They settled around their fire that night, lit because it was colder up North and ice still tugged on the crust of the frozen Earth, causing the horses to slip and the wind chill at nighttime to drop dangerously low, even for humans in the company of an Angel. The fire was meek, barely a spec in the darkness of the land around them, but it was hot, aided by Castiel's Grace – which had returned to full strength when they had left the Mocker's body – and they were all comfortably warm.
Castiel was rinsing the blood from his feathers, which had crusted and dried, forcing the finer ones to stick together and become uncomfortable. Through his entire grooming process, where he would reach back and dig his nails into the glands at the base of his wing, coaxing oil out to rub into the feathers and then comb out with his fingers once it had dried, Castiel could feel Daniel's eyes on him – fervent, dark, so green when he dared to glance the Hunter's way, meet his eyes. It was as though Daniel could see deeper than Castiel's skin, or his feathers when he drew them tight around his body in anxious defense; perhaps the Hunter could sense the longing and the love rolling under Castiel's skin, tingeing his Grace a weak blue. Perhaps he knew enough about Angels to read their wing stances, could see Castiel's desire in the arch of his wings or the upward bristle of his top layer of feathers.
Daniel and Sarah ate in silence for the most part, and Castiel did not eat at all, but merely concentrated on his wings and tried his best to avoid Daniel's eyes. The Hunters were reclining against another structure Castiel had molded for them, Sarah's legs curled in, Daniel's crossed at the ankle and out, relaxed. One arm was thrown over her shoulders and it hurt to see, to acknowledge, and so Castiel didn't.
When he was finished picking the dried blood and oil from his wings, and had wiped his hands clean on his jeans, he pulled the bloodstained coat closer on his lap, fingers smoothing out over the coarse material. It was rough against his touch, thick sheep or alpaca wool more than likely the outer material, and the inside was no more comfortable – no fine lining marked it as an expensive piece of clothing. There had been little extravagance in Matthew's life, Castiel imagined.
He pressed against the stains of blood and shivered, feathers rustling as he closed his eyes. Love and power lingered in these stains; someone had killed something they loved. Someone had been hurt by something they loved. Castiel could not fathom a man or woman striking down their Mocker, any more than Castiel could have struck down Dean or Sam or Bobby, or Daniel and Sarah now. He could not fathom it.
"Let me see that," Sarah suddenly said, piping up for what felt like the first time since they had left the site of Matthew's death, and Castiel reluctantly handed the coat over to her. Immediately she folded back the collar, pressing her lips together as she tilted the coat to try and read the label sewn onto the inside. "Danny, you recognize this label?"
He sat up, peering closer with squinting eyes, and Castiel again had to look away. Such old eyes. "…No, can't say I do," Daniel said slowly, as though unsure of his answer and Sarah rolled her eyes.
"Well can't say why you would. We only buy pretty much everything from here. Singer & McCloud. They sell Hunting gear – everything; warm clothes, guns, knives, salt rounds. Anything and everything a Hunter could need."
Daniel blinked, raising an eyebrow, and took the coat from Sarah's hands, examining it as though he had just seen it for the first time. Castiel was startled at that piece of news – Singer & McCloud? Two names he doubted he would ever forget. But Bobby and, he suspected, though he could never be sure, Crowley were both dead. Had been for a very long time.
A family business? Had Crowley procreated, fallen and sired heirs just like the rest of the demons had? Did Crowley have a Mocker for a son?
Had he just died in Castiel's arms?
"I need to know who owned this," Castiel insisted, gesturing towards the coat. "Anyone who has slain a Mocker should be punished for it."
Both Daniel and Sarah raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't reply; "Cas," Daniel said, shaking his head a little, "there's probably hundreds of these things made. It's pretty standard, don't you think? I doubt anybody in a company as big as this one will have individual records."
The Angel pressed his lips together, wings shifting uneasily; there were ways he could get the information. Perhaps a shipping document, and from there the distributors; he could search their minds and they would know which Hunters were heading to which climates, would need which gear. He could search. It would take weeks, months, maybe years, but he could search, and he would find the man or woman who did this. He could and he would.
"Hey, hey…" Daniel's soft voice recaptured Castiel's attention, and the Angel blinked and refocused to realize he had been kneading his palms into his thighs, tearing through the worn material of his jeans, and his wings had fanned out, high and big – threatening. "We'll look into it, Cas, I promise. I promise, alright?"
Such sincere, old eyes. Castiel forced himself to relax with a curt nod of his head. "Where is this company based?" he asked, for lack of anything else to say.
Dinner over with, and the Hunters' eyes drooping from weariness, he allowed them to settle onto their bedrolls before answering; "Pretty sure it's in Chicago. That's where most roads lead, anyway."
Castiel didn't understand the reference, but it had been a long time since he had ventured out into the land of the living, breathing human population. It was oddly comforting, not understanding what Dean – Daniel – was talking about.
"Just like old times," he murmured under his breath, and settled his wings tightly around his body, laying back against a mound of earth to rest.
The wind chill rose, the temperature dipped, and Death visited Castiel in the nighttime.
The Angel was broken out of peaceful meditation by the appearance of Death, and opened his eyes to see the man-like certainty walking towards him, with purpose, cane in hand stabbing into the ground as though he held a vendetta against the life caged within the Earth, and he rose to his feet, one wing flaring out on instinct to shield the sight of Daniel and Sarah's slumbering bodies from Death's sight.
Which was ridiculous. No one escaped Death's sight.
"You're not taking them," he hissed out, teeth bared in a snarl as Death continued to approach, until they were standing very close together. Death looked bored – he always looked bored, even when the Apocalypse was nigh. It was just another day for him. "I won't allow it."
"You were once a God," Death said plainly, clearly unimpressed. "A Creator. Every Creator needs to be destroyed. But today is not your day." Then, Death gestured to the dark space beside himself, illuminated only by the wave of his hand so the blackness transformed into pale flickering grey like an old (old, very old) movie.
It drew Castiel's eye, and the Angel slowly relaxed, letting his wings fall back to his sides. Nothing appeared in the grey smudge of air beside Death's hand, and he frowned after a moment. "What are you showing me?"
"Patience," Death replied with a roll of his eyes. "Always the same, living things. They have no patience."
"I am not living," Castiel remarked dryly, with a slight smile.
"No argument there."
Then, in the space next to Death's hand, shimmered into sight a ghostly form of a man – younger than Castiel's vessel, but older than Daniel and Sarah. His face was haggard and rough but even in the monochrome visage he presented, his eyes were bright, his hair a lighter grey than his skin. Silver hair, perhaps. He looked like he was cold, clutching his arms tightly around his middle, and his shirt was tattered, looked like it had been shredded. Blood ran down from the corner of his mouth and there were claw marks on his chest.
Death was watching the visage expectantly. "Who are you?" Castiel asked when the soul – for Castiel was sure now that it was a soul, conjured onto the human plain for his sight – remained silent.
The man's eyes snapped to his, and when he breathed out his exhale misted and vanished above his head. "My name is Harry Singer," he said to Castiel, who blinked at the name.
