Author's note: Today is my best friend Jackallh's birthday! I can't be with him because of the pandemic, so I'm offering him some writing and translation instead.

Previously: After he refused to resort to threats against Dean, Castiel has been temporarily downgraded and is on probation. Uriel assumed command in the meantime, and led Castiel to Anna to execute her, but she managed to get her Grace back and escape. Assigned to a mission with Baradiel, Castiel locates Alastair who is attempting to break a seal, and successfully captures him with Baradiel and Levanael's help.

This chapter takes place in season 4 episode 16.

oOo

On the art of torture

Through the skin of my two fingertips pressed on the demon's - the fallen Angel's - forehead, my Grace seeps into this possessed body and heals all wounds in a split second.

"So kind of you," Alastair hums.

Shackled to the elaborate trap I designed and built to restrain him - combining Enochian spells, markings made of salt and consecrated earth - the demon is staring at me, smirking, his eyes half-open with insolent carelessness.

"Scared you might stain your fancy tie with all that blood? You know, real artists do get their hands dirty..."

Instead of reacting to his provocations, I splash holy water on his face. His wet skin immediately starts blistering, releasing smoke that reeks of sulfur, then entire flaps come off when I keep pouring water directly on it. The burn, however, merely draws a grunt of discomfort from him, and then a patronizing snort. I've been questioning him for hours now, and he has not once let out a single cry. The best I could get was for him to wince a bit, but he mostly seems to be enjoying it. I have tried so hard, and this is the fifth time now I'm healing him to start over, still hoping I'll find what will make him talk at last.

"Oh, don't be like that, c'mon... This should all be about having fun! Why not play some music in the background to brighten up the mood? I really enjoyed chopping Dean up to the bone while I was singing, you know. It warmed my heart and made my work so much more pleasurable. For thirty years, I sang Cheek to Cheek to him, every day. I started humming before I touched him, even before I walked up to him, and he was already shaking all over. It was so lovely to watch him dreading what new torment I was going to put him through. Peel him down to the bone strip by strip? Stab some razor blades into his gums? Or I would be in the mood for some sweet, sweet raping? And when he was expecting the worst, I enjoyed sitting there and just talking, leaving him to fear the moment when I would finally start. That subtle touch of finesse and psychology, that's what you're lacking."

I look down to the torture instruments on the table, trying not to react to his provocations. I know everything Dean has endured in Hell, including all the gruesome details. Getting angry would be pointless and unproductive.

There's nothing I haven't already tried, I'm running out of ideas. I never thought it would be so hard to get him to confess. Demons are usually quite easy to persuade. They have no sense of honor or duty, and they prioritize their own interests and survival over anything else.

Alastair is not like them. In fact, he even seems to enjoy himself there, taunting and mocking me at every one of my attempts.

I carefully pick up the scalpel, which earns me a condoning sigh from the one who is supposed to be my victim - he rolls his eyes, yawning loudly.

"Oh no, no, noooo... This is so plain and ordinary! I think I'm going to die of boredom..."

Ignoring him the best I can, I take a step forward and start slicing open his abdomen, cutting through the flesh and up to his chest in a smooth and clean gesture. Dark blood gushes out of the gaping wound, spewing gooey bowels hanging down and sliding on the ground with a wet slap.

"This is the problem with you celestials... you have no imagination. It's dry, heartless, no personal touch. Surgical. I can tell you're not enjoying it. It would make no difference to you if you were filling out paperwork. I could teach you all of my favorite tricks, you wouldn't do it right."

He clicks his tongue disapprovingly and looks down to watch my bloodstained hands slide on the scalpel as I thrust my arm deep into the wound to reach up and grab his heart. The warm muscle pulses in my fist, and I stare into the demon's eyes.

"How are you killing the Angels? Where is your weapon?"

Alastair scoffs at me with a large, twisted grin, and a trickle of dark blood slides down his chin as he whispers an inch from my face.

"It's so cute yet appalling... It's like watching a toddler doodling around with clumsy fingers on a master canvas. There's no finesse to it. You know, I'm growing bored. Let's make things a little more interesting, shall we?"

