Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money. Any resemblance to anyone, living, dead, or wandering the earth in ghostly torment, is completely coincidental.

Author's Notes: Kudos again go to Mikiya, my cyber-twin, for the awesome beta. Things correct are from her, things messed up are all about me. Also: FFN's auto formatting is screwing up my fics and beginning to tick me off. Now its even putting spaces in words where I don't want them, and I can't seem to fix it. Any sugestions on how to work around the auto-format would be appreciated.

As always: any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are completely welcome.

And I see them in the streets
And I see them in the field
And I hear them shouting under my feet
And I know it's got to be real
Oh, Lord, deliver me
All the wrong I've done
You can deliver me, Lord
I only wanted to have some fun.

Hear the angels marchin', hear the marchin', hear them marchin'

~Led Zeppelin – In My Time of Dying

It was like heat-waves.

Dean was crouching behind the mausoleum Cas had picked for him. The sun had dawned, bright and beautiful, and right behind it had been… something like a thunderhead, but without the clouds – just the feeling of pressure and potential, all coming in fast and not caring who was in the way.

The angels were here, alright.

Dean couldn't really see them. Not really. Every few seconds he would catch a glimpse of a figure, a shift of light and shadow, but no real sight of them. He couldn't say how many were in the cemetery, or which side had the bigger numbers.

But near the gate there was a mass of them. He knew this because he could see the effect their presence was having on the area around them. The air rippled, like heat rising off a hot road. It waved and every once in a while he would see… color. A perfect green, a shady blue.

He wondered what it would look like when they started slaughtering one another.

Across from him, Bobby was sitting against a large headstone. A bandanna was wrapped around his bloody hand, and Dean could see him stretch the fingers again, keeping the wound open and the blood flowing. The ward was already painted on the rough, grey stone. It waited only for his touch.

Cas had vanished into the amassing sense of power Dean could feel building. It was the only sign Dean had that at least some of the angels were on their side.

There was a hesitation in that storm-front. A brief pause, almost biting in the way Dean's nerves sang; waiting for the fight, waiting for the reaction/action/reaction of the hunt where thought ended and the body took over. Wanting it. He felt the adrenaline hit his system like a mix of cool water and hot, bitter espresso. He worked his hand around the knife hilt.

He didn't know that he was grinning, but it wouldn't have surprised him.

Bobby just rolled his eyes and watched the gathering storm. He held the Colt. Just in case.

The razors-edge aspect slipped, somehow. Dean couldn't have said what caused it, but the fight finally broke, like a storm rolling over the cemetery. When it hit, it was fast. The air around them seemed almost to boil, the power of the angels swirling like a tornado. Flashes of force and intent slammed into the ground around the two hunters like lighting flashing. Dean could hear human-like groans, and angelic shrieks, so high and piercing that he thought his ears would bleed.

The atmosphere felt both raw and seared with power. The smell of ozone began to build.

And out of the unseen chaos stepped two figures.

Dean recognized Raphael's host…but he had no idea who the other guy was, other than it was probably not really a guy. At least, not anymore.

The two walked, fairly sedately, toward the spot in the ground that had swallowed up Sam months ago. Dean felt his body react before his mind, his muscles tensing as they calmly moved through the unseen chaos. He was aware of Bobby shifting, but his attention was focused on the two angels who had come center-stage. His free hand dove for his pocket, pulling out the rings, already clustered together, ready to go to work.

In the clearing, Raphael turned to his companion. "Here. Here is where the walls are weakest. Are you ready?"

The other angel looked…disturbed. "All this violence, Rahpael," he said, and his voice sounded sad. "Did we need to do this? It feels wrong to pit brother against brother like this."

"We do this to save Michael, brother. Remember that."

"I do," the other said. "I want Michael freed as much as you. Truly. But killing our kind to achieve it… it feels wrong, Raphael."

Dean watched Raphael's eyes narrow. "It was wrong for Michael to be entombed with the Dragon. It was wrong for Castiel to stand in the way of the ineffable plan of God. We are only setting things right." He turned, and even from his position behind the mausoleums Dean could see the carefully suppressed anger shining in his eyes. "As an archangel, as my brother, you have the right to speak, Selaphiel, but my mind is made up. What we are doing is righteous, no matter the cost."

