World on Fire

by elliemuze

The world changed when the angels fell. They descended in fire, wings eaten up by flame, mass confusion and unfathomable pain surrounding them in a chaotic shroud as they plummeted. But something eminently worse rose with the sun that morning. Humanity stood by in fear, in awe, rushing to put a name to what was happening. "The end!" they cried. Season9/2014!Endverse AU.

5. Marked

Author's Note: So very sorry this update took so long. My only excuse is... well, look at the word count lol. Once again, translations at the bottom if you don't see them during the chapter.

---

MARKED

the rib of Adam, the eyes of Eve
the sons of Cain receive no reprieve
waiting for a dead man's shoes
have you heard the latest news?
Lazarus is back from the dead
looking as one would expect

---

21 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

"Down!" shouted Dean.

Sam ducked beneath the shotgun barrel, the spray tearing apart the Croat's face that was charging them. Dean tossed the shotgun off to his brother and they switched positions. They weaved in between bodies, shooting, punching, stabbing. Red bloomed around Dean in a wide arc as the he cut through several Croats blocking his way. He felt Sam's shoulder knock against his, the younger Winchester intercepting any ambush that sprouted from their left. Wielding the demon knife and shotgun alternatively, Sam tore a brutal path for them. When the occasional demon cropped up, the knife vanquished its life with a purge of glittering brimstone, tearing through bone and cartilage. Dean utilized a bygone companion; the serrated obsidian edge cleaved through one throat after another, the Purgatory relic making up for its primitiveness with hellish efficiency.

His brother was ruthless, Sam thought—a realization he often came to nowadays. Dean was a master, a killing machine. It disturbed him sometimes how those green eyes fell blank, utterly devoid of passion as Dean sliced through a couple of demons or Croats, or even as he delivered a decision that would surely get good men killed in the name of vengeance.

It wasn't until recently though that Sam realized how far off the reservation his brother had gone. This Dean didn't fuck around anymore, no more quips or jokes. It was war and it was hardening his brother at an alarming rate. Dean had always been somewhat short-tempered, but now that he was the hopeless leader of a fearful resistance, he was downright violent. There were pools of blood at his feet, crimson red staining his clothes and the angry edge of the weapon he held, and he looked to be at home in the slaughter.

They'd made it as far as Ohio, having fortunately dealt only with small delays like vamps or the werewolf pack in Indiana. Then, a mile or so into Canton, a mob of Croats and demon lieutenants had ambushed their vehicle. The place was a festering shithole even before the apocalypse, so it really came as no surprise.

Honestly, I think the world's gonna end bloody, Dean once said, and the notion echoed virulently in his thoughts again now. In a strange way, he was almost comforted by the conflict and carnage. It was what he did best, where he excelled. Dean was a maven of wreckage after all, and when he had a clear outlet for his rage, he was lethal and an absolute terror to behold. The unrelenting violence seemed to welcome him like an old friend.

Not far back, Meg leapt over a crumbling gravestone, twisting in the air to evade a stray machete swipe. She blasted the owner with a face full of rock salt from the sawed-off in her right hand, stabbing blindly with her left to cut off the second demon going for Castiel. An arrow buried itself in the throat of the demon charging for Dean, buying the hunter some time to finish off the Croat he was grappling with. Whirling then, he took off the demon's head and Sam slammed the demon knife up into the body's chest, silencing it for good.

Castiel dodged a wild attack, catching the thing around the neck with the limb of his bow and hauling it back across his path. It staggered and he delivered a hard punch to its face, a boot to its chest that sent it sprawling over a wooden cross at their feet, and then put a holy water tipped arrow through its sternum that pinned it to the cross. The demon hissed and clawed at its chest to dislodge the arrow, and Castiel held it down with the heel of his boot over its throat while he turned the several remaining demons into pin cushions. The demon writhed against the cross, tenuous plumes of smoke curling from the wound on its chest.

Castiel snagged a Croat around the shoulders with his free arm, holding the snapping jaws at bay, then twisted to break its neck. Back in front of him, Sam was already finishing off his trapped quarry with a harsh blow from the demon knife. Castiel pivoted sharply, kicking an extra weapon over to Meg across the dirt. She scooped it up deftly and used the knife as well as her own she still held to scale the back of a nearby Croat like a tree before she buried both into its neck.

Castiel brought his angel blade glittering to light, using both it and the bow's blades to deal critical damage. The holy steel was a gleaming blur under the midday sun. In his left hand, Castiel held the grip of his bow, slicing the air in deadly arcs that soon had the bonded titanium blades dripping with blood. He felt Meg's back graze his own, the assurance of her presence always in the back of his mind as he fought creatures that could now easily kill him. Castiel brought the bow bearing down like an ax in a powerful swing, embedding one of the blades deeply into a Croat's shoulder which severed its subclavian artery. He abandoned the dying infected temporarily, pivoting to grapple with the demon that flung itself at him. Castiel blocked the series of quick attacks it loosed on him, then flipped the angelic blade he still held in his hand so that the weapon's point was aimed downwards. In a swift move, he tore it across the demon's throat, spewing brimstone. His free hand thrust forward to grip it by the back of the neck, flinging the body behind himself and facing the next head on.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Meg in her element and was once again struck by her dark power like a moth enamored by flame. She had several demons in the opposition writhing at her feet as she mentally tore them apart from the inside, her eyes black and bottomless against the sweltering glare of the sun. Dark waves of hair spilled over her shoulder like a familiar tangle of thorns, errant strands whipping across her face as she fought. Her blades were bloody and as hungry for more as she was, and the sight was as beautiful as it was menacing.

Castiel withdrew his blade from the chest of another demon with a burst of hellfire, then returned it to the holster at his thigh before ducking a manic swing that would have otherwise meant his demise. He rolled over a shoulder, retrieving his waiting bow from its planted position in the dead Croat as he rose back to his feet. With a careless backwards arc, he decapitated the threat to focus on another more pressing one.

At the enormous infected that was barreling towards him, Castiel notched two arrows at once and fired them into its chest. Acting fast as the Croat was barely slowed down, he swung the bow back over his shoulder and drew the machete there instead, slicing into the lumbering, rabid mass. With a roar it caught the grip of the weapon, nearly crushing his fingers as it was wrenched from his hand. Castiel twisted out of the way, scrambling for the pistol holstered under his arm. Before he could pull it free, the thing had him around the throat, meaty arms cinched tight across his shoulders from behind. He might not have been able to become infected, but he sure as hell didn't want that piece of shit sinking its teeth into him. Castiel struggled, muscles straining against the chokehold as it manhandled him across the burial grounds.

"Cas, fucking kill it!"

The angry impatience in Meg's voice barely disguised the panic there, and out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw her fighting to reach him. "Meg, shut up," he managed to growl out when he found the air. He wasn't exactly sitting with his thumb up his ass. Castiel gripped at the bands of steel holding him prisoner, kicking his feet up and shoving off a nearby crypt with his boots hard enough to send them both careening backwards. When they collided against another stone fortification, the Croat howled in agony as the twin blades on Castiel's bow bit deeply into its body, causing immediate hemorrhages.

It released him, staggering tumultuously like an oak about to plummet. In its death throes, it forced Castiel back hard into the side of the jeep, causing his teeth to rattle in his skull and stars to spot his vision. As it toppled over in a graceless heap, Castiel sank to one knee, riding out a wave of fiery pain and cradling his still healing ribs that were now protesting in earnest. He ground out a curse between clenched teeth, eyes wired shut and muscles going tense.

"You good?" he heard Meg's voice above him, the concern there barely masked.

"Fine," he said tightly, forcing his feet back under himself. Ignoring the pain, he forewent her proffered hand and recovered the machete from the dirt, squaring his shoulders and ready for round two.

If he fucking dies because of you, Meg had snarled at Dean, leaving the threat open-ended as they'd hit the road. Dean had barely given her a second look—either doubting her ability to back up the words or calling her bluff. Except Meg wasn't bluffing. Castiel was the cause she now served, and if something happened to him she'd set the whole fucking world on fire herself. The stupid dipshit was loyal to a fault and would follow Dean anywhere and it was bound to get him killed. Her too, for that matter, because Castiel wouldn't fall into the fire alone this time. Meg barely recognized this righteous fury that mounted within her, but it was prevalent all the same. So, she'd given Dean fair warning. His lack of heeding it was as maddening as he was, but came as no real surprise.

"Back to the jeep!" the hunter bellowed over the last remaining discharges. He hacked away with the blade from monster land until he got a chance to reload. Whatever approached him—whether it sported black eyes or bloodshot ones—found itself on receiving end of a very gruesome death. Dean leveled all that stood in his way, decimating the enemy force and working his way through demon lieutenants as though they were mere foot soldiers. The Purgatory weapon obeyed his every command like a trusted friend, and he left a mutilated trail in his wake.

Sam shouldered past the few remaining obstacles, swallowing ground back for the jeep. Demons and Croats cropped up around him, getting either a salt round to the face or a demon knife to the throat. His body was beginning to protest at the exertion, but he pressed forward at impossible speeds. Dean had assumed guard at his side when Sam caught up, and there was cold determination writ beneath the blood and grime, beneath the scowl he wore like a badge into battle. "Sam!"

The only reply for a long time was the repetitive firing of Sam's weapon. "Not yet!" his brother shouted back. The demons were too spread; he was determined to wait until they were all on top of him and, even barring that, Meg was still too close. Sam popped the hinge pin open on his shotgun, ejecting the empty shells. Gunpowder stained his hands black, smoke curling from the double barrels.

But Dean was already slicing his way back over and, within seconds, he'd dug the demon bomb out of Sam's belt and hurled it down at the ground with callous resolve.

"Dean, no—!"

Castiel felt as though someone had just clamped a vice around his throat, a sick feeling somersaulting through his chest when he saw what was about to happen. Abandoning his own fight, he seized Meg by the arm and hauled her behind the jeep, slamming her into the rusted metal and throwing his body over hers as death swept around them in a roaring hiss.

A wide arc of arcane power mushroomed out in an explosion of sound, ripping through the mass of possessed bodies with devastating force. The demons were immediately reduced to little more than burnt outlines of brimstone and ash. As the dust settled and the noise faded, Sam's bloodied face twisted in frustration. Looking at his brother though, he swallowed the angry protest begging to spill past his lips because he knew it would be pointless.

Dean plunged his blade into the still spasming body of a half-dead Croat, wrenching it once and removing it with a sickening squelch. He wiped the blood off on the corpse before shouldering the weapon.

"What the hell was that?" Castiel demanded as he and Meg appeared from the safety of the jeep. He was clearly indicating the close call, and he looked fucking pissed. Once it was finally safe, he'd pulled back to make sure Meg was unharmed, only to see the fading burns as they began the slow healing process over her scalded flesh. She hadn't been quite quick enough to hide the instinctive fear from him which lay hidden in those dusky eyes and he felt a seething anger claw its way to surface.

"I felt my hair singe, you asshole," the demon put in spitefully. Her baleful glare was dripping with unchecked disdain, and she angrily brushed the cinders from her jacket. "A warning would have been nice!"

"If you wanna stick around to throw a bitch fit, be my guest. Otherwise, get in the jeep. We're moving." Dean's stance looked relaxed and at ease, but in contrast his words cracked like a whip. He stepped over the semi-circle of dead Croats then and through the heavy stench of fire and brimstone sizzling the air, storming past the three of them. "Let's go, Sam."

The command tightened the hunter's voice, all compassion frozen over like ice. This Dean, Sam swallowed as he watched resignedly from where he stood, had no humanity left. Or, if he did, it wasn't towards his own crew or the people possessed. Which was foreign and unsettling, because Sam remembered a time when Dean's passion to protect people was blinding. It was yet another small thing that reminded him that no one came back from the Pit or Purgatory unchanged. No one came back from war unchanged.

Even still, Sam followed after him.

He always would.

---

oh death
won't you spare me over another year
but what is this that I can't see
with ice cold hands taking over me
when God is gone and the devil takes hold
who will have mercy on your soul

---

THREE DAYS PRIOR, CAMP CHITAQUA

"The First Blade?" Castiel appeared skeptical and uneasy as he examined the maps and lore laid out between the small party. He held a drink in his hand and dispassion in his eyes. The low illumination of the cabin threw the occupants' expressions into harsh shadow, lending to the tense atmosphere of the situation. It diverged the table into two opposing sides, each vying between darkness and light. The meeting was exclusive to the foursome, as it had earlier been determined that the general consensus of the camp towards this mission would prove unfavorable as it was so dangerous.

Dean's determination was dark and absolute. "If anything can kill Abaddon, this is it."

Castiel merely grunted acknowledgement, the look of distaste on his face speaking volumes. His jaw clenched at the diverse memories of what he'd seen that very Blade do throughout the ages. The uncharted road set out before them was nothing compared to the Blade itself in terms of risk.

"That's great, Deano." From another corner, Meg's sarcasm spilled over into her words. Her expression was somewhat baleful, her tone faintly insolent. "Do we have anything that can find the First Blade?"

"Got a lead already."

Sam spoke then, addressing the two out of the loop whereas Dean had preferred to hit the road as soon as possible, no questions asked. "Going off our dad's journal, a demon mentioned the First Blade to him. Journal also logged a code alongside the entry for one of our dad's storage lockers," he explained. "Hope is, there's something more in the storage locker."

"Hope is?" Meg snorted. "Not a lot to go on, Beanstalk."

Castiel sardonically regarded the map in passing with a dry chuckle. "Our fearless leader is quite adept at turning bread into wine. Should at least prove interesting. I assume this will be a private excursion?"

"Yes," Dean flatly replied. He eyed the drink in his friend's hand disapprovingly. Sure, he bore his own alcoholic demons, but right now wasn't the time to get shitfaced.

"So no need for chloroform and a rope then to acquire added help on this little goose chase. Just the three musketeers and milady riding again." Meg's tone remained clouded with doubt and archly derisive. "Where's the storage locker?" she asked, curiosity nonetheless outweighing aggravation. "Color me dubious, but I don't imagine it's anywhere remotely convenient."

His response was clipped and terse. "Essex."

"New York?" Meg's eyebrows shot for her hairline, and a cynical laugh gusted out of her in disbelief. She crossed her arms over her chest. "You're gonna take this hot little caravan of ours from Lebanon to Essex? On a hunch? Well, holy rotting shit." Meg gave another sharp bark of laughter at the erroneous logic, shaking her head. Kansas to New York was a hell of a hike to begin with, but in the world they were living in now? Hell, no wonder it would just be them—they were the only four still alive who were crazy enough to try. "Why not just Thelma and Louise it off the nearest cliff?"

Castiel regarded the map with no small measure of disdain. "Oh, look. And this road trip will lead us right through a dozen hot zones."

Meg shared a brief look with him that spoke of mutual agreement. She knew nothing brought Castiel more joy than being a magnet for infected. It was the remnants of grace left inside him, they'd figured long ago. The chompers couldn't stand it. "Fifteen hundred miles of pure, apocalyptic fun. Better stock up on your rabies shots, handsome."

"Crawlin' with Croats, yeah," Dean uttered dispassionately, his eyes rolling. "Looters, demons, monsters, who knows what else. Hell of a damn good time." The challenge in his unwavering stare was clear. "Are you saying my plan is reckless?"

Castiel's reaction to that was largely apathetic, and he took another drink from his glass. "If you don't like reckless, I could use insouciant," he uttered mordantly.

"Or fucking stupid," Meg chimed.

Dean's patience was thinning. "You coming, or not?"

Castiel appeared resigned, discord warring briefly behind his eyes, and he sighed. "Of course." The answer was automatic. They would likely all be killed during this kamikaze venture, but he'd go anyways. Because, despite any burned bridges, Dean was still his best friend and he would still do anything for him. Castiel was in, win or lose. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes asking the question even before he spoke. "Meg?"

A drawn up eyebrow from him. An answering eye roll from her. Sam marveled, not for the first time, at the effortlessness of their unspoken language. The demon looked at the fallen angel silently for a moment as she reached her decision.

With a bitter laugh, Meg said, "What the hell?" She came to stand beside Castiel, leveling a narrow-eyed look at his face and nudging his shoulder with hers. "Someone's gotta watch your ass."

"We head out tomorrow?" Sam surmised, looking between them all. It felt like final words and the dark notion gave him pause as he considered how willing they all were to jump right into the lion's den.

Dean, however, felt satisfaction. He felt vindicated. He'd known in dealing with Castiel and Meg that he only needed one to agree and the other would follow, no matter the danger. Was it manipulative? Yes. Did he care? Perhaps, but there were things he cared more about. Things he had to care more about. "Pack light, pack mean, and bring a set of balls. We've got one chance to pull this off, I don't want any one of you fucking it up." He aimed a cold, meaningful look at Castiel. "Sober up."

The fallen angel offered the room a devil-may-care smile, shrugging and downing the remainder of his drink in salute. "If Dean Winchester says it's time to go out in a blaze of glory, so be it." The glass was placed back on the table with some force, the gallows humor ringing in the air in parting as Castiel turned and left.

The silence in the room hung for a moment more, tension strung tight like a whipcord even as their plans were agreed upon.

"Run along," Dean muttered to the still present company, ducking his chin to regard the maps there. "We're on the road by morning."

All affability had fallen away from Meg's sharp features, and her stare was like a serrated blade ready to dig into his skin. "If he fucking dies because of you, Winchester, I swear…"

"We're all going to die, princess."

"Dean." Sam's voice was terse, no longer passive. Wordlessly, it said to cool it.

Meg resisted the powerful urge to rip the hunter's heart out through his nose. "You're not the only one who apprenticed under Alistair," she said tonelessly. He met her eyes at that one, unwaveringly but not unflinchingly. There was a fracture there somewhere deep and hidden at the reminder of what he'd become once. Trace amounts of guilt and even disgrace flickered behind that empty stare looking back at her. Good. He was paying attention. "Remember that, Deano."

He was just good enough at the trade to make it really interesting, should the time ever come when the demon's patience ran out, or when Dean's own patience took that final, critical hit. Meg exchanged a brief look with Sam before she disappeared out the front door after Castiel.

Dean watched her go, saying nothing. Beside him, Sam grimly held his tongue.

---

no wealth no ruin no silver no gold
nothing satisfies me but your soul
I'll open the door to heaven or hell
my name is death and the end is here

---

PRESENT, NEW YORK

CASTLE STORAGE, read the tarnished sign hanging above their heads.

Together, Sam and Dean broke the lock, sliding the corrugated metal door up and open so that the four of them could enter. One by one they filed in, the brothers immediately bee-lining for whatever sector of the room pertained to the code they'd found in their father's journal. Castiel followed them into a caged off area, but he glanced over his shoulder when he noticed Meg wasn't at his side. She stood, foot tapping peevishly, just at the edge of the devil's trap that blocked her access into the subsidiary room. Castiel offered her a tight, rueful smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Pride a little nicked, Meg looked away with a derisory huff, taking in her surroundings with poorly concealed distaste. "Love what John did with the place. What is this décor, anyways? Rustic obsessive?"

"Hey." Dean's sharp, whipcrack snarl drew her eyes back to the chain-link separator. "You don't say his name, do you understand me? You don't even think it."

Meg said nothing, meeting his eyes evenly in silent, vacillating regard. There was buried animosity rekindled, but also something approaching sincerity that made the challenging arc of her brow less severe, dark eyes shining under the shoddy fluorescent light. There was less hostility in Sam's eyes, perhaps even an apology there too, but he didn't speak a word to her. Dean continued to stare at her coldly, silently.

Meg inclined her chin a bit primly, squaring her shoulders as she looked away in a bid to preserve that pride with stilted indifference. It wasn't long before she felt the predictable brush of Castiel's jacket as he returned to her, having left the brothers to sorting through their father's old numbering system.

"Ignore him," was his quiet murmur.

His hand ghosted over the small of her back in a passing gesture of assurance, and Meg's lips pressed into a thin line. She wouldn't meet his eyes for some reason. Castiel was watching her carefully, or he might not have seen the barest evidence of attrition. "My daddy killed their daddy. Bit of a sore subject," she muttered, sotto. When he opened his mouth to object, she immediately cut him off. "Nothing you can say, nothing to say. Don't pretend I don't deserve it."

Castiel had no reply to that. He observed her reticence dismally, withholding a sigh of acknowledgement when it became clear by her tone that the subject was dropped.

"Here," Sam spoke up. All eyes fell to the pen. Castiel drifted back over to the entryway as the younger Winchester continued. "Dad says he interrogated the demon and exorcised it."

"The one Crowley said his lackey was after?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded, pointing out the inscription to him. "Yeah, but not before it mentioned the First Blade."

"So Crowley was right."

Sam read from their father's notes, his eyebrows furrowed into a crease of concentration. "Demon said the archangels used a weapon that could kill the Knights of Hell."

Dean looked over his shoulder, holding off on his own findings to see what Sam had dug up. "He'd never heard of anything like that. Or a First Blade," he surmised.

Sam exchanged a pensive look with his brother, the two of them communicating silently. At Dean's nod, he nodded too. "Dad probably thought the demon was lying."

"Trying to save itself."

"Does it ever surprise you?" Meg wondered to Castiel, raising her eyebrows at him. "How often demons are actually telling the truth?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, tacitly indicating that she spare them all the commentary since Dean was clearly in a mood and Castiel grew weary of playing referee between them. Meg merely gave him a complacent smile, not bothered at all by his fretting. In fact, encouraged by it. Castiel sighed, ignoring the gleam of satisfaction in her eye for having ruffled his feathers. At least her cold isolation seemed to have passed.

But Dean had forgotten she was even in the room—that anyone was in the room in fact, apart from his brother. "Sammy…" A mystified, deeply reverent shock had fallen over him, and a sensation not unlike having ice water tossed down his back seized hold of him only to settle devoutly then in his gut.

"My God," Sam murmured from beside him, seeing it too.

