A/N: Seriously? You guys are so incredibly thoughtful and committed; I'm amazed with how many of you have been so wonderful as to stick with me and this story. We're almost at the end, so hang tight and enjoy!

Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke

For many infants, their first form of entertainment was being swung up into the air by strong, capable hands; the air fanning their chubby cheeks and eliciting bursts of laughter, innocent and beautiful. As children grew older, excitement came in the form of being able to soar high above the clouds upon large metal wings, of being able to throw one's hands up, fingers stretching to touch the sky when at the highest point of a roller coaster. Even grown men and women relished in the rush of adrenaline, in the thrill of skydiving or bungee jumping, of being able to defy gravity for once, to fly-

But as much as others loved the sensation, Dean hated it.

In fact he didn't just hate flying- he despised the action, abhorred it with every single fiber of his being, loathed the whole feeling of eerie weightlessness while spinning head over heels even more than witches, poltergeists, demons, and everything else that went bump in the night- combined- and for good reason too. Growing up with the childhood he had (or didn't have) and with a man like the infamous John Winchester as a father, Dean had learned from a young age that not having his feet firmly planted on the ground meant something was very wrong.

And it wasn't just flying either, Dean realized, but he's always had trouble trusting anything that could fly. Airplanes (what kind of person with half a brain wanted to go up ten thousand feet into the air in an airtight vessel, breathing in recycled air anyways?), Superman (Batman was totally cooler), the freakin' tooth fairy (he really was going to hunt that little bitch down- you know, after the whole Apocalypse deal and all), angels-

Abruptly it all came back to him like flashes of images from a recurring nightmare as he did one last cartwheel in the air and then came to a literal crashing halt, cheek making a lovely acquaintance with the cold floor, lips an inch away from kissing the ground. Castiel's blue eyes boring into his and wordlessly asking for trust, something so rarely offered and even rarer to be received; the flash of steel against welling crimson, watching Castiel finger-painting half of a sigil on the wall before suddenly becoming airborne; Zachariah's hulking figure advancing upon Castiel as the lesser angel got to his feet-

Dean blinked. No wait, that's right now. Sorely he peeled his face away from the floor and tried to push himself up, but his body obviously wasn't on the same page as the rest of him and his limbs flopped uselessly like a boneless fish.

"My, my, your foolishness seems to know no bounds. I thought you would have learned your lesson by now." He was sitting here on the sidelines at the opposite end of a room that for some reason seemed ten times the length of a football field and yet he could hear Zachariah's voice way over in the end zone, disgustingly honeyed and artificially cordial, mocking.

Castiel's response was flat, words spoken with grim determination. "Then you thought incorrectly."

The lights in the room were flickering, the chandelier that hung above the table shook perilously and Dean's mouth grew dry as the two angels stood facing each other, the air almost fizzling with electric tension. It was like a scene out of an old Western, a standoff between with the sheriff and the outlaw, the ones in which everyone rooted for the scruffy, scowling underdog with the lean silhouette and bright blue eyes squinting against all the unjust law being impressed upon the innocent townspeople, who he had the look of both the hunter and the hunted. They cheered for him even though he would most likely go out in a glorious hail of bullets because he was willing to stand up to the higher ups, because they understood how far he'd come to stand here in this moment, or in this case because it was just the right thing to do.

Even at this distance Dean could see the hard set to Castiel's jaw, the steely resolve in the angel's features as the silence as broken by the plip plip plip of blood running down his forearm to fall against the floor then came Zachariah's voice again, this time soft and deadly. "You always have been rather slow on the uptake, brother."

Then the guns were drawn and sparks flew but instead of the smoke and flame it was now a freakin' duel from Star Wars or something, with both angels raising their hands in simultaneous defense and offense, pushing with invisible force. His own hands raised defensively against the power that was growing stronger and stronger, Dean caught a glimpse of the familiar trench coat billowing outwards as if its wearer was trying to stand his ground in the eye of a hurricane and Castiel's feet were sliding backwards inch by inch as the uncontestable might of the universe expanded, uncontainable inside the enclosed space-

Oh, shit! With a grumbled curse, Dean flattened himself against the ground again as random objects started hurtling themselves around the room, the hunter part of him reciting the information tucked away in his brain about poltergeists and the other half of him concentrating on resembling a pancake as the statuette he'd been considering slamming into Zachariah's skull rocketed into the wall right above his head and showered him in debris, as hamburgers whizzed across the room like weird little alien saucers of white bun meshed with cheese and beef patty, as bottles of beer cracked open to loose their fizzy liquid contents all over the floor. CHRIST on a cracker, make it stop­!

