A/N: Thank you all for your kind reviews! While reading through them I often come up with some of my best ideas, take note of loopholes that I would have otherwise missed, and enjoy getting to know you guys. Enjoy the chapter!

Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke, but these versions of Gabriel, Belial, and Ramiel belong to me

In the late 1960s, a terrible fire that spread quickly through the two-story sprawling campus ravaged the old grounds of the Prowers County Psychiatric Ward, killing more than twenty-three patients and fifteen staff members who were trapped by the devastating flames. Not only were the casualties a tragedy, but the property damages and the resulting financial losses were staggering also: nearly all of the buildings were destroyed to the point of being uninhabitable (save for the basement level of the mental hospital, where patients were often referred for treatment or if they were simply acting too rowdy). Following the fire's extinguishing and the mostly fruitless search for survivors, the authorities determined the source of the flames had been a single cigarette left unattended, and had been perpetuated by the buildings' flammable insulation and poor emergency systems, including sprinklers that did little more than leak a few pathetic streams of dirty water rerouted from the plumbing system.

After its reconstruction, the Prowers County Psychiatric Ward instated stringent regulations on smoking, cinderblock walls, and boasted the best sprinkler system in the entire state of Colorado.

The sprinklers continued to spill downwards, trailing down the little girl's skinny frame and soaking the white dress to her skin, plastering locks of brown hair to her neck and back like twisted snakes as Ramiel led the younger Winchester down the hallways of the mental hospital, eyes set straight ahead in concentration and purposeful intent. Her reach cut through the fall of water easily for she stretched out not with the all too easily defective means of human sight, but rather with tendrils of her grace that sought out her brother's soul.

Although Castiel's grace had been dampened by the dark power of the Morning Star, Ramiel could still sense the soul she had cradled close upon its creation, could still distinguish the delicate flare of the fragile spirit that, to the angel of joy, was unique as any human's fingerprint, distinctive as every single grain of sand, singular and beautiful even in its weakening condition. Even among multitudes of her Father's creations, Ramiel would recognize the young one's soul anywhere – and as of the current moment, she felt pain, confusion, and helplessness that was overwhelming in its terror.

Her bare feet moved swiftly, skimming fluidly over the surface of the floor – and, although it now held more than an inch of standing water, the little girl left no pitter patter of footprints, produced no splashes of water – almost as if she were skating effortlessly over the surface of the water.

She's not walking on the ground. Her feet aren't touching the floor. Oh God, there's an angel inside this little girl who's walking on water right in front of me. She's been an angel all along. How the hell did she find us? Where is she taking me? Is she here for Cas? Has Dean found Cas yet?

Sam Winchester's thoughts, though not nearly as loud or offensive as his elder brother's, still held the same note of tension and anxiety, of uneasiness mixed with despair. He did not explode with his emotions in an outward sense, but instead kept them stored deep within – and as one who had always been more intuitive and openly empathetic than her brothers and sisters, Ramiel could sense how the young man burned with questions. His apprehension was like a silken scarf tightening around her senses and limiting her ability to…

Humans might have identified the odor as a chemical element called sulfur and commonly expulsed from volcanoes, but to an angel, it was the stench of undisguised evil. Ramiel whirled around, a flash of white, pushing the hunter flat against the wall without even touching him and thrust a palm outwards toward the demon who had been lurking behind Sam's shoulder, previously unnoticed. The demon girl fell to the ground with a shriek.

Meg hissed sharply, flicking a menacing, poisonous glance upwards at the little bitch – but the being who approached was not a child. Not even close. This was an angel of the Lord bearing down upon a demon, a daughter of sanctified flame and righteousness standing above a creature of evil, an elder sister recognizing her little brother's tormentor –

"Noco ol babalon!" Joy's little hand shot outwards and her wrist snapped sharply; the blow connected across the demon's face in a fierce slap that echoed down the corridor, following a scream and chased by a winding slither of smoke. The vessel went limp as the last of the black fumes funneled out and the little girl stooped slightly, twining fingers reddened by the force of the slap against a strip of dark leather, snatching an all-too-familiar golden trinket from the fallen demon's hand.

Straightening, Ramiel clenched a fist around the amulet and turned back to a wide-eyed Sam who was in the process of peeling himself away from the wall and gathering his bearings. His mind was quiet now, utterly and momentarily blank as he stared at her, mouth agape and in the stillness, the angel lifted an arm and pointed. "This way."


Five days ago

The toes of the shiny black oxfords swept up over the tops of the trees and then tumbled back down with a whoosh of air; they ascended yet again, up, up, up so high that it was almost as if their wearer could tiptoe on top of the clouds with the angels who surely rested up there with their shiny golden haloes, harps, and wings. Little fingers clenched tightly to the links of chains as brown eyes gazed up serenely, almost solemnly at the sun without squinting or blinking once.