In his hand, Dean had uncovered a new pad of notes, another leather binding full of them—full of their father's writings, full of answers to questions they hadn't even thought to ask. Unchartered heritage stared them both in the face. Dean looked over it carefully in quiet wonder, not sure what to make of what they'd just found. Their father had a whole other journal he'd kept secret, devoted just to finding the Blade? "He could never let it go. Look." Dean held the book up for Sam's inspection.

The younger Winchester was amazed. "Dad searched for it?"

Castiel disappeared back into the pen, awash in curiosity at the find. He began sorting through the documents with the brothers, the three of them working together now to find what they were looking for.

"Holy shit… he had contacts looking all over the world." Dean poured over the words, awestruck with a renewed sense of admiration at the man. This whole time…?

Sam's attention snagged on something he read. His finger shot forward to point it out, eyes wide and darting to his brother. "Dean, he found a location spell."

But Dean looked devastated now, some of that impassioned resilience falling away in confusion. He shook his head, brow arching in dismay at the thought of such a huge secret being kept from them. Their father had entrusted them with everything, so why hide away something so valuable? Dean couldn't understand it. "Why did he never tell us this?"

Sam's features were drawn. He wore a doleful frown, not quite understanding himself. The atmosphere became heavy under the emotional riddle, and one large shoulder lifted in a helpless shrug. "Maybe he never got the chance to?"

Severing the moment, although not unkindly, Castiel held up another document for them to see. "Your father couldn't find all the ingredients for the spell."

Two pairs of eyes fell on the paper, combing over it carefully and then immediately falling morose at the unattainable grocery list they were faced with.

"Let me see." The three men glanced to their left to see Meg peering through the grating at the paper. She'd abandoned her detached post and her stony silence, ready to be useful. Castiel held up the list for her inspection and her dark eyes scanned the contents. "I can get those."

Dean looked at her sharply, his green stare penetrating. "So do it."

The tone commanded action and obedience. Immediately, the others recognized that the brief lapse of sentimentality was gone and the militant resolve was back. Meg smirked in the face of it, annoyed and rueful all at once. "There's a catch, Mighty Mouse. They'll sense my flitting around and be able to track it."

Sam's brow drew together. "They?"

"Other demons? Abaddon's, Crowley's, and every bellycrawler in between."

"Shit," Sam said, echoed shortly after by Dean.

Castiel regarded Meg with burgeoning unease, already knowing where this was headed. Sam was clearly onboard, if a little anxious at the risk, and he looked to his brother for the final decision. Meanwhile, Meg was whistling the Jeopardy theme.

Dean deliberated silently for several long moments, weighing the gamble. Eventually, he issued her a stiff nod. "Do it."

"Highness," the demon acknowledged, bowing scantly. Her smirk blossomed into a full grin, and Meg's eyes slicked to black.

"Meg…" Castiel began, and she could hear the apprehension in his gravelly voice.

"Don't get your feathers in a bunch, handsome. I'll be quick as a jackrabbit." She blew him a kiss, snapped her fingers, and was gone.

The fallen angel grew tense, a muscle tightening in his jaw. He recognized the move for what it was—Meg's way of fixing what she could. Making up for the past, despite that there could be no absolving such a thing. His stoic demeanor revealed outwardly nothing, but those waiting eyes and tightening fists betrayed him as easily as if he'd spoken his thoughts aloud.

"She'll be fine, Cas," Sam said from beside him, the futile effort meant to reassure him. "This is Meg, remember?"

"I'm aware of what she's capable," Castiel replied tightly, concern etched heavily on his face. "That doesn't mean…"

The words trailed off almost uncertainly, lost in the brief quiet Meg had left in her wake. Castiel frowned at the empty spot where she'd been, feeling restless. He counted the minutes as they crawled agonizingly by. Between the Crowley loyalists and Abaddon's headhunters, Meg had very few friends and very many enemies. The notion had him itching to fly off and lay waste to something, but here he was—grounded and useless.

Sam laid a hand over his shoulder briefly, wordlessly conveying that he understood.

"How about you use your little love connection powers and tell your girlfriend to hurry up," Dean chimed unhelpfully.

As if on cue, Meg stood before them again with her arms full, somewhat frazzled. Castiel let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and both he and the Winchesters filed back out of the pen to see what she'd found. Meg was already moving towards the back of the main room, dumping the ingredients onto the tool bench there. "Let's make some cocktails, boys. And move your asses because time is not on our side right now."

"Did anyone follow you?" Castiel asked, not even bothering to keep the demand from his voice.

"Picked up a tail somewhere near Jerusalem, but I shook it. Not sure for how long. Chop, chop—let's get baking before all that messy brown stuff impacts the oscillating blades, shall we?"

When the ingredients were properly mixed, Sam excavated the room until he'd found a map behind one of the metal shelves and he spread it over the tabletop in front of them. "Matches?"

Dean already had the pack out, striking one against the rough edge and, as Meg poured the mixture out over the map, Dean lit the surface and they all watched it go up in flame. The fire swelled in a short burst, drawing inwards then by the primordial pull of magic that kept the flame controlled and deliberate. Within moments, it was extinguished, the burnt remnants leaving behind only a small, singed section that was still legible.

"Eldridge…" Sam murmured, a disillusioned frown splitting his face. "Missouri."

Dean stared, expression raw and quiet fury mounting as the map lay there taunting them all. When he spoke, his voice was low and menacing against the outcome. "You mean we travelled fifteen hundred miles all the way to New York when the Blade was sitting right next door?"

There was a tense beat of silence, and then Meg burst out laughing into a high-pitched cackle.

"What?" he snarled.

"I'm sorry," she said through the bitterness, not sorry at all. "That's fucking hilarious."

Dean looked as though he'd sooner kill her than look at her. Sam sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. "We probably drove right past it."

"That is…" Castiel looked jaded and annoyed, "unfortunate."

"Shit," Dean bit out, beginning to angrily pace.

"Now what," Sam muttered.

"We drive back to fucking Missouri, Sam."

"We'll need to make a pit stop," Meg said, indifferent to the two identical glares leveled her way, though she managed to look both condescending and insulted at the same time. "Hey. Unless you want demons following us, we need to take precautions. They're on my ass now."

Dean was too infuriated for inconveniences. "Easy. We leave you. Or kill you. Win-win."

"Cute," Meg sneered, ignoring the jibe and automatically putting a hand over Castiel's arm to calm the sudden storm in his eyes.

"Meg will return to the camp with us," he said, regardless. His tone was that of a gavel slamming down, leaving no room for dispute.

"Easy, tiger. He knows he's not getting rid of me."

Dean shouldered past them both, his sudden attitude as potent as roadkill, and everyone gave him a wide berth. "Get your asses back on the road."

Castiel and Meg followed after him mutely, retorts hanging useless on their tongues. Sam shied back, taking a moment to soak in the memory of this place, thinking that he may never see it again. It was only a storage locker, sure, but it held a piece of their father and there just wasn't enough of that these days.

Sam missed the man.

It had taken him a long time to admit it, a long time to realize it, but be truly did miss his father. He had never known his mother, not really, and what memories he did have of John weren't always pleasant. But that he had memories at all was a blessing, he found. His father had made a lot of mistakes, but so had Sam. A decade later and he finally saw how similar they really were.

Just trying to keep the family together.

His brother needed help, and Sam didn't know how to help him. So… yeah. He wished desperately that their father were here to tell him what to do. To say anything, really. Not just about Dean, but everything. The world didn't belong to them anymore but they still had to live in it. Still had to fight for it. Dean didn't quite seem to agree and he was fighting for something else. He really had switched places with Sam. At least, the Sam of before. Chasing revenge and damning the consequences, damning whoever was lost in the process.

He'd almost killed Meg today.

Sam didn't want to think about what Castiel would have done if that had happened. He was no idiot, despite any outward denial—Castiel had sold his fucking soul, and he'd sold it for Meg. Deep down, Dean probably knew it, too. There was no other explanation. Sam saw Crowley kill her. He watched Meg die. He felt like shit for it then and he still did to this day because it was primarily his fault. Castiel had told him one thing that night—stay here and protect Meg.

Sam wore a dark look under heavily furrowed brows, a terrible sense of failure afflicting him.

I'm sorry I let you down, Cas. I'm sorry you had to do what you did.

If Meg died again… or when Cas himself eventually died? Sam felt a sick feeling churn through his gut at the thought. They were going to lose Cas. Nine more years and he was gone. He'd be dragged to Hell and then what would Meg do? What would any of them do? Dean was hanging by a thread as it was—he said he no longer gave a shit about collateral damage, but if he lost his best friend? One of the only few friends he had left? Sam wasn't even sure what he would do himself. When that clock chimed twelve on Castiel's last hour… Sam felt a shudder rush through him, eye wiring shut in a cringe to erase the thought. He couldn't lose another person like that. Another brother.

He wanted to stop losing people, period.

Maybe if Dean saw this through to the end… maybe it really would save them all.

If it didn't kill them first.

---

touch my mouth and hold my tongue
I'll never be your chosen one
the pull on my flesh was just too strong
stifled the choice and the air in my lungs
better not to breathe than to breathe a lie

---

20 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

"Od oiad teloc ip sa od oiad paaox ip noasmi oiad teloc. And the departed shall remain, and the remains shall be the departed," Ezekiel explained to his companion. "When an angel leaves a vessel, they leave behind a piece of themselves."

They stood in the younger Winchester's cabin, the faint sounds of the camp's everyday chaos droning from outside. Ezekiel had said a place of peaceful quiet would be beneficial for the start of these exercises, and this was really the only piece of Camp Chitaqua that Sam had to himself. For himself, really.

"Like an angelic fingerprint?" he wondered, offering the angel a beer from the icebox he kept in the corner.

"Yes," Ezekiel said, amused by the brevity and of the offer that superseded it. He shook his head and Sam returned the second bottle, twisting the cap off his own. "However you would like to refer to it, this piece of Gadreel contains grace."

Sam's brow knit in confusion and surprise. "You're saying there's angelic grace inside of me?"

"Yes." Ezekiel said again, nodding. "I'm going to teach you how to channel that grace, and to use that connection to track Gadreel."

"Wait…" Sam frowned and shook his head. An immediate sense of worry befell him at the unexpected shift of responsibility, and it was plainly evident on his face in a way that brought the angel deep sadness. "You're not going to help? I thought you were going to be the one to—"

"Sam." Ezekiel offered him a temperate smile. "I'll do what I can. I said that I would, and I meant it. But you are strong in ways an angel can only dream of being. You hold the connection. Gadreel's grace is here." He held a finger over Sam's heart, regarding the human as though witnessing something remarkable there. "If anyone has the power to find him, it's you."

"Doesn't feel like I have anything in there," Sam muttered, rubbing a hand absently over his chest. The young hunter looked dispirited in every way, drinking morosely from his bottle and studying his feet with an intensely pensive frown.

"You have far more than grace alone inside you, Sam Winchester." Ezekiel spoke heavily, the words resonating in a manner that was undeniably stirring. "As to the connection you share with Gadreel, it will take time, but I promise that you will learn to harness and exploit that connection as easily as any spell."

"How long are we talking?" Sam asked, a tired smile edging at the corners of his mouth.

Ezekiel quietly chuckled. "That depends on you." At Sam's hesitance, he went on. "If I did not think you could do this, I would not have brought it to your attention."

"I don't know how much you know or what you've seen, Zeke, but I'm not exactly what you'd call a safe bet."

Much of Ezekiel's quiet exuberance fell away at the banked pain and self-doubt packed into those few words. So much suffering and tribulation had befallen this human, so much evil and so much of it undeserved. It was both disheartening and truly maddening to see Sam regard himself with such lack of faith when none of that fault could ever be allowed to rest on his shoulders.

Ezekiel regarded him more seriously, benevolence falling away to conviction. "Throughout my time on this earth I've come to realize that the more someone has to tell you that they are something, the less truth there usually is to it. In that very same respect, the less a man thinks of himself, the more he seems to truly be worth." Admiration was rooted deeply in the angel's expression as he considered his human companion, and his voice rumbled like distant thunder. Sam said nothing, stunned by surprise into silence. "I have seen the evils of this world and of Heaven, just as keenly as I've beheld its wonders. I was there when our brightest star fell and I have faced down Satan's armies from the moment time itself first drew breath. I have traversed eternity, worlds of fire, of majesty, and I can tell you the name of every star my Father hung in the sky above us. I've seen terrible, beautiful things you can only dream of imagining."

The air around them buzzed with a sudden current of energy, the lights flickering overhead as great skeletal shadows unfurled against the walls of the cabin. Dark eyes gained ethereal luminance, brilliant with righteous favor. Ezekiel had risen to his full height, nearly eye to eye with Sam but all the more imposing.

His voice was a sonorous command, and Sam instinctively shrank back in the face of it. "Look at me. You know what I am, and yet you have no idea. I am an angel of Heaven, a celestial being borne into existence by the Most High. I am a warrior, virtually limitless. Yet here I stand, impressed by you, Sam Winchester. You are who I strive to emulate. Your compassion, your desire to do good, it is what inspires all of us. And let me tell you… it means something, boy."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Ezekiel barreled right over him with perhaps even more severity than before.

"You are mighty. In all the ways an angel is and is not. You have our strengths yet none of our weaknesses. Our lack of emotion limits us, but it lives in you as brightly as that grace you carry, and it has driven you since you first taught yourself to stand. I've seen the miracles you've accomplished throughout the years, Sam. You withstood Lucifer. Your will was stronger than his, than the Morning Star's himself. To anyone, that would astound, but I assure you that—to angels?—that moment was one of humanity's greatest feats. He was the most powerful of any of us and yet that power paled in comparison to yours, my friend." The angel's rant gradually tempered, the lights returning to their proper luster and the shadows at Ezekiel's back falling away. Deeply rooted pride showed over every inch of his countenance, earnesty softening the words he said so strongly. "Knowing this as you now do, is it safe for me to presume that you will not doubt yourself again?"

Sam could do little else but stare, dumbstruck. After a long moment, he swallowed hard, nodding slightly. "I… alright. Yeah. I understand."

"Good." Ezekiel's dark features softened into a passing smile. "Now," he began. "We're going to explore a form of transcendental meditation, which will help you focus on those remnants of grace and to seek out its source. Are you familiar at all with meditation?"

"Somewhat," Sam replied, still a little uncertain. Jess had tried getting him into yoga once, but that was about the extent of what he knew on a personal level. Everything else was just witnessed secondhand or read about.

"The transcendental form is a rather simplified practice that emerges from Vedanta, where you assume a still position and use a mantra, a sacred word that is repeated. The subject focuses on rising above all that is impermanent. In this practice, the state of being changes, much like… I believe humans refer to it as an out-of-body experience. The body's state of being, in this instance, is to merge with and find the source of the grace it houses. Do you follow?"

Sam nodded. "I think so. What's the sacred word?"

"Eaohnvozi. Vessel."

Sam allowed the wealth of knowledge to settle in, his mind working through everything the angel said with careful deliberation. "You really think I can do this?"

"You Winchesters have a habit of surprising us," Ezekiel remarked, rather fondly. Sam, he knew, felt inadequate because of his mistakes, his past, because of this new handicap. All of those things were swirling in a dark nebulous inside the human's thoughts and the angel could see it plain as day. "I think the only obstacle that can keep you from any goal is yourself."

Sam mulled this over for a long time before finally letting out a long breath. "Guess I better whip myself into shape then."

Ezekiel's regard of him was intensely heartening. A powerful hand rested over the hunter's shoulder in support, and the angel dipped his chin in a reaffirming nod. "You will do this, Sam. I have faith in you."

---

there's a place where you can light the fire and watch it burn
lay it down and lose it all
it's taken me so far beyond the point of no return
someday soon will fade away
what's it going to take to survive?

---

15 MONTHS BEFORE THE FALL

Her life was a series of befores and afters—the Risa of now certainly not the same woman she was before her fiancé's eyes turned black and he tried to choke the life out of her. That Risa had no idea how to handle a gun, how to chant an exorcism, how to draw a devil's trap. Still… she'd take that life over what she had now. The world would never be what it was, not since Croatoan hit the planet, and frankly she wasn't sure there was an after for her. For any of them.

She'd joined the Winchesters' crew because they seemed to be the only ones doing more than just surviving. She'd known his name before the virus, of course—hell, every hunter did. Even newbies like her had heard about it when he'd clawed his way out of his own grave, when he and his brother set Lucifer free, and then the rumor that he was the only one who could beat the devil. Well… that seemed to have worked out. She hoped it was as easy to beat a Knight of Hell. Hoped it was really as simple as playing with matches, or as effortless as the Winchesters seemed to make everything look.

Risa didn't think Dean trusted her at first, and really, she didn't blame him. It wasn't because she was a woman. It was her inexperience compared to the others. But she knew her shit more than any civilian, than the survivors they found, the runaways and refugees they offered sanctuary. She was good in a fight, and was a hell of a shot with a sniper rifle. It hadn't taken her long to prove herself.

She found him far into the back of the camp, where the thistle and weeds grew thick. He was alone, sitting on the hood of a black '67 Impala that had foliage growing through it.

Green eyes and freckles made an appealing package. Risa was interested despite herself. Despite that dark cloud that was always hanging over his head, the brooding scowl, the decades of baggage that dragged along at his feet like shackles. It wasn't even a bad boy thing. It was something else entirely, something she couldn't put a name to. She knew he was attracted to her, had caught him looking, but so far he hadn't made any sort of move. She wondered what he'd been like before all this. Before he went to Hell and got pulled out, before the Fall, before Croatoan hit.

Dean knew he had company but said nothing. Risa silently moved to stand beside him where he sat on the old hood.

"Can't hardly see the stars anymore," he remarked after awhile.

His voice was gruff like she was used to. Risa lifted a shoulder. "I used to live in New York. Never really saw the stars much anyways."

"Used to park sometimes in a field and look at them."

"By yourself?"

He shook his head, looking like he was lost in some memory. "Not always."

They killed twelve Croats that day and didn't lose any of their own people, and that was what passed for a good day now. Risa felt the energy buzzing under her skin, humming in her veins and pulsing at her back, an unseen force pressing her forward. Almost sensing her intent, Dean angled his neck to look at her.

"I'm a fucking mess, Risa."

His voice was softer, vulnerable unlike anything she was used to. It betrayed the emotional fatigue that hung over him like a permanent dark cloud. His own words vacillated between them in the deafening silence of twilight, echoing off his troubled mind and lending origin to the somewhat haunted expression he wore. Reluctance crept over him, his eyes flooded with uncertainty and something so close to shame that it bolstered her already fervent resolve.

"Yeah. Me too, Winchester." Risa took his face in her hands, scruff scratching at her palms, and kissed him.

He fell into her as though he were starving. Need and hope shuddered through him and he recognized how long it had been since he felt like that. Since he felt anything at all.

Risa let him grab and pull at her until she was lying beneath him on the hood, his hands and mouth softer than she would have imagined them being. He was pure, nihilistic desperation. The metal wasn't cool at her back—everything was so hot nowadays and it was always hard to breathe that arid, stale air, but she breathed him in like life and exhaled life back into him. It took hours before her lungs began to remember what they were good for.

That night, they both saw stars.

She wasn't really surprised when he showed up at her cabin two nights later, kicking the door closed behind himself and pillaging more kisses and promises from her mouth. They almost tripped over her boots lying in the way and he laughed against her mouth because of it, eyes bright in a way she didn't think she'd ever seen before. Risa touched his face with fond tenderness, surprised at the warmth filling her chest.

Their stolen nights became dangerous. They became more than adrenaline and survivor's guilt and the need to forget. Dean started giving her full smiles each time, showing her how far they'd fallen, and Risa tried not to reveal how stunned she was by how different it made him look. Younger and more hopeful, like the world hadn't gone to shit and they weren't all just marking time until they followed it down.

It took her another month or so to realize how much more she was smiling, too—when Dean was showing up a couple nights a week and they were both trying not to think about what it meant.

Nothing changed otherwise. Dean didn't open up or tell her anything more than he told the others. He didn't seek out her advice or act like she was special. He ran things on a need-to-know basis like everything else, and clearly he didn't think she needed to know. She was okay with that.

Then came the supply raid where they lost half the patrol. Dean lead out a second to bring in some demons for intel. He'd locked them in the camp's makeshift prison, and Risa made herself scarce when she heard the screaming. She remembered the looks on Sam and Castiel's faces, and likely would never forget them. The buried conflict, the sinister reminders resurfacing at whatever the hell was going on behind those doors. They knew, and she didn't want to.

The days of trying to save hosts were long gone. Risa kind of hated herself for thinking it was easier this way.

That night, she woke to the sound of someone entering her cabin. She had a gun pointed at him even as she was blinking sleep out of her eyes.

"Hey," he said, holding up a half-empty bottle of whisky. "Just me." He didn't offer her any, but she could taste it in his mouth.

After that night, he seemed worse than before, worse than she'd ever seen him. They continued like this for several months, longer than she ever should have allowed it to go on. Risa didn't know if he was sleeping with anyone else, and she often told herself that she didn't care.

She liked to think she was smarter than the people they rescued, the civilian survivors who believed the things he told them about winning this war, the ones who thought him a hero. But she fell for him, the same as everyone else.

Worse, she knew she'd do it all over again.

---

don't make me sad, don't make me cry
the road is long, we carry on
let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain
choose your last words, this is the last time
cause you and I, we were born to die

---

PRESENT, PENNSYLVANIA

It hadn't taken long at all for demons to catch up to them.

They'd yet to make it to shelter for the night, and just as they were parking the jeep at the back of some dingy alley, a small pack of demons had jumped them. Dean had one choking on sulfur and brimstone barely thirty seconds from when he'd stepped out of the vehicle. Sam and Castiel fought off the other three, Castiel with his own blade and Sam with his short-barrel until Dean could finish them off. Meg had the last one spitting blood under her superior power, and she wore her satisfaction like a crown when the lesser creature was left spasming at her feet.