His eyes roll back in their sockets, only leaving two glassy white globes. Suddenly, they revert back to normal, and the demon's facial expression changes radically. The look on his face radiates sheer terror and intense suffering. A convulsion seizes him and a thick blood clot, then a scarlet gush, spurts out of his mouth - and from his throat rises the most agonizing scream I have ever heard in my entire existence.

I open my eyes wide when I realize the atrocity Alastair just committed. He's using the soul of the Human he's possessing as a shield, and retreated inside, leaving him to endure all of the torture. I sharply let go of the beating heart, withdraw my blood-stained hand and once again stab my fingers on his forehead, healing him instantly.

I had not anticipated this when I designed the trap.

I do my best to disregard the terrified weeping of the Human who frantically cries out for help, calling out for his wife and sons, and I crouch down to touch the Enochian sigils on the ground. They glow and sparkle with the effect of my Grace when I apply a minor modification in the symbols in order to exclude any possibility for the demon to manipulate the soul he cohabits with. As soon as I do this, the human voice dies out, replaced by Alastair's husky and nasal one.

"Don't you want to have another go at pulling my teeth out, angel? That was rather entertaining, almost enjoyable. I'm starting to pity you, I kind of want to pretend that it hurts just to make you happy. I'm quite good at faking, and it would be less awkward for both of us. Would you like that, hm?"

A strong flapping of wings shuts him up when I was cleaning the scalpel, and I turn my head to see Uriel folding his wings behind his back. He casts a glance at Alastair.

"Did he talk?" he asks in a neutral tone.

"No."

"I suspected. Follow me."

In a brief wingbeat, we reappear in the next room. Through the dirty door window, I can see the demon smiling at us wryly. Uriel stares at me gravely, his hands deep in his pockets.

"Zachariah wasn't pleased, but I worked it out, Castiel. You're on probation, and any infraction like this could have sent you straight to rehabilitation, or executed."

"What did you tell him?"

"I claimed I was the one who decided to give you this order. I blamed my lack of experience on the job, and he bought it. What on Earth were you thinking? Do you even realize what's been happening these days?"

With my eyes still on Alastair, I clench my fists.

"I did what was necessary to save our brothers and sisters, Uriel. Once Alastair talks, we will finally know what weapon demons are using, and then we will have leverage to win this war."

Uriel averts his gaze, clenching his jaw, clearly experiencing intense frustration. His wings are twitching as he grazes the surface of the table with his fingertips.

"You're right. But the Council thinks that we won't be able to get a confession from Alastair. They are currently discussing the possibility of recruiting Dean Winchester to do the job."

I snap my head to my brother, meeting his eyes at last.

"What?"

Uriel scowls.

"If he has not spoken by nightfall, this is what will happen. They're ratifying this option as we speak. As it turns out, your little monkey happens to be some kind of torture artist, the best student Alastair has had for millennia. The student even seems to surpass the master."

A shiver runs through my Grace and I look down at my hands stained with blood. In a wave of energy, my skin and clothes are spotless again.

I can still feel the sensation of having Dean's soul in my hand, along with the filth I washed off from his pure essence. The filth born out of pleasure taken in others' suffering, the first stage in a soul's degradation.

"Dean cannot do this. I'm sure that after some effort, we will manage to break Alastair's will."

"It's pretty unlikely in just a few hours. The hierarchy wants quick results."

"A few hours? Did you even try to convince them to wait a few days? Or to look for some other way?"

Uriel snorts with open contempt.

"Why would have I done that? Your righteous man has to be of some use to us. He's been nothing but trouble since we raised him from Hell. But feel free to go and convince them, if that's what you want. On probation or not, you're still the true General, after all."

I nod quietly. If there is a chance, however small, to spare Dean yet another ordeal, I want to take it.

"Where are they?"

"In a newcomer's Paradise, Agathe Stanford, who died in..."

"... in her bed at the age of 85, I know. She was born on a Thursday."

Uriel nods and slowly steps towards the door, his aura lacking its usual energy, and his wings sagging behind his back.

"I will try to get a confession out of him while you try to convince them."

"Thank you, Uriel."

With a flap of my wings, I leave the abandoned meat storage warehouse I had selected to keep Alastair in, and fly from Earth to Heaven. Locating the human Paradise that I'm looking for in the countless souls floating around the Axis Mundi only takes me a fraction of a second.

