The plot thinnens, somewhat. I so appreciate everyone who is reviewing… writing this is a real challenge for me, and that feedback keeps me trying that bit harder to make each chapter better than the last. Thanks again to Suz, Cerridwen, Amberdreams and Ster1 for your cheerleading and eagle eyes! ;-) Cathartes/Coragyps: when you eventually get here, am I falling further with this one? :)

Warnings Foul language, blasphemy up the wazoo and back again, S5 spoilers, minor references to events in Never Come Back

Fate Leads the Willing

It's dead quiet in the den, the darkness punctuated by the faint light of Bobby's penlight as the old man scans his book, the moonlight glowing in through the window from outside.

Dean stands in the doorway for a few seconds, drifts in gradually, hovers next to the bed as Bobby glances up wordlessly.

"Has he woken up at all?" he says softly, slanting his eyes down at the motionless figure, and he can't help it, his eyes drift to the livid handprint standing out in sharp relief on Castiel's shoulder.

"For a while. He's exhausted. He hollered all night long after he got back. For you." Bobby grimaces. "For Michael, anyway. In Enochian, mostly." He stares up for a minute. "He said other stuff too. Sounds like he had a pretty tough time down there."

Dean parks one butt cheek on the bed, considers what the old man said. "It's the main event when they get an angel down there," he murmurs. "It's like a feeding frenzy… they sell tickets to it, dress up. It's like taking in a Broadway show." He shudders reflexively and comes back to himself with a jolt, finds the old man is gazing at him and his eyes are softer. "He was there before," he continues, and he swallows, steadies his voice. "For years. Looking for me. He'll be fine."

"Well, you'd know," Bobby offers quietly. He leans over to put his book down on the floor, rises on a groan. "This whole Michael deal… I guess that's why you were the righteous man," he says suddenly, and he smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Never could figure that one out, all the cussin' and the drinking. And the women." He snorts. "You know what they say… if all the women you've had over the years were laid end to end, I wouldn't be at all surprised."

Dean smiles weakly, shrugs, looks away and down again as Castiel shifts on the bed and mutters something unintelligible.

"So, this whole falling from grace business," Bobby says pointedly. "Sam says it's bad news for you guys."

And Dean finds his throat has gone sandpaper dry even at the thought of it, and he has to swallow hard before he can speak. "It's disobedience. And expulsion."

"Uh-huh." Bobby gives him a measured stare.

"It's a repudiation of the Host, of what we are. A rejection of God."

The old man pouts in disgust. "I think God rejected him first, don't you? And you and Sam at the same time. So maybe he didn't fall so much as he was pushed."

"It's not that easy," he says. "It doesn't work that way."

"I think it is," Bobby replies. "I think it can be as easy on him as you want to make it. I think you can work this exactly how you want to. Since no one's really looking."

He blurts it out then. "Believe me, I don't want to make it hard on him. But what he did… it's immoral. It's iniquity – unGodly and unrighteous, he—"

"Thinks the sun, the moon and the stars shine out of your ass," the old man interjects scathingly. "You pulled him out of the Pit. And the noise you had that demon making sounded pretty immoral to me. So I'm sensing a conflict here, between what you're saying and what you're thinking. And doing." He pins Dean with a shrewd, assessing look. "Well?"

He scuffs his boot on the floor for a minute, chooses his words carefully. "Okay. There's things I'm supposed to do… meant to do. And they're the right things, but they're the wrong things too. And then there are things I want to do, more than you can possibly…" He looks away. "And they're the wrong things. But they're the right things too. I'm trying to reconcile so much, and I'm—"

"Saying what needs to be said. What needs to be heard, too."

He stares back at Bobby, doesn't answer.

"It just seems to me that you're putting a whole lot of effort into tracking down Pestilence," the old man continues meaningfully. "When you could just flap off to wherever Lucifer is and start Armageddon."

Dean strums out his tension on his thigh. "I can't just flap off to where he is," he says tightly. "I don't know where he is. I'm not picking him up."

Bobby cocks his head, thrown off track for a minute. "Is that normal?"