"What do you think, Captain Bossy Pants?" she asked in menacing tones. "This one useful?"

"Keep him alive," Dean uttered darkly. He looked upon their conduit for answers with an unwavering stare, hot and deadly, his gaze contrasting sharply with his relaxed pose.

Now, they stood in a small circle around the bound demon—a devil's trap beneath him and four penetrating glares above him. They'd set up in an old abandoned apartment building that was mostly falling apart but still the most fortified shelter on the block. Everything else was more likely to cave in on their heads than anything. The sun was sitting low in the sky, affording them little daylight. Sam brought a lantern over from their supplies, setting it down on a nearby table next to their weapons.

Meg's senses were always on high alert for Croats or other possible hiccups to their little quest, but right now she was craving the good ol' days as she watched Dean carve into the bellowing demon from inside the trap. The surly hunter could be so persuasive when the times called for it. Castiel looked on impassively, Sam too except for the slight twitch of muscle in his jaw that gave him away. Meg wondered if demon blood did the same thing to him now as it had in the past.

"Who do you belong to, Fido? Dickbag or bitch? I won't ask again."

Both of the demon's hands were gone. Gnarled, bloody patterns were carved all over its chest and face, deep gouges dug into its arms. Still, it laughed. "Crowley, alright?" it divulged in a breathless snarl. Its chest heaved with the residual aftershocks of its harrowing screams, its eyes black as pitch in the face of Dean's cold resolve.

"Oh, how is the smarmy dick these days?" Meg piped up with a malevolent smile. "Does he know I'm looking for him?"

"Are you?" the demon spat. "You seem more interested in playing lapdog to an angel." A bark of cynical laughter broke free of its abused throat. "How's he doing? Shitty. Though, to be honest, I'm not sure if the King's more afraid of you or your boyfriend."

The twisted gratification she felt at that was almost overwhelming. "Just as long as he's afraid, I'm tickled pink."

"Will you shut up?" Dean snapped. Right now, information was paramount. They had bigger fish than Crowley and Dean's vision was tunneled and red. "I'm asking the questions." The light of the lantern threw his face into sharp relief as he turned back on their prisoner, half in shadow, half in light, and his eyes were dark pools of animosity as he shortened the distance between them. "You answer to me, you piece of shit. Got it? I'm the one with the knife and the complex. I run the show."

"You're scaring your little brother, Dean," the demon all but sang.

Its voice was pitched low and derisive in an attempt to nettle its tormentor. Dean didn't even look away from its face as he drove the knife into the demon's knee, the wound immediately sputtering brimstone and earning a virulent scream. The hunter considered the result with faked interest. "Guess I lost my patience. Sometimes my manners just plain suck. Tell me honestly… do I really look like I'm in the kind of mood to repeat myself?"

"You run the show," it gasped, the veritable plea for reprieve as hostile as its incisive glare. Dean removed the knife with a baleful twist.

"Let's talk about Abaddon."

"I told you… I'm for Crowley, asshole! How would I know anything about carrot top?"

Dean smiled, the gesture showing zero humanity. "You expect me to believe Crowley isn't keeping tabs on his competition? He's either scared to death of her or pissed as hell at her. More than likely both. He's gonna wanna know every move she makes."

It laughed, the sound rasping in its battered throat along with the blood and possible broken teeth. "Last he heard, she was looking for a lieutenant."

"She already has lieutenants. We've had the pleasure of killing several of them."

A gory smile spread the demon's lips. "Not the one she wants." Before Dean could ask just what the hell that meant, the demon's eyes slid knowingly to Meg. "Everybody just wants little orphan Annie to come back home…"

Meg snorted, dismissing the insidious voice and all it implied. "The pay sucks, no thanks."

Beside her, Castiel bristled. His eyes narrowed and unconsciously he drifted closer in a manner that was blatantly possessive. Meg rolled her eyes at the territorial move, but inwardly she couldn't help but derive steep pleasure out of being the center of his attention. He looked at the trapped demon in silent disdain, willing answers out of it so that they could kill it already.

"Less watercooler shit," Dean snapped, raising the knife to the demon's eyeline menacingly. "Let's talk game changers or I get bored and turn you into a torso."

"Like what?" it practically snarled.

"Like what's her fucking endgame! Quit dicking around—you think I don't know Crowley sent you to spill more than just your guts?" Dean's restraint had finally cracked and his temper split wide open. His eye bored into his captive with righteous anger at the obstinate wall standing in his way. "He wants her out of the way as much as we do, so do your damn job. Otherwise I'll send you back to your master with nothing to show for it and he can deal with you."

The demon abruptly quieted, an eerie dispassion falling over it like a shroud. A faint smile played at its lips as it looked between each of them in turn before its black gaze settled back on Dean. "But if you don't have to work for it, where's the fun in that? For either of us."

Dean's eyes were brilliant with suppressed anger, scratching away at the surface of his composure. "I swear, if you don't—"

"What do you think her endgame is, you miserable ape?" The demon's entire demeanor changed, an unnerving calm opposite the group now. At the tense silence, it gave a disgusted sneer, almost relishing the havoc it caused upon what came out of its mouth next. "To raise Lucifer."

A chilling pause swept over the room, as if the very air around them had solidified. A feeling of nausea was there to season the pervasive dread as the reality of such revelation slowly sunk in.

"Fuck," Sam uttered, voice gone soft with terror. His breath left his lungs in a powerful rush of abject shock, the sudden sense of desperation like a living thing growing inside him. Castiel paled considerably and his eyes went to Meg's face, not quite sure what he was looking for but needing to see her reception of the news. The demon remained utterly nonreactive but for the telltale squeak of leather as her crossed arms tensed over her chest.

Dean had gone utterly still. He closed his eyes for a tumultuous moment, trying to stop the tremor that started from deep within his chest and was pervasively radiating outwards as his worst fears solidified into terrifying reality. Though outwardly he gave no indication he was affected, the beat of his heart pounded against his ribs.

The demon went on, merciless and enjoying their collective anxiety. As though it were proud. "Break him out of the cage, once and for all. The grand finale."

Mouth gone dry, Dean shook his head, feeling as though the room were spinning. "How's she gonna do that? The key's in the cage."

"Lucifer's shut away," Sam said, needing to say it. Needing to remember it himself. The words came out of his throat as a rough rasp, and he cleared it determinedly. "For good. I was there."

The demon was unmoved by their conviction. "A ritual."

A harsh breath blew out of Dean's mouth in a scoff. "Of course," he retorted, but there was muted panic behind his eyes.

"Under the Knight's reign, from the blood of the imprisoned and over a site of imprisonment, the Morning Star shall eternally sever all bonds of his exile. In half a contract's time from the closing of the door, Abaddon must take the life of another who has endured the cage." It aimed a pointed, compassionless look at Sam. "How poetic that it be the one who locked the devil away in the first place?" It laughed—a hollow, grating sound. "She wants you to come for her, you stupid jackasses."

Every nerve came alive, every fear realized in that single moment. Dean shook his head, numbed by the thought. "She's gonna risk us coming for her with the Blade just for a chance at Sam?"

"It's Lucifer," said their captive, the callous reminder coming out harsh and contemptuous. "If you were a demon, wouldn't you?"

Once more, its eyes slid to Meg in appraisal. She smiled tightly, trying to disguise the chill she felt. "Sorry, stumpy. I don't play for your team anymore."

It's jet eyes glittered in the low light. "We'll see."

Castiel, throughout the course of the interrogation, had gone aberrantly quiet. He stared coldly, silently, saying nothing. Blue eyes were stormy and dull, his expression a hollow mask that Meg found inscrutable. His posture was like a sinew pulled taut, ready to snap at any given moment. His hand rested, unmoving, over the holy steel holstered at his thigh. The cold bite of it on his fingers was reassuring and it was a habit he'd kept since the Fall.

Nearby, Sam activated, coming out of his wan daze which dissipated in favor of his mulish persistence for answers. "So, wait—half a contract's time. That's five years."

"Since the closing of the door," Castiel echoed, speaking finally.

Beside him, Meg asked the million dollar question. "When did Bullwinkle lock up Big Daddy?"

"May thirteenth, 2010," Dean said quietly, his answer immediate. His face was set in hard lines, his lips pressed firmly together. The sharp planes of his face seemed even sharper against the harshness of his expression. That date would be forever branded into his mind. "This May is five years from the moment Sammy took a swan dive into the cage."

Sam looked alarmed, his heart starting to race. "That means this is gonna go down in three months."

"Where?" Dean posed, the single word clipped and dripping with displeasure.

"Site of imprisonment," Sam recalled of the demon's earlier words, looking at it darkly. "That means Stull Cemetery."

It made a dull buzzer sounding noise, shaking its head. Dean glared down into its face, pinning it with a look that would have left the demon bleeding on the floor if it had been endowed with any physical power. His temper bubbled just beneath the surface, fingers gripped tight around the handle of the knife and itching to spill blood. The cavalier attitude the demon had only intensified the primal urge, and Dean had to ruthlessly tamp it down using every ounce of willpower he had. The darkness within him gathered in spite of his efforts.

"I don't think so," Castiel said pensively, mulling over the information they'd garnered. "Too specific for a spell this archaic. A site of imprisonment. The cage has an array of access points all over the world, given the right magic. It could mean anywhere the door itself has been opened. Stull Cemetery, Detroit, St. Mary's Convent…" He shook his head. "We should research other possible locations—"

"Detroit," Dean answered hollowly.

"How do you know that?" Meg asked, breaking the terrible silence that had fallen over the group.

"It's always Detroit."

Dean's words rang throughout the room not unlike a chilling death knell, setting each and every occupant on edge. The trapped demon appeared deeply gratified at this ultimate conclusion, knowing it was going to die but yet satisfied because it had done what it had been sent to do. It stared into the eyes of its executioner, brash and inciting.

"Run or die screaming, children."

With unforgiving force and clouded torment in his eyes, Dean drove the tip of the blade up into the demon's skull.

---

satan, you know where I lie
gently I go into that good night
never armed our souls
for what the future would hold

---

While on the road, the nights passed like broken glass. They'd exchange watch shifts as they had for the past several, Meg seldom recessing since she didn't require sleep and was the only viable Croat detector they had. This night in particular, they'd settled into the abandoned building for the night, lugging the corpse into a side room until they could deal with it in the morning.

Meg handed Castiel a slip of paper with markings on it she'd drawn, the instructions unspoken but understood. She drew her jacket down off her shoulders, leaving only bare skin and the sheer-backed tank top. Castiel's mouth went unnaturally dry, heat flushing up his neck at the sight.

Meg raised a questioning eyebrow, unmoving as she stared at him.

"That shirt. I like it."

A knowing smile played at the edges of her lips, dark eyes glittering in the candlelight. "There's nothing to this shirt, boy wonder. That's why you like it."

"Mm," he grunted, contemplating the validity of that and seeming to decide she was correct.

Castiel remembered first seeing her wear it.

---

Meg had exquisite taste, despite the leather and studded accessories. Such luxuries were hard to come by these days, so rare finds like this were coveted. He remembered walking into their cabin to find her dancing, swaying to a rhythm droning from the radio in the corner as the diaphanous silk hugged her every curve. Finding music was also a rarity, but Meg loved material things. She complained often for the lack of gossip magazines and how everything worth reading was out of print. Today, she wore jeans and that shirt, barefoot and twirling slowly, rolling her hips, looking up at him from under smoky lashes.

"Dance with me, hotwings."

Much like he did now, his mouth had gone dry then too as she made her way over to him. "I… can't. Dance."

Meg brushed against him, running her fingers slowly over the front of his shirt, up his chest, around his neck. "Have you ever tried?"

Castiel swallowed hard, unable to look away from the movement of her body and being intensely captivated by it. He gave the barest shake of his head. "No," he murmured. "But some knowledge is inherent."

"Exactly," she purred, turning his words against him. "I bet that meatsuit of yours used to cut a rug." Meg saw the confusion at that in his eyes and smirked, letting him puzzle it over on his own. Already she was playing with the hem of his shirt, fingers dragging over the buttons, tugging him just a little closer by the front of it. "Come on, Grumpy. Show me some moves."

"I'd rather do other things with you."

The heat in his voice, the desire pooled in his eyes, was enough to get to her. Meg forewent her perpetual mission to loosen him up and instead rose up on her toes to capture his mouth with hers. Large hands pressed against the material over her back, sliding over it, gripping at it, and ultimately casting it aside.

As alluring as the shirt was, his preference fell on what lay underneath.

---

Now, Meg sat with the elegant curve of her spine displayed before him, having settled together on the wooden floor of the cluttered, candlelit room. Darkness was cheap and a generator would only draw attention they didn't want. The crescent moon afforded them no light, so they had to make do with what they could. Castiel silently considered the markings on the paper he held, a box cutter in his other hand.

If Meg was to be hidden from other demons after her unorthodox means of transportation earlier, this was how. Castiel wasn't happy about it—the thought of carving into her skin left him with a bit of a knot in his stomach—but the alternative options left them little other choice.

"Think you can handle those, Van Gogh?"

"He's the one who cut off his own ear?"

"Seemed appropriate."

Castiel contemplated this as he set aside the slip of paper and drew her hair back across her neck, brushing it gently over one shoulder. "Peculiar thing to do."

"Mental break, declaration of love, who knows."

His eyes raised from the study of her bare skin to regard what little of her face he could see. Dark lashes, the swell of a snowy cheek, the barest curve of ruby lips. "I doubt I would cut off my own ear to show you romantic favor."

"Break my heart, Clarence."

Castiel smiled a little, pressing the blade carefully into her skin and beginning the meticulous process. "I'm not sure how severing a body part could possibly affirm my devotion."

"You never were very creative," she lamented on a sigh, staring ahead into the night afforded by the open window.

---

"Here," said Sam, tossing his brother a small wrapped package. In another room on the opposite side of the building, the brothers sat in vigil, their weapons kept close and a case of energy drinks split between them.

"More tuna?" Dean presumed with flat consideration, but as he unwrapped the paper, the words Little Debbie Apple Pie Snacks stared back at him like a beacon from Heaven itself. "Pie. How the fuck did you find pie?"

Sam snorted as Dean shredded the box and a small pile of individually foiled snacks tumbled out. "Found it at the convenience store we hit about a state back." He nodded his head at the one Dean was in the process of tearing into. "Not sure how old they are, but given it's Little Debbie, they're supposed to last a generation or something."

Dean had already shoveled in a healthy bite. "Tastes like shit," he said, mouth full. He continued to eat it anyways. "Who knew it'd only take the apocalypse for you to finally get me some damn pie."

Sam chuckled, prying the lid to his canned corn open with his pocket knife. He was glad the small gesture had yielded a positive effect, relieved to see something other than onerous battle-readiness adorning his brother's face. Hell, to see something actually approaching joy in his eyes, no matter how small or how fleeting. It was trivial, but it was a start.

Sam would take whatever small remnants of his brother were left.

---

Castiel and Meg had fallen into a comfortable quiet as he worked, pressing the blade deep enough to scar if she forewent healing them and shallow enough to spare her unnecessary discomfort. Several minutes in, Meg glanced over her shoulder at his handiwork, her eyes raking appreciatively over the elegant lattice work of sigils that traversed across her back.

"You're an artist."

Castiel made a quiet sound of acknowledgement as he concentrated. Meg hissed a little at a particularly deep gouge. "Hurts?" his low voice said beside her, drifting in the soft heat between them and over her skin in a way that was almost too intimate.

"Just the magic," she said. "Pain is fine."

Castiel paused in his work and leaned forward, fingers gently caressing down her arms. His lips pressed softly over the skin above the markings, ghosting along her neck to ease the ache. Meg's eyes fluttered shut at the divine sensation, her head tipping back against him. A quiet sound spilled from her, fever waking along her flesh.

"You know, for an angel, you kiss like the devil."

"I'm not sure that's a compliment."

"It is."

She felt his fleeting smile against her skin, strong fingers squeezing over her arms in a gesture of comfort and solidarity before they slid around her to possessively draw her closer. He heard the quiet sigh of satisfaction that escaped her lips as he did so.

"You never used these when hiding from Crowley?" he asked, indicating the sigils.

Meg shook her head slightly. "Felt like the easy way out. Besides, hiding from Crowley was easy. Abaddon is… tougher." The reply was quiet, even somewhat subdued, and it indicated that she was lost in a world of her own for the moment. Glazed eyes fought a war within.

While the Knight and her followers would not attack or seek out Meg at the camp because of sheer impracticality, they'd certainly look for her on the road when there were only four of them against a veritable army. Crowley though didn't know where she nor the camp were located, Meg didn't think. Then there was the very satisfying factor that he was apparently wont to avoid her and Castiel at all feasible costs. Whatever the little treetopper had said to the fallen king seemed to have done the trick—which, unfortunately, made it difficult to find the bastard if she were trying.

It wasn't the first time her company appeared to be privy to her thoughts, so Meg was hardly surprised when his next words broke through the quiet.

"Crowley only found you because of me."

If Castiel was being totally honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he'd been scared out of his mind these past few days. First with the incident of the demon bomb, again at the storage locker, and now most of all with the additional threat of Lucifer's return suspended ominously over their heads. It was a stark, harrowing reminder of times past—times he was determined to forget all about. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he'd intensely wished to avoid placing her in harm's way on this venture. It was a foolish endeavor of course, as Meg was no china doll in danger of being ruined. In fact, she'd probably cut off his ear for even entertaining the thought, no matter what his intentions or how irrational.

Even still… Meg was not invincible. Something he was reminded of every night in his dreams. Guilt ravaged him unexpectedly at the mere mention of Crowley, and he hadn't meant to walk down that road again, but how many more times would she be made to suffer for his mistakes? The answer eluded and disturbed him.

Meg's tone indicated warning. "Cas."

Castiel was insistent, animosity at himself meshing with the indignation he felt on her behalf. "You helped me. And because of it…" He broke off, and whether it was deliberate or unintentional remained a mystery even to him. He found himself staring sullenly at the tracks of crimson red that oozed sluggishly out of her skin, his hand splayed reverently now across her back beneath the marks he'd left.

"Hey." Meg twisted to face him, taking in his brooding demeanor. "Nix the pity party. They're annoying."

Castiel stubbornly averted his eyes, though his voice tempered somewhat. "I don't feel pity, I feel anger. I have a tendency to break everything, and it… pisses me off."

Her lips twitched a little at the uncharacteristic remark, her countenance somewhat brightened. He had a tendency to surprise her, even when she was sure she had him figured out. The demon thoughtfully considered him as Castiel appeared to slip into bleak introspection. "Do you ever wonder if maybe you were supposed to be on the other side?"

As soon as the words left her mouth, Meg knew that she'd made a mistake in her choice of topic, hurting him deeply somehow. Castiel looked at her as if struck, seeming to crumple in on himself under the weight of sudden, dismayed confusion. "Why would you say that?"

One corner of her mouth lifted in a halfhearted, conciliatory smile, her eyes evidencing chagrin. "This isn't me trying to tempt you to darker pastures, Clarence. It's just a question. Don't answer, if you don't want."

Castiel was frowning, the words having affected him much more than he cared to admit, because he did often think it. The ire appeared to drain from him, a new bone-weariness taking its place. "Sometimes," he admitted tonelessly, and immediately seemed to regret it. His expression was still clouded with inner doubt, and Meg felt irritation at herself for putting it there. Wordlessly, his eyes sought hers for a distraction from such miring thoughts.

She'd taken the box cutter from his hand, digging the blade into the hard wood floor so that a heart appeared beside him. She gave it horns and a little tail, the candlelight playing across her features as she grinned at him. She was a rarity herself, a diamond in the rough that he hadn't realized he'd been looking for until he found it. "Come on," she said coaxingly. "There are better uses for that perpetual grumpiness. More fun ones, too." She'd eased closer, tapered nails scratching lightly under his chin. "Release of aggression and all that."

Castiel reflexively smiled, blue eyes regarding her warmly. Forgivingly. "I don't think our company would appreciate the…" He searched for the word, speaking of course of the Winchesters housed in the adjoining room.

"Free show?" Meg supplied, her smile sharp and lovely in the dark. She toed his thigh with her foot invitingly. "We'll be quiet."

"You'll be quiet?" echoed Castiel in amusement, trace amounts of disbelief lacing his tone as his eyebrows climbed for his scalp.

"And here I thought you liked my being vocal."

"My appreciation for your lack of inhibition would unlikely extend to Sam and Dean," he said with affection, contradicting his own resolve as he slipped closer to her.

"You'd better not be teasing," Meg muttered against his lips, gripping the front of his shirt tightly to prevent escape.

Castiel regretfully drew back, looking her in the eyes with a meager, repentant smile. "Wouldn't it be irresponsible?" With all that was out there intent on capturing them, killing them, eating them, or a combination of all three—it seemed unwise to indulge, given the risk of letting their guard down.

Meg nonetheless groaned at the deprivation, closing her eyes. He'd rebelled against Heaven, but he couldn't take twenty minutes to scratch the itch? "I hate you."

Castiel's expression only showed further fondness at her petulance. "Should I pretend to believe that?"

Meg huffed an irritated growl. "All revved up and nowhere to go," she complained, sending him away with a shove.

Castiel's brow quirked, his expression one of mild interest. "I understand that one."

"Give the flying monkey a prize," Meg said, feigning exasperation but convincing neither of them. Well, with any luck, she could feed that hunger in other ways. "When did you last eat, anyway? Might as well load up on carbs now while there's nothing chewing on our necks. Let me see your bag."

"I ate this morning," he said dismissively, shaking his head. "I'm fine."

Meg frowned at him. "Yeah, sixteen hours ago. Where the hell has your appetite gone lately?" she muttered, rummaging in her own pack for what she'd found that day. "Yum. Beans and rice," she said with virile contempt, although she tossed the containers at him anyways. "Now we're talking," she said triumphantly then, holding up her prize for him to see.

