A/N: I have finally resurfaced from the sea of schoolwork. Thank you all for your kind words of encouragement and reviews; sorry this chapter is a bit late. Hopefully it's a bit faster paced than the previous two; enjoy!
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke, but these versions of Gabriel and Belial belong to me.
People always said that seeing was believing, and one unspoken rule of the nature of all things was that the only way to learn something to was to watch and observe. The beasts of the fields imprinted upon the first object their eyes rested upon after cracking open to let in the brilliance of the light of life, the young followed examples set by their elders. Even humans, whose lives were fleeting and mortal, wrote down the happenings of their everyday so that those who would came after might have the chance to learn from their mistakes, their trials, their revelations. And yet even Man, the most intelligent and imaginative of all the Lord's creations, did not so much innovate as he discovered, picking up the bits of scraps fallen the Creator's workbench.
For his part, although his Father had created him eons after many of his kin, Castiel had seen much more than any human. His eyes had beheld the births and deaths of galaxies and the great Sun bursting out of darkness; he'd watched as his brothers and sisters each relinquished an infinitesimal portion of grace to light up the evening sky so that never again would there be the hopeless bleakness of pitch black night. He'd witnessed the earth splitting open over countless millennia into what was now called the Grand Canyon from a crack carved into the dirt by a trickle of water from Gabriel's finger at the Almighty's command; Castiel had watched with wonder when his sister Ramiel descended to the realm of Creation and lovingly stroked the son of Adam's forehead, marveling at the child's first gurgle of laughter that bubbled forth like water from a spring.
His silent watchfulness and solitary contemplations were not merely out of curiosity though, for the Lord's instructions to his angels had been to watch over their mortal kindred below, to watch and with an implication therefore, to learn. Over the ages, Castiel had witnessed triumph and tragedy, utter destruction with fire that erupted forth from metal contraptions spitting hot lead and the jubilant tears of a mother reunited with her child. All of this had been taken in with a dual keen interest and yet somewhat marred by an undercurrent of perplexity as to the reasoning behind these fragile creatures of dust that were prideful, arrogant, and sinful at times but upon other occasions, radiated so much love and graciousness that the beauty of the Almighty seemed to emanate from every pore of their bodies.
Such was the case with Dean Winchester. His charge; his hardheaded, blasphemous, wreck of a charge who was a man ripped to shreds not by the claws of a hellhound but by too much loss and pain and sin, the soul who'd wept when bathed in the merciful radiance of an angel in the bowels of Hell, who'd fallen prostrate at the divine being's feet and had fought against Castiel when the angel had tried to lift him up because he felt unworthy, struggling violently until the angel gripped his soul tight enough to leave a permanent brand and lifted him from Perdition.
Celestial beings did not harbor the need to keep track of time or count the hours, but as the days passed in his seclusion from Heaven and the rest of his kin, Castiel constantly found himself changing – in learning that lying was forgivable once in a while, being humbled by a child guilelessly singing the glories of his Heavenly Father in Sunday church service, realizing that the dull ache in his chest that throbbed relentlessly was called longing, for communion with his brothers and sisters, for his home, and just to fathom the depths of these fascinating beings Almighty God loved so very much.
However, there was still very much that he did not understand.
"My name is Castiel," the blue-eyed man repeated once again, and with an unnerving calm that put even the psychiatrist, who'd analyzed the most deranged minds and unhinged individuals in the entire country, on edge. "I am an angel of the Lord."
Dr. Keiser averted his eyes from the direct gaze, looking away from the eyes that seemed too old, too unearthly and nearly inhuman in a sense, fumbling with his black-rimmed glasses as he looked down at the patient's file. It seemed like the staff at the institution a couple of counties over had forgotten to take note of this sense of religious mania, or perhaps it was a newly developed symptom that arose after the transfer. "Well, Castiel," he said quietly, the name foreign and unfamiliar on his tongue, not wanting to aggravate the other. Undifferentiated schizophrenics were naturally prone to reacting negatively to potential threatening situations and this one was also a bipolar with violent tendencies, to boot. No, it would be best to appease the patient's fantastical delusions of grandeur for the time being, no matter how absurd. "If you are indeed an emissary from above, then why are you here?" He leaned forward slowly, cautiously. "Don't angels stay in Heaven because that's where they belong? Humans are the only ones who inhabit the Earth."