The other angel shook his head. "No. I have no argument for you, Raphael. If I did, I would not have followed you here. It only…saddens me."

Raphael put a hand on the smaller angel's shoulder. "I know that your nature is not warlike, but you are as much a warrior as the rest of us. Though you are not the fighter I am, you have always fulfilled your duties, to our Father and to your brothers, no mater how onerous you found them. I know you have no desire to do this – but Michael suffers and he must be released. Let me see your blade, brother."

Dean tensed. The angel raised the bloody shaft that he had been holding, passing it to Raphael. Bright metal marred by dark fluid, glimmered for a moment in the bright, morning light –

– then Raphael turned, pinning the other angel in place with the arm around his shoulders, and burying the blade in his chest.

The smaller archangel gasped, going limp in Raphael's arms, while his hands dug at his shoulders. The light flared behind his eyes. Raphael sank with him toward the ground, eyes locked with his dying brother's. "My Selaphiel, my brother. Forgive me. I would have gladly died as I promised, but my skills in battle will be needed in the upcoming war – and you have never been a fighter, my brother. I had no choice. Go to death now, and join our Father."

The light in the dying angel's eyes flickered, flared… and burned out. His blood began to pool in the muddy grass…and that pool began to slither, sliding in a strange twist that Dean recognized all too well.

Raphael stood, leaving the corpse of the slaughtered angel on the bloody ground, stepping back as the gate began to crack open. "Come, my brother. I stand ready to help you."

It was enough. Signaling to Bobby, Dean also stood, keeping his stance as relaxed, as borderline insulting, as he possibly could. He walked around the far side of the mausoleum, letting Raphael's startled eyes track him, and keeping them away from Bobby's location. "I'm pretty sure the brother you should have been looking out for is the one you just perforated, asshole."

Raphael looked confused – but only for a moment. The uncertainty was quickly replaced by anger… and pride. "Dean Winchester. Why am I not surprised to find you once again stepping in where you have no place. You should not have come here. Destiny was never interested in you – you had nothing to offer."

Dean smirked. It was ridiculous for the angel to think that Dean gave a crap about who played the agent of fate anymore. Hell, that had never really been his biggest concern anyway – not until the angels starting pumping his head full of that crap. The only thing Dean had ever really cared about was his family, and it was gone now.

No one could hurt him anymore.

"Nice," Dean encouraged, taking another step toward the angel – and the gateway. "That almost stung. It almost pierced me like a knife through the heart…oh, wait. That was what you did to your brother."

The archangel's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Yes, I have lost one brother, much to my sorrow. But I believe you lost two." He clicked his tongue. "That was thoughtless. Give me a second to retrieve my brother and then I'll teach you how to better track of keep them." Raphael glanced down, where the bloody swirls had thickened and opened, beginning to produce a vague light. "It shouldn't be long now."

Dean smirked, shaking his head. "Three words, Raphael: Too slow, shit-head. Bobby! NOW!"

He screamed the last loud enough for Castiel to hear. He and Bobby had agreed to wait three seconds after calling to Cas so that his angels could get out of the way, but no more. He ignored Raphael, who frowned, then started toward him. He counted his heartbeats: One, Two, thr – There was a familiar flash, and Raphael vanished in the light, screaming.

Dean stood in a suddenly silent field. The pressure in the air had evaporated along with the angels. It would have been a completely normal morning, if not for the eye-achingly bright white light boiling up from the dirt.

Sparing a moment to hope Cas had heard the warning and gotten his people out in time, Dean lurched to his feet and up to the edge of the ever-growing gate. He could hear something inside, scraping and clawing as it moved toward the daylight, and moved fast.

Clutching the rings, Dean hesitated – Sam was down there… he was right there, he could be reached, could be helped – but only for a second. Dean knew his job, no matter how fucked it was.

He tossed the rings into the middle of the light. They caught there, like a moth in a spider-web, hanging impossibly between two levels of existence.

Dean breathed. Fought his breaking heart. And did his job.

He squared his shoulders, held out a hand, and started to chant.

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Castiel had been hesitant to leave Dean and Bobby alone in the cemetery. They were so vulnerable. A single thought from any of the beings gathering here, and they would be annihilated. It made him…concerned.

But Dean would not give up the rings. And Castiel had no heart to fight him. Dean had more than earned the right to keep them close if he so wished. He showed a maturity and strength that Castiel could not match.

