One moment he's being pressed down into soft grass, Castiel a warm, solid weight above him; the next he's staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom, clutching at air. It makes the room feel colder than it is, the absence. He sighs into the dark.

For a few seconds he just lays there, feeling. There's an ache in his chest spreading out to his fingertips, tingling with desire, and he wants to go back. Wants to lay on the grass under that dusky sky, to feel the scratch of stubble catching—but the thumping that had made it's way into his dreams still echoes, and with a groan he throws off his sheets, climbing out of bed to open the door. On the other side, Charlie, her hand raised to knock again, stumbles back, startled.

"What is this, payback?" Dean asks moodily, blinking in the too-bright hallway and rubbing at his eyes, "I already said I was sorry about the whole fairy thing."

"Chuck finished translating," she says.

Dean doesn't wait to ask more questions.

He's halfway out the door before Charlie makes a strangled sound, and her hand closes around his arm, stopping him.

"Um..."

She lets go immediately, stepping back and crossing her arms over her chest, hands tucked firmly beneath her elbows. The expression on her face is caught somewhere between tamped-down laughter and utter mortification, and he looks at her in question. She avoids eye contact, choosing instead to stare at the wall.

"So... I, um... I don't wanna tell you how to live your life or anything, but you might... uh," she presses her lips together, glancing back at him briefly and pointing vaguely downward, "you might wanna put on some pants?"

Dean, still a little dazed from being woken, takes far too long to figure out what she's saying, but as soon as he realizes that the evidence of his very pleasant dream is pressing against the front of his boxers, he learns the true meaning of embarassment. He angles an arm to cover himself.

"Uh. Right."

Charlie is still looking pointedly at the wall, her face so red it clashes with her hair.

"Yep."

"I'll..." gesturing vaguely into his room with his free hand, Dean shuffles backward, "thanks."

"Uhuh."

The door clicks shut after him, and with a greater sense of embarrassment than he thinks he's ever felt before, he listens as Charlie heads back up the hall, laughing.

Humiliation does wonders. Once she's gone, it only takes a few minutes of glaring in the general direction of his crotch before the problem fades. He dresses quickly, sending a text to Castiel to let him know they'll soon have news, before walking up to the library.

Chuck hasn't moved from the table since Dean left.

The table's surface is completely covered in notes, now, each one messier than the last, and while Chuck leans back in his chair, scrubbing tiredly at his eyes, Sam sits beside him, scrutinising his work. Charlie, sitting with her chin resting against her hands in the seat opposite, is chewing on a thumbnail, and she smirks at Dean when she sees him. He points at her threateningly as he makes his way across the room.

"Not a word," he says, ignoring Sam's quixotic expression, and she mimes a lock over her mouth, lips pressed tightly shut to keep from bursting into a fit of laughter.

Dean rolls his eyes at her before pulling up a chair.

"So," he says, clearing his throat before pulling over the nearest stack of papers, "what's the verdict?"

As he twists his head in an attempt to decipher Chuck's illegible handwriting, Chuck reaches out to turn it the right way up, tapping on a series of still impossible to read sentences.

"Well, for one, it turns out we don't so much need God to bless a Seraphim as we need a Seraphim blessed by God," he says, and Dean frowns, glancing at his brother for help.

When Sam just shrugs, Dean turns back to Chuck.

"You've already lost me."

"Okay, listen," Chuck slips his glasses on, picking up a notepad to read aloud, "Only a Seraphim blessed by God at the moment of his making can return the word to the Garden. At the crossing of Superi Murus he will encounter flame and sword and wrath, and fear not, for where other angels are weapons, he is the Shield that protects Heaven from itself."

Glancing up, Chuck looks at Dean as if there's been some massive revelation, and Dean raises his hands, turning to the others. They seem just as stumped, and Chuck narrows his eyes as if they're all being deliberately dense.

"Castiel's name literally means Shield of God," he says, and Dean nods in understanding before it hits him what that really means. His hands tense on the table.

"Are you telling me this is more destiny crap? Because seriously, Chuck, you can shove that—"

"It's not destiny," Chuck says defensively, "there are other angels who could potentially have acted as the Shield, considering their roles as protectors—Lahabiel, Raguel, Sachiel, to name a few—but who knows if they're even around anymore."