I burst into a cosy and warm living room with half-open glass doors leading to a garden. The grass is rustling under the falling rain, and there is a gentle breeze bringing a scent of wet earth and cut grass into the house's warmth. Several armchairs and a couch piled with cushions are set around a small round mahogany table. On the embroidered lace tablecloth, a mimosa arrangement in a vase. Next to it is a tray laden with pastel pink porcelain cups, filled to the brim with steaming tea.

All eyes turn to me, everyone staring at me blankly. The very small number of Council Angels present is surprising. Only four of them - Zachariah, Ecanus, Brap and Rgoan. This explains why such a small Paradise was selected for this meeting.

I glance at Agathe's soul. Sitting in an armchair with a soft blanket on her knees, the old woman is sipping a cup of tea, unaware of the presence of intruders in her memory. She's smiling peacefully while petting the illusory cat on her equally illusory lap. A gentle melody with saxophones and piano is floating in the air.

"Castiel?"

I look down at Ecanus who, comfortably seated with his legs crossed, puts his cup of tea down on the matching plate he's holding in his hand. He's gazing up at me with polite confusion in his brown eyes, his face shaded with a thin beard. Standing there, teapot in hand, Zachariah is munching on a pastry and staring at me with both annoyance and curiosity. As for Brap, he's slumped down, almost lying on the couch, spinning his empty cup around his finger using the handle, glaring up at me over his tiny round glasses.

"I'm here to give my input about what is to happen to my prisoner."

My statement brings about a tense silence during which I look at Rgoan, his chiselled and tanned face frozen in an expression of resentment. His hair and beard are so blond they almost look white. He's leaning against a wall, holding under his arm an entire box filled with pastries and cakes. He is slowly, darkly chewing.

Zachariah is finally the one to break the awkward silence.

"Castiel!" he says with a smirk. "Please, take a seat! Would you like some cake? Perhaps a nice cup of tea?"

He points at the couch with his chin, and Brap rolls his eyes and sighs loudly before drawing back his legs and sitting down properly to clear a place for me beside him.

"Yes, thank you."

I sit down on the cleared space, two lavender-scented cushions hugging my back as I feel myself sinking into the soft leather, almost like I'm getting sucked into the couch. If I am to gain the Council's approval, engaging in their activities can only be good for my interests, from a purely strategic point of view. Even more so since out of the four of them, only two do not openly dislike me.

When my wing brushes against Brap's, he huffs and brings his wings tighter together behind his back to avoid contact.

Zachariah hands me a cup and a soft, pink cake that I pick up between my fingers, then he sits down as well on a chair.

"So nice of you to join us to share your expertise in torture, Castiel, but as it happens, we were just about to end the meeting. Our decision is made."

Zachariah sips his tea contentedly, keeping his smaller finger up.

"Uriel is quite good at drawing information from demons," I argue in a hoarse voice, "along with his undeniable destruction skills. He will make Alastair talk."

"Oh please, I never said you and your soldiers weren't skilled in torture," Zachariah says. "Uriel is good, very good, but Alastair isn't just any demon! It will probably take quite some time to break him!"

"Is that an issue? There's no hurry, my soldiers can secure the remaining seals while we work on Alastair."

"If Alastair hasn't broken in an hour, he won't break in a thousand years. It's pointless and dangerous to keep the King of Hell captive. We will have to kill him as soon as possible."

"Besides, a discharged General has no say in the matter," says Rgoan as he sets his cake box back on the table, making the porcelain cups on it clink.

Ecanus frowns disapprovingly.

"He is merely suspended for the time of the investigation. Unless charges are proven against him, he keeps his rank."

"He doesn't deserve the rank he was given!" Rgoan snarls. "If they had listened to me during the discussions and voting, the General of the Garrison would have been ME, and let me tell you I would have handled this whole situation so much better!"

Zachariah rolls his eyes like Humans do to convey their annoyance.

"Don't be silly, Rgoan. How much longer are you going to resent me for this?"

"Without you voting for Castiel instead of me, I would have won the position! Of course I'm going to hold a grudge for at least three or four thousand years!"

