Every six months, the resistance held a party. If planned correctly and held on the right dates, these parties could heighten the guests' low morale and lighten the usual downtrodden mood. It was an afternoon and evening of relaxation, of dancing and singing as if nothing else mattered, of forgetting the present and living in the here and now – having fun for one night before facing the harsh reality of their world again.

So twice a year, the resistance hosted their party. It had proven efficient to raise the morale of its members – it wasn't as effective as a couple of weeks or months of vacation would be, but it allowed for everyone who didn't want to have a vacation to forget the struggle and to let go of their responsibilities for that one night. On a more administrative note, it was also a good tool to measure how long you've been with the resistance. It was something to look forward to – it meant you survived another six months in the resistance, and that in and of itself was worthy of a celebration.

Still, it was not a regular party. They celebrated inside their highly protected and recently fortified bunker. Resistance members who did not want to party would act as guards and patrolled the hallways and rooms, in case of an attack. Castiel could have easily joined the guards, but Dean did not want to risk their angel running into Charlie, who would patrol and might perceive him as a security threat. She still did not trust him. So, Castiel decided to keep an eye during the party itself, in full view of the members. He could keep an eye on everyone, and anyone could keep an eye on him.

When Castiel entered the large room the resistance had chosen to host their party in, he immediately felt out of place. Music played through the intercom and some guests were already dancing to it, some lightly-alcoholic drinks in their hands. Others held glasses of water or soda and chatted, enjoyed the company of those around them. They toasted to surviving another six months and to the next six months. Castiel, on the other hand, did not dance or drink – these concepts never fit into angel philosophy because these activities could cloud your judgment or distract you from the task at hand. As a former angel, he was not made to be comfortable in these surroundings. And yet, he proceeded to the other side of the room, from which he'd have a great view of the room.

People stared. Being alone, without a drink and not even a hint of a smile on his face, he stood out. It did make it easier for others to find and approach him.

"Castiel," Dean said. He came closer to the angel and then stood next to him. Dean was enjoying himself, a bottle of beer in his hand and a smile on his face. Castiel was wary; he had never seen Dean smile like that. "How's it going?"

Castiel shrugged. "I don't know." This wasn't as pleasant as he hoped he would experience it and the brainwashing made it harder to make it more enjoyable.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm…" How could he best explain it? "I'm going through a lot at the moment."

It should be simple: he was an angel, he'd fallen, so he was a fallen angel. Yet, Castiel refused to use that word to describe himself anymore. He was not 'an angel', not even a 'fallen angel' – to him, it suggested the small chance he could return. Was he human, then? That was tricky as well. He did not automatically go back to being a Novak. He was not a Novak, the angels took that aspect from him. And figuring out what positive could be found in those two negatives was not an easy task.

"That rough," Dean said. He placed a weirdly amicable hand on Castiel's shoulder. Castiel did not push it off. "You'll find a way, I'm sure of it. Oh, by the way, Claire's been talking about you."

Castiel frowned. "She has?"

"Yeah." Dean nodded. "Nothing too negative, but nothing too positive either. She's still mad at you, but I think she understands the angels turned you into…" Dean paused and motioned at Castiel. "Well, you."

"Will she be here?" Castiel wondered. He hadn't seen her or her friends on the dancefloor or to the sides of this room.

"I don't think so," Dean said. "They're still getting used to our group again. I believe they're out in the city, looking for a home, but I'm not sure."

Castiel nodded. "Thank you for the information." It was probably better this way. Spending time apart to think about the situation was now favorable over awkward silences and glares.

"No problem." Dean took a gulp from his beer and continued his way through the room, joining a random group of people and asking them if they were having a good night. Maybe everyone who had been drinking was having fun, otherwise they wouldn't so easily shake off their masks and safeguards.

Castiel was not immediately back to being alone in a crowd of resistance members. But after Dean talked to him, Garth arrived. He did not look like he'd been drinking alcohol and Castiel was comfortable enough to approach Garth and have a friendly conversation.