"I along with my brothers and sisters walk amongst you now for the first time in nearly two thousand years in efforts to prevent the decimation of the human race."
"Yes, but why are you here, Castiel?" Dr. Keiser pressed gently, but insistently.
The doctor saw the sadness flashing across the patient's face but his keen gaze also caught sight of something else – something deeper-seated than mere dejection at being reasoned with; it was a profound loneliness hidden behind the veneer of collected calm and a strange sort of hurt that sent a pang of sympathy streaking through his own chest before he cleared his throat, remembering that any type of encouragement regarding a patient's delusions was the worst thing that could be done.
"There is no place in Heaven for me," the man replied quietly, eyes now straying to the tabletop in between doctor and patient. "But I am searching for my Father."
"Your father?" Malcolm Keiser really hated all manners of psychoanalysis and that sex-crazed fanatic Freud who must've really needed to get laid, but maybe this particular patient's mental issues could be traced back to repressed childhood anxieties, perhaps all this was a reinterpretation of an individual trying to deal with the repercussions of severe abandonment issues after a psychotic break resulting from some sort of traumatic event… "When is the last time you saw your father?"
"Very few have ever seen the face of Almighty God, and I have not been blessed as one among their number." …Or not. The psychiatrist resisted the urge to sigh heavily, glancing upwards to find himself once again caught in an intense, scrutinizing gaze that made him seem like the one being analyzed in an odd and slightly uncomfortable reversal of roles. "You don't believe me," the man said at last, shoulders slumping dejectedly and Malcolm almost felt sorry for the poor guy; it was clear he was so deeply entrenched in his make-believe identity as an angel that it would be hard to pull him back to reality. But he had a job to do and bringing this man back to his senses was a part of it.
"I'm afraid I can't. But I do want to help you Castiel. You have to let me do that for you."
Castiel shifted slightly in the metal chair, all too consciously aware of the circular metal bands around his wrists, usually cold against his skin, of the way his shoulders seemed to automatically hunch in these unfamiliar surroundings. Without the ability to feel even just a small bit of God's glory through his surroundings, the angel felt even more isolated from not only the rest of his kin but also from…well, everything. He was as a child, reborn against his will into a new type of existence where the only things beyond himself were those that he could see with his eyes and hear with his ears, touch with uncertain and uncalloused hands, where the only things within himself were his own thoughts that lay muddled beneath the confusion and apprehension.
I have no time for this. I must find Dean. Looking up at the man that sat across the table, Castiel stared at the name stitched into the white coat's breast pocket, at the wrinkles at the doctor's eyes and lining his mouth, at the countenance that was kind but simultaneously wary. The angel tried to see past the flesh and into Dr. Keiser's soul, to see why he was a man of such little faith before remembering he could not. A sudden cold chill dragged icy fingers up his spine at the realization and Castiel shuddered involuntarily, a bit surprised at the reaction; this meant he had been rendered incapable of distinguishing human from demon, and if this was Lucifer's intent, what did the Devil hope to achieve?
The doctor cleared his throat and placed the manila file folder he held onto the table, taking out several pieces of paper and sliding them a fraction of an inch across the table toward the other. "Do you see these papers?" At the patient's slight dip of the head into a hesitant nod, Malcolm took a deep breath and steeled his features, mentally preparing himself for the other man's reaction after the words, after the dispelling of his fantasy world. "You are not an angel and you do not come from Heaven," he began, and the patient's brow immediately furrowed. "It says here you were born in Pontiac, Illinois and your name is Leonard."