He chews his lip. "It's… unexpected. I should be able to sense him." Unbidden, his eyes drift over and down to the man in the bed again, and he remembers a far-off conversation. I should be able to get a funny feeling about him, he thinks, before he switches his gaze back to Bobby. "Lucifer can't give his own vessel the sigil, it doesn't work that way… it has to come from another angel. So I'm assuming the Horsemen are cloaking him."

"Can they do that?"

He shrugs. "They're on the same pay grade, but it's not their MO. In fact they shouldn't even be on his team, they don't answer to him. That's one of the many things I don't get about this." He rolls his shoulders, feels a cracking sensation in the back that Bobby must hear, because the old man's eyes widen.

"You have… wings."

"They don't manifest fully in this dimension," he says, and he feels damned self-conscious about it if he's honest. Bashful about his wings, and he almost laughs out loud at how fuckin' ridiculous it all is. "It just feels weird back there. Heavy between the shoulders." He clears his throat nervously, and from nowhere he gets a sudden image of the shadow of Castiel's wings flaring out blackly that first night, and sheltering him in Duluth, when he dreamed of Hell. "I could… show you," he ventures. "An impression of them. A shadow."

Bobby considers, raises a critical eyebrow. "So," he announces flatly. "Like I said before. You seem to be getting the hang of this whole angel thing."

He supposes it's an opening, sort of. And the words spill out of him, haltingly, because he feels a sense of astonishment, wonderment, awe, even reverence about it himself. "I just – it's amazing, Bobby. It's like – I remember something or I just do something, without thinking about it or wondering if I even can do it, and it works, and it feels natural, it feels like I've always been able to do it. It's like I'm just now becoming what I was always meant to be. What I always was, what I really am. It's – instinctive. Familiar."

"Like – sense memory," Bobby observes grudgingly.

"Yeah…" He nods. "And that one thing is a piece of the puzzle, and it fills this tiny gap, and then ten other pieces just slot into place right behind it." He holds up his hand, marvels at it, flicks his gaze back to Bobby. "I have magic fingers," he says. "Sam is fast asleep upstairs because I gave him the magic finger. Can you believe that? And Brady… I shredded him. He didn't stand a chance, I got what I needed from him and…" He snaps his fingers, sees the old man wince. "I obliterated him. He isn't even a damp spot on the floor, he's just – gone. Like he was never here. The power, it's – fuckin' amazing. What I can do with it."

Bobby's eyes are hard, chips of ice. "That's what Sam thought," he dares bluntly. "Ain't it?"

And it's gone, that moment of maybe connection, of maybe understanding, lost in the old man's unyielding stare, and he deflates so fast he's sure he hears the hiss of escaping air. "This – it isn't the same," he snaps back. "Don't ever think it is. Ever."

"Well, your brother used his power to start the end of the world," Bobby offers. "Sounds like you intend using yours to finish the end of the world." His forehead creases as he raises his eyebrows. "Of course, I'm assuming Armageddon is what you really want," he backtracks abruptly. "I mean… I don't know exactly why the angel of death would be tying himself up here trying to find out where the Horsemen are when it stands to reason he'd be better off leaving them to fan the flames." He leans forward, makes his voice deliberate. "Assuming Armageddon is what you really want. Like I said."

Dean eyeballs the old man for a minute, and Bobby's expression is cagey now, suspicious, because he always has been a canny old bastard. He smiles despite himself. Like a dog with a fuckin' bone, he thinks, Bobby and Sam both. He swipes a hand along his jaw, chooses his words carefully. "This is need to know…" he starts, stops as Bobby ratchets it up to a look like a dentist's drill.

"Need to know meaning what exactly?"

"Meaning you." He nods down at Castiel. "And him. Only. Like I said, Sam is out of the loop on this. If he – if anything happens… if my brother – if Lucifer – gets inside his head…" He glares at Bobby as hard as he can, wonders if his eyes might turn to stone like Castiel's do when he's laying down the law. "This really is tactics. Lucifer cannot know this. And that means Sam can't either."

Bobby doesn't bat an eyelid. "Go on."

"Let's suppose Gabriel is right. And there is another option."

The old man's eyes suddenly gleam bright as silver dollars. "Okay," he says. "Let's."