She wasn't a beautiful girl, nor could she have even been called cute; in fact she possessed a strange countenance for a child, a faraway look that was out of place on a face so young. Unlike so many other youthful, elementary school-aged girls of this day and age, she did not wear clothes far too mature for her undeveloped frame; there was no short denim skirt or pink polo shirt with an eagle stitched over the breast. No, the clothes she wore were those one would expect a mother to dress her child in for Sunday morning services back in the day: a white and purple paisley pinafore with a full skirt, bib top, and shoulder ruffles, complimented nicely with a pair of cream woolen stockings and shoes that would have made any "trendy" teenybopper cry tears of embarrassment.

There was a rather large mud puddle beneath the swing in which the little girl sat and it was odd how she had managed to get into the seat without dirtying her clothes; they looked freshly laundered and even her shoes were without any specks of mud. An even more pressing question was how on earth she would manage to climb out of the swing, but that seemed to be of no importance to the little girl who simply continued to swing back and forth, up and down. Her legs pumped rhythmically in a practiced pattern known to all children, but no song of cheer or glee accompanied the up and down motion of the playground equipment.

Up and down, up and down. Forward and back, forward and back.

Slowly, a man stepped into the picture of childish innocence and silently approached the swing from behind, the toes of his brown field boots sinking into the edge of the mud puddle. As the swing descended and swooped backwards, a pair of large hands calloused by work and weather reached out, closing completely over the girl's and bringing the ride to an abrupt halt.

The brown head tilted back and Ramiel blinked once, slowly, eyeing the man as he walked around to the front of the swing, dirtying his shoes even further. She held out her arms and allowed him to lift her off the swing, feet dangling several feet above the mud puddle, fingers clutching tightly to the folds of his corduroy jacket. "You came."

"Yes," the other answered simply, setting his sister down on the firm ground.

The angel of joy nodded once and then walked over to a bench on the side of the road, English braid swinging where it hung in a single plait down her back. Turning around, she hopped up onto the rough wooden planks, reaching out with one small hand and patting the empty space beside her. After a moment's hesitation, her companion followed suit, settling almost gingerly onto the seat. Both of them sat in silence for a little while: an archangel and a seraph, brother and sister, the Lord's Herald and Heaven's joy and true vision, side by side in their Father's imperfect world that was already polluted by the fringes of evil and now on the verge of being overrun by their fallen kin.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Joy's shiny-shoed feet hung two inches above the dirt below and they swung back and forth at unmeasured pace. Thump. Thump. Thump. Ramiel's gaze wandered from the flock of geese flying overhead over to the jogger in her hideous orange and purple velour tracksuit moving steadily along the path before finally coming to rest on the vessel sitting beside her. Her ears caught the sound of the jingle of the ice cream truck from over a hill a little ways away and the laughter of children riding on the currents of the wind, the sound of a butterfly's heartbeat and the everlasting song of the Host of Heaven, the troubled and miserable exhaustion of the archangel's grace as it palpitated in a sharp, jerky staccato.

He sat hunched forward wearily, elbows on knees and head sunken down between his shoulders, hands crossing and uncrossing sporadically, fingers flexing as right thumb crossed over left, and then the reverse. Ramiel silently took in the sight of the boots now stained with mud, the rumpled collared shirt underneath the worn jacket, the jeans whose knees still bore grass stains, evidence of a recent altercation. The angel of joy had only ever seen her glorified brother in the brilliance of Heaven's light or in the heat of battle, shining forth in righteous judgment and magnificent might; never like this.

"Thou hast been keeping watch?"

Even the his voice was different, rough, as humans' usually became with exhaustion or emotion and Ramiel's soul fluttered with unease, sympathy, and distress. "Yes." She could feel the conflict within her brother and the waning of his normally rigid resolve; the silver of the archangel's eyes melded with the muted grey of his vessels as he turned to gaze at her, wordlessly prompting her to go on. "The Adversary tries our brother as he did the Lord's servant Job." Her voice was soft and she paused, letting the space fill up between them before the next words came as a whisper through the foliage in the Garden of Eden. "He calls for you."

Gabriel actually flinched, a sharp shudder wracking strong shoulders as if his vessel had been struck. He looked away mutely with a single shake of the head.

Ramiel's eyes prickled strangely at the utter defeat in the mere gesture and she reached over, placing a hand on her brother's arm, simultaneously reaching out to touch his soul lightly. "There is only so much I am able to do, and it is not enough," she said quietly, almost pleadingly. "Castiel needs his brother, Gabriel."

"Thou knowest I cannot answer." He still refused to look at her, refused to accept the consolation she tried to offer, keeping his soul locked up tightly behind barriers of impenetrable self-loathing and despair. "A pact made with the Morning Star cannot be broken."


Laughter rolled out of the extravagantly colored and brightly lit buildings lining the sides of the stretch of land bursting out of a dry and arid landscape deprived of water, a desert filled to bursting with electric lights, flashing signs, and the sinful pleasures of the flesh. Voices peppered the air, some high with excitement and others slurred with drink, harmonizing to the tinny musical notes of too many machines operating at the same time and the sounds of Earth's quickly diminishing natural resources being swallowed up by Man's voracious appetite for avarice and lust, sloth and gluttony.

Ah, Las Vegas. Bright lights, big city, and the Devil's own playground indeed.