"You're a very long way from home," he said.
The soul looked around as though just noticing their surroundings, and then his eyes widened, panic flaring in the soul as surely as in someone living. "Where is he?" the soul demanded, searching around him desperately, around his feet and then above the three of them, in the air. "Matthew, where is he?"
The Angel's eyes widened – Matthew's master. "He's dead?" he whispered to Death, disbelieving.
Death nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. "I have been carrying him with me for quite some time. He insisted that I not leave him behind." The certainty waved his hand vaguely, shimmer of metallic restraints just visible in the false light, "And I do hate finishing a half-arsed job."
Castiel didn't know what he meant by that. The visage of Harry Singer was fading away. "You have both of them now," Castiel whispered. "Will you let them rest?"
"Of course," Death replied with a smile, and with a wave of his hand the trembling soul disappeared. "But I wanted to show you this, Castiel. I remember you used to be such an intelligent thing, and I do tire of this place."
Castiel frowned. "Why?" he asked, wings curling in tight around his shoulders – he hated uncertainty, and there had seemed to be so much of it in the past two days. Like everything he had ever known and ever loved had been ripped from him all over again, every day – every damning second that he looked upon the man who reminded him so much of his beloved mate, whose soul shone so brightly and with so much familiarity that Castiel wanted to weep for him. "Why are you showing me these things?"
Dean sighed. "You used to be so much better than this, Castiel."
"So I've heard," the Angel snarled, "but that has nothing to do with anything anymore. Heaven is closed. Death," he gestured to the creature with a curl to his lips that spoke of disdain, "is in shackles. The dead walk the Earth again in borrowed bodies. This whole world is damned."
Death said nothing, looking down at his manacled wrists. "Yes," he mused, raising one of his hands, examining the play of the glint of ethereal metal caging him in. "Death is caged." Then, he dropped his hand, fixing eyes that were cold and the color of the barren Earth on Castiel. "This world was written off, Angel," he said plainly, tilting his head to one side at Castiel's uneasy rumble. "And just as the world was written off before, everything must be done in pairs. Animals march in two by two, and all of that."
The Angel's brow furrowed in confusion; he had no idea what Death was talking about. "What do you mean?" he demanded, taking a step forward until he would be able to reach with his wings and cage Death in, trap him for answers – though he knew it was foolish, his wings and feathers bristled with the desire to. "This world cannot be gone. There is still so much to do upon it. What will become of humanity? Of Mockers?"
Death sighed. "Do not trouble yourself, Seraph," he said dismissively, raising a hand and laying it against Castiel's cheek in what felt like a mockery of a comforting gesture; Death's touch was cold, chilling, and reminded Castiel of Lucifer's taint. "I suppose you have time."
And with that – again – Death disappeared, leaving Castiel to deflate as though all the air and gravity had rushed back into place with Death gone. Quickly he looked back towards Daniel and Sarah, to make sure their sleep had been undisturbed, was relieved to find them still sleeping peacefully, and he went to check on the horses. He found being around that giant blank mare helped him to think.
She was dozing lightly, resting on three legs, the fourth bent and limp, and he did not disturb her – merely stood close to her to share her warmth. "Father," he whispered, looking up to the sky and sending up his more fervent, desperate prayer; "Please. I am…I am asking for your help. Help me…Save your people. Don't let me lose him again."
The last part was quieter, breathed in shame amidst the exhale of the dozing horses – something that only he and his God should know together. From even the mare, it was kept a secret.
Death's words stayed with Castiel for a long while after the creature had left, and he was left to ponder them well into the sunrise. He had cast a wing over Daniel and Sarah, letting them catch another hour or two of much-needed sleep; even before Castiel had been bought for them and they had hit the road, he had seen the dark circles under their eyes, the way their bodies moved sluggishly, even if still quicker with better reflexes than a normal civilian. His Hunters needed rest and he would not let them work themselves into the ground.
Not again.
It ended up being mid-morning, close to noon when they set off again, this time tilting their course Northwards, putting the sun as it set on their right as the road split into two parts, then three, and Daniel kept following the one that tracked further North.
"I thought the Hunt was West," Castiel noted at one point during the course of their travels.
"There's a big storm this time of year, always, in the middle of the country," Sarah would tell him in reply. "It's better to try and skirt around it." A pause. "Can't you feel it? The air's getting colder."
And that might have been the case, had Castiel not been able to see flashes of Death at every turn, ever-present at their backs. It was almost poetic, how Death kept following them, as though he were keeping an eye on them, making sure they were going the right way.
Castiel hoped they were.
Matthew and Harry's faces haunted him in the daytime, when the air was clear as he flew above Daniel and Sarah's heads and had very little to think about but what had happened over the past couple of days. Anger stirred in his Grace every time he thought of the beaten and frightened Mocker, of his master who was obviously so distraught, stuck in whatever time he had died in.
He's been dead for a very long time. So Harry had not struck Matthew down. That meant someone else had.
Castiel had taken to carrying the coat, the garment rolled up tight and working well as a pad between the duffle bag of stiff guns at his back, cushioning his sore muscles a little and letting his wings have a better range of movement. The scent of blood on it burned at his nose every now and again, and he committed the scent to memory, wishing that his Grace was strong enough to find the thing that had done this by his senses alone – but it seemed that whatever had made Matthew immune to his Grace was working on the coat as well. Perhaps it was Matthew's blood alone, and that was why he could not dig further into the DNA evidence on it.
His fingers twitched and curled in anger, biting into his palms. It made his Grace burn with rage at the idea of Matthew being ripped apart like that – and it must have been something familiar to him, something he should not have been threatened by. Perhaps another Mocker, or a friend of his master's? Castiel did not know, and he cursed his ignorance – felt human and slow and foolish, helpless, as though another soul had been ripped from him that he could not follow; could not interrogate for answers. He needed answers, was used to receiving them upon a prayer. But Heaven was silent, and the Gates were shut.
He closed his eyes, sighing heavily and letting his sight drop back down to Earth. It seemed so much…browner. There was green, yet, stubborn blades of grass sprouting up with just enough frequency to support life, but still so brown and bleak. He missed green. The world should have more green.
It was then, gazing down at the world and critiquing the color palette, that Castiel realized he couldn't see Daniel and Sarah. He pulled up short, coasting on a wind current and looking behind him, to see if in his mind wandering he had overtaken them and flown too far ahead. But, no, he could not see them. Neither in front of him nor behind.
He was beginning to panic, yellow and red settling hard in his Grace, a ball of lead in his gut, and quickly he folded his wings, ducking down through the air and the wet, cold clouds, heading back along the road to see where they might have gone. He searched out with his Grace, trying to find the souls of his Hunters, or their consciences, but his Grace was hindered by the Mocker blood on his back and he couldn't find them, his Grace too muted and unwilling to extend that far from his body.
No, he thought, unable to comprehend it, as he landed on the frozen Earth hard enough that pain shot up his legs and his bare feet, nearly human flesh impacting on the ground and he hissed when he heard a crack of bone – but luckily his Grace obeyed his order to heal himself and he was standing straight again almost immediately. No. No. Where are they?