Dean starts doodling aimless patterns on the blanket with a finger as he talks. "Let's suppose the cage is still down there, and Lucifer doesn't know about it. And that there are four keys to the cage, and that if we get them all we can open it up again…"

He can see Bobby putting it all together, eyes like calculators. "Sonofabitch…" he breathes. "Gabriel's clue. It has no top or bottom, but it can hold flesh, bones and blood all at the same time." He shakes his head. "I knew that sounded familiar. It's a ring."

"Yep. Four rings to be exact," he confirms. "The four Horsemen's rings. And we already have two of them."

"Christ," Bobby mutters. "And we could put him back in solitary… the smackdown wouldn't have to be plan A." He chews his thumbnail for a second, snorts. "And Gabriel couldn't just tell you this?"

He doesn't reply straightaway, doesn't tell the old man he isn't really sure in his own mind what plan A is. "You have to try to understand, Bobby," he says finally. "Smacking the malakhim around is one thing—"

"Malakhim?" Bobby cuts in, quizzical.

He jerks his head down at Castiel. "Sorry… I mean the messengers. Beating up on grunts like Castiel is a game to the Trickster, but for Gabriel to betray another archangel… it's too much." He sees the old man's expression of disgust, holds up a hand. "I know you've read The Inferno," he says. "The ninth circle… Betrayal. One of its rings is—"

"Cocytus," Bobby interrupts, and his eyes are darker. "I remember. When that Bender kid took you in Duluth, Castiel said you dreamed of Cocytus."

He nods. "One of its rings is named for Cain. Traitors to kindred are there immersed in the ice, up to their faces… for betrayal is the worst sin." He crosses his arms, finds he's shuddering at the memory. "Gabriel doesn't want to end up there. And I don't blame him, not really."

Bobby takes it all in, exhales sharply. "You don't blame him," he echoes. "So. Crab nebula?"

He smirks. "He pranked me. He's a slippery little sucker. He deserved it."

Bobby chuckles softly and it turns into a sigh, heaved out and desolate.

"What?"

"You sound like… you."

Dean sighs himself. "That's because I am me," he insists gently. "Like I said. I don't really understand it myself, Bobby. I'm him. But I'm me." He gazes down into the old man's sad eyes. "Bobby, look at me and tell me you don't know me," he says, and he smiles. "I remember all those things you remember. Course, I've been trying to blot out the ass wiping for twenty-six years, but it's there. You'd tell me to bend over and lift and separate, and you'd get a big handful of—"

"But how did this even happen?" Bobby chokes. "I didn't want this for you, none of us did. What's going to happen to you after all this goes down?" He pulls off his cap, leans into the palm of his hand. "Dean," he grinds out, as if the words are hurting him. "What's going to happen to you?" He breathes slow and deep, tries to calm himself while his shoulders shake.

"I don't really what's going to happen," Dean says. "Maybe I'll just have to Clark Kent my way through life… for as long as I'm here, anyway. But I'm good with it, Bobby."

The old man looks up and his eyes are damp now. "I don't understand that," he mutters. "I don't know how you can be good with it."

"Things happen for a reason—"

"You ever notice they only say that about bad things?"

Dean throws up his hands. "You know… destiny isn't that bad, Bobby," he says. "It lets me off the hook for…" He stops, gropes for words. "Look, I spent a lot of time trying to figure all of this out, trying to see where I could have done things differently. I started this, remember? With bad decisions. I made the deal, I got off the rack, I broke the first seal, and—"

"It wasn't your fault, Dean," Bobby grates out harshly. "You didn't know what those decisions would lead to." He pauses a beat. "And I made my own stupid fuckin' decision when I didn't stop your brother."

"No, you don't get it, Bobby," he races out. "What I'm saying is that maybe it isn't our fault if it was all meant to go down that way… it means there isn't anywhere we could have done things differently. It's like I said – someone would have let Sam out, even if it wasn't Castiel. And you never would have shot Sam to stop him leaving. And maybe that means I don't have to keep destroying myself with the guilt I feel for climbing off that rack. We never had free will, not really. It was just always going to happen, it was destined, and maybe that might help me live with what I did down there. And this…" He presses a hand to his chest. "Maybe I didn't want it, but whatever quirk of fate that makes me him, well… it comforts me. It fills up this hole I've had in me for a long time now—"

"Stop," Bobby cuts in suddenly, sharply. "Stop right there. Because you're talking like destiny is still on the table. You're talking like you plan on doing the things you're supposed to do, like you can't choose to do those wrong things that are really the right things. You're talking like you don't think you can change a damn thing, and like you might not even plan on trying." Bobby waits, waits for him to answer, continues when he doesn't. "Well? Do you plan on trying?"