Apparently the Man upstairs decided to listen to him for once even though he'd supposedly left the building for the next moment, the whirlwind within the room vanished and Dean held himself stiffly, semi-afraid to check for broken bones or if he was even able to lift his head. Shifting slightly out from under broken frames and pieces of fallen mortar, the hunter lifted his head to see Zachariah standing above Castiel who was bent over with one hand pressed against his side. The lesser angel's face tightened in a grimace of pain as he pulled what seemed like a shard of a splintered two-by-four from his side; Dean's stomach lurched and he managed to make it to his hands and knees when Zachariah's large hand fell upon Castiel's shoulder and-

-and Castiel punched his superior across the face.

Dean's mouth fell open and his mind stuttered incoherently. Uh…I- Cas- the what? He gaped wordlessly because Castiel hadn't just merely punched Zachariah, it had been a whole rearing back with fist cocked over his shoulder and then driving it forward, slugging with enough force to make the other angel stumble backwards with a imprint of knuckles on his fleshy face type of punch, the kind that films showed with a great crescendo of music and in slow motion.

Maybe it was the shock of feeling pain for the first time in his borrowed meatsuit or maybe it was because he'd just figured out the hard way that Castiel had one hell of a right hook (or maybe it's Maybelline Dean's mind sang stupidly and he told it in no unclear terms to shut the hell up) but for whatever reason, Zachariah faltered with all the light-footedness of a rhinoceros attempting the last act of Swan Lake and Castiel delivered another staggering blow, this time an uppercut worthy of Rocky Balboa himself.

No, not quite Rocky. Castiel always fought with fluid grace and precision, exerting no more strength than necessary and with a type of collected calm that was nearly as unnerving as his unfathomable gaze. It was the same phenomenal power he'd seen the angel exemplify against Alastair, but that wasn't the reason Dean was staring like a slack jawed idiot or why his brain was refusing to string together more than two words in order to form a comprehensible sentence. There was a vigor in his movements now that the hunter had never seen before and that was why Dean sat there in awestruck silence; it was the I'm gonna mess you up fire in Castiel's blue gaze that sparked sapphire and the fact that…

Dean blinked. This was surer than carrying out an order, clearer than purpose, more fervent than mere defense- it was anger. Not because of his dispassionate disregard for anything and everything the angel believed in, not at him for being thick skulled, but for him. For his sake, an angel was turning his back on everything he'd even known, everything he'd ever believed in so to protect him, and Dean blinked again because his mind refused to wrap itself around the fact that Castiel was angry on his behalf.

The third strike came as swiftly as the previous two and sent Zachariah careening into the adjacent wall; Castiel turned and raised fingers dripping with his own blood to mark out a triangle above the nearly-completed sigil-

"You've just earned yourself three demerits, Castiel."

It was as if someone or something had reached down and snagged the back of Castiel's trench coat, jerking the angel clean off the floor until he was suspended in midair, feet kicking at least five feet off the ground. Zachariah had righted himself and was walking slowly toward his subordinate, one hand raised to keep the lesser angel in place, the other prodding gingerly at his jaw, looking oddly pleased for someone who'd just been on the receiving end of a fist. "That usually means a strike out in any office, doesn't it?"

Dean's own jaw clicked shut and he lunged to his feet but bounced back like he'd just hit an invisible wall; he wanted to yell but all powers of speech failed him because the look of startled dismay on Castiel's face made it perfectly clear that they were now bent over and royally screwed.

"Unus."

The Latin word sliced through the air as a hot knife did to cold butter and Dean rocketed backwards against the wall yet again as brightness flooded the room, each and every particle occupying and laying claim to its own space, squeezing all the oxygen out of the room and ripping the very breath from the hunter's lungs. The room was swimming around him in rays and shards of light that seemed to be slamming into him so hard it felt like his bones were shattering to dust and the only stupid thought that crossed his mind fleetingly was if this was what it felt like to in a Vulcan mind meld or something because he swore his freakin' brain was leaking out of his ears-

"Duo."

Dean's head snapped up then because he could practically hear Zachariah's smirk as the bastard spoke the word and squinting against what felt like a tornado, hurricane and heat wave rolled into one, the hunter's eyes caught Castiel still suspended in the air as if hung up on some invisible hook, head thrown back and cords in his neck tightening as his blue orbs gazed upwards unseeingly, huge and wide with desperation. The angel's fingers were flexing frantically in the air, fighting against some unseen force and as Dean stared; slowly, slowly it came into sight.

