In the dark street outside the bunker, Dean paces, cell phone pressed hard to his ear. His palm is sweating. He switches hands and wipes it against his jeans.

It's the fourth time he's tried to call since Sam went back inside, and this time, it doesn't even ring—just goes straight to his own voicemail recording, unchanged since Castiel took the phone. When the high-pitched beep sounds, he comes to a stop beside the Impala and leans heavily against the hood, fingers pressing against cold metal.

"Cas, seriously dude, call me back," he says, eyes pressed tightly closed, "startin' to get kinda worried here."

Ending the call, he pushes away from the car, looking toward the bunker. The cool air is chilling against the nervous sweat at the back of his neck, and he wonders if he should wait in the library. But the others are waiting for him, waiting for news. He knows that if the words Cas isn't answering have to pass through his lips, he's probably not going to be able to hold himself together. He barely is now.

Digging his keys from his pocket, he unlocks the Impala, slipping into the drivers seat and breathing in the familiar smell of home that lingers within. Normally, this would be enough to settle his nerves. Tonight, though, his foot taps restlessly as he stares at his cell phone, waiting.

A side effect of everything he's seen in his life as a hunter is a near limitless pool of horrors to draw from when he's worried, and now every twisted torture he's ever seen rushes into his mind. Faceless angels, holding him down, cutting into him. He remembers the metal crown, digging into Samandiriel's skull, and sees Castiel in his place. Remembers the look of detached ruthlessness in Castiel's eyes that night at the crypt, a twisted remnant of himself, and knows that whatever the angels are capable of, it's likely worse than Crowley.

He tastes bile and pushes it down. He might be fine, he thinks, staring at the silent phone, he might be fine.

He's moments away from giving in and calling a fifth time when it rings, and in his haste to answer, the phone slips from his hand.

"Shit," he mutters, reaching under the seat, and when he finally presses it to his ear, he hears a robotic voice.

"...to accept charges. Press two to decline. Press three to repeat."

He presses one, and few seconds pass before there's the click and static of connection.

"Cas?" he asks, a little breathless, as a distant sigh comes down the line, "is that you?"

"Hello, Dean. It's very good to hear your voice."

Castiel sounds exhausted, but he's there. He's alive. Dean's shoulders sag in relief.

"Are you okay?" he asks, and Castiel swallows audibly before he answers.

"I am now," he says tiredly, "Naomi caught up with me."

"Are you hurt? Did she—"

"She tried. She failed. I'm fine," Castiel pauses, "I am in Greece, though. And temporarily grounded."

Dean tenses, Chuck's words about the final flight coming back to haunt him.

"That doesn't sound like fine to me, Cas," he says.

"It's nothing serious. I just need a couple of hours to... recharge, I suppose is the best way to put it."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. She'll be incapacitated for as long as I am, and I intend to conceal myself until I'm able to fly again."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"You're already doing it."

"Yeah?"

"I told you," Castiel says, a smile in his tone, "it's very good to hear your voice."

"Sweet talker."

Castiel hums in amusement, and Dean grins, relaxing a little more because he does sound okay. He might be fine.

"So is there somewhere nearby that you can hide out?" he asks.

"I passed an empty lighthouse on the way into this town. It should suffice. I'll need to go there shortly, just to be safe."

"Okay," Dean says, rubbing his hand over his jaw before diving right in, "I guess I should let you know before then, uh... Chuck finished translating the tablet."

"What did it say?"

"Basically that the tablet can't be destroyed, but it can be hidden. Catch is, you have to go... you have to—"

"I have to return to Heaven," Castiel guesses, and Dean nods miserably before he remembers that Castiel can't see him.

"Yeah," he says, voice a little tight, and there's a loaded moment before Castiel speaks again.

"What do I have to do?"

Reluctantly, Dean repeats everything Chuck told him, forcing himself to sound confident that Castiel will be okay. He knows it's useless. The helplessness seeps through into his voice, and he wishes he were better at faking it when it counts. It's not like lying to the cops, to a family of civilians, to a witness. This is the kind of lying he's always sucked at; the veneer of everything's fine that has been getting thinner and thinner every time he's used it, chipped away to nothing. By the time he gets to the part about God's return, his voice sounds brittle and he knows it, but Castiel just breathes out a calm, "Okay," and Dean frowns.

"Okay?" he asks, dubious.

"Well, no. Not really. It doesn't sound like things are going to end particularly well for me, and obviously I'd rather just about anything than go through Heaven, but... it's what needs to be done. So I'll do it."

It's what Dean should have expected, he thinks, and he smiles sadly, staring out the window.

"Sometimes I think you're too good for your own good, Cas."

