Sam was wrong, though he couldn't possibly remember. Castiel had seen Dean unresponsive only once before, a long time ago, in one of the worst situations possible.
The fire had engulfed nearly the entire house by the time that Castiel had made his way into the Winchester household. It must have taken half an hour for the conflagration to reach such a state, and yet Dean and Sam were still trapped in the nursery, unmoving but still alive.
If Castiel had learned anything from befriending Dean, it was that humans felt and reacted more vividly than he or Rachel or even Gabriel. When Dean fell from the tree, he had screamed and cried. Sam would be reduced to uncontrollable bawling by the tiniest of movement. Yet when he came upon Dean, flames licking up the back of his shirt, his friend was completely motionless. Dean stared blankly at the wall, eyes open and mouth shut. His little nostrils flared with each heavy breath, and though the air was clogged with ash, the boy did not cough once.
"Dean?" Cas asked, terrified at the lack of response in the lively child. "Dean! You have to get out of here!" The angel reached out and shook his friend by the shoulder, but got no response. Sam was faring only slightly better, wrapped up in the fire blanket and held low to the ground. The fire finally caught the trailing edge of Dean's pajamas and lit up his side. Castiel could hear his skin crackling, and still Dean did nothing.
"Come on, Dean!" Castiel cried desperately, tugging on the human's arm, succeeding only in tumbling all three of them over, the baby still clutched in Dean's arms. Castiel thought frantically of what he could do. He was nowhere near strong enough to fly all three of them out, and he had no time to go search for Rachel or Gabriel for help. Even as he desperately beat back the fire with his own hands, Dean's lungs finally succumbed to the smoke inhalation and his body shuddered. Castiel saw that bright, beautiful soul flicker and dissipate, flaking out into the air and he grasped at it desperately. It wasn't too late. It couldn't be. He gathered as much of it as he could and shoved it back in with his Grace, pushing and pushing until the pieces of soul coalesced inside him once more, pinned in place. There was an all-pervading sense of wrong that hung about Castiel like a dark cloud on a still day. Dean's body would not sustain life as it was. He chased after that darkness and ushered it away. He wasn't sure what he was doing. Only that he must knit together the skin and flesh, cleanse the lungs, push away that shadow of death.
But even as Dean's heart stuttered back to life, Castiel could not shake the sense that the ground was about to fall from beneath his feet. As the apprehension blossomed into pain, he realized that the feeling of wrong was not from Dean's fire-wracked body, but from himself. Somewhere he had made a mistake. He had torn a piece of himself away and it was being subsumed by Dean's soul. The point of contact between his palm and Dean's shoulder seared hotter than any fire and Castiel jerked away. He fled, away from the blinding pain, away from the overwhelming sense of being devoured. Thus began his lost year.
And now Dean was back, and Castiel could no longer see what was wrong with him. Even if his soul were to be ebbing away at this very moment, he would have no way of telling until his breathing stopped and his skin grew cold. He had to do something though, even if it meant going in blind, deaf, and dumb. And he was not going to panic and freak out. If he could only get through to the Grace inside Dean, it may wake him up, just as it had once before. Castiel did not waste time explaining to Sam, though the boy was panicked and pale. He simply reached up into the blanketing feathers of their wings and pulled, hoping to his Father that his Grace would recognize his intent and give him the jolt he needed.
Dean's entire body spasmed as he curled up, a silent scream of pain twisting up his face.
"Stop!" Dean gasped and swiped blindly at Cas' arms. "What the hell was that?"
"You were unresponsive," Castiel explained. He wished he had a similarly easy answer to Dean's attack.
The hunter groaned and used Castiel's shoulder to haul himself upright. "Yea well did you have to go all Vulcan death grip on me?" he joked weakly. "Son of a bitch was like getting kicked in the balls on repeat. Jesus, Cas."
"It would not affect you so much if you didn't insist on manifesting the wings so viscerally," Castiel grumbled, jutting out his chin in what even he recognized as a rather childish defense.
"What, now?"
Before Castiel could answer, Sam reached out and patted his brother down. It was an action more suited for checking broken bones than recovery from whatever his brother had suffered, but the relief on Sam's face was the same nonetheless.
