A/N: Hello dear readers, and I'm back! I hope everyone caught the one shot I posted last week in place of the normal update. Given the pacing of this story, I had to rework several parts of what will soon be the end, so thank you for your patience; enjoy the chapter!

Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke, but these versions of Gabriel, Belial, and Ramiel belong to me

It was a beautiful day outside.

The sun was shining, there wasn't a cloud in the sky and a cool breeze blew in from the southwest, tumbling gently down the rolling slopes of the Colorado Mountains, sweeping in and out among the waving golden stalks of wheat, rippling through the tall steel buildings of the city and caressing the cheek of a passerby here and there. It was the type of day that suggested the impossibility of everything being right in the world and set upon the illusion that everyone liked to believe for at least one instant in this screwed up world, no matter how short or fleeting, the illusion that everything was going to be okay.

It was the type of day that made Dean Winchester want to shoot himself in the face.

Well…not always, and not on principle. The hunter supposed he actually should've been grateful for weather like this, because despite the fact that it was unseasonably warm (for that normally disgusting period of liminality between fall and winter anyway), it was better than having dead fish raining from a blood red sky or whatever other markers of the Apocalypse the book of Revelation enumerated. No, what really annoyed the hell out of him was how the atmosphere and wind currents of the world thought it perfectly acceptable to deliver sunny with a chance of rainbows and sparkles and languid strolls down the streets of Pleasantville when he was sitting here in a rundown motel in Nowhere, USA, watching over a deathly ill disgraced angel of the Lord without the faintest idea of how to help alleviate even a fraction of the pain inadvertently caused by his hand.

"I'm hunted, I've rebelled and I did it, all of it for you."

There was even a stupid fat bluebird twittering its cheery notes somewhere outside the firmly closed, curtained window lined with salt that would soon be nothing but a bundle of feathers if it didn't shut the fuck up soon and Dean chose instead to turn his head toward the prone form of his friend, carefully arranged in the recovery position and packed with so much ice that if not for the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, Castiel would've looked like a corpse ready to be transported to the City Morgue. Well, that and the IV in his wrist that was trying to make up for three weeks worth of starvation, dehydration, and abuse with mere sugar water and a shitload of broad spectrum antibiotics; Sam hadn't known which ones to get – it wasn't like there were neatly typed out labels that read for if your angel's wings have been carved up like a freakin' Virginia ham – but it didn't seem like anything was doing the slightest bit of good. Who knew what kind of drugs Meg had pumped him full of to keep him down under?

Bitch, Dean groused, leaning forward and pressing his feet into the carpet from where he sat on the edge of the only other bed in the room. His eyes were red-rimmed as they took in the sight of the same individual who'd declared you should show me some respect and screamed out in a thousand dead tongues for his Father, lying on his side so as not to aggravate the injuries on his back, one leg bent to support his body and with his head tilted down to ensure that he wouldn't choke on his own vomit or the nightmarish sobs that occasionally shook his entire frame and burned deep into Dean's memory.

But Cas was still now, God he was so still and so woefully thin that Dean could count each individual rib, one-two-three as they bulged up from underneath waxy skin – except for the garish exhibition of bruised skin that displayed ruin in the highest freakin' definition there was all the while screaming tragedy in the truest sense of the word. He'd originally wanted to opt for sweating the fever out, but then his temperature had climbed high, so high that both brothers had decided that getting an eyeful of the results of the angel's imprisonment and sticking with all manners of cooling agents was better than the fever-induced seizure that nearly broke the damn bed with how wildly his limbs had been contorting and sent Dean's heart leaping up into his throat.

"And you failed."

Castiel made a low keening noise, something stuck in between what could have been a muffled cry and a sound too perilously close to a whimper for comfort and it punched Dean hard and fast in the gut because he couldn't stand it anymore, he didn't want to be here another minute longer. He didn't want to see the steadfast soldier he knew to be reduced to such a state, because not only was it demoralizing to the highest degree, but simply because it was too personal of a sight: like when grown men wept for their mothers when faced with impending tragedy and disaster, every tear and hitching breath as desperate and starved for mercy, relief, and love as any helpless child crying out for Gabriel and Ramiel (he could only assume Cas meant Joy, the little girl who apparently was…or had been one of the only angels the Winchesters ever encountered with a heart; later research by Sam affirmed Ramiel as the angel of Joy) and…Dean.