Men and woman came here to score big and hit the jackpot, to get hitched at a small tacky chapel by an Elvis impersonator with a rough voice and too much hair gel, to have the time of their lives and forget that anything bad could have ever happened in their lives as they lost themselves in the jingle of coins and the sizzling aroma of the finest couture dining. Willingly, stupidly, like a herd of sheep heading toward the road just because the ram decided that the grass was greener on the other side, they drowned in the never-ending bottles of vodka and sophisticated martini glasses, the tumblers of whiskey on the rocks and bottles of cheap beer. Glassy-eyed and floating on top of cloud nine, their eyes lit up with the brilliance of the amazing firework displays on the other side of the fountains of the Bellagio and the showgirls with their ridiculous sequins and feathered boas, pockets emptying second by second, one-two-three.

And yet there were very few who ever ventured over to the other side, who chose to readily descend into the seedy underbelly of the city, where the skeletal figures sat slumped in alleyways, arms full of holes and veins pumped full of liquid death, where the shadows leapt with spurts of gunpowder and flashes of lightening, where hollow-eyed and broken-spirited girls sold bits and parts of their soul just to get by. If the topside of the Devil's playground was where the thrills of all the fun and games were located, it was here, away from the brilliance and grandeur of the lights and glitter that the rank of despair hung like an ever-thickening fog.

The swankily-dressed figure sauntered in the darkness as if he were a part of the dismal landscape, casually passing by a junkie lying in a pool of her own vomit, too dazed to move and thinking of the loving parents she ran away from; he stepped over the carcass of a dead rat bloated with God knew what or how many diseases among this filthy squalor, ignoring the outstretched hand of the elderly man whose son decided he'd had enough of his decrepit father and kicked him out as he slipped smoothly through the night, a silk handkerchief winding like a ribbon through the back alleyways and down roads that led to absolutely nowhere.

He approached a back door that seemed no different than the multitude of others just like it – rusted, dirtied with age and being a product of its surroundings, and creaky on its hinges as it swung open easily, never mind the deadbolt that had been affixed to the handle. Expensive Italian leather shoes moved noiselessly over the threadbare carpet stained with various biological fluids better left without description as the man moved down the dark hallway, paying no attention to the various noises emitting from the rooms on either side until he arrived at his intended destination, whose door, like before, opened before him.

The room's interior was dark, but clearly its occupants were too engaged in their own activities to notice the sliver of light that filtered in, or the shadowed figure of the man now standing at the foot of the bed, watching the cheap cotton sheets writhe and twist this way and that.

"Shit, shit! …Jesus fucking Christ Almighty!"

"Well, that's just tasteless," the standing figure commented lightly, cool emerald eyes watching in amusement while the mattress groaned in protest as one lump underneath the sheets shrieked and the other cursed.

"What the-"

"I told you that watching was extra!"

An arm flung out to the bedside table and the room flooded with light, leaving two red-faced and breathless individuals staring up at the man observing them with all the nonchalance of one watching a slightly boring movie. "Isn't it, though? Calling out your Father's name during sex?" He narrowed his eyes in sharp scrutiny before he tsk-tsked, shaking his head in disapproval. "And look here my dear, surely that's not the best faking you can do." The grin that came next was rakish, but far more distracted than it should have been, coming from the Lord of lust. "What say I give you a proper schooling later?"

While the man in bed sat in bewildered and shocked motionlessness, the girl let out a squawk of indignation and an indignant obscenity before untangling herself from the sheets and storming out of the room, tiny plaid skirt and necktie flouncing as she stalked away in six inch stilettos, an odd mix of Catholic schoolgirl and penniless desperation. Belial turned back toward the other and smiled without any warmth; a flash of the serpent's pearl white fangs before they buried deep in flesh. "Not quite a peak performance, I gather."

"Fuck you," was the reply.

He shrugged, but it was a jerky movement of stiff shoulders. "Not quite in the mood tonight, old sport." Even the words came out tighter than usual, clipped and with a tone of impatience most uncharacteristic of Hell's Second Prince. "Titivillus, is it?" The demon glowered at his superior but did not deny his identity. Belial coolly withdrew a packet of cigarettes from a pocket, placing one between his lips, silently wondering why so many of those who donned meat suits felt compelled to adopt the names of the skins they rode around in.

"What do you want?"

He inhaled a lungful of nicotine and tar, exhaled a perfect three hundred sixty-degree circle. "Don't play the fool, brother. Although it's very becoming of you, as I said, I'm not in the mood for your idiocy." The coffin nail crumbled into ash and fell to pieces on the dingy carpet; Belial's eyes narrowed through the haze of smoke. "So, Scribe. Now is when you will tell me where Lucifer is keeping the angel."

"Like hell," the demon smirked, surprisingly (and not to mention stupidly) brave for someone in his situation. "You may be the Deputy Ruler of the Abyss, but you have nothing on my lord and master." Lucifer's copyist sat back smugly, crossing his arms like a preteen girl smarmily informing her parents that she would date whoever she wanted to, so there. "My lips are sealed."