Castiel's left wing- or its shadow, actually, straining and unfurling reluctantly but it wasn't being unfurled at all, for Zachariah was amping up his freaky angel mojo and more or less dragging it out of wherever Castiel had been hiding the giant appendage in his holy tax accountant suit in the first place. Dean's heart jammed itself halfway between his tonsils and his teeth because he knew what was going to happen next then and the worst part was that he was literally powerless to do anything to prevent it.

"Tres." The stubby fingers of Zachariah's upraised hand curled in slightly to resemble a claw and then the prick was meticulously raking his fingers down through the air, drawling out the last word like it had ten syllables with that same infuriating little smirk that made it obvious he was enjoying every last second of this shit.

"CAS!!!!" Dean hollered, the angel's name a warning, a protest, and a note of despair all rolled into one but it was lost to audition. Three long slashes of light appeared against the darkness of the shadow of the exposed wing, stretching jaggedly downwards as Zachariah's fingers dragged in the same direction and then there came the noise that shattered glass and burst the blood vessels in Dean's ears because it wasn't just noise; it was the sound of an angel's voice, it was a cry of agony, it was Castiel screaming, screaming as he fell to the floor in a graceless heap, screaming as the world exploded in a million flutters of bloodstained white down.

If anyone were to ask Hell's second prince when he first knew, the answer would be straightforward, simple, and surprisingly honest- even for him, he who knew how to lie like it was his native tongue, who had practically taught human beings how to do so. Perhaps the reason for that was because the answer in and of itself was fairly uncomplicated. The first time Belial knew he wanted something for his own was when he locked eyes with a younger angel, when orbs bluer than the oceans or the skies trapped him in a gaze that was so deep and endless that it stole away all breath and reason and comprehensible thought, replacing it with a lust so wild and driven burning slow and terribly sweet, the thorns of a rose lashing incessantly in the deepest part of him. Driving him mad.

And so Belial had said yes when Lucifer came to him. He had been one of the most powerful of the seraphim, raw strength and power coiled into this heat that was seared now and forever into his innermost being in place of the grace he'd ripped out himself, said yes not because he hated God or human beings, but yes because it meant that he could lay claim to this brother. So he could strip away all the goodness and purity that this naïve little brother practically shone with, so he could rip away the innocence and just drown in the salty tears from those impossibly blue eyes.

Mine.

But of course there'd been the unexpected turn of events, what with Michael somehow managing to best Lucifer, getting cast out of Heaven and Gabriel being such a nosy, priggish ass. A nosy priggish ass who would have also made for rather pleasant entertainment if the archangel didn't have such a knack for flaunting the fact that he had extra grace or faith or whatever it was that always gave him the upper hand whenever they met. Maybe it was that little bit about him sitting at the Lord's left hand and being His personal messenger.

What was really infuriating though, was how Gabriel always, always overreacted whenever Belial got even remotely close to one certain favored little brother, circumstances that always ended with the demon finding himself back in Hell and nursing several painful bumps and bruises. Honestly, all Belial wanted was some quality time alone with dear little Cas so he could fuck him stupid. That wasn't really all that terrible, was it?

The demon chuckled to himself as he recalled the look of utter stupefaction upon the archangel's face when Gabriel discovered just how much he'd been missing during his vacation down on Earth- the wide, blinking eyes that would have been reminiscent of a sleepy cow if not for the beginnings of anger in their depths, the pathetic 'say it isn't so' expression, and when the loudmouth had actually been speechless. Entertainment, indeed. And just how would the old sport react if and most likely when he found out what had been done to his precious little brother when he'd been dragged back up to Heaven?

Wouldn't that be a sight to behold? Belial laughed aloud, the sound echoing in the emptiness of St. Mary's Convent for the evening was young and for the first time in a while, life was good. Sam Winchester was less than seventy miles away, pushing the accelerator to the floor and as filled to the brim with blood and vengeance and vicious intent as horny teenage boys were filled with testosterone. Lilith was still running around like a headless chicken, trying to collect favors that wouldn't pay because no one knew where the blue-eyed angel seemed to be and while that look of petrified oh shit I'm fucked type of fear was ravishing when present upon Castiel's face, when Lilith donned the same expression, it was just funny as hell.

Who had he to thank for such good fortune? God? Belial scoffed, rolling Thomas Hartley's jade green eyes skywards derisively. Sure, then he would magically sprout wings again and the Almighty would welcome him back into Paradise with open arms. Lucifer, then?

Well, first the arrogant prick had to rise. I'll thank you then, brother- when I finally receive that which you promised to me long ago.