Gabriel, Ramiel, and Dean. One of these things is not like the others. Try to see if you can pick out the name of the dick who got his very own angel, persuaded said angel to give up all of himself, left him behind to get smote by an archangel and then let him get kidnapped and tortured within an inch of his life by Lucifer himself. Here's a hint, the culprit's the only one whose name doesn't end in –el and thus by default isn't part of aforementioned angel's family and so doesn't deserve to be even mentioned in the same garbled sentence or strangled plea.

And it was at times like these, that Dean wished he'd never been pulled out of Hell by a creature of flaming purity and righteousness; wished to have never been jerked into the future by Zachariah so he couldn't compare Castiel's current state to the hopeless, nymphomaniac junkie he'd seen a mere hop, skip, and a jump in the future; it was at times like these that he actually prayed aloud to nobody and everything all at once, clutching the motel's raggedy copy of the Gideon Bible to his chest for the familiar head tilt and inscrutable blue gaze that was Cas instead of empty purple-black irises and pupils staring up at nothing at all. It was at times like these that Dean really wanted to give up trying to play hero and tuck tail and run, getting the hell out of dodge in a hurry and not look back at the fragmented mess he'd made. Again.

And didn't that just make him the most selfish son of a bitch in existence?

At least Sam had gotten some sort of an out, in volunteering to drive the extra ninety minutes and stretch of miles of interstate back to their old motel just to pick up the essentials and check out (not that Mr. Riley Masters would've minded another sixty bucks on his credit card) – but then again, Sam leaving had pretty much been a unanimous decision. Over the past couple torturous days, Castiel had been coming to slowly, dredged up from a sea of hallucinations up into the uncontrollable tremors, vomiting, shivering, and shallow, rasping breaths that was the ugly reality of drug withdrawal. The jury was still out on the state of the angel's mental faculties though, because although he'd clearly been coherent enough to recognize the elder Winchester for who he was, he'd gone freakin' batshit insane when Sam opened his mouth and tried to calm him down, swinging a wild fist that clocked Sam right in the eye as he stuttered out something about demons and Lucifer and please, NO in between shuddering breaths. After that, Sam's face had immediately taken upon the look of a kicked puppy and although both of them knew Cas didn't mean it, the younger Winchester had left pretty soon after that.

A twitch, a huff of badly labored breath, and a shift of overheated skin against cotton pillowcase brought Dean to Castiel's side instantly, one hand hovering over the ice pack on the back of the angel's neck. "Cas?" he murmured softly – or rather, tried to, with a voice rough with stress and worry. Had not the other's back been literally untouchable, calloused fingers and a hand rough with years of toting weapons and wet with invisible blood would have been rubbing soothing circles and tracing the well-learned lines of devil's traps, just like twenty-five years ago when the same hand, albeit much smaller and padded with softer skin, had done the same for his little brother whenever Sammy took ill. "Hey, easy now."

The only answer was a weak moan and abortive movement to roll off his side; Dean reached out and caught Castiel's lightly, keeping the abused flesh from making contact with the bed just in time because as the Winchesters had found out the hard way, not even a mattress and comforter could touch the angel's back without eliciting heart-wrenching screams that brought the motel's stuffy manager banging on their door and almost goaded Dean into unloading a round of rock salt into his fat ass. Needless to say then, both Winchesters had been keeping vigil around the clock to make sure Cas didn't shift over onto his back.

However, that did beg the question why the hell Cas was currently trying his hardest to do exactly that.

"Cas?" His hands were settled gently but firmly on Castiel's shoulders, thumbs resting lightly against the dips of the juncture where collarbone met the neck muscle that were too hollowed out to be considered healthy on any level, trying to keep- what the hell? Dean blinked, peering closer and caught glimpse of the small, red flecks dotting Castiel's lips and the starched white of the sheets. Oh. Shit. Oh, SHIT.

"Dean?" The elder Winchester started at his own name and fumbled underneath the bed for a split second, arm jerking upwards and finger brushing the trigger of the gun that was pointed straight and true like a mere extension of his arm, aimed at- "Whoa! Hey!" Sam protested, doing his best to hold up his hands in the universal sign of innocence while trying to juggle an armful of their previously abandoned luggage and more supplies pilfered from the local hospital. "How's he doing?"

The look on his face must have said everything words could not as he slowly lowered the gun because Sam's countenance stretched with worry and his brother immediately dropped all he was holding, long legs crossing the room swiftly to be at his side in an instant. "What is it, Dean?"

