Author's Note: This devil would just NOT stop growing. It kept demanding to be longer. The flow was unstoppable. Like a uterus on its menzies. It was not supposed to take this long to post, either. Dreadful thing. But here it is!

Translations at the bottom of the chapter once again, and also be sure to pay mind to the cited timeline of each section! ^_^

FALLEN

hey sister
know the water's sweet but blood is thicker
do you still believe in love, I wonder?
what if I lose it all?
oh sister, I will help you out
if the sky comes falling down for you
there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do

13 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

Hael was volatile at first.

They'd found her amid a massacre of slaughtered Croats, eyes wild and afraid. There was torment in every ragged breath she drew in, suffering apparent in the way her shoulders bowed. The crew had her surrounded, shouting amongst each other over the female angel poised for attack. She held an angel blade in each hand, and much of her form was overlaid with blood. The long ribbon of black hair that belonged to her vessel was tangled, and the dirt and grime smudged over her face only made the brilliant blue of her eyes stand out that much more. Even in human form, she appeared otherworldly. Already she had been faced with incredible devastation, and—between the dead Croats and the bodies of seven other angels they'd already found—she was clearly expecting another gruesome fight.

"Find an angel blade!" Yeager ordered to the crew.

Hael hissed and shrieked at them in her mother tongue, sending several men flying back with a mental shove. Someone handed Yeager a blade and another man was prepping a banishing sigil. While Dean and Sam were both elsewhere, following potential leads on the rumored First Blade, Yeager had assumed the role of commander. Resolute, he gripped the holy steel tight in his hand and pressed towards the threat.

The sigilist was shoved suddenly aside, nearly falling over himself as Castiel fought his way to the front of the group, shouting for the men to stand down. He had Yeager disarmed within seconds, tossing the blade angrily aside and into the waiting hands of Meg, who arrived with him. Her expression dared Yeager to try and take it back.

"I'm not losing any one of these men for a fucking angel, Cas!" he snarled instead, getting in the other man's face.

"Dean may have put you in charge of this mission, but an angel in the mix means it's my show now," Castiel delivered back, the assertive growl cutting any argument in half. There was a gritty urgency to the way he spoke and plainly evidenced in the tense cut of his shoulders. Castiel looked ready to fight, if it came to it, and he met the other man's eyes unflinchingly. "Now stand down before I put you on the ground."

He didn't even afford Yeager the chance to acknowledge the clear threat before he was already turning his back on him. Hael was still screaming, clearly terrified. Facing her, all previous trace of anger vanished from Castiel's expression and he held out his hands. "Etharzi!" he placated, raising his voice over hers.

Hael abruptly quieted as though a switch had been flipped, latching onto the single word. Her vivid stare arrowed to his, wide and startled.

Hael's vessel was small and slight, and her strength seemed out of place. Around her was an almost tangible cloud of pain. For well over a year, she had fought for survival in this alien place. Everywhere she turned, something was determined to kill her. Hael had not been to earth in several millennia, long before humanity tread where they presently stood. Alone and isolated for that long, harrowing year after the Fall, she'd finally found others of her kind only to see them butchered within the hour by their own kin. They'd banded together thinking that numbers would save them when, sadly, it only painted a larger target on their backs.

From the sidelines, Yeager shook his head. "This is too dangerous. Graceless bastard is out of his fucking mind."

"Don't remember anyone asking your opinion, cupcake," said Meg, having already tucked the blade safely away in her jacket. She looked on the scene with some measure of uneasiness, having little faith that this exchange would end peacefully. One wrong move, and that angel could snap and kill them all. Still… while she didn't trust angels as a rule, she did trust Castiel. She just hoped he knew what the hell he was doing.

Seemingly shocked into silence when all noise severed so abruptly, the crew stood back, practically choked with tension. Many of them still kept a ready grip on their own weapon despite any orders, dread nestling along their spines as the two angels, fallen and graceless, squared off.

"Monasci?" Castiel asked, approaching the other carefully as one would a wild animal. The angel said nothing, staring at him as though unsure of the threat he posed. Perceiving the suffocating wariness that plagued her still, he slowly drew out his own blade, laying it in the dirt at his feet in offering.

Behind him, Meg forcibly dug in her heels. She felt a galling pit of dread seize hold of her insides, and it took great effort to quell the urge to go to him after he'd rendered himself so stupidly at risk. Of all the featherbrained… She closed her eyes disparagingly, willing the fucking idiot to be careful.

"Monasci?" Castiel tried again.

"Hael," the angel replied, all guardedness faltering. Her frosty eyes thawed, flooded with uncertainty and confusion as they drifted from the surrendered blade back to his face. "Od ol?"

He placed a hand on his chest. "Castiel."

The effect was immediate and absolute. Invisible armor cracked and split, opalescent gaze no longer fighting a war within but now pouring grief. Heartbreak fell over her, and Hael seemed to crumble. "Esiasch," she whispered tearfully. Brother.

Unconsciously, she took a stumbling step forward in relief and Castiel stared at the damaged figure in front of him, despairing at what she'd been put through. "Hael. I heard your cries."

She looked him over now with clear, ardent concern. "Without… grace." English was clearly a struggle for her still, and her lips tripped inelegantly over the words. She felt brief abashment over the handicap, shamed at being rendered so unprepared. So limited. All these feelings, and each one more disorienting than the last…

First the terror and confusion that came with the Fall, then so much hatred and abject sorrow at seeing her brothers and sisters murdered by one of their own. In cold blood, and with such cruel, needless violence.

"I can still hear angels. I could still hear you."

"Killed them," Hael said. She looked at Castiel with a pained, haunted expression, one that cried out for any solace he could offer. Her voice, so thick and so laden with emotion, bore testament to the overwhelming sense of loss that had devastated her.

"Who did? Who killed these angels?" His voice held a clear note of anger, one that gave her pause. At her silence, Castiel pressed more gently, "Hael, who has done this?"

"Bartholomew." Her lament was briefly overshadowed by fear in speaking the name. Her eyes were downcast now, wounded gaze falling over the weapons she held in each hand. The blood there which she had drawn so inexorably. A new sensation filled her then, and Hael felt ruined. "We are all so ruthless and cold?"

Castiel recognized that dismal feeling as one he often harbored himself. "No, Hael," he said quietly, no longer caring their audience. And it wasn't a lie—not even a white lie. Because for every Bartholomew, there was a Samandriel. Brothers and sisters who gave him hope that they were so much more than just hammers. That they could be kind, gentle. Devoted to the safeguarding of humanity, the one true mission. The only mission that mattered.

Meg watched the two of them, enamored with the unexpected sense of kinship she felt. She knew this was something that Castiel struggled with, but to experience it in herself was startling. It left her introspective and a little… mired. So often she found herself thankful that she no longer required sleep, because if she'd had to face her unconscious thoughts or the dreams that came along with them, Meg wasn't sure she could weather such things. At least if she sought out a form of rest, she could do so in peace. Demons didn't dream. Dreams were a virtue of humanity, after all, and that was a classification she hadn't belonged to in a very long time.

"I'd like you to come with me," Castiel was saying. His words and demeanor were beseeching, and inwardly he prayed to whoever was listening that this angel would heed him. "We've built a sanctuary. If you come with us, I can help you."

Hael was looking at him as though she were terrified to believe him, lest her trust be broken yet again. She looked so small all of a sudden, so completely afraid and unwilling.

Castiel took a step closer, quelling that nagging fear that warned him against reaching out to yet another angel when past experience proved so disastrous. "There is a place for you, Hael."

"To fight?" she surmised wanly.

Her eyes showed such a vulnerability in them, like cracked ice. Castiel immediately shook his head, his refusal of that intense. "No. Not if you don't wish to. You can stay," he told her, voice quiet yet firm, "but you will never be forced to fight." There was an assuaging calm about him that was so disarming. It offered such security and hope, the words falling over her like a warm veil she could get lost in. "You can have a life."

Fresh tears shone in her eyes, rounded and pleading at him in a way she didn't know how to voice. "Virg," she whispered. Home. Hael wanted to go home.

Castiel's expression crumpled as hot pain stole through his heart. "I know," he told her softly.

"So many dead, Castiel. So many in agony." Her voice became like broken glass. Heavy tears rolled down her cheeks as he approached her, his hands closing gently over hers atop the blades, silently willing her to lay them down. "I still hear screams."

"I know. I know." Castiel was already reaching out, drawing her into his arms and embracing her tightly. Hael let out a shattered breath and collapsed against him with heavy despair. "Olani oai moooah. Ocaoa," he said, anguished at the way she began to unravel. I am sorry. Forgive me.

The tender gesture seemed only to further loosen the floodgates to the torrent of emotion pouring out of the crippled angel. Hael wept inconsolably against him, the two angel blades hitting the dirt at their feet. "Noib," she managed to say, repeating the word several times between cries. Yes.

Overhead, clouds gathered in physical manifestation of the suffering display. Rainfall cascaded down in a light mist that was as cleansing as it was rueful, and raw, unbridled grief devoured her as gasping sobs wracked her small frame. Even still, through the haze of bereavement, Hael felt an incredible sense of amity, like a great weight had been lifted from her. She felt enveloped with the intrinsic realization that now, finally, she was safe.

"Fetharsi, esemeli," Castiel soothed in a quiet hush. Be at peace, sister. His voice broke over the words, betraying his own distress and how affected he really was. "Blior." Have comfort.

Everything was gone in that moment except the feel of her trembling shape as she clung to him. Hael was in so much pain and he didn't know how to help her carry it, only that he needed to help her. Castiel was clinging, too—allowing himself to confront the sorrow he felt as the guilt and misery spiraled through him.

"Teloah," Hael whispered against him through her tears. Death. "Telocvovim." Fallen.

Castiel cradled his frightened, grieving sibling close. Trapped in the body of an adolescent girl, plagued by the devastating shift of environment and the loss of so many kin, Hael could do little else but stand crying in her brother's arms and trust that he possessed the convalescent strength to keep her afloat.

"Ol niisa." I will come. "Help. Please."

Castiel smoothed a hand over her hair, closing his eyes. "Blasn cnila," he promised, holding tight. His own vitality was reinforced that day and, somehow, he knew he would not let her down. Could not let her down. "I will fix this, little sister."

The sky eventually cleared that day, the sun breaking through the cloudbanks with scalding fingers. Its light had almost gotten lost behind the shroud, but soon gray faded to white, white flashed gold, and the warm rays finally reached down to where Hael stood as she became the first angel at Camp Chitaqua.

dead angels speak to me sometimes
giving me advice that I should hear
wine spills in my blood tonight
blood spills in my mouth

20 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

Dust swept across his face in the wind, biting at his eyes.

Even the opaque shield of the sunglasses he wore offered little protection against the gathering bowl storm. Castiel frowned, a muscle working in his jaw. It reminded him too much of ash. Even in the choked atmosphere, he could still make out the smell of burnt ozone. Under the sun's oppressive heat, he stood among an amassment of bodies. Sightless eyes of empty vessels stared up at the cloudless sky, the charred imprints of wings fanning out at the their backs. Without feathers, the markings were merely skeletal, which somehow made the sight all the more haunting.

At least twenty dead.

It was a dark mirror of another time. He'd stood in a field of his dead brethren once before, although he had been the executioner then. Castiel considered the bodies before him now, feeling an erratic anger swell from deep within himself that had no clear target. He held suspicions of who was responsible for such butchery, but, even if he was right, he was no closer now to finding Bartholomew than he had been months ago.

On his own for nearly a week, searching for angels proved yet again fruitless. Meg had argued her involvement for days before he'd gone out alone, and now he almost wished he'd taken her with. Holding parleys with angels when you had a demon at your side was nothing if not ill-advised, and yet, despite the rationale behind such a decision, Castiel was pining after her now. The surrounding death left him desolate and resentful, more importantly in need of distraction.

His head pounded, a steady thrum of pain that was developing into a real problem. With it, he felt fatigue. His body protested the strain he'd put over it these past few days, muscles aching in a mild way that would later get worse. Castiel knew the bottle in his jacket pocket was empty. He'd just have to make do without its contents until he returned to camp.