"Daniel!" he called out, and he knew immediately that that was a stupid thing to do; never give away your position, Dean had told him. Never let them know where you are. But he couldn't – his Hunters were gone, like they had just vanished, and he couldn't lose them again. "Sarah! Daniel!"
He quickly shoved the bags of guns over his shoulder, dumping them on the ground amidst some longer-growing grass. They would be relatively hidden there but he didn't care enough to fashion a better disguise, and he unzipped Sarah's gun bag, pulling out one of her smaller handguns. His fingers felt clumsy around the weapon – Dean had always checked his gun for him, even after Castiel had regularly joined him on Hunts – but it felt familiar and cold against his palm. Almost as though Dean was with him again.
Without the Mocker blood clogging his Grace, it was free to reach out and search for Daniel and Sarah as he pushed up into the air again, catching the breeze and flying back the way he had come as fast as his aching muscles would allow.
It had been a very long time, but Castiel knew he would remember the sensation of Dean's soul as clearly as though he had held the man just minutes ago. He knew he would have been able to find Daniel – and hopefully Sarah by extension – from his Grace alone, for Daniel and Sarah's bodies had not been protected against Angels finding them – why would they? There weren't any Angels anymore. And Castiel cursed himself for wandering off in his thoughts, cursed his own fickle brain and his own stupid thoughts of war and vengeance for allowing him to notice that Daniel and Sarah had disappeared; ripped out from right under his nose.
He would make the things that did this pay.
He found the horses standing on the side of the road, and the gelding gave a startled whinny at his speedy and sudden approach, stamping his forelegs on the ground and trotting a little ways off, ears flat against his head. The mare was silent and still – something had struck her across the nose and she was bleeding, but seemed calm. Daniel and Sarah were nowhere to be seen, but all of their gear was still attached to the horses' backs. It was as though they had just disappeared, or fallen.
"Where did they go?" he whispered to the horses, approaching the mare as she flicked her ears up to look at him, dark eyes intelligent and calm. It unnerved him, how calm this horse was in the face of her riders being attacked and disappearing. Like she was used to being attacked and then thrown aside until they found her again.
And Castiel's mouth twisted when she rumbled at him, thinking of Dean's car. The mare shook herself of dust, snorting out of her flared nostrils, and lowered her head to graze as though nothing was wrong. Castiel pressed a hand against her shoulder, his fingers stroking along the grain of her sweaty coat, and it was then he noticed a very white slip of paper, tucked into the pommel of the saddle, and, frowning, he took it out, unfolding it to reveal black, flowing script written in ink – like an old quill might have done.
I think you already know where to find them, was all it said, the 'y's and the 'f' and 'I' almost obnoxiously stylized, taking up the entirety of the paper where the others letters didn't. It was signed with just one letter – C. Castiel's mouth twisted again, his eyes flashing in anger as he crumpled up the note between his fingers, his wings flexing, barely controlled as he fought the urge to immediately push into the air and fly as fast as he could. That would do nothing.
At least he knew Daniel and Sarah would not be harmed. Not until he had reached them.
He fetched the gelding, soothing the frightened animal until he had calmed, and allowed his long reins to be tied to the mare's saddle, and he led both of the horses back towards the duffle bags he had left hidden among the grass, which he then attached to the gelding's saddle as best he could. He mounted the mare, his wings shifting uneasily and thighs tensing in remembered discomfort, but it was the only way to ensure the horses and gear weren't left behind – he doubted it would be a popular choice if he did.
Besides, the mare was so level-headed. One of them had to be, he supposed; to have the heart and body of a machine, merely react to the press of a foot and the pull of a hand. To be a creature forged specifically to carry, to protect, to handle.
"Let's go, Baby," he whispered to her, laying a hand under her mane to stroke across her neck, before he dug his heels in and the horses set off at a canter, which he had found to be the easiest gait to ride on without feeling like he was going to fall.
Daniel woke up feeling as though his mouth had been stuffed full of cotton and threaded down through his insides – everything was fuzzy, and it took him at least three tries to blink his eyes all the way open. His fingers reacted slowly to his attempts at movements, and when he kicked his feet they sluggishly dragged along the ground and refused to flatten, to keep him upright.
He heard a soft groan to his left, and tilted his fuzzed head to try and focus his eyes on the source of the sound. He could see Sarah's blurred silhouette and, though he was still trapped and obviously dazed with no idea where he was, the knowledge that she was there with him made him relax, if only a little.
He could neither see nor hear Castiel.
"S'rh." Her name came out as a slurred jumble of consonants, no shape to it, but it got her attention and she lifted her head to look at him. They were braced against a wall, feet and arms shackles loosely – and by that it meant they had enough room to move their arms and legs, but their limbs were quite firmly encased in what looked like silver manacles.
The floor was dusty and there were scraps of old hay lying around, the dust and dander tickling at Daniel's nose until he sneezed violently, rubbing at his face with his hand, which made the chains clink almost unbearably loudly in the small space. Slowly, his head was clearing and his eyes were starting to focus.
The room was dark, lit only by a set of three stairs leading up to an open doorway, and instead of a door there was a thick iron grate that allowed sunlight, and was heavily padlocked with a large bolt running down the inside of it into the floor. The chains looked rusted and old, but strong, and Daniel knew without looking that the manacles they were in did not stretch far enough for them to even think about chipping away at it.
He sighed, clenching and unclenching his fingers as he tried to work blood flow back into them, stretching his legs out. It was then that a sharp pain flared up in his leg and he cried out, immediately curling it back into his body, flattening his hands along the source of the pain – there was blood staining his jeans and, when he pressed against the material, he could feel an unnatural jut of bone against his hands. He gritted his teeth, trying to breathe hard through the pain until most of it had passed – it had served to sober him up completely, though. His mind was sharp.
"Danny? You okay?" came Sarah's concerned voice, and the clink of metal as she moved closer to him, until he could feel her thigh pressing against his uninjured leg and her arm around his shoulders. "Are you hurt?"
"Think I – fuck – thing my leg's broken or something," he hissed back, sweat breaking out on his forehead now. Godfuckingdamnit that hurt. "Must've – shit – happened when I fell off the horse."
"What the Hell happened?" Sarah demanded at that, looking around to take in the dirty basement they had been thrown into. "Did you see who it was? I don't…" She grimaced, touching a hand to her forehead, and shook her head.
No. Daniel hadn't seen who it was that had struck them down, but he remembered a man in a suit appearing to them on the road – short, stocky, with five o'clock shadow and a smarmy look on his face, a gleam in his dark eyes that meant he was looking for trouble. He had been dressed well, even for someone this far North where the people tended to be wealthier, surviving off of mining new, fresh oil that had been created with the birth of the new world.
"Where do you think we are?" she asked after a while, when Daniel's breathing had calmed and the pain in his leg had dulled to a background thrum of discomfort, radiating through him like the cotton feeling had.