"No offense," says Ecanus, arching up an eyebrow, "but you already occupied too many positions, and Castiel was a better choice because he knew the Garrison from the inside. I voted against you, too. You're already in charge of the Archives and General of the Insect Division. Don't you think that's enough?"

Rgoan snaps his mouth shut, looking even more offended. As for me, I can't help being curious.

"You're the General of the Insect Division, Rgoan?"

"Yes, why?" he hisses.

"Why did you have Rzionr Nrzfm transferred to the Garrison? Your report described him as an excellent soldier."

Rgoan scoffs and a smug smile twists the corners of his lips up.

"Because he's a first-class pain in the ass, a troublemaker, insolent and rude. Call it a gift for Anael who was annoying the hell out of us, always asking for more soldiers. But that's not the point! Zachariah, Castiel is clearly not up to the task, and I don't get why you're so lenient with him!"

Zachariah makes a high-pitched snicker as he puts his cup back on his plate.

"Are you questioning my judgment, Rgoan? I personally recommended Castiel for this position right after Anna was sent to rehabilitation, and no matter how many silly rumors you spread, I stand by what I've always said: Castiel is a good, rational and obedient soldier. And I answer for him with my own life."

Rgoan scowls, crossing his legs.

"Have a taste, Castiel, before the icing melts and the tea gets cold."

At Zachariah's suggestion, I look down at the cake and the cup I'm still holding in my hands - I completely forgot about them. Ever since I invested this flesh and bone armor, I haven't once tried to ingest food. It seems somehow inappropriate. And so organic.

I bring up the cup to my lips, vanilla and sugar aromas invading my nostrils. I tilt my head back and the hot liquid pours down my trachea and fills Jimmy Novak's empty stomach. I also take a bite out of the cake, swallowing it without really taking the time to chew. A lingering taste of sugar, chocolate and vanilla coats my tongue and palate.

And now, I can feel this body's metabolism getting into action, initiating a digestion process. I interrupt it by making all the food disappear from my body with a single crackle of my Grace. I have better things to do than digesting food.

I put down the cup on the coffee table with a clicking sound, and stare at the Angels.

"Actually, Uriel is the one who advised me to come and talk to you myself. Using the... skills Dean acquired in Hell would be a major mistake."

"Why?" Brap pulls his glasses up over his nose. "He tortured for years in Hell, and at least Alastair is not an innocent soul."

"You don't understand." I can feel myself growing irritated. "The soul that Humans carry inside of them is shaped and altered by each of their actions. I managed to cleanse the stain from Dean's, but he still has his memories and all the guilt attached to them. I'm not confident that I can re-purify the soul if it gets tainted to the same extent! I saw what Hell did to him, and what you want to ask of him will damage his soul, revive in him the taste of cruelty, and ruin his redemp–"

Castiel!

I pause when a voice echoes into my Grace, slouched deep into the couch next to Brap who raises his eyebrows as he waits for me to end my sentence.

This is really not the time.

Not now, Levanael. I'm in a meeting, try again later.

"I'm not an expert in feelings," drawls Rgoan, smirking, "but I'm pretty sure he's displaying feelings here."

"Do your research," Zachariah sighs. "You really are clueless. I'm sure you wouldn't bother to tell compassion, sadness or even hatred apart."

"It all looks just the same to me. Brain chemicals that make the monkeys twist their face's skin and excrete bodily fluids through every pore, I honestly don't see the difference."

"I'm not excreting anything," I say, offended. "I'm a Guardian and I'm only trying to protect Dean, which is the mission I was given."

"Well, you're overprotecting him," says Ecanus. "After all, he might enjoy torturing the one who used to torture him, you never know. I believe humans love vengeance, don't they?"

Castiel, listen to me, little brother! We were wrong about the demons' weapon! Oh, we were so, so wrong!

I wriggle up from the couch and stand up, wings spread, feeling my Grace freezing in my veins.

Levanael? What's happening?

"Come on, don't get mad over this, Castiel!" says Zachariah jokingly. "You can't deny he's got a point. You're such a mother hen."

"This is not why I'm upset. One of my soldiers is in trouble."

"So what?" Brap rolls his eyes. "This is Uriel's problem now, not yours."

Silence pulses through the link between our Graces connected by celestial channels of communication.