Dean Winchester prided himself on being a ladies man, a Casanova of the twenty-first century, an all-American Don Juan who had his fun amidst running from demons and restocking on holy water and rock salt. It wasn't sexism or pigheadedness on the hunter's part though; far from it for more often than not, the ladies rather enjoyed getting swept off their feet for a wild night they would never forget because honestly, he was just that good. He was confident of his charm and it was a rare occasion when anyone of the opposite sex could've claimed the great honor of rendering him speechless, must less a girl who had not yet gone through puberty. In fact, Dean could remember with startling clarity the last time something a girl did had left him temporarily at a loss for words, and that was because he'd been too busy trying to catch his breath.
Little Laura Linnley had easily been the prettiest girl in the entire third grade at Pinehurst Elementary School, all golden ringlets and pale blue eyes that reminded Dean of the stupid dog on the Blues Clues or whatever show that Sammy so liked to watch. So naturally, when he peeked over her shoulder one day out of boredom when Ms. So and So had been droning on about Native American mythology (Dean knew all about that already thank you very much; his Daddy had hunted down a Wendigo just the previous week) to see a sheet of lined notebook paper covered in doodles of hearts with a cupid's arrow and conspicuous-looking initials, the loudmouthed wild child had been dumbstruck for a mere second before falling to the floor, sides shaking in hilarity as only a little kid could laugh.
But kneeling here on the pavement of a motel's parking lot was surely a far cry from the days of peanut butter crackers with warm chocolate milk for lunch and worksheets with shiny gold stars or having a Dad there to keep the monsters at bay (and somehow Dean seriously doubted that even the great John Winchester could've kept the combined forces of Heaven and Hell away) – and although two and a half decades had done nothing to change his personality or choosiness when it came to the opposite sex, Dean once again found himself mute in the presence of this guileless little girl who stood in front of him, gazing at him with big brown eyes and a feather in her outstretched hands, an offering of proportions and implications that her sunshine and daisy and puppy-dog mindset could never know or fathom.
Cas, was the first thought that flitted through his mind once Dean's neurons regained the ability to fire along his brain's corpus callosum in carrying messages from right hemisphere to left. Then, ringing out clear as a bell against the sides of his skull and nearly slipping out through the lips he had to bite down on quickly (because he was pretty sure that there was some sort of special Hell reserved for those who swore in front of little innocent girls with virgin ears): Fuck.
It couldn't belong to Castiel. Could it? There's no way. The feather was rather small and the hunter had seen the angel's wings before, blackened outlines of silhouetted magnificence against the walls of a barn in the middle of nowhere and they'd been huge. Dean wasn't one to study birds through binoculars or anything (unless they so happened to be possessed, and not in an Hitchcock movie sort of way) but he knew a little something about birds because contrary to what Sam thought, the elder Winchester was perfectly capable of using the Internet. At least some small bit from that god-awful biology or evolutionary something report from the eighth grade had stuck and he recalled that wings were made up of longer flight feathers and smaller down feathers…
There's no way that thing belongs to a friggin' bird. Dean thought numbly, ignoring the way the asphalt was starting to dig into his knees through his jeans from kneeling for so long, continuing to gape. The feather was too white and spotless, too pure and unblemished as it lay there in small, smooth upturned palms and Dean balked because while he'd seen feather-shaped scorch marks before and he'd seen the tragic beauty of torn feathers matted with crimson as evidence of Zachariah's douchery, he'd never actually seen an image of an angel's unblemished wings, uncloaked outside a meatsuit or unmarred by the darkness of this world. Sure, he knew that he'd get his eyes burned out of his skull if he dared to sneak a peek at the true form of a celestial being, but here was a single shred of such holy majesty and far from being dazzled out of his mind or let down in any way, Dean felt a tiny bit of something inside his chest clench tight and then unravel.