"What makes you so sure Cas was blessed by God, though?" Dean asks, "I mean, he's kind of had a shitty run of luck these last few years. Doesn't really scream 'blessed' to me."

"He's been resurrected like three times," Sam points out, "if that isn't a sign that the big guy likes him, I don't know what is."

"That's kind of what I figured," Chuck says, "also, uh... there's more."

There's a brittle edge to Chuck's voice, and everyone waits for him to go on. He doesn't.

"Any day now would be great," Dean says after thirty seconds of silence, and Chuck rubs the back of his neck.

"Remember how I didn't want to worry you unessecarily?" he scrunches up his nose, glancing at Dean uncomfortably, and it does nothing to make Dean's suddenly rolling stomach settle.

"Just spit it out, Chuck," he says, and with a sigh, Chuck nods, dragging a finger down the page until he reaches the next part.

"On the day of the Shield's final flight the grace of God shall coalesce, and at the crossing He shall rise; the wings, the grace and vessel alike shall be purified in the singular light of God; and with his light the Word shall know the safety of the Garden."

"So God's coming out of hiding?" Sam asks, his brow raised.

"Why exactly does God need coalescing?" Charlie asks at the same time.

"What do you mean, final flight?" Dean says over both of them, though he doesn't particularly want to know the answer.

Chuck just shakes his head.

"I'm not gonna lie to you—it could mean what it sounds like," he says to Dean first, wincing a little at the look he gets, "but then again, the whole thing is so convoluted that he might be fine. As for God returning—yeah, it kind of sounds like it, and I have no idea why he's in need of joining back together. Though if he's somehow split into pieces right now that'd explain why he was impossible to find when Castiel was looking for him."

"He might be fine?" Dean asks, voice pitched low, and Chuck flinches.

"Just the messenger," he says, hands up in placation.

Dean forces a breath out through his nose and stands, not that he's planning on going anywhere.

It doesn't escape his notice that he should be a little more concerned about God's comeback tour, but all he can focus on is that from what Chuck is saying, there's a strong possibility that Castiel isn't going make it out. Might be fine isn't quite good enough, as far as reassurances go. Then again, they don't really have any other options. His fists clench, jaw tight.

"What else does it say?" Charlie asks, glancing up at him and not-so-subtly trying to steer the conversation to a less stressful topic. He's pretty sure he'd be grateful if he weren't so worried.

"About getting into the garden? Nothing. But there's other stuff about closing Heaven and controlling angels, so I'm guessing that's what Naomi wants it for."

"Alright," Dean says, staring down at the table without really seeing it, "I'm gonna go call Cas."

"Now?" Sam asks.

"I told him I'd call when we knew," he says with a shrug, aiming for nonchalant and failing horribly, "and now we know."

He walks out before Sam can respond, heading up the stairs toward the bunker door, ignoring the looks of pity being cast his way.

It's not as though he hasn't been prepared for this. He's been waiting, if he's being honest, for bad news. It's always just around the corner, and whenever something good happens it has a habit of turning up right after.

Considering the fact that finally kissing Castiel is pretty much the best thing that has happened to him all year, he's been expecting something particularly horrible. Might be fine definitely qualifies.

As he walks heavily away from the bunker and into the cool dark, the chirping of crickets is silenced by his footsteps. Fumbling his cell out of his pocket, he stares down at the blue-white glow of the screen with his thumb hovering over the call button, thinking. Stalling.

A day. They got one day. Maybe they'll get more, but he's too cynical to let himself hope for it. Still.

"He might be fine," he tells himself under his breath, and wishes he had the capacity to believe it.

He's still staring at his phone, psyching himself up to make the call, when he hears the creak of the door and footsteps crunching across the gravel behind him.

"Dean?"

Letting out a breath, he looks over his shoulder to see Sam looking at him with furrowed brow, his hands in his pockets.

"I haven't called him yet," Dean says, looking back at the phone to avoid the look Sam's giving him, "give me a minute."

"Just, uh... I figured you'd be stalling. Thought you might want some moral support."

"Oh," Dean's more surprised at that than he should be, really, and he kind of feels like an asshole for wanting Sam to leave him to make the call alone.

Miraculously, though, it only takes Sam a couple of seconds looking at Dean's deer-in-the-headlights expression to work it out for himself.

"But, uh... if you wanted privacy..."

