Savile Row, nestled in the heart of London, is perhaps the most well-renowned fine tailoring thoroughfare in the world. Much like streets throughout Central London, The Row hosts an agglomeration of various architectural styles, yet collectively these buildings all slot snuggly together like a titan's version of 3D Tetris, The Row being just one short street in a city overflowing with history and affluence.

From atop one of these buildings on The Row, looking due East, through the sliver of a small gap created by the buildings when the line of sight is aligned with exact precision, the tops of the trees that line the nearby Golden Square can just about be made out. And it is only from that one precise vantage point, at only one specific time of day, on which entry to the most exclusive tailors in all of creation becomes visible. It is perhaps deliberately ironic that this most exclusive of all tailors, is not actually on The Row, but merely only accessible from it. And even then, accessible only for certain celestial beings.

Golden Square, where the entry point for this particular tailoring establishment lies, has a function and dimension all of its own, though humans will never be aware of the true function or dimension of the place. For one, it is a perfect square, down to the atomic level. All four roads on each side of the square have the same name, a peculiarity that no one has ever questioned or even truly noticed. On a map, the square seems truly out of place, a waste of prime real estate in a city with no space to spare. And yet The Square will never be demolished, just as it will never be sold, just as, through some bizarrely overlooked technicality, it is neither the property of the Queen, nor the state, nor the City of London itself. It sums up the strange lack of interest about The Square, as though it were somehow designed to deliberately be overlooked and forgotten. Even those humans astute enough to be aware of irregularities in any other circumstance, are left with an overwhelming sense of nothingness when thinking about it. Charles Dickens for example could think of no description more elaborate about The Square other than to say, 'it is not exactly in anybody's way to or from anywhere'.

Which is true, for humans at least.

There is a reason for all of this.

On the North East corner of The Square there is a very unremarkable building. It is slender and nondescript, seeming to shrink from the buildings on either side, so much so that for anyone walking pass, it is easily, readily, and often unnoticed.

There is a sign somewhere, perhaps on Google Earth, that proclaims this building to house The Golden Seamstresses, although the sign is not really intended as an invitation, and certainly not for humans. In any case, the door is merely a façade, a pretence that has never, ever functioned as the entrance. On any occasion when someone has erroneously posted clothing through the letterbox hoping for it to be mended (optimistic for a cheaper price than from the nearby Row), the package is often later found back on the street, or on one of the benches, (on one occasion it was on top of the statue in The Square) unopened and discarded. This has led to some very unfavourable Yelp reviews.

"No customer service!"

"Would give 0 stars if I could!"

"Starbucks across the road is the only good thing here."

And so on.

It doesn't matter. This building is not now, nor has it ever been, intended for human entry.

For those beings that can enter however, entry points do exist of course, becoming visible momentarily throughout the day or year or millennia. One is from a loose reed on a market stall in Marrakesh, one through a particular pane of glass at approximately three minutes past midnight on the third face of the Louvre Pyramid. One is nestled between a crack in a brick on the outdoor sauna of a family homestead in Finland, one is in the golden fleck of a glass eyeball of a teddy bear passed down through generations which miraculously and unquestioningly never seems to fray or unruffle or be torn apart despite generations of play and tumble. There is even one entrance which exists through a grain of sand on the ocean floor. And there are a dozen others besides, scattered across the globe which periodically become visible for brief seconds over time.

For some reason however, Castiel always seems to prefer this one point from this one place. He has no way of knowing of course, that he almost always choses this entry point, in almost every iteration of his fate.

Back in The Row, atop the tallest and oldest building, Castiel stood and patiently waited for the light to illuminate his path. When it happened, it was for only a fraction of a second; the sunlight came through at just the right angle, illuminating the true pathway into the building in The Square as though a tightrope of shimmering photons had suddenly become visible. In that instant he flew, following the photons through the sliver of the gap, the path already rapidly fading at his heels as he shot over the trees and slipped in to the quickly receding doorway of the house of The Golden Seamstresses. From this hemisphere, at this time, it was the only way in.