Levanael, answer me!

Zachariah slaps his hands on his thighs and stands up, soon followed by Ecanus and Brap.

"Right! Enough beating around the bush. We need to resort to the most reliable methods to get Alastair's confession and then dispose of him. The decision has been taken: Castiel, your mission is to go with Uriel to bring Dean to this torture room of yours. I want results."

"We need results," Ecanus nods. "This is an absolute necessity."

My sister's voice rises in my head again, barely a broken whisper.

Castiel, the weapon, it's... he's...

My heart skips a beat. My sister is hurt.

I spread my wings to go and help her, but then our bond shatters with an agonizing shriek that chills me to the core.

"Levanael..." I whisper in a breath, opening my eyes wide.

It's too late. I've heard this kind of scream before, and this sensation of emptiness left by a severed link. My sister is dead.

Levanael is dead.

My wings drop to my sides, brushing against Agathe's soul who keeps petting her cat, nodding her head contentedly to the rhythm of the music.

"I expect the mission report from you and Uriel tomorrow at dawn! I have no doubt that Dean will do very well."

Zachariah stuffs one last cake into his mouth and pats my shoulder before flying away, followed by the other Angels.

Left on my own, I stand very still with my fists clenched and my Grace whirling inside of me.

This is the seventh Angel of the Garrison who died since I became General.

Zachariah is right. This has to stop.

oOo

Fire crackling can barely be heard with the car alarms blaring. A light rain hits the pavement. Water puddles are mirroring the night sky, where thick clouds veil the bright stars. I can feel my face and clothes getting wet.

I could shield out the rain with my aura, but I don't bother. Not when I know what I'm about to find. Not when one more burning failure robs me of my best ally in the Garrison, my most loyal sister.

Jaw clenched, I examine the metallic piles of cars with broken windows. My sister's call was coming from here, and clearly there's been a fierce battle. The least I would expect from Levanael, one of my best soldiers.

I walk among upside down vehicles whose lights are flashing and overwhelm my vessel's senses.

I raise one hand and send a wave of my Grace all around to deactivate the mechanics and scan the area for Levanael with cautious hope.

The steady rain swishing that slowly extinguishes the flickering fire grows clearer, and now my perception sharpens to the point I can track and feel the movement and velocity of each raindrop. There is no trace of Grace or holy spirit anywhere. But behind the gasoline smell is another one, harder to detect - the coppery scent of blood, mixed with burnt ozone.

Glass fragments are crunching under my feet as I step around an upside down vehicle. And there is Levanael's empty, flesh and blood vessel lying on the wet ground, surrounded from each side with the unmistakable trace of her wings burned into the asphalt. Angel feather ashes – slaying an Angel is an unspeakable sin, a sacrilege I have witnessed far too many times in my life. Her pale blond hair lays around her face like a halo, and her white dress is soaked, hugging her curves. There is a dark red stain on the white fabric, so I crouch down to push the ripped side of her dress aside, exposing a blood-filled hole in her throat. This is the exact same kind of wound I found on Pmox and Miz's lifeless vessels.

Her face is now stripped of Levanael's true appearance showing through. It's nothing but an empty shell, a lump of flesh starting to rot already. Still, I can't help but brush her cheek with my fingertips. I can still hear her gentle, light tone of voice, feel the warmth of her hand on my shoulder and see her tender smile.

"Goodbye, sister."

It's over. Levanael has returned to the flow of Creation from which Father drew and shaped her.

Demons killed her. I have reservations about forcing Dean to torture, but orders are orders, and he may succeed in putting an end to these deaths.

I don't want to see any more of my brothers and sisters die.

There are sirens blaring in the distance and getting closer. With a last farewell glance at Levanael's empty body, I spread my wings and fly away.

oOo

"I was waiting for you."

Uriel's deep voice greets me the instant I burst into the abandoned warehouse. The room next to the one in which Alastair is imprisoned is filled with shadows and stifling silence. Sitting on a chair with his elbows on his knees, my brother has his back to me - the misty shape of his wings is tucked down, the tips of his feathers brushing against the dusty ground. Barely perceptible, his aura is clearly dulled.

With his chin resting on his clasped hands, he turns his head just enough to look at me from the corner of his eye. The shadows on his vessel's face are concealing his eyes.