"You're okay now?" Sam asked, anxious.
"Yea, get your giant Samsquatch paws off me," Dean scowled, but then dragged both his brother and Castiel into a loose headlock. His first reaction was to go stiff, stunned that Dean would attack him in such a way. Should he retaliate? Should he call for help? But then Sam was laughing and reaching over to jab his brother in the ribs, prompting his brother to release Castiel and slap at his brother's hands.
Castiel backed up against the wall, tucking his hands together to stop the impulse to reach out and join in. He wasn't sure if he were permitted yet. A confusing tangle of glee and horror engulfed his chest. Angels would never engage in these antics. If he attempted to squeeze his arms around Balthazar's, he may end up without said arms. But it was strangely intimate and affectionate and Castiel found himself wanting to repeat the experience.
"What was this about Zachariah?"
Castiel snapped out of his reverie and looked back at the brother who were slightly breathless and red in the face.
"Oh yes," Castiel rushed out the door, Winchesters on his heels. "He has awoken and has agreed to speak with us on what he knows."
"Great," Dean muttered, but he didn't hesitate to follow Castiel into the den.
Zachariah looked even older now. Castiel could not help but see his own mortality in those clouded grey eyes and sunken cheeks.
"Zachariah?" he asked and the vessel coughed in response.
"Castiel." His voice was raspy, but still strong and tainted with a bite of acid. "You killed Michael and let Lucifer get away." His laugh was broken and cold. "I didn't even realize it until Azazel told me. I always thought I'd know if anything happened to Michael, but there was nothing. I didn't feel anything."
Zachariah blinked dully up at the ceiling. "And you let Lucifer live. Tell me. How do you kill the tamer and let the lion go free?"
Castiel sat down in the heavy chair set by the makeshift bed. "Lucifer wasn't there." He could see Dean shuffling in the corner of his vision.
"I find that hard to believe," Zachariah sniped and coughed weakly.
"Will you still help us?" Castiel had not considered the effect of Michael's death on his creation. They were more than that, though. They were almost family, though Michael treated Zachariah rather like a lamed racing horse.
The old man heaved a sigh and shifted to look at them all with a grimace. "However you all messed this up, Lucifer must still be stopped."
"Tell us," Castiel insisted.
"I was Michael's protege, like Meg is Lucifer's. They are brothers." Zachariah furrowed his brow. "Were brothers. But more than that they were mirrors of each other. I don't know who was older, though I presume it was Lucifer since he inherited that facility. Michael had Central and all the stations around the world, but I think a part of him always thought of Vesuvius as home."
Castiel couldn't imagine a young Michael running through the stainless steel corridors embedded inside a volcano. The Director must have been a fledgling once, but he didn't seem to have any traces of childhood left inside of him. Even Gabriel had his love of sweets and Rachel her fondness for flowers. Sam and Dean had acted like eager children when happy. His own markers were more subtle, perhaps. He did not run screaming through the fields, but being in Michael's presence had always made him feel like a fledgling.
"I had only been there once before, when I was born. Or I suppose I should say, when I was created. I stayed there for a few years before I was moved to Michael's apartment at Central. I don't remember much, but I do remember Lucifer. Lucifer had been curious about me, very curious, for the first few years, but his interest waned. Michael wouldn't let him touch me. I know Lucifer wanted to do things to me. Abominable things." Zachariah shuddered.
"What kind of things?"
Zachariah looked at him with wide eyes and clenched jaw. "Like what he did to Meg. Meg isn't like the other demons." A cold hand reached out and clenched in Castiel's t-shirt. It would have dragged him forward if the vessel weren't so weak.
"You must destroy her, Castiel. The prophet should have the power now."
Castiel glanced quickly at Dean's white face and tightened fists before turning back to Zachariah.
"How? What is she?"
"She's a demon like you've never seen before, because she isn't a demon, not truly. She is more akin to the nephilim than to Lucifer's other creations. She is the corruption of humanity, the purity of Grace and the darkness of Hell melded together in one vessel. Michael has torn the angel from her, but she is still more powerful than her parts combined. And she wants for Grace." Zachariah stared up at him with wide eyes for a moment longer before slumping back against the cushions, his hand untangling from Castiel's shirt and falling limply to his side.