He gazes back at the old man for a moment. "Like I said," he replies neutrally. "I'm trying to reconcile a lot of things."

Bobby's voice is ragged now. "Were you just telling me what you thought I needed to hear when you fed me that line about the cage? Because it—"

"Michael," Castiel cuts in, gravel-voiced, and he's reaching up and rubbing his eyes, dazed, frowsy and unshaven, yawning.

And Dean finds he's smiling, feels a full sensation in his chest that suddenly makes him think of Cold Oak, of walking back into the room there and seeing Sam up and at it, and he remembers the delight, the relief, the sheer promise of his brother alive and not lost to him. Something surges up inside him, and it's comfort, it's contentment, it's the same fuckin' happiness as then, he thinks, a flood of affection, elation, a giddy, careless moment when he feels almost serene with joy. And maybe he didn't even know how miserable he was until now, when this last shadow lifts, all in the space of the second it takes for Bobby to push upright abruptly and start speaking again. He glances back to the old man, uses the moment to tamp it down, steady his breathing and his nerves, and he wonders if it's his euphoria he's feeling or Michael's.

"What you said," Bobby ventures, calmer now. "Before… about where Gabriel doesn't want to end up, about why he isn't taking sides. About why you don't blame him." He points at the bed. "He's going to end up there, because he took sides, betrayed his brothers. Maybe you already know that, maybe it's where he was when you pulled him out. But you might want to keep that in mind, that he took that risk for you, even if he is just a messenger. Falling from grace might be your murder one, but he did it for you." He pauses a beat. "Well, for Dean, anyway. And since you keep saying you're Dean…" He trails off, walks towards the door. "His dressings need changing, by the way," he throws back over his shoulder as he leaves.

Dean tracks the old man, thinks what a damn crafty fucker he is as he exits the room, keeps his eyes on the door as it closes on the awkward silence.

"Michael," the voice repeats, and it's tired, annoyed, but then it suddenly softens into fondness. "Dean. You fucking idiot. Why did you do that? It was unbelievably stupid. Why did you have to go and do that?"

Dean hops off the bed, moves to sit in the chair Bobby just vacated, pulls it up closer to the bed. "I knew you were faking it," he bitches.

Castiel persists. "Why did you do that?"

"What, grip you tight and raise you from perdition?" Dean challenges archly. "I think you know why."

"And did you close that doorway to doubt behind you?" Castiel snarks back. He shakes his head. "It weakens you, makes you vulnerable. You shouldn't be taking risks like that. Too much is at stake."

Dean snorts. "No one's watching. It's just us, remember?" He points upwards. "God left the building."

"If you fall, then everything will be lost," Castiel says, sharp again. "It was foolish, Michael. It was a mistake."

Dean meets Castiel's gaze unflinchingly. "It might have been foolish, Castiel, but it wasn't a mistake," he says tightly. "I would never leave you there. Never. You never left me. It was a risk worth taking. And if I'd figured this mess out sooner, I'd have pulled you out then." He fumes briefly but potently, then slants his eyes across to the handprint. "That sore?"

"Not overly."

Castiel doesn't blink, and Dean wonders fleetingly if it might be some weird genetic thing Jimmy Novak had going on, that he only blinked four times a minute or something. "I remember what you told me in the dream, back in Duluth," he blurts out quite at random then, and he doesn't even know where the thought came from. "My mark is on your soul now."

Castiel stares back, still intense, and Dean breaks the moment, leans forward and rests his palm briefly on the dressings covering the other man's chest. He sends something he hasn't quite indentified yet out of himself, a flare of energy, the same force he used to turn Brady into thin air before his very eyes, but this is so very different because this comes from somewhere different. His heart, he supposes, even though he's dimly aware that despite his joy at seeing his brother again, at some level he's utterly repelled by his sin, his fall, the hollow, black space where his grace was, and he snatches his hand back as soon as it's done because the contact tasers up his arm and scalds him to his core.