Castiel's brow drew together distrustfully. It looked like a yellow brick. "What in hell is that?"

"It's a Twinkie, genius. Has a shelf life of like a hundred years." Meg looked eager for him to try it, Castiel just looked unnerved. She held it out to him insistently despite his reluctance. "Eat this, Castiel, or I'll shove it in your goddamn face."

He sighed, holding out his hand as though she were handing him a live grenade.

Meg watched as he peeled away the plastic wrapping, and then gave the spongy shape one last suspicious look before taking a bite. He chewed resignedly at first, and then his expression became thoughtful the longer he did so. That thoughtfulness turned inevitably to delight.

"This is… actually very good." Castiel's eyes had lit up, crinkling at their corners as he smiled. "Did you find any of that French dressing?"

Meg's face fell. "Seriously?"

His owlish stare was fixed on her face, unflinching and now very pointed. Silently, it communicated that he would not be taking another bite until she complied.

"You're going to ruin that Twinkie. How do you expect me to be party to that?"

"You're the one who wanted me to eat," he said—annoyingly diplomatic, as usual.

Meg growled, shoving a hand back into her bag with unneeded force. "Fine. But I can't be held responsible for your Father hitting you with lightning for what you're about to do." Expelling a petulant huff, she flung the mustard packet at his chest which she was pretty sure he caught so deftly just to spite her. "And it's French's. Not French dressing."

"Thank you," he said, tearing it open and splurting it all over the unsuspecting snack cake.

Meg glared at the horrendous affront, a look of true disdain marring her body's face. "Fucking weirdo."

Castiel had this disgusting habit where he liked to put mustard on fucking everything. Meg was almost eighty percent certain he did it just to piss her off.

As he bit into the defiled Twinkie, he had the audacity to look as though he were back in Heaven, uttering soft moan that had Meg digging bloody little crescents into her palms. His eyes slid back open, falling on her almost slyly. "Would you like some?"

"Don't you come anywhere near me with that thing."

She pinned him down with her most severe expression, although Castiel wasn't intimidated. After interminable military service on heavenly battlefields, one sassy demon just wasn't very threatening.

"Meg, try it."

"You'd better back the hell up, because I really will shove it in your face."

Castiel was invading her personal space, holding what had once been a delicious Twinkie very near the danger zone in front of her face. "Meg, open your mouth."

She gave a derisive snort. "Yeah, I've heard that before."

"I've noticed you're most provocative when you're either bored or nervous. I actually find it endearing."

"You know what I don't find endearing?" she retorted, pressing back against the wall in retreat, trying to escape his coercion. "Putting mustard on a fucking Twinkie." With her superior strength, she easily could have overpowered him, but she was laughing despite herself, hands pressed to keep him back although he skirted her frenzied attempts to do so.

"You've never tried it, Meg. How do you know you won't like it?" His free hand gripped both of hers, and his blue eyes were injected with laughter at her expense. Too often it was the other way around.

He was doing this on purpose, the little shit! "I may be a hellspawn, but I do have moral standards and that, angel, is a pastry abomination."

"That's very dramatic," he chastised, one arm snaking around her waist to pull her in as she batted him away. Her jaw was jutted out obstinately, her fortitude a wall of imperishable resolve. Castiel abandoned all efforts then, leveling her with a devastating, doe-eyed stare. "Please try it, Meg. For me?"

Oh hell, that face. Despite the intensity of it, Meg remained unmoved. "I do plenty of shit for you."

Castiel decided that discretion was the better part of valor and he didn't comment on just how many times Meg had demanded he bow to her whims. "That's true," he admitted, and for a moment she thought he'd conceded defeat. A smug exclamation of ha! was just about to leave her parted lips at the apparent capitulation when suddenly he shoved the remainder of the treat into her mouth. "But then again, I did allow you to handcuff me to the bed last week."

Meg let out an undignified squeal as the loathed morsel of food invaded the sanctity of her taste buds. "Ugh, it tastes like a dog shit on a pile of more shit!" With little other choice but to either stomach it down or spit it out—which felt too much like a surrender—Meg shoved against him, still reviled by the truly abhorrent taste that continued to haunt her. "I'm never having sex with you again."

Castiel actually laughed. "We'll see which of us adheres to that threat longer." He leaned in, kissing and curling his tongue over the evidence of his betrayal to sweep it from her face. "I'm culturing you towards new flavors," he murmured. She truly was the loveliest thing he had ever seen, surly expression and all.

"I'm gonna culture you in the flavor of groin kicks," Meg said frostily against his lips. What was most abhorrent of all was that, once the taste had robbed enough time from her tongue, it wasn't as entirely horrible as she made it out to be. She would, of course, never utter that revelation aloud.

Castiel moved up her body to capture her mouth once more and Meg shelved her annoyance for the time being. Still, she tried to decide whether to be outraged for the underhanded move or mollified that he was out of the doldrums and out of his mind, instead. Not to mention the fact that his underhandedness always secretly impressed her.

When he drew back, Meg gave him her best disapproving glare but his chagrined smile and unspoken apology won her over, softening the damage. Her eyes sparkled at him. "Next time find another culinary guinea pig, you lunatic."

The lazy insult rolled right off his back.

The gratitude at her willingness to indulge him was evident in his face. To appease her, Castiel dug into the other morsels of food they'd either packed or scavenged along the road. He felt again that familiar, hollow pit in his stomach that never seemed to want to be filled, but ignored it for the time being. The rice had little taste to begin with, so he was able to go through the motions without much given thought.

"Anymore sigils, or will what I've done suffice?" he asked.

Meg gave her shoulders an experimental roll. "Stings like a bitch, so we're good. Stupid inconvenience, though. I should have just told Dean to suck it. I'm not his personal Betty Crocker."

"I'm glad you didn't tell him that. I… don't like it, but it's important we find this Blade." Castiel's features were drawn at the reminder of what they were chasing, whatever short-lived appetite he'd had now deserting him completely. His eyes fell back on her, conveying esteem. "I appreciate you coming."

"Didn't do it for humanity. I try to avoid the good deeds." Meg tossed him a wink, lips curving into one of her impish smirks. "I imagine it's habit-forming."

Castiel smiled at her softly. "I know you didn't do it for them."

"You'll have to carve me up again tomorrow night, Hannibal." She glanced back over her shoulder at the scabbing wounds. She could already feel them starting to heal, despite her efforts to impede the process.

"What if we cured you?"

The words lanced through her like the bite of a blade, stunning her into silence. Marauded through the space between them, innocent but deadly in their own way, and it set her back a bit. She knew of course why he said it—if the catalyst for other demons tracking her was in fact her own demonic power, why not remove that catalyst? He'd said it so calmly, so objectively, but Castiel's eyes spoke volumes and he stared at her intensely, knowing what such a thing would mean for her. For them.

His eyes were completely serious, revealing what she already knew in that he would never make light of such matters or her concerns over them. He was asking because it would be her choice alone. Her decision.

The sudden intensity of it had Meg wanting to look anywhere but at him, and a haunted feeling descended over her bones. She looked away, out into the night, taking a moment to collect herself. That was another thing—those five simple words should not have had such an effect on her.

"No," she said, speaking not to him, but to the stars overhead, to herself. Already she harbored too much guilt over the things she'd done in Hell and on earth, and being in proximity to Castiel—especially when he'd had his grace—it did things to her. It changed her in ways that left her feeling ruined and yet made new, shedding light on the blackest corners of her twisted soul, or at least what remained of it.

It made her more… human.

Meg couldn't possibly cope with the mortal guilt that such a permanent transformation would provoke from her. It would destroy her, she was sure. No.

Castiel was quiet. He let his fingers drift over her hands, bottomless gaze combing over her carefully. Meg's avoidant eyes fought a much different war now, one no one else could see but that he could inherently feel. "Alright," he conceded softly, nodding his head in understanding. He regretted the pained expression she wore now, knowing that he had inadvertently been the one to put it there.

Reluctantly, Meg's gaze eased back to his. "You didn't put up much of a fight," she remarked.

"Did you want me to?"

"You could have genied me back as a human," she said instead, needing to escape that question. She never did realize either how much she needed to know why he didn't.

His expression was serene in the face of her restiveness, his voice holding the weight of unadorned sincerity. "I like you the way you are."

Meg gave a self-deprecating snort, and her defiance of that was fast. "What, broken?"

"You wouldn't be you without the thorns."

"More poetry," she riposted irritably, averting her eyes at the startling confession that moved her in ways she refused to acknowledge. She looked stubborn and unwilling to talk again and he sighed.

"You asked."

With a delicate grunt, Meg was determined to drop the subject. But Castiel was Castiel, always and never anything less.

"Why did you sell your soul, Meg?"

"Who says I sold it? Maybe I'm just a bad person." Meg crossed her arms over her chest, staring down at the heart she'd carved into the floorboards with distaste, determined to close herself off from his prodding questions. Damn it, she didn't want to go through this again. He already knew the story—whether or not he remembered it was no fault of hers. But his piercing gaze hit her like a truth serum, a wrecking ball against her defenses. The sense of déjà vu put her on edge, itching to smoke out of her body despite that such a move would be utterly childish.

Castiel continued to stare at her, not accepting her diversion tactic for a moment, and Meg sighed. The instinctive openness she felt around him could sometimes be ridiculous, and the way he constantly disarmed her with his transparent warmth was disconcerting.

"It was for a man. He was dying, I saved him. Happy?"

"What happened?" he asked.

Castiel had that look of compassion he often wore for her, wordlessly conveying his calmness and surety to her. The graveled tone brought with it a small measure of comfort, and Meg shrugged. "Left me for a prettier model?" she tried to joke, but the way her voice caught belied the lighthearted barb and her facile smile fooled no one. "I don't know. I never saw him again."

Still, Castiel wanly tried to smile at her attempt at lightness, but it was unconvincing. He saw her as she bore down brutally on the unwanted and repellent emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. Saw her efforts to lock them back away so that she could return to pithy teasing words and sharp smiles. But instead there was a quiet sort of sadness dwelling somewhere in the chambers she often kept hidden. "I have not met anyone more remarkable, more beautiful, so he must have been a fool."

The concept of beauty to angels greatly differed than what humanity often found captivating. They were created beyond such limitations, though that in turn often left them limited. But, like any creature, they could be mesmerized. Entranced. It was a trait that could sometimes leave them either greatly shortsighted, or deeply intuitive. They were chaotic because grace was pure energy, pure Creation. They were wild and untamed and yet so perfectly composed. When he'd looked at Meg as an angel, he saw before him a similar beast. Instead of that familiar knot of energy, there was a tangle of thorns that was not so unlike his own chaos. He had the universe in his makeup, she was a byproduct of lost hope. Both were inherently empty.

Castiel, as an angel, had found beauty in the imperfect. And he was hopelessly drawn to her from the start. As a human, his fall was at last complete because he was constantly seeing her in new ways that had eluded him before. Castiel had looked on Meg through both filters—eternity and transience—and each glimpse had left him irrevocably consumed.

It would be his greatest downfall. It had cursed him, damned him, but hers was the only beauty he saw remaining in the world, and he would surely burn because of it. Because Meg… Meg had left him marked in ways there was no washing clean.

He looked quietly outraged on her behalf, the words still ringing in the air between them. Meg sighed, her gaze falling away in defeat. "You're an idiot." He knew what she looked like. Even if he could no longer look see the face of her monster, he sure as hell had to remember it.

But Castiel was as mulish as he was nice to look at. "I know your real name, do you really think I don't know your human face?"

Both were unspeakably beautiful to him, and though he sometimes found himself losing traces of what she truly looked like from his memory after so long being deprived, he would never forget what the sight of it had made him feel, the passion it so often drew out of him. The face she was born with stood out to him as well, a familiar visage he couldn't recall finding but had always been there in the back of his mind, reminding him that, once, his demon had been filled with hope. With humanity.

He knew her real face. The face she wore before being disfigured by thorns, before hellfire, and before she'd picked up the blade and spilled her first drop of blood in that wretched pit.

At those words, Meg's features softened, hard lines falling away. Her eyes darted back to his only to find them riveted to her face, and she looked almost regretful. Perhaps even guilty. Those impenetrable defenses broke down again, leaving behind a raw, vulnerable husk. A thought came to her and she frowned, an all-too-familiar stab of pain piercing her chest. "When you say things like that…" she whispered, hating and needing him all at once. Wishing desperately she could tell him how close he was, how he was treading right over history without even realizing it.

She didn't like talking about her innermost feelings or what plagued her so deeply. The first time a person finally opened up and confessed such things it was an instant relief and she remembered that feeling like the drug it was. She'd felt lighter, a little more in control. It became addicting, confiding in him. Soon enough she'd been spilling her guts about every little insecurity or fear she'd ever had, but it was a trap. Because by talking about them, those insecurities multiplied and swarmed her like locusts. As soon as she'd confessed one, she found herself tripping over another. And then she'd realized that the one person she had ever confided in and trusted so completely had started looking at her differently. Soon, that realization became the very thing that haunted her most.

But then… Castiel had always looked at her differently. No one ever looked at her the way he did—whether she was human, demon, or somewhere trapped between.

Yet she may as well have never confided in him at all.

"What?" Castiel asked softly, his head falling to the side. He watched her armor as it started to crack, and she allowed him to reach up and brush his thumb across her marred cheek without flinching, letting him try to heal what lay underneath with his magic touch, if only for his own peace of mind. There was still trace evidence of damage the demon bomb had wrought, and he frowned when the candlelight revealed it.

"You should've found me then," she murmured, shivering a bit despite that she wasn't supposed to be affected by the cold. He saw a shadow of pain race across her face, and then it was gone.

"I barely knew myself then, Meg." Remorse twisted the words into a sad arrangement. He watched the combination of shame, discomfort, and reluctance as it crept over her expression in varying degrees, regret making his chest ache.

He wouldn't have been much help to her at all. He was a grain of sand in the desert, then. In any case… he was here for her now. And he'd be the one to do it, should the day ever come. He'd be the one to cure Meg. Not Dean, not Sam. His blood. His voice. His confession.

A new solemnity stretched between them and Castiel reached out to link their hands to maintain that connection. "It's a wonder you remember being human," he remarked in admiration.

"I remember a lot of things," she muttered, unwilling to look at him now. "None of them seem to matter."

She was pulling herself back together, retreating from him as she often did. But there was an ominous knell to those words that had never been there when she'd distanced herself before, and it gave Castiel pause. It seemed to always be specific topics that triggered her withdrawal, and he didn't understand it. So often lately it felt as if there was something she was keeping from him. He'd always assumed it was simply the byproduct of her emotional reticence, which was expected and something he'd long ago embraced. But at the hooded guilt in her eyes she wasn't quite quick enough to conceal from him, Castiel felt a strange flicker of doubt pass through him. A small voice in the furthest place of his mind became suddenly restless.

Be careful, it whispered.

Mortified at the thought, Castiel mentally hurled it away. He'd only ever trusted a small handful of people in this world, and even fewer of them he trusted unfailingly. So when that poisonous, little eddy of doubt rose into his mind about her without warning it left him with a burgeoning sense of panic. Why would he even think such a thing? Meg was trustworthy, of course she was. She'd proven herself time and again. Castiel also knew her like no one else, and that did give him certain insights. That same voice reminded him of this, and he withheld a shudder.

It was the threat of Lucifer making him doubt, he thought. It was the stress that was getting to him, the constant strain of living in a fallen world that was unsettling them both. It was her erratic regression and that demon's seed of discord from earlier that night. The risk Abaddon posed, the threat of being found and captured—that's what was eating at her. His own deal was likely adding to that worry—Meg had never been quiet about her feelings on the matter. The war of Croatoan was making them both desperate and afraid. That's all it was.

That's all it was.

"What?"

Her voice pulled him back from the brooding desert that had swallowed him, and Castiel started a bit. "Nothing," he replied, mentally shaking himself of the sinister voice.

Meg looked doubtful at his muttered denial, her dark eyes sweeping over him studiously. He surprised her then.

Castiel leaned forward, regardless of that withdrawal and despite such off-putting thoughts, taking her face in both hands and pressing a lingering, tender kiss to her lips. If only to ease his own peace of mind and reaffirm that she was his and that he was a fool for ever doubting. "Sleep," he murmured.

Her eyes narrowed at him. "I don't sleep."

"Rest, then. I'll keep watch."

Two dark eyebrows climbed for her scalp. "Oh, you can sense Croats now?"

"I can relieve you for an hour."

"Wish you'd relieve me in other ways for an hour."

Castiel chuckled—a rare, crooked smile splitting his face. "Don't tempt me."

He punctuated his words by hooking a finger into the waistband of her jeans beneath the belt, giving a gentle tug. The corners of her mouth flickered slyly. "I am a demon, although you seem determined to forget it."

He delivered another chaste kiss to her lips, descending beside her and feeling much of that residual tension finally drain away. "As determined as you are to forget that I'm human," he replied, voice betraying the careworn fatigue that was settling heavily over him.

Her fingers carded thoughtfully through his hair, playing softly at the dark ends. She watched his face for a time as he stared out the window and into the night, reflecting silently to herself.

Meg never told him that she would butcher any and every hellhound that might come for him. That if one slipped past her by chance, she would tear the basement apart. Unleash her own hell on Perdition until she found him. She knew of damnation, and she'd make sure he never would, if it was the last thing she ever did. Castiel would not become like her.

She died for him once. She'd do it again—a hundred times over.

---

slings and arrows are killing me inside
maybe I can't accept the life that's mine
the sun shines and I can't avoid the light
ashes to ashes and dust to dust

---

The sun would rise in a few hours and they'd move again. It was dangerous to travel at night—hell, it was dangerous to travel at all. Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, Sam questioned this course of action and the decisions leading up to it. Knowing what they did now, they needed the Blade. Without a doubt. Abaddon could not be allowed to raise Lucifer. Sam felt a sick churning in his gut at the very thought, his fingers tightening over his weapon so hard that his knuckles splashed white. Memories of the cage assaulted him, haunted him, tormented him. He cringed away from the mental images, needing them to disappear. He adjusted his weapon, holding it tighter against his shoulder, needing to stand up, needing to move.

Sam got to his feet, not caring that his brother barely acknowledged his exit. The logical, rational part of his brain knew that if he was to turn his head, he would see Dean there, guarded stare fixed out the window, but part of him was unconvinced. That part knew that if he turned his head, there would be nothing there. No Dean at all.

As he wandered the halls, his thoughts turned to the camp. Dean had left Ezekiel and Risa in charge. Charlie and Garth were handling the runs, and Sam had promised to keep his silence over the fact that Kevin had started tagging along with them. The prophet wasn't a child anymore. He was a man. A young man determined to make his own decisions and to pull his weight. Kevin wanted to make a difference, he wanted a voice. Sam couldn't deny him that even if he wanted to.

He paused at the threshold of the North facing room, the sight therein catching his eye. "Hey," he muttered in greeting, offering a slight nod.

"Salutations, Bullwinkle," Meg returned amicably.

Castiel was wedged into the corner, fast asleep against the wall, weapon still in hand. There was an old mattress tossed haphazardly on the floor which they sat on, and Meg was leaning at the windowsill, keeping solitary vigil. Her feet rested in Castiel's lap, and Sam saw the dried blood on her bare shoulders from the spell work.

Meg followed the hunter's eyes to her companion and gave a quiet chuckle. "Thinks he's a badass. Poor bastard lasted maybe five minutes before he conked out." Sam smiled a little, comforted somehow by the exchange. Meg lost some of hers, though, eyes drifting back to Castiel almost achingly. "He pushes himself too much sometimes."

She wasn't the only one who often forgot he was human. Castiel seemed to continually reject his new limitations, usually to the point of injury or serious health repercussions. Sam saw the genuine worry displayed there, worn features softening almost imperceptibly. "You really care about him, don't you?"

That caught her attention. Meg glanced back in his direction, some of that spark returning. "You still need to ask?"

No, he supposed he didn't. Sam felt the beginnings of a real smile take hold, one of relief. Meg wasn't going to leave Castiel. If she hadn't by now, what exactly were they all worrying about?

Meg had stayed behind. She had told Sam to go, and she'd fought Crowley alone so that Cas would get the chance to escape. She might have included he and Dean in her final goodbye, but Sam knew damn well that Meg didn't give two shits about them. She'd stayed behind for one person, and one alone.

Sam thought that Meg understood what it meant to find someone you were willing to break all the rules for. Someone who could make you want to change everything about what you were, who brought out something better in you. She knew she was going to die, but she'd gone with a smile, with peace, because she knew it meant Castiel was going to live.

"What the hell," Meg muttered then, really surprising him. "Got your back, too, Samson. Neither one of us is going to let the Big Bad Wolf get his claws into you again."

A dark eyebrow arched for his hairline. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'll be the one to kill the son of a bitch if he crawls back out of his hole."

The sheer conviction behind the declaration was powerful, and Sam shook his head, surprised and not quite believing it. "You'd destroy your creator?"

"I watched him destroy something of mine for months," she said quietly, eyes straying back to Castiel. Maybe he didn't remember the torment he'd faced day and night with visions of the devil, but she did. "Crowley, the pompous prick, he was right. Castiel was right. Lucifer never gave a damn about me. About any of us."

Sam deliberated over her words, weighing the revelation there with a pensive frown. As much as he believed Meg was in Castiel's corner, Sam had witnessed the sight of her fighting for the other side. Believing in the other side. Loyalty and love, she'd told him once—the primal motivators behind her every action in the old days when she'd been one of the most ruthless enemies they'd ever opposed.

Meg might have loved Castiel, but she was still a demon.

"Someone might think you were playing both sides, Meg," Sam remarked, not kindly, not unkindly.

After all, one could smile and smile and still be a villain.

If she was offended by that, she didn't show it. "Guess you'll just have to wait and see then, won't you?"

Sam smirked at that, almost appreciating the banter as it took his mind off of other things. He'd seen too much to really doubt Meg, but the uncertainty and longstanding distrust was still there, despite any mutual respect they harbored towards each other now.