He lifted his shoulder in a shrug, turning to prop himself against her body and she let him, curling an arm around his shoulder, close, and letting him rest his sweaty forehead against her cheek. For now they rested – soon, he knew, they would try and shove the bone back into his leg, bind him tight and then try and find a way out of here, but for now he was tired and in pain and he wanted to sleep.
"Where's Cas?" he asked, just as sleep was tugging at the edges of his consciousness, worry for the Angel sudden, creeping up on him like a bad dream waiting to pounce on his mind. Though Daniel had not been around the Angel much, he had never been uncomfortable around him – and he felt his absence like a chill, as though someone had stolen the warmth from his stomach. It made him uneasy, to think that the Angel might have been left behind, or taken somewhere else – maybe those that had attacked them had been after the Angel, thought him to be a Mocker and tried to steal him. Maybe they had taken Daniel and Sarah away and then lured Castiel into a trap and maybe he was gone, attacked, hurt, bleeding – maybe he was dead.
The very thought made him want to throw up.
"I don't know," Sarah replied, and it didn't help; God, where was the Angel? Where was he? "Look outside, Danny," she whispered, squeezing his shoulder. "It's still daylight out."
"Yeah," he noted, voice tight with pain and worry. "So?"
"That means either we slept a long time, or no time has moved at all. We weren't brought here by men." Sarah's voice was low and controlled, as though she was suddenly afraid of being overheard, and Daniel felt his body go tense at the same realization; whatever had happened to them, whatever had attacked them in the middle of the road, it – he – hadn't been human.
"I hope Cas is okay," Daniel murmured, his voice once again slurring as pain and exhaustion caught up with him once more, digging their icy fingers in and dragging him down. Even the faint nausea he felt in the pit of his gut, worrying over Castiel, and their own fate, could not keep him awake. "'Cause if he isn't, these bastards are gonna pay."
Even though Castiel pushed the horses as fast as he could, strengthening them with his Grace – as much as he could spare – so that they could keep running, Chicago was still another day or so away by the time he was forced to let them stop lest they collapse right out from under him.
He soothed the mare and gelding, using what little strength he had left while still carrying the Mocker blood to wave away their exhaustion, and led them toward the abandoned building he had chosen as a place to stop for the night and let the horses rest. He tied their reins loosely to one of the broken old fence posts surrounding the gutted building, which allowed them to graze, and apologized to them for not being able to provide more.
The ramshackle square of rock – for that is all it really could have been called, the building sinking down in one corner and barely a roof on it anymore, either scrapped by scavengers or just decaying over time – managed to shield him from a little bit of the cold and most of the wind, so he couldn't find it in himself to complain too much.
It was then, when he was settling down to rest and letting his Grace dim in an attempt to recharge it, that he heard the soft, low growl of a dog. He froze, tilting his wing just a little to be able to see the rabid, glowing yellow eyes of the animal, froth foaming at its mouth and jagged cuts down its legs and face. Its fur, which had been perhaps yellow once, was blackened with dirt and grime and no doubt dried bits of blood.
He tried to remain perfectly still as the dog snarled at him, ears flat back against its head and a tremble to its body, teeth too white amongst the foam in its mouth – he tried to be still, but the instinct to run or to fight was very hard to ignore. He rose to his feet, wings flaring out in an attempt to intimidate – he was bigger, stronger than the dog – but its mind was likely lost to the disease and as soon as he straightened up, it attacked.
It was reflex to push out with his Grace, throwing his forearm up so that the animal's jaws wrapped tight around the bones in his arm, almost crushing them with the strength of his jaws, clamping down hard enough that Castiel gritted his teeth in pain. But the dog's mouth had been kept away from his throat and that had been the intention.
His Grace shoved at the animal, forcing it to let go of Castiel's arm – though not without taking a good chunk of his flesh with it – and the Angel hissed again, throwing his arm out to hold the dog down so that it couldn't attack him again.
The animal settled with a low whimper, and Castiel could see the shimmer of his Grace in the blood lining the animal's mouth. Even as he watched, the half-crazed glow of the dog's yellow eyes seemed to fade away, the animal licking at the blood around its mouth and Castiel watched as his healing power spread through the animal, no doubt curing it of disease.
He cocked his head to one side as the dog whined, licking at its muzzle again, and he could not feel it fighting against the effects of his Grace, and the dog's tail was trying to tuck low between its legs. Slowly, warily, he unclenched his hand and lowered it, calling his Grace back to him and allowing his arm to heal, and the animal's ears perked up, a soft bark coming from the dog, tail wagging twice.
He could sense no more ill will from the animal, could see his Grace rushing through the rest of the dog as it stalked forward, head low to the ground, its eyes now dark brown and friendly and no longer crazed. It wagged its tail again, whuffing softly, and licked at Castiel's limp hand.
The Angel's fingers curled away from the dog, half-expecting another attack, but it merely stared at him expectantly. When Castiel made to sit down again, wings flaring out for balance against the wall, the animal whined softly, trotting closer before its head turned towards the door, and it walked in a small circle under Castiel's watchful eye, before settling itself against the Angel's leg, its eyes on the door so that a shaft of moonlight broke through and highlighted the animal, but that most of it was still in darkness.
There was a soft gleam of silver in the moonlight and Castiel tilted his head, sitting up to peer at it – the dog didn't move and whuffed softly, licking its muzzle again as Castiel's fingers gently curled around the leather band around its neck, examining the small pendant attached to it.
It was made of silver, and there was an anti-possession symbol etched into the back of it.
Castiel's mouth twisted into a wry smile. A Hunter's dog.
There was no name on the opposite side of the pendant, as Castiel let it drop again, settling a hand in the warm, dirty fur of the animal's coat. He spared a little more of his waning Grace to clean the dog – as an Angel he knew how uncomfortable dirty feathers and fur could be – and dug his fingers into the soft yellow fur left behind. It was a yellow Labrador and it gave a thankful whine, turning its head to rest its head on Castiel's calf, tail thumping twice against the floor.
It was probably some kind of signal. When Castiel was refreshed, he would perhaps try and peer into the animal's mind to see what had happened to this creature. Animals were harder to read, though, and the Mocker blood was dulling his Grace.
With a sigh, he allowed his eyes to close, his wings falling around him in exhaustion. It had been a long day, and would likely be another tomorrow, and he tried to tell himself that he would be up as soon as his Grace was fully recharged, and back out on the road.
He couldn't afford to waste too much time after all. He doubted the thing expecting him would be a patient one.
Sarah and Daniel blinked open bleary eyes. Their sleep had been rough and left them groggy, and Sarah had to swallow several times to try and rid her mouth of the cotton-ball feeling. Something, though, had forced her awake; a Hunter's sense of not alone, and she soon realized why, when she turned her head and spied the man who she vaguely remembered meeting in the road.
At once she tense up, rousing Daniel to full wakefulness with a shake to his shoulder. The other Hunter groaned, wincing in the pain at his leg, and lifted his head also, allowing her hands free movement.