The longer one stayed on Earth, the more one became like the humans that populated it. Simple and true, it was an undeniable fact for both angels and demons alike, for better or for worse. The only difference was that the demons embraced the change with gusto, reveling in all the delights Hell couldn't offer while the angels stoically and stubbornly resolved to keep the sticks up their asses at all costs. That is, until they too discovered how interesting or advantageous indulging in sin could be – like that Zachariah fellow, for example. After all, one couldn't really expect the mice not to play when the cat was away and when far from the Silver City Above and endless mantra of holy holy holy, Lord God Almighty, it was all that much easier for an angel's grace to flicker and fade.

But the angels weren't really the highest priority item on Malthus's list (unless it was news or gossip about Heaven's latest renegade; then he was most definitely a fly on that wall – literally); as odd as it may seem, keeping his wits about himself and watching his own tongue and actions was. Because, oftentimes, awareness of oneself in the presence of the Lord of lust was the only thing that kept him from being decapitated, disemboweled, flayed to the bone and then maybe finally killed, if he was lucky enough. Or maybe it wasn't all that odd, given that he was the superior demon's personal assistant, in a manner of speaking. And here he'd appreciate it if people didn't start quoting The Devil Wears Prada (Belial actually preferred Armani, or some obscure designer on an island in the middle of nowhere whose designs cost more than the Virgin Mary's firstborn son) but yeah, slaving away and responding favorably to the Bossman's every whim was basically the definition of his current existence.

Naturally then, it was essential for a demon such as himself to know the ups and downs of Prince Belial's mood, to memorize every single flicker of emotion (or lack thereof) across the face of his newest meatsuit – thank Satan Belial had finally settled on one for a period of time longer than merely two weeks – because at times, his superior was a tightly locked vault made of mirrors, reflecting everything around him and reacting like the most skilled thespian. He was, of course, the Lord of lies who had the art of falsehood and deception down to the finest brushstroke, the final note of an extravagant symphony, the pinnacle of a passionate persuasive speech; sometimes Malthus even had difficulty figuring out what the hell the superior demon wanted as he tried to wade through the flowery speech and idioms, taking apart each piece by piece. He was pretty damn sure that Belial did so just to fuck with him too, if the other's shit-eating grin had anything to do with it.

And then there were those scant instances in which Belial made no great riddle of what was going on in his mind and though rare, one certainly didn't have to take a picture to ensure it lasted longer, because upon these occasions, Malthus knew the only proactive and self-preserving course of action to take was to run like hell and duck for cover. When the Lord of lust was pissed, everyone knew it and maybe, just maybe if you weren't the first thing in his warpath, he'd let you off the hook with just a shredded kidney, a missing eye or two, and a spleen or intestines turned inside out.

Ah, but even that wasn't the worst. Having to run and duck for cover wasn't even brushing the surface of the Hell Belial was capable of releasing, and Malthus actually preferred standing in the eye of the hurricane of what all in all equated to a squalling toddler's temper tantrum when said child didn't understand the definition of the word share…only with a lot more destruction and a higher risk of getting torn from limb to limb if anyone uttered a syllable at the incorrect time or blinked the wrong way.

Malthus.

The demon posing as just the friendly neighborhood doorman cringed at the voice in his brain, sizzling like flesh and fat pressed against hot coals before sparing a glance heavy with trepidation up at the penthouse way up high; he cleared his throat once, twice, and again because although telepathy warranted no need for such an action, it was a vain attempt to calm frazzled nerves. Sir?

A word, if you will, old sport.

And holy shit, that had the lesser demon cowering into a shivering ball of paralyzed fear somewhere between his meatsuit's spine and posterior ribs because this was Belial at his most terrifying, this was the Second Prince of Hell in all his former glory, the fallen angel who'd once stood unabashedly before the Throne of the Most High as a member of the class of the seraphim, as a warrior of the highest prowess who needed neither outward shows of outrage nor backing from those higher up on the totem pole to his power. Behind the politeness of tone lay the ice of melded hellfire and steel sharper than the sword he once wielded, underneath the curtness of manner was a wrath that didn't explode like a bomb or erupt with all the fury of Mount Vesuvius (that one was actually before Malthus's time, but he'd heard plenty about the scuffle with the archangel Gabriel and what else went down there.) – no, it blazed, a molten river of part cool calculation and part icy vengeance best served cold. Fire burned and ravaged and destroyed, but ice was solid and permanent, lasting so long as the conditions permitted, and the two combined resulted in a force to be reckoned with specifically because of its unknown attributes and qualities, its ultimate potentiality to do anything, anything at all.

