A/N: I'm truly blessed to have such committed, intelligent, and mature readers; thank you, all of you, for your reassurances and reviews. Well, here we are, at the last chapter. What a roller coaster ride it has been! Don't worry; there'll be an epilogue. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke but these versions of Gabriel, Belial, and Ramiel belong to me
They always said that time was a relative thing: sit next to a pretty girl and an hour felt like a minute, but put your hand on a hot stove for minute and that, ladies and gentlemen, felt like a freakin' hour. It was viscous and ever-flowing, crawling on forever and forever (amen) like the garbled rant of an angry, emotional drunk or the tiresome narrative of an author who got paid by the word and constantly engaged in dangerous flirtation with purple prose.
Time was relative, and didn't Dean Winchester know it. Thirty years on Earth with a break in between for a torturous forty in Hell had taught him a bit about the absence of standards of absolute and universal application when talking about the indefinite continuation of existence. Life was precious, every single second of it, because it was true how no one really knew what they had until it was gone – he never knew how to appreciate every single breath of real air not saturated with ash and sweat and blood until he had a hellhound's claws embedded in his chest and meat hooks ripping through his soul down Below; he didn't know just how damn much he loved his little brother until he saw Sammy being used as nothing but a suit for the Devil himself.
Dean didn't know how lucky and grateful he was to have an angel on his side in the midst of this clusterfuck of an Apocalypse until said angel had been reduced to scorch marks on concrete floor by his dick brothers, until he saw his friend transformed into a sex-crazed junkie in a potential future that seemed far too close for comfort, until Castiel was shaking and screaming and sightless in a motel room with nothing but nightmares and fevered hallucinations to fill up the painful moments of both sleep and wakefulness.
Belial's eyes glinted with savage, animalistic delight as he took apart an angel of the Lord with the carnal, sinful ways of the flesh and Dean could hear his own voice choking around the gag mingled with Castiel's strangled sobs – broken and hoarse, pleading screams that eventually died down to pathetic whimpers, and then into defeated silence as the sadistic brutality continued without end. The demon's voice was an oozing murmur of poisonous lechery, slithering into all the cracks of a soul that would soon be shattered by self-hatred and loathing and utter disgust: "That's it, dear little Cas…don't fight it pet, enjoy it…"
He had no idea how long he stayed there, breathing raggedly with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, the gravel biting into the palms of his hands and knees of his jeans, trying to keep the bile from rising up and hitting the back of his throat as the unbidden and unwelcome images played over and over again in his brain, like a broken reel of film. It could've been mere minutes or it could've been hours for all Dean cared and as of right now he didn't give a flying fuck, thank you very much.
"Alright there, old sport?"
Oh HELL no. His head snapped to the side so fast that the hunter swore he heard the distinct 'crack' indicative of whiplash and there he was, the shameless Lord of lust himself in all his glory, leaning casually against the side of the sleek black Bentley that had pulled up out of nowhere, flicking a speck of imaginary dust away from an obsidian three-piece suit. "Looking a bit peaky there, Winchester," Belial commented glibly but Dean barely heard him, barely heard anything above the sudden roaring in his ears and with a roar that sounded nearly inhuman, he lunged and barreled straight into the demon, bringing both of them to the ground, hard.
"Whoa, easy there." The Second Prince of Hell was laughing. The dirty pervert was laughing. "No foreplay, Deano?"
Dean had nearly broken his hand on an angel's jaw once, but luckily demons were just as easily breakable as their vessels were and the hunter's flying fist smashed cartilage with the first blow, the type of punch where not only the shoulder, but one's entire body twisted with its force, the type that sent blood gushing in a torrent, the type that screamed I'm going to murder you. "You sick son of a bitch," he growled, grabbing the prick's suit and hauling him off the gravel – "You fucking BASTARD."
Belial blinked, unimpressed and nonplussed, managing to look surprisingly cool and cocky even with blood dripping down his chin and staining his no-longer immaculate suit. "Really, is that all you can manage? The whole growling and threatening routine is getting a bit old." There was the familiar snatch of breath from bronchi as Dean found himself airborne for all of one instant before getting slammed back against the cold, unforgiving metal of the Bentley, winded and glaring upwards defiantly as Belial stood and ran a manicured finger along the bridge of his nose, pulling together cartilage into a perfectly straight downward angle. "All bark and no bite."
"Fuck you-"
"Ah-ah," The demon tut-tutted, wagging a finger disapprovingly before plucking out an all too familiar handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbing at the blood on his face. "I've told you before boy, you're not my type." Belial smirked, a confident twisting of a corner of the mouth and it was, Dean noticed with a sick twinge in his stomach, the same smug leer twisting the other's face when pinning Castiel to the rickety cot and- "Besides," the lips parted to admit entrance to the end of a cigarette: inhale-exhale. "Don't think I didn't catch you groveling there on the ground." Slow and steady inhale; the paper glowed and shriveled. "So…" Belial stooped in a strangely graceful movement, crouching until he was eye level with the seething hunter sitting pinned against the car. "Who were you on your knees for, hmm?" His voice dropped to a low and taunting tone. "Who were you playing bitch to?"
He didn't cough or turn his head, didn't even bat an eyelash at the cloud of smoke blown directly into his face and for the first time since he crawled up out of his own grave and inhaled a lungful of sweet oxygen, Dean allowed himself to stare a demon full in the face and feel not shades of fear or varying degrees of loathing, but pure and simple unadulterated hate. "Probably the same one who's holding your leash…bitch."
That certainly hit a nerve somewhere, because although the smirk stayed, it now looked more painted on than anything and the demon's left eye twitched – barely noticeable, but Dean caught it with a strange surge of triumph – as an expression of mock affront covered up the slip in the other's veneer of easy-going nonchalance. "Silver tongue indeed," Belial murmured, sitting back on his haunches. "I see why Alastiar liked you best, the old sod. Cheeky, and with absolutely no regard for manners." He frowned. "A bit too forward for me; you see, I like them sweet and innocent." The emerald gaze flickered over to the motel door that was still slightly cracked and practically glowed with feral lust. "I suppose I'll just have to let myself in."