"Yeah," Dean nods, looking down again, "kinda. Sorry. But thanks."

"Tell Cas good luck for me."

"He doesn't need it," Dean says, hoping that his own false confidence will somehow manage to trick the clenching feeling in his chest as well as Sam, "he's blessed, remember?"

"Yeah," Sam laughs, though it doesn't reach his eyes, "I guess so."

With every step Naomi takes toward him, the tablet burns hotter, and it's all Castiel can do to keep breathing.

Dimly, in the seconds after her arrival, he's aware of a buzz at his hip, the cell phone alerting him to a message, but he's directing everything he has on watching Naomi's every move, focusing on shutting out the pain building within as he grips Ion's blade tightly in his fist.

In Naomi's left hand Castiel sees the long, narrow point of a needle as it slips down from her sleeve. Crafted from the same bright metal as the blade she carries in her right, it rings with holy power, and she taps it with her forefinger as she approaches. Castiel fights the urge to back away, not wanting her to think he's afraid, though he expects she already assumes it.

She'd be right to. He's terrified.

That needle, what it has done to him—the memories flood back with startling clarity. There were weeks spent strapped into a chair, tethered to his vessel by a power much greater than his own; weeks and weeks of pain as the needle found the corners of his vessels eye, pressing, digging through, deep into his true form and twisting at his core until he was forced to follow, to obey. That needle was used to manipulate him, to force his hand, to kill Samandriel, to try to kill Dean. At the onset of the memory of Dean on the ground, pleading and bloody, clutching helplessly at his sleeve, Castiel takes his fear and sharpens it. He turns it in on itself until it becomes fury, righteous and consuming, and he aims it directly back at Naomi.

She stops in her approach, faltering, and Castiel tamps down on the little flash of pride that comes with knowing she can sense his anger, that she is swayed by it.

"I can put everything right," she says, eyes wide and honest, and if he didn't have the memory of her weeks, months of torture, he might actually believe her.

"You won't."

Behind Naomi, Esper scoffs.

"He's a lost cause," he says to Naomi, though his gaze never leaves Castiel.

"Do you even remember what it was like?" she asks, ignoring Esper as if she truly believes that Castiel has forgotten, as if she thinks there's still a chance to fix him, "We were unified, Castiel. We were content. Now it's just endless fighting, battle after battle, grace being spilled at every turn. Let me fix it."

"How?" Castiel asks, hoping to at least keep her talking for long enough to formulate some sort of plan.

With two of them against him, especially while he's in this level of pain, there's little chance that he'll be able to fight them both off. Killing Ion had been a stroke of luck, and the chance of another is unlikely.

"There are instructions on the tablet that would allow me to return all the angels to the way we were," Naomi tells him, voice colored with pride, "I can do it. I know I can. I can fix everything."

"You would take away our free will."

"We weren't built for free will. You're proof enough of that."

He shakes his head.

"Heaven is in chaos, Castiel," she says, trying to convince him to give in, "because of what you did. I gave you the opportunity to fix it, but you chose to betray us."

"And this?" Castiel asks, raising his blade to point toward the bodies that surround them, "how is this not a betrayal? Killing the innocent, killing humans for your own gain—you're no better than Lucifer."

This gets a rise out of her, but he can't bring himself to regret it, even as she advances.

"The blood of these people is on your hands," Naomi snarls, moving forward again in her anger, "not mine. Take me to the tablet, and I might still spare you."

The pain flares at her approach, sharp, splitting him within.

"You'll never find it."

His voice is tight, strained with the pain he's trying so hard to ignore, and she pauses in her step, tilting her head to look at him with interest.

"It's close," she says, and he flinches involuntarily when the tablet pulses, even hotter than before, electric, "I can sense it resonating."

He opens his mouth to respond as she moves closer still, but the sound that comes out is barely more than a grunt of pain. Her eyes widen infinitesimally.

"You're carrying it," she says, eyes traveling up and down him as though she can see straight through his skin, "aren't you?"

"No," he replies, too fast, and she smiles.

Castiel thinks her like a shark, and she's just tasted blood in the water.