Belial's voice was a velvet knife, soft but indescribably sharp at the same time, the last whispered vengeance of a sociopath: "Well then I'll just have to pry them open, won't I?"

The door slammed shut, deadbolt lock sliding into place, and the room plunged into darkness.


Too. Friggin'. Bright, was Dean's first thought with actual words somehow dredged up out of the swirling mass of discombobulated syllables and phonemes in his mind. Why the hell did a motel bathroom have need for two separate lights anyway? It wasn't as if one needed an entire dashboard of sixty-four watt solar panels to take a dump or shower or shave. And what was the deal with short shrinking on the actual room itself (which was in desperate need of some new furnishings and a carpet that didn't smell like cat piss mixed with mildew and cigarette butts) and splurging on florescent tubes of blinding rays that were trying to burn his eyes out of his skull?

Of course, any other person who had that much of a beef with the lights could've simply walked over and flipped the switch; however, from his position on his knees and with his head almost inside the curve of the toilet bowl, Dean really couldn't have gotten up even if Lucifer himself came busting down the door.

Oh…god. The hunter groaned, fingers gripping the sides of the toilet, leaning his forehead on his arm as the hangover from hell continued to mercilessly pound its way relentlessly through his brain with a freakin' sledgehammer. Normally Dean didn't like spending half the night and the better half of the morning worshipping the Porcelain god (and sure, that had to be some sort of blasphemy, but at least this god was always here and available and not the type to just up and disappear in the midst of an emergency like the freakin' Apocalypse), but after almost blowing his brains out and facing down the biggest douchebag of an archangel – he was stressed out, okay?

There was shuffling on the other side of the door in response to his latest voicing of discomfort, and Dean knew that Sam was directly outside, waiting and most likely pulling the 'I'm worried about you but just so you know, you're a stupid ass' face, with his gigantic forehead pulled low by tightly knitted eyebrows and tightly puckered mouth, a certain expression that never failed to make the younger Winchester look either in pain or extremely constipated. His brother had actually tried to come in earlier, but Dean had driven him out with a growl that would've made a pitbull proud – hell, it might've even matched Castiel's pissed off growl when the angel's voice pitched lower than humanly possible-

-but then that wasn't the right thing to think of because suddenly, all Dean could hear a voice not so powerful or commanding screaming, pleading in a language older than time itself and choked with sobs that were all too human and just wrong; all he could see were the holes and terrible purple-blue-black smattering of bruises marring flesh in a macabre tattoo that seemed to say 'hello, and welcome to the fucking tragedy that is being one of us humans' and he really had to remind himself how to breathe in and out lest he choke on the bile rising up and hitting the back of his throat as he retched.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was muffled and definitely worried as it shot through the thin wooden panels of the door but Dean ignored his brother because he didn't deserve anyone's worry or sympathy. Going out and getting drunk off of his ass and landing himself into a bar brawl that his little brother had to drag him out of was stupid, stupid, stupid; stupid like this whole showdown between Heaven and Hell, like God (if He was even around anymore) must've been to have possibly thought that Dean could do anything about it, like Castiel was for having faith in him as a mere man, this pathetic mess of a man who'd led an angel down the road to doubt and so much pain and so much heartache, he who had driven a holy and pure son of God to the point where his own brothers were hunting him down and calling him traitor.

"Both traitors made their choice. Castiel has made the choice to follow Man." Gabriel's words were a cruel, unwinding ribbon of acid burning their way through his corpus callosum, harsher than nails on a chalkboard or the worst screech of Celine Dion's high-pitched yowling. "And see what has become of such a choice."

But he'd already seen the consequences of Castiel's loyalty, seen the cold and unfeeling fearless leader he'd become at the end of where the road led down into the pits of darkness and terrible despair, where an angel had become a hollowed out shell of a man who filled up the empty spaces behind bitter, crazed smiles and weary, bloodshot eyes with pills and alcohol because there was nothing else.

"Are you coming?"

"…Of course."

As if the Castiel of that horrific future had no choice but to say yes because he'd turned his back on Heaven already and there was nothing left for him but to be used as cannon fodder – a lamb to the slaughter, miserable and silent and helpless. Just like the Castiel of right here and right the fuck now came whenever beckoned with the ring of the cell phone, who held the elder Winchester's amulet close to his heart, who would follow Dean everywhere if he simply said the word, who was slowly being tortured to the edges of insanity in the belly of a mental asylum.

The unsightly tile pattern of the bathroom floor starred before his eyes and Dean closed them against the glare of the light, but the image still remained, like the photographs of the Twin Towers crumbling in a flurry of debris, smoke, and flame – a grey, dirty, unwashed floor strewn across with bloodied, torn feathers. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, reaching into his pocket for the single, perfect piece of an angel of the Lord left…

And frowned. His fingers searched blindly, scrabbling-

Sam had the bottled water and saltines ready; he'd been to the small convenience store down the street after Dean woke up from his inebriated slumber and lurched for the bathroom, but that had been close to two hours ago and the younger Winchester was starting to get worried. It wasn't often that Dean drank himself under the table, but the man Sam had finally found at the bar, cursing at all the patrons like a sailor upon the high seas had been far past the point of being simply under the influence; he'd been friggin' shit-faced.