Meg turned reflective then, eyes combing over her sleeping companion. "If it came down to it, who's side do you think he'd choose?" she wondered aloud.

There was no malice to the question, just simple curiosity. Sam considered that, not entirely sure himself these days.

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

Together, they watched the sun break over the horizon.

---

there was a brighter day where I could view the world
without the sorrows that I've known
now it's a different place
my heart's grown colder
crawling closer, so save your kiss goodbye
even though the innocence is scarred
what if I could feel, what if I could see again

---

When the first fingers of dawn licked at the sky, Dean felt a faraway sense of clarity. Something that had been stirring in him for some time buzzed incessantly at the back of his thoughts. As his eyes roamed over the marching hills intertwined in the distance, he felt an outlying pull. Something inside him called out to his prize. Somehow, he knew the Blade was his. And that as much as it belonged to him, he belonged to it. His eyes flickered over the grim daybreak beyond the window and what awaited there.

Unbidden, new feelings replaced that certainty.

Dean felt dread. He felt anger, he felt afraid. Memories of that day in Stull Cemetery played in a loop, branded into the backs of his eyes so that there was nowhere for him escape to. Sam—killing Cas, killing Bobby. Nearly killing him. Except it wasn't Sam, not at all—but then, suddenly, it was.

Hearing the words: It's okay, Dean.

Watching is brother disappear into that dark pit and the earth swallowing him up as though he'd never been there at all.

One year without Sam.

One year knowing his little brother was suffering unimaginable torment in Hell, in Lucifer's cage, alongside the devil himself.

Never again, Dean vowed.

Abaddon would not take Sam. And she sure as hell would not being raising Lucifer back into the world.

The First Blade would soon be is, and he would put a stop to it. To all of it. All those sons a bitches' best laid plans—he would tear it down around them and he'd do it with a smile. What else did he have to lose?

Dean saw red. Maybe this was the motivation he needed—another pissant threatening his family. Another demon with a scheme. Another monster looking to set the world on fire. Well, this was his world. And if anybody was gonna light the match, it'd be Dean fucking Winchester. He had almost a century's worth of demons to purge. Forty on earth, thirty in Hell, and however little more he had left.

The First Blade would bring him that clarity he so desperately needed. Fingers curling into fists at his sides, Dean could already feel the phantom weight of it in his hand.

---

lose your faith in a world
the truth you're not supposed to know
walk the wire
with all I am, I stand alone
in fields that I have grown

---

20 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

"How's your side of the camp, Rees?"

Risa looked surprised he even asked, though her answer was nearly robotic. "Good, for now. We could use more bedding. Pillows."

"Bedding?"

"Yeah, you know. For sleep? Did you forget what that was?"

The sarcasm was positively dripping with hostility, but Dean bit back the retort that swelled on his tongue and conceded defeat. "Fine. I can give you some guys. Take Donovan and one of the angels."

"I will go," Ezekiel offered, extending the woman a favorable nod.

"Uh, thank you." Risa seemed grateful of that, unsure how to take it. Something akin to mutual respect passed between them silently. She didn't quite know how to behave around angels as a general handicap. It wasn't that she didn't care for them—quite the opposite. She just couldn't help but silently revel in awe whenever she was around one. Couldn't wrap her head around the fact that they existed or that they were so… tangible. Cas had been an angel, she'd heard, but he was easy to talk to. Well, on a sociable level. Sometimes she had no idea what the hell was coming out of his mouth and it was clear the sentiment was mutual. The only one who seemed to have the patience and aptitude in dealing with him was that demon. But Risa wasn't touching that with a ten foot pole.

Ezekiel, having only recently been introduced to him, seemed approachable and ultimately very kind. He was good to have in a fight—that much was proven the week before when he'd singlehandedly leveled a small bevy of Croats that had wandered too near the camp. He hadn't outright smote them, but Risa remembered seeing that blur of holy steel as it tore through one throat after another and thinking she would never forget the sight in a hundred years. Her own curiosity betrayed her in that she often found herself contemplating what it would have been like to see him in full form. But angels nowadays were apparently too affected by the Fall to accomplish such feats without physical consequences. She harbored envy for Dean and Sam—having gotten to see such displays, and so often. Further, Risa was most envious because maybe her fiancée would still be alive if she'd had an angel, too.

"So…" Dean cut in. "The reason I brought you two here. Got a big job coming up and me and the other bigwigs won't be around for a couple weeks. Leaving you and Zeke in charge."

Risa rolled her eyes. "Shit, thanks."

"Hey. Would you rather be an errand girl?" He stared at her in utter frustration, but his anger seemed to have leached from him. "I picked you because you're smart and can handle yourself."

Because I trust you, went the unspoken, though Dean would never utter those words aloud ever again.

Risa maintained her detached silence, her impassive stare seeming to say: Spare me.

Dean reined in yet another mordant remark, determined to keep this short summit impersonal and direct. "While you're out, stock up on weapons, because we'll be taking a lot of them with us. Gonna need more than usual."

A single dark eyebrow raised dryly for her hairline. "Fine. Are we done here?"

Things were still tense between them. They had yet to talk out what had happened, and Dean doubted they ever would. Truthfully, he didn't really want to. He didn't have the time or the patience, especially when they were so close to finding the Blade and to putting a stop to everything that was currently wrong with the world as they now knew it.

And yet… her attitude raised his hackles and left him with a feeling of angry indignance. "Sure. Go spread some of those menstrual toxins over the rest of the camp. I think you missed the East sector."

"Asshole," she muttered, the slam of the door punctuating her departure.

Dean seemed to tense up like a snake before it struck, but he stared at the space where Risa had been long after she was gone, a muscle working in his jaw. Ezekiel observed the exchange with a somewhat out-of-place curiosity. He wondered if this was what pining looked like. If it was, Dean Winchester wore it like crown.

"She seemed very upset."

"Yeah, she's pissed at me still," Dean muttered, digging the bottle of whiskey he'd been nursing earlier out of the cabinet. Unlike his brother before him, Dean offered his company none of the bottle's contents.

"Do you love her?" Ezekiel wondered.

Dean nearly choked. "Excuse me?"

Ezekiel seemed somewhat abashed that he'd made some sort of faux pas, and the expression reminded Dean too much of Cas. "I suppose that was a little out of turn for me to ask."

"A little," Dean grunted, but he looked mildly amused behind the glass he held in his hand. "You're about as shitty at reading the room as your brother is."

Ezekiel smiled at that, rueful. "He means well."

"Yeah, sure. He always does." Dean took a long pull before pouring himself another helping. Additionally, he wondered why the angel was still there, but figuring so long as he was, he'd derive some long sought after answers that had been eluding him. "How do you feel about him hooking up with a demon?"

Ezekiel frowned at the implication there. "Castiel is his own man. His decisions are his own."

Dean's regard of that sentiment was derisive and critical. "Some brother you are."

"Being an older brother does not indicate authority over your siblings, Dean," said the angel somberly. The low notes of his voice were disapproving, but ultimately benign. "You think Castiel's mistakes are your brother's mistakes, except Castiel is not your brother. He is mine. And Sam is not the man he once was, either. He's grown to become something truly venerable. He has found purpose, Dean." Ezekiel's eyes were solemn, insistent in that quiet, powerful way he had. "My brother loves this demon woman, and I am glad for him. He has found something virtually unattainable in this fallen world, and... I believe she is good for him. They complement one another. He is a civilizing influence, and she challenges him in ways Castiel has never been challenged. And while he may have been your friend for seven years, he has been my brother for several thousand. Do not forget that."

"Yeah, well…" Dean looked away, a shadow of anger skirting across drawn features. "You don't know Meg like I do."

"That is true," Ezekiel tactfully conceded. "Although I do not think you know her as Castiel does, either."

Well. That was certainly true.

"You have a right to your anger, I'm certain of that. But... consider that Castiel has nothing else to hold on to."

Dean relinquished the dispute with a healthy guzzle from the bottle itself. He stared fixedly at its contents as he swallowed down the burning liquid, thinking that perhaps he could find answers in the murky amber surface. A peculiar openness befell him then, perhaps surprising them both. "You want to know if I love Risa? I… told her I did."

Ezekiel's head canted slightly to the side. Dark eyes puzzled over the quandary. "Seems a terrible thing, to say something you do not mean," he said quietly. "Why did you do this?"

A humorless bark of laughter gusted out of the hunter and he shook his head, running a hand over his face. "Believe it or not, it wasn't self-serving. I just… I don't think I even know what love feels like anymore. Don't think I'm capable of it anymore." He turned away from his company, moving to fetch another bottle when the one he had became empty.

"Have you told her so?"

"No."

"Perhaps you should."

Dean glanced over his shoulder with narrowed eyes. "You've sure got a lot to say."

Ezekiel smirked. "Guardian by nature. You'll have to forgive me."

The hunter's brow drew together, his understanding of that unclear. "Guardian, huh? Thought that was just another manmade bedtime story? Fluffy wings, Michael Landon, all that BS. Cas gave me the whole soldier speech years ago."

Ezekiel seemed amused by the cynicism rather than offended, although the mention of Castiel in conjunction with it brought him regret. "Some angels are guardians, though not every human has one. There are special cases. It's…" the angel frowned, looking lost in dismal reflection, "an outdated practice. Very few guardians even acknowledge their bonds, not since before the dark ages." Ezekiel appeared deeply sad. As though pieces of himself were missing and no longer within his grasp. "Very few would even know their bond if they met them. So many of us have forgotten what it means. Or have been made to."

"Not you, though?"

Ezekiel shook his head. "All my charges have since passed, though I will never forget them. What it meant to protect them, watch over them."

"What, so… guardians love their bonds?"

"In different ways. An angel would do anything for its charge. The human is the beginning and the end for them, viewed as infinitely precious and to be protected and cared after at all costs. The connection is pure devotion."

Somewhat absorbed now, Dean asked, "Why stop assigning them?"

Ezekiel's expression was quietly outraged. "Our superiors thought it distracting. Too much time spent dedicated to single ephemeral lives. To Earth, instead of Heaven."

"Huh," Dean murmured, intrigued despite himself. "That sucks."

"It did. Suck." Ezekiel sighed, surprising Dean when he moved to acquire a glass of his own, holding it out in indication that the hunter should fill it with alcohol. "So many souls left without aid, without guidance. It was devastating to them, yes, though they never knew what they had lost. But to us… guardians would readily die for their charges, and to sit back and do nothing as they suffered… it was not unlike torture."

You cannot save people. You can only love them, went the saying.

But he was not built to do nothing. He was not wired to observe. He was a Protector, not a Watcher. Ezekiel looked appraisingly at the hunter, his powerful presence conveying amity. "You have a guardian heart, Dean. I can see it, no matter your attempts to bury it. Your purpose is to protect. You are a shield." At Dean's derisive snort, Ezekiel chuckled. "You deny it through words and actions, but it's still there. Something like that does not go away just because the earth fell to desolation. If anything, it's made that calling stronger."

Dean spread his hands, shrugging dispassionately. "That's a nice theory, Zeke. But I can promise you that all I care about is finding that Blade and sticking it through that demon bitch's heart."

Ezekiel's eyes were sad, but a small smile played at his mouth nonetheless. "You may surprise yourself."

---

tonight I will bring you home
I will save you from yourself
wash the old from the sand
burn the rough drafts from yesterday
take this life by the hand
release the young man trapped inside
grip your weapon of choice

---

PRESENT, MISSOURI

Nightfall was approaching when the jeep pulled up the dirt driveway of the coordinates gleaned from their location spell. As they all got out of the vehicle, Sam was the first to speak.

"How the hell is this place still standing?" he wondered, confused by their surroundings.

Dean shared the sentiment. He scrutinized the area almost angrily, distrust swirling in his eyes and a sixth sense telling him something wasn't adding up. "No fortifications, nothing."

The remark was somewhat disjointed, those eyes constantly roaming, scanning the encroaching darkness around them covertly, looking for any movement and straining his ears for any unexpected sound. There were crops in the field, perfectly kept—the site seemingly untouched by the devastation Abaddon had wrought over the last two years. The grass was green, the foliage healthy, the quaint farmhouse utterly intact and looking as though it were lived in and not vacated or quarantined like every other house in the country. And there were fucking bees everywhere.

Castiel frowned, shooing away a buzzing insect that darted in front of his face. His brow sat wrinkled and confounded on his forehead at what they were seeing, and the bees were as much an oddity as they were an impossibility. He found little enjoyment to them now, despite the brief sense of nostalgia he felt. He glanced at Meg, about to comment on the matter to her.

But the demon had stopped in her tracks, hackles raised, eyes slicking to black. She actually looked afraid. "Shit."

All eyes darted to her. "What?" Sam prompted, alarmed by the shift.

"Should have known." Meg was beginning to panic, losing her nerve. She knew she'd felt something dark when they were driving up. Very, execrably dark. Castiel was already at her side, concern washing over his face because fuck, Meg never got scared.

"What, Meg?" demanded Dean, his patience long departed.

"The Blade's with its owner, genius," she snapped. "Shit."

Sam looked between the both of them, at a loss and feeling the little hairs on the back of his neck rise in dread. "Who's its owner?"

Castiel had lost most of his color, his blue eyes darting to Meg's face in alarm. "The Father of Murder."

Dean shook his head, not comprehending their sudden anxiety. "Who the hell is that?"

"Cain, you jackass," Meg hissed, the words settling over them all like an anchor. Her black eyes flicked back to normal, and she looked around in worry, as though she thought they should make a quick exit while they still could.

Sam was taken aback, stunned dismay filling his expression. "As in Cain and Abel?"

"Doesn't change anything," said Dean, ignoring their heeds. Brash determination had flooded his countenance, making him unreachable to protest. "We came here for a reason."

"And what reason might that be?" came a new voice.

The foursome turned, startled, to find a weathered-looking man regarding them with grim disapproval. His beard was graying in places, his frown cutting like hard slate over gravel. He was tall enough to look Dean in the eyes with a glacier cold stare that hid a thousand buried secrets beneath their blue surface.

Dean felt an immediate, heinous pull, and he knew then in that moment that he was condemned.

---

all is numb, I've been lost too long
my fate's been mistakenly chosen
I've done you wrong
where lies are spread wide open
and ties are not so strong
the place you'll never find me
I've already gone

---

"If you're so scared of him, zap out of here."

The four travelers sat, somewhat uncomfortably, on one of the couches in the home's furnished living room.

"What, and leave my angel?" Meg retorted at the surly hunter. She shook her head, fingernail picking anxiously at a loose thread over one of the cushions. "My heart didn't grow three sizes, smartass. I couldn't zap out of here even if I wanted to. Cain's doing something to me."

Beside her, Castiel took that revelation with evident unease. "You're blocked?"

"More or less."

"How do you get unblocked?" Sam wondered from the opposite end, considering their options.

"Fiber helps," Meg replied snidely, earning a scowl from the larger hunter. When he was ignored, Sam sniffed and sat back into the cushions, staring ahead petulantly.

"Look," Dean began, sounding peeved. "I don't give a shit whether you're stuck here or not. As long as you are here, make yourself useful and give us some backstory."

"You're such a little bitch these days," Meg offhandedly remarked, ignoring his answering glower.

"Would you two stop?" Castiel muttered, looking irritated with both of them. He had personally witnessed many of the unspeakable exploits carried out by their host. Some things were still foggy, a mortal obstruction redacting somewhere in his mind, but what he did remember was nothing short of carcinogenic holocaust. With the jawbone of an ass, I have slain a thousand men. That was not literary flair or flowery exposition. It was brutal verbatim. They would do well to tread lightly.

Before Dean could switch his aggression to a new target, Meg cut him off. "After Cain killed Abel, he became a demon."

Dean looked at her, thinking he'd heard wrong as suspicion painted over his face. "What do you mean, became a demon?"

Meg did not let him down lightly. "I mean he became the deadliest demon to walk the face of the earth. That includes yours truly, and other players like Lilith and Alistair. Cain killed thousands. The best at being the worst. Sort of admired him for that. But then he just… I don't know, disappeared. Everyone thought he was dead. Or hoped he was."

"Any of you keep bees?" Cain appeared unannounced at the room's entryway, startling them a bit. He held a tray of tea in his hands and now wore an unnervingly affable smile. "They're such noble creatures. Very relaxing."

When no one immediately replied and their host regarded them with narrowed eyes, Castiel spoke up. "I did, once."

Cain was intrigued as he set down his tray, taking a seat opposite them in the single chair. "And you stopped. Why?"

Castiel looked reluctant to answer that, and maybe a little like the answer troubled him to admit aloud. "Bees are, as you said… noble. Peaceful. I am not."

"Not anymore," Cain agreed at length, eyeing him studiously. "I won't dispute that." He sat back in his seat, reflective now. His cold eyes combed over his visitors, and then he directed his gaze to the right where a glass display case housed a small portion of his many hives, the bees therein working tirelessly. "They're dying, you know," he remarked dimly. "I think I may hold the last remaining few. Without bees, mankind will cease to exist. Won't be long, now." Cain took a moment, mulling silently over something indiscernible before he seemed to snap back into the room, looking at each of them in turn where they sat. "So…" There was an almost menacing edge to his voice now. "What are two Winchesters, a demon, and a fallen angel doing at my house?"

"You know who we are?" Dean surmised.

Cain looked vaguely insulted. "I'm retired. I'm not dead. What I don't know is why you're looking for me."

"Yes you do," Meg countered, the look in her eyes challenging him to deny it.

He said nothing for a long time, meeting her stare unwaveringly and with an intensity that set her on edge. "How did you find me?"

"We're looking for the weapon the archangels used to kill the Knights of Hell," Dean explained, drawing Cain's attention. "The First Blade."

"We need it to kill a Knight," Sam elaborated.

Dean's visage darkened, the atmosphere falling quiet and tense as he spoke. "Abaddon."

Cain considered the news with solemn deliberation, visibly registering the name. His thumb worked latently at the ring he wore on his left hand, the silver catching the light.

The tension was overwrought mainly with the notion that this parley could go south in so many different ways. If Cain refused to play ball, not only was this mission a calamitous failure, but all hope for stopping Abaddon would be quashed in one fell swoop. The sanctity of their entire campaign rested on the shoulders of the infamous Firstborn, who looked about as likely to help them as a Meg was to sprout wings and a halo.

"We get it, you're retired," she butt in. "We're not here to get between you and the demonic AARP."

That got her some looks.

"It's bad out there," Sam said, trying to appeal to the man in whatever way he could. "We're just looking to even the odds."

"I am aware what is happening out there," Cain replied quietly, unmoved. His eyes fell on inexplicably on Dean. "This is a ruthless world. One must be ruthless to cope with it."

"We need the Blade," Dean bit out, his patience slipping. Three months, and that bitch was going to fry the planet for good. Three months, and his brother was dead. Three months without the weapon meant Abaddon fucking won and this was all for nothing. Dean couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't. No matter who he had to kill, they weren't leaving until he had that weapon gripped tight in his hand.

"One last time. How did you find me?"

"We didn't," Castiel answered. "A location spell we performed was for the Blade."

"Happy accident," Meg said sunnily, her expression tight.

Cain seemed to think the matter over. "Does anyone else know you're here?"

"No," Dean said immediately.

Cain turned to him, appearing oddly endeared by the move.

"There were demons tracking us," Meg put in, as though it were nothing. "Following me. Clarence here carved me up like a New Age turkey though, so we should have lost them." At Dean's scathing glare, she rolled her eyes. "He knows you're lying, jackass."

Surprising them all, the tone of their host took on a measure of adieu. "Well, it has been a pleasure having company. Especially you, Amara. Castiel. But once a century is enough for me." Cain stood, regarding them all with weary negligence. "You can let yourselves out."

As he walked away, Dean shot indignantly to his feet, storming after him. "Hey, listen, pal—I'm not leaving here without the Blade!"

Cain shook his head, turning to him with an almost fond smile. The bold, capricious, and quite unbridled hunter he'd heard so much about had not disappointed in the least. He was exactly what Cain had imagined. "You have quite a reputation, Dean. I see the part about you being brave rings true."

"Abaddon is the last Knight of Hell. She's responsible for this shitstorm we're living in. I kill her, maybe things get better, maybe they don't. But at least that bitch will be dead. And if you're out of the game, what the hell do you care if she dies?"

Cain aimed a nod over Dean's shoulder. "If your demon friend here were so inclined, she'd have told you that I trained the Knights of Hell. I built that entire demonic order with my own hands, Abaddon included." There was an onerous, emotional weight behind the confession that seemed unfounded in that moment, though it was infinitely palpable.

All eyes turned contemptuously on Meg. Castiel regarded her in a way that revealed his disappointment, and Meg just looked indignant. "Hey, you asked for backstory, I was giving it. Beekeeper here interrupted before I could get to the juicy parts."

"Well, here's something she doesn't know… it wasn't the archangels that slaughtered the Knights. It was me."

A quiet swept over the room as that revelation hung heavy in the air, each person falling quiet with the news. "Why did you turn on your own?" Sam asked, almost loathe to know.

"Why does anybody?" Cain replied vaguely. The opaque stronghold that was his piercing stare slid to Meg, the meaning there unclear and yet completely clear.

"My brother asked you a question."

Cain turned those sharp eyes back on Dean. "Once again, I admire your bravery. But, if you'll excuse me, I have errands to run in town." The two firstborns stood opposite each other, each unwavering, each aware they wore the same chains. That mutual burden was almost tangible in that moment it was so apparent. "Goodbye, Dean Winchester. Never return."

Before Dean could start threatening the deadliest monster they'd possibly ever faced, Castiel spoke up from behind them. "Who is this?"

He was holding up an ornate picture frame, and it held a photograph inside of a woman which was clearly antique. The inscription read Colette. Cain visibly reacted to the sight of her image, a deeply buried anguish resurfacing for the barest moment. Meg had drifted over to Castiel's side, looking over his shoulder at the picture.