"Good, you're awake." That odd accent again, that smirk. Immediately Sarah hated it. She clenched her jaw tightly, doing her best to kill the man with her stare alone. He tutted at her, hands splayed out in a gesture of friendliness. "Come on, darling, we can all play nice here."
"Who are you?" she demanded, helping Daniel prop himself up with a low groan, as Daniel clutched tightly to his injured leg and tried to focus through the pain. "What are you?"
He raised an eyebrow, and sauntered into the light cast by the rising sun outside. Suited, scruffy – yes, definitely the man from the road. "I'm the last of my kind, sweetheart – and you should be oh so familiar with that sort of thing." She frowned, could think of nothing to say, because what he was saying didn't make sense. He took another step forward, crouching down in front of her and careful not to get any of the dirt, dust or hay on the floor onto his suit. "Now, before he gets here," he continued, tilting his head to one side and eyeing her appraisingly, "why don't you tell me how you came to keep company with an Angel of the Lord, hmm?"
Immediately Sarah pressed her lips together, refusing to give an answer. This man knew about Castiel, and she knew neither she nor Daniel would give away anything about the Angel – he had been nothing but good to them and, Hell, he was a fucking Angel of the Lord. Who knew what kind of shit he had in his past – clearly this thing knew him, and it couldn't mean good news.
The man's eyes drifted over her again, his mouth opening, tongue licking along his teeth as he thought. "I see," he said, as though he had just gotten the results of a particularly important test, and then he raised his hand and, with a flick of his wrist, suddenly she heard a snap and then Daniel was screaming in pain, convulsing on the floor.
"Daniel!" she cried out, trying to take hold of his shoulders, to stop him trembling. Blood was dripping out of his mouth and his leg was at the wrong angle entirely and he felt like he was burning up under her hands. "Stop! Stop it!"
"Are you going to answer my questions, darling?" the man asked, casting an apathetic look Daniel's way, and Sarah sobbed again, trying desperately to stop him shaking, but she couldn't – whatever this man was doing to him, it was bad.
She nodded and immediately the man's wrist tilted again and Daniel went still. Sweat had broken out on his forehead and he was breathing hard. "Excellent," he said, with a wide, sly smile coming to his face. "I'm glad we could come to an agreement – negotiations can get so ugly. Now…" He tilted his head to one side, smile widening. "Tell me about the Angel."
"Sarah," Daniel whispered, words slurred with pain, "don't." And then his voice was lost in another cry as the creature's eyes flashed to a deep red, a low snarl of anger rolling from him before the Hunter was once again convulsing as whatever it was he was doing ravaged his body. The room stank of blood.
"Hush now, Mister Winchester," the thing said in a low voice, and Sarah frowned because their last name wasn't Winchester and she had no idea who that was. Deep red eyes turned and locked onto hers. "Talk."
Pain woke Castiel from meditation.
The Angel jerked awake with a startled cry, feeling like his leg and his chest were on fire. The sudden movement startled the dog, which was on its feet but, thankfully, not barking, staring at the Angel as Castiel curled his body against the floor, teeth gritted in pain, wings thrashing in an instinctive attempt to fight off whatever unnatural force was inflicting this agony on him. His Grace reached out, unbidden, to try and smite whatever was attacking him, but there was nothing there. He could sense nothing but himself and the dog and the horses outside.
Something was happening, but it was not to him.
Another flash of pain, another sound stifled behind his desperately clenched jaw. Unbidden, flashes of Dean, running, being Hunted, chased, and struck down by a monster were coming to his head; he saw Dean bleeding, collapsing from exhaustion and weariness and blood loss. He felt the thrum of his mate's tired soul screaming in agony and it was all he could do not to scream with him.
Dean. Something was happening to Dean.
The Angel's eyes flared open at the realization. Daniel.
He had to get to them – he had already slept too long. He had to get to them now. "So much for unharmed," he hissed, even though he knew no one would hear him, and he rose to his feet as best he could, with his Grace feeling like it was trying to claw its way out of his body and he could barely walk from the pain, but he forced himself to. He was a soldier; he had dealt with pain before.
He could vaguely sense the dog trotting behind him, its low animal whine a background noise to the screams of pain echoing inside of his head, and when he approached the horses the mare looked up to greet him. She seemed distressed; on edge, stamping her foot nervously. Perhaps she could sense Castiel's illness. Perhaps she could hear Dean's screams too.
"We have to go," he told her, gathering up the reins and making sure the gelding was still attached. Her ears went forward at the sound of his voice, and she snorted loudly, shaking herself out. It was harder than Castiel had anticipated mounting her, as though his entire body was protesting getting back on the horse, but he had to – Dean was in trouble and his wings were tired and he had to.
"Run, Baby," he urged her, digging his heels in as hard as he could. She jumped forward with a startled whinny and, after resistance, the gelding followed behind. He had never known a horse to run this fast – it almost felt like flying, with the wind dragging its freezing fingers through his wings as though trying to hold him back and slow him down.
He heard the dog barking loudly, the sound gradually fading away.
"What are you?" Sarah hissed out, tears streaming down her face. Everything was agony, the like of which she'd never felt before. It felt like her brain was being dipped in acid and set on fire, and Daniel had stopped screaming a while ago. She shuddered to think what this thing was doing to him.
"I'm between jobs at the moment," came the bored-sounding reply, another thin, too-hot needle threading under her skin. She had been reluctant or unable to answer things about the Angel – Castiel – and it turned out their host didn't like ignorance. Or silence. "Since Hell is closed for renovation."
She screamed without a voice, the sound strangled and hoarse from her bloody and raw throat. Daniel grunted softly next to her, eyes clenched tightly shut in pain. Sweat coated him like a second skin and she could vaguely feel his hand reaching out for hers but she couldn't concentrate and everything was pain.
"Don't talk," he whispered to her, unsure if she could hear. "Sarah, don't talk."
The man paused for a moment, raising an eyebrow in the Hunter's – Daniel's – direction. It was strange, how similar he looked, even down to the color of his eyes. And his soul. Yes, he would never not recognize that soul – the thing that had thrown a spanner in all of the creature's great works. His mouth twisted into a tight grin, eyes appraising. But dormant. So strong, Mister Winchester was, but very dormant; the soul was pulsing with pain, a distress cry that he was sure Castiel would be able to hear – one doesn't mate with a human without certain…side effects.
He checked his watch. Should be any moment now.
"Whatever you want to know about Cas," Daniel grit out, blinking open pain-filled eyes to snarl at the thing keeping them hostage, "you can go straight back to Hell."
The creature smirked wide, eyes flashing a deep red. "I don't think you fully understand -."
"Exorcizamus te," the Hunter grit out, and the thing's eyes widened, a familiar nausea rolling in his stomach as his soul instinctively fought back the words of the exorcism; Hunters weren't supposed to know it anymore. Demons were extinct. "Omnis immundus spiritus -." The words were silenced by another loud cry, the demon clenching his fist, sealing the Hunter's mouth shut so he could no longer speak.
It was time to take a break. Darling Angel was due to arrive at any moment.
The demon disappeared, freeing Daniel's mouth again and he gasped, quaking as the pain disappated and he was left in the aftermath of it.