Being that full of beer or whiskey or whatever the hell he'd been loading up on hadn't stopped Dean's lips from flapping though, and as Sam had half-guided, half-lugged his brother back to their room, he'd been narrated about Dean's entire visitation: what he'd seen, what he'd heard, what he'd experienced – every single hideous detail. At the end of the tale, Sam had been seriously considering getting plastered himself. Or maybe driving straight over to Prowers County Psychiatric Ward and pumping Meg's ugly face full of rock salt.

Suddenly then Dean swore, loud and angry, and that really shouldn't have been so much of a surprise; Sam didn't envy the hangover his brother was experiencing at the moment – but it was the devastation he so clearly heard in the other's wrecked voice, the desolation bordering on the point of heartbrokenness that gave him reason to shove one broad shoulder against the door, barging into the small bathroom as the flimsy wood gave way. "Dean?"

The elder Winchester wasn't lying on the floor in a fetal position, and neither did he have his head stuck in the toilet or cracked open on the bathtub. No, Dean was sitting cross-legged on the floor, head sunken between his shoulders, face hidden in his hands, and before Sam could say anything, the other looked up. "It's gone, Sam." His face was a contortion of sorrow, a mask of sickness that had nothing to do with alcohol or its less than pleasant aftereffects-

"I lost it." Dean's voice cracked. "It's gone."


"Castiel," The voice called out of the darkness, simultaneously kind and authoritative, glorious and amazing and the most beautiful chorus his ears had ever beheld. "Awaken."

He instantly jerked to wakefulness at the order, and although he had not yet seen the speaker, Castiel's heart leapt within his chest because he knew, he knew. He carefully uncurled himself from his crouched position in which he sought to hide away from the world, turning slowly as not to aggravate the poor condition of his wings – and instantly fell upon his face, prostrate before the Almighty Sovereign and Maker of Heaven and Earth. "Father," the angel gasped, tiny voice drowned out and completely lost in the majestic presence of the Creator of the Universe.

God took the appearance of a flaming orb of fire and ice, whirling dust and cosmic energy condensed into a mutifoliate rose of raw might and dignified strength, beautiful in proportions inexpressible by the human tongue or any other form of articulation and powerful in a scope that certainly would've reduced even the greatest mountains to even less than dust with nothing but a wish. Uncontainable within a simple human form (for all have indeed sinned and fallen short of the glory of God), YAHWEH now stood before one of His messengers, gazing down upon the shaking form of the angel of Thursday.

He found his face wet with tears as he wept, heaving sobs wracking his weakened frame because finally, finally, after all this time, he had finally found the Lord. Ask and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. How could he have ever even considered losing faith? His heart beat fast within his chest and for the moment, he even forgot (or at least was able to ignore) the constant, sharp throbbing of his ruined wings and was simply, in that instant, an overjoyed child in the presence of his long-absent Father.

"Child, uplift thy gaze."

Castiel's eyes widened in amazement, for who but only the most revered of the Host had ever seen the face of the Lord? It was a command though, and obediently, the angel raised his eyes from the floor to look his Father full in the face, and it was all Castiel could do to keep from dropping his gaze as soon as he did so. "Father," he choked out, voice rough now not with pain, but an overflowing waterfall of emotions that tumbled and rushed and jumbled together; pain and awe, gratefulness and questioning, reverence and astonishment all rolled into one. "My Lord, I have-"

"-disobeyed my Will and rebelled against thy brethren," The voice of the Almighty sounded out, a raging tempest over a clashing sea. Castiel's jaw clicked shut and his eyes widened at the obvious disapproval and reproach, shocked into speechlessness. "Neither the blessing nor favor of my heart shall be thine, defiant one." The eyes of God were sharper than any diamond the Earth could compress into existence, more vicious than the most savage beast of the field, hurtling past human skin and flesh to burrow deep into soul. "Thou hast disappointed me, Castiel."

The angel could feel his heart clenching so tightly that it was a wonder the organ didn't simply implode; his soul shriveled in shame and the tears were now ones of humiliation. How was there a way to explain to the omniscient, omnipotent Adonai that he had simply been doing what he thought and felt was right, that he had only been following the commandment to love mankind? El Elyon… Abba… He was now dirty and useless, an insubordinate son worthy of nothing from Jehovah-Jireh, Judge of all. Castiel thought that he would suffocate upon his own self-hatred and he brought a fist to his chest subconsciously, lungs constricting in uncontrollable spasms, heart palpitating wildly. And yet surely the cold touch of Death would be better than having the Father he loved so much staring down upon him with such disapproval-

Suddenly, he gazed down at the fist pressed against his chest in wonder, eyes widening and then narrowing; Castiel leapt to his feet in a whirl of movement, soul brimming over with rage. "Enough of this blasphemy, Deceiver!" he growled, fingers still clenched tightly around the golden amulet that lay cold and still in his palm. "You, Lucifer, are not God!"