"Same ring," she remarked of the smiling woman's left hand. "Looks like the Father of Murder got hitched. Congrats. Sorry we didn't bring a toaster oven."

The gutted expression Cain wore was barely restrained. "That belongs to me," he said calmly, his voice belying the conflict in his eyes. "Please return it to where you found it."

Castiel wordlessly obliged, exchanging a look with Meg and then the others. A flash of headlights suddenly filled the room, and every eye turned to the entryway of the house in confusion. Taking a moment to activate at the unfounded arrival of more strangers, the foursome gathered at the windows with grim suspicion.

There were three vehicles parked on the lawn, more pulling up the drive, and bodies began piling out, facing the house with an intent that was dangerously obvious.

"Don't suppose they're with you?" Dean muttered, glancing over his shoulder at Cain.

"No," the demon said, nonreactive.

"We don't want any trouble, Cain!" shouted a voice from outside the house. "We're just here for the Winchesters and that traitorous little bitch!"

Meg rolled her eyes. "These mouthbreathers need to get more creative with their pet names."

"They need to die," Castiel said darkly, the tense cut of his shoulders adding to his severe demeanor. He was cast in a dark silhouette as he stared into the light, picking out bodies, cataloguing how many they would each be responsible for and just how he planned to deal with his.

Sam began counting, the attempt to weigh the odds a seemingly pointless one. He shook his head. "I count…"

"Too fucking many," Dean growled, turning on Cain to face him head on. "Sack up, Firstborn. Are you gonna help us or not?"

Cain remained unimpressed. "You should barricade the doors," he coolly advised.

"Get ready for a fight," Meg presaged, watching twenty or so demons pile out of several vehicles and more creeping up on the property from the surrounding woods. Her eyes were void of all light, bottomless and battle-ready as she brought out her weapons.

"Good luck with that," Cain said, both sincere and yet not.

Dean was already in his face. "Excuse me?"

"You exposed my home. You exposed me."

"Boo-fucking-hoo!" the hunter retorted.

Cain shook his head, something like admiration making his mouth curl at the edges. "You truly have lived up to your reputation."

Dean looked as though his entire world were crashing down at his feet, the desperation in his voice and face clawing for reprieve—for what he knew he needed to leave here with. "I can't say you've lived up to yours."

"I'm retired."

Behind them, the others were already barricading the windows and doors, a vivid contrast to the momentous silence hanging between the two who stood in the center of the room. Fury and malice churned in one, fortitude and something almost like hope rising in the other. Just as Dean was about to turn away in disgust, Cain spoke low and quiet in the small shell of solitude they shared in the center of the chaos.

"You want the Blade, Dean? Prove to me you deserve it."

Before Dean could ask just what the hell that meant, the double doors separating the living room from the kitchen swung shut behind him, blockading the others.

The trio inside whirled to find themselves trapped—or rather to see Dean trapped with Cain. "What the hell!" Sam demanded. He and Castiel were already drawing weapons, and before they could break down the wooden and glass doors, Meg was laying hands on either of their arms, indicating they wait and see what would happen. "What is this?!"

"A job interview," she quipped without humor. "Cain wants to see his prize fighter in action."

Castiel's eyes flew to hers, a great weight sinking in his gut. "No," he murmured, realizing now. He looked back on the scene in the kitchen with mounting dread.

Dean ignored the protests coming from behind the doors. "What are you talking about?"

Cain spread his hands in a contemplative shrug. "Show me you haven't lost a step from the man I've heard so much about." The demon then snapped his fingers, and a backdoor swung open. This allowed several demons to pile into the house before the door slammed shut again behind them. They looked around in a manner that was almost comical, eyes falling on Cain with poorly concealed trepidation before he shook his head. "Don't mind me." He indicated Dean. "Enjoy yourselves."

There was a brief moment of pause as they all reacted to what was intended to unfold. Then, without further hesitation, Dean drew the demon knife from inside his jacket and exploded into action. He lunged at the first target, immediately slicing it across it's chest which spewed brimstone in the dying light. Recovering, the demon came at him like a bull out of the gate and they grappled across the kitchen. Dean had just gained leverage when it sent him sprawling over the table and at the feet of yet another. Dean rose up in a smooth motion, cutting off the attack with brutal ease. He twisted the demon's arm behind it's back, pivoting once and ducking another wild swing before stabbing the knife into its chest. Dean cast it carelessly aside, moving onto the next. Two demons surrounded him, one grabbing for each arm and hauling him up into the air and slamming him back down onto the table.

He took a few hits as they pinned him down, fighting their hold and lashing out with his leg. His boot connected hard, sending the possessed female careening back into the wall. Above him, Dean gave the other three savage punches, lurching back to his feet to then drive the bludgeon of his knee into the demon's face. Blood spurted over his jeans and he whirled, sensing the female as she recovered. She held his knife in her hand, still coated with blood. As she lunged, Dean seized a hand towel off the nearby counter, catching her hand with it and twisting to garrote her throat. Using the makeshift leach, he gathered momentum and hurled her across the room into the refrigerator and then into the buffet cabinet filled with chinaware. The plates shattered on impact, shards of porcelain raining loudly onto the tile as both the buffet and the demon tumbled in a heaping crash to the floor.

Whirling, Dean grabbed a hefty cooking pot off the top of the fridge and hurled it at the approaching demon's head. It connected with a dull clang, sending it staggering back. Dean delivered a powerful kick to its sternum, bone cracking under the force. He spun back to the female, trading hard blows and regaining his weapon. He gained the upper hand quickly, pinning her arm from behind, bringing the demon knife up into her ribs.

Behind the barricade of the French doors, Sam and Castiel watched anxiously as the last demon gripped Dean around the trunk and bulldozed him back into the fridge, nearly toppling it over. They fought with barbarous skill, tearing across the kitchen like two battering rams. The demon got in one or two good hits, then sent Dean skidding hard and fast across the floor until his back met with the cabinets there, knocking several doors loose.

With boiling umbrage, Dean climbed back to his feet, wearing a murderous glower. Again, they met in combat, exchanging brutal punches and harsh kicks. Everything in their path fell to ruin—cabinet doors torn off their hinges, picture frames crashing to the floor, glass shattering in a rain of sinister shards.

Behind them, Cain retrieved a beer from his off-kilter fridge.

With a powerful move, Dean heaved the demon back and pummeled it down onto the table, arcing the blade high to bring it slamming down into its throat with vicious finality.

As another black soul was extinguished in a burst of hellfire, the body lay spasming for a short time and Dean slowly looked up, meeting the eyes of his onlooker. Cain drank calmly from his beer, eyeing Dean contemplatively over the mouth of the glass in appraisal. He allowed the others back into the room with a brief flick of his fingers.

The three piled in at Dean's back, saying nothing although not knowing what they would say even if they had any such inclination. This was beyond them, belonging to Dean alone.

He shoved the demon off the table and to the side, feeling a rankling sense of outrage. "What the fuck was this, some kind of test?"

Cain considered him, his demeanor more serious. All affability vanished in place of something else entirely. "I've felt connected to you right from the beginning. Kindred spirits, if you will. You and I… are very much alike."

Dean stared the demon down, shoulders squared menacingly, his breathing more calm as the adrenaline dissipated. "Right. Except I didn't kill my brother."

Cain's eyes never strayed from Dean, a strange, solemn intrigue coating his quiet words. "You saved yours. Why?"

"Because you never give up on family," Dean practically growled. As though the very idea was foreign and despicable. "Ever."

Beside him, Sam's eyes went to his face. Stark, affected surprise colored his expression and at his brother's words, he quietly reeled. Was that hope he felt?

Cain tilted his head, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. "Yet you no longer trust each other. I remember what that was like."

The reminder brought Sam crashing back down, but Dean shook his head. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, and I don't really care. Just give me the damn Blade."

"What you seek after so hungrily isn't here," Cain told him, a note of regret in his voice. He glanced at Castiel, to Meg, then back again at Dean. "Your spell brought you to the source of the Blade's power." He rose to his feet, coming around the side of the table, rolling up his sleeve. "Me."

There, inside his forearm, vav was engraved into the skin—the sixth letter of the Hebrew alphabet and one of the letters in His name. The ultimate defiance. The branded flesh was red and abraded, even after thousands of years.

The group stared in communal horror at what they were seeing, overwhelmed to be in the presence of it. Even Meg looked as though she'd seen a ghost.

"That's the Mark of Cain," Sam murmured.

"From Lucifer himself." Cain ran a thumb over the raised flesh, frowning deeply at the feel of it. "The Mark and the Blade work together. Without the mark, the Blade is useless. It's just an old bone."

"Bone?" Dean echoed.

"A jawbone," Castiel elaborated, looking at his friend heavily before turning those eyes back on Cain. "From an animal. A jawbone he used to kill Abel." He remembered the younger brother's scream, remembered the angels looking on in abject shock at the unspeakable sight, none of them knowing what to do. Humans were supposed to be pure—free of malice, free of hatred. Yet one of them had slain his own kin before their very eyes.

"Because he was God's favorite," Dean surmised in a mordant tone. He felt a reflexive abhorrence to the creature before him at the reminder.

But Cain grew suddenly angry. Emotional, even. "Abel wasn't talking to God. He was talking to Lucifer," he spat, clearly reliving that very moment and all the more devastated because of it. His eyes turned again to Sam, the communication meaningful as much as it was painful. "You remember what it was like to stand in his presence. To look on that face. Terrible, and remarkable. It's an affliction I won't soon forget. Lucifer… he was going to make my brother into his pet," Cain said, turning back to Dean. The parallel stunned both brothers into silence. "I couldn't bear to watch him be corrupted, so I offered a deal. Abel's soul in Heaven for my soul in Hell. Lucifer accepted. As long as I was the one who sent Abel to Heaven." A long, drawn out quiet stretched between them. Cain averted his eyes, allowing his gaze to fall downcast against that particular memory. "So I killed him. Became a soldier of Hell. A Knight."

"And Daddy ordered you to make more," Meg filled in quietly.

Cain shook his head, slow and heated as he turned away from them. "My Knights and I… we did horrible things. For centuries. Bringers of chaos and darkness…"

"Then you met Colette," Castiel filled in, the guesswork easy enough considering the timeline of when Cain dropped off the face of the earth.

The Firstborn was staring longingly at the picture sitting over the fireplace. "She knew who I was," he said softly, acknowledging that Castiel was correct. "She loved me unconditionally." Cain looked at the fallen angel then, at the small demon standing next to him. "She forgave me."

The words tugged at something inside of Meg, her features drawn in quiet absorption of the story. Though she said nothing, the sharp lines of her face seemed softer somehow, the cunning shape of her lips less aloof.

"She only asked for one thing."

"To stop," Sam softly surmised.

And so he had. He'd destroyed his own monster, laid down the Blade, turned on his own—all of it for love. Why else?

Cain looked at them, fresh anguish transforming his cold stare into something vulnerable and aching. "When the Knights found out, they took retribution. They took Colette, so I picked the First Blade back up. It felt so good to have it in my hands again and I slaughtered the Knights of Hell."

"Not all of them," Dean said, frowning.

"No," Cain conceded quietly after a long time, looking as though he were reliving a nightmare. His eyes had glazed over, the arch of his dark brow drawing together in pensive inward torment. You're better than all of this, rang his wife's voice in his head, gentle like a breeze over thistle. "I buried her and I walked away."

"Well, I'm sorry," Dean said, meaning it. "Truly. But I have to stop Abaddon."

Cain said nothing. He merely turned away from the hunter and began to walk away.

"Listen to me, you son of a bitch!" In seconds, Dean had him pinned against the wall, the demon knife bared in his face. "You may be done killing, but I'm not!"

With chilling calm, Cain took Dean's arm in a firm hold and drew it forward in a swift motion so that the knife embedded deeply into his heart. There was no smoldering brimstone, no smell of sulfur, no flicker at all. Just as everyone was reacting to this with stunned surprise, Cain's eyes appeared to roll back, the haunting white void staring back at Dean with alarming calm. At the edges of his vision, tiny veins of black edged towards the center, ever-moving much like a demon's smoke. I cannot be killed, the display of power seemed to say. "You never give up on anything, do you?"

For a long time, killers mortal and immortal faced off in silent opposition. "Never," came Dean's ready reply. "Now where is it?"

"I've kept it hidden. Always in reach."

"Bring it to me."

Cain's eyes lost their demonic edge, the frosty stare returning. "Have you heard nothing I've said?"

"You mean your fucking riddles?" Dean snapped, losing patience. "I can't keep up with the shit you're spewing, man."

"Great," Meg muttered from the window. She stared out into the yard that was illuminated only by headlights and the moon as it sat high in the sky, watching the bodies dodge in and out through the shafts of light. "More friends just showed up to the party, and look, they've brought their pet chompers."

"Croats," Cas observed dourly from her side.

"Dean…" Sam began. The three of them were becoming anxious, wishing this would move along or that Cain would finally decide to lend a hand, because the odds were not looking good.

"The Mark, Dean," Cain elaborated sternly. "I can give it to you, if it's what you truly want."

The hunter shook his head, not understanding. "What are you talking about?"

"The Mark can be transferred to someone who's worthy."

Realization hit Dean hard. "You mean a killer, like you."

He knew the answer even before it was spoken. It was who he was, after all. What he was made for. The fury he felt inside, the desperation and the loathing, that empty feeling that spread out to consume him, unrelenting and demanding—the very things Cain had recognized in him from the moment they stood within another's presence.

"Yes," Cain answered with quiet intensity.

The word lanced through Dean. Killing was the only thing that beat it back. There was a calm that settled over him when the blade sunk deep, when he saw the light flicker and go out of their eyes. Always a meager victory, all those monsters dying at his hand. But it was something.

And lately, he wanted that something more and more.

The real reward was knowing some innocent would live another day, or some victim had gotten the only justice they were going to get. But even that didn't seem to do much for him anymore. Still, there was always the satisfaction in knowing those evil sons a bitches were dead because of him. Because he'd stood his ground, stared down evil and didn't blink, didn't hesitate. Just raised his blade and cut right through them.

Loud pounding carried from outside, reverberating across the house from each door. His friends were preparing for a fight, knowing it was going to be bad. Knowing that this was exactly what they'd expected in so many ways—impossible odds, fighting for survival, harboring the very real understanding that not all of them would be going home.

Dean looked away from the chaos, back at Cain, impassioned now. "Can I use it to kill that bitch?" he asked, not caring about anything beyond that. He was poison and he would take Cain's mantle. He would do the only thing he was good at.

"Yes."

Sam and Cas worked together to tip over the large bureau in front of the main entrance. On the other side of the house, Meg was doing the same before they backtracked and crossed paths again, weapons out. Her and Cas would be first into the melee, since neither of them could be infected. "Nice knowing you, feathers," the little demon said, throwing him a wild, bitter smile that was so full of longing it startled him. "See you on the other side."

Castiel was uncertain what he could say that encompassed their relationship and what she meant to him. When nothing came, Castiel merely nodded. "See you on the other side," he echoed.

Dean stared at the demon across from him with dawning understanding. "This was your plan all along, wasn't it?"

"Nature is made up of balances, Dean. Nothing will ever be so powerful as to live forever. Abaddon is a predator." Cain's eyes narrowed balefully, his voice pitched low and sinister. "But even predators can be preyed upon."

Ignoring the maddening din surrounding them, Dean shook his head. "Why didn't you kill her when you had the chance?"

"Because fate is tricky and it has a funny way of things. I think it was always going to be you." The Firstborn looked averse then, his following words revealing hesitation. "You have to know… with the Mark comes a great burden. Some would call it a great cost."

Dean was already yanking up his sleeve. "Spare me the warning label, you had me at kill the bitch."

Cain looked him dead in the eyes, marveling at this singular soul, musing that it was not unlike looking into a mirror. "Good luck, Dean. I mean that. Because you'll need it."

Fleetingly, Dean met Sam's eyes across the room. He thought of how he'd watched his brother to say yes to Lucifer. How he'd said no to Michael. Both choices being inherently right for the cause it was serving at the time. Certainty had been the marrow of his bones then as it was now, and so Dean didn't even think about saying yes to Cain.

"Do it."

Just held out his hand as the fratricide gripped it tightly with his own in a gesture of deep respect, words inadequate somehow. One by one, every muscle in Dean's body tensed with anticipation. Then, Cain transferred the chilling hold up the hunter's arm, and Dean felt power surge through him in a rushing torrent of burning agony.

Dean held on through the pain, allowing the searing brand to mark him for the killer he was. A dealer in death, more lethal than venom to those who trusted him. Everything erupted into a fiery red light behind his eyes, a deafening buzz pulsing in his ears that distorted all sounds. Snaking scarlet vines crawled up his skin, energy surging into him. Upon his forearm, the flesh raised in the familiar notorious shape, left raw and scalded in the aftermath.

Cain released him with a violent shudder and Dean sucked in a deep, gasping breath. His brother was already at his side, gripping his shoulders and to keep him from stumbling back. "Dean!"

Castiel had his angel blade in one hand, a machete in the other. He stared at the Mark with a sickened feeling, dread laying heavy on his shoulders. Beside him, Meg looked anxious and impatient to address their ambushers with violence.

Dean shook off the residual effects, his vision slowly returning to normal. "I'm fine. Now where the hell did you stash the damn Blade?"

Cain called the weapon forth, and he suddenly had the Blade gripped tightly in his hand.

Dean saw it and needed it. The Mark burned hot in reply, a painful longing to have the Blade in his hand surging to the surface. Dean stared at it in rapture, the pain escalating to the point where nothing else could be perceived.

Sam looked at the primitive old bone, a terrible sense of awestruck fear coursing through him. The Father of Murder held it as though presenting it on a pedestal to his brother, a treasured prize. Castiel may have no longer been an angel, but he could feel the Blade's evil resonating from across the room. This was the weapon responsible for the first murder. The first time brother killed brother.

This was Dean taking action. Seizing back control. Moving forward, into the fray.

He reached out and took up the Blade for his own.

Immediately, it was like two magnets bonding together. Two halves of a whole converging as one. Around them, the room gave a shuddering quake. The power of the Mark and its Blade pulsed through his veins, fueling his dormant anger to a crushing, unstoppable force. Dean's eyes fixed on the weapon in his hand, a look of intense awareness spreading across his face. His entire arm shook and he reflexively tightened his grip on the Blade as though it were a lifeline. He felt his entire being become one with the weapon, finally achieving its full potential—his full potential. The feeling was exhilarating and Dean's skin was abuzz with the primal energy flowing through him. Every fiber he possessed exuded the raw, unadulterated power of a man born and bred and unafraid to kill.

Cain drew in close to him, his icy stare intense. "When you're alone with your demons, Dean Winchester, hope can't survive. The only thing that can live in the dark with you is your anger. Use it. Because that anger can be transmuted into a power which can move the whole world." Dean reeled at the words, at what had transpired in a few short hours. A brutal battle, three demons slain, and Cain confirmed he was worthy. "You will go and you will kill Abaddon. But make me a promise first. When I call you, and I will call, you come find me. And use the Blade on me."

Dean's brow drew together at that, and he faintly shook his head. "Why?"

"For what I'm about to do. Take your brother's hand."

Dean automatically obeyed, feeling Sam grip him back tight. Cain reached out, laying a hand over Dean's shoulder, and then Castiel's. With a jarring rush, the three men were suddenly outside, standing at the outskirts of the property, out of the sight of the demons and Croats. As the brothers were regaining their footing, Castiel became panicked.

"Where is Meg?" he said aloud, looking wildly around them. Dean and Sam glanced in confusion, confirming that Meg was indeed no longer with them. Then Sam was lurching forward in alarm, grabbing at Castiel as the fallen angel began to tear back towards the house.

"No! Cas, no! Stop! Dean, help me!"

Both brothers took hold of each arm, hauling Castiel back as he fought against them.

"She's still inside!"

---

Meg felt an almost icy chill wash over her upon realizing she was now alone with the only demon she actually feared. Cain regarded her gravely, his penetrating stare intense in new ways. "Abaddon is after you. She wants you for her crusade."

"I kind of figured," she answered unevenly. She could practically feel her angel fighting to get to her, wherever he was. Meg tried not to show how much she was actually afraid, but Cain surprised her then.

"Stay with Castiel, no matter the cost. He can save you, Amara."

The words were said in quiet urgency, a fissure of sincerity running through them. Before she could formulate a response, Meg felt a staggering pull all around her and then she was standing beside Castiel and the Winchesters. They all started at her sudden appearance and then, snapping out of his daze, Castiel roughly shook off the hands keeping him anchored and gripped at Meg's shoulders, looking her over for injuries.

"What happened?" he demanded, his voice angry and still tinged with panic. "Why did he keep you?"

"Told me to be good, eat my vitamins," Meg replied a little breathlessly, brushing him off to indicate that she was fine. "Don't steal from babies."

Castiel opened his mouth to protest her lack of an actual answer, but was interrupted by the sudden sound of screams that erupted from the house.

From the windows, a bright, scarlet flash burst through the panes. And then another, and another. More and more flashes appeared, and it reminded Dean of the power that surged outward when an angel smote a demon. The screams from the house intensified, the four observers realizing the same thing at once.

"They're all trapped in there," Sam murmured.

Meg shifted her weight, feeling another shudder crawl up her spine. Unconsciously, she listed closer to Castiel, who simply stared ahead with grim regard, having seen the display many times before. "With him."

Dean felt his rage crest and clarity wash over him. Beneath his sleeve, the Mark burned hot.

"Good," he said.

---

been trading love with indifference and it suits me just fine
I try to hold on but I'm calloused to the bone
maybe that's why I feel alone
I'm rusted and weathered, barely holding together
covered with skin that peels and it just won't heal

---

20 MONTHS AFTER THE FALL

"We'll assign a six man team to escort the survivors back to the camp. Myself and the remainder will continue out past mile marker sixty-three to convene with Camp Clearwater's team for supply exchange. Be sure to transfer additional canned goods to my vehicle—we'll get the medical supplies loaded into yours," Castiel was saying to Charlie.