"What…" Sarah gasped, tilted pain-glazed eyes towards her companion, "what the fuck was that? Those words?" she demanded.
"I don't…"Daniel frowned, tried to even remember them, let alone where they had come from. His mind was blank, though, and he couldn't even begin the exorcism again even if he tried. If his life depended on it. It wasn't his knowledge to have. "I don't know."
Chicago was not as Castiel remembered it from the world before. Of course, he knew it was naïve for him to have expected it to be, but he couldn't help but feel some small amount of surprise as he guided the horses through the dirty, decrepit streets. There was no real road to speak of anymore, no highway, and no tall buildings to mark a skyline. Castiel was only really aware that he had reached the city because the tie of his Grace to Dean's soul was trembling in excitement – he was so close. So close to being reunited with his mate.
In the very center of the city, it appeared as though a bomb had been set off – there was a large expanse of pure flat land; grass grew in the sparse dirt and rubble – and no attempt had been made to clear the place up. In the middle of the clear area was a large factory-type building, complete with red bricks and a chimney gushing out think black smoke. It looked out of place, as though someone had cleared the land and then made it appear out of thin air in the middle of the dead zone.
Castiel thought, with a wry, almost amused smile, that it looked like someone wanted to see everyone that was coming.
The building had a large white billboard erected around thirty feet in front of it, declaring the factory as Singer & McCloud's, and the Angel's grip on the reins tightened. This was it. This was the place. His very Grace throbbed with anger but he forced himself to keep himself in check, dismounting the horses and wincing at the very mortal complaints his body was sending him. He resisted the urge to heal himself, instead busying his hands with grabbing the coat stained with Mocker blood; he would need to save his Grace if he was indeed dealing with the thing that he had suspected had taken Daniel and Sarah.
His nail twisted, dug into the material of the coat. He would pay if either of them had come to irreversible harm.
He might pay anyway.
There were no people outside of the factory gates, and Castiel almost expected there to be some kind of Angel-proofing carved into the building, but the place was utterly without wards, protection spells; anything. It unnerved him, almost, how blatant this place was being, as though daring to be attacked or assumed to be of no threat by anyone. Of course, Angels and Demons were meant to be extinct…and this was a place for Hunters.
On the inside, the building was fairly unimpressive. Castiel could hear machines whirring away underfoot, but the main door opened to an almost empty warehouse; the right wall was piled high with boxes declaring their destinations as anywhere from Alaska to New Mexico, and Castiel could sense nothing malicious about them; the entire place was decidedly normal, if a little empty and Castiel's wings rustled nervously. There was nothing but cold cement and the screech and rumble of machines downstairs.
The Angel looked around carefully, casting his Grace out in attempt to find the creature. Then, the room seemed to darken, and his Grace flared instinctively in hatred at the evil taint that seemed to fill the room like blood, and he bared his teeth, slowly turning around to face the suited, smiling man.
"Crowley," he stated in a low, deadpan voice, trying to keep his anger under control. His hand clenched underneath the coat he felt, fighting to stop himself from summoning his Angel blade and running the demon through. "I thought you were dead."
"Likewise," the demon replied with a large smile, hands spread out in a gesture of welcome. "The little Angel on humanity's shoulder – not much has changed, has it?" he asked, in a voice that ruffled Castiel's feathers and made him dig his nails into his own fists. "So," Crowley said, taking a step forward, "how did you do it?"
Castiel cocked his head to one side, brow furrowing in confusion. Do what? Survive? "I don't know what you mean," he said slowly.
"It couldn't have been a deal," the demon hissed out, anger coloring his voice now. "And I know that there is no way -," He was shouting now, pointing back towards the door, to the outside. "That Dean Winchester is back on Earth without something putting him there. So how did you do it?"
Castiel's eyes narrowed. "Watch your tongue, Hellspawn," he hissed, wings flaring out in anger and threat. "I know just as much as you do."
"Oh, I highly doubt that, Angel," Crowley said derisively, raising an eyebrow. "Come, we were once business associates – let me in."
His tone was persuasive, his smile welcoming, and Castiel wanted to stab him in the neck with his blade; his fingers itched, empty, and the Angel just fought back a snarl. Without a word, he balled up the coat in his hands, and threw it on the ground between himself and the demon. Crowley's eyes darted to it, lighting up in interest. "First," Castiel murmured, voice low and terse, "I want information."
Crowley raised his other eyebrow. "On a coat?" he asked, sauntering forward and leaning down to pick it up daintily between two fingertips. "I suppose this…" He wrinkled his nose distastefully, tilting his head, "is not your blood?"
"It belonged to a Mocker named Matthew, who was owned by a man named Harry Singer," Castiel replied, eyes focused on Crowley's face for any sign of recognition in the demon. Crowley's dark eyes flashed to him, surprised.
"Singer," he murmured to himself, pressing his lips together in a thin line. "And that brought you here?"
"The coat was made by this company," Castiel said with a small frown. "And your human name was McCloud – don't play coy, Crowley, it doesn't suit you."
"Skipping the foreplay, as usual," the demon replied with a sigh, letting the coat drop to the ground. "What is the information I can give to you worth, Castiel? I'm still rather fond of deals, even with my…downright absurd demotion, thanks to your pets." He raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly, and tilted his head to one side, rocking on the balls of his feet, hands folding behind his back.
Castiel's eyes narrowed. "I have nothing to bargain with," he replied, wings fanning the air a little behind his back. Crowley's eyes had begun to gleam dangerously and Castiel shuddered at the thoughts running through the demon's head. "I can merely tell you what I know."
"Assuming it's truth," Crowley said.
"Assuming what you tell me is true, yes," the Angel countered, eyes flashing. "I'm not here for conflict, Crowley – as far as I am concerned we can both go our separate ways after this. I am here for my Hunters, and for any information regarding who may have killed this Mocker."
"You cannot be of any use to me, then," Crowley said in a bored-sounding tone, rolling his eyes. "Perhaps those two mud monkeys you're following like a lost dog can help me. It's been a long time since I've seen such pretty green eyes -."
Castiel didn't know what happened; one moment he was holding himself back, the next he had Crowley pinned against the cement wall, forearm against his throat, teeth bared in a snarl and eyes flashing with barely restrained Grace. "You will not touch them," he snarled, growl making his words almost indecipherable. "You will not lay another sin-stained finger on either of them, or I swear by all the power still lingering in Heaven, I will ruin you, Crowley. I will raze you to the ground."
"Someone's touchy," Crowley murmured, outwardly calm, but Castiel could feel the unease in the demon's black soul and it made his Grace glow with triumph. He slowly pulled back, letting the shorter vessel fall back to the ground and Crowley stiffly dusted off his suit. "We sell those coats all over the place," he finally said with a small huff, "and rarely deal with face-to-face. I'm sorry, darling, but I cannot help you."
Castiel snarled. "Once again, you waste my time, Crowley," he snapped, wings flaring out sharply in aggression. "Where are Sarah and Daniel? Take me to them. Now."