The comment is met with silence. Silence that stretches out, out, out, and Dean gets the feeling that if they were in the same place right now, Castiel's eyes would be on his. He'd have his face tilted to the side, studying Dean as if trying to solve a puzzle, and Dean feels a spreading warmth in his gut at the thought.

"Stop trying to figure me out," he says after a moment, "I mean exactly what I said."

"I wasn't—"

"Yeah you were. I bet you've got that constipated look on your face and everything."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Castiel tells him, and Dean laughs, because he can hear the frown deepen in Castiel's tone.

"Sure you don't."

Castiel huffs, and something in the exasperated sound makes Dean ache. It's a little pathetic, a little desperate, but he can't stop himself from asking.

"Cas... is there... can you come here? When you can fly again. Before you take the tablet back."

"If I could... but Dean, I don't want to lead them to you," Castiel says, pained, before adding firmly, "I won't."

"Then... if I go wait in a cinema, how fast can you fly to all of them?"

"Dean—"

"Yeah, I know," he rubs his palm through his hair, "figured it was worth asking, though. Just in case."

In case last flight really means last flight. In case Castiel doesn't come back this time. In case Dean doesn't get another chance to say everything he wants to say, to let Castiel know how much he means. Just in case.

He remembers the regret, every time he thought Castiel was gone for good, and it's like a lead weight in his stomach.

Fuck it, he thinks, and takes a deep breath, lets the feel of the steering wheel below his fingers anchor him.

"You..." he presses his eyes closed, shaking his head slightly.

For the past few days he's been on a roller coaster climbing, his pulse the click-click-click of its wheels, echoing through his bones, and now, now, he's hit the crest with his eyes closed. Distantly he knows he's been anticipating the fall all along; it makes no difference.

"You know I love you, right?"

The second the words have left his mouth, Dean feels his stomach drop, right on cue, and there's an intake of breath on the other end of the line, and a pause, and for one desperate second, Dean wants to take it back. Wants to reach through the receiver and catch hold of the words. But it's done, they're out, and all he can do is wait.

"I know," Castiel says, and Dean can't help but laugh, leaning his head back against the seat as he rubs a hand over his chin, "it's mutual."

For a moment, Dean just stares up at the roof, lets the knowledge that it's true wash over him.

"Why didn't I say that sooner?" he asks himself out loud, and Castiel huffs out a laugh on the other end of the line.

"I can't speak for you, but on my end I'd blame it entirely on cowardice."

Dean laughs again, and it hurts, it hurts so much worse than before.

"This is literally the worst timing in the world, you know that?" he says, feeling the lump forming in his throat, "we could've... fuck, Cas, we could have had years."

"We will," Castiel says firmly, leaving no room for argument, and hell if that doesn't make Dean love him more, "I'll make sure of it."

Somehow, Dean believes him. Against all odds, he always comes back.

"I should fly to Heaven as soon as I'm able," he goes on, "the tablet is becoming... difficult to ignore."

"Okay. Good luck, Cas."

"I don't need luck," Castiel tells him, voice warm despite the pain that lies beneath it, impossible to drown out completely, "I have you."

The lighthouse, Castiel realizes when he returns to it, is not merely empty but long abandoned.

It stands at the edge of a cliff face not far from where he landed, built of pale brick, crumbling around the doorway, and weeds press up against the side that faces land. Under the bite of salt air and seaweed is a smell of rot, of decay, that lingers whenever the wind slows, and it only takes Castiel a moment to trace it's source back to the bats that have taken up residence on the circular balcony above.

He counts himself lucky that it's as derelict as it is—if nobody is maintaining the building, he isn't likely to be interrupted. Still, Castiel pauses briefly to make sure he's alone before he lets Naomi's blade slip from his sleeve. The last thing he needs is to have human law enforcement asking him questions when he's unable to fly away or influence them. With a glance around, he sees no signs of life beyond the birds, and returns his attention to the chain woven through the handles of the door. Driving his blade between the links, he twists until the chain snaps and falls to the ground with a clink, before pushing inside, into the musty damp.

To his left, a staircase twists upward, and as the door clicks shut behind him, blocking out the steady roar of waves crashing below, he takes a few steps toward it, looking up to where the dim light of dawn creeps down around the curved wall. The soft orange glow of dawn filters down into the main room, and he continues his inspection in the dim light. There isn't much to look at. A tangled mass of old rope is piled in one corner, frayed at the end and green with algae, and a table takes up the middle of the room. Only one chair remains at it's side, but the legs are spindly, and he thinks that if he were to sit down the whole thing would splinter and collapse. A few empty cans and liquor bottles litter the floor, cigarette butts pressed flat around them, and the wall on one side is covered in scrawled names and crude drawings of genitalia.