Castiel bucks, yelps. "Mmmmph," he spits out, and he pats desperately at himself, breathes his discomfort in and out. "That hurt," he growls, and his face is like thunder.

"You deserve it," Dean retorts pissily, and out of nowhere he finds his teeth are gritted with rage. "I am so fuckin' mad at you, I could vaporize you where you stand."

"Lie."

He goggles. "No, it isn't a fuckin' lie. What the hell were you thinking, carving that thing into yourself if you knew damn well it—"

"Where I lie, Dean. Vaporize me where I lie."

Dean pulls up, flaps his lips for a minute. "Don't split hairs," he snaps childishly. "I am this far," and he holds up thumb and forefinger for emphasis, "from grabbing you by both ears and driving your face into my knee. Twice. And at least they can't find you with that cut into your ribs."

Castiel is wincing, still patting at the bandages. "I can't even rub it better, it hurts too much," he mutters. "I had speculated whether I might be reborn as a human child when my fall was complete. Like Anna." He gives Dean an opaque look. "Like you, Michael. And I had wondered if childhood might be a positive experience. But I remain an adult. And I've concluded that humanity is highly overrated."

The first aid kit is sticking out from under the bed, and Dean leans down, hauls it out the rest of the way. "I thought I was a bad patient," he grouses, flips the lid open. "And I didn't fall. Not officially. And the only good thing about childhood is that you can be tried as a minor. You're lucky you're a grown-up, believe me." He gestures at the other man's chest. "Can you get those dressings off yourself? Only Bobby said they need changing and I—"

"Can barely stand the thought of touching me now I'm untouchable?"

Dean glances up again, can't really find words to deny it because it's true, and he knows Castiel can read him like a book so he doesn't bother lying.

"It's how Anna made me feel," Castiel muses philosophically, and he's already picking at the tape, plucking at the gauze patches covering his chest. "It is what it is."

Dean keeps schtum, focuses on ferreting through the supplies, rooting out clean gauze and antiseptic. "Use this spray stuff," he says, squinting at the can as he stands. "It'll be easier, and I'll cut more tape so…" He looks across, falters. "Oh, for crying out loud," he breathes. "You look like I drew on you with my left hand using a chainsaw. I knew it was a fuckin' bad idea." He spins, takes a few steps away, shields his face with his palms for a minute, and he can hear the spray fizz out, hear Castiel sucking in an outraged breath. And he turns back, plunks himself down in the chair again, snips tape and hands it up mutely, feels a sick sort of shame while he tries to avoid skin-to-skin contact.

Castiel finishes off, flops back on the pillows, scowls over at him suddenly.

"What?"

"I think I may need to, uh… use the facilities."

The diversion is a relief. "You mean you need to take a piss? Come on, you were Jimmy Novak once weren't you? You can speak like a normal hu—"

"Just because I'm human doesn't mean I'm Jimmy again, Michael," Castiel grates out, and then he pulls up, furrows his brow. "Dean. I mean."

Dean nods slowly, considers that it feels so normal, so natural, to hear Castiel call him by his name, and he wonders if it's some deeply buried memory from antiquity, a memory of Cas having used it before. But at the same time it prickles at him, feels like an itch he needs to scratch, nags at him because it's still there in the back of his mind even with Gabriel's reassurance echoing in there too, the thought that all he has ever been to Castiel is Michael. "Do you see him when you look at me?" he asks suddenly. "Sam and Bobby, I think they see me… but they're scared. And I think Sam's – I dunno, trying to see under my skin or something. Analyzing me. But Gabriel – he said I was Michael to him. And that's what he called me. And you did too. Is that who you see? Him?"

Castiel gives him a serious look. "I see what I've always seen," he says carefully.

Jesus, he thinks, it's like getting blood from a stone. "Which is?"

The response is simple, quiet. "The best man I know."

Dean swallows hard, fights to keep his voice steady. "Come on. Bathroom's up the—"

"Bucket," Castiel says faintly. "Under the bed. Justincasey. According to Bobby."