The demon sighed, rolling his eyes once more. "Remember when you used to be fun?" he said, turning around and striding back out towards the front door, and Castiel quickly followed the demon out into the open air again, the sun almost glaringly bright and offensive to Castiel's eyes, which had grown accustomed to the darkened interior of the warehouse. Crowley led him around the building's corner where there was another doorway carved into the side of it, a grate serving as the door instead.
Dean was in there. He could feel it.
He took a step forward.
"Oh, and darling?" Castiel's wings stiffened at the name, and he looked over his shoulder to find Crowley fixing him with an unreadable look in his blood-red eyes. "I will find out what you're hiding eventually. The world is a much smaller place now."
The demon was gone and the air seemed lighter with his Hellish taint removed from Castiel's sight, and the Angel flared out his wings briefly, before he shoved his hand against the grate. It imploded with a flash of light, crumbling in on itself as though it had never been, and he stepped inside. No sound greeted him, which made his feathers and Grace rustle with unease, but then he heard a soft groan, the shuffle of booted feet against the dirty floor, and he waved his hand, casting the room into a soft yellow light that allowed both he and his Hunters to see each other.
"Oh, thank God," Daniel grit out, pain evident in every line of his voice and immediately Castiel rushed over to the both of them, settling a hand on each of their heads. They were horribly injured, and he could feel the black smear of Crowley's power on their innards, and pushed out with his Grace, wiping away the injuries away with a touch of his hand. "How, how did you find us?" he asked, blinking open eyes that were thankfully lucid and clear of pain when Castiel raised his head to check Daniel over, and then Sarah, making sure he had removed any pain and injury from them. "Cas?"
A hand on his arm, then, gripping surprisingly strong and stopping his movement. The Angel looked down at Daniel's dirty hand, saw his knuckles whiten from the force of his grip, but all he could think was Dean, Dean, I can feel you. Can you feel me? He raised his eyes, hoping for some spark of recognition, something. Dean?
Daniel's eyes were blank of Dean's old soul, but sharp and focused on Castiel with an almost frightening intensity. "How did you get here? Are you alright?"
"How did you get past – who was that thing?" That was Sarah, and Castiel's bright eyes flashed to hers as well. She was worried, suspicion carved into the set of her jaw and the darkness of her eyes, and Castiel didn't want to lie to her. To either of them.
But would ignorance get them into less trouble than knowing? Crowley was sneaky and untrustworthy at the best of times and Castiel had no doubt that the demon would try and hunt down the answers to his questions, one way or another.
No. He had to make sure they were prepared.
With a small sigh and a wave of his hand, their manacles cracked and splintered apart, freeing their wrists and ankles. "His name is Crowley," Castiel said, hitting back on his heels, wings braced behind him for balance, "and he is – or, I suppose, was – the King of Hell."
Daniel blinked at him, leaning his head back against the wall in surprise, and staring up at the ceiling with a low exhale. "Of course," he muttered with a short, sharp laugh. "An Angel and then the King of Hell. Naturally."
"Wait, but Hell's shut – demons are extinct," Sarah argued, brows drawing in together, and Castiel couldn't stop his small smile.
"Just like Angels are, right?" he asked, earning another glare from her, before he pushed himself to his feet, holding out a hand for both of them. "Come, we must move quickly. I doubt our welcome will extend for much longer."
"This was a welcome?" Sarah muttered under her breath, wincing when she tried to push herself up, mildly surprised that she could – that the Angel actually had managed to heal them. However, no sooner had Daniel and Sarah stood than a sharp clang echoed behind Castiel, and the Angel looked back to see the grate had been reassembled, and – his Grace flared and his upper lip curled back in rage – there appeared to be blood staining the metal bars. He tried to reach out, to snap the barrier into pieces as he had before, but the blood made that impossible, and he knew that he had to have belonged to a Mocker – whatever special quality their blood had that made his Grace as weak as a newborn Angel's.
"Crowley," he hissed, striding up to the door, and he peered through to see the demon standing on the other side. He slammed his flat palm against the bars, fingers curling over bloody metal. "I should have known better than to turn my back on a demon."
The creature shrugged, triumph sparking in his eyes. "I told you the world was getting smaller," he said with a smirk. "I just didn't say how smallyours would get. Can't have the new God running around and creating havoc for me, not when I'm still whispering into your little creations' ears." The Angel snarled again, not quite understanding the words but dreading their meaning nonetheless. "So, you'll have to stay here for the time being. Until next time, darling." And then he was gone, and Castiel slammed his fist against the bars again, but the blood lining the metal made it as though he was merely human, and he could do nothing against the strength of the iron.
"Damn it," Castiel whispered, fingers curling tighter around the iron grating, pulling at it again just because he had to do something, knew it would accomplish nothing but had to try anyway. "Damn it."
"So…I guess we're stuck in here for a while." That was Daniel's voice, and Castiel turned his head to look over his shoulder at the man. Daniel had been leaning against the wall, then, looking at Castiel with an unreadable expression. "That means you have time to talk."
There was nothing friendly about those words, though Castiel had no doubt they were meant as merely fact. There was a Hunter's gleam in his dark green eyes and Dean's soul rolled restlessly inside of Daniel's body. Sarah, too, seemed on edge, her eyes searching the Angel's face, looking for answers that he could not give them. Didn't want to give them. How does one confess to the past that Crowley and Castiel had shared? If he confessed to that, he would have to tell them about Dean, and Sam, and Bobby and Ellen and Jo and the Apocalypse and Castiel's fallen Brothers and Aiden and the Mockers and how he, somehow, had become the last Angel facing the last demon on Earth.
He could never deny Dean. His wings fell to his sides, defeated and tired. Everything ached. "What would you like to know?" he asked.
"I want to know how the Hell you know that thing – why there are still demons and Angels walkin' the Earth -."
"Why did he call you God?"
That had been Sarah, and immediately Castiel's shoulders went tense, his fingers curling a little tighter into the grate and into his palm. He bit his lower lip, looking between the two Hunters, and sighed, letting go of the grate and stepping back towards them, away from the light. Words could not describe the pain he felt when he saw them fight the urge to take a step back from him.
"Is your trust so easily lost?" he asked, more to himself than to them, but his eyes were on Daniel – on the man's soul. Dean was so faithful, so unbelievably unwavering in his faith even for a man who had absolutely none in people he'd never met. Those he loved, though, he loved unconditionally, and it hurt, to see something housing Dean's soul that obviously did not.
"Tell us what you know, Castiel," Daniel demanded, voice hard, eyes cold. "Tell us everything."
The Angel sighed. "Very well," he answered, pulling his wings tight to his back and settling himself down on the floor, back to the wall, letting his wings fall comfortably around him so that he could rest. Reluctantly, Daniel and Sarah followed suit. "I was a God – once – for a while, a very long time ago." He paused, looking out of the window, pressing his lips together tightly. "Well, a very bad one. And way before…any of this, anything like this new world happened. We had…we had managed to get past that, but Crowley, I guess, holds grudges. I don't know why he called me that now."