That Castiel had no intention of trying to match.

But the angel had no time to think on his intentions further as the sun rolled over the horizon. In its light, he could see a dozen angels approaching the edges of the cemetery, where Castiel and his twelve waited.

Castiel stepped into the open as they drew near. He had no illusions as to being able to divert Raphael from his intended goal, but he would feel lesser, somehow, if he did not try.

That was another lesson he had learned.

Castiel stood quietly, noting faces as the others fell into their ranks behind Raphael. Castiel felt something slow and dark slide into his heart as two of them joined Raphael at the front of the lines.

"Selaphiel. Barachiel," Castiel acknowledged the archangels sadly. "You have joined Raphael?"

"We wish the freedom of our brother, Castiel. I would think you would join with us as well," Barachiel said haughtily. His sword was already drawn, and he spun it almost absently.

"You would free one brother from a trap of his own making by spilling the blood of another?" Castiel asked.

"We have no wish to fight you, little brother," Selaphiel spoke. "But you have been mislead by your time with the humans. You have ceased to listen to reason or follow instruction. We love you, Castiel, but we – all of us – need Michael back. Without him, we have no direction, no purpose. This is the right thing to do. And if your mind was free of the human taint, if you knew your proper place, you would know that."

Castiel sighed. "Killing your family, destroying life…these are never the right things to do, Selaphiel. You would trade the brother you have for the one who better suits you – and risk all of this world to do it. It is not right, my brothers."

Selaphiel looked uneasy, but Raphael was unmoved. "What would you have us do, Castiel," he snarled. "Live in anarchy? Like the unruly mob you have taken up with?"

"I would have you find your own way, Raphael," Castiel said simply. "Do the right thing because you feel it is right, not because it was ordered."

"Blasphemy."

The word was cold and harsh, ringing in the stillness of the graves stones around them – and a death sentence. Castiel looked at Barachiel, knowing that if Raphael won this day, he would never have a place among his kind again.

"Please," Selaphiel beseeched one last time. "Castiel, little brother, come back to us. Join with us and help save our brother. All will be forgiven."

Castiel looked his older brother in the eye. "I do need to find forgiveness, it is true. But it is not you I seek it from."

Barachiel spun his sward again. "Then why do we still speak? Our business takes us through those gates, Castiel. You, and those who follow you, are in our way. Move."

Feeling like his heart had been filled with lead, Castiel spoke the word he knew would start the blood flowing.

"No."

Barachiel was moving before the word had tasted sound. Castiel dodged back, ignoring the burn as the silver blade slashed across his arm.

Castiel pulled his own blade, and the others rushed forward. And then there was no more time for speaking as the battle began. Castiel caught Barachiel's next swing on the edge of his blade, turning it away from his chest just before it could hit. The archangel grinned at him, and swung again, and again.

Castiel was forced back, step after step, as the larger angel pushed. He was aware of the slashes and blows of others around him. H saw when Raphael and Selaphiel's walked away from the fight, their purpose clear. But he could do nothing with Barachiel hammering at him.

Castiel waited for the next strike, and when the archangel raised his sword, Castiel stepped into the swing, catching Barachiel's blade with his own, and snatching a flask from his pocket.

Barachiel glanced down to see what Castiel had – and Castiel threw the contents in the larger angel's face.

As the archangel sputtered, Castiel stepped back, reaching into another pocket.

"Holy oil?" Barachiel asked, confused.

"Yes," Castiel confirmed, and tossed the lighter.

The archangel shrieked as the fire consumed him. It went more slowly than Castiel liked, and caused more pain then he'd wanted, but eventually Barachiel dissipated. He would be back, but not before the battle had been decided.

The other angels were still fighting amongst themselves. There had been two deaths that Castiel could account for: both lesser brothers, and one from each side. Castiel grieved for them both.

But later. Now he turned, following Raphael and Selaphiel into the center of the graveyard.

But too late. Before him, he could see the growing glow of the gate. It's sickly light spread like a disease, infecting the very air with its unnaturalness. He could feel the piercing cold radiating with the light, the way it almost seemed to reach out, to clutch at any living thing it could find, seeking warmth, seeking life.

For a moment, he could not make himself move any closer to that abomination.

Then Dean cried out, "NOW!" and Castiel knew: the ward was about to be activated. He had seconds to act.