As he came closer, Garth noticed he was coming and smiled amicably at him.

"Garth," Castiel said when he was within earshot. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you, too," Garth said.

"I've heard you're leaving after tonight," Castiel said; he could not think of any other topic to discuss with the retiree. Garth nodded in response.

"That's the plan."

"Good luck in the world. It can be hostile," Castiel said. "If you need any help…"

"I'll call," Garth finished the sentence, the grin on his face growing wider. "You know, you're the seventeenth person to offer help. When I call, I'll have an army at my disposal."

"I don't think they'd want it any other way," Castiel said. "Good luck;" He meant those words. During their first encounter, Castiel could not have imagined wishing him good luck at this stage.

"Thank you," Garth said. "I'll see you around. Everyone will want to talk to me tonight."

"Of course," Castiel said.

Then Garth left and Castiel was alone once more. He did not mind as much, but he could feel the many eyes watching him. Maybe alcohol could make him forget those eyes, but he wasn't going to drink a single drop tonight, for he did not remember what the effects of alcohol would be on his body. So, he continued to be at is most comfortable by standing aside and watching people having fun.

And so far, everything was going well. People were opening up to one another. Some people were laughing with one another, while two men in the corner solemnly toasted to celebrate they made through another six months and possibly to commemorate those who may not have it to today.

From time to time, he moved around the room, to have a look at the room from different perspectives. He needed just one look to find Dean again in the crowd; the alcohol had gotten the better of him as he tried to goad those who weren't visibly having fun into dancing. He wasn't very successful, but he still tried. And as Castiel watched them, a strange thought popped up in his mind: maybe they could be his new 'family'. A strange one, fighting against his old family, but he could see himself staying to his dying day.

A strange thought. But comforting, too. And maybe true, in the future.

Then his eye fell on something peculiar. It was a small dark box that might easily fit in one's hand. Castiel had never seen one like this before, but during his angel training, he learned of all the weapons the angels had at their disposal. Those weapons included these small boxes, filled with explosives.

From across the room, Castiel noticed some people that had not been there before. They were also not having fun and Castiel could sense their radiating aura like they could feel his. After all, an angel could always sense another angel.

The angels were inside the base, behaving very unlike themselves by infiltrating first and attacking later – by infiltrating at all. Something was off about that, but Castiel did not think about that because they were inside and could do damage and Dean needed to know.

One problem: Castiel had lost him in the crowd.

"Dean!" He expected his voice to carry through the room, yet he was only barely audible over the sound of the music. He finally noticed Dean again, who had turned his head in confusion. He hadn't heard who had called him and was looking around. His eyes locked with Castiel and noticed the nervousness.

BOOM!

Four different explosions went off. The blast of the nearest explosive box pushed Castiel violently to the ground. He hit his head and for a few sweet moments, the world was silent.

Castiel forced himself to get back up. He almost fell over, dizzy from the blast, but stayed unstable on his feet.

Screams and cries drowned out the music. Terror had replaced the fun. More and more angels appeared in the room; they stabbed and killed victims who tried to escape.

The room had been torn to pieces. Furniture was destroyed and two small fires were left to grow. The colors had been reduced to shades of black and gray and brown and red. Cracks ran from the floor to the ceiling – it may give way and bury and crush those unable to flee. Survivors, victims, wounded ran to any of the four exits – their ways were blocked. The angels were ruthless and eliminated the threat. Those who fought were killed; those who hid were found. Both contributed to a growing number of corpses in the room and nobody escaped.

In the chaos, Castiel could not find Dean. He had to be fighting. Or he was already dead, be it by explosion or a violent stabbing.

He did find Garth. He lay on his back, eyes wide open. The stab wound soaked his shirt in blood, a growing stain that would never be cleaned up.

"Castiel!" A voice called from beside him. Uriel. "Did you like our entrance? I'm sure we made a hell of an impact."