The chain on the door came later, he thinks. Why anyone bothered is beyond him.

The last place he looks is the cupboard beneath the stairs, but it contains nothing but a ratty mop, stiff with age.

He wasn't really expecting there to be anything to paint the walls, but had been hopeful, and he frowns in displeasure at the thought of having to use his blood. The angel blade hurts, the feel of it sharp and biting, and while it alone would be bearable, the tablet burning behind his ribs is enough pain to deal with.

As soon as he was away from Naomi, it had faded, but now it's slowly coming back, building, a furnace within, and he finds himself thinking of stars, of God. His long-absent father, returning only to see his final flight. Final flight. The words are stuck, replaying in his mind, and he ignores them as best he can. However little he thinks of God, however much his faith has been shaken, he can't believe that He would let him die now. A year ago, yes. But now—now he's doing what's right. Truly right. His Father, surely, would not bring him back so many times just to take his life from him when he's finally getting it right.

Drawing the blade over his hand, he waits until blood wells in his cupped palm and dips his fingers into it, bringing them up to the door. He forms the sigil swiftly before crossing the room and painting it again on the opposite wall. All up the stairs, every few feet, he adds another, another, another until the smell of his blood is thick and tinny, overpowering in the cramped space. He's thankful that even drained of his power, his grace still heals his body enough to continue functioning despite how much blood has been spilled.

Upstairs in the lantern room, windows surrounding him on all sides, finally satisfied with the sigils, he sits with his back against the massive light. Cobwebs hang from the ceiling, thick along the white metal frames that separate the windows. He watches the spiders weave and tries not to think of traps, of angels waiting for him, ready to drag him back to that room in Naomi's part of Heaven to squeeze the will from him.

Whatever happens, he tells himself, it will be over soon.

Closing his eyes, he leans his head back against the glass and for the first time in years he prays not for forgiveness, but strength.

Chuck, leaning one elbow on the table, reads over his notes with a furrowed brow, and he looks up briefly when Sam comes back into the library.

"Find something new?" Sam asks him hopefully, taking a seat.

"Nothing useful."

Sounds about right, Sam thinks, sagging back against his chair as he pushes his hair back from his face. The whole situation is a mess. He's not sure why he ever would have expected anything different. The look on Dean's face outside had reminded him of the one he'd worn that night in Salina, before Castiel had truly returned from Purgatory, when Dean thought he'd seen him out in the rain. He'd looked haunted, lost, small. Outside, psyching himself up to make that call, he'd looked the same.

"How's Dean?" Charlie asks through a yawn, as if she can read his mind, and Sam just shakes his head.

"He was stalling. Think he's finally calling now, though."

"Good."

"Hmm," Sam agrees, nodding.

The thing is though, even if the conversation goes well and Castiel flies off to Heaven to take the tablet to safety, Dean's going to be a wreck when he comes back inside. He's going to be scared and angry and miserable until Castiel gets back, and it's anyones guess which will be the dominant emotion. All Sam knows is that there's not going to be any point trying to talk to him about it.

If his insides weren't 90% caffiene right now, Sam would just suggest that they all go to sleep.

Let Dean come back to a quiet bunker, let him slam the drawers in the kitchen and pace the halls until he wears himself out and falls asleep in the library. It's not healthy, but it's how Dean deals, and Sam knows better by now than to try and force him to open up. Every time he's tried in the past, it's lead to Dean closing off more and more, and he's learned his lesson. Let Dean come to you. It's not fool proof, but it's a hell of a lot better than the alternative.

Leaving him to it would be the best option. But he's had four cups of coffee in the past two hours, and Chuck is running on so little sleep that he doesn't even seem tired any more. It's not looking likely.

If Castiel goes to the Garden and doesn't come back. Every time the angel has disappeared, every time he's died, he's seen it chip away at Dean a little more, the loss digging a little deeper.

The thought of seeing his brother grieve Castiel again—especially now—makes him ache.

"You've got insight, right?" he asks Chuck suddenly, earning himself a startled expression, "about Dean?"

"I guess. Yeah," Chuck's brow lowers into a frown, "I know stuff about him that you don't, but I'm not telling you about it. He'd literally kill me."

Chuck looks deadly serious, and Sam decides that he really doesn't want know.

"That's not what I meant."

"What, then?"

"I'm just thinking, if something happens. If Cas... if something goes wrong. I'm worried, you know? He's not exactly the poster boy for healthy grieving, and—"

Sam cuts himself off with a frown, looking at Chuck in confusion. His eyes have glazed over, his mouth slack, and though he's still holding the notepad in one hand his grip is loose.