"You just won't give up, will you, brother?"

It was like a scene from a bad movie, the point in which the villain stood triumphantly over the beaten hero, letting out a sinister, evil laugh or spouting off some god-awful clichéd monologue about how nothing could stop him now, about how the world was his, and blah blah blah. Of course everyone who'd ever seen anything produced by Hollywood knew what would happen next, how the hero would miraculously climb to his feet, battered and bruised but not defeated as he then proceeded to beat the ever-loving shit out of his adversary.

Except this wasn't a movie that could be turned off; there was no way to change the channel and Castiel wasn't rising out of the ashes to smite his superior's ass, he was trying to move to his hands and knees slowly, obviously with great difficulty but trying to get back up despite the insurmountable odds, to fight. Refusing to give up. Zachariah stood over him with a bemused look on his face, shaking his head with a sigh as if the other angel was a hopeless case. "You'll never learn when to just quit."

Casually, but with obvious strength and cruelty Zachariah kicked the lesser angel square in the ribs, making Castiel's arms buckle dangerously and then he was gasping for breath so hard that Dean's chest constricted painfully. Even though he very clearly knew that reality was nothing like the movies, this was a film reel flashing before his eyes, with the annoying CG effects of feathers cascading down everywhere like snow, complete with the cheesy slow motion-

"HR has been notified of your disobedience, Castiel." Zachariah's fat face was stretching wide into the same infuriating smile that made the elder Winchester want to bury a knife in his chest and then he was lifting a foot like he was attempting some weird type of yoga stance… "Consider this-" the black penny loafer moved over the beige of the trench coat-

CRACK.

"-a notification of the termination of your employment."

JESUS, Mary and- Before he knew what he was doing, broken glass and pieces of scattered debris were digging into his palms and through the knees of his jeans as Dean scrambled to his feet, lurching forward as Zachariah's heavy foot stomped down hard on his subordinate's exposed back and the unmistakable sound of snapping bones struck the air, as Castiel's arms gave out the same way one would knock out the poles that were the only things holding up the blanket of a circus tent and the angel collapsed heavily, silently, limply. Like a rag doll.

This time though, Castiel stayed down. And that was just wrong.

As his mind finally caught up with the rest of his body, Dean was sure that he'd somehow broken the space-time continuum because one moment he was on the opposite side of the room watching Zachariah bringing his foot down like freakin' Godzilla or something and the next he was hitting his knees beside Castiel's still form; Castiel's bloody, beaten form.

"You've been through much together, isn't that right?" Came the mocking inquiry from up above, a taunt of Castiel's previous sincerity and Dean glared upwards, jaw clenched tight and his mouth set in a thin, tight line. "Just the two of you?" Zachariah sneered, looking like a rat. A huge, ugly rat that the hunter would've liked nothing better than to string up by his ears and pump full of rock salt. "I'll give you a chance to say goodbye, for…sentimental reasons."

Zachariah was gone then, seeming to have evaporated into thin air but Dean didn't give a flying fuck where the bastard had disappeared to; his eyes were fixed on the bloody tatters of the back of Castiel's trench coat as he bent over the angel's prone vessel, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and hands hovering hesitantly because the image chose to surface suddenly at the worst of times: his vision was starring and he was gazing upon the field of torn flesh and white bone, more blood and hamburger meat than muscle and skin-

Shit, shit, shit, his mind kept repeating like a chant, a useless mantra but it gave his brain at least something to process because as soon as he banished the horrific memory of the aftermath of Castiel getting his ribs ripped from his spine, Dean was utterly clueless as to what he was supposed to do. Although he'd sewn himself up plenty of times (and had the scars to show for it), he was first and foremost a hunter, not a nurse; more adept at snuffing life out than sustaining it. And now here he was, with lead weighing down his stomach and glue making the sides of his lungs stick together, preventing respiration but as Dean was only human he had to breathe; the exhale was a small puff of air shaped in the form of the angel's name- a bare whisper.

"Cas?"

There was no response and although Dean could clearly see that there was no gaping wounds spanning the smooth plane of Castiel's back, it seemed like all he could focus on was how very still the angel was. The stubbled cheek was pressed against the marble floor and with the dark hair mussed over his forehead and the utter blankness upon his features, it would've looked like he was asleep- if not for the blood, if not for the awkward position he lay in, with hands spread on either side of his head, palms up and fingers curled slightly inward, still fixed in the position of struggling against whatever had been closing in on him. Still fighting.