He'd noticed the stag a few minutes ago, watching him from about twenty meters away as it grazed on what little vegetation it could find. His bow was already in hand, arrow notched but not drawn back. Castiel considered over the possible meal, feeling the telltale pull of hunger on his insides. This course of action also meant building a fire, harvesting the meat to cook, and disposing of the remains. Once more, Castiel's eyes fell over the bodies at his feet and he felt a certain reluctance. Exhaling heavily, they dragged back up to the animal that was still watching him as though it recognized his dilemma. Perhaps it even hoped the hunter might go through with it, if the ribs showing through the hide were of any indication.

No. Enough blood had been spilled today.

Castiel returned the arrow to its resting place and slung the bow back over his shoulder, affording the stag a final look before turning away and heading in the direction of his vehicle. Despite that his stomach was empty, he had no real appetite. He opened the back door of the jeep, tossing in his pack and weapons before he climbed into the front seat, wincing a bit when he closed the door behind himself. It was hotter in the confined space, and his headache flared. Castiel's fingers gripped tightly over the steering wheel to still their shaking, and he leaned forward to rest his forehead against the leather. It sat in shade afforded by the roof, and so it was cool against his skin.

He let out a long sigh, closing his eyes.

After awhile, he keyed the ignition and shifted the vehicle into drive, turning the wheel towards home.

wine spills in my blood
and your blood spills in my soul
you have no control
you have no control

Not far away, another figure dragged itself painstakingly through the dirt.

His form was battered and his body broken. Overhead, a small murder of crows circled, cawing anxiously. That was as close as they dared get to the creature. The town itself was small enough and abandoned, but in his current state everything felt miles away in distance. In between ragged breaths, the man pulled himself under the cover of the closest shade he could find. There, beside the crumbling wall of the alley, he lay slumped for several minutes.

With great effort some moments later, he propped himself upright, leaning his weight against the stone and mortar. He tipped his head back and exhaled a deep, shuddering breath, allowing himself brief respite before he glanced down at the body he wore. His side was a mass of fiery pain, which was becoming quite the struggle to endure. Carefully, he peeled back the disheveled suit jacket, exposing the angry wound that bled a reverberant, pulsing light into the hot afternoon.

A great measure of disheartenment filling him, the material was placed back gingerly over the evidence of his dwindling strength. His voice was too weak now. He would need to regain his bearings.

And hope that his enemies continued to believe him dead.

after the storm I run and run as the rain comes
on my knees and out of luck, I look up
night has always pushed up day
you must know life to see decay
but I won't rot, I won't rot
not this mind and heart, I won't rot

The little girl's name was Aubrey. She couldn't have been more than five. Currently, she was chasing after a group of other children, all of varying ages, and their boisterous laughter favored the camp with a more jovial façade than the grim atmosphere it usually carried. They kicked up dry leaves and tore around the cabins, dashing into the main path that connected the camp.

Aubrey stumbled suddenly over a rift in the ground, but before she could fall, she was quickly swooped into the air by a pair of arms. The child emitted a squeal of delight as she was embraced, kicking her feet out, and Hael's laughter bubbled over in chorus with the children's as they crowded around her. The young angel was always a willing participant in their games, adored like a sister among them and practically the camp's only means of childcare.

Many of them had no living parents. Many were just orphaned survivors taken in by the camp's inhabitants, or refugees that had been rescued while the crew was out on supply raids. No matter their story, the world as it was now was no place for a child. Hael had taken so quickly to the little ones, caring after them almost as though they were her own.

She lifted Aubrey high, steering her after the others, and the girl shrilled uproariously at the new advantage of height. Castiel had paused at the scene on his way back through the camp, the sight drawing a meager smile out of him despite his mood.

Aubrey had a head of wild, auburn hair that was endearingly in the way of everything more often than it was not. Given that and the similar budding mannerisms, Castiel was at times reminded of Ananiel. The fallen Watcher.

Anna.

Yet another sibling lost because of him. Castiel often found himself wishing that he could have saved her. They'd always been so disconcertingly alike, and there was a time when he would have given anything to be just like his elder sister. But then she'd torn out her grace and abandoned them all for the promise of free will. Even after turning her in, Castiel knew they were still so much more alike than he cared to admit.

He'd fallen to fight for humanity, Anna fell to become humanity. Ultimately though, they both fell in love with what they found.

Looking back on himself in those days, Castiel couldn't help but think how utterly young he'd been, which of course was absurd. Seven years stood between that version of himself and the Castiel of now, but such an extent of time was nothing compared to the lifespan of an angel. Seven years was a millisecond, less even, and yet how much had he changed over that brief course of time?

He was drawn out of his dismal thoughts by the sight of Hael beckoning him over. "Join us!" she called to him, and there was a carefree smile splitting her face that belied all the tribulation she'd had to endure this past year.

Hael was happy, and for that, Castiel was glad. "Tomorrow," he promised, intending to retire to his cabin.

"Cassie!" rang the sudden excited shriek as Aubrey scrambled out of Hael's arms with complete lack of grace and came running to assault him with a hug. "Cassie! Cassie! Cassie!"

She collided with Castiel's legs and threw her arms around him happily.

When they'd found her a little over six months ago in an open quarantine zone, Aubrey wouldn't speak. Nobody was ever quite sure what she had seen or the extent of what she'd been through, but the child was mute for the better part of two months after they'd taken her in. Castiel remembered carrying her over fifty miles that day. He remembered the Croats nearly decimating them, being covered in sweat and dirt and too much of his own blood, and then hauling aside the fallen sheetrock to scavenge and seeing her there. He remembered being terrified out of his mind and not knowing what the hell to do as this child stared up at him silently, huddled against the dirty floorboards, and him thinking she was too small, too fucking small, to be put through such hell. He'd gathered her into his arms without a word. A few miles over, they'd found more children. With their vehicle broken down, the six man crew shepherded their new passengers on foot under the oppressive heat for the remainder of the journey back. Yeager and Irv each carried a child. Sam had one tucked into each side, another boy named Thomas trailing beside him with a two-year-old in his tiny arms. There was only one other girl, Sophie, who saw Meg and instantly reached out her arms with tears in her eyes. Castiel remembered Meg leaving the majority of her weapons behind so that she could carry her.

Dean had brought up the front of their slow-moving caravan, leading as well as safeguarding against any threat that arose. It had been a torturous few days and nights, but they had survived.

Nowadays, Aubrey never seemed to stop talking. Castiel again found himself smiling, unable to help it as the child's joyfulness was infective, and he rested a hand over her head and little shoulder. "Hello, Aubrey."

She began babbling to him about her day, with the extreme and insightful enthusiasm as only a small child could manage. Hael had ultimately been the one responsible for the girl's voice returning. Castiel wasn't sure there was any real method of healing involved, since Aubrey's mutism had been emotional and not physical, but Hael had immediately taken to her. The pair bonded over their mutual disability, as Hael rarely spoke herself in those earlier days, since she knew so little English.

Somehow, they'd developed their own way of communication, one that eventually lead to Aubrey saying her first word ever at Camp Chitaqua—Hael. In time, that bond allowed Hael to become less introverted and not so timid with her surroundings and peers. She grew more vocal, learned and adapted quickly to not only Aubrey's speech patterns, but those of an adult's. The marvel stretched both ways, too, because Aubrey was becoming increasingly fluent in Enochian. They'd taught each other, showing one another how to speak, what to say, how to live in the world again.

Esezomi, Aubrey called Hael. Castiel remembered the angel teaching it to her, both of them sitting cross-legged and opposite each other, one tiny hand pressed up against the palm of the young vessel. Sounding out the word, expressions lighting up into smiles as it was spoken successfully and with utmost sincerity. Dearest friend.

Hael loved Aubrey, and Aubrey positively adored Hael. They were inseparable now, their companionship profoundly touching.

"You're still it, Aubrey!" Sophie called, bouncing in her sandals and showing off a megawatt smile.

Aubrey was dashing off again, launching herself into the mob of other children, and Hael laughed helplessly at their antics, moving to stand beside Castiel. The effervescent group wondered after her and Hael assured them she'd join in again soon.

Turning then, much of the previous joy dissolved from her face and she looked on her sibling with somber eyes, reading his mood as though he were a book. "There were more dead today, weren't there?"

Castiel merely nodded, his lips forming a grim line.

Hael lowered her eyes and bowed her head, the gesture as much a measure of respect and acknowledgement of the loss as it was a moment to gather her composure. When she looked back to him, her expression was heavy. "Do you think it was Bartholomew?" she asked softly, dreading the answer and yet needing to know.

Her brother's quiet anger was palpable. "Yes."

Hael felt it, too, unable to quash that inborn, vengeful ire that called out for wrath. "Something must be done," she reflected gravely.

Castiel shook his head, frustration apparent. "He's either blocking me, or is nowhere to be found. What else can I do?"

Hael searched his face, bright eyes seeking the words he was always so reluctant to say. She sought his counsel, respected his decisions, and generally looked up to him as a brother. He was a lighthouse to her in many ways, but his adversity to sharing his own internal trials with her was always worrisome. "Let it go?" she offered quietly.

Castiel stared at her as though she'd suggested something unthinkable. "What?"

Her fingers closed gently over his arm in a gesture of comfort. "You are human, brother. I can see how little sleep you get. You've fought enough for a lifetime." Hael granted him a brittle smile, one that faltered at the edges because she knew none of this was easy. Heaven, she knew. "Play with us, or go to your lover. Your friends. Be happy, if only for today. Forget just this once about the Fall and what the world has become."

Castiel regarded her, deeply moved by the words despite that he felt he had no right to what they promised. He shook his head, knowing such things were futile. "I can't be happy, Hael. Not doing nothing. Not while angels are still dying."

Hael's smile became bittersweet. "That is why we follow you, you know."

As well as herself, she spoke of the other angels at the camp, of the ones who had died for Castiel during the War, who would die for him still. So many of them were ready to serve as he served, to sacrifice for his cause. Hael willed this knowledge into him, to uplift him. To comfort him, as he had once for her. Too long he'd existed as an island; it was time he knew how valued his leadership was.

Castiel took her efforts gratefully to heart, his eyes softening in what was the beginnings of a smile. It reflected admiration and sadness back at her, the fleeting relief in his posture less onerous now. Reaching out, Castiel grasped her gently by the shoulder and drew her in to press his lips over her forehead. "Iasnovih, sister," he murmured in parting.

Hael felt peace in the familial gesture. She merely smiled at him in answer, watching him go.

"Castiel," she eventually called after his retreating back. When he turned, Hael said, "I would like to visit the Grand Canyon one day." Her head canted a bit, almost a mirror image of himself. It took a peculiar sort of courage to admit such a thing aloud, that she had a dream for the future. Somehow, though, she knew she could trust such a confession to him. "Would you come with me, if I did?"

Castiel nodded. "One day, Hael. I would go with you, yes."

Hael's beatific smile at that was lovely. She hurried back to the children then, immediately embraced by them and scaled like a tree as they piled onto her. Aubrey played with her long hair, chattering merrily in her ear as Hael lead them towards the mess hall for lunch.

Go to your lover.

Hael's words rang in his head, reminding him of his original objective. Castiel angled back towards the direction of his cabin, the thought of seeing her again after so long an infinitely pleasant one. As it happened, the walkie on his hip crackled to life then and, before a word was even spoken, he already knew who it was.

"An angel and a demon walk into a bar. What's the first one say?"

"Ouch," Castiel replied, as he lifted the walkie to his mouth.

Meg's silky laughter filled the channel. "Not bad. What are you wearing?"

"The blood of my enemies."

"One, if you're serious, that's hot. Two, if you're being a sarcastic little shit, I'm proud of you."

Amusement colored the smirk that Castiel wore. "Good to know."

The line crackled idly for a moment. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"No."

"Get your ass home already, would you?"

Home. Castiel briefly put the memory of his slain kin behind him. "I will see you soon, Meg."