The entrance didn't really matter though, since the inside was the same no matter how you got in. Once through the doorway, Castiel found himself standing in the middle of a courtyard. If the architecture had to be described using human terms, Ancient Grecian was the closest approximation. Large marble pillars wrapped in vines overflowing with grapes, lined both sides of the courtyard, marking a vague boundary through which a suspicion of cultivated shrubbery, olive groves and cypress trees could be discerned. The horizon beyond that immediate landscape however could have easily been finite or infinite, it was impossible even for Castiel with his celestial sight to discern, because the edges of the courtyard beyond the pillars and hedging and suspicion of trees blurred into a golden light through which it was impossible to see. Even behind him, there was only that defused golden light, obscuring any evidence of an entrance or exit. But that didn't really matter, because the only point of interest for Cas was the altar immediately ahead. It was a stone plinth covered with a translucent golden fabric which seemed to undulate as he moved towards it. Despite knowing that he had never been here before, as Cas strode towards the altar, he felt a strange sensation of familiarity overcome him. He dismissed it as some quantum flux, but it seemed to resonate through him, nonetheless.

The plinth was bare save for the fabric covering, which was of an indescribably fine weave and luminescent as though radiating its own light. This was the Altar of Supplication, and he had intended initially to bring the traditional offerings of almonds and veal, milk and honey. But when he had mentioned this to Dean in passing, the hunter had looked truly appalled, and had somehow managed to convince Cas that three large Elvis Burgers with triple sides (including honey glazed Buffalo wings), extra-large Honeycomb shakes and three large pecan pies with fresh whipped cream and three large black coffees would be a far better offering. Now however, as Cas placed the food on the dais, he suddenly wondered what on earth had possessed him to listen to the human in a matter as serious as this.

But it was done and there was nothing he could do.

He stepped back, holding his now empty hands out to either side and spoke to the vacant golden space around him.

"I come before you with these humble offerings, oh weavers of fates and time, that you may grant me the favour of an audience and bestow upon me the wisdom of your counsel, as you so choose."

He felt pompous in saying those words but equally, he couldn't deny that as he waited, he felt a slight trepidation too. Facing the Fates was no slight matter. They were more powerful than an angel, at least an angel of his order, and he hadn't exaggerated when he had complained to Dean of their temperament. While it was true that they were bound by certain rules, they still had the power to wipe him from existence if they felt he was a hindrance in some way. And they might decide his questions and his strange offerings to be enough of a hindrance to warrant his cessation.

He couldn't be sure of how long he waited; in this space, time held no meaning, but eventually he became aware of three voices gradually approaching him, seemingly from all sides.

"Who is it? Who intrudes upon us?"

"What has it brought? What does it bring?"

"Oh but I'm so sick of almonds and veal! Let's remove it and be done with it."

"No, no! Wait! Look! It's the angel!"

"The angel? The angel!"

"What has it brought? What is it this time?!"

As the initial despondence swung to excitement the three fates materialised on the other side of the dais, assuming, much to Cas' surprise, humanoid appearance. They eyed the bountiful fare, almost skipping around the plinth, laughing as they picked at the various offerings, until finally they turned to face Castiel.

"You always bring-"

"-such wondrous things,"

"Castiel."

"And this-"

"-is the best-"

"-so far!"

Although they spoke as one and although the singsong cadence of their sentences flowed harmoniously from one to the other, their looks were not identical in any way. Castiel's gaze passed from one to the other, wondering which one he should address, and they seemed content to wait patiently for him to decide. He settled on the youngest looking Fate, who had finished the last sentence. For some reason, he felt most at ease addressing her, as though there was some pre-existing connection between them, though he knew that wasn't the case so he couldn't say why he would feel such a thing.

"I am not aware that I have ever visited you or brought any offerings before," he stated cautiously.

"Oh you always say that," she replied cheerfully, reaching behind her to scooped up a handful of beer battered onion rings.

"But then you always appear."

"Each time with something good."

"Except the times–"

"You don't listen to your hunter."

"Then it's just dull old honey."

"And nuts."

Again, it was the youngest who spoke last, and again Cas addressed her, giving the others a respectful glance.

"So this has happened before?"

"Of course it has."

"But never quite the same."

"Yet you always ask the same questions."

"And you are never content-"

"-with the answers received."

Cas thought about this, slightly startled. "What questions do I ask?" he queried, after a pause.

"You always want to know-"

"-if time has been changed."

"And then you always want to know-"

"Why?"

"When?"

"Who?"

"But it will never matter."

"You cannot undo it."

"Until it is undone."

"Any more than you can change it."

"Until it reforms unchanged."

"You must simply exist-"

"As must everything."

"Until the thread is done."