He groans out as he starts to push himself up, and Dean leans forward, reaches out to help, finds he can't, feels that twist of revulsion clench his gut again, and he recoils, slams his butt back down in the chair.

"I'm an abomination to you now," Castiel remarks offhandedly, as he maneuvers himself into a sitting position, pale faced and sweating.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispers, and he can't meet the other man's gaze all of a sudden.

"You don't have to be sorry. It's how it works, we both know this. You'll become inured to it at some point. I expect you already have with Sam." Castiel swings his legs over the side of the bed. "Dean."

He does glance up then, and Castiel is looking at him expectantly.

"Oh. Yeah." He pokes about under the bedframe with his boot, slides the pail out, waits, and Castiel stares back at him some more.

"What?"

Castiel raises one eyebrow.

"Oh. Yeah."

He swivels around in the chair, sniggers despite the whole aversion thing. "This is ridiculous. I'm the archangel Michael and I'm sitting here listening to my guardian angel piss in a bucket behind me. And this is all part of God's plan. Oy."

He hears Castiel sigh out, because the angel is human now and the pleasure of a bladder fit to bust finally emptying is right up there on the list. The bucket scrapes home, and he turns around again, and they're right back into the staring contest.

"I'm no longer your guardian angel, Dean," Castiel says matter-of-factly, as he starts shuffling himself back up the bed. "In fact, these circumstances mean I'm less than nothing to you." He groans as he rests back against the pillows. "So," he offers then, and his mouth is suddenly a grim line. "You're still considering destroying our brother."

Dean rolls his eyes. "You were faking it just now too? Why the hell didn't you—"

"You were having a moment," Castiel parries, air quotes and all. "For some of the time, at least. It seemed to be something Bobby needed, and something that comforted him."

"How much of it did you hear?"

"All the good parts."

Dean looks hard at the other man. "Honestly, Cas?" he says quietly. "All I really know is that the sun is going to switch off, and the moon shall not cause her light to shine either. Wars, plague, and upheaval of the elements prepare the way. It's all destined. It's God's will, it's written—"

"On the wind," Castiel cuts in. "Written on the wind, Michael. Not in stone. And as for destiny…" He narrows his eyes, curls his lip insolently. "Don't give me that holy crap. Destiny, God's plan... it's all a bunch of lies. A way for your boss to keep us in line."

Dean cocks his head, quizzical, gets a sense of déjà vu, and he can't quite pinpoint the reason why.

Castiel stops for a second, stares hotly, as only he can, and he's smug with it before his expression melts into something more earnest. "Destiny isn't real, Michael. But do you know what is? People. Families… that's real. And you're going to watch them all burn?"

And something clicks, and it dawns on Dean just why the words sound so familiar to him. "Your subtext is starting to sound way too much like text," he breathes. "You're a sneaky sonofabitch."

"It's been said," Castiel retorts waspishly.

Dean folds his arms, clenches his teeth in irritation. "I swore my obedience," he hisses. "Remember? Because I seem to recall that you were there for that. And it's Dean. The best man you know. In case that slipped your mind too."

Castiel swallows hard, winces as he leans over to snag the bottle of water from the table beside the bed. He gulps a few mouthfuls, wipes his lips, and then he sags, suddenly drained and dejected. "It hasn't slipped my mind," he says dully. "It's true. You are. And everything, everything I did was so this wouldn't happen, and I did it because of you, because of what I learned from you." He exhales heavily. "I chose you, Dean. I killed for you, fell for you, because I believed in you, and what you said about this imperfect world. But now…" He laughs, and it's hopeless. "All is wasted. Everything was to avoid this, and it's wasted. It will all play out now like Zachariah intended, and I may as well have—"

"Left me in the green room?" Dean cuts in aggressively. "Left Sam to Lucifer? That was the plan wasn't it, have that viper weasel his way into my brother and unleash Hell if I didn't bend over and grip my ankles for you guys? Well, fuck that." He shoots upright, strides over to the wall, slams his fist into it before he whirls back round again, and Castiel flinches in the face of his wrath.