"Do you want it?" The hunter snapped out of his mini-trance at the quiet, timid question to see Joy watching him expectantly. When he didn't reply, the little girl reached out and took his hand where it hung slack and useless at his side, delicately placing the feather in his palm with a tenderness that Dean knew he didn't deserve, tiny fingers brushing against his rough and calloused palm like feathers themselves – "I've got lots of them already," she said shyly, rocking backwards onto her heels and smiling; two dimples appeared on either rosy-apple cheek. "You can keep this one."
"I-" Nothing made even the slightest bit of sense right now, nothing except this and Dean's fingers immediately curled inwards, his voice pitched low and rough as it always did whenever he became worried or upset. "Thanks."
A butterfly fluttered directly overhead then and Joy's eyes followed its path; she let out a squeal of delight at the sight of the brightly colored insect and then she was off, skipping after it in her little tennis shoes with rainbow stars on the sides, brown hair swishing out behind her, clapping her hands as she sang merrily in a thin, child's voice.
"My God is so big, so strong and so mighty; there's nothing my God cannot do…"
Sam's eyes were narrowed in sharp scrutiny, focused intently on scanning the sea of cars for something, anything that could be the smallest hint as to where Castiel was. So far, his efforts had amounted to nothing and the same gnawing anxiety he'd felt immediately after seeing the familiar dark blue tie looped around the doorknob returned. It wasn't the lingering presence of the emotion that surprised him so, because it seemed only natural to worry about someone who had both Heaven and Hell gunning for him. But what did make the younger Winchester start a little upon closer inspection was the recognition of it being the same trepidation that had made his blood curdle as the minutes dwindled into the seconds ticking down to when the Hellhounds came to drag Dean's soul out of his body and down into the Pit, the same cold knot of dread forming around deep-rooted uneasiness and a startling concern for Castiel's wellbeing.
He wanted to wonder since when he'd started thinking of Cas as more than merely an ally, when he'd started to view the angel on the same level as Dean – as a godsend (definitely no pun intended there) in the midst of the Apocalypse, as a solid anchor with his pure and unwavering faith in his Father no matter what had happened and all that was still happening to him, to this world. Sam wanted to wonder but he already knew the answer, knew the moment he'd seen the flash of panic in Dean's eyes mirror the stab of alarm in his own gut. Castiel was a powerful being of divinity and light, hewn from cold fire and created for a higher purpose – but all the same, both Winchesters had already seen that Castiel could suffer wounds and get hurt, could feel pain, could be killed. And this time around, it seemed as if Dean was completely correct in his harsh yet realistic point in that while being cut off from Heaven, there was no one to watch out for Castiel now.
"The mountains are His, the valleys are His, and the stars are His handiwork too…"
The sound of small hands clapping together without any semblance of a rhythm or tempo reached his ears and Sam turned to see the little girl from before, skipping around the edge of the motel's brick building. The soles of her worn sneakers scuffed against the gravel of the parking lot as she came to an abrupt stop, eyes dancing with something that wasn't quite mirth, but couldn't have been called carefree playfulness. "Hello!" she chirped, waving one small hand that probably would've fit entirely in the palm of Sam's hand and the hunter tried to respond kindly but could only manage an awkward smile in response. Dean had always been inexplicably better at connecting with kids anyway, already having had a younger brother to virtually raise on his own; the elder Winchester knew how to appease children with guises of being a teddy bear doctor who could fix things like lollipop disease or connecting with them on a level that was more personable than most adults, gentle understanding behind the gritty exterior stemming from the childhood he never had. Sam, on the other hand, didn't even know what to call this little girl-
Wait a minute. Call. He seriously wanted to hit himself at his own stupidity of not thinking of it earlier, but instead pulled out his cell phone and hit option number three on speed dial. Sam still hadn't quite gotten used to the notion of having an angel's number in his phone right after Dean's and Bobby's because even though his childhood and current lifestyle wasn't exactly what one would call normal, communicating with a messenger of God through such technological means instead of dropping his knees in prayer was still a little weirder than what the younger Winchester was used to; and Sam could get used to a lot.