And that was why Malthus preferred the temper tantrums or the glib, cryptic language, because Belial at his worst was a Prince of Hell that the demon didn't know at all.

"Lord?" he ventured, bowing low at the waist, a little winded from blinking out of place on the street below and into the penthouse in less than a second. Politeness was always good when facing a psychopathic evil son of a bitch with the predictability of a child who, when it all boiled down to a single inescapable fact, was fucking scary. Sure, Lucifer now walked the Earth, but this demon's allegiance first and foremost was to the Lord of lies because he was the one who, besides the Morning Star himself, could make all demons everywhere piss themselves out of fear at the mere mention of his name.

He sat there behind the beautiful teak desk, hands crossed on top and not a hair out of place, not a twitch of the eye to indicate the slightest hint of trouble – a picture of cool serenity, a pillar of staunch unflappability, an immovable and emotionless idea of every single worst nightmare and most tempting desire twisted so finely into one entity underneath the weak disguise of human flesh. In just looking at him head on, it was nigh impossible to venture a guess that behind the exquisitely tailored suit and features schooled into handsome impassiveness, a high Prince of Hell was bearing agony in stoic silence because no one escaped the blowout of an angel's exploding grace, even if said angel happened to be considerably weaker than her former brother.

Dear Ramiel, such a firecracker. You are always full of surprises, my sister. Belial eyed the cowering demon before him with an air of haughty disdain. Or…were, as of late. He highly disliked deigning to command others to go about his will, especially when matters required the utmost importance and weighty consequence, when it concerned his little pet. He'd discovered a while ago that even the smallest measures of trust resulted in a whole lot of misunderstandings which then led to him having to hunt down the bloody idiot who fucked things up. And believe it or not, sometimes even dissolving demons molecule by molecule got a little tiresome; ask him again why Earth was much more enjoyable than spending an eternity in Hell.

Feh. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the silken piece of material, rubbing the handkerchief in between his fingers. To think that he was in shape to be moving anywhere was a laughable notion, and the Lord of lies was intelligent enough to discern between truth and falsehood, even – especially – to himself. Not when any sudden movement brought the phantom pains of his nonexistent wings contorting, rearranging their structures, and gouging themselves deeper and deeper into the core of his being. Ah, well. He supposed he would have to give up this small portion of the chase. On your knees, dog.

The white silken handkerchief spotted in areas with the faded dull brown of dried blood fluttered in the air and the creature that caught might have been called a dog, although it was more smoke and soot condensed into the wispy shape of a hound on all fours standing where the demon in the doorman's skin had been standing not a moment earlier, eyes trained upon his superior who had commanded him into such a shape. Two pointed shapes that might or might not have been ears cocked as Belial spoke in the guttural growl of the beasts of the Pit. "Find them."He said curtly, paused, and then amended the order, motioning at the momento now clasped in between strong jaws and rows of razor teeth of darkness. "Find him."

No need to ask who 'he' was, because Malthus was no fool; but how, pray tell, was a hellhound supposed to find a nearly fallen angel of the Lord? The lesser demon made an inquiring sound that wasn't quite a growl of inquiry and wasn't quite a whine of protest, taking a half step forwards and inclining the billowing shadows of its head in confusion. Belial raised an eyebrow at the lack of immediate compliance; he withdrew a hand from underneath the desk, pointing the shiny barrel of an all too familiar revolver – and the dog yelped, ducking its head, tucking tail, and scampering out of sight.

Belial's sudden grin was a flash of teeth, sharp like acrid smoke, knifelike in the darkness. I'll bet you found it funny, having little Castiel down on his knees begging for release without me there to witness such a beautiful sight. How exceedingly selfish of you, brother. His vessel's jade green eyes flashed something soft and dangerous. You want to play around with my toy? To tempt and torment him with the seduction of promises whispered in the dark? The Lord of lust spun the Colt lazily around his trigger finger, tilting his head back with a bitter bark of laughter.

Let's play then, shall we Lucifer?

The light of Heaven was amazing in its beauty and so much brighter than he remembered, so different because now he could feel the sense of family and belonging, love and mercy divine rushing over him in waves almost as tangible as the wings rooted in his grace and anchored solidly to his back, strong and pure and whole. Human feelings were multiplied tenfold, a hundredfold, and even more in the halls of the Lord and it truly was Paradise, his Home at the time of his creation, when brother had yet to become embroiled in dissension and discord that ultimately led to the near-fatal injury and permanent incapacitation of Heaven's joy.