"You-" Dean pulled against his invisible restraints so hard that he actually broke through them – sort of, anyway – twisting his upper body forward while his legs still stayed firmly cemented to the pavement, fingers once again twisting in the fine silk of the other's suit and jerking him forward so the bastard could feel the fire in the hunter's glare, could feel the darkness Dean had learned how to emit back in Hell, could see how dead serious he was. "You make another move toward that room," he hissed, venom and rage twisted together into a deadly whisper, "and I swear to God, you'll be the one on your knees in front of an archangel."
It was a threat, and probably an innocuous one at that, but it sounded frighteningly like a promise of death, of no regrets, of consent. I'll say yes, the Righteous Man screamed without words, but it was audible and louder than a crack of thunder in the murderous furrow of his brow, in the sharp angle of his clenched jaw, in the way his eyes could've shattered steel and stone. Right here, and right now. I'll say yes.
Belial the Lord of lust, infamous Second Prince of Hell, and terror of every demon (and a good many angels) save for the Morning Star stared. Speechless.
It wasn't because this pathetic little suit of meat and bones fired up by a soul that was more patchwork art project than whole had just broken free from his hold (the earlier altercation with Ramiel had taken more out of him than the demon wished to admit) or being shocked into some newfound respect for the sad little man. At his prime, he could squash the little snot with less effort than it took to lift his little finger. No, it was due to the fact that in the fierce lines of the hunter's face and in the flashing of his eyes, the fallen angel turned demon saw the likeness of Gabriel, the strength of God, and protective older brother to his young fledgling. This was the Righteous Man who had broken the first seal, had endured the fires of Hell, who would lay down his life for a friend.
He could see why Dean Winchester was the chosen vessel for Michael, the General of the Host, for he whose name had been the battle cry of the sons of righteousness in the Battle for the Throne, who is like God. And although Belial had been a seraph both terrible and mighty, even the fiercest soldier trembled before his Commander; even the most powerful demon's authority withered in the presence of such Light.
But it wasn't as if such weakness had to be put on display for the enemy to see. "Aren't we feisty?" Belial drawled with more mockery than he felt, pulling away with ease after the initial shock. He reached out and patted Dean's head with a condescending smile, his motions slow and cautious. "I know you like to watch when you can't get some yourself, but didn't I tell you I would save you a front row seat?"
Dean jerked away from the gesture, the only thing stopping him from spitting out the big 'yes' was the slight hesitation he could read in the normally suave demon's composure, the uncertainty and lack of rhetoric in Belial's speech. "I'd rather not watch the rerun," he spat viciously and there, there was the confusion in the other's countenance, rarely shown because since when was Lucifer's second in command not in the know? Is it possible that… He didn't want to hope, didn't want to assume because he'd already made an ass out of himself enough times already, and-
-and Belial was reaching out with two fingers in a manner that was too weirdly familiar because seriously, what was with these dicks in invading his brain? What, were his memories on TiVo or something for their amusement?
This time he wasn't riding around in Castiel's meatsuit or feeling the angel's anguished terror and yet somehow this was much worse; standing in the corner of the room in his own body, a less than corporeal form that he couldn't command into moving as Belial strode casually into the room and violated an angel of the Lord in the worst way possible. Dean wanted to look away but literally couldn't, his eyelids were peeled back and his head kept still by who knew what…so he watched.
Biting down on his tongue so hard that he tasted iron in his mouth, hands clenched into shaking fists, eyes burning and brimming with tears at the heartrending images, he watched and listened to Castiel screaming himself hoarse until he could scream no more, begging for an end, an end that was not forthcoming. But that wasn't the worst part, because apparently the Lord of lust wasn't yet through and as the bastard geared up for round two (or twenty, or two hundred) Castiel raised his head and Dean found himself staring into the angel's tear-streaked face, into the eyes that were still bluer than blue but now shattered. "Dean," his friend croaked, reaching out one shaking hand, silently pleading for help and salvation. "Dean."
"Tsk. I'm offended." Belial stood fluidly, a fine sneer of disgust on his face. "Surely you've popped enough cherries to know that was far too vanilla for my tastes. Where were all the toys? And the gag?" He scoffed, a nineteenth century aristocrat turning his nose up at the sight of a dirty street urchin, the Lord of lust dismissing an amateur homemade porn movie. "Not my style." Withdrawing the cigarette from his lips, he stubbed out the burning end on his vessel's tongue and dropped the butt to the ground, flashing the hunter a rakish grin. "Even in his drug-induced hallucinations, little Castiel is terribly innocent, no? There'll be much more screaming on opening night." He bent down and leaned in close, breath hot upon his captive's ear. "I guarantee it."
"You're a fucking liar."
An eyebrow cocked, incredulously. "Never knew you had such a kink for voyeurism, old sport. Sorry to disappoint, but this little sneak peek of yours isn't even scratching the surface of what I've got planned for my pet. So while I am a bastard, I haven't quite gotten to the fucking part." Belial absent-mindedly tousled the hunter's hair like the fond owner of a stubbornly disobedient watchdog, his gaze straying toward the motel room where, behind paper-thin walls, his prize lay guarded by a staunch-faced Sam Winchester armed with holy water, shotgun, and knife. "Not yet, anyway. Besides, if I had taken him, whatever makes you think I'd have let him go?"