It wasn't thought that compelled his body to move. It wasn't intent, really. But this was a course of action he had been debating for two days. Ever since hearing Dean and Bobby speak with such pain in the kitchen of Bobby's house.

He had followed Dean as he gathered the rings. Watched over him in secret, as having the rings made him a target. He had heard the fight with Lisa, heard the grief and pain Dean shared with Bobby… and the guilt.

And he had known then, as he had known for almost a year, that he was equally at fault for the Hell that Sam found himself in. He had taken actions, too. And those actions had consequences that only Samuel had been forced to pay.

It wasn't fair. Dean had known it, and so did Bobby – but they were powerless to help. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right…and Castiel could actually do something about it.

But only if he risked everything.

So as the gate opened, as Dean cried out the warning, Castiel listened to his conscience and did what felt right.

As the other angels fled away from the ward and the gate, Castiel flew toward them.

He crossed over the threshold just as the ward hit the air behind him – the wave was close enough that he felt the energy like an electric shock, hot and singing along his nerves. But it couldn't dispel him. It was magic from another plane, its essence couldn't cross the gate.

He passed through the door of the cage and it felt like diving into glacial waters, the cold so intense and so hard that it burned like acid. The air around him pushed and pulled and howled, empty and mean and directionless. The physics of the earth, the existence of Heaven and of Hell, all of these were moot, here. This was a place that was not, and a law that denied reason, denied hope, denied creation.

This was the place that angels feared to tread.

And it hurt…just being inside the cage hurt, a dull, heavy ache that Castiel could feel in his core. His nose and eyes and ears began to bleed. But he pushed on, racing through the cage, away from the light and sanity and safety of the gate. He had only moments, he knew… and he knew that time could slip, here: stopping, starting, racing forward and even flying backward. There could be no telling how long he truly had on this side of the cage, but where Dean was, time would be steady. The words were short. He had to hurry.

It was foolish, he knew. He should just turn back. But it was the one thing he could do for the brothers, for Sam, to begin to make up for his transgressions. And there had been many. So very many. And each one had helped place both Dean and Sam on the path to this place. He had done things, while under order and on his own, that had affect the decisions they had made. This was partly his fault, as well.

And it was past time that he take responsibility for his actions; as Sam had, as Dean did. This was the one thing he could do that Dean could not. And he could do it, because Dean had no idea he had done it. Dean would not know to wait on him. He would shut the door, no matter what. The world would be safe.

And if Castiel failed to get back out in time, little enough would be lost. One minor angel would be little missed.

So it was a risk that only Castiel could take. And one that his conscience said he must take, no matter the terror that filled him, clawing at him with every inch he moved deeper into the cage.

He flew, staying to the 'top' of the cage, he flew… and he felt his power, his connection to the Grace of God, draining away with each inch. It was yet another kind of pain, another kind of coldness, leeching into his very self and leaving a frost-burned hollow in its wake. The cold emptiness of the place crawled over him and through him like a fungus – alive and dead and mindless hunger.

Castiel halted only once, as he felt the approach and passing of Michael and Lucifer. Castiel had been correct; they had both thrown off their vessels in order to race toward the opening door. Both were too wakened by the loss of Grace, and the constant fighting, to be able to fly, anymore. Had they still had that kind of power, nothing could have stopped them from reaching the gate in time. But they had used themselves up, and burned themselves out, fighting each other. Now there was nothing left to save them.

Both were huge, unbound by any mortal vessel. They surged next to one another, clawing and tearing at each other as they scrambled toward the light. Both looked dull, their inner light muted, their celestial bodies covered with the same frost that was trying to find Castiel. They were gashed and ragged and filled with hate and anger and betrayal, both of them too stubborn to give up their wounds.

They were so intent on escape, that they missed Castiel's presence. Or they ignored it.

Either way, Castiel knew they would come for him if he failed to make it out of the cage in time, and every second made that more likely, as his powers waned in the angelic prison and his ability to fly deteriorated.

He hurried. Heart pounding and lungs barely able to pull in air, he hurried.

He dropped onto the widest part of the cage moments later – he thought moments, at least, but time was strange here and space was as well, the way the edges fluctuated, almost undulating, left him feeling nauseous and disorientated.

The cage here was burned, and hot, and still smoldering in several places from blasts that had happened only moments before.