He sought to take a step forward, to see his kin again and to join the Host's song of praise and everlasting worship for their Father, perhaps to also reconcile and reunite with his brother Gabriel and maybe to also see his sister Ramiel's beautiful soul – but the firmament beneath his feet trembled once, and then, without warning, gave way to nothingness at all.

AG! The angel's cry pierced the air as he slipped, fingers grasping for a hold but finding none. Heaven's brilliance grew dimmer and dimmer as he tried to maneuver his wings into action but they too were fading and falling apart, feathers catching aflame and burning into ash that lifted upon the currents of the wind high above him as he continued to descend further and further down at a wild pace, plummeting from the Highest Place of the Most Holy of Holies. There was nothing he could do to catch himself, nothing he could do to stop from falling as Lucifer did and then the voice of the Ancient Serpent and the Son of Perdition echoed all around his form, hissing "Castiel, Castiel, Castiel…we are not all that different you and I."

It began pulling at him from all directions, enticing him to comecomecome here, forsake all that you are and have ever been; he writhed and twisted but could not break free as the darkness closed around him with purpose and he could see nothing anymore, couldn't escape-

"-he's waking up…think we should wait until he-"

"-don't have the time Sammy, the bone could shish kabob his lung at that angle; you saw the blood-"

"I know, but Dean-"

Dean? From the back of his mind the name gleamed like a beacon that was still invisible but he reached for it nonetheless because it felt honest and caring and real; he surfaced with hands grasping and grappling for a hold, finding the softness of cloth and warmth of life and tightening with all his might. This was secure, this felt safe and he wouldn't let go this time because Gabriel – no, this was Dean and he was safe…

"Dean…Dean, Dean…" the whimper slipped from his mouth like a prayer, a litany of wretched desperation and Castiel felt a hand cradling the back of his head gently, and another rubbing small circles at the bony knob of his shoulder. "Don't want to fall," he pleaded, tongue thick and words slurring together; the individual holding him with such great care stiffened ever so slightly and Castiel tried again because he had to make himself heard, had to put forth this one request. "Don't let me." His fingers twisted in the flannel of a checkered shirt he couldn't see as he openly displayed all of his vulnerabilities as a human in this singular moment of greatest weakness. "Don't…don't want…please, please-"

"Shh, shh. Cas. I've gotcha. It's okay. I've gotcha."

He sagged, tension seeping away and leaving him boneless against the hunter at the gruff yet gentle reassurance because Dean would never lie to him. Even though he couldn't read anyone's soul anymore in order to determine truth from falsehood, he knew that Dean was honest and righteous and true what he said was a promise. Always.

Dean wouldn't let him come to harm.

"Hey, Cas?" The hands were guiding him back now slowly and he immediately stiffened – why was he being pushed away? He began to tremble for he had already lost his sister, been abandoned by his brother and knew not where his Father was… "Cas," the familiar voice came again, steady and soothing. "Listen to me. Okay? It's alright. I'm just gonna let you lean back against Sam for a sec while-"

Suddenly there was a strong arm encircling him and pressing firmly against his stomach, cautiously and carfully pulling him back against someone who was not Dean, but rather the younger Winchester brother. Although a part of memory twisted together with rational thought, the part that had been angel throughout millennia of existence and endless cycles of life and death, the part that bore knowledge both infinite and intimate and wisdom from Above knew that Sam Winchester was of no harm, although recollection brought to mind the Sammy that was Dean's little brother and a hunter both faithful and repentant and ultimately kind of heart, Castiel uttered a choked cry and bucked upwards against the hold, inadvertently driving his sensitive shoulders backwards into Sam's chest.

"Whoa! Castiel, it's okay! It's Sam!"

Sparks exploded across the back of his eyelids in sharp bursts of terrible frost and flame and yet he continued to struggle, flailing and thrashing because the larger part of him only recalled Sam Winchester as the boy with the demon blood, as the one who had raised Lucifer and crushed Alastair to nonexistence with only an outstretched hand and his mind, the prodigy of Azazel's selected children – the larger part of the here and now, the part of him that was human and could not stop being so. He felt the phantom pain of Sam's raised fist connecting solidly with his torso, his face; the ringing of a crowbar through the air before it struck his flesh and bone, and the knife that tore through all barriers to lay bare ribs wrenched from the spine one by one-

"Cas! Cas, it's me. I'm here. Dean's here." There was another voice in his ear now, draining away all the panic and he sank backwards into Dean's strong hold, leaning his back lightly against the hunter's chest because although that action still inflicted pain, this was someone he could trust. For a few moments there was no sound or movement save for his harsh breathes vibrating against the air and the unsteady rise and fall of his chest and the singing of atrophied muscles brought too quickly into full contraction. A rustle of clothing, and then a tentative touch below his neck and upon an upward curved bone that had healed naturally but in misalignment after being trampled underfoot by a demon three weeks prior. It still triggered twinges of soreness now and again, but wasn't too much of a discomfort-

Crack.