Dean felt the anger rising in his chest, deep and black. "Castiel is not your pet, you sick fuck." He wrenched away from the demon's hand, nearly banging his face against the sleek darkness of the Bentley, and bringing it back forward to glare down into the barrel of a gun. Not just any gun though, because he recognized the chamber and the barrel, the words non timebo mala etched into metal, the envy of hunters everywhere and the stuff of legends until it had fallen, quite literally, into John Winchester's lap. Since then, it had been passed through the hands of humans and demons alike, and now it seemed like the latter had claim over the infamous Colt once again as he sat here on his ass like an idiot, feet stretched out in front of him and hands spread out uselessly at his sides.
"I will fear no evil," Belial drawled aloud, reading the inscription with a definite air of amusement. "Yes, that's what David said too before he saw the pretty woman bathing on the roof." Raising a hand, he knocked once on the glass window above Dean's head, clearly a signal to someone for some sort of action because then from the car emerged a dorky looking kid, twenty-something at best, wearing an ill-fitting doorman's uniform that looked like a secondhand mismatch of an outfit on his rail-thin frame. The sleeves cut off about an inch above the wrists and the chauffeur's cap he wore slid down over his ears; the hems of his trousers were mismatched and one dragged on the ground as he shuffled slowly forward.
"Lord?" he asked uncertainly, eyes bouncing back and forth between Belial and the elder Winchester. Jesus, he sounds just like a kid too.
Belial waved a hand irreverently at the kid, and then at Dean. "Malthus, meet Dean Winchester, Righteous Man and vessel of Michael the archangel. Dean Winchester, meet my loyal hellhound and sacrificial demon number one." Spinning the revolver once around his finger, Hell's Second Prince extended the gun and fired once, signing his own death warrant without abandon.
The kid's eyes flickered black and his mouth dropped into a surprised 'o' shape as he dropped like a rock.
"Now then," the Lord of lust began, apparently satisfied with the ostentatious show. "What say I give you this," he spun the revolver around his finger once more and brought the barrel to his mouth, blowing away the smoke curling out into the air, "you take it to Lucifer, and empty it into his face." It wasn't a question or deal, but just short of an order, this take it or leave it offer that meant more to either party than mere words could've suggested. "Oh yes, and ammunition, of course. Free of charge."
There were a lot of things Dean might have said in a situation like this, with the Colt in his lap alongside a pouch filled with silver bullets, a lot of things he could've done. Like tell the demon to go to Hell or he could've emptied the gun in the bastard's smug face. But what came out instead was a questions that neither child nor aged philosopher had been able to answer since the invention of language. "Why?" Why not? His mind immediately argued, but he wasn't about to make a deal (if that was what this was) without reading all the fine print. "Why are you suddenly being the bigger man?"
The demon shrugged, and it was the most oddly human gesture Dean had seen yet. "It's called 'I have my own reasons, none of which are any of your concern'." Belial paused then, and there was something about the sudden lines in his countenance, the bags under his eyes, and the lack of an 'old sport' or derisive 'boy' that made the hunter take note. That, and the cryptic bullshit.
I have my reasons.
"Although…bigger man, hmm? Now there's an idea." Belial cocked his head in thought, and the smirk was back full force. "You think that'll have Cas screaming my name instead of begging for your sorry ass to save him?"
Son of a- By the time Dean got to his feet, Colt in hand, Hell's Second Prince had vanished.
His physical form was weakening, his mental faculties slipping away and into the labyrinth of delirium brought on by the raging fever; his skin was hot to the touch although he shivered uncontrollably, moaning quietly in foreign tongues, some long dead and some that never existed at all. And it was in this way that a soldier of the Lord met his premature end – not engaged in battle, fighting fiercely alongside his kin in the name of righteousness or defending the barriers of the firmament, but lying upon unwashed sheets and thin mattress in a nameless motel on Earth, as a being more human than angel, a creature shamed by his disobedience, both defiled and disgraced.
At long last, his breath rattled once more in his borrowed lungs and the renegade's grace sputtered like a sparking star, fading quietly and without fanfare into bleak and ultimate darkness, from which there was no return. Not this time. Not one of his brothers or sisters was there with him when the angel ceased to exist and he died alone, abandoned by his family and helpless, uncared for by the Father whose will he sought to always abide by, unwanted by those he loved.
Heaven did not weep for him.
The vessel's body was reclothed in the familiar suit and blue tie, shrouded in the man's trench coat and then set aflame, a humble funeral pyre blazing on into the night, reducing it to a fine grey ash that soon covered the rest of the world as well, swirling through the smoke and screams as the Earth's soil seeped a sluggish crimson. The Pale Rider swept over the land, country by country and continent-by-continent, reaping the souls of countless waves that went after the felling of the first domino in this unstoppable chain reaction. After the demise of the angel of Thursday, the war that had been brewing dangerously underneath the surface erupted in an explosion of sterile faith and hope rendered useless.
Sam Winchester was torn apart cell by cell, his howls of agony echoing against the blood red skies as the soldiers of Heaven completely destroyed Lucifer's true vessel; Gabriel fell to his knees, the sword of Hell's Second Prince embedded in his throat, his fledgling's name the last bloodied gasp falling from the mouth of the Herald archangel of the Lord; a golden amulet fell from an unresponsive hand to be trampled underfoot in the mud.
And Michael's vessel did not say yes; he never said yes. Humanity wailed and screamed for a savior, and he didn't come. Dean Winchester simply stood aside and watched with dead eyes, watched the world burn, forever.
The dark woman in the white chemise didn't even look up as the rain began to fall, the first droplet slipping down her cheek like a tear. She stood a silent pillar of infinite wisdom and vision, balancing there atop the mountain as a still figure against the skyline, slowly reaching up one hand to brush against the underside of the firmament in the same way she once grasped her younger brother's hand and helped him to do the same, remembering his laugh of unsurpassed joy and innocent wonder.
The angel Castiel died on a Thursday, blank eyes devoid of life and staring up into the empty space at the missing Father who never answered his prayers, at the hunter who could not save him, at the brother who kept to his pact with the Great Deceiver and did not go to him.