"I didn't ask you for anything except the chance to speak to my brother," he rages, and he can feel his vocal chords cower as his voice turns jagged at the edges. "You made a choice, Cas, a hard choice, and I respect you for it. Fuck it, man – I love you for it. I do, and I think you know that." He stabs the air with his finger, emphatic. "But it was your choice, your free will, because it turns out you guys have that. I didn't force you into it, or promise you anything. You did it because you knew it was right, and that Zachariah was wrong. So don't lay it on me if it hasn't all gone how you thought it would. That's how the world works, Cas. I'm not in control, no one is. And you know what else? You don't get to use your mojo to school me hard because you're having a fuckin' tantrum about not getting your way."

He pulls up then, presses a hand to his brow, finds the hand is shaking, looks over to find Castiel gazing back, his expression flitting between something that might be fear and something that looks suspiciously like satisfaction, could be pleasure, might even be triumph veering into exultation.

"What?" he snaps out, exasperated. "Why do you look like you just got one past me? Don't I get any respect now I outrank you?"

Castiel smiles, just barely. "You're right."

And now he's just confused. "Right… I'm right. Uh… I am?"

The other man nods, and his eyes glow like he just got his grace back. "It was right, what I did. And Zachariah was wrong. And no one is in control. Because it turns out you guys have free will."

Dean gapes back, shakes his head in wonder. "I just got served."

"You just got served," Castiel agrees, and he smirks. "There is no destiny but the one you make. You don't have to be led by fate. You can choose to do those wrong things that are the right things. You can change it. And—"

"But you were there, Cas," he jumps in hoarsely. "You were in Hell, you know what it's like… Sam and Bobby, they have no clue. Lucifer wants to bring that here. And whose fault will it be if he does? Who will Sam and Bobby look to then? Assuming Sam is still Sam when the shit hits?" He shivers, bites his lip hard. "And that future Zachariah showed me… I told you what Lucifer said." He pauses, lets the words sink in. "That we always end up there, no matter what we do."

"But that future was a different reality, Dean," Castiel offers. "One in which Michael didn't—"

"But how do we know it doesn't hang on this decision in this reality?" he cuts in, frustrated.

"Everything hangs on this decision, whatever you choose." And Castiel smiles again. "But perhaps you know deep down that it's a risk worth taking."

Dean stands there, sighs out, pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes on the world for a moment. "You know… I'm not tired, Cas, but I'm weary," he murmurs finally. "These are the decisions you were talking about. The ones you said you didn't envy."

"I believe they are."

"If I disobey, I risk falling."

Castiel's reply is quiet, but sure and honest. And meaningful. "Some things are worth the fall."

Dean snorts. "Don't even think about giving me one of your soulful looks." He makes his way back to his chair. "And by the way, you're looking to get schooled hard yourself." He raises an eyebrow, turns on the smug himself. "You should show me some fuckin' respect. I dragged you out of Hell and I can damn well throw you back in."

"Touché." There's a moment of silence then, before Castiel clears his throat. "I'm sorry," he says. "What I did to you… I hurt you, and it was wrong, it was—"

"What I would have done," Dean cuts in levelly. "It was pissed off, it was mean as hell, and it was fuckin' desperate. It was what I would have done." He settles back, gazes reflectively into the middle distance for a long moment, decides it's time to ask the question directly. "You said I was different."

"I did," Castiel says wearily. "You were. You are."

Dean finds he's chewing on the knuckle of his index finger, and he flicks his eyes up to meet the other man's. "Did you know? When you said that, did you know?" He asks, but he isn't sure if he wants to hear the answer, because he knows Castiel won't lie to him.

"I'm not sure," comes the other man's wary reply. "I just – there was something about you…"

Dean glances over, and now Castiel's face is rapt. "Something wondrous, and terrifying," he continues softly. "When I found you down there I felt that I already knew you, but I didn't understand why or how. And I thought you would hear my true voice… and then when you didn't, well." He shrugs. "I assumed it was what we had shared down there that drew me to you."

Dean shivers. "Yeah, it was one hell of a bonding experience," he mutters. "Literally."

"We searched for you for many long years, and he did his work well," Castiel says. "Alastair. He hid you by corrupting you, by tarnishing your glow. But I found you." He pauses, smiles at nothing in particular. "I found you. And I held your soul in my hands, and shielded you from him, and remade you. Because there was still a spark. Like a firefly. Like… Tinkerbell. And now I know why you shone so brightly."