The thought sent a jolt through him and Dean felt the heaviness in the pit of his stomach dropping even deeper into his gut. "Castiel?" He reached out with one hand tentatively, fingers nearly brushing the beige fabric where a faint imprint left behind by Zachariah's shoe could be seen and the hunter had to squash down a bark of hysterical laughter because it'd always seemed like there was something dirty about that snake in the grass and look, here was the proof right here-

-when Castiel's hand shot out swifter than mortal comprehension, palm slamming against his bicep and fingers digging deeper into flesh than could be considered comfortable and Dean wasn't laughing now because he felt like the angel was trying to burn another handprint onto him, right over the original one too, and that sure as hell wasn't funny in the least. And neither was the sound Castiel made next, an awful guttural moan, inhaling sharply with a stuttered sound that could have been mistake for hiccups if not for the gasps of pain; there was nothing even slightly humorous about how the angel seemed barely able to lift his head or shoulders more than a few inches above the ground, but it was the look in Castiel's eyes that made Dean's entire body turn to ice.

Panic. Pain. Fear.

This wasn't right. Angels of the Lord weren't supposed to be afraid of anything. They could bend time, burn people's eyes out of their skull, and deafen without realization, not to mention burning demons into nonexistence. The elder Winchester had found out the hard way that angels weren't halos and beautiful voices or naked little cherubic beings (although it was definitely a benefit to never have seen Uriel in such a form; Dean rather liked being able to see, thank you very much); they were fierce warriors and Castiel was as badass of a soldier as they came and Dean had the angel's freakin' burnt on handprint to prove it. It felt wrong to see such a powerful being reduced to this state.

But as the fear started to bleed out of huge sapphire orbs, everything jumped from being right or wrong, north or south, yes or no into a whole different dimension altogether and Dean Winchester freaked out. He forgot about Sam then, forgot himself, even forgot about the goddamn apocalypse and Lucifer, about Hell rising- all he knew in his instant was that he had to help the angel, but he didn't have the slightest idea as to how.

Castiel was beginning to speak now- or more like choke- in a language he'd never heard before because it otherworldly in a sense, ethereal words amid strangled gasps. It took him a moment to realize that it was a strange blend of languages, bits of Latin and Italian, Aramaic and Greek and amongst the strangely beautiful babble, Dean was able to pick out words he understood- "brother" and "forgiveness" and "no, no, no". It wasn't until he heard his own name flying from the angel's chapped lips that he was goaded into action, slinging one slack arm around his neck and not so much hefting as gently lifting the other up off the ground, as careful as if he was cradling a newborn, murmuring soothing nonsense as he used to do so long ago when he sat up with a feverish Sam throughout the night. Only now the name he whispered over and over was Castiel's as he more or less dragged the semi-unconscious angel over to the wall, trying to be as gentle as possible.

"Cas? Hey Cas, stay with me, man. Stay with me." The voice was one he knew, but it came from faraway, the sound penetrating through walls and water, through earth and sky and the pain. Something lifting his arm and Castiel fought against it as the action made tendrils of flame race across his entire frame, trying to clamp down the hideous agony, thousands upon thousand nerves screaming out their protest and joining their voices with his desperate prayer. Merciful Father, please spare me such torment; I am faithful, I am not defiant or disobedient; brother Gabriel protect me for I am weak- Wave after wave of fire that was neither heated nor icy rolled over and down his back, unrelenting and dark, stripping a moan of discomfort from his parched throat.

"Easy, easy," the voice murmured right next to his ear and somewhere through the blanket of agony Castiel felt a spark of surprise at the comfort he heard in the hunter's voice, such empathy that had never before been directed at or intended for him. "Come on, I'm right here. It's alright." The thought struck the angel at his core, an assurance that which he'd never doubted but now felt with conviction beyond faith- Dean Winchester is a righteous man.

The cloudiness in Castiel's eyes was dissipating and as the angel's grip loosened just a bit Dean felt a slight surge of crazy hope that maybe what he was saying wasn't just for Castiel's sake (or for his own, just to have something else sounding out in his ears besides the other's frightening gasps of pain), that everything really was going to be alright. That whatever Zachariah had done to make the lesser angel crumple to the ground like a house of cards wasn't permanent. We'll make it through this mess. Hang on. I'm here. It's gonna be alright.

Until he tried sitting the slumped angel down to lean against the wall, because it was then that everything went straight to Hell. Not in a hand basket, not passing GO and collecting two hundred dollars, not just to the upper crust of the Pit where the hellhounds bayed. Without warning or notice, the shit hit the fan.