In a rampage of vengeance and rage, the archangel Gabriel proved to be of more skill in the pursuit than Zachariah or the remainder of the Host could have ever been, swiping away Michael's vessel with one wing and vaporizing Lucifer's receptacle with one startling glance at his true form: six hundred silver wings radiating chaos and fury, ice and wind and lightening that no man could ever imagine, much less depict with brushstroke or pen. The Herald took it upon himself to be the agent of persuasion, casting the man into what could've been known as Heaven's prison and his silver eyes smoldered as he followed in stepping into the space, closing and sealing off the only entrance and exit behind his form.
Michael was granted his vessel not thirty minutes later.
Her bare feet barely kicked up any dust at all as she walked in a slow circle around the deadened and parched piece of earth that was devoid of any and all life, and had been for thousands upon thousands of years. No matter what technology the agriculturalists whipped out, no matter how many times they tried to turn the soil or till the land. Some conspiracy theorists claimed that this patch of land was proof that extraterrestrials existed, for what else could've made scorched five inches into the soil that was blackened darker than volcanic ash and in the shape of two perfectly curved arches?
Perhaps an angel's wings burning and searing into the cinders of the sulfur and brimstone of Hell.
Sam Winchester said yes in Detroit exactly three days after Castiel died.
A day later, Dean Winchester put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The angels packed the right hemisphere of his brain back into his skull and brought him back. In the holding cell (with beer and burgers again, oh the irony), humanity's savior asphyxiated himself to death. The angels breathed into his nostrils and placed him under constant surveillance. Under the watchful eyes of Zachariah's subordinates, Michael's vessel grew creative and slit his own throat on the jagged pieces of a broken statuette of a porcelain angel. The angels mended the shorn jugular vein and sealed the wound shut. He smashed his skull against the wall, clawed out his eyes with his fingernails, broke his own spine, and tried every way imaginable to die, die, die.
The angels still brought him back.
Ramiel's gaze was unblinking and yet focused as the angel of true vision viewed each of the possibilities for the future through a multi-faceted lens, each path producing contrasting outcomes and stretching outwards in all different directions, numbered one to infinity. Then slowly, slowly, she reached out a brown and slender arm, plucking one single golden strand from the fold and brought it to her chest, cradling it as a mother would a child. It was an act built entirely upon hope, because the Prophetess saw everything but could influence nothing, could only watch and pray for this to come to pass, thisprecarious selection of events put into place by one single choice.
"Take me instead, Morningstar. Leave my brother be. Take me."
Castiel wasn't getting any better any time soon. In fact, he was getting a whole hell of a lot worse.
Counterintuitively, it actually wasn't really evident; the angel's rapid decline. There weren't any more visible physical changes, no emergencies that had to be addressed, no more bones to be broken (thank God; Sam was willing to say a small prayer of thanksgiving for that) – all in all, the next few days after the terrible-looking seizure passed in tense and uncomfortable silence, the stillness of impending death that was broken only by the harsh, ragged breathing coming from the bed and the occasional shift of a melting ice pack against overheated skin. Even the weather outside, for once at least, seemed to mirror the abysmal state of the crapper that the world had fallen into, with overcast skies heavy with the calm before the storm.
Sam Winchester was no fool, and he knew what that calm meant. He was wary of Belial's intentions, given that both of the Winchesters' brief histories with the demon weren't exactly spotless ones, but the fact that the Lord of lust had refrained from barging into the room and snatching Castiel away counted for something. Or, at least that's what Dean thought, because ever since recounting the less than pleasant rendezvous in hushed whispers – in which Sam nearly got punched when he stupidly said the demon's name a bit too loudly (he saw Dean's fist clench, he did) – the elder Winchester had been sitting at the small table, lips pressed into a thin line and with a permanent frown etched into his face as he turned the Colt over and over in his hands, examining the weapon he'd fired before, relearning its weight and pull and the way his fingers fit around the grip. Deciding.
And Sam trusted Dean's judgment.
He'd learned a long time ago not to underestimate his brother, because for all his jokes and jabs at being the smarter, older, and more experienced brother, Dean was indeed a phenomenal hunter, a good man, and far stronger than Sam could've ever been. In his own brief time away from the world of the living, the younger Winchester remembered nothing but darkness, an emptiness that had been vaguely peaceful and soothing until his brother made a deal with a crossroads demon and the rest, as they say, is history. Or…not really, given that the consequences from that were still in progress. But Sam knew his brother well enough to know that Dean was hiding something by the way he distanced himself from the angel in their care, in the way he flinched as if remembering something terrible, in the way he staunchly looked away whenever Castiel cried out when caught in a nightmare, leaving Sam to do his best to calm him down. And sure, sometimes it worked.
Other times, not so much.
"He asked for you again," he said flatly, pitching his voice in a low murmur so as not to wake the fitfully dozing angel, carefully closing the book on Enochian he'd been reading from. More like prayed and pleaded for. He pinned his brother with an even stare as Dean set the bags of greasy fast food on the table and nudged the door shut behind him. "Why don't you at least talk to him?"
"I did, Sam." Dean's reply was closely guarded and almost as robotic as his movements as he turned away.
"Preferably when he's awake," Sam snapped, suddenly impatient. "Look Dean, I don't know what happened yesterday, or what you saw through your bond with Cas, and I don't have to know." He took a deep breath, fingers tightening on the huge volume's spine. "But I do know that what you're doing right now, this- this forced separation, it's…it's just killing him faster."
"Leave it alone, Sam."
"Maybe if you just talked to him about whatever it was-"
"Leave it alone," Dean interjected in the same quiet, firm tone laced with just the slightest hint of a warning that Sam always listened to, even when the Sasquatch used to be a skinny, short little kid with attitude issues the size of Lucifer's ego; it was the tone that always, always made him balk and obey. Even if he ignored John's curt command, Sam always listened to his brother when Dean used that tone of voice. C'mon, Sammy. Don't do this. Not now. Just leave it alone.