Castiel shook his head. As expected, there stood Uriel, with fury in his eyes and the absolute need to kill Castiel for his disobedience. Once, Castiel had the greatest respect for this angel – that respect was now nothing but pity. He was no longer superior and though he was an enemy and needed to be stopped, Castiel could only think that Uriel, too, was a victim of a cruel system he tried to keep in place.

"Uriel," Castiel said. This would not end well.

Uriel glared at Castiel. "You killed my partner."

"He was going to kill me first." If it were up to Castiel, he would not have been the one to have killed Gadreel. He would have knocked Gadreel out to leave him in the warehouse. He was not to be held accountable for the death; Gadreel attacked first and Castiel only defended himself and his life.

"Because you fell," Uriel said. "If you hadn't decided to fall, we would not be standing here as enemies. You would be killing them with us. Just imagine it." The screams hadn't stopped. There were still some more people to kill.

Castiel could not picture himself fighting alongside the angels. In extenso, he could no longer picture himself giving them the location of the resistance's bunker to the angels. He still did not know exactly where it was located and he didn't believe he would've been able to extract it from someone.

"I suppose I won't get another chance," Castiel said. Uriel shook his head.

"You've had your chance." He pulled his angel blade. Castiel mirrored the movement, not breaking eye contact. "Now you will die."

Uriel lunged at Castiel, who stepped aside and blocked Uriel's attack. The ensuing fight was a series of gaining and losing ground, of parries, overhand and underhand attacks. Castiel scratched Uriel's arm, while Uriel grazed Castiel's leg. One minute, two minutes passed, and Castiel held his ground.

But Uriel had been an angel longer than Castiel. While they had the same training, Uriel had been using these techniques for a much longer time and was more practiced than Castiel.

Uriel punched Castiel in the face. The fallen angel staggered backward and dropped his blade through the impact, becoming disoriented for only a few seconds. Uriel took his chance and buried his angel blade deep in Castiel's stomach.

Pain seared through Castiel's abdomen. Uriel twisted the blade to deal more damage. The wound stung and then grew number while he bled internally. Castiel glanced at his abdomen and while he looked, Uriel pushed him to the ground.

Castiel fell badly, hurting himself a little more. He coughed, the dust and the pain getting to him.

"You're weak," Uriel sneered. Instead of retrieving his blade, he kicked Castiel in his stomach region. Castiel could barely defend himself from the continuous kicks. Uriel seemed to enjoy himself.

"Did you really believe you could beat us? That they could? Nobody wins from us. Not even this ragtag amateur militia. You've been naïve and you fell. They will die with you."

Castiel could not lift a finger to defend himself. He only rolled on his side, trying out a more comfortable situation from which he could flee, but Uriel's foot came crashing down on Castiel's face. Through the impact, he landed on his back. His head throbbed, blood dripped from his nose. His vision blurred and his mind could no longer produce any sensible thought.

He wanted for the killing blow, but it did not come. Uriel must have left him, must have deemed a quick death too merciful for him. Castiel was alone in the rubble.

Castiel pulled the blade out of his stomach to kick-start his healing abilities. He then tried to roll on his side again, to make his escape. Yet this was all his body allowed him to do; it was all the energy his body allowed him to use up without purpose. The rest of his energy was sent immediately to the wound that may prove to be fatal.

Crawling along would not have done him well. He imagined passing people he'd seen around in the bunker now motionless on the ground. He imagined all the rubble, maybe a little too harshly than it already was.

So he lay helplessly on the ground as his energy faded away, seeping out of his body with the blood he was losing through his stomach and nose.

It shouldn't be too hard to just close his eyes. He could barely keep them open. Yes, he could die while his body tried to heal itself, but it was better than being awake and aware of the pain that was ever-present in his body now.

Castiel closed his eyes. The sounds around him faded as his consciousness was pulled down deeper and deeper into the unknown.