VI

Do you remember, little bird

When we could simply be?

I need you here, dear little bird.

I need you here with me.

If he thought about it, there were only three people in this world he'd ever really loved.

He loved his father like he loved the ocean; unfathomable and vast and deep, personally serving him no good, but comforting all the same. The man walked out of his life when he was a small child, and to be honest, he hadn't really thought about him in a long time. There were brief moments where he wondered where the man was and if he was happy, but they passed as quickly as ripples meeting the shore.

His love for his mother was something different. It was stronger; a bond built in tangling small fingers around long red locks of hair and finger painting while she created her charcoal masterpieces. She would look at him with large sad eyes and ask him if he loved her. And always, he answered yes. She was his mother. Of course he loved her. He loved her on the days when she smiled and smothered him in kisses. He loved her on the days when she raged at him and called him a liar. He loved her on her quiet days, when she would sit by the window and gaze at nothing. He loved her when she slept through the day, leaving him to fend for himself in the large empty house, battling against the monsters in the shadows and dust.

He still loves her, but he can't quite find it in himself to forgive her.

It was on a day that started happy and ended quiet. They had gone to the park, and she sketched him as he pursued the bees. She taught him to weave flower chains, made him a crown, and bought ice cream for them both while the sun was still high in the sky. And when they got home, she curled around him on the couch and told him story after story about angels and demons and hunters and heroes. And when it came time for bed, instead of tucking him into his own small cot, she let him lay next to her; something she hadn't allowed since he was much younger. He fell asleep in her arms, listening to the comforting beat of her heart, feeling the puffs of air as she exhaled into his dark hair.

When he woke, it was to the light streaming in from the window and he found himself in heavy, cold, pale arms. She was not breathing. After all, she had taken a bottle's worth of sleeping pills; slipped quietly into a coma and then let life trickle away. He sat up in the bed, inexplicably frozen in place, staring at his mother's body with eyes that saw and did not see.

And lo! A seed, small and bitter, was planted in the boy's belly. And it grew in tendrils and wound about itself until it was a full-fledged, choking, seething, rage.

After that point, nothing felt real. He was Alice through the looking glass and wandering through Wonderland. His body ceased to be his because he was no longer home. Earth was a planet in space that revolved around the sun, and Castiel was far, far away.

Life was easier because everything ceased to matter. Rules ceased to exist (did they ever?) and laws were meant to be broken. He drew a circle around himself and shut the world out. Any who dared to cross the line risked letting loose a storm of rage and broken mugs or the stubborn refusal to acknowledge anything. He bounced from house to house (he had no home, and thus, would recognize no home). For a brief, shining moment, a flicker of hope broke through the clouds when, in desperation, one foster parent handed him a Bible and told him it held the answer to every unspoken question in his heart. He carried it with him wherever he went and like a little monk, he pored over the text; absorbing each and every line into his skin until the words carved themselves into his very bones. And when he reached the end, the good book dropped from his slack fingers, and he screamed and roared inconsolably, deaf to the sounds of his current caretaker, a whirling storm of untamed emotions until the nurses at the hospital shot his gangly form full of tranquilizers. When he woke, it was to the sight of his foster brother at side, blue eyes gleaming with a near-silver light. He scooted his chair closer to Castiel's bedside, leaning in close enough for his golden hair to be haloed in the light. Gently, he tapped the tip of Castiel's nose, and murmured,

"I'm sorry you couldn't find what you were looking for. But I'll tell you a secret," Balthazar dropped his voice into a hushed whisper, "It's out there, Cassie. And when you find it, no one will be able to keep you from it."

Balthazar would always use "fun" as the selling point to get Castiel to do things for him. In actuality, Castiel was just trying to find something to pierce and burn the all-encompassing numbness that defined his being; anything; anything besides the void that resided in his center; something to bridge the chasm that divided him from the rest of the world and open the floodgates to something like feeling alive. He wanted something permanent and real, but still he could not find it.

His talent for forgery was remarkable. He was a guide who frequently found his way around a jungle of details. His mastery was something to be seen. Clients would heap praise upon the reclusive man, calling him an artist. Getting caught was inevitable. Balthazar, slippery as he was, had managed to stay free. Not so with Castiel, who holed himself up in the same place for years.

Part of him wonders if it was perhaps an angel that allowed him to be captured and sentenced. After all, it led him to Dean.

Beautiful, mighty Dean who loved him like the soothing burn of whiskey, and sparked in him a passion unlike anything; Dean, who drew back the veil between him and the world; molded and shaped him and gave him form; gave him life. Dean, who did the impossible and made him feel.

He's drifting through a blue sky like a leaf in autumn.

Down

down

down.