In the middle of the wreckage lay two bodies. Abandoned and cast aside like broken toys.

The smaller form was closer. Adam. Castiel knew what he would find even before he touched the body…and when he rolled it to its back he was met with dull, glassy eyes. The flesh was already beginning to swell and rot around its open wounds, now that Michael had forsaken it. Still, Castiel reached inside, making sure that the human soul was truly gone. His touch found only the gritty, greasy residue of a soul that had been completely annihilated. Michael had consumed him. There would be no reunion with his mother, no heavenly rest waiting. Adam had been torn asunder, his soul destroyed by the power of the angels, and tossed into the void like dust.

Stomach churning, sickened, Castiel stepped over to the larger figure. Steam rose from the body. Dirty, grayish frost iced its lank hair. Swallowing down the fear, the dread, that tried to rise up, Castiel touched Sam.

The pain exploded in his brain, wiping out his ability to think, for a moment. He couldn't see, couldn't move – all he could feel was the acid burn of cold and a deeper pain, solid, but distant and unimportant and barley noticeable in the waves of agony that scraped away at his very self with barbed, burning hands; and he could hear: let me die, let me die, before he comes back, let me die, like Adam, I'm so sorry, please, I'm so sorry, let me die too, please please anything, don't let him back in again, don't let him back in again please no please let me die instead let me dieletmedieletm edieletmedielet medie –

Castiel gasped, pulling his thoughts free of Samuel's. He shuddered with the after affects of the pain and the terror. He trembled like a rabbit from the shock of it as he rolled Sam over – and met glazed, half open, empty eyes. The human's chest hitched in weak, liquidly gasps. His skin was dusky and looked raw across his face and neck. Castiel had no time to inventory physical damage, though. The soul he had touched was shredded. Frayed and burnt, it was on the precipitous of following Adam's into oblivion.

"No," Castiel refused to allow it. Maybe later, if that was what Samuel still wanted, Castiel would help him find that solace; but not now, not here. And not when Lucifer could still wear his meat like some sort of costume. Not when his soul would be lost in the void. "Stay, Samuel," Castiel begged– but there was little change, Sam's soul still fought weakly for elimination. "Stay for Dean."

Sam stilled; resigned and weary. The lack of struggle was not the same as willing life, but he no longer fought for death. It was almost as if that argument, that motivation, had been used before.

Castiel didn't wait to ponder it. He reached again into Sam, gathering the pieces of his soul together as gently as he could, and holding them bound. Sam might still die, but his soul would go on. Castiel promised it.

Pulling the broken body to him, Castiel collected his quickly fading power and flew. He didn't know if he had enough left to make it to the gate, he didn't know if he was strong enough, quick enough… but he tried to hold on to his hope and his faith, no matter the odds. And he'd deal with the outcome, no matter what it was.

That was another thing he'd learned from this man.

Castiel rushed toward the cage door, feeling the strain of the flight and the weight of his burden growing ever more cumbersome. But the light was becoming more pure, and he could see the door ahead… just beyond the two archangels.

The gap, the single fissure that led to creation, was growing more narrow. Dean was closing the door.

Oddly, Castiel felt relief. Dean was doing as he ought. The world, his Father's world, was safe.

And, please God, he was not too late.

He was fast enough.

Strong enough.

He had to be.

Please.

Castiel felt a burst of raw power, a second wind, and he flew. He tore through Michael and Lucifer, ignoring the hand that snatched at him, the hot, burning scrape as it tore at his back, missing a grip only by chance. He barely heard the howls as he slid through the cage door. He did feel the slam of the cage, the cold bite of it as it touched his back, tore at his wings…

Then he was falling, tumbling through the bright, beautiful morning. He landed hard on the muddy grass, rolling and slamming into a tombstone. There he stopped, just breathing for a moment. He was aching, trembling, his whole body throbbing and raw; and he was exhausted, and cold, all the way to his core. The stone was warm against his back, having absorbed the heat of the perfect, late summer morning.

He breathed in sweet air, and thanked his Father.

And then he heard Dean, confused and growing angry. "Cas? What the hell? Did you just come out..?"

His voce drifted off, and Castiel opened his eyes to see Dean staring at the broken bundle lying next to him.

"Cas…is that…." Dean gasped.

"Sam."

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