Sure enough, Sam pulled a bitchface of mixed concern and indignation before turning away with a huff, cracking open the friggin' ginormous textbook in his lap and beginning to read again, unconsciously and yet immediately reaching out to lay a huge hand on Castiel's shoulder when the angel keened suddenly, breathless and weak. "Ozazm vgeg on torzul, solpeth bien…" His voice was laced with frustration and he pronounced each foreign word with an underlying rhythm of stupid, stupid, stupid. My brother is an idiot.
Dean wasn't stupid.
He knew Sam was right. He wasn't deaf, dumb, or blind either; he'd heard Castiel crying into the pillow: soft, quiet sobs that made his heart hurt almost as much as the muffled, fervent pleas for Dean, I'm sorry, Dean, please; he'd seen the way the angel's head turned slightly whenever he heard Dean's voice, the faintest expression of hope mingled with fear upon his features, the fear of being rejected. Again. For something that wasn't his fault in the slightest and yeah, Dean felt like a heartless son of a bitch for running away like he had, but how was he supposed to have reacted? How would anyone else have reacted?
I can't, Sammy. I'm sorry, Cas. He couldn't talk to Castiel about what he'd seen. It was too hard to replay even in his own mind; it would be like rewatching it for the second friggin' time, after that bastard Belial had rifled through his memories and then proclaimed that he hadn't done anything of the sort… And he hated leaving Castiel hanging with nothing to hold onto, but watch him go in with the best of intentions and then screw everything up and leave the angel even worse off. Just watch, because Dean Winchester wasn't the savior of mankind; he was a curse and a plague, a stigma to everything good and pure and holy because wasn't the angel who'd given up everything for his sake just the crown jewel in his treasure trove of fuck ups?
So, no. No, he wouldn't go within five feet of the angel, because it would most certainly be best for everyone if he stayed far, far away. And he did.
That is, until the morning they woke up to find the sheets spotted red from the streams of blood trickling from Castiel's ears, nose, and out of the corner of his mouth; his skin the jaundiced, sallow hue of pieces of parchment from the Middle Ages or something, all new frightening symptoms pointing to only one diagnosis – liver failure. The antibiotics weren't working, the infection had taken hold, and Castiel was going to die.
Two-by-four of idiocy, meet Dean Winchester's skull. Eighteen-wheeler of guilt and realization and regret? Meet Dean Winchester's gut.
Now, he found himself kneeling by the bedside of his deathly ill friend, one hand hovering hesitantly over the angel's shoulder. Sam had gone out to do whatever, muttering something under his breath about trying to make Castiel as comfortable as possible. That, or the younger Winchester had gone postal and was off trying to find a new liver on the black market or ebay. Wouldn't put it past him. That kid knows how to get pretty much anything. "Cas?" His hand finally descended lightly upon the back of the other's neck and Dean shook him, gently. "Cas."
He'd already had too many people die on his account. He wasn't about to let this one go just yet.
C'mon man, wake up. "Castiel?" He might as well have been saying please and hell, he was already on his knees, so why not? "Cas."
Castiel moaned, low and painful as his forehead, beaded in sweat, creased. A shudder ran through his frame and his fingers, curled loosely in the sheets, tightened with the heightened awareness of consciousness. His cracked lips parted and his eyes opened, discolored irises melting into the dilated pupils bright with fever. "Sam…" the angel more breathed than whispered, and Dean felt hot moisture stinging the corners of his eyes.
"No," he forced himself to say. "It's me, Cas. It's Dean."
Silence followed. "No, Lucifer," Castiel whispered at last, turning his face into the pillow, and Dean's chest clenched at the mix of wistfulness and confusion and soft pain on the angel's face before it was hidden. "I… I won't be deceived…again."
Again? The hunter's pulse jumped and immediately quickened at the thought, God, at the image of Cas huddled in a corner in a straightjacket or strapped to a bed, staring out blind and helpless as Lucifer bore down upon him, screwing with his head and he wanted to throw up. "Cas, it's me." He tried again, voice cracking pathetically. "I'm the one you gripped tight and raised from Perdition. When you found me in Hell, you touched me on the shoulder, here." With bated breath, he took a gamble and took Castiel's limp hand, placing the stiff fingers against the raised scar tissue of his own arm. "I fought you every step of the way up, screaming at you to let me go because I deserved to rot in Hell for what I'd done. But you didn't let me go." His voice was a wreck, hoarse and barely audible, but he continued. "You told me once that good things do happen. You helped me escape from Zachariah and save Sammy. You-" Dean laughed, short and sharp and halfway hysterical. "You pissed the hell out of a hooker named Chastity at a – what did you call it? – a den of iniquity that I took you to 'cause you're like…a freakin' forty-thousand year old virgin." Maybe not anymore, his mind blared in obnoxious neon lights, but the elder Winchester ignored it. "You're my friend and…goddamn it Cas, you remade me. You know me." Please.
Castiel's fingers scrabbled clumsily at the hunter's arm; he'd turned his face back toward him and Dean knew he would never get used to that blank stare, but at least Cas had heard him. "Dean?" The angel's voice trembled. "You…you came back."
Forget the Apocalypse and the demons, forget the dicks with wings and the Devil – Dean Winchester was going to die from the disbelief and hope in this nearly broken angel's voice and fragmented sentences, because they hurt. "Yeah." He swallowed hard. "Yeah, I did."
"But…but you…" Christ, had Castiel's voice always been that small? "But you s-saw." There was a definite stutter, a hitching of breath faded with uncertainty and the fear of rejection, of the disgust and revulsion anticipated. "You saw, Dean."