"Lucifer has taken another angel. He doesn't intend for her to go to Meg, not if he left her behind. I am afraid that he will try again. He has lost Alistair." Zachariah's breathing slowed and his eyes fluttered shut.
"Zachariah?" Castiel laid his hand on the bony shoulder and the vessel startled back awake, looking around bemused for a few moments before coming back to his senses.
"He has lost Alistair, destroyed Lilith, and abandoned Meg. He will need another one."
"Another what? Another demon?" Castiel urged, but Zachariah was asleep once more. He adjusted the IV, making sure it hadn't dislodged when he had grabbed him, and considered trying to wake him again.
"Another nephil," a quiet voice cut in. Bela had returned when he was not looking and had settled at the back of the room, listening. "I had wondered where Lilith had gone. I had assumed she'd found another family to play with, but its been nearly a month since I last heard of her. She usually tires of them after a week. Wasteful, really." For all her flippant words, Bela looked sad.
"Who's Lilith?" Sam asked first.
"My sister."
"Our sister." Crowley rolled his eyes as he appeared in the room, lounging in the dusty armchair in the corner. He wrinkled his nose and brushed delicately at his sleeves.
"You were listening," Castiel pointed out, though he wasn't surprised.
"Of course," Crowley scoffed and crossed one leg over the other. "This is personal now. Alice was always a little unstable, what with all the psychopathic rage, but we let him play his little games as long as it didn't interfere with our lives. I found it passing strange that he hadn't made the news in the last couple decades. It makes sense that he found a powerful employer. A clever employer at that."
"Who? You mean Lucifer?" Dean didn't look impressed by Lucifer's cleverness.
"Oh yes. Impressive really. I'm surprised I hadn't noticed before, but then again I wasn't looking. I don't know if it was lucky coincidence or deliberate planning that his activities never touched on mine."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"A mine collapsed in Bolivia. A factory fire in Vietnam. A plane crash in Iceland." Crowley's voice grew louder with each incident named, angry yet strangely impressed by the look in his eye. "Ironic really. Alistair is so painfully obvious in person. Likes to leave scars, mark his work, stake a claim. But en masse? Subtle. Entirely plausible as accidents unless you deliberately consider how they might not be. Little brother has grown smarter," he muttered.
Silence reigned as each of them reeled from Crowley's tirade. Bela's eyes welled with tears. Dean and Sam were confused, much as Castiel was, their heads bent in thought, mulling over all the information that was being thrown at them.
Not only had Alistair arranged the house fire that had harmed Dean twenty years ago, Crowley believed him behind a series of accidents from around the world, seemingly unrelated.
"How do you know this?" Castiel asked, wanted to ascertain the information before he assimilated it into that the web being woven in his mind.
"I found the sadistic bastard," Crowley muttered, rubbing his forehead with his hand. "He got himself killed in each of the accidents and no one would be so bored as to try to connect a bunch of corpses made years apart all over the world in a bunch of accidents as the same man. Gil Rados in Bolivia, hired a week before the collapse, Richard Chase, a lost tourist in Vietnam, Vova Tsepe on the plane crash. Baby brother always had a penchant for twisted serial killers."
"But why?" Castiel muttered, still finding no sense in the killings.
"Did you miss the part where I said he was a psychopath?" Crowley sighed.
"Hold on," Sam said, looking between Bela and Crowley. "Zachariah, he called them nephilim. Like, half-angel, half-human giants nephilim."
"Get to your point, Moose."
"You're nephilim."
"Ten points to Team Plaid." Crowley started a slow clap. "You figured that out a lot quicker than I'd thought. I never expected the old windbag to spill the proverbial beans, though."
"You're not half angel," Castiel said, sounding a lot angrier than he felt.
"No of course not." Crowley clasped his hands together. "You're an angel, or used to be before you lost all your feathers, Feathers. You know that half that book is on a level just above horse shit. Imagine yourself a man, unavailed to the miracles of modern plumbing and personal hygiene."
"Hurry up," Castiel snapped, surprising the demon and himself. He had never felt himself to be impatient before.