"Levanael is dead," he declares sourly.

I fold my wings back with barely audible rustling and take a step forward.

"I know. I just saw her remains."

Uriel frowns.

"How did you...?"

"She reached out to me."

Uriel rises to his feet, and with a snap of his wings, appears right in front of me, only inches away from my face, his eyes diving into mine with defiance and... dread?

"What did she tell you?"

I hold his gaze, unblinkingly.

"That we were wrong about the weapon demons are using to slay us. But she died in battle before she could get more specific."

The tension in my brother's shoulders loosens up. There is something weird about his attitude. For a split second I could swear I saw a flash of relief across his face. But it was probably due to the shadows covering and altering his facial expressions.

"Our sister reached out to me as well," he says in a softer voice. "But like you, I was too late. I saw her falling to the ground and I attacked the demons, in vain. They were too fast, and I was unable to spot their weapon either."

We share a look until I blink and lower my eyes.

"Levanael's death is a great loss for the Garrison. She was loyal, righteous, and skilled in combat and strategy."

Uriel clenches his fists before shoving them into his pockets.

"… Yes. She was."

Had I been a better General, had I been able to neutralize the threat sooner, I wouldn't be grieving the death of my brothers and sisters. Whether it is part of Fate's plans or not, I can't help but be filled with throbbing guilt. This isn't right. This should never had happened at all. Levanael was a faithful warrior of the Lord. She should not have died like that. Neither should have Miz, Pmox, Ephra, Yasen, Ecaop, Hcoma, Siosp, Camael, Riemu... All the losses that have drained the Garrison since it was formed.

I look up, feeling a shiver running through my wings, and realize Uriel has spread his ethereal wings to embrace me with their entire wingspan. Our wings are touching, his warm and comforting feathers pressed against mine.

My brother is staring at me with an indecipherable look in his eyes, and I remember the last time he touched me so tenderly, when I was draining out of my life-force in his arms, mortally wounded by Camael.

He doesn't make this contact last more than three seconds, folds his wings behind his back and silently turns away. I shove those thousand years old memories back and struggle to find some kind of control over the emotional turmoil roaring inside of me.

An Angel is not meant to show emotions. I shouldn't even be able to have them.

"We have no other choice now." Judging by the tone of his voice, Uriel is on edge. "Alastair didn't even flinch when I was torturing him, and he couldn't be the one to kill Levanael, he was trapped here. Someone else is killing our brothers and sisters, and we need to find out who and how. We need your righteous man at work before the whole Garrison gets slaughtered."

I glance at the door and its dirty window through which I can see Alastair gazing around with dispassionate curiosity, as though he were simply visiting the place willingly.

"This is what the Council came to decide too," I say flatly. "They order us to go and collect Dean together."

"Orders are orders. Let's not waste time."

I nod and we unfurl our wings together. In a wingbeat, the warehouse's shadows are replaced by the apartment currently rented by the Winchester brothers. There are two windows facing each other, and the open curtains let a pale flow of artificial light pour into the room. I take a look at the two beds, the table, the chairs, and squint as I examine the walls, which are made of what might appear to be wood, but is actually composed of a mix of artificial materials and products precisely crafted to look like wood. Yet another mystery of Humanity that I will never unravel.

Uriel scowls at the paintings on the walls.

"The decoration is hideous." He glares at the painting depicting a man riding a horse. "The hairless apes have always been crude and arrogant, but in the last two thousand years they reached new heights."

I frown as I look at the painting too.

"You're being dramatic. The proportions are remarkably well illustrated."

"It's horseshit."

Uriel seems to regard the topic as closed, for he turns around and stares intently at the door.

"Where are your monkeys?"

I breathe out an annoyed sigh.

"The Winchesters are Father's chosen ones, not primates. You should stop calling them that."

"You're right, it's offensive to the monkeys who've never done anything wrong. But I will call them as I please, you're no longer in a position to give me orders." He faces me, his eyes burning with barely contained anger. "When this is all over, I hope that you will come to your senses and return to who you once were, Castiel. Zachariah thinks highly of you, but I know you better than anyone else. And if the Garrison and you in particular weren't so infatuated with the hairless apes, we wouldn't be in this situation today!"