And then cold, rough walls rise around him, blocking him from the soft, white clouds. He opens his mouth to scream, but the breath is snatched from his lungs, and the walls slide inward. Sam pounds his fists frantically against the walls, tearing his skin and staining the grey red with blood. He is trapped, and the walls are his coffin. And like the trapdoor of a gallows, the floor drops from beneath him, sending him into ink black water with a roaring splash that floods his ears and nose and mouth.

The piercing sound of some high frequency pierces cuts through, parting the waters like Moses and the Red Sea. Tentatively, Sam follows the path it clears and walks out onto a field of white clouds. Sam's feet know the way, even if he does not. He comes to a stop before a whirling vortex. The wind whips the hair into and away from his face. It is the eye of the storm, and Sam spreads his arms, closes his eyes, and falls.

"And the Lord God, with loving hands sculpted man from the clay of earth, and with a kiss breathed into him the breath of life; and man became a shining soul."

"I'm pretty sure that's not what it actually says, Cas."

Sam opens his eyes, and he sees two men, resting on a prison cot. Their jumpsuits are proof enough that they are prisoners, but they are relaxed and at ease. This is their world and outside does not exist. Dean is stretched out on his back., hands behind his head. His body is like a still surface of water, anticipating the ripple of touch. His focus is on the other man sitting cross legged next to him, eyes closed. Castiel cracks open one blue eye and grins. He uncrosses his legs, and leans over Dean.

"Oh ye of little faith. That may not be what was written, but that's what happened."

"How do you know that?"

"Because that's what you did."

He plants a kiss on Dean's lips, and Dean takes over, turning it into a hungry and wild thing. He pulls Castiel down and closer, pressing a hand against the back of Castiel's neck. Dean breaks away with a nip to Castiel's lower lip.

"Am I your god, Cas?"

"I recognize no other."

Dean hums with pleasure. Castiel lies down beside him, his head over Dean's heart and his hand stroking the v-neck of Dean's prison scrubs. Dean raises one hand and rests it above Castiel's, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. Castiel's brows furrow and he presses himself closer to the other man.

"I don't want you to go." He whispers. Dean runs a thumb over the back of Castiel's hand.

"It's only temporary," Dean murmurs, "It can't hurt me."

"But how do you know it worked? It was supposed to bring Sam to you."

"Don't worry, Cas." He wraps his arm around the other man, holding him close, "He'll come. Maybe not tomorrow, or the day after that, or even in a year, but I'll see my Babybro," he strokes his fingers through dark brown locks and opens his eyes, staring directly at Sam. His green eyes shine merrily as his face breaks into a wide grin. He tilts his head, touching his cheek to Castiel's hair, not once breaking eye contact with the specter of Sam.

"It'll happen."

Sam's head fills with fire and his eyes drown in white light as a warm voice echoes through the room.

"Babybro,

There are beautiful things out there. Precious people. Don't let them slip away. Fight as hard as you can to keep them. Fight for them."

He wakes up screaming.

"It's all coming down. The world is ending."

Balthazar sighs dramatically and pours more wine into his glass. He raises it, toasting the man across from him. Distractedly, Castiel raises his glass in answer and sips, gazing out the window. It was as if all the waters of the world decided to fall from the sky. Rain hammered down on the roof, as if desperate to make its way inside. It was the drumbeat of collapse.

Balthazar had lived well while Castiel was in prison, and Castiel never held it against him. But Balthazar's life has now turned on him, and now there's nothing left to do but drink up the rest of his fine liquor and watch it all fall apart.

"I can't believe," he continues, "That they managed to play me. Hook. Line. And sinker." He peers into the wine bottle and throws it away in disgust, "I taught them too well."

"You are the best."

"Was the best, Cassie. Keyword 'was.'"

He grasps a bottle of expensive whiskey and chuckles. His former associates had turned on him, pinning him for embezzlement and murder. Before long, the authorities would be swarming his lovely home like a plague of locusts, disturbing his lovely paintings and likely ruining his sound system. He raises the bottle of whiskey,

"To the lovely misses Atropos and Talbot, may they one day feel what it is like to be stabbed in the back as I've have been."

He takes a deep swig, savoring the burn. He slumps in his chair, reveling in the burn as the whiskey went down. Oh, that's good stuff.

"And it came to pass that the brother of the heart must too shed his blood, for he and those like him are as constant as the moon. Though they change in shape and form, they are as stars of heaven fallen unto earth. They are the sixth rite, for Death must walk hand in hand with loss in all things."

Balthazar squints his eyes in confusion then shakes his head. He passes the bottle over in the general direction of where Castiel is sitting.

"Still babbling scripture, Cassie?"