His head fell back against Dean's shoulder at the first break with a strangled gasp; the hold around him tightened as he thing instinctively twisted, mentally screaming for Dean to stop, please, please but not having enough breath to shout aloud-

Crack.

"Ag, bitte, haud!" Castiel shrieked, head snapping to the side and upper body moving in a frantic convulsive movement, still trying to pull away but Dean was strong, stronger than him for once, and was it possible because Dean couldn't understand him? "Mitra, vi elemosion, racham, eleos-"

Crack.

Castiel stopped fighting. Dean was speaking to him again, soft tones intending to soothe and comfort but he couldn't hear over the pain that swallowed him whole. "Iain?" The angel sobbed openly, because why, why, why? "Dean…" he gasped, words barely audible apart from the heaves stealing his breath again. Why are you hurting me? He felt fingers at his throat and flinched away, the steel of betrayal cold at his neck. "No," he stuttered just before the darkness swelled again, because he'd been wrong; Dean wasn't different, he was the same, exactly the same…

The claws of a hundred, a thousand, a million legions of the hounds of Hell tore through the magnificent silver wings, shredding the beautiful masterpieces and scattering feathers of lightning and ice around the globe, incinerating into ash throughout the atmosphere to be inhaled by strangers as the Earth opened up to swallow the one who'd dared to go back upon his word, to break a contract, to forsake the terms of a bargain. Then the Adversary of old laughed, a mocking peal of triumph because such had been his design from the beginning, to take down this particular brother by means of his love for his fledgling and Heaven shuddered at the loss, but the demise of one of its most powerful was but the beginning…

She woke with a startled gasp, the snarls of hounds and the screams of the tortured souls already entrapped in the Pit ringing in her ears and she trembled at the memory of the dream, trembled because she had no idea what it meant because it, just like all the others, was utterly indescribable. She leaned weakly back against the pillows dampened with sweat as her mind whirled with images impossible to decipher: flashes of silver-black-white wings entangled with smoke and tragedy mounted upon steeds of white, black, red, and pale ivory dragging in its wake a trail of destruction never before seen by mankind; and in the center of a whirlwind of chaos and death there were two men, and one who was not quite a man and yet no longer celestial – a golden amulet, a whisper of consent, and crucifixion upon a cross of sin.

What is wrong with me? Nisrine groaned and rubbed at her bleary eyes; maybe she ought to set up a lunch appointment with Rita Flemming over in the Psychiatrics Department, since regular old sleeping pills didn't seem to be doing the trick. With a sigh of resignation, she threw back the sheets and stood, intent on maybe balancing the checkbook or some other hideously boring activity in hopes of feeling drowsy enough to catch at least an hour or two of shuteye. After all, she mused somewhat sardonically as she reached out to switch on the bedside lamp, sick children don't diagnose and cure themselves. A slight frown creased her brow as her thoughts wandered back to little Jane Doe who still hadn't woken up, despite the odd occurrence from two days ago-

"Nisrine Abunasser."

"Oh God!" She screamed, whirling around to face that man standing by the door of the closet and Nisrine's knees gave out at the billowing robes of green and emerald wings, the color of life and rejuvenation and this was the archangel of healing standing in her bedroom. "Israfil."

"Prophetess," he intoned as a way of greeting, fixing dark eyes upon the terrified woman. "I am Raphael."

A/N: Oh my. Methinks I need to write something fluffy just to get away from all the angst. I request prompts for one-shots, please (doesn't necessarily have to be fluffy)! Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

But onto more serious matters. Yes, yes, I know…I promised comfort. Two more chapters plus an epilogue on the way! Translations are below; please drop a review!

(Enochian) – Ag: no

(German) – Bitte: please

(Latin) – Haud: no

(Sanskrit) – Mitra: friend

(Italian) – Vi elemosion: I beg you

(Hebrew) – Racham: mercy

(Greek) – Eleos: mercy

(Arabic) – Iain: why