Castiel's back arched like someone had just ripped his spine out of his body, hand falling away from Dean's bicep. His eyes were rolling as if in excruciating pain and an odd, terrible strangled cry flew from his mouth, a scream trying to escape but lacking the breath necessary to do so. Limply, the angel fell forward into Dean, arms hanging uselessly down at his sides and sagging lifelessly against the stronger frame, head lolling heavily against the hunter's shoulder.

Numbly, all Dean could do was spread his arms open to catch him, chin coming over the angel's left shoulder, trying to adjust to the sudden dead weight and his eyes widened, his mouth opened and he made a strange croaking sound, reminiscent of a frog. Holy fucking shit.

The giant appendage was literally breathtaking, extending out from Castiel's back and was without a doubt, the most surreal thing Dean had ever seen in his life. As if having his eyes opened, Dean saw the three jagged slashes, the source of the crimson that seeped from the wounds and was soaking into the knees of his jeans. All three lacerations ran long and deep, tearing cruelly through countless nerves and tendons, ripping out the feathers that were still drifting down around both man and angel like bloodstained snow and the wing itself drooped uselessly, dragging down along the floor, the connective joint between shoulder blade and appendage having been crushed; evidence of the damage Zachariah had so indifferently inflicted, knowing exactly what kind of damage he was doing when he stepped down upon his subordinate's back.

Yet even in its mutilated state it was powerful and majestic, iridescent, proof that the being kneeling here slumped in his arms was more than just a man and Dean gaped wordlessly at its beauty in that brief instant that seemed to last a lifetime, macabre and terrible, yet entrancing all the same.

The wing was gone in the blink of an eye, Castiel's angel mojo somehow apparently regaining control over concealing his true form, making the hunter snap back to reality. Son of a bitch. Dean hissed, inhaling sharply at his stupidity and feeling like the biggest jerk in the world because he'd actually tried getting Castiel to lean his weight against the freakin' wall.

Suddenly Castiel jerked, a harsh, abrupt movement that was like a drowned person desperately coming up for air and then he was stuttering out words haltingly, uncontrollable tremors wracking his body as the words tumbled out like water gushing in a never-ending stream from a pipe under too much pressure: "I will obey, I-serve-Heaven-not-man-I-serve-Heaven, please, I will obey, I WILL OBEY, please!"

Being a Winchester, Dean had a long history of experiencing the weird and unimaginable, from gigantic teddy bears come to life to nearly being eaten alive by hillbillies. But even he would have never dreamed of this, of what it would be like to hear the voice that had once demanded respect, once been so filled with resounding power now small and aching, breathless and broken- so very much like a helpless child's repeating a mindless ultimatum (just how many times did they make him repeat it?)- reminding him with every rattling gasp, every moan of agony that shot straight to his heart that angels could get hurt and telling him that right this moment Castiel hurt in ways neither describable nor comprehensible to the human mind.

"Cas…Cas, it's- calm down, just breathe with me-"

It seemed like the angel was focusing on anything but breathing, his fingers scrabbling desperately at the marble floor for something to hold onto and Dean did the only thing he could, grabbing the angel's hand and letting the shaking digits clench tightly around his, letting Castiel squeeze the hell out of it and who cared that the grip was cutting off his circulation? The angel's frame was shaking like a leaf in his arms and Castiel's forehead was pressing into his shoulder, holding onto him as if Dean was an anchor to life. And below the worry and mounting panic he was trying to repress, Dean realized what he was feeling: rage.

He was pissed at the God who didn't care enough to look after one who called him Father, he who was perhaps the most faithful out of the entire bunch; he was infuriated that the supposedly holy servants of a God who was supposed to be ever-loving and always merciful had done this to Castiel, forced their brother into this condition, confused, afraid, in agony and forsaken with none but a lowly mudmonkey to care for him- Cas, who only ever gave and gave all of himself, who loved and loved with blind faith and unwavering dedication to his father- and what was the reward for his steadfast loyalty and devotion? Crumpled here in a heap, weak and helpless as his own bloodstained feathers drifted settled down around him and the ungrateful bastard of a charge he'd defied Heaven and Hell for.

Dean swallowed hard. Yes, he was angry at all of those self-righteous dicks and evil bastards who hid behind the guise of righteousness and God's will and all of that other holy crap but most of all, he was angry at himself. He who had knowingly played upon Castiel's doubts for his own purposes, taken the angel's trust and used it to his own end, pushed and pushed and pushed because Castiel cared for him too much to say no and Dean knew it.