"You see a man like me," Crowley continues with a smirk, "That's not from heaven, not from hell, and certainly not from earth. Some enterprising orator decides, well, this creature must be some sort of hybrid then. And so he tells people who tells people and blah blah blah you get the legend of the nephilim."
"Then where are you from?" Sam asked.
"Well my mama was a tailor and my daddy was a gambling man. I wouldn't wear blue jeans though. Distasteful." Crowley grimaced at Sam's legwear.
"I don't understand."
"It's a song, Cas," Dean explained before turning back to the dem- no- nephilim. "So what? You're some twisted mutation of a human?"
"Not exactly. My daddy was more of a holy man and my mama was more an angel."
"So the stories are true?" Dean scowled, throwing his hands up.
Except that wasn't possible. Angels could not have children. With no reproductive imperative, their bodies did not perform the necessary functions to produce offspring. Eggs were never and sperm never produced, just like their bodies did not breathe or eat or defecate.
"Incorrect," Crowley sang out. "Tweedledee, you want to give it a shot?"
Sam bowed his head in thought, tapping his chin with his fingers twice before his eyes widened. "Your dad, the holy man, he was a prophet wasn't he? And the angel wasn't your mother, it was the angel that Bonded with him. Like Cas did with Dean."
"Whoa what now?" Dean looked worriedly back at him as if expecting Castiel to suddenly spewing forth nephilim. Castiel scowled back.
"They made you," Sam deduced excitedly. "Like a golem or a-"
"Stop right there Tweedledee," Crowley held up a hand. "We are nothing like a golem or a whatever you were going to say there. We are not made of clay nor are we lumbering oafs. But you got one part right. The old man was, indeed, a prophet. He created us. A new race, new beings, new souls. "
"That's not possible," Castiel blurted out as soon as the words came from Crowley's mouth. "Only God has that power."
"What was that, Feathers?" Crowley cocked an ear at him. "I find it difficult to understand what you're saying. I am sitting here in front of you aren't I?"
"You must have come from something. Corrupted souls or something darker," Castiel insisted, irritated at the demon's blasphemy.
"Haven't you heard the stories? Parting the red sea. Water to wine. Lots of liquids turning red, come to think of it." Crowley considered this for a moment before returning to his point. "Prophets can crush the laws of the universe as if they were nothing more than a puny little gnat."
"That's all change!" Castiel grabbed the closest thing to him, a book lying on the floor. A page opened before it and he handily grabbed and tore it in half. "We have the power to alter. We can not destroy. We can not create. You are lying."
"Do I look like any human soul to you? And if I suggest I might be some sort of angel Grace you'll probably throw a hissy fit. And I'm not like a demon either, am I? Oh wait, you can't tell any more." Crowley stood up and threw his arms wide. "Come on, Tweedledum. Tell me what you see."
"A smarmy little dick," Dean snarled, wings flaring slightly behind him.
"Yes, it's strange, isn't it?" Crowley asked, tugging down on his suit jacket. "My father could pull nephilim out of thin air but this little prophet can't even look inside a meat suit. What's your defect, now?"
"I'll tell you what my-"
"Whoa!" Sam and Cas rushed forward and held Dean back, one hand on each shoulder.
"Hurting him won't solve anything," Castiel muttered even though he had to fight himself from taking a swing at the demon himself. He hadn't yet had a chance to test his new physical limitations.
"It'll make me feel better," Dean mumbled back, but he settled back on his heels, arms crossed petulantly across his chest.
"Yes, well," Crowley sighed. "I suppose it actually is all about you, isn't it? Or it was. I don't think our friend Lucifer has the same interests as his brother. Well, if you excuse me." The nephilim brushed some lint of his jacket and nodded at Bela. "Shall we?"
"Where are you going?" Dean demanded.
"Didn't you hear? The big bad wolf is looking to build himself a juicy little morsel and he's going to need another nephilim. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather he not find one."
"What about Raphael's scrolls?" Castiel asked desperately before Bela could leave.
"Don't worry, sweet cheeks." Castiel jerked away as a single red nail tapped against his chin. She seemed far less intimidating than Kali, yet she made him feel ten times as uncomfortable. "The mullet has the images on a flash drive."
"What can I say?" she shrugged and tucked a hand into the crook of Crowley's arm. "I work fast."