He hesitated, but only for a moment. No need to be reminded of what he saw, but suddenly Dean realized that it didn't matter if it had happened or not, didn't matter what Belial professed to have or have not done. The only thing that mattered was that Castiel believed it did, and the angel needed him. "Yeah, I did." The angel flinched in response but Dean made no sudden movements, taking up the mantle of being the strong one, for once. "It's okay, Cas. I've got you."
Castiel was fading, his breathing become more ragged and his eyelids fluttered, heavily; his urgency however, overrode the rest of his temporary humanity. "Stay," he whimpered desperately, unable to expand beyond the current range of motion a broken clavicle and burning back would allow. "Please." The angel's fingers tightened pleadingly on the mark his own grace once seared and burned into human flesh. They wouldn't leave bruises this time though, not with such a weak grip. "Dean?"
"I'm here, Cas. I'm here." The elder Winchester encircled his fingers around Castiel's wrist; the angel's skin was too warm and Dean felt bones all too easily, rolling beneath his touch. But he stayed. I promise. I'm here.
David Alexander Owens.
He heard the voice calling his name as if from the far end of a tunnel as he lay curled up within himself, trapped in a prison of burning light, too weak and exhausted from having thrown himself relentlessly against the walls to respond. There was a touch at his mind, prodding gently and he groaned quietly, curling tighter against the feeling. No, he thought sluggishly, disoriented. There was nothing left. There is nothing left. I don't want to go back.
David, awaken.
There it was again, the presence that seemed closer to him than anything or anyone else had ever gotten and his eyes rolled in his skull as a soothingly cool hand passed over him, washing away the swipe of blanketing heaviness and drawing his consciousness back into clarity. For the first time in what felt like forever and an age, he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Memories flooded back like a deluge. Gabriel?
Yes.The archangel's voice was resigned but resolved, weary but determined. David knew that tone anywhere, even when being used by the Herald of the Lord. It was the bugle sounding on the day of every soldier's funeral, the last order shouted out on the battlefield, a swan song of honor and in service to country and national pride. The only difference here though, was the fact that there was no such integrity or dignity coloring Gabriel's soul, and yeah, David knew all about that too.
You've made up your mind. There was no reply, only a sigh, deep and filled with conflict and suddenly, David was afraid. He'd never imagined what would come out of aiding an archangel in committing a sin and breaking a deal; truth be told, he was still a bit hazy on the concept of signing pacts with the deliverance of souls between angels and demons and humanity…the whole thing made his head spin. So he'd taken a liking to the little brother of the angel hitching a ride around inside his skin, and shot off his mouth without thinking. Honestly, who the hell was he to tell an archangel what to do? And now said archangel had listened to him. Wonderful. So, this is it. He swallowed nervously. Or…thought about doing so, anyway. It is, isn't it?
There was a moment of hesitation. Then, yes. A pause. Thou hast served Heaven well, Son of Adam. Thy work is done. Thou shalt be justly rewarded.
Justly rewarded, huh? He tried not to imagine what that would be like. Who knew how or why he was so chill with being possessed by God's messenger archangel and yet still scared shitless at the thought of meeting his Maker. That sounds…great.
Be not afraid.
He almost laughed at that, huffing a breath of amusement. What, you bring me good news of great joy? Sorry pal, don't think biology works that way.
Gabriel's response was nothing so outwardly apparent, but David could've sworn…well, not to God, he didn't want to put his foot in his mouth if he was this close to meeting the Big Guy Himself, but still. He could've sworn that the archangel rearranged the muscles he wore into some semblance of a smile. Thou art pure of heart, David. The Almighty shalt find thy soul worthy.
Yeah? He could almost believe it. Almost. And what about you? What're you going to do? The unspoken inquiry hung in the space between human soul and archangel's grace, thick fog in the subconscious of the mind- what would happen to the one who dared to go back upon his word in a deal with the Devil? Gabriel?
What I must. Steady and calm. Thou art my true vessel, Son of Adam. Thou understandeth well.
He did. From the deepest parts within his mind and soul, David understood why it all had to come down to this, why he'd been chosen, why he felt such a close connection to this angel that he had never met, why he felt so much for this little brother Castiel. You… And here he'd thought that angels were all righteous smiting and destruction as ordered from Above. I… He didn't know what to say. What was there to say? He'd had brothers in arms before, but he'd never been blessed with a sibling to raise or protect, to love with all of himself. Yet Gabriel did, this great archangel of the Lord who had served and obeyed, battled and lost – they were both soldiers, and that was something David could understand. You really do love your little brother, don't you.
He understood sacrifice.
Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends, came the reply, practiced words having already been spoken a thousand times but only now understood, only now made to have meaning in context and personal connection. And before he faded completely into the unintelligible swirl of peaceful emptiness, David strained his ears and heard the Herald of the Lord saying softly, so softly that he could barely hear- And this is how we know what love is: to lay down our lives for our brothers…
It was raining in his mind and perhaps outside the realm of his imaginings and nightmares as well, cool droplets falling from the sky in pinpricks that pounded on his hot skin, offering momentary relief. He tried to move toward the feel, because maybe God was in the rain, maybe the archangel who presided over the dominion of water was here, laying cool hands against the sides of his face and speaking to him through the sharp plit plit plat of moisture against his face, his head, his eyes. Maybe his brother had finally come to take him Home.
Castiel, he heard whispered into his ear, a gentle call of familiarity and he would have raised his head if he had not been so weak. Alastair's cruel devices had taken their toil on his soul and he had hidden his grace tightly away for the sake of survival, desperate self-preservation as not to be the cause of losing another seal. After six dawns and six hours, he could stand a soldier no longer and merely lay there in his brother's arms, exhausted and spent but safe. The gently pattering rain that fell from the other's wings washed away the blood from his vessel's torn flesh until the pain faded, faded into the brilliant light and majesty of Heaven. Brother mine, be not afraid. Thou art safe.
