible odds, and that vulnerable, lost young man that Castiel saw underneath all the emotional walls and facades tugged at the angel's heart. As it always had.

"You've always been worth it," Castiel added, and then without warning ripped Dean's sleeve up, exposing the Mark. Before Dean could even protest, Castiel clamped his hand over the scar and felt his grace erupt with the force of a supernova. Golden light burst throughout the room, swallowing everything in its blaze. Castiel's hand felt as though it were on fire, and he screamed as the Mark bubbled and sizzled beneath his palm. A shockwave shook the foundation of the bunker, and with one final burst, Castiel collapsed sideways on the bed, gasping for breath.

It took several moments for the residual aura of energy to diffuse and for the lights to come back on. When they did, Castiel spotted Dean lying on the floor. He slid off the bed to crumple next to the Winchester and check for a pulse. Dean was alive. Not only that, but the Mark was gone from his arm.

Castiel only had a brief moment of sheer relief before crippling pain ripped through his chest. He doubled over with a strangled cry. The grace was approaching critical mass now; he had to get out of there. He blindly struggled to his feet, for his vision was coated in a glowing halo and he felt the zings of sparks spritzing from the corners of his eyes. When he glanced down, it seemed his chest was glowing as well.

Castiel stumbled into the hallway and toward the exit. He needed to get a safe distance from the bunker. Even with the sigil he had planned, he'd likely obliterate a good chunk of the woods outside. Castiel hoped the resulting public attention wouldn't cause too much trouble for the Winchesters, or expose the secret Men of Letters hideout.

He barely made it up the stairs, sparks of grace flying from his eyes to singe the railing and floor. He barreled into the door and out into fresh air, daylight burning his already stinging eyes. Dropping his angel blade from his sleeve into a shaky hand, Castiel staggered toward the trees with a silent apology sent out behind him on the wings of a prayer.


Sam dove out of the way as part of the bookcase came crashing down where he'd been a moment before. He managed to keep a hold of the miniature Ark, and flipped onto his back as books went flying across the floor around him. He stared in shock at Hannah's now-still body lying half under the metal shelf unit. No, she was an angel; she'd be fine. Except for whatever hoodoo Metatron had cast on her…

Sam snapped his gaze toward the gap where the bookcase had fallen, and spotted the son-of-a-bitch in the next aisle, reaching for a volume from an undisturbed shelf.

"All right," Metatron hummed to himself. "First things first—find what I really came here for." He lifted a note from between the pages and held it up to the light. "'What two things do you need to succeed in life?'" His shoulders jumped in a little happy dance. "Ignorance and confidence."

Sam's eyes widened, and he frantically rifled through his pockets for the note from the first book. They were quotes… He pulled his cell phone out next and began googling the phrase, casting anxious glances at Hannah, who had yet to move.

"So, uh, Samateur hour, did you really think I wouldn't have a back-up plan?" Metatron's voice issued from deeper in the stacks.

Sam lunged to his feet and began scanning the bookshelves for Don Quixote.

"Ah, hello Demon Tablet," he heard Metatron say. Crap!

Sam's fingers raced across the spines, past the B's and into the C's. Miguel Cervantes, there! He snatched the book off the shelf and flipped it open. Nestled in the cradle of carved out pages sat a tiny vial glowing with grace. Sam clutched it in his fist, along with the Ark replica, and then scrambled around the other side of the aisle. Painted across several books were a string of sigils, embers smoldering as the spell continued to drain Hannah.

Metatron limped into view at the opposite end, and for a moment they faced each other as though preparing for a duel with supernatural artifacts instead of rapiers.

"And there's Castiel's grace," the ex-angel said with a malicious gleam in his eye.

Shuffling his one hand full of items, Sam took a knife from his back pocket and slashed across three of the sigils. The cinders immediately winked out, and Metatron's mouth quirked ruefully.

"Well, one out of two ain't bad. The Ark you can keep as well. After all, wouldn't want Castiel destroying the world now that I get to go enjoy it." With that, Metatron turned and hobbled hurriedly toward the door.

A moan issued from the other side of the bookcase, and Sam sprinted back around to find Hannah trying to pull herself out from under the fallen unit. He crouched down next to her and helped pull her free.

"You okay?" he asked worriedly.

She gave a clipped nod, then glanced toward the exit Metatron had escaped through.

"We can't worry about that now," Sam said. "We have Cas's grace."

Hannah blinked at the shimmering vial in his hand. "What was the answer to the riddle?"

Sam gripped her hand and hauled her up. "'What's the maddest thing a man can do?'" he repeated, cupping the grace like the lifeline it was. "'Let himself die.'"