He disconnected. Some of his bitterness evaporated and he let out a breath. With renewed resilience and more bounce to his step, Castiel bounded up the wooden stairs of the small porch.

She had a way of… fixing him.

man once sang to me
look at you saving the world on your own
flying along, I feel I don't belong
I can't tell right from the wrong
and you can't see the sky here at night
so I guess I can't make my way back

"We're gonna need to make at least two extra supply runs this week to cover medical needs," Charlie laid out, all business. Gone was the former computer hacker's timidity and skittishness, those traits replaced by a direct, methodical diligence and assertiveness that left her almost unrecognizable. When confronted with a world that did everything to tear you down, a person had to rebuild themselves or die. And since virtually everything technological was now obsolete, Charlie had put forth a disquieting amount of effort into reforging herself a new mold. She looked over the faces of her company as she relayed her sector's stock and reserves. Kevin stood at her side, adding his own two cents when necessary and backing her up if needed, which was rare.

"Toilet paper is running low again, too," he put in.

Dean shook his head. Under his breath, he wondered, "What is it with prophets and toilet paper?"

"Hey, man. You want a chaffed ass, be my guest. Not me."

Five people stood pouring over the maps and lore spread out across the table between them. Documents from the Men of Letters bunker littered the surface as well, but Dean kept the focus on supplies and weapons for this particular gathering.

"Garth, your sector need anything?"

The rawboned hunter shook his head. "Naw, we're still pretty stocked up. Could do with some books, though."

"Books?"

"People like to read, Dean. Not saying make a special trip, but if you come across some, more would be nice."

"Garth is right," Kevin said, liking the idea.

Sam and Charlie both nodded their agreement. "And the next run?" asked the latter of the two.

"Working on it," Dean said absently, his tone bordering on impatient. "Once we get a crew lined up, I'll let you all know. Right now we're dealing with some other concerns that take precedence."

Charlie frowned. "Okay, well… med supplies. Sort of a big deal."

"Charlie. I heard you."

"Do these 'other concerns' have anything to do with all the lore you have lying around?" she asked, crossing her arms and eyeing the tabletop pointedly.

"Well, Cas is back now," Sam activated, interjecting so as to avoid any possible arguments. Dean looked like he was gearing towards a camp-wide putdown, his mood about as amicable right now as a damn bear. He may as well have had actual hackles on the back of his neck. Sam went on, addressing the group. "That means more viable manpower. We could take him, Meg, and one of the angels maybe, sometime in the next day or so."

"I could go with," Kevin put in.

Dean shook his head, his tone indicating the decision was final. "Not a chance. I already told you—you're a sentry, not a field scout."

"Whatever," Kevin sighed.

"We good?"

Three various confirmations met his words and Kevin, Garth, and Charlie all took their leave and began filing out of the cabin. Charlie aimed a final look over her shoulder at Dean, saying nothing although the unspoken intent was loud and clear. He met her eyes rigidly, offering nothing in response—unspoken or otherwise.

"Map out the runs sometime tomorrow?" Sam asked, once they were alone.

"Probably won't send anybody out until Friday," Dean vaguely acknowledged, sliding over one of the outlines to his brother. "What day is it even? Sunday?"

"Tuesday," said Sam. "What about Cas and Meg?"

Dean's engrossment of such matters was nonexistent. "We'll worry about Megstiel later. First we deal with this," he said, moving some papers aside to reveal an inscription pertaining to the Knights of Hell.

Sam glanced his way over the plans, wishing his brother would devote more initiative to the weekly missions than to chasing rumors. Castiel and Meg often ran their own show, so it would've been prudent to find out if they had any more missions of their own that week that could interfere with supply runs. "Don't you wanna know what they're doing?"

Dean naturally took his innocuous meaning and turned it sideways. "I never wanna know what those two are doing."

but oh my heart was flawed I knew my weakness
so hold my hand consign me not to darkness
you can't tempt me if I don't see the day

Meg slammed Castiel up against the wall, his shirt already torn open. His back struck the paneling hard and he groaned into her mouth.

"You derive too much pleasure out of throwing me around," he panted when she gave him the chance. He'd barely gotten the words out when she was already back to devouring him, her small hands practically shredding the shirt from him completely.

It was true, she wouldn't even deny it. Call it a demon's shortcoming at the prospect of tossing and angel—former or not—around like a ragdoll. Plus she'd always vowed to get him back for that ring of fire business, and she was still riding high over the fact that he'd played her over the walkie earlier. Little featherduster was becoming a natural. Gold star! "You can take it," Meg hissed against him, biting his lip hard. "And you like it."

"I think you cracked a rib," Castiel muttered, though she was right in that he was her willing victim.

Meg's smile was sharp against his throat, her tongue just as cunning at his pulse. "Baby."

Damn it, she knew he hated being called that.

Castiel growled, his hands gripping tight at the back of her thighs and hoisting her up. Meg's legs went avidly around his hips as he swung them around, slamming her into the dent his body had already left behind. She moaned with anticipation, in approval, fingers wrapped around his shoulders, nails digging in.

"Hurry up," she ordered him when he merely started dropping open mouthed kisses across her collarbone and neck. "I haven't seen you all week."

"I missed you, too," he murmured against her skin.

Meg gave his hair a disgruntled yank. "I didn't say that."

Castiel's laughter was deep and warm beside her ear. "Your eagerness was kind of a giveaway."

"Well you are good for sex."

"You missed me."

"Castiel, I swear to—"

His lips were on hers again, abruptly tender and without impatience. They were pliant and gentle against her mouth and Meg had half a mind to punish him for the move, but she was taken so off guard by it that her own fever simmered. At some point, her fingers were back at the base of his skull, curled in his hair, tugging softly. She felt his hand pressing against her neck, his thumb sliding along her jaw, and Meg laid her palm flat against his chest, over his heart. Still beating. Still human. Still so breakable.

Still thudding away for her.

Belongs to Meg, the tempo seemed to spell out.

Castiel leaned into her more fully, leaving her deliciously pinned but in a much different way than before. He made sure to leave no space between them. Her lips were abandoned then, to her disappointment, but the contact was soon replaced when Castiel rested his forehead on hers. His eyes slid shut, and he breathed her in deeply.

"I missed you," he whispered again.

It was a remark so loaded with meaning that Meg couldn't have missed it if she were deliberately trying to. Having her not there was a reminder of what life was like without her. What he'd become without her. It left him more shaken than Castiel dared admit, more than he ever would admit. He felt unbearably transparent, but made no effort to disguise what he wore on his sleeve. No more long missions on his own. No more supply runs without her at his side.

"I know, Grumpy," Meg whispered back, combing dark eyes over him carefully.

"Meg?" His eyes were still shuttered away from her, his brow still drawn together pensively.

"Mmm?"

"Don't ever go away again." It was almost a question, an earnest plea to take care of herself even when he wasn't there, even after he was gone. He needed her not to die. If he could stop it, he would. But he wasn't Superman anymore.

"You're stuck with little old me, Clarence, don't worry. Dug myself in like a tick," she gibed goodnaturedly, curling her nails into his flesh a bit for emphasis. Meg's smile was less saucy than usual, softer at the edges. Her eyes were pure chocolate earth—molten brown shining back at him in the low light of their cabin. "No getting rid of me now."

Castiel's eyes opened, and he stared back at her hungrily. "Good."

in a city of devils we live
I can feel the fire of the city lights burn
it's hard to find angels in hell
what if I wanted you here right now
would you fall in the fire burn me down

"The Men of Letters did say that the only thing strong enough to kill a Knight is the weapon used by the archangels to destroy them," Sam muttered, scanning over the parchment in his hand for clues.

"Yeah, well we're gettin' nowhere with this shit," Dean grated, shoving at a stack of books which toppled over onto the floor. "Following dead ends for months when that pompous prick was searching for decades. We have a good lead, Sam."

"Yeah, going off the word of Crowley."

Dean began to pace, not unlike a lion in a cage. "He wants the bitch dead as much as we do. And as much as he might be a giant rectal orifice with legs, he wouldn't lie about this."

Sam laughed without humor, shaking his head. "Some lackey of Crowley's gets wind of a protégé of Abaddon's who claimed knowledge of the First Blade. Yeah, that doesn't sound shady at all."

"Crowley said Dad nabbed the protégé, and he was right." Dean held up their father's journal between them to cement his point, then tossed it angrily across the table at his brother so that it skidded to a stop in front of him. "It says so right there, and there's a code in the margin for one of his storage lockers. We need to get to that unit."

Sam ran a hand over his mouth, sensing with great regret that this was to become toilsome. "Dean, that storage locker is on the other side of the country."

Dean circled back around, shaking his head as though it were nothing. "We'll take Cas, demon bitch number two, and a handful of men—whoever's willing, or just the four of us."

Sam was staring at him as though he'd completely lost his mind. "It's a suicide mission."

Dean looked him dead in the eye. "It's the First Blade, Sam. It's killing Abaddon."

The older Winchester's face had taken on the form of a masked thundercloud, banked fury lurking in every harsh line and stark shadow under the muted light. He looked utterly made of stone, and as unfeeling as it, too.

Sam faced the cold bulwark of his brother's temper head on. "Do you realize how many open quarantined zones stand between us and that storage unit? Too fucking many," he retorted, not giving Dean any time to answer. "Or what about looters? Monsters running off the leash with no hunters to regulate them? How about another band of cannibals, because that was fun. Or, hell, Dean—even Abaddon herself. She has demons posted everywhere! All up and down the east and west coasts, all over the countryside. How many hives have we found just in a hundred mile radius? I'm really glad this is all so black and white to you, Dean, or did you forget what happened the last time we tried to pull this off?"

Dean's callous stare inevitably went to the patch of cloth over Sam's right eye, a flicker of something akin to guilt buried there until it was replaced by malignant resolve. "Do I gotta repeat myself?" he began in a low, deceptively calm voice. It rose an instant later, transforming into a growl that would have made a lesser man quail. "It's Abaddon, Sam! Take a look around you. The world is in the toilet!"

Sam merely stared hopelessly at him, losing most of the fight he had, though not for reasons Dean would assume.

He wasn't afraid of his big brother, never really had been. He was afraid for him.

Sighing deeply and heavily, Sam looked at the one constant in his life while at the same time wondering just where the hell he had gone. "You're gonna get your best friend killed, and you don't even care. You're gonna get yourself killed, and you're gonna get me killed." The younger hunter shook his head, his voice quiet with unspoken accusation. "Which is a weird one-eighty, don't you think?"

Dean bristled at the incriminating overtones, a muscle working in his jaw. "Can we not?"

"Ignoring what you did doesn't make it go away, Dean."

"Really? Because if you stop talking about it, it's not there anymore."

Sam closed his eye, turning away in anger. "Damn it."

Dean spread his hands sardonically wide in response, conceding defeat for the moment. "Well, lemme here it then, Sammy."

Sam rounded on him, obvious hurt meshing with the resentment. "What, how you lied to me? It's not as if that isn't a recurring theme with you. I should at least be used to that."

"I didn't have a choice!"

"I was ready to die, and you tricked me into being possessed by a fucking monster."

Dean rolled his eyes. "It was an angel, Sam. Cut the dramatics."

So was Lucifer. Lucifer possessed him. Ruby manipulated him. Azazel put his blood in him against his will. Dean either couldn't or wouldn't understand that—and yet he was the one who was always supposed to understand. They took everything from him that made him Sam, and free will was all he had left. The fact that Dean was blind to that was as devastating as it was unbelievable.

Cut the dramatics.

"Really?" Sam bit back, quelling the hurt he felt. "Because Cas says he's a monster."

"I don't give a shit what Cas said, it's beside the point," Dean argued scathingly. "I'll find Gadreel and I'll put the son of a bitch down myself. You don't have to worry about that. And you know what, how about you kiss my ass? I don't care if you were ready to die, it wasn't in me to let you. So you're damn right, I did what I did. I saved you. I may not think things all the way through, but what I do I do because it's the right thing. I'd do it again."

Sam grimaced, frustration boiling. "And that is the problem. This stuff always comes back to bite us, Dean. You know that!"