The tendrils of energy slipped and slid against each other, reforming and reshaping the other figure until the face of the Morning Star's human vessel slipped into view, eyebrows raised in interest and lips twitching in not a little amusement. "I'm sorry, that was inconsiderate of me," the Devil said smoothly and without a hint of remorse as he gazed into the infuriated sparking shards of sapphire that were his former brother's eyes. "I thought you would respond better to such an appearance."

In response to the other's silent glower, Lucifer smiled benignly and his figure changed yet again, growing several inches taller and filling out; bones shifting positions in their sockets, skin stretching out tighter over defined muscle and the eyes flickered from a chilling icy blue to a hazel green hue, mouth quirking upward at one corner into a crooked grin- "How about this one?" Dean's visage asked jovially, and Castiel's black glare became downright dangerous, still clutching his charge's amulet close, as if doing so could protect Dean from the Devil himself. Lucifer shrugged the elder Winchester's shoulders, unaffected by the other's heated glare. "Or this?"

There was a flash of brilliant light that nearly blinded Castiel, but he didn't so much as blink. He would not show weakness in front of the Son of Perdition, he would not bow to Lucifer's twisted mind games, no matter even if he now was no more powerful or immune to temptation than any other human being; he stood tall and firm as the whiteness rearranged itself into a new shape-

"How now, Castiel?" Gabriel's silver gaze was gentle and full of fondness, affection evident in the marvelous voice that announced the Lord's Word to the nations and yet also spoke kindness to the most favored one of his kin. The archangel spread his arms wide, warmheartedly. "I love thee, little brother."

It took all the resolve Castiel bore not to crumble to pieces into the embrace being offered, for he knew this was not the Herald archangel of Heaven, and yet his knees buckled as the moisture welled up in his eyes again. "Stop," he whispered thickly, no longer caring how pleading his tone was as a weight settled upon his heart at the sight of his elder brother, tight and painful and unbearable. "Stop."

Lucifer resolved back into the form of his vessel with a soft smile, knowing and inviting and deadly, like the spider leading the pitiful and unsuspecting fly up its winding stair and into its sticky clutches. "The righteous man held out for thirty years before he broke," he murmured, looking the mess of an fellow angel up and down, taking in all the tears and rips and cracks that had yet to be patched up and sewn closed. "I wonder, Castiel, how long God will allow you to suffer like this before you fall?"

Castiel's lips thinned into a tight line; he stared unwaveringly at the Adversary, at he who could have ended the lesser angel's existence as easily as stepping upon an insect. Castiel knew he was worth little to Lucifer, and yet the other insisted upon toying with him and tempting him, for some reason he had yet to discern. But he would not – he would never assent.

The righteous man held out for thirty years before he broke.

He thought of his charge, of Dean's strong and resilient shining soul, of how very wrong his brothers and sisters were to think of humans as weaklings without any sense of duty or mindful reason. In Heaven, these creatures of clay and the dust of the terrestrial ball had always fascinated Castiel, as had a great many others of his Father's creations. He'd learned of all the different materials of the planets and the entire universe, had held in his hands the strands of the atmosphere, had touched the hot molten core of the Earth, had brushed along the tiny petals of a yellow buttercup and flew in the eye of a tornado.

And out of all the substances made from the hands of God, it was the soul of humanity that proved itself the most resilient and deserving of wonder, for among the billions of mankind, Castiel had seen the elastic and the ductile, the brittle and the fragile – and yet the strength of Man was one with which the shepherd boy slew the giant Goliath, that instilled within Job the faith to stand firm, that led the Son to drink of the cup of poison and suffering. It was the same strength with which Sam Winchester dredged up the courage to face the world he broke, and the tenacity by which the young hunter continued to pray.

"As surely as God lives," he started softly, "who has made me taste bitterness of soul, as long as I have life within me, my lips will not speak wickedness and my tongue will utter no deceit." His voice grew stronger as he stared at his former brother, shoulders squaring and chin coming up defensively. "I will never admit you are in the right; till I die, I will not deny my integrity. I will maintain my righteousness and never let go of it."

"Reciting and learning from the words of Job, brother?" Lucifer chuckled. "And when will the Almighty ever speak to you? Have you ever seen the face of God, Castiel?"

"I stand by my faith," Castiel said firmly.

"Therefore we are always confident, knowing that, whilst we are at home in the body, we are absent from the Lord," Lucifer quoted easily. "For we walk by faith, and not by sight." He looked Castiel up and down once more. "Hmm." Then, with a quick nod-

"Rise and shine, angel boy."

His eyes snapped open and Castiel found himself lying flat on his back again, staring up at the demon girl Meg who leaned over him, smiling a catty little smile – but it wasn't the discomfort of lying on his wounded wings that triggered a sense of alarm that quickly spilled over into overload, but the fact that he could not move.

"And how's our patient today, Leonard?" Meg taunted, pulling on a pair of latex gloves with a sharp thwap. She noticed the quick flicks of his gaze down at his unbound but motionless hands, back, up at the ceiling, and then around and around again with mounting panic, and laughed. "Shot you up with some atracurium and doxacurium this time, so don't even think about going all high and flighty on me."