She nodded, eyeing the crates with a mixture of relief and gratitude before setting that bright stare back on him. "You're a key, Cas."

"I'm not quite sure what—" She surprised him by throwing her arms around him in a tight hug.

"Thank you." Charlie gave him an extra squeeze and drew back, reaching up to pinch his cheek for good measure before hurrying along after the crates.

Castiel stared after her bemusedly, thinking that what he did was nothing spectacular, but pleased to see that the girl was smiling. She hadn't done that in a long time.

"And where would you have me, keymaster?" said a deep voice beside him and Castiel looked to see Ezekiel regarding him and the redheaded girl with amusement.

Castiel considered his elder brother in puzzlement at the inquiry. "You don't have to defer to me, Ezekiel. You're the stronger of the two of us."

Ezekiel chuckled, shaking his head as they fell in step together. "Stronger, perhaps. But you are still Castiel. I'll follow you, grace or not."

Castiel remembered a time spent fighting alongside his sibling in the Rebellion, and again in the newest war to tear Heaven apart—the war against Raphael. Ezekiel had proven himself time and again to be trustworthy, powerful, dedicated, and above all compassionate. When others had abandoned him, Ezekiel stayed true. Castiel recalled many battles fought with this brother, who had been one of his best lieutenants. Striking down demons and enemy angels, coming together as a single force against the bulwark of what fought to destroy them. Castiel's vessel was tall and well-built, but Ezekiel's was mightier still, and so he smothered their enemies under the sheer brute force he commanded where his younger brother moved with speed and agility, each gambit more cunning than the last. The twin arcs of holy steel catching the light in chaotic ways, sparks flying and blades ringing as they met again and again under Heaven's skies. A trenchcoat snapping against the wind like the beating of wings.

Ezekiel knew from the moment of Castiel's creation that he would follow this brother anywhere. It is not only humans that are destined for great things, Castiel, he'd told him once, as they both knelt in respite at the edge of Heaven. Even then, Castiel had needed convincing.

"No matter my intentions," he was saying now with a rueful frown, "no matter the path I take, I seem to ultimately fail. I'm not a leader, and I'm not sure I ever deserved to be."

Ezekiel chuckled deeply, shaking his head. "Ah, Castiel. So much to learn. So much to learn." His dark stare peered on past the horizon, looking into things unknown. Eventually, he turned back to his brooding sibling and offered some advice. "It is the fear of becoming ordinary that inspires so many to be extraordinary. You fought against the mold. You rejected the broken ways our superiors tried to force down on us. You refused to be faceless, and in doing so you granted that freedom to all of us. Don't forget that while you may have rebelled against Heaven, you still were rewarded. You've always been willing to follow our Father while fighting for His children." Ezekiel indicated the small group of their human crewmembers ahead. "You see what He sees in them. It's different. That doesn't make it a bad thing."

Castiel sighed deeply, smiling despite himself. "You know," he said. "I missed your counsel."

Ezekiel's dark features brightened into a broad grin. Laughing, he gripped a hand over his sibling's shoulder, jostling him merrily. "Be noble, little brother, for you are made of stars."

At his hip, Castiel's walkie crackled for attention and he brought it up to his face, already knowing who it was. "We're about eight miles out. Charlie has the medical supplies."

"Nothing on my end but squatters and Croats," came Meg's voice, sounding surly. "Heading back to base."

"Are you alright?"

"I broke a nail. So I'm a little pissed about that."

"I'm… sorry," Castiel managed, not quite sure how else to respond to that.

"What about you, hotwings? How's that ass of yours?"

Castiel's brow wrinkled. "My ass is fine."

"And you'll be back when?"

"I have the exchange with Clearwater. If all goes as planned, I should return by sundown."

"Good. Tonight when I get my hands on you, Castiel, you're gonna think you're back in Heaven. First, I'm going to take these handcuffs—"

He fumbled with the walkie, switching it off in a hurry as heat flushed up his neck and turned his cheeks a deep red. Ezekiel's baritone laughter revealed that the damage was already done, and Castiel felt a swell of embarrassment. He cleared his throat with some difficultly, wishing he could retreat into a hole somewhere, or that a meteor might drop on his head from outer space.

"She is volatile," his brother remarked, the smile he wore approving. "I like her."

---

and I took you by the hand, and we stood tall
remembered our own land, and what we lived for
and now I cling to what I knew
I saw exactly what was true
but oh no more, that's why I hold
that's why I hold with all I have, that's why I hold

---

PRESENT, KANSAS

It was late in the evening when the jeep rumbled up the long path leading to Camp Chitaqua.

Before the gates were in view, Sam pulled off to the side of the road, putting the vehicle into park. Three questioning stares fell on him and he swiveled in his seat to look at Castiel and Meg. "Go on ahead. We'll catch up."

Dean looked at him from the passenger seat, snapping out of whatever remote isolation had befallen him for the past several hours.

Meg sighed theatrically. "Goody. We get to walk while Laverne and Shirley have some melodramatic bonding."

"Meg," Castiel muttered sidelong in reproach. He offered Sam a comradely nod through the rearview mirror, tugging the ornery demon out after him.

When the two of them were almost out of sight, Sam trained his eyes on his brother.

Dean had many looks. The intense, middle-of-reasoning-through-a-case look. The sudden, inspired I-know-what-did-it look. The wary, alert something's-not-right look. Then there were a few Dean reserved just for him. The far-too-excited-about-pushing-his-buttons look, which was usually coupled with an infuriatingly smug grin right as Sam was about to deck him. The blank I-don't-understand-a-word-you-just-said look. And, of course, the oh-so-help-me-Sammy glare—common to their arguments just as he cornered Dean with impeccable logic or pigheadedness.

All those looks Sam knew. But this one? He'd rarely seen it. Not nearly enough to identify clearly. Though, he'd seen shades of it… when Dean came back from the dead with a secret. When Dean crawled out of his own grave and refused to speak about Hell. When he'd torn a hole through reality itself and fought his way back out of Purgatory.

The silence was deafening and Sam recalled that Dean no longer listened to music. It had once been a favorite past time, but because of the bittersweet memories it raised, Dean avoided it now at all costs. He was frighteningly still beside him, calloused fingers tracing over the raised, raw flesh of his forearm, transfixed by it.

"Hey."

His brother looked up and Sam felt like he was already losing this battle. Getting Dean to talk nowadays was like pulling teeth. Knowing that Cain found Dean a worthy successor was off-putting, but seeing Dean take so readily to the challenge is what really put Sam on edge.

At Sam's voice, Dean rolled his sleeve down to cover the scar. "I'm here, Sam. Unwad the panties."

Sam sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. "I don't even know what the hell to say, man."

"We knew this had to happen. I need the Blade to kill Abaddon. I need the Mark to use the Blade."

Sam shook his head. He could see the steadfast resolve that was always there, but past that he could also see the anger and the fear brimming just underneath the surface. "No, Dean. This isn't about the Mark or the Blade or anything Cain said. This is about you."

Dean bristled. "What about me?"

Sam turned to him, his expression one of utmost sincerity. "You put your own safety in peril because you think you don't matter."

Not like Sammy, Dean thought automatically. Not like everyone else matters.

"What the hell do you want me to say?"

"I don't want you to say anything, Dean. Just listen." Sam's eyes were forceful but earnest and Dean felt a camaraderie pass between them that he hadn't felt in a long time. "I know you're gonna do whatever you think you need to do to see this thing through. But I will never be done trying to save you. You're my brother. Whether I'm so pissed at you I can't think straight and can't stand to even look at you, or when we're out there in the field watching each other's backs. I'm still here, right there with you. I'm not happy about this—not for a fucking second. But I'm with you."

Dean took this information in with quiet reverence, the words sinking in more deeply than Sam thought they would. He looked at his brother and finally saw the struggle there. Dean wasn't the only one hanging on by a thread. There were dark shadows under Sam's eyes—or where his eyes would have been if he'd still had them both. Dean's gaze slid to the patch of cloth over his brother's face, realizing that it was not a quick fix. Not something that Dean could simply clap him on the back for with a simple, shake it off, Sammy! His brother had lost part of his sight and he was never getting it back. Sam had to live with that. He had to live with feeling incomplete, like he was only half the hunter he had been.

And if anyone could empathize with feeling worthless, it was Dean Winchester. For him, it was dealing with—or more accurately, not dealing with—depression, apathy, and a craving for violence. After he had emerged from Hell, he'd been faced with a deep self-loathing bred from the knowledge that he had become a tormentor in that vile place, and that role had felt right for him. He had managed to repress that side of him, but upon receiving that brand into his skin… he'd started to feel those old feelings of violence more keenly. He hadn't verbalized it yet and had no intention of ever doing so, but it set him back a step. Seeing the same stirrings of self-hatred in his brother's eyes had those protective inklings rushing back to the surface with tidal force.

"You know, I've been a real prick lately." Sam chuckled derisively and Dean rolled his eyes. "No, I'm serious. It's your turn to listen, alright? Look at me." When he was sure he had his brother's full attention, he spoke the words they each had been dreading to address, ever since Pennsylvania. "Lucifer is not going to see the light of day. Ever again. Do you understand me? He isn't going to win this time either, and I ain't gonna let him touch one freakishly long hair on that Cro-Magnon head, got it?"

Sam laughed at his brother's idiocy, but the meaning behind it inspired something powerful inside him. Relief, gratitude, liberation—and something that hadn't been there in a long time. Trust.

He used to think that if anyone else had been made to endure everything his brother had been through, they would have emotionally shut off a long time ago. Wouldn't care about themselves at all, and especially not about anyone else. Dean was shut off in so many ways, but when poor treatment caused someone to believe that they were worth less because of it, he felt it too. For awhile, Sam thought his brother had lost that empathy completely. But perhaps there was hope left for him, after all.

Unbidden, he held up their father's journal between them, unspoken words exchanged through the gesture. Not the journal they had known all their lives, but the relic they had only recently found. The journal that contained John Winchester's thoughts and findings on the First Blade and the Mark that controlled it. "You're gonna need this."

Maybe Sam is right, Dean thought. Maybe he could be saved. He ran his fingers over the leather binding of the journal, a hundred new secrets waiting there to be uncovered. All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing, said someone once. Well… no matter the strength of his character, Dean wasn't built to do nothing.

Beneath his sleeve, the Mark burned idly, waiting to be put to use. Reminding him of its purpose. Inside his jacket, the Blade called out for blood. The travails ahead would devastate them, Dean was sure. Because as much as he wanted to believe Sam, as much as he wanted to hope, there was no easy fix to anything.

A cost, Cain had said.

Whatever it was, it didn't matter. What mattered was that the impossible would be done. The last Knight of Hell gone. The world a little safer.

Dean would do that.

He had the Mark. He had the Blade. The power and the purpose.

Abaddon's days were numbered.

---

you were running out of time
but oh your city lies in dust, my friend
choking on the dirt and sand
your molten bodies blanket of cinders
caught in the throes

---

"Well, we're alive," Meg remarked as their boots crunched in the dirt.

"I'm surprised," Castiel admitted, a sense of cautious relief filling him.

Meg, however, scoffed. "You know that Mark could easily be the death of us as much as Abaddon."

His mouth pressed into a grim line, sharing that sentiment all too keenly. "Yes, I know."

"So then what's the plan, Stan?"

Castiel's brow wrinkled and he looked at her closely as they walked. His expression said he knew there was something he wasn't getting, but his lips spoke anyways, despite it. "…My name is not Stan." Predictably, Meg shook her head and sighed. She stopped and stared at him critically. "I assume that's an idiom of some sort that's just going over my head?"

"Wordplay. Rhyming names with a portion of a sentence."

He regarded her archly, a little smug even. "You should rhyme with my actual name instead of a made up one."

Meg raised a single dark eyebrow at the challenge. "You're a pain in my ass, Cas."

He actually smirked at that, the expression making him look roguish and appealing in all new ways. Meg stared at him, something changing in her expression like a dusky shroud being cast over her eyes. Her breathing hitched, chest heaving strangely, and before he could ask what was wrong, she was advancing towards him. "God, you're impossible," she ground out, fingers gripping tightly into his collar and jerking him down into a kiss.

Castiel's back struck a nearby tree, and he emitted a careless sound, reacting instantly. One hand tangled in her hair and the other pulled her flush against him, reveling in the feel of her movement and touch. Needing it, craving it. He'd expected to die. Had gone into this mission thinking it would be his last—everyone's last. Yet through some baffling twist of fate, they were all still here. She was still here.

The moment when he'd been sure Meg was trapped in that house with Cain, he'd lost it. Every bone, every muscle of his body had instantly propelled him back towards the fire, needing to either drag her out of it or go up in flames beside her. Their kiss deepened, her aching moan against his mouth nearly his undoing. Having her alive and inciting in his arms—wholly and incontestably Meg—drove him mad with relief and longing. He made a desperate sound, extricating himself through sheer force of will, despite her noisy protest. "What did he say to you?"

Meg deflated at the breathless inquiry, though she was still practically glued to him despite her disapproval of it. "Are you competing for best mood killer?"

His hand slid under her jaw, eyes searching her face. "If you're in danger, I want to know."

She rolled her eyes at that, wishing he would go back to coaxing those little noises out of her. "I'm not in danger."

"You're always in danger," he argued, getting restless. "We both are."

Relenting, Meg exhaled noisily. "He said Abaddon was after me. Nothing we didn't already know."

"Is that all?"

"What do you mean, is that all?" Meg looked indignant, her voice coming out snide and sharp.

"I didn't mean that like it sounded," he said, nose brushing against hers as his gaze momentarily retreated. Meg seemed satisfied by that, her anger dissipating some.

The gentle way he was touching her now had her wondering what happened to the rough, needy manhandling he'd displayed moments ago. Now he was looking at her so closely and so intently that it was almost like he was looking right into her true face.

"You mean Lucifer." At his meager look of guilt, she sighed. "No, Castiel. Cain didn't tell me anything about him."

It was no secret to himself that Castiel felt those treacherous stirrings of doubt. Because there had been a time when Lucifer was Meg's most ardent cause. He trusted her implicitly, but since Pennsylvania, the dark notions would not leave him be. He felt disloyal and wretched because of it, the shame eating away at him. The cautionary voice in his head had not let up over the past several days, and Castiel hated himself for it. That voice reminded him of a ring of fire, of the look in her eyes as she taunted him from the edge of it. The devotion she'd displayed towards her creed, towards her master. Her creator.

"I'm not jumping ships, Grumpy. You can put away the wet blanket." He looked so completely bewildered by that and she couldn't help but laugh.

Instead of a reply, he simply lowered his mouth back over hers, needing her to understand how difficult it was lately for him to trust anyone. That he was sorry, even if he couldn't seem to get the words out. It was, in part, a reassurance to himself as well. A reminder that loyalties could change for the better, that they had changed. That she was as much his as he was hers.

"You never answered my question," Meg muttered against his lips in a honeyed voice, her hands sliding up his chest. His scruff prickled deliciously at her skin, rasping like sandpaper, and she needed more of it. Fingers curled into his shirt and tugged.

It took Castiel a moment to respond, since she was so keen to distract him. "You asked me a question?"

"Plans?" she repeated, her teeth grazing his bottom lip.

Castiel shook his head. "No. I'm yours."

"Really? Could have sworn Tabitha wanted you to translate those Enochian poems for her if you didn't end up as some Croat's chewtoy."

"She asked me, yes."

"I bet she did," Meg retorted sourly, eyes glinting. She knew what Tabitha was interested in as far as Castiel was concerned and it sure as hell wasn't translating poems.

He uttered a faint growl, his lips reassuring at hers, hands cinched tightly over her hips. "Retract your claws. I told her I had no desire to 'make the earth move' with her. I'm yours."

Meg dug her nails in a little deeper just to spite him, hands sliding under his jacket to lock around his waist. "Snooty bitch doesn't understand the concept of private property." His disparaging tone made her irritable. She knew she was possessive as a petulant toddler with their favorite toy, but damn it, she was fucking tired of things trying to steal him away from her. Mine, she added silently, for good measure.

Castiel's lips curled against hers before he drew back, mirth shining in his eyes at her streak of jealousy. The look he gave her was pure affection tinged with mild amusement. "You're more than enough for me."

Meg wanted to roll her eyes at him looking so pleased, like he were actually puffing his feathers. Her brow quirked at him dryly. "Was that a compliment or a complaint?"

He merely chuckled, and the sight of him dirty and battle-worn like that did things to her. Somehow, he always managed to come out alive and the knowledge was as comforting as it was bizarre. Briefly, Meg wondered that when his time was eventually up if Castiel wouldn't just stare defiantly in the face of death and refuse to die.

"Sam and Dean will be along soon," he said. "We should go."

Despite his light spirits, his head had begun its merciless pounding, announcing to him that it was time for another dose of relief. It was worse than usual—almost incessant, the ringing in his head, and he couldn't figure why.

"I hope you know I'm going to jump you the second we're home."

Home.

The thought was pleasant, and a stark relief against the hell they'd just been put through. It tempered the raging fire in his skull, dulling it to a distant ache.

But Castiel had stopped in his tracks and Meg crashed gracelessly into him. There was a barbed comment on the tip of her tongue, but it faded from thought when she caught sight of what had caused him to skid to a halt.

Her gaze was drawn upwards. Confused suspicion colored her voice. "Is it snowing?"

All around them, tiny gray flakes drifted down as they stood before the gate of the camp. It wasn't cold at all—despite that it was evening, there were still remnants of that familiar, oppressive heat that followed them day to day. There was an almost sinister quiet that hung in the air that only intensified when no one immediately opened the gate to allow them entry. Castiel regarded the falling flakes with a sort of disquieted apprehension, a hollow pit beginning to form in his gut.

"It's not snow. It's ash."

Meg's gaze slid to him, a little startled.

"Something's wrong," he said, feeling the first stirrings of real panic begin to seep their way into him. "Help me open the gate."

Without questioning him, Meg lent her strength into the undertaking and they worked together to slide the two sides apart. The reinforced metal was as heavy as it was thick. She did her best to avoid the bands of iron that ran across it in stacked lines, and soon they'd pried it open just enough so that she could slip her arm through towards the chain lock on the other side.

Fingers straining, she bit out one curse after another as it remained just out of reach. Castiel grimaced against the slight ringing that had started up again in his head, growing louder as if in distress. The signal was weak and he couldn't discern it, couldn't focus, and it had him on edge to the point where it felt like his worry was a living thing growing inside him.

Meg, though, had stopped entirely. Her eyes were ebony pits, and she stood frozen in silence as she listened to something he couldn't hear. He was just about to voice the questions running through his head when she spoke. "Cas, open that fucking gate."

Hearing the banked urgency there and feeling it catapult inside himself, Castiel pressed a hand across her shoulders, drawing her back without hesitation. He pulled his sidearm from its holster and fired two shots into the slot, breaking the chain. As one they each gripped a side, adrenaline lending added strength to the imperative sense of dread that fueled them.

The sight that greeted them on the other side was horrific beyond words.

"No…"

Feeling his heart pound desperately against his ribs, Castiel's mind reeled in shock, a sensation like he'd been doused in ice water spreading like panic throughout his body. He stood, staggered by the devastation that lay before them. The two lovers regarded the smoldering fires and strewn bodies in abject shock, and Castiel's throat clogged with fear and pain. He tried to draw breath, but his lungs seemed to constrict as if his body was frozen in denial.

A majority of the cabins were destroyed, either shredded into like kindling or still emitting weak flame that licked forlornly at the sky. He doubted any of them were salvageable, but that was the least of his concern. With each step he took, dread lay heavier and heavier upon him, and with a sickened feeling churning inside him, Castiel had to ease around the bodies. His eyebrows screwed up together, his mouth parted open in mute horror as he scanned their faces for any signs of life. He saw none.

A sudden sound to his left snagged his attention and Castiel's gaze darted to see a small huddle of people working to splint a broken leg. Something like agonized relief tore through him, despite that he knew how short-lived it would be.

"Help who you can," he told his companion faintly. Castiel barely even recognized his own voice.

Meg was gone from his side an instant later, for once obedient.

---

in the darkness before the dawn
in the swelling of this storm
running around and with apologies
and hope is gone
leave a light, a light on

---

"Oh my God," Sam despaired, his lungs emptying of air as emotion and smoke choked him. He felt a sharp stab of pain burrow deeply into his chest, a desperate need to reach out and help assaulting him as he took in the sight of their fallen camp members. The wind gusted softly around them through the mangled trees and broken cabins, and the burning question as to what the hell had happened repeated over and over again in his mind.

Dean had already snagged a passing survivor and was barking orders. "I want you to find whatever able bodied crewmember is left and get them searching for survivors. We're gonna set up the injured in whatever's left of the mess hall. Whoever doesn't know how to hold a gun, get them on med duty ASAP. Take a three man team and put out these fucking fires. Sam and I will take whoever's left for reconnaissance and perimeter sweeps until we figure out what the fuck did this. You got it?"

Donovan didn't disappoint. "Yes, sir," he replied, nodding quickly as they moved. His arm was clearly broken and there was blood on his face, but he'd cinched it to his chest haphazardly and readied himself for action.

"Can you hold a gun like that?"

"If you need me to, sir," Donovan answered readily.

Dean gave him a curt nod. "Get going."

Sam turned to him, their pace increasing as they tore across the camp. "How the fuck could this have happened, Dean?"

But Dean had skidded to a halt, eyes locked on a sight past his shoulder. All militant resolve deserted him in an instant, his expression gutted.

"Dean?" Sam took a step forward, panicked at the look he saw there.