"Like Tinkerbell?" And it's a save, an out-clause, a relief, because the wistful expression on Castiel's face is doing odd, flip-flopping things to him and it's almost like he has never considered the enormity of it all, a battle raging to find him while he turned the devil's work into an art form and took pride in his aptitude and finesse. "You've seen Peter Pan?" he trails off lamely.

Castiel shrugs. "Crappy motel. It was that or pay-per-view porn."

Dean chews his lip. "I thought you were, you know…" he waves a hand up. "Flapping around up there all this time. Not bunking in crappy motels. And how do you even pay for those?"

"Not lately," Castiel says reflectively. "It tires me." He sighs. "Tired me. And I Obi-Wan the desk clerks."

"You could have ridden with us."

Castiel shakes his head ruefully. "Not while Zachariah could find me. Or Lucifer. It's difficult to ward against an archangel for any length of time without these sigils. It would have put you at risk to spend long periods of time with you. Both of you. It'll be easier now."

Dean sniffs, doesn't honestly want to think of the other man channel-surfing by himself in crappy motels because he was tired, it's too keen a memory of solo hunts, and Sam off God knew where, and his pathetic relief when his angel showed up to rouse him from his loneliness. He makes a sharp, snippy u-turn in the conversation. "So you are grateful for the sigils."

There's a long-suffering silence before a tart, "Thank you, Dean."

Dean smirks, settles back in the chair again, considers the irony of it all. "Time travel, it's – fuckin' weird." He shakes his head. "It's just ironic. Anna went back to stop it. And all she did was flip the final switch. Jesus, she must be spinning in her grave."

Castiel snorts, flaps a hand when Dean looks up. "You're an odd thing," he muses. "You're just so – you. Even though you're him. It must be the extra archangel mojo… and the fact that Michael was reborn in you, took you when—"

He cuts in, testy. "There was no taking. Or opening up, just in case you were thinking that too. I just – acknowledged. Okay?"

But Castiel is droning on, entranced. "The joining must be on some deeper level, there must be a synergy that comes from—"

"Enough," he barks. "There's no synergy. Jesus you make it sound like a fuckin' shampoo commercial."

Castiel thinks on it a minute. "Well… perhaps more a symbiotic relationsh—"

"I'm not Teal'c," he yelps. "There is no symbiote."

Castiel looks at him slitty-eyed, yawns hugely, and his face falls suddenly. "This, it's – limiting," he murmurs, looking down at himself. "We're so screwed."

Dean feels a rush of something, compassion maybe, that same affection that swelled in his chest before, and he leans forward, rests his hand on the bed beside the other man's, ignores the panic he feels at the proximity. "Look," he says. "I get the hopelessness, but here we are and there's no going back. We have to follow this through, and we have to hope it'll work out because we don't have anything else to hang it on. We are behind the eightball on this one, Cas."

But Castiel is miles away, muttering to himself contemplatively, like he's thinking aloud. "This body is frail, Michael, and I feel a ripped-out space inside, an absence of self, where I once felt strong, and right, and certain. This, it's – wrong. It's unbecoming, it's unseemly… I'm trapped here now, earthbound, and tired, and limited, and it isn't what I am." He closes his eyes, floats a hand up to cover his face, and he makes a muffled, choked sound behind it.

And God, but he knows what that ripped-out space feels like, and it's reflexive for Dean to reach out for the hand that still rests next to his, and the easiest, most natural thing in the world for him to ignore the hiss of toxic, to grip the hand in his own fist and lean down onto Castiel's knuckles. He presses them hard to his brow, and rubs his skin on them, and his eyes close, and he can feel his heart thud crazily against his ribs until it calms down and he shudders out relief. "You aren't less than nothing to me," he mutters. "You'll never be that. Never. You saw me at my worst, and you never judged me. You thought I deserved to be saved, and you never abandoned me. You're my brother. And you're a better man than me. Jesus, Cas… it's good to see you again."

He feels the answering pressure of Castiel's hand, hears him speak, low and solemn.

"Your mark was always on my soul, Dean."

TBC

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