I avert my eyes and square my shoulders, staring into the void as I try to contain the guilt and shame of not living up to my rank and protecting the Garrison as I swore I would.

There is a moment of silence before Uriel's voice rises, quieter. Softer.

"Everything will be better soon, you'll see."

I open my mouth to answer, when I hear the roar of a motor getting louder and louder, until we see through the window the Winchester's black vehicle parking in front of the building.

"Look who's there..." Uriel whispers, smirking.

I stare straight ahead again and shove my hands into my pockets as a metallic rattle unlocks the door. I feel empty.

I was unable to lead the Garrison, nor could I live up to the hierarchy's expectations. I failed in my role as General, and now I feel unworthy of my Guardian title. I'm unable to protect Dean.

"Home crappy home," Dean sighs as he enters, dropping his bag on the floor.

Sam presses the switch, and the room is flooded with artificial light.

"Winchester and Winchester," Uriel greets them, is voice laced with sarcasm.

At least he didn't insult them.

"Oh come on!" Dean exclaims angrily.

"You are needed," says Uriel.

"Needed? We just got back from needed!"

By the way he's raising his voice, he's really angry now.

"Now, you mind your tone with me."

"No, you mind your damn tone with us!" Dean snaps back as he steps forward, glowering.

"We just got back from Pamela's funeral," Sam speaks more submissively, stepping in front of his older brother.

Lined with black veins, the demon blooded boy's face is frequently twisting into an evil grin, his eyes hollowing into their sockets. But I do notice some improvement compared to the last time I saw him - now his human facial expressions are dominant. And at this moment they convey both indignation and dread.

"Pamela!" Dean continues in a sarcastic tone. "You know, psychic Pamela? You remember her. Cas, you remember her. You burned her eyes out!"

My shortened name brings me to meet Dean's eyes, my Grace coming to a halt in my veins. I didn't know the name of the woman who paid the high price for my refusal to take a vessel to speak to the righteous man. I have been so busy with the upcoming Apocalypse that I didn't even try to find out - actually, I nearly forgot about that incident.

Aren't we meant to be merciful? We are soldiers, but our original mission has always been to protect Father's creations.

"Remember that? Good times!" Dean adds scathingly.

If it weren't for the Apocalypse and all the new responsibilities that have engulfed me since I came back from Hell, I probably would have had the idea to request a derogation to fix this incident by healing her and erasing her memory. But this is impossible in wartime. Any Apocalypse involves collateral damage, and despite our best efforts, we are less than one million celestial beings - Angels, Archangels, Cherubs with or without rank included. 898,328 officially. Or rather, 898 327 now that Levanael has been killed. And this number includes Gabriel, who has not been seen again since Jesus Christ died on the cross.

I'm aware of this, but Dean's accusation still strikes home, exposing one of my shameful failures.

"Yeah, then she died saving one of your precious seals. So maybe you can stop pushing us around like chess pieces for FIVE FREAKING MINUTES!"

At Dean's outburst, I averted my eyes, clenching my fists in my pockets.

This woman - Pamela - was twice the victim of my arrogance. After losing her sight, she died because of my reckless initiative, which never was approved by my superiors. Even though my plan ultimately resulted in a victory, I used the Winchesters and my own siblings as pawns and things could have gone very wrong. Dean and Sam could have died. Out of sheer selfishness and pride, I led Baradiel and Levanael into the ugliest kind of disobedience, and if it weren't for Uriel who assumed responsibility for my actions, we all might have ended up in rehabilitation or executed.

Uriel remains impassive to the righteous man's anger, and even lazily stretches out his wings.

"We raised you out of hell for our purposes."

He sounds calm, but I can see right through his act. I know Uriel far too well not to tell that he's dying to torch both the Winchesters and this entire city to ashes. Dean tilts his head and narrows his eyes.

"Yeah, what were those again? What exactly did you want from me?"

"Start with gratitude."

His aura is pulsating with irritation while Dean mimics a thank you with a fake smile. The insolence he's displaying is only making the situation worse. Again, I can't let Uriel and Dean interact without worrying that they will throw themselves at each other's throats - and Dean is merely a Human. He's no match for an Angel, let alone one as powerful as Uriel.