Her hand closes around his throat before he has a chance to move, the needle ignored in favor of the blade which she slashes over his wrist, making him drop his weapon before pressing the point against his sternum. If it weren't for the vicious rush of fire, of agony pulsing, pulsing hard within his stomach, he'd have stopped her. At least from disarming him. But the pain is too great, and he's barely standing, now. She holds him up by the neck, fingers digging in.

Esper, still standing on the stairs, watches on with a kind of detached interest, and Castiel wishes he were someone else. Anyone else. One of the few angels still on his side, if any are even alive.

"If you won't give me the tablet, I'll take it by force," Naomi says, voice steady, cold, calculated, "I've already shown you more mercy than you deserve."

Dragging his eyes back to settle on her, he swallows around the building taste of blood in his mouth, feeling his insides shaking apart with the heat of the tablet.

"You can feel it's resistance," he forces out through the still-building pain, through the tight hold on his throat, "can't you? Your intentions may be good, but you are wrong, Naomi. What you want to do is dangerous. You have to understand—ahh!"

The blade presses harder at his chest, digging in, and his eyes squeeze shut at the feeling until he feels the cell phone buzzing against his side again, ringing now, and the knowledge that he's got someone waiting for him is enough to give him strength. Winning this fight might be just shy of impossible, but he's sure as Hell not going to lay down and take it. Mustering all his strength, he forces his eyes open, and with a glance at Esper, he sees his chance.

"Now, Esper!" he shouts, and Esper's eyes widen in confusion.

It's a desperate attempt, but it works. Naomi glances back at Esper, convinced that somehow Castiel had twisted him to his side before her arrival, and for a split second her grip loosens at his throat. Castiel reaches up to pull the blade from her hand before he flies.

He can feel them both right behind him, flying close, but he's got the advantage of almost a full two seconds, and it's enough. While he moves swiftly from desert to mountain to sea, searching out the emptiest places he knows of, he lets the respite from the tablet's pain give him the strength he needs to heal. It's in the brief moment that he finds himself somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico, just south of Louisiana, that his memory is jogged by the sight of boats on the water, and he knows what he needs to do.

With a dark kind of relief he adjusts his grip on the blade in his hand, and as he pulls open the front of his shirt, he finds himself wishing he had something else to do it with. Allowing the blood of his vessel to be drawn by Naomi's blade feels wrong, even like this.

The first cut stings more than he remembers. The second, more so. He suspects it's because last time he used a blade of steel; now, it's a blade that's capable of killing him. He pushes the thought down and keeps going, carving lines as he flies.

When he finally makes his landing in the center of Salar de Uyuni in Bolivia, his feet crunching against the ground, he has enough time to take in a breath, to taste the salt on the air, before they land. He wastes no time in slamming his palm down against the banishing sigil.

Blood seals with blood, and for a split second he has the satisfaction of seeing Naomi's furious expression before he feels himself pulled swiftly through the ether in a flash of white.

It hurts, but with full control of his Grace and his connection to Heaven strong, he at least retains consciousness when he lands hard on a stony beach. The stones dig in to his back uncomfortably, but he doesn't move. Just takes a few seconds to listen, to look to the sky and get his bearings. Judging by the vegetation that lines the cliff face behind him and the position of the rising sun, he ascertains that he is somewhere in the south of Greece—anything more specific than that is beyond him right now.

It will be a few hours before he can fly again—but the same goes for the others, and he's hopeful that he'll be able to hide himself before Naomi or Esper have enough power to contact any of the other angels working for them in Heaven.

Breathing heavily, he reaches out to pick up the cell phone from where it lays between two rocks, having fallen from his pocket on landing. He's relieved to find it undamaged, and when he slides his thumb across the lock there are four messages and three missed calls.

When he tries to call back, he gets nothing but an out-of-service tri-tone, and he lets out a huff through his nose, listening to the crash of waves for a couple of seconds before pushing himself to his feet.

He tastes blood on his lips, and he wipes it away with the inside of his coat before he buttons his shirt, leaving the tie hanging limp around his neck.

There's a town not far away, a few street lights still on as the sun rises, and he starts toward it, shoes slipping on the stones. It's not long before he finds a pay phone on a quiet street corner, and after reading the instructions for making reverse-charge calls and he dials.

When Dean finally answers, the line crackling with distance, Castiel leans heavily against the side of the booth and lets out a sigh of relief.

"Hello, Dean," he says, closing his eyes, "it's very good to hear your voice."