"Chuck?"

Abruptly, he stands, his chair skittering back over the ground with a clatter, and Charlie, half asleep on the other side of the table, jerks to attention with wide eyes.

"Hey, Chuck?" Sam repeats, standing and reaching out to grasp his shoulder, "Chuck, you okay?"

There's no response. Chuck just stares, vacant, and Sam takes a step back from him, looking over at Charlie.

"You think we've been pushing him too hard?"

Before she can answer, Chuck drops the notepad, turns, and walks across the room, limbs stiff and awkward as a marionette.

"This can't be good," Sam mutters, following him slowly.

"He can't be possessed, right?" Charlie asks in a loud whisper, edging around the table as she watches Chuck warily, "I mean, the bunker's pretty well guarded on that front... right?"

"Right," Sam says, watching as Chuck shuffles out of the library and comes to a stop in the war room.

Pressing the tips of his fingers against the map table, he moves his lips silently.

"What's he saying?" Charlie asks, edging closer, and Sam catches hold of her arm to stop her.

"I don't know. You wanna go back to the library and grab the holy water off the shelf near the scimitar?"

"Yeah, okay."

She walks back, watching Chuck the whole time, and when she returns she's carrying not only the holy water but a silver dagger and the salt shaker from the kitchen.

"Figured it wouldn't hurt," she says with a shrug, holding the lot out, and Sam takes them from her, moving slowly toward Chuck.

"Guess we're about to find out."

In the lighthouse, the hours pass slowly.

Castiel feels his grace returning like the tide, edging in only to pull away again. Knowing what needs to be done and being unable to do it leaves him agitated, and without even the ability to listen to prayer, he's left only with his thoughts, his fears. With each passing minute, they become more irrational, somehow heightened by the pain of the tablet.

It's infinitely more frustrating than he could have expected.

In total, three hours, seven minutes and forty-two seconds pass before his Grace is restored. He doesn't let a second go to waste.

The Heaven he favors, the eternal Tuesday, is his usual destination, and he flies there swiftly, settling in the open meadow and hoping the tablet will show him the way to the ever-elusive Garden.

The man to whom this Heaven belongs is still here, still smiling in his red sweater as he watches his kite soar in the warm sun, but it's different now. Tainted. Castiel hasn't been here since the war, since he took to the skies and rained down his wrath on Raphael's followers, and the sight of lush grass brings back dark memories of wings upon wings upon wings, black burnt into endless green.

How could I ever be the Shield? he wonders, suddenly terrified that Chuck had been wrong, that this is a suicide mission and he won't even manage to keep the tablet safe.

When he breathes in, he thinks he catches the smell of ash thick in the air. Though perhaps that's just the guilt talking.

A few seconds pass before he collects himself, calms himself enough to move on, but by then he can feel his brothers, his sisters, clamouring through the ether to find him. They sense him here, and he has no chance to move before they land, caging him in with wings spread wide. The atmosphere itself seems to quake with their presence, their anger, and though some are constrained to their vessels as he is, many more are in their true forms. As he looks upon them, standing tall and terrible, great shining wheels of fire and bronze and stone, wings pointed, some of light and of cloud, others of crystal, he feels the tablet surge within him with an unimaginable heat that brings him to his knees. It makes the blood of his vessel boil, and he digs his fingers into the ground as the taste of burned flesh fills his mouth. He has the distinct feeling that if he doesn't move immediately, it's going to be too late. Too late. Too—

You know I love you, right?

The memory is quiet, barely there, but he takes hold of it even as he feels his six wings scorching, tastes blood and ash and fire on his tongue, and with great effort he pushes back to his feet, staggers forward; tries to let the magnetic pull of the tablet direct him toward the Garden.

We could have had years.

We will. I'll make sure of it.

He seeks the Garden, but his grace is a forest burning. His vision is blurred, blown out to white, all white, and he can barely see where he's going as he moves, weighed down too much by pain to fly. In the bright, the bright, there's a flurry of movement, dark shapes, that he knows, recognises as his siblings.

They're speaking to him, but he can't understand them. Can't even hear them, not really.

Their voices are just noise, now, ringing loud; their bodies merely flame, licking at his heels, at his eyes, vessel and true form alike. When they touch him, clutch at him, try to pull him back, the heat of the tablet overtakes him.

You know I love you, right?

With each halting step forward, dragging himself toward the single point of quiet, of shade, of peace that must be the Garden, has to be the Garden, he feels their many limbs slipping against him, catching. They scream. Then again, they could be shouting.

You know I love you, right?

The air grows thick as molasses, and it hurts to breathe, to step, to stop. He keeps moving. He keeps moving. He keeps moving.