"Dean, we know this is difficult to understand..."

"And we don't care," Uriel sharply cuts off my attempt at diplomacy, throwing me a warning glance.

He turns his head back to Dean, and his deep voice echoes through my head coldly.

I won't let you jeopardize this mission, Castiel.

I freeze and stare at a distant point again, hurt in my pride. Uriel is right, though. He lacks diplomacy and strategy, but he carries out God's will without questioning it, which is what I should do too. He can hardly be worse than Anna or me at the Garrison's command.

"Now, seven angels have been murdered," says Uriel. "All of them from our garrison. The last one was killed tonight."

"Demons?" asks Dean more calmly. "How they doing it?"

"We don't know."

"I'm sorry," Sam steps in, slightly stuttering and smiling nervously, "but what do you want us to do about it? I mean, a demon with the juice to ice angels has to be out of our league, right?"

Levanael has been slain although we had Alastair. So he was not the one who had the weapon when we captured him. And he's the only one who can tell us where to find it now - unless the weapon is actually a very powerful demon, like Sam suggested? No one knows exactly what Lucifer created in Hell, besides demons and Hell Hounds. Did he create some kind of monster that can kill us?

"We can handle the demons, thank you very much," Uriel huffs, offended.

"Once we find whoever it is," I explain.

Uriel turns his head just enough to watch me from the corner of his eye.

Castiel... he growls as a warning.

Let me talk to him, Uriel. I know Dean. I can persuade him to obey us.

You're delusional, he replies irately. Your little monkey is unreasonable. But go ahead, do try, let's have a good laugh.

"So you need our help hunting a demon?" asks Dean, smiling in disbelief.

I take a few steps forward to join my brother and face the Winchesters.

"Not quite."

Impassive, Uriel turns his head to look at me.

Hurry, my patience is running out.

My wings twitch as I search for words. Knowing that Dean consistently objects to any threat or order, how am I supposed to explain the situation to him in a way that will make him agree to willingly help us? How can I find the right words when I disapprove of Heaven's orders myself?

"We have Alastair," I start warily.

"Great. He should be able to name your trigger man."

"But he won't talk. Alastair's will is very strong."

Dean looks down with a grim smile.

I don't think he understands what I'm trying to imply yet, but asking directly is hard. I've held his soul in my hand and felt how much this decade as a torturer undermined and corrupted him.

"We've arrived at an impasse," I insist.

Once again, he doesn't take the hint.

"Yeah, well, he's like a black belt in torture. I mean, you guys are out of your league."

"That's why we've come to his student," Uriel chimes in, clearly annoyed by my precautions. "You happen to be the most qualified interrogator we've got."

Dean's face freezes into a blank mask, and he looks down in silence.

"Dean..." I say softly. "You are our best hope"

I'm torn between my duty as a Guardian and my duty as a General. I wish I could protect Dean, but orders are orders, and I desperately want to prevent any more of my brothers and sisters from being slayed. I wish that none of my soldiers had died, and I still hold hope that I can stop the Apocalypse.

There are so many things I wish for. So many delusional things linked to the notion of free will that I don't even believe in. I never truly did. It's impossible to believe in freedom when you're an Agent of Fate.

Since when did hope and deception build a place inside of me? I used to wish for nothing. Nothing at all. I obeyed, and that was enough.

Dean looks up at us with sharp green eyes, his jaw set and eyebrows furrowed.

"No," he snarls. "No way. You can't ask me to do this, Cas. Not this."

Dean is talking to me directly, not to Uriel. As if I could save him.

But I'm not in charge, Dean. I'm nothing but a pawn, just like you. I have no power of decision. I never have and never will.

Impressive, Uriel's mocking voice echoes in my head. So much for persuading him. Let's try my way instead, shall we? You know, the efficient one.

With a smirk on his face, my brother steps heavily toward Dean, spreading his wings. He leans in to look him in the eye.

"Who said anything about asking?"

I look away and press my lips together as I spread my wings, flying along with Uriel as he wraps his aura around Dean and carries him away.

oOo

In the next chapter

"You mean I was on Angel Airlines? Oh shit, I got angelic travel sickness..."

"You'll get used to it, Dean."

"I don't think I will."