Come on Cas, pick up. Come on. The mechanical dial tone jarred harshly through the small plastic communication device where he held it against his ear but the ringing was coming from somewhere nearby too, reverberating off metal and echoing hollowly as if inside a box. Sam turned sharply to his left, eyes landing on a dumpster and although he normally would've been grumbling if Dean assigned him this task, he now reached over the edge and into the stinking darkness blindly and without hesitation, fingers groping this way and that, hitting the plastic of garbage bags, the sticky wetness of what might've been someone's regurgitated dinner after one too many beers, and something slimy and pulpy-feeling that he really didn't want to think about before meeting cloth for the second time in less than an hour. Hesitantly, he grasped his finding and pulled it out of the foul-smelling trash receptacle, pulled out a beige trench coat and shook it once, twice. Aw, crap.
Castiel's cell phone clattered to the ground below, still ringing.
Joy stood still, half-hidden by the side of the building, lips pressed tightly together into a line that turned downwards slightly at the corners, a far different image from the blithe, happy-go-lucky child from just moments prior who'd been giggling at the strange face the funny man had been making as he dug inside the big trash can. The song in the little girl seemed to die and her eyes were wide with uncharacteristic solemnity as if becoming aware of the fact that none of this was a game anymore. And as she watched the taller man kneel slowly to pick up the slim device, so thin against his larger palm and long fingers, Joy wrapped her skinny little arms around herself to ward away the sudden, sharp burst of fear and shut her eyes tightly, wishing for her Daddy.
The room was eerily quiet as the doctor waited for the information to digest and looked intently into his patient's face, seeking out any possible twitches or signs of familiarity, but saw nothing but the same perplexed frown combined with a fractional head tilt of befuddled unworldliness. "You have been misinformed," the man said slowly, seriously, as if discussing quantum physics or some other unknown mystery of the universe. "I was never born; I was created by my Father in Heaven before the making of the universe or the realm below and He named me Castiel."
Malcolm shook his head. This one was going to be tough to crack, but it was necessary to tear the man down in order to build him back up, and this time in his right mind. "You are thirty-five years old and you worked with the IRS before admitting yourself to the Pontiac County Psychiatric Ward a little over a year ago before you were transferred here at your own request. Don't you remember?"
"Remember?" Castiel repeated, dazed. He shook his head, not knowing what an "eye-are-ess" was and still trying to assess his situation and determine the best course of action to take. "I am…I do not have an age. This vessel was of an appropriate constitution and maturity when he gave himself up to possession in service of the Lord."
Possession? Oh boy. The doctor sighed and discreetly rubbed his temple, inwardly wondering if these individuals ever really knew how utterly ridiculous they sounded and making a note to add dissociative identity disorder to this man's already lengthy list of ailments. "Listen to me, young man." Malcom took off his glasses and sat forward, meeting the intense blue eyes with a hard stare of his own, honed by years of straightening out men and women who'd gone off the deep end and raising three girls who grew up into rebellious teenagers with terrible attitudes before maturing into respectable young women. "You are not well, Leonard. You're very ill, and you must be willing to let go of this make-believe world you have created for yourself because you don't belong here."
"No," the patient agreed, and a bit too readily. "I do not belong here; I should be with my brothers and sisters. The Apocalypse is nigh and Lucifer has risen. Everyone is in danger and the Deceiver must not be allowed to destroy the world." This time it was his turn to lean forward, earnestly, beseechingly. "Please. You must let me go."
The orderlies standing on either side of the patient shifted uneasily in response to the patient's movement, but Malcolm shook his head at the two burly men and they stilled. "You have one brother; his name is Gabriel," the doctor said, glancing down at the file but seeing the man's tense shoulders relax ever so slightly and supposed he could mark that as a small victory. Clearly this brother was important and dear enough that Leonard recognized his existence, and that was as good a start as any. "He is a Lieutenant General in the United States Army and-" Oh. Maybe this was the reason the other man had started devolving as rapidly as he had. "But he was killed while overseas on a tour of duty a little while ago," Malcolm finished quietly.