"Then we'll deal with it when it comes."

His brother shook his head in vehement rejection of such an attitude. "You say that now, but—"

"Yeah, and I'll say it again."

"Dean, enough. You see? Even when you fuck up, you think what you're doing is worth it! Because you've convinced yourself you're doing more good than bad. But you're not!"

Dean clenched his fists and his next words were harsh and angry again. "You know what, Sam, it is worth it because I'm lookin' at you in the face right now. You're alive. If that makes you hate me, so be it. I don't give a shit. I'm poison, and you've always known that, so deal with. People get close to me, they get killed. That's just how it is. And you know what? I used to tell myself that I help more people than I hurt. That I was doing it all for the right reasons. I used to believe that. Now, I just don't care, you're right about that." Sam opened his mouth to object, but Dean barreled right over him. "Because putting Abaddon in the ground is bigger than all of us! I've got a camp full of twitchy trauma survivors out there with an apocalypse hanging over their heads! If I gotta feed some of them into a meat grinder to save the rest, then that's just how it is. It ain't pretty, but that's war."

Sam felt his righteous anger spill over out of pure desperation now. "These people count on you, they trust you—"

Dean stared back at him unflinchingly, and Sam thought it was like looking at a stranger. "They trust me to kill the Knight and to save the world. And that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

"No… no." Sam had no retort, much less a rebuttal to that. "Something's broken here, Dean. With you. With all of this. We just…" He gave a reluctant shake of his head, some of his own fortitude hanging like gossamer from his shoulders. "We don't see eye to eye anymore."

Dean's gaze was cold and flat, his voice carrying all the humanity of a dial tone. "Well, I still have both of mine. Maybe you lost some of your common sense when yours got taken."

Sam blew out a humorless, disbelieving laugh at the mordant dig. He looked away, searching for what he needed to say.

"Listen—"

"Goddamn it, I can't trust you, man. Don't you get it? I want to. I do. But tricking me? All this collateral damage you don't care about? I just can't. Not the way I should be able to." His words were frank, but no longer carried the anger and bitterness they had before. Sam was tired. Exactly how much so was evident in the tense bow of his heavy shoulders, the worried arc of his brow, and the thin line of his mouth. "I want you to reconsider going through with this. If you don't…? Yes, I'll still go with you. And goddamn it, they will too, because we're all just as out of our fucking minds right now as you are. But…" Sam's eyes were pleading, "just once. Be honest with me? Admit that you didn't save me for me. You did it for you."

Dean blinked, his scowl one of confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You didn't want to be alone. And you needed another soldier for this war. It all boils down to the fact that you can't stand the thought of being alone. You're willing to do the sacrificing, as long as you're not the one being hurt."

His brother's reaction to that was predictably caustic. "Alright, you wanna be honest, Sam? If the situation were reversed, and I was dying? You'd do the same damn thing. And you know it. So don't think you can sit up on your high horse and point fingers at me, because it's not going to happen."

This was still his operation. This was still his call. If Sam didn't like it, tough shit. Being the boss never got anybody friends, and that was just how it was gonna be.

Sam's next words, however, knocked him back a step.

"No, Dean. I wouldn't."

His brother stared at him, half in horror, which was ironic and sad. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

As Dean physically recoiled, Sam elaborated. "Same circumstances, this isn't about me not wanting to save you. You're my brother. I'd do anything for you, Dean. You know that. It's about choice. It's about free will. We need to be on equal ground here, and the way you look out for me is consuming and selfish and everything you are hinges on whether I'm alive or dead. Dean, I can't be like that. Same circumstances, I would put your choice before myself even if it killed me. I would rather be miserable and alone than take that away from you. I don't know how you don't understand that. You think us being brothers is a one way street, a cure all, but it isn't. I would die for you, but there's a line. Especially now, with all this shit we have to live with. You're right about one thing—this is bigger than us." Sam regarded him with penitence, trying to gauge how this conversation would end, and if it would end peacefully. Dean's expression was unreadable, emotionally devoid, which only had him further on edge. "We have to operate with the entire community in mind, now. They're counting on us."

Dean said nothing for a long time, the seconds ticking by agonizingly slow.

"Well, Sam," he began then, his composure misleading as the cold fury seemed to leave him. "You're in luck."

Sam's face fell as he recognized the signs of his brother shutting down.

"Because like I said," Dean went on dispassionately, "I don't give a shit anymore. All that matters is killing Abaddon. So piss and moan all you want about how I betrayed you, or about this mission. I. Don't. Care." His eyes were blank, his delivery toneless. "The mission stands. In or out, do whatever the hell you want."

Sam sighed. "Dean…"

"You heard what I said. Dismissed."

I burned all the good things in Eden
we were too dumb to run, too dead to die
and the world stood still
my mouth was a crib and it was growing lies
I didn't know what love was on that day
I'd kill myself to make everybody pay

Meg ran her fingertips gently down Castiel's back as he dozed. He was lying on his stomach, face pressed into the crook of his arm over the pillow. She knew he wasn't sleeping, but the waves of exhaustion drifted off of him like smoke. He made a soft noise when she pressed down a little harder over a particularly sore muscle. Her eyes roamed over his skin, falling on the long scar left behind from a machete blade that traversed from one shoulder to the opposite hip. It was finally starting to fade. He'd collected others over the past many months, but this was the worst of it.

All this lattice work of marks and yet she couldn't see the scars where his wings had been. There was just nothing.

Though it took a great deal of her pride to admit it, even to just herself, she missed those wings. Unlike a human, she could see them just as he could see her true face. Powerful, terrifying things. Beautiful things. Smoldering embers caught within their nebulous depths, Meg remembered him standing in a graveyard of burnt out husks, having just smote an entire horde of demons. She remembered being utterly incapable of looking away from the insurmountable and deadly beauty of those arching wings, furling at his back. Transcendental power had crackled around him in reply to her errant darkness, while she saw just how ashen their feathers were from all those sieges on harrow Hell.

Did she ever miss them.

"Nothing here anymore but flesh and bone, Clarence," Meg said quietly, the name somehow all the more accurate now.

Castiel breathed in deeply, saying nothing for a long time. Slowly then, rising up on his elbows and then his side, Meg felt his arm slip around her waist to pull her back against his chest. He was always so clingy when they were in bed, especially after they'd had sex. So irrationally desperate to be close to her and assure himself that she was very real and not going anywhere. Terrified that, if he woke up, she might be gone or it have all been a dream. That she'd be dead again.

Castiel may have said that he wouldn't keep her here if she chose to leave, but Meg would've bet the hellfarm that he would have followed her.

"Missed me, huh?" she needled goodnaturedly.

"Mm. I told you I did," he muttered back, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. He nuzzled the soft skin there, the fingers of his hand drawing tired patterns over her hip. Meg recognized the shapes, knowing that, if they were drawn in blood, they could bind and trap her. Payback, she supposed, for the time she once drew a sigil on his chest with mayonnaise while he slept. Castiel hadn't found it as funny as she did.

Meg twisted around in his arms so that she could look at him. "You know, I'm pissed at you." Castiel didn't seem concerned at all, which only caused her scowl to deepen. "Going on runs for Kevin and Garth is like being back on the rack. Just so you know."

"How terrible for you."

Her growl was more endearing than frightful. "What about you? Anymore halos at the camp?"

Castiel's gaze drifted away from hers. "No," he said quietly. Well, she knew what that meant. He diverted the topic impressively. "Any trouble while I was gone?"

"Your frat brothers behaved themselves," Meg assured him.

Sometimes having angels at the camp was a real asset, but there were times when such things backfired enormously. After all, throwing a bunch of supercharged egos into a confined space was about as well-advised as one might expect. The week before Castiel had left, a dispute had arisen between two male angels, each from separate factions. For hours, he'd mediated between the two—Meg catching enough pieces of the Enochian conversation to know that it would not end pretty.

Predictably, a fight had broken out not long after, which resulted in Castiel putting a blade between the ribs of the aggressor. With that threat nullified, he'd turned on the other then, spelling out in no uncertain terms that fighting in the camp would not be tolerated. Castiel wanted to save his family, but if it came down to it, he couldn't put the human cohabitants at risk for the sake of loose cannons. And while he may have had the mortal stench of humanity afflicting him now, Castiel was still very much the alpha and arbiter among the angels. No one ever challenged him after that day.

He was also aware that the only other angel whose company Meg actually enjoyed was Hael's. Their relationship was… strange, and somewhat endearing.

"This dark thing… she is a demon," Hael said upon their first encounter, considering the creature before her with an odd measure of curiosity and bewilderment. She looked back at Castiel once more. Demon, her eyes seemed again to tell him, wondering if he might be confused.

"Meg is my friend, Hael. She saved my life. You can trust her."

Hael looked uncertain, and perhaps a little like she thought her brother was insane. But then she'd stunned the both of them.

"Then she is my friend, too."

Meg's reaction to that was predictably anticlimactic. "Yay. An angel gal pal," she deadpanned, but it was sincere in a way that surprised him. Maybe even surprised herself.

The walkie beside the bed crackled to life suddenly, interrupting the halcyon quiet that hung communally between them. That particular one only ever utilized the private channel shared between the brothers and Castiel, and so it came as an inconvenient surprise that demanded his attention. It was supposed to be an emergency line, although Dean frequently liked to abuse it whenever he felt the need. "Hey. Iceman," came the predictable voice of the oldest Winchester, although the tone was clipped and dripping with displeasure. "Put some pants on and get over here for a mission briefing."

Oh, superb. Dean was pissed about something and unapologetically prepared to be a hostile pain in the ass.

Castiel groaned, shutting his eyes in irritation.

"Oh, look. Your mother's calling," Meg snipped.

Detangling himself from his companion, Castiel rolled over and plucked the walkie from the small stand with a little more force than required. "I'm busy, Dean."

"Yeah, I don't really care. Tell your demon girlfriend she can play with your angel blade later, we've got more important things right now."

"Whatever it is, it can wait," Castiel argued. "I've just returned from my own things. I haven't slept in over thirty-six hours, I'm hungry, and you're annoying me."

"Hear that? That's the sound of my invisible violin."

Castiel's face scrunched up in agitated bewilderment. "What?"

"It's an expression, dumbass. It means I couldn't give two shits."

"Well, we're in agreement, then."

"Castiel, so help me, if you don't—"

The walkie was tossed away to the other side of the room, clattering against the wall loudly. Castiel sank back into the pillows with a surly growl, running his hands over his face in exasperation. "What crawled up his ass?" Meg chimed mordantly beside him.

"I don't know," Castiel muttered from beneath his hands, not even addressing the idiom.

He looked so completely human in that moment, and Meg realized then how often she forgot that he was. She skirted her nails lightly across his ribs, where she knew he was sensitive. "Want me to kick his ass?" He flinched a little under her ministrations, shying away from them. Meg's fingers chased him. "Please let me kick his ass?"

His breath came out in a short huff of laughter, hand snatching at hers. "Meg."

She watched him as he sat up, muscles bunching in his stomach and shoulders, and her mouth pinched into a thin line at his laughable predictability. "You're going, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm going," he grumbled petulantly—clearly as pissed with himself as he was with Dean.

Meg lounged back into the sheets, dark hair spilling over his pillow as a consummate reminder of what he was leaving behind. "You know, your being a windup toy would be adorable if it weren't so pathetic." She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, raising her eyebrows at him. Castiel's expression was one of self-loathing and visible desire.

"You needn't say it. I'm well aware."

Meg's smile was broad and saccharine as he regarded her over his shoulder. "But you don't make that grouchy face if I keep it to myself."

Castiel heaved a rankled but affectionate sigh, getting to his feet and pulling on his jeans. "And what will you do?"

"Absolutely nothing for at least another hour. Jealous?"

Castiel threw on a shirt and toed on his boots. "If I said no, would you believe me?" he asked, grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair.

Meg merely smirked.

Near the door, he gathered his usual weapons, electing to leave the bow behind. "It wouldn't kill you to pretend."

"No, I suppose it wouldn't," she drawled pleasantly from behind him, stretching out like a cat.