"No. But I am sorry, brother. Forgive me."

He arranges Balthazar's arms across his chest, like the pharaohs of old. Castiel kneels before him, whispering prayers to his lingering soul. He gives the husk of Balthazar one last kiss on the forehead, before leaning back on his heels to take in the beautiful sight. Like smoke, the shining white of Balthazar's soul rises from his parted lips. In one breathtaking flash it explodes, bursting through the windows, and whirls out into the night sky. Castiel smiles softly as it goes; then gets to work carving wings into the wood floor.

Dearheart,

The people we love never leave us because we hold a piece of them deep within our hearts. No one can take that away.

"He's mocking us. He's gotta be mocking us." Gabriel rubs tiredly at his eyes. If forensic wasn't currently going over the crime scene, he would have probably destroyed the wings on the floor. Set them on fire, smash them with a hammer, that sort of thing.

"Gabriel, we need to talk."

Gabriel groans, but takes in how tired the Wesson looks. He probably was running on as little sleep as physically possible. Just like everyone else on this case. Gabriel crosses his arms and leans in closer. Sam rolls his eyes and awkwardly tilts until his mouth is close to Gabriel's ear.

"In private."

Gabriel throws his hands up in the air in exasperation and walks out of the Roche house and out onto the lawn. He stops in front of a willow tree in a remote part of the property and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"Happy? Now spit it out. What's eating you so bad that it's for my ears only?"

"Dean Smith is my older brother. I was born Sam Winchester, but my parents changed my name when they adopted me. I only found out the truth after Smith was captured."

Sam attempts to kick at a pebble, but only ends up scuffing fresh mud onto his shoe. He looks over at Gabriel, tentatively, unsure of what to expect. The other man has a flat look on his face and is holding a lollipop out to Sam. Sam's nose wrinkles in confusion.

"A Dum Dum for a dumb-dumb."

"What?"

"Really, Sam? Now is the time you decide to tell me?" Gabriel turns away, shoulders slumping, gazing up into the heavens as if to ask 'why me?' Finally, he turns back to Sam, "I already know."

"What?"

"Sam you're too honest for your own good. My God, the professionalism in this department. I don't know if this is better or worse than finding out that Ash and Jo Harvelle used to date."

"What?!"

"You mean he didn't tell you?! Sam, why do you think he's been okay with us making him play desk jockey?" Sam opens his mouth to ask Gabriel for more information, but Gabriel raises a hand to stop him, "Anyway, I already know because Lucifer and I dug it up way back when we were originally hunting Smith."

"Then why…"

Gabriel shrugged.

"Luci pushed for it. He and I both knew you didn't have anything to do with it. You had so much potential back then and he didn't want to ruin your life. That, and he thought you were a good kid," he shakes his head, "You still are a good kid." He tugs one of the willow branches, shaking rainwater from the leaves.

"We buried the evidence and covered our tracks. We thought that you'd never find out. But I guess we forgot to factor you in." he winks reassuringly, but there is no humor in his eyes.

A cold wind whips by, and they shiver in their jackets.

Five Years Ago

Dean scrambled desperately, trying to maintain pressure on the stomach wound of Jo Harvelle.

"Dean." She huffed. Dean shushed her, wild panic coursing through his veins as he realized he was practically keeping her guts in her body.

"You're gonna be alright Jo. You're gonna be fine."

One last con, she had said. One last time between old friends.

Jo was the last remnant of his nearly non-existent childhood. Her blonde hair was messily tied back when she offered him his first cigarette. They were both twelve and he never forgot the words she said to him as he took his first puff.

We have the same eyes.

They never could belong in the crisp, clean world of the normal folk; people who didn't lose their mamas and their daddies in car wrecks or house fires; people who hadn't seen the things they'd seen; people who could never survive the life they led. But with Jo by his side, it never mattered. With each other, they were never truly alone.

And as her life seeped from between his fingers, it did matter. He should never have let her pull this one last job-

"-before I get hitched to my lover-boy."

"He's cool with what you do?"

"Dean, he doesn't know what I do, and he's not gonna know what I do. He thinks I just make my living bartending and after this job it can stay that way."

"I don't know, Jo."

"Don't you die on me, Joanna Beth. Don't you go."

With what little strength she had left, she lifted a blood stained hand to rest on top of Dean's. Her engagement ring was stained with blood.

"'S okay, Dean. It's okay."

A/N I based Castiel's problems on what I'd read about Depersonalization Disorder. Not sure how well it came across, but I tried.

Also, I don't know how widespread Dum Dums are, but they're a brand of small lollipops that come in many varieties of flavors. They were a big part of my childhood. There's also one currently sitting on my desk.