It was just her this time, this demon girl with her lewd, suggestive quips and smart mouth, and Castiel would have glared had he the ability to move his facial muscles. He'd already gotten the better of her once, and the angel knew he could do it again. She turned her back on him, fiddling with something on a tray and he tried once again to move in any way possible, to twitch a finger, to lift an eyebrow or part his lips-

Nothing.

She was bending over him then, reaching one with one gloved finger and tapping lightly against the top of his left eye. Between her fingers she held a long thin tool, a blade with a needle-sharp point, and immediately, the fear grew to insurmountable proportions, wild and crazy and rushing like a torrent of no please Father above don't-

"You know what they used to call this procedure?" Meg asked nonchalantly, sinking down so that her lips were an inch away from the frozen, pouted perfection of the angel subdued into a state of paralysis. "Mercy killings of the psyche. Sacrificing virtue and the driving force of the soul for complete and proper behavioral control." Her breath blew over and mingled with his, an exhalation of death. "Sounds like a fair trade, now don't it?"

With that, she put the tip of the ice pick under the eyelid and against the top of the eye socket, driving the crude kitchen tool through a thin layer of bone and straight into the prefrontal lobe of the brain.


Dean screamed.

He dropped the water bottle and his back arched, muscles feeling as if he was confined in a straightjacket, jerking about and trying to flounder this way and that but simply unable to, and as he fell off of the side of the bed, hitting the floor with a jarring crash, the only thing he could focus on the was the feeling of fire burning out the back of is sockets.

"DEAN!"

Sam's voice thundered all around his senses but he paid it no attention as he twitched; his mouth was a wide-open cavern from which poured a stream of hoarse croaks and nonsense words and syllables like yolci rit vmplif and ialprt and bagle or something incoherent and desperate. He was vaguely aware of his brother's enormous hands grabbing at his and trying to stop him from ripping his eye out but oh HELL, now the other one was on fire too.

He remembered Hell, the fire and the pain and the gore, but he remembered Castiel even more, remembered how Hell was brimstone and lava and whips tipped with blazing tongues of darkness. But Castiel was cold fire, holy flame that would never extinguish in the beating of wings of pure white light that burned and burned and burned-

His back crashed down against the metal table and his head jerked back and the cords in his neck tightened; he could feel blood seeping out of the corners of his eyes and across the planes of his face, trickling from his tear ducts. And as he lay there, gasping, panting for breath and trying to ride out the unspeakable scorch of exploding stars inside his skull, his eyes caught sight of the man standing at the door, pinprick pupils contracting and expanding, latching upon the carefully ironed and pressed with tapered seams and moving up to the starched white collared shirt and silken tie. Oh God please, Father-Abba-Pater-

Fear built upon by years of warnings and protection of an elder brother no longer present swelled into a riot of unbridled terror as a white handkerchief extended slowly toward his face, carefully wiping through the trails of blood and an unmistakable voice: "Well, hello there, my little soiled dove."


David was not an unintelligent man.

Certainly there were those who though of military men as only capable of handling weapons and taking or giving orders, but this mindless soldier with a gun had a Masters in military science and a PhD in psychology with a concentration in behavioral analysis, thank you very much, so let it not be said that Major David Owens was incapable of thinking for himself. He'd already learned the cost of following orders blindly the hard way, and it was a mistake he would not repeat again.

So naturally, when the first symphonious burst of an celestial being's voice rang out in his mind, he'd been willing to acquiesce, but on one condition: that whatever the Lord's messenger did, wherever he went, whenever the angel carried out a holy command from up above, David wanted to be there. Not tucked away in the back of his own mind like a trapped rat or forced into a state of unconsciousness while a freakin' archangel rode around in his skin and brought down God's wrath with his body, while presenting his face to the world because there was no way David would allow himself to be used for another ill act ever again. Not a fucking snowball's chance in Hell.

Some might've called it masochism. David was sure even the Herald thought him foolish. But he called it penance.

And so Gabriel had agreed and allowed the human to be awake and aware, although pushed back on the sidelines and kept behind the red tape at all times, but nonetheless, David had indeed been there. He now knew the pain of being ripped apart by the claws of hellhounds, experienced the heat of a battle with not guns or grenades or guerilla warfare, but with holy might and dark power, between flashing wings and the twisting stretches of black smoke, between angels and demons. He saw it all, he heard it all, and more importantly, he felt every single second of it.

Except for that one time.

You're keeping something from me, David practically yelled, probably because inside his own mind, he couldn't really figure out the exact workings of acoustics and physics, and possibly because he was trying to get a honest to goodness archangel of the freakin' LORD to listen to him, a lowly mortal – and the archangel Gabriel, no less. The prophet Daniel's interpreter, appearance to the Virgin Mary, blowing his trumpet to signal the end of days – yeah, that archangel Gabriel. We had a deal!

It is none of thy concern.

David sucked in a frustrated breath, although his own lungs, under Gabriel's command, made no such strain. I want to know, he pressed insistently. You gave me your word Gabriel, your WORD that I would-

What happened without thy knowledge hast brought injury to no one.