"Sam, I said no."
"Dean, we may not have any other choice. The morphine…I mean, an overdose would be painless-"
"You want to be the one to put the needle in his arm? I'm NOT going to kill Cas."
RELEASE THY HOLD, the archangel roared, more power and might than actual voice and the demon faded into black smoke, a quivering ball of terror as he released the fledgling, realizing too late that this lesser angel was the favored little brother of the Herald who sat at the left hand of the Throne. The skies shivered and split open as enormous silver wings pushed aside the clouds, as arms stretched outwards to catch the wounded angel, reaching up to shelter the shivering fledgling from the storm.
Thunder cracked across the sky and he instinctively trembled, the shudder moving through him like a tightly coiled spring unloosening for one instant to shoot tendrils of dull pain across his consciousness and he could feel his lips parting slightly, letting fall an incomprehensible word, a garbled mess of a language even he didn't know. The rain was no longer on or around him and he was moving now, moving but yet stationary at the same time, lying near a warmth that was welcoming; he tried to move toward it and felt the warmth encircle him in a steady embrace.
"Cas? Hey, shhh. It's alright. You're okay. We're just getting on the road again. Church. It's Sunday, Cas. We're taking you to Church."
"…how is he, Dean?"
Gentle fingers carded through his hair, coolness sweeping across his forehead. Father? Brother Gabriel? Who else could it be, to hold him with such kindness? Blindly, he leaned into the touch-
How now, brother? The archangel pulled back and smiled fondly down at the fledgling, brushing away all memories and fears of Belial's rage with a single hand, his grace enveloping and enfolding the lesser angel with light. He began to move away, silently allowing the other follow and was but five paces away when he felt a slight tug at the very tip of a single pinion feather – young Castiel was trailing behind, face set with determination but utterly unable to keep pace with his small, furiously fluttering wings. The Herald's warm laughter echoed throughout Heaven and from the other side of the hallowed halls of the Lord the angel of joy heard and smiled, smiled radiance as Gabriel extended his hand toward his little brother: Come.
"Not good, Sammy." Dean's voice was hoarse and the rain that pounded down on the roof of the car like bullets combined with the swish of the windshield wipers drowned out his reply. Castiel's head was heavy in his lap, his dark hair damp with sweat and his skin was bright red as if he'd spent one too many hours out in the sun; it felt like a furnace, burning his body up from the inside, where the infection ravaged and rampaged.
The Impala's jolted to and fro a bit because the backroads leading to all points nowhere weren't exactly paved smooth (so it was a Monday and they weren't really on their way to a Church; what was one more lie?); a back tire sunk into and jerked back out of a pothole and Castiel moaned quietly, twitching once before going still. His sluggish pulse jumped underneath Dean's fingers, blood pumping against vessel walls for once more with great effort…and then no more.
Oh no. Oh…oh no. No, no, no. "Sammy, pull over! PULL OVER!"
He could feel his brother drawing near, could feel like the air seeping into his lungs and the pain ebbing away, slipping away slowly; he barely felt it when the movement stopped and the frantic hold around him pulled him out into the rain again. There were voices, thick and loud and cloying that hovered all about him and tried to pull him back; he ignored them and drifted onwards, towards the pull of Home, and he could almost hear the chorus of the voices of the Host again, and it was beautiful-
Yitgaddal veyitquaddash shmeh rabba be'alma dir a khir'uteh…
"CAS!" He hollered desperately, one fist beating against the angel's chest, blinking out the rain that fell into his eyes as it pounded on Castiel's still, unresponsive face; on Sammy's hulking figure as the Sasquatch moved to support their friend's lolling head and shaking his head to signal no breathing; into the half-lidded, purple-black darkness of Castiel's eyes and Dean bowed over the body of his one and only friend in the middle of a muddy field fifty miles from nowhere, screaming full-throated into the heart of the storm, choking on rage and tears and disbelief- "CAS!"
Castiel was dead. An angel had died in his arms, literally. No more badass soldier of the Lord on their side, no more head tilt of befuddled confusion, no more social awareness of a toaster wrapped up inside a trench coat, no more steely sapphire gaze that stripped away all the bullshit with just a glance, no more cryptic talk, no more holding the stupid FBI badge upside down, no more Cas; he was dead-dead-dead-
Dean.
Even in the midst of the eye of what seemed to be a hurricane-tornado lovechild going on both inside his head and out, he heard it, heard the sound of a voice calling out his name inside his mind and looked up. He looked up into the face of an archangel whose vessel looked every bit as drenched as any other human being, grey eyes blinking against the rain that ran in rivulets down his face, soaking his hair to his skull and down his fingers as he held out his arms, the universal gesture for give me, a command that needed no words or persuasion. Give him to me.
Wordlessly, the hunter obeyed.
Castiel. Patient, gentle, and filled with understanding, the archangel called out to the little brother cradled in his arms, heedless of the consequences. Castiel, heed my voice and awaken.
Lightening.
Thunder.
Chaos.
And wind, whirling sheets of ice, white light and in the midst of it, six hundred silver wings unfurling to curl around the limp body of Gabriel's beloved fledgling, forcibly and violently pushing away the crowding shadows of impending death with a violent declaration of THOU SHALT NOT TAKE HIM that shattered the heavens and the earth. A hand passed over Castiel's chest, calloused fingers for one brief, blinding moment transformed into flaming tongues of white fire and latching onto something deep within – the body arched upwards with a gasp, eyes slamming open and shining beams of pure grace as two wings shot out into the visible plane-
From beside him, Sam was on his knees at the sight, fingers digging into the dirt and slack-jawed, tears rolling down his face because this was what the younger Winchester had faith in, this was what he'd been praying to for all these years. He'd always been the one with faith in hope and mercy and unconditional love, and Dean vaguely remembered that Sam had never before seen an angel's wings before he realized that he was crying too.