"Move. Move!" shouted Dean, already shoving past his brother. His legs swallowed ground quickly towards the body he recognized, boots pounding against the earth as fast as his heart slammed against his ribs. "Risa!" Dean was at her side, knees colliding with the ground hard and weapon falling away as he frantically pressed his hands to the bloody wounds even though it was far too late. "Shit, shit! Oh, fuck." Dean hauled her limp form tightly into his arms, shaking her frantically. "No, no, no. Rees, sweetheart, come on…"

Her own weapon was still gripped in her lifeless hands, and there were several other dead civilians scattered around her—but, damn it, Dean didn't give a shit about them. His breath rasped raggedly from between his lips, murderous anguish rising in him like bile at her lack of reply. His stomach churned, body wracked with uncontrollable shudders that suddenly heaved through him. Dean bowed over her, shouting obscenities and pleas into her dark hair until the only thing left in him was pain. His lungs suffocated instead of benefitted as his body mourned without him. Frantic desperation and gutting sorrow clawed at his skin beneath his ribs, thundering inside his chest. The Mark burned hot on his arm, angry tears burning hot in his eyes, desperate to expel that misery, desperate for a target to unleash it on.

Sam barreled up onto the scene moments later, feeling like he'd just taken a punch to the gut. He dropped down next to his brother, calling his name, but Dean no longer made any sound and had gone utterly still. Risa was wrapped up in his arms, her olive skin now ashen even in the waning light. He knelt with her, frozen in place, reality not yet finding him.

"Dean…" Sam tried again. He gripped at his brother's shoulders tightly, conveying mutual grief and misery in that single moment. Dean's only reaction was to stare silently down at the body in his arms. "Dean, we've got people who need you right now. Come on, man. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but you've gotta pull it together. We need…" he trailed off in barely contained shock, pulse quickening as his gaze fell upon something that shook him to the core. "Oh God…"

Through the desolating fog, Dean felt his brother's hold on him disappear and then Sam was gone.

He forced his features into a stoic, unfeeling mask that revealed something slowly breaking inside. His jaw clenched tightly, set in determined wrath, and he tried not to feel the burning in his vision or beneath his sleeve, or the way his throat closed over every breath he tried to take. Guilt and hatred consumed him, became him.

Steeling himself, Dean surrendered to that darkness. He no longer heard the screams around him, didn't see the racing bodies that wreathed his back in a raging eddy of turmoil. His hands merely curled into fists at his sides, face twisting into a thundercloud of ruin.

The image of retribution was all he could see.

---

millions are lost from home
in the swelling, swelling on
running round and with a thunder
to bleed from thorns
leave a light, a light on

---

As Castiel moved and the bodies increased in number, he started to notice that many of them bore the searing imprint of wings at their backs. The smell of burnt ozone was overwhelming, choking. All around him charred feathers drifted across his path, and Castiel began to recognize faces of his kin, a wrecked sound spilling past his lips at the realization. He saw others too that he didn't recognize, a confused dismay eating at him as he began to frantically search.

Abaddon, he thought automatically, helplessly—the name an unspoken question hanging over his head, despite that he knew the postulation to be wrong.

A tiny scream pierced the air, seizing his attention. Heart in his throat, Castiel followed the cries, his legs swallowing ground quickly. He was near the mess hall now, sick to his stomach because this was where the children often gathered. Please, please, no…

Relief consumed him to see no small bodies mixed in with their dead, but it was short-lived because what he saw next left him stunned and terrified. There, just outside the doors, was his sister Hael lying motionless on the ground. Castiel's expression twisted in shocked grief, devastation lancing through him. The cries belonged to Aubrey, and the child was draped over the unmoving angel as she wept inconsolably without reprieve.

Overtaken with horror, Castiel rushed over to them, his heart in his throat as he called out to her. "Aubrey?"

"Esezomi," she sobbed, fingers gripping tightly into Hael's clothing for dear life. Her eyes were fused shut, tears streaming down her tiny cheeks. "Esezomi!"

"Aubrey, are you hurt?" Castiel dropped down beside them both, fumbling with who to tend to first and receiving no reply. Aubrey had blood all down the front of her sundress, though he sent up a reflexive prayer of thankfulness that it didn't appear to be her own. Hael had an awful wound torn into her side that was frighteningly severe and her blood coated most of the ground beneath her as well as her clothing. He took gentle hold of his sister, eyes raking over her frantically as he forced down the painful lump that tried to claw its way up his throat at the gutwrenching sight.

"Hael!" Castiel called her name with increasing panic and nauseating dread, Aubrey's devastated cries unrelenting beside him. His gaze fell to the wound, a spark of hope igniting at the sight of the weak tendrils of light that still transuded from the lesion rent into her. Her skin was pale and drawn and she was breathing in and out slowly, shallowly. "Please, sister," he murmured, pressing a hand over the wound to stem the flow of blood and dwindling grace. Light slipped through his fingers and at the pressure, Hael uttered a small, keening sound. Her lids cracked open, glassy eyes staring back at him in obvious suffering.

Hael looked scared. "Esiasch," she whimpered. She inhaled sharply, body heaving. "Aubrey, please, Aubrey is…"

Castiel thought he felt something shatter inside him as he cradled her slight body against himself, rushing to set her at ease. "Aubrey is here, she's safe. Don't be afraid. Hael!" Castiel looked down at her in silent agony. His sister was already losing consciousness again, trembling and drawing in pained, reedy breaths. His chest tightened miserably. "Hael…" he beseeched, holding her head up and gripping her hand tightly with his own. Lie to her, he thought. "It's going to be alright. Hold on, sister, please. Please, hold on." He whispered empty reassurances to her, stricken to the point of near-tears, so engulfed in grief that he could barely function. His heart raced, his veins burning with a feeling of despairing hope because she could live. She might live. Please live.

Perhaps he was even lying to himself.

"She alright?" a voice sounded suddenly from beside him, and Castiel's head jerked around to see Dean crouching next to him.

Castiel's voice was wavering. "Still alive. Barely."

The hunter's face was haggard and withdrawn, his red-rimmed eyes utterly devoid of anything warm. As he spoke the words were terse, everything about his demeanor completely detached. Something had happened. Something that made his friend almost unrecognizable to him now.

As Aubrey continued to wail softly, Dean took over. "Cas, get her out of here. I've got this."

Castiel activated, gingerly handing over his sister and then reaching out to draw Aubrey into his arms and away from Hael's body. She fought him briefly, refusing at first to be torn away from her dearest friend. Castiel gently hushed her, speaking in rushed Enochian tones in an effort to calm her.

"Etharsi, azian," he murmured, smoothing a hand over her hair. He repeated the phrase, raising his voice above hers to be heard.

"Hael, Hael," she cried. "My Hael..."

"Shh, Aubrey, I know. Ol om." His heart went out to her, wishing he had the power to erase her pain and grief as he would have been able to before. Castiel spoke more soothing words and reassurances into her hair, holding her close as she clung to him now. Her cries had grown softer, terrified and mournful, and he couldn't fathom what new horrors she'd witnessed today. Castiel closed his eyes, lamenting deeply over the loss with her. Aubrey keened, curling into a ball against him. "Eophan. Ese gahalana, od ese salb hom. Ol isro, ol isro. We'll look after her, I promise you."

"CAS!"

He recognized Sam's voice, the fraught panic and desperation of it startling him. It pleaded for him, and Castiel looked up, torn once more in two directions because he was loathe to abandon Aubrey in such a state. Meg appeared beside him then, seemingly in answer to his need, and there was somberness in her eyes and blood on her jacket from tending to other wounded. "I've got her, Cas."

Her expression alone told him she knew what awaited him and Castiel felt another sick wave of dread wash over him as he rose to answer his friend's call. He had to pass through the swarm of crying children, glancing back once over his shoulder to Meg as she lifted Aubrey into her arms, at Dean as he collected Hael's light frame and began to carry her towards the mess hall.

When Castiel found Sam, the sight that greeted him may as well have been an angel blade sliding into his heart. What he saw paralyzed him, all fortitude finally abandoning him in a rushing torrent that left him clean of all strength.

Ezekiel was not yet dead, but he would be soon.

In an ironic twist of fate, his brother was slouched against a cabin wall, much like when he had first found him dying beyond the borderlands. Ezekiel had clearly been in a brutal fight, his vessel damaged in ways that any angel would struggle with to heal. But it was the handle of the angelic blade protruding from his ribs that made Castiel realize he would not be saving his brother this time.

Numbly, he approached the two of them, seeing the way Sam was losing it and rushing to do what he could despite having no clue what that was. The younger Winchester called to the angel, his tone frayed and beseeching, and Ezekiel assuaged him with calm, fading assurances. Dark eyes weakly caught Castiel's approach, a deep sadness there as he knelt down in the grass next to them.

"Cas, what do we do?" demanded Sam in a higher voice, his grief making the sound of it almost unrecognizable.

"I am to die," Ezekiel said quietly, his tone indicating that he had already accepted his poor fortune. He was clearly in a great amount of pain, his broad chest stuttering as he tried to draw breath. The bright spear of grace that wept from his wound was not beautiful at all, but a mocking reminder that it would not be long.

"I know," replied Castiel, looking at the treachery with an empty feeling.

"Cas, you have to help him!" Sam uttered in a begging voice, not understanding why his friend was doing nothing. "Fucking do something!"

Castiel shook his head, swallowing thickly. "If we remove the blade, he will die. If we do not, he will die anyway."

Sam's reaction to that was devastating, his eyes going back to the angel in denial.

Ezekiel's drifting gaze was rueful and contrite. "I am sorry, Castiel. I had… had to protect them. The children… I couldn't let them come to harm. Are they safe?" He knew that he was needed here. That so many were counting on him. He was powerful and cunning, if he had only kept his focus on the battle and destroying the threat, he would not have let his guard down. But that call in him to protect had been too strong. He had heard their frightened cries and went to them without hesitation, defending them instead of his own flank. In the end, he had simply not been able to stop being a guardian. Ezekiel was willing to die, so that others would not have to.

"You did the right thing, brother," Castiel told him, crestfallen. "They're safe. Thank you."

Relief was prevalent in Ezekiel's eyes, and some of that tension in his shoulders eased. "And Hael?"

"She will live," Castiel assured him. The words lodged in his throat, and it took everything in him to remember how to breathe. Beside him, Sam was holding the angel upright, looking on him with deep remorse, feeling completely powerless and alone. "Ezekiel…" Castiel began, gripping his shoulder gently in deference. "Who is responsible for this?"

"The anarchist," his brother uttered, managing a look of true repulsion.

Castiel's countenance darkened. "Malachi."

There are more factions, Bartholomew had warned him. Others you have to fear than just me.

"He followed me… here," Ezekiel despaired, shaking his head. His fault. "He came for me. This… this is because of me."

"No, Ezekiel." Castiel's face fell still, blue eyes drowning in sorrow. He stared at his older brother helplessly, a barrage of guilt brimming at the surface inside him with stunning finality. No, this was not Ezekiel's fault at all.

The angel had turned dark eyes on Sam, an unerring warmth there. He regarded the human with loyalty, with utter pride. "Sam, listen to me…"

"Zeke, don't you dare start this goodbye shit—"

"You will find Gadreel."

"I need you to teach me," Sam insisted, his hazel eyes imploring. "I'm not strong enough yet. We need you—"

Ezekiel regarded him as though he so badly wished he could grant this human's wish. He weakly slid up a hand to lay it over the hunter's heart. "It's in you, Sam. You must do this. I said I have faith in you, and I do, boy. I'm sorry I won't be there to help you. To be your friend. I'm so very sorry." Ezekiel wore an expression of utter defeat, a deep sorrow filling him at the thought that he was letting Sam Winchester down. He could feel his life slowly trickling away, could feel the cold starting to steal over him. The fiery mass of pain at his side was destroying him from the inside out, slowly and agonizingly. He did not have the time left that either of them needed so desperately now.

Castiel felt a vice close around his heart as his older brother met his eyes. "I will do it," he said quietly of the unspoken request.

Reaching out, he tightly took hold of the blade's handle in his shaking grip. Ezekiel regarded him gratefully, the thank you he spoke aloud sounding calm and resolute.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked in a broken voice from beside him, dreading to know and yet realizing the answer.

"There's no reason for him to suffer needlessly," Castiel replied at length. His throat felt tight, and his eyes and face became hot. His vision swam as he met his brother's eyes for the final time, blurring at the edges. His breathing hitched at the ghost of a smile he saw there.

Before he could do the unthinkable, Ezekiel put his hand over his, briefly stalling him. "You know Metatron's weakness, Castiel."

His lips parted somewhat in surprise, but no protest followed. After the Fall, he had spent months trying to reach the Scribe—shouting at the sky, threatening, begging, cajoling. Nothing had worked. If there was a secret knowledge in his arsenal, he would have surely used it by now. But the way Ezekiel was looking at him said otherwise. Heartache gripped him.

"You always have."

With an imperceptible nod, Ezekiel was ready.

Castiel's expression changed, a struggling resoluteness filling him. Setting his jaw against the way it shook, he gripped the handle of the blade tighter and twisted hard. Light and grace exploded outwards in a stunning display, bathing them both in holy radiance. Its loud, piercing blast shook the camp, the light washing out everything else but for the feel of the weapon in his hand.

Ezekiel went quickly and peacefully, but Castiel felt neither of those things.

When it was over, Castiel stared stonily, inconsolably, at his fingers still wrapped around the lustrous steel. The light faded to a dim flicker until it was gone completely, and he slowly removed the blade. In his own chest there was a fierce determination forming that he wasn't sure what to do with. He didn't know why it was there or where it belonged, only that it was slowly eating away at him. He sat still and otherwise unmoving as a statue, unable to do little else but take in the deafening silence around him.

Castiel stared again at the blade as though he'd never seen it before, the blood on his hands stark and condemning as he fell victim at last to the indescribable grief that tore into him, leaving him gutted and raw. There was an emptiness he hadn't felt in a long time, back at the forefront of his mind. He sat in a daze, unaware of the minutes ticking by until he turned his head to see Sam looking at him hopelessly.

Castiel dropped the blade and it landed in the grass with a dull thud, echoing in accusation.

---

another day in this carnival of souls
the memories of shadows, ink on the page
and I can't seem to find my way home
your heaven's trying everything to keep me out

---

It was hours later that Castiel found himself on his knees in the dirt, face buried in his hands, fingers knotting in his hair as his dead siblings surrounded him. Muriel, Azrael, Theo, Camael, Amesha, Jophiel, Temeluchus… all dead.

There was pain he couldn't account for. Pain surrounding him, pain consuming him, and it just hurt so fucking much. He thought about Ezekiel, he thought about Hael. How he'd heaved several deep, impassioned breaths as he clutched the small body of his injured sister to himself protectively and felt how close she was to fading away forever.

How, incensed, he'd tipped his head back and looked up at the sky in deep accusation.

Somehow, he'd ended up back in his cabin because he was staring at the walls, feeling confined, feeling trapped, feeling as though the floor were dropping out from under him. Fury and pain coursed through him white-hot, roaring in his head, making it hard for him to breathe, hard for him to think. His blood seemed too hot, his skin too tight, and his head was whirling as his thoughts spun round and round, out of control. As his fists clenched, he could feel his body starting to shake with rage. His eyes slammed shut as he pulled in on himself. Anger—at himself, at Malachi, at Ezekiel for dying, at Metatron, at the world—rose up to choke him.

Castiel lashed out, seizing the lamp on the table next to him and hurling it to the floor, watching with distant satisfaction as the tattered shade snapped off and the bulb burst into a hundred pieces. He bent and swept his arm over the end table beside him, sending weapons and ammo and a picture of he and Hael spinning through the air. Glass crashed and shattered, metal sang as it bounced off the wall and left a pockmarked scar, but it still wasn't enough. He grabbed the bottle of sangria Meg had found and hurled it against the opposite wall and, with a crack like a gunshot breaking the brief silence, the glass exploded, shards of crystal spraying outwards in a fan of sharp rain. The liquid trickled down the surface like streaks of blood to puddle on the naked hardwood below. They'd been planning to share it when they got back as a celebration of making it out alive. Castiel could barely stand to look at it now. He shoved over the dresser and the bookshelf, wood splitting against the floor. His fists pounded angry dents into the wall beside him, his mind barely registering the pain and focusing only on the need to break and destroy everything he could.

He stood there in the center of the room, at the eye of his destruction, breathing hard and feeling utterly and completely alone. Painfully aware of the growing emptiness in his chest.

As fast as the temper had surged through him like a swift moving storm, it ebbed away, leaving him drained and exhausted. The anger started to fade, defeat starting to seep into every corner of his body. Castiel stared dazedly down at his feet, as though the worn leather might offer him the answers he so desperately needed now. All energy seemed to bleed out of him and, knees buckling, he sank down, his back against the wall in the corner of the room. He drew his knees up to his chest and bowed his head between them, unable to look at what he'd done and needing—just for a moment—to dwell in darkness.

That was where Meg found him several minutes later. Quietly, she stepped over the wrecked furniture and broken glass, making her way to him. He didn't react when she knelt in front of him, body folding almost soundlessly, not until she laid a hand over his arm. Castiel raised his head, looking back at her with sad eyes. They were cloudy with checked despair, reflecting the heaviness of his spirit, and he appeared to nearly bow in on himself at the sight of her. He didn't need to ask to know that the death toll was even more than what he'd believed before. Meg's expression was a rare moue of sympathy, her own shoulders slumping as she saw a man who had lost more than he had any right to, who had saved and guarded and sacrificed until he was bled dry and then got back up to do it all over again. She looked at him with a hesitant expression, not sure what she could possibly do for him, not sure how to exorcise that unbridled sorrow he wore so clearly and so defeatedly. She took up one of his hands, wordlessly taking in the scraped, bloody knuckles and seeing how it still shook until he curled it into a fist.

"A fine mess you've made, lover," she remarked softly, almost to herself.

Castiel's brow drew together in quiet anger, in a dismay so profound it shook him. "I am not worth dying for," he said tightly, shaking his head. His voice was low at first, sounding hollow and foreign to her and carrying a mournful note she deeply felt. Meg knew without asking that he wasn't just talking about the angels. Castiel choked back something that could have been a sob, forcibly ignoring the way his chest clenched at the reminder of all he had lost today, and all he'd lost since he first set foot on this godforsaken earth. "I am not worth…"

He couldn't even finish the thought, partly because the stricken words lodged in his throat and partly because Meg had already pulled him into a tight embrace. Castiel's rant died down, overridden by the sudden relief in the gesture, but also by the unwelcome influx of emotion it sought to drag out of him. Retreat, the grieving voice in his head advised, but he ignored it, needing that desperate ache that was consuming him to go away. Needing her to fix what was wrong with him, what was breaking him.

Meg pressed her lips over the top of his head, fingers carding gently through his hair. "I know, Castiel."

He didn't make a sound at first, but Meg felt the shudder rock through him, heard the short intake of air as his breathing hitched. After a long moment, she felt his fingers reach up to catch in her jacket, keeping her from letting go. Meg kissed his hair again, allowing him the time he needed, the solace he needed. Whatever he needed.

Castiel remained tense, disconsolate but for the feel of her against him. Every cell, every membrane of his body, felt wracked with guilt and loss, but Meg was here. With him. He listened to the quiet sound of her breathing as his fortitude frayed at the edges, drawing strength from her presence. As a flood of grief assailed him, indescribable pain burrowing deeply into his chest, he imagined her telling him to pull himself together. But there were no pithy teasing words, just the warmth from her skin on his and the comfort of her arms holding him together. Just Meg's voice murmuring quiet assurances in his ear, anchoring him when nothing else could. His stomach churned, body shuddering with fresh anguish at the relief he didn't deserve. Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face against her as the tears began to roll down his cheeks.

Meg could only wait and listen as the creature she'd come to believe personified strength sucked in one ragged breath after another and fell completely apart in her arms.

The storm that had been raging inside him since entering the cabin broke loose finally and the floodgates opened to the torrent of emotion pouring out of him as Castiel began to sob. He grieved and grieved, not knowing how to stop and honestly feeling as though his world was crashing down.

Meg held on a little tighter, reminding Castiel that he wasn't alone.

---

angels, lend me your might
forfeit all my lives to get just one right
never were we told
that we'd be bought and sold
when we were innocent

---

The following day, that bereft despair was replaced by a mechanical numbness that left Castiel cold and unfeeling. Forty dead at the camp—he wondered briefly if that was some sort of omen. Kevin, Charlie, and Garth were still alive; they'd been out on a run when the attack came. Hael would live, though with possible permanent damage.

But Ezekiel? Risa? The countless other siblings he'd lost, the humans struck down in the crossfire?

Castiel stood in the deserted field just outside the camp as the first fires of dawn erupted on the horizon. His armor was back in place, the walls around his fortitude rebuilt, now stronger and more impenetrable than ever.

To the sky, to the world beyond his reach, he spoke. Low and menacing.

"I don't know where you are, Malachi. But I'm coming for you, you son of a bitch." The ice-cold threat tightened his tone, all compassion frozen over in the arctic chill of his expression. Eyes brilliant with suppressed anger, Castiel lost all rationale, all sense of mercy and righteousness. "There is nowhere on this earth you can hide, do you hear me?" Absolution was flat and unforgiving. "Listen closely, because you'd better have an army by the time I find you. Because I'm going to fucking obliterate you."

He had no further to fall. Nothing else to lose.

"See you soon, brother."

---

so crawl on my belly 'til the sun goes down
I'll never wear your broken crown
now in this twilight, how dare you speak of grace
in this twilight, our choices seal our fate

---

TRANSLATIONS

Enochian:

"Esezomi." / My friend.

"Esiach." / Brother.

"Etharsi, azian." / Be calm, precious one.

"Ol om." / I know.

"Eophan. Ese gahalana, od ese salb hom. Ol isro, ol isro." / I'm sorry. She will live, and be well again. I promise, I promise.

---

Author's Note: Next chapter will be titled "Omens." Please review! Even if it's only a sentence. It makes me happy and fuels the process. :D