Damn it, Cas. Damn you and your undying loyalty. Dean swallowed hard, then realized with a chill that the angel was no longer twitching and the heavy, labored breaths that had been puffing irregularly against his neck were gone, replaced by breathing that was alarmingly shallow and he looked down to see Castiel's eyes pinched tightly shut, eyes moving rapidly under their lids and a fine sheen of sweat covering his brow. "Don't you dare die on me Cas, you son of a bitch!" It was meant to be a demand, sounded like a plea, and the reply was a halting whisper issued from parched lips, burrowing to the deepest part of Dean Winchester's soul.

"Dean…this is worth…dying for…"

As quiet as it was, Castiel's broken declaration was filled with so much conviction that it was actually sort of frightening, like the way the angel had once stared Dean straight in the eye and quietly insisted, have faith. And this was what hurt like a bitch, the fact that an angel was placing such implicit trust in him, having faith in him. It felt like being cut open by a dull knife. Who the hell am I to deserve this?

"Isn't that so noble?"

Castiel stiffened, Dean's head snapped up although there was no reason why he needed to do so. Right now, even with tears nearly swelling in his eyes, he could see the round belly and shit-eating grin that reminded him so much of a Cheshire cat…Zachariah was back.

The ground squelched underneath his boot as he stepped out of the car, jaw tight and stomach curdling with something that wasn't quite anticipation and wasn't quite fear. Immediately, the stench of sulfur assailed his senses, making his nostrils flare; the demon blood within him roared, thrumming through his veins and with each passing second, it felt more and more vital to his purpose, his intent, his very existence.

Sam drew in a deep breath, facing the stone structure which bore behind its walls the end, the key to stopping all this madness, to stopping the onset of the Apocalypse. Deep in the darkest chambers of this convent, a demon would die tonight and thus would mankind be saved from the greatest of all fallen angels, from grief, disaster, and despair. It was all up to him now.

"Yeah? What would you wish for?"

"Lilith's head on a plate. Bloody."

The memory came back so clearly, so strongly and so bitterly nostalgic that the younger Winchester could almost see his brother standing in front of the wishing well, could almost hear Dean's voice asking goading him in that joking manner to disguise the anxiety and curiosity beneath. He'd continued pressing, lightly but still going on about what he thought to be his younger brother's heart's desire- being a big time yuppie lawyer, having a big shiny car, a house with a white picket fence. Never becoming a hunter. Being normal.

But Dean was wrong, Sam thought, for once older brothers weren't always right because that time, Dean had been dead wrong. He didn't want any of that; he was a hunter and there was no escaping it because it was in his veins, and in their mother's before them. It was who he was and somehow, deep down inside, Sam knew that even if, by some miracle, such a past dream had indeed been accomplished, he still would have never been happy.

There was something else in his veins though, something foul and unclean, but powerful and as much as it emboldened him, it frightened him too. He hadn't forgotten Pamela's last words; they ate away at his resolve like acid, the warning she fought to give him with her dying breath- I know what's inside you, and it's evil. You may think what you're doing is good, but it's not.

He had lied. He'd told Dean that Pamela's last words had been to remark how great of an ass he had, he'd lied to Dean about drinking the demon blood to grow stronger, and he'd lied about what he wanted more than anything else in the world, because it wasn't Lilith's bloody head on a plate. No, because that would insinuate decapitating the innocent woman the demon would be possessing, and that just wasn't fair.

Now that he thought about it though, Dean had been…half right. Sam swallowed hard. He did want to go back to the beginning, back before when it all started. Back before Dean had been literally dragged down into Hell for his sake, before demons and angels started popping up all over the place like spastic light bulbs on a freakin' Christmas tree, before the slow countdown toward the Apocalypse. Back to when all the Winchester boys had to worry about was how to wrestle a Wendigo to the ground and which bar would result in the most money after a night of hustling pool, when they would call each other 'jerk' and 'bitch'; back when Dean was still a surefire cocky son of a gun, unafraid of anything and stronger than all the evil that they hunted down together. Just the two of them, the Winchester boys. The Winchester brothers.

That was what Sam Winchester wanted more than anything else in the world. And as his footsteps pounded out on the overgrown path leading to the convent's front door, Sam knew that was what he was intending on reclaiming from the bitch who ripped it all out from under his feet in the first place.

Lilith was going to pay.

"What the hell do you want, you fucking Nazi?!?" Dean snarled, tears gone as quickly as they'd been threatening to come, one arm immediately lifting to curl protectively around the angel he held.

Zachariah raised an eyebrow at the action, standing up off the sofa he'd been occupying and moving closer. "You sure you want to be touching such tainted merchandise, Dean? You don't know where it's been…" he smirked, a definite bite to his words, "or who it's been with."