As he reached for his sidearm, Castiel hesitated, observing with grim disconcertion at the way his fingers shook. A restless, almost nauseous buzz settled in the pit of his stomach like an anchor and he frowned, curling them into a brief fist to still the tremors. Shoulders erringly tensed, Castiel shook it off, grabbing the Jericho 941 and tucking it with a little more force than necessary into the holster under his arm. He reached then into the top drawer of the dresser, gripping the bottle of pills there with some measure of relief. He downed several and tucked the remainder into his jacket pocket for later use.

"More poppers?" drifted Meg's voice from the bed.

Castiel wouldn't look at her. "Need something to keep me fast."

"Mm. Thought it was just headaches."

He ignored the unspoken implication there, moving for the door.

"Hey."

When he looked back, Meg was tossing him an apple from the bedside bowl. "Eat something. Nurse's orders."

Castiel gave her a worn smile, catching it deftly. "I'll return soon."

"Try not to cause an apocalypse while you're gone, would you?"

He merely took a large bite out of the apple, offering a wink before the door could close behind him.

I'm sinking, then I'm torn in two
so when you see me come up for air
don't try to hold me down, just save me now
feels just like I'm underwater and can barely breathe
dying in the bed that I have made
did I bring this to myself?
can I get out alive?

"Fuck you, Winchester!" yelled Risa, throwing something inscrutable and heavy at Dean's head, which he narrowly dodged. It struck the side of his cabin with a loud clamor, knocking some siding loose.

"Yeah, well fuck you, too, Risa!" he hollered after her retreating back. "Do us both a favor and stay the hell away this time!"

Risa stormed furiously past several of the other men who immediately afforded her a wide berth, looking anxiously between the two feuding lovers before hurrying off to avoid any crossfire.

Great. Dean and Risa were at each other's throats again. Which probably meant any briefings would be delayed or cancelled. Which meant Dean had bullied him out of bed with Meg for nothing. Castiel regarded the scene with displeasure, frowning in concern after Risa and subsequently offering Dean a disapproving look as he approached the cabin.

"Don't look at me like that," Dean snapped. "You don't even know what happened."

Castiel remained unimpressed with the virulent welcoming, his expression impassive. "Do I want to?"

Dean rolled his eyes, marching halfways down the steps only to drop down onto one of the last few so that he could sit and scowl outwardly. "She thinks I was with Jane last night."

"Were you?"

Dean's response to that was to glare indignantly.

Castiel merely lifted a skeptical eyebrow, and the hunter turned away from the scrutiny with open derision. "I was in her cabin, but I wasn't… in her cabin," Dean said, as though that explained everything.

Castiel remained largely critical and unsympathetic. "That was foolish."

"Yeah, well who asked you," muttered Dean, frowning at the air in front of his own face. His anger seemed to have abated, somewhat.

"Where's Sam?" Castiel tried instead, taking up a seat beside him.

"He's pissed at me, too. People never like it when you tell 'em the truth, Cas."

Castiel grunted in a distant but acknowledging way, taking another bite out of his apple and then pulling a face. His body was due for nourishment, but somewhere between his cabin and these steps, his appetite had deserted him. There was a hollowed-out feeling somewhere in the vicinity of his gut, similar to hunger and yet not at all. The mouthful of fruit he swallowed had little taste, and his stomach protested the additional sustenance it didn't want.

"What's with the constipated look?"

"I do not look constipated," Castiel retorted, leveling Dean with a bitchfaced look of indignance. He frowned then at the apple in his hand. "I'm just not hungry," he said, tossing it away. "Why is Sam angry with you?"

"The usual," Dean hedged.

"Gadreel?"

"Of course. And my stupidity in general, apparently."

"Well, you were stupid for the right reasons," Castiel told him, his tone indicating that Dean shouldn't worry about it. After all, he could relate. Doing the wrong thing for the right reasons was a common inadequacy he displayed, a little too often. Castiel wasn't even sure that what he did was for any right reason at all. It felt selfish. He didn't care one way or another the semantics, but it was most definitely on the moral fence.

"Whatever," Dean groused, his opinion of his own actions reflecting the aggravation he felt. "I got played."

"I thought I was saving Heaven," Castiel reminded him, the self-deprecating smirk he wore making Dean laugh a little. "I got played, too."

"So we're both a couple of dumbasses, is what you're saying."

Castiel's consideration of that was fatalistically cavalier. "I was going to go with 'trusting,' but yes. We are dumbasses."

Dean snorted. "So you don't think Sam's right?"

"About?"

About me. Sam believed he was off the rails—worried constantly over the man he was becoming, the decisions he was making. His brother expected him to make changes, gain perspective, be the man he had been a decade ago. But that wasn't about to happen, because Sam was wrong.

He was not evil. Dean wanted only to kill every vile son of a bitch in his path, ruthlessly, and without someone constantly looking over his shoulder. Without needing to give a shit as to whether he was stepping on anybody's feelings. This was 2015. They were living the apocalypse. Feelings were obsolete. And just how many times had those closest to him betrayed him, lied to him, deserted him? Allowing himself to become this brutal war machine had its own advantages, the least of which was effectiveness. It granted him the outlet to express all the pent up hurt, anger, rage, and disappointment that had been brimming beneath the surface for years. Purge your demons, as the saying went. Dean might have been miserable, he might even be heartless, but someone had to be the bad guy. Someone had to get the job done, because that's exactly what this was. It was still a job. Abaddon had to die, and Dean would be the one to kill her. If Sam abhorred his methods in doing so, then so be it. The world was now the archetype of hope lost, but someone had to avenge it. Damn right he was off the rails.

"Let's just say he thinks my methods could use some… adjusting."

Castiel shrugged, leaning back against the steps. His tone grew quiet. "We're all going to die bloody. Why postpone the inevitable?"

"Jesus, you're a cynic these days," Dean chuckled.

"I'm a realist, Dean."

It had been so long since he and Cas talked like this. And it was a relief to know that he wasn't the only one on grounds still with a brain. Although, admittedly, Dean was well aware how deliberately vague he was being. A part of him recognized the villainy of it—using Castiel's loyalty to his own advantage. That same part of him was ignored as easily as he'd dismissed Sam's earlier cautioning. "Well, it's refreshing to see that the stick has been removed from your ass. At least that tiny terror is good for something."

"Meg's good for a lot of things."

"That's fucking gross."

"Dean, shut up."

Dean looked sharply at his friend, bristling. "Spare me the white knight bullshit, Cas—"

Castiel wore a strange expression, staring ahead sightlessly. "Shh."

He'd gone utterly still, his eyes seeming to be a darker blue than usual, almost like a darkening sky before a storm rolled in. They flickered uncertainly, and Castiel seemed to be straining for something.

He was listening, Dean realized, now comprehending what was happening. "What? What do you hear?"

Castiel grimaced, a protest of pain hissing between his gritted teeth as the sensation of a hundred invisible needles lanced through his skull. It left his ears ringing, his eyes seeing spots, and his body shaken. But when it passed, he looked up sharply, his eyes wide. The aftershocks of the splitting headache were forgotten at the voice still echoing in his brain.

"Cas? What is it?"

Castiel felt a rush of visceral emotion go through him, suddenly very aware of his heart pounding hard against his borrowed ribcage. A feeling like someone had just poured ice water down his back assaulted him. "Not what, who." He turned to his friend, alarmed. "It's Ezekiel."

Dean stared at him in shock. "Wh—Ezekiel? But—"

"The real Ezekiel. He's alive."

Castiel shot to his feet and Dean scrambled after him, "Whoa, whoa, hang on! Where the hell is he?"

Castiel was already on the move. "About ten miles out."

"How do you know this isn't some kind of trap?"

"It's Ezekiel," Cas reminded him with urgency, as though the mere suggestion were unthinkable. Time was imperative right now, and Dean was wasting it with such questions. A painful throbbing was building steadily in his temples and there was a vague buzzing in his ears. He bore down hard, willing the discomfort away so that he could focus on what needed to be done. "I meant what I said to you—he's to be trusted. His call was one of distress, I think he may be hurt. I'm going for him."

"Shit," said Dean, throwing caution to the wind. He fell into step beside Castiel, matching his pace. "Alright, well let's pony up."

Castiel's head jerked around to stare at him. "What?"

"Yeah, I'm coming with you."

Castiel didn't even have a chance to question the matter before he was running right into somebody else, oblivious to what was in front of him. He looked down in surprise to see Meg staring up at him with a questioning look.

"Where's the fire?" she inquired of his panic-stricken demeanor. The beginnings of worry converged in her dark eyes as they searched his face, demanding answers out of him.

Castiel regarded her with penitence, starting forward again. "I'm sorry, Meg, I have to go."

"Angel SOS," said Dean dismissively by way of explanation, brushing past her.

"Oh, look at that. Already dressed and ready," Meg volleyed back airily, and she too fell into step beside him.

Castiel though stopped immediately, putting a staying hand over her shoulder. "No. Meg, you need to stay here. Please," he appealed to her affronted expression, growing very serious. "I don't know how he will react to a demon. He will listen to me, but I'm not certain how injured he is, and he may react on instinct." It was an inborn defense mechanism in angels when gravely wounded, that their grace strike out against anything it perceived as a threat, no matter how banal. The sense of anxiety was like a living thing growing inside him, and Castiel willed her to understand. "He could kill you, Meg."

Oh, but she knew all too well that fear he harbored. More than he would ever realize. Than he could ever remember. More importantly, it was becoming increasingly difficult for her to say no to him anymore. Castiel would ask her to jump, and Meg's mouth would wonder 'how high?' before she could stop it.

Her face had taken on a clouded disfavor, but it softened then and she gave a reluctant, understanding nod. "Fine. But you owe me, Castiel."

Dean observed the exchange with a mounting cluster of impatience and grudging awareness. He said nothing, allowing them the moment they needed, however brief it was.

Castiel held her eyes for just a second more. "We shouldn't be long," he assured her.

So then why did she feel this incredible pit in the bottom of her stomach? Meg muttered a reply, trying to quell the worry building in her chest, and watched them go.

Not long after the tires of the jeep were spitting gravel and Garth was closing the gate behind them, Meg felt Sam's presence beside her.

"Where's Dean going?"

He sounded uninterested despite his asking, and faintly embittered. Meg frowned, kindred at least where the bitterness was concerned. "Headed out with our broken treetopper. Angel crisis."

She felt Sam's eyes on her, penetrating. "You're not staying behind."

Excellent, so her distress was not only palpable, it was predictable. "Who made you Nostradamus?"

The bite to her retort was almost a physical attack, and Sam snorted. "You're an open book, Meg," he said, confirming what she already knew.

She abandoned the giant hunter to his emoting, something else snagging her attention.

Hael stood anchored and unmoving as a statue, unaware of the children's voices as they prodded and danced around her. Beside her, Aubrey stared up in silent concern at her face, gripping Hael's hand tightly in her own. The angel stared ahead, unseeing as Castiel had been. Her parted lips pressed into a worried frown, anxiety filling her.

An errant darkness seemed to materialize beside her, and Hael snapped out of her daze when it spoke. "Got a sec, pumpkin?"

The familiar sardonic voice brought her a strange measure of relief in that moment. Hael's bright eyes darted to the demon it belonged to, dread gripping her. "Something's wrong."

Heaven's most adorable teenager looked ready to burst at the seams, reflecting the urgency she already felt. "Very," Meg affirmed, speaking quickly. "Your brother's an idiot. How do I fix it?"

"Meg." The angel's tone was deeply worried, beseeching. "Help him. You need to help him." Castiel was distracted, only focused on the one he sought. It left him blind. "Go to him. Now."

The quiet ring of holy steel filled the space between them as Hael held up her blade for the demon to take. Meg's resolve was a crushing force, devoid of deviation. Her eyes slicked to an oily black.

"Point me at him."

turn off all the lights
let the morning come
now there's green light in my eyes
and my lover on my mind
everybody sees I love him

"We still on track?"

"Yes," Castiel replied stiffly, his grip tightening on the wheel. He was staring straight out the windshield, practically unblinking. "Why did you offer to come with?"