"So, something has been changed?" Castiel asked, brow furrowing in concern as he tried to unpick what they had said.

For once, all three answered in unison. "Yes."

"But you've remedied it?" Castiel pressed, knowing it was part of the Fates' role to ensure nothing altered the natural flow of time and destiny.

"No."

"Nor will we."

"Things are-"

"-as they will be."

"I don't understand," Castiel admitted, not hiding his confusion. "If something or someone has changed the course of time, changed the course of nature, then surely you will fix it? Surely you will remedy things and return events to their natural order?"

"When it is in a creature's nature-"

"-to change the course of time,"

"then it does not go against nature-"

"-when the course of time is changed."

Castiel took a moment to let that sink in, but even then, he felt none the wiser for it.

"Are you saying," he asked cautiously, wary to censor any accusatory tone from his voice. "That something has happened that has changed the course of events, but that you will do nothing to fix what has happened? Or to return things to how they originally were? To how they should be."

Despite his precaution, two of the Fates seemed to bristle at his words. The third however, the one he had assumed to be the youngest and with whom he felt that inexplicable sense of acquaintance, stepped forward and intervened.

"Castiel, we will not fix things which are not broken. Things will be as they were meant to be, no matter what may have changed in your reckoning. What you perceive as disparate strands, we know to interweave as an intricate tapestry. And the tapestry is not yet complete."

She had led him a few steps away from the others, and she smiled at him as though she had bestowed upon him a great pearl of wisdom. Castiel assessed her for a moment, noting her mannerisms which seemed to reinforce the familiarity he had sensed the moment he had entered, and he thought of how they had reacted to his entrance.

"This really is not the first time I have been here, is it?" he surmised at last, speaking the question though already acknowledging it as a fact.

The Fate tilted her head to study him, a slight smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

"No," she confirmed. "But this is the quickest you have ever come to the realisation."

"How many times have I been here before?" Cas queried, becoming aware of the growing sense within him of missing memories and forgotten knowledge.

Rather than answering straight away, she lifted a hand to stroke the side of Castiel's cheek, a gesture that seemed overly forward and familiar to the angel and he startled a little at the touch, unsure of what exactly it was that was transpiring between the two of them. As her fingers lingered, he felt a strange sensation, as if their molecules and atoms were exchanging histories and futures; paths already travelled and possibilities as yet unexplored.

"Many times," she eventually replied softly. "More times than there are words to recount."

Cas shook his head lightly, frowning at his inability to remember, but she seemed unconcerned as she continued.

"Sometimes you are here for an age, others we barely blink, and you have gone. Sometimes your thread weaves an ugly path. But then you are righted, before all is unpicked, undone, and you return, and the thread is laid out before me once more. I have woven your fate for longer than you can know Castiel. And through some of those paths, you and I have much we have shared. But it is not for me guide the thread, only to weave the path you choose."

Cas thought about this for a moment. It was a revelation that even angels were beings capable of free-will, capable of dictating the course of events. The concept seemed to be at odds with what he had been taught, and he wasn't sure how he felt about making his own choices. He'd thought only Lucifer had done that. "So," he began cautiously. "Our choices determine our path?"

"And yet sometimes, no matter the path, our fate is inescapable," she smiled. "No matter what we choose."

"What is my fate?"

"In this? It is to understand, to remember in the end what will happen, once and for all, before it is undone for the final time. And then, when others un-know, you will know what has been."

Her eyes seemed to glow for a second and Cas knew there was a connection between them that went deeper than he understood, deeper than he remembered. But then her hand fell from his cheek and with it all sensation of multiple histories on the brink of his memory receded from his grasp.

"But alas we see the end approaching."

"You said this has happened many times before. So, do you mean to say whatever has been written, is about to be rewritten again?"

"There are only so many times a thread may be woven and unpicked and woven again, before the thread becomes bare and frayed. I doubt we shall meet again in this."

"Then tell me this much at least," he insisted, almost desperately, Dean's self-doubts of being Michael's vessel and the disarray in Sam's life all pressing at the forefront of his thoughts. "Whatever that has happened, whatever that has been changed, has it altered Dean's fate? Has it changed his path? Or Sam's? Is it his fate that has changed? Does it have anything to do with them? With any part of their lives?"