You're lying, he accused immediately, because sure he was talking to a divine being, but he'd always been good at reading other people and he wasn't quite sure if it worked the same way for angels, but he was pretty damn sure he knew the familiar coils of guilt nestled deep within beneath the soldierly resolve, the staggering amount of guilt and the sorrow and the pain that wasn't his. It has something to do with your little brother. Castiel.

Gabriel stiffened; David felt his shoulders snapping straight in alignment with his spine. This conversation is over.

Don't you dare block me out, you son of a bitch! Gabriel was skilled at keeping his holy self of fire and ice and chaos and lightening far removed from his human vessel, but David was nothing if not perceptive, and he'd been able to piece together a great deal in the six months of being used as little more than a suit (after all, it wasn't like there was anything else to do). One of the first things he'd learned besides being alerted to the fact that hey, the end of ages has arrived, was the fact that Heaven's Most Wanted List at the current moment had four names: Lucifer (for obvious reasons), Dean Winchester and his brother Sam (for the sake of them being vessels, as he was), and a certain lesser angel named Castiel (who'd been accused of turning traitor to Heaven and righteousness).

He was a single child, for the late Owenses had never had any other children, but David knew full well the familiarity of camaraderie with brothers in arms, knew the closeness of sharing a drink and chatting about girlfriends back home, knew the grief and rage of seeing a friend fall. But what Gabriel felt toward this particular brother of his, the anguish coursing through his soul when David had been literally spoon-feeding the archangel words with which to deny and refuse the hunter's furious accusations – it was far different from mere friendship or fraternity.

It was the unconditional love of an elder sibling for the little brother for whom he'd held as a child, for whom he scared away the bullies (or in this case, booted the demons back into their rightful places in the Pit below) and soothed away nightmares and all the horrors of the world with a gentle hand, whom he'd watched grow and learn with pride, whose current situation was practically killing him.

And having a depressed, moping archangel of the Lord inside your head was even worse than having one's own depressing, moping thoughts. So he insisted. Show me. Tell me. Whatever it was, he just wanted it out.

No.

You gave me your word, you lying bastard. Gabriel was silent and slowly, David began to allow worry and fear to seep in. What the fuck did you do?!

The answer was slow, reluctant, and came in the form of flashing images flitting across the flatscreen of his brain, speeding up faster and faster until David found himself sucked into the scenes because it was clear Gabriel's guilt was fueling everything now; archangel or no, this was an explosion of emotion and shame and regret so great that it was making him nauseated-

"You will allow me to test him without intervention." Lucifer's voice held a sharp click of satisfaction beneath the mock tone of understanding. "You will not speak to him or comfort him in any way; you will not draw near to him. If Castiel cries out for mercy you are to give him none; if he calls to you, you are not to answer."

Gabriel's voice was a roll of thunder; rumbling darkly with the far stretches of eternity and filled with rage. "I said thou shalt not have him."

The Morning Star raised an eyebrow, amused at his brother's evident anger. "I will take him only if he comes to me, first. Castiel would indeed make a fine disciple."

With a most uncharacteristic growl, the archangel launched himself at his brother; the ground shook and split, oceans roared as both beings crashed into the side of the mountains, burrowing deep into the core of the Earth itself – but for all his passionate fury, it was clear that might of the Lord's Herald was not nearly enough to take down the Son of Perdition who bested him with ease.

"It is my debt, Lucifer! Why torment my brother?!" His vessel's spine snapped in three places, skull cracked into seven different pieces, and lungs rapidly filling with blood, Gabriel made for a terrible view. But his appearance was nothing compared to the words the Devil spoke next, soft and crueler than the fatal blow.

"It's because I know you, brother. I know of your compassion for Castiel, I know this would cut deeper than anything else- but do not think me cruel, Gabriel." Lucifer straightened, instantly healing the gaping chest wound the other archangel had managed to inflict that spanned from neck to navel. "You and I both know that had I the desire, I could take his soul back in an instant, but I won't." His devil may care smile indicated that, at the present moment, the Devil really didn't give a damn. "That will be Castiel's choice to make."

He jumped out of that rather quickly (which was just about as easy as getting out of a sandstorm with full gear and equipment, all one hundred and twenty pounds of it), because David was pretty damn sure he'd never wanted to see his own body contorted and twisted out of shape like that unless it was in a friggin' body bag. But holy fucking shit, he really hoped this little brother of Gabriel's was one tough soldier. He hoped Castiel was making the right choice.

A/N: Eh…not so sure about the ending there, but I tried my best. I thought it would be interesting to introduce a different dynamic between an angel and his vessel with Gabriel. What do you guys think? A lot of you also encouraged me to change the summary to the story, but here's the thing- I'm absolutely terrible at summaries. Have any suggestions? Please drop a review!

The verses referenced in this chapter were, in order of appearance, Luke 11:9, Job 27:1-6, and II Corinthians 5:6-7.

Translations: El Elyon: The Most High God (Hebrew)

Jehovah-Jireh: God our Provider (Hebrew)

Yolci rit: Bring mercy (Enochian)

Vmplif, ialprt: strength, flame (Enochian)

Bagle: Why? (Enochian)