"What do you mean?" Dean asked him.

A muscle was working anxiously in Castiel's jaw, his expression unreadable. Every now and then, Dean would notice him listening again, eyes narrowed against the setting sun. "You've made your opinion of keeping angels at the camp quite clear, Dean. Now suddenly you're not only willing, but insistent upon it?" His tone was not accusatory, but the note of suspicion was hard to miss.

Dean sighed. "Look… you told me Ezekiel was a good soldier, and I believe you. We need that right now, and maybe he can undo some of the shit his copycat left us with. And hell, I don't know, maybe I gotta make things right with the guy. All I'm saying is… if there's even the slightest chance he can help us find Gadreel, I want him on the team. And if he's you with batteries like you say, maybe he can even help with Abaddon. We need every good soldier we can get right now." Yeager, Irv, Mathew. Their forces were dwindling almost by the hour, it felt like. Any backup was welcome these days, especially if that backup had the shelf life of an angel and was good at laying down wrath.

"So you want to use him."

"Yeah, I do," Dean said, completely unapologetic. "But that doesn't mean I don't wanna help him."

Castiel frowned at the somewhat evasive tactic. His expression was stormy as he stared out the windshield, and Dean saw a shadow of something almost baleful race across his face, but then it was gone. The hunter opened his mouth to speak, but Castiel silenced whatever he was going to say.

"Make no mistake, Dean. You would die for your brother. I would die for mine as well."

It was a warning wrapped in a question, said with quiet force. It said that Castiel would protect his family, even from a Winchester. It asked, sincerely, that his friend might never let it come to that. Dean sat back in his seat, saying nothing, although no answer was required.

They'd relapsed into more strained silence when suddenly Castiel was slamming on the brakes. "Mavialqvasb," he seemed to curse, throwing the vehicle into park.

Dean took his cue, hurrying after his friend who was already shoving the driver's door shut behind himself, tearing across the road and into the small deserted town. A haunting cry drew their gazes upwards and there, floating on the breeze, was a large crow circling overhead. Its broad wings were extended, motionless except for the wind that ruffled its black wingtips as it soared high above them. Castiel read the sign for what it was and ignored the dull twinge of envy he felt at the bird's blithe freedom. If scavengers were still scouting the area, it meant there was something here to be found.

Castiel went still, listening.

Dean had an angel blade drawn and ready, in case Ezekiel was not the only angel they found. His face had fallen into stern lines, expression vigilant against the still oppressive heat of the setting sun. "He still alive?"

"It's faint," Castiel murmured. His brow was knit with concentration, his breaths shallow to reduce his body's natural movement. Almost as though he were using it as an antenna he didn't dare readjust. Dean watched him with some measure of fascination, though he still wished his friend had the rest of his bag of tricks, too.

Castiel activated. "There," he said, abandoning his post and disappearing into a nearby alleyway.

They found the body not far in, slumped over against the crumbling wall. Castiel dropped down beside his brother, barely even registering that Dean was still with him. His hands pressed urgently against the broad shoulders encased beneath the wrinkled suit jacket, trying to rouse the angel into consciousness. "Ezekiel."

Ezekiel's vessel was tall, strong in body only, for his appearance was haggard and broken. There was blood on his clothing and a clear wound torn angrily into his side. His dark skin held a wan shade because of how weak he was, and his chest barely rose in time with his breaths.

"This is the real Ezekiel?" Dean asked from beside him, and Castiel nodded.

"Yes," he said softly, blue eyes combing over the angel's face in concern. Castiel shook him again, careful of his injuries. "Brother?"

Ezekiel began to stir, dark eyes fluttering open. "Castiel…"

"I heard your call. How badly damaged is your vessel?"

Ezekiel made a faint noise of pain, lifting his head. "Too… Too close…" His sonorous voice was pitched low and trembled with the effort it took to speak. A soft resonance weaved through it, the mark of his grace leaking out into the physical world. His chin dipped, head lolling to the side as he began to slip against the brick and mortar.

"Hey, man," Dean said, reaching out to keep him from sliding down again. He exchanged a look of unease with Castiel before turning back to Ezekiel. "How you doin'? Can you stand?" As much as they appeared to be alone, it was never a good idea to remain immobile for long when outside the camp's secure borders.

"I cannot seem to move…"

"It's alright, don't worry. We'll get you outta here."

"Dean, take his arm. I'll lift from this side."

"Too close…"

"He needs a safe environment to heal. We—" Castiel looked up, alarmed. "Dean, you have to go."

The air itself seemed to buzz with some weird electricity then, one that sparked feelings of emergent and pervasive dread. Dean didn't need to hear angel radio to know that something was about to go very wrong.

"What?"

"Still here," Ezekiel managed, more urgent. "Killed his followers… more coming… wounded."

"Dean," Castiel stressed, looking inexplicably murderous.

"Who's here?" barked the hunter, demanding answers to what the fuck was going on.

"Bartholomew is here," Castiel growled, a cold fury taking hold of him. His restraint finally cracked and his temper split wide open. "I can feel him now, on the move. He's injured and unable to block me." His determination was palpable, though still without a clear target as far as Dean could tell. Castiel didn't leave him guessing for long. He propped his brother forward into Dean's arms. "Go. Take him."

"Cas—"

"You heard what I said." Castiel's eyes bored into his with righteous resolve. "Ezekiel has answers that I don't, and you said it yourself—he's me with batteries, and therefore more valuable." He rose sharply, blade in hand, the darkness within him gathering. "I'm going after him."

The contrast was severe. When Castiel had spoken those same words in referring to Ezekiel, they were protective. Familial. When he said them now, it was the polar opposite. This arrangement held a clear threat, a promise of retribution.

"Cas."

"Dean, for once in your life, do as I ask!"

The hunter merely held out his hand, impassive. "Keys."

Castiel tossed them over, glad that Dean had not intended to argue. "Don't come for me until he's safe."

how many times have I prayed
that I would get lost along the way
dream with the feathers of angels stuffed beneath your head
the regulator's swinging pendulum

Castiel pressed his advance as he crept between buildings, trying to balance the conflicting needs for both speed and stealth. He gripped the handle of his blade tight, the surface reflecting the last vestiges of sunlight back at the sky. He strained his limited human senses, scouring the airwaves for any trace, any clue, that would lead him closer to his quarry.

Bartholomew was near, very near. Castiel could feel it, could hear the battered notes ringing in his ears that assured him he was not wrong.

"Look who it is," said a ruined voice, the syllables rasping together in a manner that was disconcerting. "The garrison's own little Icarus."

Castiel tensed, feeling a visceral spike of dark intent arrow through his body. He turned to his left, blue eyes brilliant with suppressed anger, and watched as a long shadow stepped out from the barren threshold of a record store and into the light. "Bartholomew."

The angel was bloody and breathing awkwardly—one of his arms hung off oddly, torn at the socket. The vessel would need repair soon. He stood tall nonetheless, chin raised in superiority so that he could look down his nose at the human before him. "Castiel. I hear you've been looking for me."

The need to do violence to this creature for all the destruction and loss he had caused almost overwhelmed Castiel in that moment. "How many angels have you killed?"

"I gave them a choice."

"A choice like you gave Ezekiel?" Castiel couldn't help the smug smirk that ghosted across his features. "I saw what he did to your men. What he's done to you."

"More are coming," Bartholomew said with no small measure of surety. "And Ezekiel will be dealt with. I only kill those who say no."

Castiel's regard of that was murderous. "I have heard those words before," he said lowly, edging closer.

Bartholomew's expression was stern, disapproving. "Yes, from Uriel, as I recall. An accomplished soldier, until you and that penitent murdered him."

"Uriel was a follower of Lucifer," Castiel growled out. "Is that what you are, Bartholomew?"

Sudden, righteous venom colored Bartholomew's words. "What I am is a visionary. My goal is to raise our kind back to Heaven and destroy those who stand in my way or refuse to pledge their allegiance to me. You want to know my death toll? The lives I've taken in pursuit of this campaign? Hundreds. And how many have you? Your hunger for blood far outweighs mine, Castiel. And there are other factions. Others you have to fear than just me."

Castiel met his eyes with an unwavering stare, hot and deadly. "I will stop them, too."

Bartholomew was just another bully in a long line of others he had already dealt with. Uriel. Raphael. Naomi.

"Yes, I think you truly believe that."

The swift arc of Castiel's blade was stopped short as Bartholomew caught him around the throat with his working arm.

"I always admired your tenacity," the angel confessed, as though he were remarking on the color of the sky. Castiel struggled against his grip, the blade falling at their feet. Slowly, excruciatingly, Bartholomew raised his mangled arm. Tendons and bone ground against one another with jarring effort, and the grimace he wore looked disturbingly like a smile. Giving a final twist, the arm slid back into its socket with a sickening crunch. Now, Bartholomew did smile. Rearing back with that same arm, he used it to deliver a hit that sent Castiel sprawling into the dirt at his feet.

The angel kicked the blade away, and it went skidding far out of reach. "Look at you, Castiel, amid the muck. You've become one of the ants. You've fallen further than any of us." Bartholomew approached the fallen rebel at a leisurely pace. "Serving humans, lying with demons. Selling yourself at the nearest crossroads." Here, he granted Castiel a disingenuous smile. "But always and forever earnest."

Castiel barely had time to register the sight of Meg before she was launching herself onto Bartholomew's back out of nowhere. The angel's startled grunt went unnoticed as her own blade arched high and bore down, piercing flesh and bone just a hairsbreadth away from his vessel's heart. Bartholomew snarled at the pain, barely stopping her hands from pressing the blade any further into his shoulder. Enraged, he then reached up and grabbed her by the back of the neck and hair, twisting to hurl her down hard at the ground. His outcry of pain became a disbelieving laugh when he saw who it was. "And what's this?" he wondered, already knowing the answer and perversely pleased by it.

"Meg!"

Bartholomew lifted a hand which caused an invisible force to pin both of his prey back into the dirt. "It's the demon you've been keeping. I hoped I'd get the chance to meet her face to face." He glanced at his shoulder and the flickering stream of light that stole through the folds of his clothing. "That was impolite." Cold eyes slid menacingly back to Meg. "Do you know what I'm going to do to you, little thing?"

Meg's fiery glare was defiant. "Let me up, you piece of shit, and we'll see who does what to who." Her lips pulled apart in a fierce smile. "You wouldn't be the first angel I've killed. Not even the first one I've killed for him."

Bartholomew smiled, slow and predatory. "She is sort of magnificent, isn't she?" he mused aloud, only half-addressing his brother.

Castiel struggled upright, fury swelling inside him. "Don't you touch her."

"Very well, then, I won't." Narrowing his eyes, Bartholomew raised his already outstretched hand, curling his fingers into a spiteful fist. "I'll simply unmake her."

Meg threw her head back in a devastating scream that shook her entire body, eyes snapping to black before they wired shut against the celestial energy that began to tear her apart from the inside.

Castiel shouted in protest, horrified realization washing away his anger as he struggled vainly to reach her.

Meg felt as though her insides were being hollowed out. The beast inside her instinctually recoiled in wild desperation, slamming against the walls of her host in search of escape. Another thunderclap of soundless energy knifed through her in echo, again and again. She writhed under a suffering insurmountable, feeling her darkness being scorched out under the onslaught. She vaguely heard Castiel pleading in a rushed, higher voice that didn't even seem to belong to him. Meg crumpled in on herself and continued to scream, unable to achieve anything else, her demon voice merging with her body's as the earth spun around her.

"Stop!" Castiel's thundering exclamation would have shook the foundations of every building on the block if he'd still been an angel. Their eyes met, staunch horror reflected in his while the onyx surface of hers remained pools of anguish. He seethed, panicking, losing his mind. Willing her torment to stop even though he could do nothing for her or himself.