Dean didn't understand the hidden meaning behind the sly and even somewhat suggestive tone, but clearly Castiel did because the angel's body went into a freakin' spasm, hand falling away from Dean's as he struggled desperately against the hunter's touch with a noise of fear that sounded perilously like a whimper, breathing ragged and erratic. Dean could practically feel the angel's heart trying to beat its way out of his chest and it was all he could do to put a comforting hand to the uninjured side of Castiel's back, silently willing, hoping, praying that it would do at least some good. Come on, Cas. You're stronger than this; I know you are. Don't you give in to this son of a bitch now.

Zachariah chuckled then, and had he not been supporting Castiel, Dean would've leapt up off the floor in one reckless, wild bound and smashed his fist into that smug face, broken hand be damned. "Just look at him," the superior angel sighed condescendingly. "What a mess." He shook his shoe free of a few feathers that stuck to the bottom, sticky with blood and turned his attention to Dean who was currently trying to burn a hole into his balding head with furious, blazing emerald eyes. "This is the cost of disobedience, boy, and a lesson for you."

"So you decide to turn into Kathy Bates and go all 'Misery' on Cas?!" Castiel seemed to have gotten the telepathic message and had gone still, chest still heaving unevenly as he trembled quietly, unnerved by his superior's proximity and Dean's anger augmented. If this was supposed to be a goddamn lesson for me, then why the hell didn't you go all heavenly wrath on my ass, you friggin psycho? What, was it because he didn't have wings for the fat bastard to shred into feathery confetti?

"Castiel…well, he's outlived what little usefulness he had." He stared, mind going completely blank at the cold callousness of the remark, and Zachariah shrugged nonchalantly. "Times are tough now. We're merely downsizing- you know, cutting costs and minimizing losses, doing away with liabilities."

"'Liabilities'?" Dean repeated slowly, the word tasting sour in his mouth. Gently, he maneuvered Castiel so that the angel was leaning against the wall on his uninjured side, then got to his feet, the front of his jeans and shirt stained a dark copper from the angel's blood, facing this prick who he couldn't believe came from Heaven. Don't do it, don't think about slamming his head into the wall until his teeth rattle around in his skull; you've got to get a hold of yourself. Do it for Cas.

Zachariah laughed, the type of artificial and informal laugh rattled off by politicians at conventions when dodging a touchy subject. "Honestly, did you really think that we could ever use that?" He nodded at Castiel, who mercifully seemed to be unconscious. "Areas of worth have always been limited for him. Too sympathetic, too many weakness, not-"

"-not enough of a dick?" Dean broke in heatedly. Something was coiling in his gut as Zachariah prattled on, referring to his subordinate as a mere object of no worth. It was winding up tighter and tighter dangerously, just waiting for the right moment tospring forth, unleashing the wrath of one pissed off Winchester.

"Not strong enough to be a proper soldier," the other finished. "One of God's rare mistakes."

Dean's face flamed hot with anger. You prick, Cas is the only one out of all you sons of bitches who could claim being even remotely close to what an angel is supposed to be! The hunter held himself stiffly as Zachariah sauntered closer, still yapping away.

"Look, this is no time to be sensitive. It's a nasty, dog-eat-dog place, the office is. All we're doing is letting some go, and promoting others." The angel clapped a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder.

Get your frickin paws off of me.

"Come, Dean. Just let the garbage lay where it's fallen." Zachariah said jovially, and that's just about when Dean snapped.

He didn't think, couldn't think, wasn't capable of thinking and the whole psychology thing about someone's motor nerves hijacking their brain and reasoning, making them do something so far beyond the definition of 'stupid' that there were no words to describe it? Yeah. This was such a moment perfectly personified.

Twisting sideways, the hunter grabbed the first thing his fingers closed around (a harp out of all things, an honest to God friggin harp) and swung it with everything he had within him- all his guilt over what had happened to Castiel, all his fear of what was to come, all his rage toward both Heaven and Hell for taking away everything that ever mattered to him- in a crushing blow to Zachariah's skull. Keep on smiling now, you SON OF A BITCH!

A/N: I'm sorry if this chapter wasn't quite up to par; real life is driving me crazy. I hope all of you enjoyed Dean (and Castiel!) getting the chance to smash Zachariah's face in though- and just let me say that I hate that character with such a fiery passion right now that it's slightly disturbing. The next chapter will be the final one, featuring everyone (yes, Gabriel's coming back too). Until then, please review!