Silence reigned supreme in the room but at that moment, it felt like the entire world had been blanketed in a dangerous stillness, weighty and terrible, stifling and deafening. Then-
"That is not true," Castiel whispered, frozen in terror as the words tumbled from his lips like dead leaves to be ignored and trampled underfoot. The angel's mind was whirling; he scrabbled desperately for strands of his grace so that he could reach out to sense the strong, ever-present and beautiful light that was the mighty messenger archangel, but there was nothing but his own thoughts, multiplying rapidly within his mind without reason or order; panicked. "This is Lucifer's doing." The doctor calmly slid the papers back into the file folder before exchanging a glance with someone on the other side of the glass paneled observation wall and then softly starting again in a soothing, placating voice most often used with spooked horses or children who just found out their dog died.
"Leonard-"
"No," Castiel interrupted, surprisingly harsh and terrified at the same time. He pulled desperately at the manacles restraining his limbs; breath coming harder and faster, feeling the fear spiraling out of control into an uncharacteristic hysteria. "This cannot be – you must let me go; I cannot stay- my brother- Gabriel has not…the Deceiver has shrouded your mind-"
"Leonard, the grieving process has many stages but we must aim to push past the denial in order to move on. Gabriel is gone and you must accept this-"
"AG."
Malcolm suddenly found himself flat on his back, realized after a moment that the patient must've jumped up so quickly and violently that he pushed the table away hard, and with amazing strength for someone of his slight build. "Ar adgt ip lu homil-" Although he couldn't for the life of him understand the strange language, the dazed doctor could well identify the note of frenzied distress and desperation in the patient's strangled voice as he slowly climbed to his feet, watching as the two orderlies easily pinned the slighter man against the wall, emptying a syringe of Diazepam into the struggling patient's arm, and then a second when the drug seemed to have no effect, and then in obvious urgent desperation, yet another.
"Dr. Keiser?"
He turned, nearly bumping into the dark-haired young woman who'd just entered into the room and cleared his throat, adjusting his askew glasses upon his nose. "I'd like you to give him ten milligrams of Sertraline and twenty of Escitalopram after he's been moved to Ward D for violent patients," he instructed hurriedly, glancing over at the altercation that seemed to be dying down. "And put Leonard on suicide watch, please. I have a feeling I am going to be spending quite some time with this young man."
"Sure thing, doctor," the nurse replied to the man's retreating back, smiling courteously until he disappeared from sight. Once he was no longer within earshot, the smile turned into a cruel sneer filled malicious delight as the young woman stepped up to the semi-conscious angel who was teetering on the edge of the dark abyss of unconsciousness, sagging bonelessly between the two muscular men holding his frame upright. "Don't listen to him," she cooed coquettishly, dark brown eyes flipping to pitch black. "The only person you're going to be spending time with is me, pretty boy."
She ran a finger down along the slightly stubbled jaw, over the full lips, smirking in morbid glee. "Leonard, right? You know, I kind of like that better than your real name." She pursed her lips in mock thoughtfulness. "Leonard… the demon grand-master of nocturnal orgies. Never actually met him, but I heard he's just a hoot." She nodded at the demon-possessed orderlies and they obediently jerked their captive upright; the angel's head lolled back limply, glassy blue eyes staring cloudily up at the demon and Meg smiled. "Oh, we're going to have so much fun…" Lucifer had given his little girl her very own toy angel to play with, and she was going to make her father proud. "And I heard you're just starting to feel, aren't you?" Reaching into her pocket, the demon girl pulled out another syringe. "Why don't you have some angel dust then, hmm? I'm told it's heavenly."
Castiel felt the pinprick of the needle skewering past flesh and the icy rush of the drug flooding into veins to be pumped all over his body and the angel pitched forward into the unforgiving clenches of the bottomless chasm of drug-induced insensibility and paralysis, diving and careening wildly out of all measures of control as his all too weak and human form succumbed to a place where there was no struggle between the forces of righteousness and evil, where neither Lucifer nor God existed, where he was not an angel of the Lord and knew no one by the name of Dean Winchester, and where the only thing that made sense was that which made no sense at all.
