I need to watch things die
From a distance.
Vicariously I live while the whole world dies
You all need it too, don't lie

"Vicarious" by Tool


One year previously...

Castiel took a deep breath. He didn't really like suits–he preferred sweaters, or his tan trench-coat that Gabe had given him last fall–but lately, Balthazar had needed him to put on one at a minutes notice, one high-class colleague after another coming barging into their home.

It wasn't even as if Balthazar was home that often. Castiel often spent months alone at home. He'd gotten a job at a used bookstore downtown, but he wasn't really equipped for customer service, and he often shelved books the wrong way (he liked doing it by color and size, much to the dismay of his superiors). So for the most part he wandered the house, humming to himself, wishing to God something new would happen.

This was new.

"Cassie," Balthazar, finally home, called from downstairs. "Cassie, Raphael will be here any second! What the bloody hell are you doing up there?"

"Be down in a minute," Castiel called back down. He looked back at himself in the mirror. In a fit of OCD, Balthazar had insisted he trim his hair a little, and had shoved a bottle of product into his hands with the sentiment of getting rid of Castiel's unfortunate case of 'morning-after hair'. It looked exactly the same, just a little fancier. Castiel sighed, trying to be positive.

This was the first time Balthazar had been home in weeks. The house looked nice, dinner was all sorted out, and Castiel liked the new blue tie Balthazar had bought him wherever he had been for work the month before. It was silky and thin, and matched Castiel's favorite sweater perfectly.

"Moron," Gabriel had tried to tell Castiel once, when they were visiting for the holidays a few years ago. "You don't wear ties with sweaters. You wear them with nice shirts, bro."

He didn't really care, though. It was the last present Balthazar had really thought to get him, and as it stood, it was also the last sign of normality. Heaven was taking over Balthazar's life, and in context, Castiel's.

"They're here, Cassie! Come down, for God's sake!"

The doorbell sang wearily, and he quickly left the bathroom, tripping down the stairs. Everything smelled like roast downstairs–he'd been told Raphael was fond of a good hearty meal–and Balthazar waited nervously by the door. He flashed a brief smile in Castiel's direction before opening the door.

...

The tie was covered in blood. In truth, he couldn't be bothered to wonder how it got there, or why it was even there at all. He just wanted it out, wanted the scarlet to seep out from the azure as easily as it had sunk in.

The floor of the bathroom was slick and cold, and smelled vaguely of ashes. His broken lip pressed against the tile, and even in the rotten grip of darkness (the bulb had gotten smashed, broken in an instant), he could see the smudged shape of the man, the pearly outline of his cracked teeth.

"Tick tock, family toils," the man sighed.

Castiel stared back at his tie. He wanted badly to rip it off, to save it from whatever was about to happen. Dean had fixed it for him, he remembered. Dean was waiting for his paper towel.

"Your brother is a stupid man, you know," the man said. He kicked Castiel's side, and a sliver of bone jerked out of position, a new spasm of pain moments behind. "All patience and smiles. You'd think he'd want a little more violence with a name like his."

"You...don't know anything..." Castiel coughed. Anger coursed through him, thick as bile, but all he could choke out was blood.

"And who's to say I don't know anything, Castiel?" the man sang. "God? You religious folks, all caught up in your delusions."

He leaned down to whisper. A trickle of blood wormed out of Castiel's mouth, sliding silent onto the floor.

"But here's the news. Extra, extra, read all about it!" A laugh. "God ain't up there, and he don't care about you anyways."

The fabric was becoming violet, becoming black with leakage. Castiel couldn't feel his face anymore: his jaw was definitely broken, his nose probably too. But all he could see was the destroyed pigmentation of the silk.

"Liar," he whispered into the tile. "Liar."

"Liar? Named after an angel and yet so, so stupid!" The man laughed again. He took a moment, uncurled, stood to pace the bathroom beneath the dying fluorescence. "The only ones who can save you don't even care about you. Dean Winchester? How low, Castiel Novak. How very low of you."

The anger was overpowering now, pressing violently against the back of his brain, the bottom of his heart. Castiel clenched his teeth, curling his fingers underneath him, scraping the tile again with a sickening squish. He was going to die. He was going to die, and he was going to die a coward who couldn't even defend his friend's name.

He wanted to scream.

Instead, he started to laugh.

"Low?" He gasped. "Low? I am not low. You are." He pushed himself up onto his knees, a shuddering breath and a spark of pain in his spine. "You wait for orders, wait for Lucifer to call you forth. But all you are to him is a puppet and he is going to break your strings when he is done with you."

Castiel stood to face the man. He noticed now the scars, the missing teeth, the crooked smile frozen there in shock and mockery.

He smiled back.

"I am not going to die. Lucifer loves me." He coughed again, slipping a hand slowly into his trench-coat pocket. Under his palm, he felt the smooth tug of metal on skin, the careful grooves of the gun handle. "But he does not even remember your name."

With that, Castiel yanked the gun from his pocket, closed his eyes, and fired.

...

The gunshot was nothing new to the road. Every day or so, a wacko with a death wish would fire shots in the middle of the freeway, cursing whatever travesty wrecked them that day. It was common. People were mad.

This was different.

Dean glanced at his brother once. They needed no words; it was a benefit of their relationship, a telepathic, subconscious link to each other's thoughts. They were brothers. They knew the same thing.

"Cass," Sam said.

Dean started to run.

...

One year previously...

Raphael did not smile. He did not laugh at Balthazar's jokes, or shake Castiel's hand, or even raise a glass towards the toast.

"I assume this is your roommate," he said in a low voice instead, staring mildly across the table at Castiel. Balthazar shifted uncomfortably.

"Ah..." he shot a glance at Castiel, who offered a weak smile. "No. No, this is my, uh, boyfriend."

Raphael raised an eyebrow. Surprisingly, he smirked, and took a sip of his wine.

"I see," he said "I see."

All in all, Balthazar's new boss frightened Castiel. He wasn't particularly menacing physically–he was around Balthazar's height, dark-skinned, and had a mild-mannered look about him–but there was an air about him. An air of power and authority.

They ate in silence. Castiel found his meal to taste like nothing at all, and his water was dangerously low (he didn't drink, not yet). Scraping back his chair, he mumbled something about going to get some more water from the tap. Balthazar shot him a worried glance that quickly evaporated into frustration. As if to say, way to go, Cassie. You're interrupting, you know that?

Castiel reached the kitchen. He shut the door behind him, and slumped against it, eyes closed.

For a moment, he could imagine a future. A future in which Balthazar was no longer an empty suit, and there was no executive sitting at his dinner table. A world where Castiel drove off in a nice car and left the town, the county, the country, God, everything behind.

A world where he was free.

But Balthazar called him from the dining room and he remembered how thirsty he was and that dessert was on the stove and he was in reality again.

...

Dean slammed his shoulder into the bathroom door, sending a wave of light into the darkened room. He was breathing heavily, his mind a spinning mess. There was only one word going through his mind, only one name.

CassCassCassCass

"Cass?"

He stared. Castiel stood in the middle of the room, his hand outstretched, knuckles white around the pistol. He turned, slowly, at the sound of Dean's voice, and Dean saw that his face was smashed: his jaw was swollen, his lip busted, a stream of blood leaking from his nose.

On the floor at his feet lay the body of a man, a single jagged hole carved into his forehead. The bullet had gone clean through.

Castiel frowned.

"Dean," he said. "I think this man is dead."

And then he collapsed.

...

A/N: To all my Christmas-celebrating readers: may the next two days be wonderful!

P.S. Sorry 'bout the angst...