Reborn anew, the angel turned eyes of the purest blue upon his elder brother and reached up, simply a newly created angel among the multitudes. This one was another star in the heavens of no particular use except that one of his elder brothers reached out with his grace and chose him, except that an archangel let young Castiel bury his face in his neck and spoke into his ear as he held him tight, except that Gabriel placed a kiss and blessing and plea for forgiveness upon his fledgling's brow.
I love thee, little brother.
A golden trinket, faded and ugly next to the white light that enveloped it, passed from archangel to brother, and then, he pushed, sending his little brother and the vessels of Heaven's General and Hell's Sovereign away-
-as Lucifer stepped onto the field, come to collect his due. "Gabriel."
The Herald turned, brilliant light vanished. The grey sky wept as the archangel faced his former brother and dropped to his knees before the Great Deceiver, arms spreading wide as his mouth moved in supplication, head bowed in submission, crucified upon a deal with the Devil: "Take me instead, Morning Star. Leave my brother be. Take me."
"Very well."
The Earth opened up to bare the gates of the Pit and YAHWEH's messenger and voice was forever silenced save for the echo that would resound like a faded scream, a wordless plea throughout Hell for all of eternity – that, that was the cost of reunion, of accord – the measures of reconciliation.
The soot and ash blackened her skin and penetrated through the thin cotton of the clothing she wore, seeping into the whiteness of the fabric as she walked slowly through the remnants of the wings of the Herald archangel of the Lord, face downcast and eyes hidden. A gust of wind swept across the charred plain, swirling up the evidence of a brother's sacrifice – and the woman in white waved a hand, stilling the breeze immediately. Slowly, slowly, she knelt down in the ruin, brushing a slender hand against the indented earth, sifting the cinders through her fingers.
"Hello, sister. Did you come to bid our brother goodbye?"
Ramiel did not answer, her vessel's lips sealed tightly shut as she pressed the pads of her fingers against the scorch marks; they still burned with power and energy beneath her touch. A whisper of movement whirled about her crouched form and then a pair of dark brown boots moved into her line of vision, stopping inches away from her hands. Their tops were worn with age and dusty, covered with the ash so heedlessly kicked up and about. "Why so despondent, Ramiel?" Lucifer asked, his voice ringing with subdued amusement and condescension. "You had already seen it."
There was the unmistakable crack of a whip striking the air and then the angel was resonating an energy that had nothing to do with glory or righteousness or the will of the Almighty as she stood glaring full into the face of the Son of Perdition, unblinking gaze steeped with intensity not to be taken lightly. "I have seen many things, Lucifer." Ramiel's voice was cold, so cold. "Many paths, many futures, and many ends. I have seen both the triumphs of Heaven and the failures of man, all roads leading to this moment and beyond." She leaned in close, a woman beautiful and terrible in the quiet fury, the angel of joy darkening the entirety of Creation with her frightening anger. "So boast not, serpent, for you know not as much as you believe."
Lucifer inclined his head a fraction of an inch in mock affront. "Don't be angry with me, Ramiel." He reached out to settle a hand on the other's shoulder; she gracefully turned away, moving out of arm's length. "You," the Devil continued smoothly, "out of all of the Host, you my sister, should understand the love for God with which I chose to rebel-"
She laughed; a tiny scoffing trill filled with such indescribable sadness that it could barely be considered a noise of joy. "You lie. You don't know what love is." Ramiel lifted her gaze and looked out over the place of her brother's death. "It is what drove Gabriel to this sacrifice for his brother – his love for Castiel." She turned back to the one whom she once also loved, her former brother. "But you already knew it would, did you not?" Tears, hot and angry, were gathering in her vessel's eyes, accusing. "And that is why you struck the bargain in the first place. To bring down one of the most powerful of the Host."
"Still as astute as ever, dear sister." He touched her face gently, and caught a tear on the edge of his thumb, wiping it away.
Her lips trembled and she closed her eyes, painfully bringing up a hand to knock the other's away. "You are no brother of mine, Abbadon."
Lucifer smiled, serene and understanding, as beautiful as the great Morning Star had once been. "Foolish little sister," he murmured. "You are indeed a spirited one."
Ramiel's grace flared. "I do not fear you."
"No?" Darkness and light melded together, evil crowding in upon righteousness, a man's thumb bracing against a woman's trachea, threatening to snuff out the joy of Heaven. "And why is that?"
"For I have also seen your demise, Light Bearer." Ramiel was weak, but joy and truth are powerful things, and the angel's grace burned and burned and burned, hot and strong. "I saw how you fell from Heaven, Star of the Morning, and I have seen your undoing a second time by Michael's sword."
Lucifer's smile was nothing so beautiful or placid now; it curved into a mocking sneer, dark and ugly. His hold tightened and rose upwards, lifting the other clear off the ground. "Have you now?"
"Destroy me if you wish." Ramiel lifted her chin defiantly. "But you remember this moment, brother." The word was more spat in disgust than spoken, all former traces of longing for peace and oneness of the family they once shared now dissipated. "Remember that I have seen the face of the man who strikes you down – and he is a Righteous Man." Her voice dropped to a whisper, promise and threat combined and in that one instant, the angel of true vision looked the cool confidence, the arrogance, and the deceit – and saw uncertainty, hesitance, and what may or may not have been fear.
"When you are cast down into the eternal fire, you think back upon what your foolish little sister prophesized, and you remember."
A/N: Um…right. That's it, pretty much. Please drop a review!
Scripture used in this chapter: John 15:13 and 1 John 3:16
Translations: Yitgaddal veyitquaddash shmeh rabba be'alma dir a khir'uteh… (Beginning of the Kaddish, the Hebrew prayer for the Dead) and in Enochian-
Ozazm vgeg on torzul, solpeth bien: Make me strong in your strength, hearken unto my voice