Bartholomew left Meg to writhing in pain on the ground, considering them both in a falsely lamenting way. "For they no sooner met but they looked, no sooner looked but they loved. No sooner they sighed but they asked one another the reason, and so sought the remedy. They are in the very wrath of love, and they will die together," he recited mockingly. The bastardized Shakespearean verse seemed to amuse him, and Bartholomew shook his head. "You want to know the definition of irony, Castiel? Sacrificing everything for the very thing designed to destroy you."

The words struck him, moved inside him as a living entity as Castiel stared helplessly at her.

"You can't save her. Part of you knows it."

Aching sorrow slowly gave way to solemn veneration, to desperate determination. Castiel's eyes became hard, his expression intense. The fury returned in force, consuming him. Bolstering him. An arctic resilience spread throughout his fortitude as he began to fight against the angelic hold over him.

"No."

Bartholomew stared in stunned dismay as his mortal brother began to stir. Impossible. "How in hell…?"

Castiel growled with exertion, rising higher and higher until he was nearly to his feet. Bartholomew struck him back down, indignant. He staggered hard, dropping to one knee, hand braced on the ground to steady himself. A small stream of blood fell from his mouth.

"You are impressive, even in this broken form," Bartholomew remarked, coming to tower over him. "And so finally it's come to this. For months you've sought me out, and now here I am. Tell me, little brother… have you come to offer me a place?"

"No." Castiel spit out more blood, wiping it from his face with the back of his hand. "I came here to kill you."

Bartholomew tossed his head back and laughed. "What, no turning the other cheek, even after all this? I'm surprised at you." He drew back and delivered a stunning kick to Castiel's ribs, knocking him completely down.

Castiel felt something break, and he was unable to bite back the yell that clawed its way up his throat. His arms cinched around his protesting torso as he lie there, trying to catch his breath. Above him, Bartholomew was loosening his vessel's necktie in jerking motions.

"You always thought you were better than me. Well, look at you now, down in the dirt." The bitter animosity in his voice contrasted sharply with his relaxed pose, revealing the rivalry there. "I'm going to take it out your ass, Castiel."

Determinedly, impossibly, Castiel worked himself partway up after lying there for several moments. He cradled his side with one arm, and Bartholomew noticed the sudden sight of the pistol in Castiel's other hand and laughed harder, his tone enormously condescending.

"And what are you gonna do with that, other than piss me off?" he challenged.

Faster than Bartholomew would have ever given the battered human credit, Castiel spun and rose quickly, firing off round after round rapid-fire into the angel's vessel. With each shot, Castiel advanced, Bartholomew stumbling slightly under the hits—thrown just enough off guard. When the magazine clicked empty, before Bartholomew could recover and realize that, in getting to his feet, Castiel had taken up the demon's dropped blade, that blade was being driven up into his heart. Once. Twice. And again.

Bartholomew roared in pain as light exploded outwards from his vessel and the fatal hit. Castiel twisted the blade hard, the dying knell of grace reflected in the unforgiving blue of his eyes. He withdrew it then with a shove, allowing Bartholomew's dead corpse to fall to the ground.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence and the echo of death hanging in the air. Then, anger mostly vanquished, adrenaline dissipating, Castiel began to sway.

The pain came back like a tidal wave force, bringing him to his knees. Achingly, he began to crawl his way over to Meg, who was barely moving. Her screams had ceased, but he needed to know she was all right. "Meg. Meg," he tried again, when she didn't respond. His fingers slid over her face, cupping her jaw, despairing at the heat he felt there. Her eyelids fluttered, a tormented sound spilling past her lips.

"Still kicking," she managed in the barest whisper. Her eyes were still glazed over black, and they stared up dazedly at the sky half-mast.

A sigh of gut-wrenching relief broke out of him, and Castiel stared at her in pained disbelief. "Why did you ever come?" There was benediction and aching sorrow wrapped around every syllable, and if he didn't feel as though his body was about to split in two, Castiel thought he would have kissed her.

Meg closed her eyes tight as she rode out another wave of residual pain. When she opened them again, they were normal once more. "Hael heard the angel chatter and that Big Bad Bart was still in the area. Knowing you…" she trailed off, lashes fluttering again. "Jesus, you look like shit. You're supposed to keep that red stuff on the inside, wonder boy."

Castiel heard an ominous ringing in his ears at that moment, one that set him on high alert even given the state he was in. "Did you bring a vehicle?" he asked urgently.

"Parked a mile off. Didn't want him to hear."

"Can you move?"

Meg made a weak sound of protest at the slightest movement, her insides still feeling as though they were on fire. Her meatsuit was crippled from the damage she'd taken. She would heal, but at the moment she was all but paralyzed. "Damn it," she hissed, wanting to curl in on herself, though she couldn't even do that.

"We need to go, now."

Painstakingly, Castiel pushed himself up onto his knees, gathering Meg's body into his arms while ignoring her protests. Arms and legs shaking, he got to his feet, biting back a yell at the exertion and fresh agony it brought. He groaned behind his teeth, taking a moment to find his footing. Something was definitely broken.

"Is he dead?" grated Meg as they passed by what remained of Bartholomew.

"Very."

She whimpered pitiably into his chest as she was jostled, trying to disguise it. Castiel grimaced with regret at having to manhandle her while she was still so battered. He moved slow, his movements stilted and each step more agonizing than the last. His breaths came in sharp, painful stabs and the ringing in his ears kept up.

"Stop," Meg breathed out, ready to tear his head off for aggravating his injuries further.

"His followers will have sensed his perishing. They're coming, I can hear them." Castiel's words were disjointed, and his lungs felt like they were going to tear apart with the effort it took to speak and keep going. His heart pounded behind his broken ribs, trying to keep oxygen flowing to his starved muscles. His head throbbed relentlessly, the steps he took passing like broken glass.

Ezekiel had killed a good majority, yes, but there were still others—too many others, although one right now was even more than he could handle.

Castiel made a noise of frustration as Meg slipped. Determined, he hefted her back up, grunting as arrows of pain tore into him from every angle. They'd made it a fifth of the way already, he could get her the remaining distance. Only four thousand more feet to go. He could do it. He had to, or she would die. They both would die.

Twenty-some minutes later, his breaths were coming short and stuttered, labored gasps now adding to the mix as well. Castiel's previous experiences with injury had been nothing like this. Those had been sharp bursts of pain that then disappeared, wiped completely away by the power of Heaven. Nothing at all like this dull ache that grew steadily worse, building up to a crescendo in his head and chest, or like these shudders that slid up and down his frame like waves of rolling heat as his body fought to shred itself in two. Pain was so different as a human, he kept forgetting.

"Take a breather, Atlas," Meg told him, her voice faint, completely hoarse.

"No," Castiel gritted out. "They're too close."

His voice sounded far away, sending chills up her spine. "Stop fucking walking, you'll make yourself worse."

Castiel didn't reply, legs working automatically. But something was wrong. The ringing in his ears was different now. There was a rushing as well, clouding his head and making his thoughts tangle in a disorienting fog. He stumbled once, balance deserting him. Wrong, something was wrong. His vision swam, darkening at the edges. Just another two thousand feet. Just a little more.

"…Cas…"

His legs gave out beneath him, and he fell to his knees.

The darkness closed in, Meg's voice getting farther and farther away. He'd just started trying to get his feet back under himself again when all strength dissolved from his body and the darkness finally won.

feet don't fail me now
take me to the finish line
oh my heart it breaks every step that I take
but I'm hoping at the gates
they'll tell me that you're mine

Awareness slowly filtered back.

Castiel registered pain.

He was weak, too weak. To even open his eyes was too much of a chore and so he lay where he was, unmoving and unresponsive. The ground beneath him was not still at all, though. Wasn't behaving as ground ought to behave. There was a repetitive sort of grumble all around him, his body swayed rhythmically back and forth, sliding a bit against cool leather. There was no sharp stabbing of sunlight against his eyelids, just blessed darkness.

"My boy alive?"

Meg's voice. Frayed at the edges and sounding abused.

"Still kicking," came the disembodied assurance of Sam.

From the front seat, Dean said nothing, but the leather of the wheel creaked under his grip. They'd driven up on the two unconscious forms right as dusk hit. Sam had been afraid to move Castiel because he looked broken in parts that could do him some real damage if displaced the wrong way. Dean just remembered thinking that it took a hell of a lot to make a demon pass out from pain. As Sam had worked on getting Cas safely into the truck without further injury, Dean looked back on the small and unmoving form of Meg, eventually going back for her. He'd hauled her into the backseat, meeting Sam's eyes briefly and knowing by the look in them that he would have made Dean go back either way for her.

She was awake now, already almost halfway healed.

"He's probably dehydrated, too," Sam went on, throwing a concerned look over his shoulder at the two slumped forms in the backseat.

Castiel was coming to. "Where are we?" he muttered groggily.

"Disneyland," Meg offered in reply.

"No, we're not."

"Disneyworld?"

"Meg," the fallen angel groaned with great sufferance. There was something cool and wet on his forehead which, through some headache-inducing thought, he deduced was a washcloth. His head was still swimming and his ribs protested in pain with each bump that passed under the tires and he curled his arms over his torso protectively, too weak to even groan.

"Here," Meg's voice, beside him. Her fingers were threaded at the back of his head, tilting him up a bit, and something cold and wet brushed against his lips.

Water.

Castiel drank eagerly, relieved at the refreshing sensation that splashed down his raw throat. When he was done, he peered forward into the dark cab questioningly. "Ezekiel?"

"Safe at the camp, resting," said Dean.

Castiel's head fell back against the seat, relieved. "Good."

"I'm going to kill you," Meg said serenely beside him. Castiel offered a worn out huff in reply, not bothering to put any words together for a response. He felt more cognizant than when he'd first come to, but was still too hurt and exhausted to bother with conversation.

It took him a moment longer to realize that Meg had drawn his head into her lap, her fingers combing soothing lines through his hair. "Meg?" he managed to softly say, the unspoken question hovering in the air between them.

"Already feel better than you look right now," she replied, and though it was dark, he could hear the smile in her voice.

Her other hand was resting over his shoulder and he clumsily grasped it with one of his own, saying nothing more. The remainder of the ride back to camp was spent in silence, neither passenger speaking.

I don't want the world to see me
cause I don't think that they'd understand
when everything's meant to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

Castiel grimaced, teeth gritted together as she pulled a little too tightly on the wrap. Meg was binding his ribs, the two of them alone in their cabin. Hael and Muriel had done what they could to heal him, but that particular ability was weak in them both after the Fall. And anyways, Castiel had instructed them to focus their efforts on Ezekiel so that he could be well again.

Back to the matter at hand, Castiel had been shot, beaten, stabbed, and any number of other painful things as both an angel and a human, but at the moment, Meg thought he was behaving like a little girl and told him so. Castiel took a defiant drink out of the bottle of alcohol beside the chair, leveling her with a look.

"I think you enjoy tormenting me," he muttered.

Meg made a small sound in the back of her throat, lips quirking as she raised her thumb and forefinger to indicate just a smidge. "A remnant, I suppose, from the good ol' days of being mortal enemies."

"I hope you fall in a well."

"Oh, but you'll just grip me tight, Lassie."

He narrowed his eyes disparagingly at her. "Do you never stop?"

She was still angry with him for what he'd done today, and it showed in the way she was abusing him with the wrap. "Only when it counts." Meg's grin was positively devious then, her cheeks rounding with the strength of it. "You wanna go another round and finish what we started earlier?" She nudged his ribs affectionately, earning a pained grunt, and pressed into him. "Promise I'll drive."

"Incorrigible," mumbled Castiel, but he smiled.

"You know, torment implies pain of a mental nature. Tormenting you is one of my favorite things. But…" Meg hesitated, frowning down at his bandaged body. "I don't like seeing you like this. In real pain. Makes me angry."

Castiel stared up at her as she hovered attentively, catching her eye. "That's sweet, isn't it," he murmured, half-teasing, half-not.

Meg snorted softly, curling her fingers into his hair at the back of his neck and planting a noisy kiss onto his forehead. She loved it when he got that sassy bite to his words. Whether it was at her expense or not. She was even grateful for it. He knew what it cost her every time she gave up a piece of herself like that. Making light of it always lessened the blow.