"Sometimes we arrive at the same destiny, no matter which road is travelled, no matter which path is seen. There are others who will also soon learn this. Others who–"

"Sister," cautioned the tallest and most severe looking Fate, presumably the eldest. She momentarily paused from slurping her giant milkshake. "It is not your place to guide nor lead. Take heed, lest you falter."

The youngest Fate inclined her head towards the alter in acknowledgement but didn't move away from Cas immediately.

"My sister is wise in her counsel," she conceded. "I cannot guide nor lead you. I will not give you answers," she paused for a fraction before continuing. "I will not say to you how your hunter's mother died. Nor would I tell you of his father that night, whether he should have been there alive, or whether he should have died, years before. I would be out of place to reveal who did this to them. These things, only some could know. Though these answers you could have if you sought these answers out. And yet none of these would change what is to come. What is and what will always be. What you will remember."

"And what is that?" Cas demanded. "What is to come?"

"The undoing. The end. The remembering." Her gaze lingered on him a moment more, intensifying somehow, before she finally stepped back to join her sisters.

When she had retaken her place among them, the eldest spoke again.

"What is done, is done," she intoned. "It will not be undone by any power we possess. When nature is not betrayed, it is not our place to interfere. And neither is it yours, angel. If you do so, know that you will suffer our wrath. For things are as they will be as they have been as they always would be."

"Can you then at least tell me what has been altered?" Cas demanded, becoming despondent at the lack of clear information. "What event? When? Or by who?"

"We can," said one.

"But we will not," said another.

"So there is nothing more to say," said the eldest.

Before Cas had a chance to respond, he was flung from their domain and thrown back out into the world, left hurtling through the air, staring at the streets of London sprawled beneath him, its hordes of denizens as oblivious of him as he was of the answers he had been tasked with finding.


tbc.

Thank you for reading.

I sincerely apologise for the delay in getting this one out. As is probably obvious, I struggled a lot with this chapter and the one before. We're getting dangerously close to chapters I haven't yet written, though I did just finish the final chapter, so that's good. I think there might be about 10 or so left to go (give or take), and I've only got 4 or so yet to write, so don't worry! It will get finished.

-oOo-

Kathy, Shazza and LongLiveBRUCAS - Thank you guys so much for sticking with me. I'm sorry for the delay, but I appreciate you taking time to comment. Ah, LLBRUCAS, I shoe-horned Sam's justification and motives in at the last minute. I should have just left it alone, but oh well, you live you learn :-)

Shazza, I think I read somewhere that Jensen originally auditioned for the Sam role? I just can't imagine that. I also read that Michael Weatherly (Logan in Dark Angel) based his portrayal of Tony in NCIS on Jensen's Alec. Not sure how I feel about that one, as Tony used to bug the hell out of me, though I suppose I can see the similarities. And I saw the trailer for The Boys Season 3 today! It was... interesting. Am totally with you though, really looking forward to seeing Jensen act again! I've not seen anything of Walker, but that's a shame if it's not so great.

-oOo-

AN: Charles Dickens did write that about the square, mentioning it twice, very briefly; once in David Copperfield, and the other in Nicholas Nickleby.

AN: On an unrelated note, there's a hairdressers in London (on Theobalds Road) called Castiel's. On a very short side-street almost directly opposite (called Bedford Row), there is a building called Winchester House (I kid you not - you can see it on Google Earth Street View). It happens to be right next to The Society of Authors (I mean, come on!... Men of Letters by any other name?). Towards the end of this very short side-street, there is a metal manhole cover with the word 'COLT' embossed on it (I choose to believe that this cover is made from pure iron...). If you go to the end of this side-street, pass through a little alley and cross the road, there is a building with a plaque on it which says Hunters (I am absolutely serious - again, visible on Google Earth Street View). Pass this, the path opens up to a green park, across which there is the Hunterian Museum (OK, so this one is allegedly named after John Hunter, the Scottish Surgeon, but it contains grisly and bizarre specimens, human and non-human (think oddities in jars etc.), as well as other strange books and 'artifacts' - sounds like the Bunker to me).

I was working opposite Castiel's one day. A friend later sent me a screenshot from Misha's Twitter feed, a selfie he'd taken and posted earlier that day from in front of Castiel's (if you search Google images for Castiels London, it comes up). I could have looked out the window and seen him taking it. I could have run out onto the street and rugby tackled him if I'd only looked up or if I was on social media. He had a lucky escape, is all I can say :-/