"Castiel?"
He turned at the sound of his name, immediately aware of who stood there behind him, as statuesque and radiant as always. Only Ramiel could say his name in such a way that made it seem as if every being in existence ought to know of him despite his status as a newly created lesser angel and though Castiel was almost compelled to lower his eyes in the luminous presence of his superior, there was so much love and kindness in his sister's melodious voice that he merely dipped his head in reverence, murmuring a hushed greeting in reply.
Ramiel reached out and lifted his face with gentle hands, eyes filled with genuine concern. "What is troubling you, little one?"
"I…" He felt Ramiel's grace pulse stronger as she reached out to soothe and encourage him and marveled at the understanding being offered so readily and unselfishly. The angel of rejoicing and true vision was always one of the most openly empathetic and warmhearted out of their kin, more apt for everlasting praise and thanksgiving in worship of the Father than actual battle against the fallen. Even Gabriel, despite the messenger's obvious affection toward his favored little brother (it wasn't as if all of the Host had noticed or anything), was still an archangel and thus preoccupied with duties and decorum. Ramiel was unceasingly kind to all though, and so Castiel shyly lifted his eyes to meet his sister's. "Our Father has given me charge of the day 'Thursday', he said softly but with evident, guileless pride.
"Thursday," Ramiel repeated contemplatively, stepping back. "The fourth day of the week on which the Almighty created lights in the firmament; the Sun and the Moon and the stars." Her soul shimmered, brilliant and beautiful in happiness. "It suits you Castiel, and is indeed a great honor." The cheer flickered somewhat then, worried. "But why is your soul melancholy?"
Castiel's wings inadvertently shivered as the angel began wishing to cloak himself from sight, suddenly feeling foolish, casting his eyes down, ashamed. "No one wished to share in my joy," he confessed quietly. "Brother Gabriel is away defending the barriers of the firmament and many of our brothers and sisters have no time for such frivolity. I am of no current use and did not wish to hinder anyone from performing their duties." The lesser angel sensed hesitation and then a withdrawal of his sister's affectionate compassion and so hunched his shoulders, wrapping his wings tightly around himself in efforts to diminish his presence and to conceal his renewed loneliness, for surely since he was of no use for anything, keeping himself out of the way was all he could do.
"Oh, little brother…" Castiel looked up in surprise as Ramiel drew him to her, large elegant wings unfurling wide to curl comfortingly around his entire frame and was even more astonished when his elder sister held his head against her shimmering grace that glowed bright and amazing, tenderly holding him close. "Do not believe what Zachariah has told you," she murmured reassuringly, her voice so sympathetic, so very tender. "Certainly our Father delights in you. You have now been appointed as the angel of Thursday; you are so very precious to the Host and you bring such joy to my soul."
Ramiel was always tender, but Castiel had never seen his sister embrace anyone else before and for this very honored reason, his spirit soared and his sister's grace shone with jubilation in response – but it was nothing compared to the lesser angel's smile which was new and whole and unsullied, for when Castiel smiled, the entirety of Heaven seemed brighter for it.
A/N: Well, all of you can blame my professor for the lateness of this chapter; the awful man had me seriously doubting my writing ability after giving my paper a failing grade for "not getting it". But after that, you can thank my friend and partner in crime Feathered Filly (whom I swear knows how to read my brain) for her wonderful help and support. And of course, I'm thankful for all of you for sticking with these stories.
Translations in Enochian (which, might I say, is a really friggin' confusing language)
Ag: No
Ar adgt ip lu homil: That cannot be true
And just for clarification, "angel dust", also known as PCP, is a really nasty hallucinogenic drug with similar effects to LSD, only about ten times more potent. Bet you all didn't expect Meg to make an appearance, did you? Check for the next chapter around Friday or Saturday, but until then, please review!