"I'm sorry my brother hurt you."

Meg's gaze flitted back to his at the quiet apology. After awhile, she lifted a shoulder indifferently. "Don't sweat it. You kicked his ass and I got to watch. Chalk it up to a day well spent."

"If you say so," he said.

Meg had taken up a cloth after soaking it a bit in the alcohol, dabbing it against the bruises and cuts on his face. "That hurt?"

"A little."

"You could probably just have one of your siblings try and heal you again tomorrow. Make it a joint effort. Maybe they aren't strong enough to magic Bullwinkle a new eye, but they could probably patch up some ribs."

"Ezekiel needs it more than I do. Besides, I prefer it when you touch me."

Meg's gaze slid to his, her smile sly. "Mmm. Mama like."

"You're certainly not my mother. Even if I had one, I don't think…" Castiel trailed off at her sigh, his brow furrowing. "Oh. That was a flirtation."

"You're hopeless."

"I'm learning," he said, a little defensively.

Meg pointed at the bottle of alcohol. "Finish that. Nurse's orders," she drawled lazily, a throwback from earlier.

Castiel obeyed, tipping his head back and downing the remainder. His throat burned hot under its effects, the whiskey doing hellish things to his esophagus. She was going to destroy his liver one day, and cackle beautifully while doing it.

You want to know the definition of irony, Castiel? Sacrificing everything for the very thing designed to destroy you.

Castiel frowned.

Just how many sins did she get you to commit, Castiel?

But the best part of the story has yet to come. An angel falls in love with a demon.

Lucifer's most loyal… until the day she met Castiel. Stupid little angel who led her astray.

She would have become a Knight, if not for you.

You know… when you said you remembered everything, I thought…

The constant feeling that something was off or wrong or missing crept back on him. It left him with a strange void, nagging at the back of his thoughts. Castiel knew that something very important was going on, it had to be, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything but the current ache in his body.

"Meg," he began, somewhat uncertainly. He wasn't even sure what he was looking for. "If you knew something that I didn't… you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

Her eyes flew to his, clear surprise reflecting back at him.

"Depends," Meg began heavily, looking like she felt cornered. The façade fell. "If you mean the answer to a jeopardy question, fuck no. Call me competitive, but you're on your own. I'm a sore ass loser, angeldust."

Castiel regarded her waveringly. He looked like maybe he should be amused, and maybe a little like he was. Meg saw his posture relax, tense shoulders slumping some.

"Why do you ask?"

He shook his head, dismissing his concerns. "No real reason at all. Just… thinking out loud."

"How are you feeling now? Good and ready to take on a monster of about Aubrey's size, should the threat arise?"

The edges of Castiel's mouth softened in the way they hardly ever did but which always made her secretly glad. "I'm fine," he confirmed.

Meg narrowed her eyes, mouth pinching into a little line. "Uh huh. Pants off."

Castiel raised an eyebrow at her. "I don't know if I'm that fine."

Meg snorted. "Just do it, idiot. And come with me."

A few short minutes later, Meg had a bathful of steaming water ready for him. She rooted around in the cabinet nearby to see if they had any epsom salts on hand.

"What is this?" Castiel wondered.

"It's a bath, Clarence," she said snippily. "I know you're not that dense. Yes, here we go." She'd drawn out a small bag of something that looked like salt from the small cabinet next to the tub.

"No, I know that. I just don't understand why you've run one."

Meg stared at him. "You've never taken a bath before?"

"No, I've always showered. Except for the mandatory sponge baths at the hospital, but I don't think those count, do they?"

"Definitely not. They were fun, though," Meg smiled, fond remembrance making her dark eyes glitter in the low light of the room. "Sexy."

Castiel snorted, regarding the water dubiously as Meg poured in a large amount of the bag's contents. "I don't remember them being sexy."

"Well, you wouldn't, would you?"

Something in her tone was belligerent. Most of all, he thought, sad. He stared at the back of her head, not sure how to respond. Meg didn't give him the chance anyway.

"Get in," she said.

She was suddenly reaching for the surface of the water then and, on instinct, Castiel was snatching her hand back in alarm, concern flooding his features. Don't touch it, his eyes seemed to scream at her, as though he thought she'd temporarily lost her mind.

Her hackles settled when she realized the reason for his physical outburst. "It's not really salt, Cas. It's fine."

"Oh," he said, feeling foolish. He watched her reach into the water, sloshing it around to mix its contents. Compliantly, he stepped in, though he was hesitant to submerge himself. "Won't it ruin the binding?" he asked, indicating the wrap still around his ribs.

"Waterproof. Just get in the damn tub."

Castiel sighed, the whole thing feeling strangely intimate. He lowered himself down into the water, a rush of heat immediately enveloping him. Every muscle in his body seemed to exhale a long, tremulous note of relief at the sensation. Castiel made a soft, wondering noise, immensely pleased with the result.

Meg regarded him with a decent measure of amusement, her lips tugging apart at his clear enthusiasm. "Lean back."

He obeyed, certain that it couldn't get any better, and then it did. The water level swallowed his shoulders, cocooning him in warm respite. It felt like a thousand fingers were caressing the aches and pains away he'd collected over not only the day, but the past several weeks. He let out a long sigh, his eyes falling closed.

"What is the purpose of these… fake salts?"

"Epsom salt. It's really a mineral compound of magnesium and sulfate. It has about a thousand different uses, but it's especially good for relieving pain and muscle aches. It eases stress and gets rid of toxins, too. Reduces inflammation of injuries, helps with migraines. Things like that. I don't know how much of this stuff is left in the world, though, so… use it sparingly."

Castiel was looking at her strangely, like he wasn't sure how to respond to that. "Thank you," he said finally, as though he were greatly surprised, though not unpleasantly so. Like he was touched she would go to such lengths for him. "For doing this, for finding these."

Meg cleared her throat, uncomfortable with the transparent gratitude. "Yeah, well. I didn't listen when you told me to stay put, so I figured I owed you this time. You can thank me for it later."

"I will," he replied, his expression unexpectedly heated. Blue eyes drank her in, sliding over her features intensely.

On impulse, he reached out, some water spilling over the side of the tub and down her neck as he cupped her face. Castiel leaned over the edge and kissed her.

The press of his lips against hers was just another reminder to her of how real and alive he was and Meg found herself sighing softly into him as she returned the intimacy. Castiel decided that he could stay like this forever, trapped in the spell she'd cast over him. Without thinking, without doubting the reason, he bent his head to the hidden place just below her ear, whispering every thought. Wanting her to know that, because of her, he could forget the damage he'd wrought, the world as it was, and how he felt less and less like himself each day. Meg put him at ease, at peace.

Even while he felt like a shadow trapped between shafts of light, splintered as a mast in a storm, there was always a part of him that settled when she was near. Because here, in the arms of this fallen woman, Castiel knew he was home. That he had been right all along, and that she was the anchor he needed.

Meg murmured something glib and frivolous against him, nonsensical and for no other reason than to draw a reaction out of him. And when he laughed, she sighed, knowing he would be there in the morning; solid, unwavering, and constant, so unlike everything else in their world. So unlike before.

She still had no idea what would happen if she told him. If he knew.

The thought terrified and dismayed her. Perhaps there was some small amount of exhilaration to it all, but mostly, grievously, it reminded her that there was a part of Castiel she would never get back. A part of him that would always be missing.

Meg vowed that she would hold tight to what pieces she did have.

cause you're a hard soul to save
with an ocean in the way
but I'll get around it
I'll get around it

Ezekiel's vessel stood taller even than Dean. He was strong, quietly commanding in appearance, but with an infinitely temperate air of serenity. His eyes were sage, benign. He listened when spoken to, and everything about his demeanor and how he conducted his vessel exuded a docile patience that was heartening.

Over the past week, the camp's commander had been keeping subtle tabs on the angel's recovery. When there were no missions, no things to kill, or whenever Sam was giving him the cold shoulder, Dean would be here, watching over the angel whose name he'd spoken a hundred times, yet never really knew. He had not lied to Castiel about his intentions. Dean wanted very much to have another deus ex machina in their pocket again, one who could go into the field, an angel who was not only willing to fight but was proficient at it, one that could be trusted. But there was more to his motivations than the obvious convenience of it all.

Ezekiel. He's a good soldier, Castiel had told him. For so long, Dean had thought Gadreel to be this noble, steadfast warrior his friend described. They had fought together, shared concerns with one another. Then, when Gadreel turned coat… everything fell apart. And so there was a part of him, some small moral remnant, that needed to make things right with the real Ezekiel. Dean needed that person back. He needed to know he wasn't completely wrong. That if Gadreel had actually been who he said he was, maybe all this shit they were dealing with now wouldn't have gone so sideways. Maybe things would be different.

Dean knew it didn't make a lick of sense. He knew that. And yet the pervasive need to somehow do right by this angel was as prevalent as it was grudging, a realization made more disconcerting due to the fact that Dean had already flipped the switch on his emotions. He'd refused any and all undertakings that did not pertain to putting the last remaining Knight of Hell six feet under. But here he was.

Looking at Ezekiel now, though, Dean felt a sliver of intimidation. Not because of the imposing yet compassionate presence that provoked respect as easily as it awarded empathy, nor the tall, powerful cut of the vessel's shoulders. It was purely because Dean loathed to be in the presence of something so righteous.

Like Gadreel, it was a stark reminder of how severely he had failed. Dean could stand before Castiel without guilt, without qualms, because Castiel was a mess. The fallen angel was as fucked up as the rest of them, and therefore would never pass or harbor any judgment.

But Ezekiel was a good soldier. And a good soldier meant integrity, moral justice, dependability. It meant selflessness and loyalty to the people who followed you. It meant sacrifice. It meant heart.

Everything Dean was not these days.

"We should talk, if you're gonna be staying here. I'm gonna call you Zeke. Can I call you Zeke?" Not waiting for an answer. "I'm—"

"Yes, I know who you are, Dean Winchester."

Dean bristled, a wrong feeling coming over him, because this was never a good thing. He braced himself for the revulsion, the distasteful smug arrogance. Things that knew of Dean Winchester seldom had good things to say of him, and so Dean allowed his expectations to plummet. What was one more dick angel, anyways? A sarcastic retort was ready and waiting on his lips for whatever punk ass remark was on its way.

Instead, Ezekiel held out a cordial hand. "It is a great honor to finally meet you."

Dean stared, dumbstruck, first at the proffered hand and then back at the benevolent expression it was paired with. Stiffly, the hunter shook the angel's hand in greeting, the suspicion never quite falling away until Ezekiel spoke again, deeply somber.

"I am… so very sorry." Dark eyes assured him that the sincerity there was absolutely genuine. "It should have been myself. The one to heal your brother."

"Yeah," Dean muttered, still not quite sure what to think.

"I heard your call," Ezekiel insisted, "but could not reach you in time. I've been trying to find Sam ever since. I regret that it took so long."

Dean reflected quietly, the angel saying nothing more. A fresh, indeterminate resolve bolstered his conviction, something terrible like hope edging at the surface of his disposition. The question that had been burning inside him since he first heard the words Ezekiel is alive finally poured off his tongue and past his defenses. "Do you think you can find Gadreel?"

Ezekiel granted him with a solemn, obliging nod. "I will try. You have my word, Dean. And you have my help."

hey brother
there's an endless road to rediscover
do you still believe in one another?
what if I'm far from home?
oh, brother I will hear you call

TRANSLATIONS

Enochian:

"Etharzi!" / Peace, be calm.

"Monasci?" / Your name?

"Od ol?" / And you?

"Blasn cnila." / I will protect my blood.

"Iasnovih." / Blessed, my thanks.

"Mavialqvasb." / Hellfire/Damnation.

Author's Note: Sadly, I probably won't have a chapter up next week at all because I'll be attending the SPN Vegas convention. Fun for me, but that means no update for awhile. To whet your palette: next chapter is currently without title in the sense that I can't decide between titles yet. But it will feature Cain. Among a bajillion other things. Thank you guys for the reviews! Please keep them coming as they make my day and bring a buttload of encouragement my way. :D