There was a pause, then, as the Hunters processed that information. Then; "…We?"
Castiel closed his eyes. He had hoped they wouldn't ask that. Could he tell them about Dean? Did he dare. He swallowed, his feathers bristling in discomfort. "Crowley and I…were allies, of a sort. Before. He helped me attain the items necessary for the ritual to open Purgatory to gain the power of a God. But, well, it didn't work out well for him. And he does so like a good deal." The half-truth felt bitter on his tongue and he couldn't look either of them in the eye. He wouldn't dare.
"I'd always heard that demons were wiped off the Earth – how is he still here?" Sarah asked, clearly taking his lie to heart, and Castiel swallowed, clenching his eyes tightly shut. Dean would be so disappointed in him.
"The ritual that caused the world to fall into ice – that banished the demons – it didn't quite work out the way those casting it had planned," he began, speaking slowly, thinking carefully about every word he let slip; "It didn't so much banish them as close the gates, and demons and Angels need to draw power from Heaven and Hell to stay strong. When the gates of both places closed, the vessels they inhabited fought back, banished them, and they either died or they fell and became, for all intents and purposes, human."
"…Then why didn't you?" Daniel asked, frowning in confusion.
Castiel forced a small, strained smile to his face. "My vessel…the man who I am wearing – he died a long time before that banishment. I've been alone in this body for a very long time. I suppose that must be why."
"Unless you are a God," Sarah murmured under her breath, low and suspicious.
Castiel tilted his head. "I am sorry – as much as I want to give you an answer; that is one I simply cannot. I have tried to leave this world, but the gates of Heaven are shut and I cannot go there. No matter how much I want to, how much my Grace craves to go there, I cannot." His voice had turned sharp, filled with pain, and he forced himself to stop before he confessed everything, before he let all the feelings and longing he had been keeping bottled up inside for so long to be let loose. He couldn't afford to do that – vulnerability was only okay among family, and those who loved you.
There was no love or family here. Not really.
"Hey, hey – Cas. It's okay, man." Then suddenly Daniel was shifting closer to him, despite Sarah's hissed warning, one hand lightly touching the arch of Castiel's wing to pull it forward and settle it across his lap. The Angel was so shocked at the touch he could be nothing but pliant in Daniel's hands, letting himself brace forward, elbows on his knees, and allowing the Hunter to rub at his back between his wing joints through his dirty and sweaty t-shirt. It took a moment for Castiel to realize that he had been shaking. "It's alright, Cas, you don't have to talk anymore."
It felt like Dean was touching him – the warmth of Daniel's palm; he'd never been touched by the man before. It was more painful that looking into his eyes; Dean would have dug his fingers into the sore muscles in the arches of Castiel's wings, not his back, would have stroked the dirt and sweat out of the feathers, would rub the back of his neck and whisper soothing non-words into the air between them. This touch was awkward, Daniel clearly not really knowing what to do in the comforting department, but his hands were so warm, so sudden on Castiel's wing and back, and for a moment all the Angel could do was shake harder.
"Don't call him 'Cas'," Sarah whispered, her voice just managing to break through the conflicting sensations and emotions running through Castiel's brain. "He doesn't like being called that."
The complete opposite of the truth – Castiel had grown to adore the moniker, rolling off of his lover's tongue, either sleepily drawled in the morning just before his grassy eyes opened, or panted out hard against the pillows, the sheets, Castiel's neck depending on how Dean had wanted to lay with him at night – shouted out in panic or anger when Castiel would do something stupid on a Hunt and risk all of their lives; whispered soothingly with a weak pat on the arm and a small squeeze. 'Cas' had been amongst Dean's last words.
He had never known an Angel's Grace to ache like his was doing now. Could they not see it – the bleak blue of despair coiling tight around his very being, choking off his breath, making his wings tremble and shake and draw in tight? How could they not tell?
"I stayed," he whispered, the words falling from his mouth without the consent of his brain; he couldn't stop them now even if he tried, like they were being ripped out of him with Dean's – Daniel's – touch. "I stayed behind, to…to make sure…and then when I tried to follow, the gates were shut. They'd been shut for so long, and I hadn't known. And now…" He pressed his eyes together tightly shut and felt the cold, salty burn of a tear falling down his face. Father, why did it still hurt so much after so long? "Now, I don't…I can't…"
"Cas." Daniel's voice again, so similar, and comforting, and Castiel turned his face away because he could not bear to look into Daniel's eyes and see that stupid, heartbreaking lack of recognition in them. Dean was his, why could the soul not feel him? What was holding him back? "Cas, it'll be okay, I promise."
It's alright, Cas. You can't save everyone. I'll see ya on the other side. His eyes had closed then, and he'd exhaled, loud and long, for the last time – he'd just let go. Peaceful, easy as anything. Why had it been so easy for him? Had Castiel meant nothing – had everything they had fought for meant nothing?
The hand stroking through his wing was distracting; Daniel had dug his fingers in deep, tugging at the sweat and dirt from the road matted into Castiel's feathers, and it felt good; nice, warm, comforting like he was back with his Brothers in Heaven and grooming with them. He missed the light and comfort of Heaven. He missed the touch of humanity.
He missed Dean.
The Angel took a deep, shuddering breath, shoving the heel of his hand against his face to wipe away the traitorous tears – he was an Angel, damn it. And he shouldn't show weakness in front of the people he was meant to be protecting. Couldn't be vulnerable. He shook his wings out, drawing them tight to his sides to discourage the man sitting next to him to touch him anymore, but if anything that made Daniel moredetermined – pressing close enough that their thighs touched and his hand moved from the middle of Castiel's back down to stroke the base of his spine, thumb digging deep into the knots that had grown there from riding the horses.
Damn Crowley – he cursed the demon for perhaps the thousandth time in his head, teeth bared in a low snarl as he focused on the shaft of light coming in from the outside. He had access to Mocker blood – clearly knew more than he was letting on about the death of the Mockers. Perhaps he had been the one to kill Matthew and Harry – maybe someone had made a deal. Maybe Hellhounds still existed.
"Why aren't you busting us out of here already?" Sarah asked after what seemed like the longest moments of Castiel's life, right after the ones he had spent after Dean's death. "What's holding you back?"
"The Mocker blood," Castiel muttered, waving his red-stained fingertips vaguely towards the door. "Something in it stifles my Grace, and I cannot access it."
"Oh…" She settled back, then, with a small huff, blowing some of her long blonde-brown hair out of her eyes. She was watching Daniel closely, but Castiel didn't pay enough attention to notice if it was with jealousy – her lover was touching the Angel, after all, instead of her – or if it was the mere concern and suspicion with which she had always regarded Castiel. "I'm gonna get some more sleep, then. No rest for the wicked, and all that."
"If anything happens, I'll wake you," Daniel said by way of reply, his hand still stroking maddeningly softly and slowly through Castiel's wings – it made the Angel want to spread them wide, feathers rustling on the tops of his arches, put himself on display for his mate like he used to, but he held himself back. This man wasn't his mate. Not anymore.