Hey guys, remember when I used to update regularly? *cries into week-old pizza*

My busy busy life has finally finally ENDED. So here I stand and vow on Crowleys poor dead taler that I WILL GET THIS STORY MOVING AGAIN. We have a chapter here, and on my word another chapter will be with you by the end of the week, so lets do this! Keep pestering me guys, I respond well to mild and obscure threats (I respond even better to reviews, if you feel like being really nice.)

Lockdown

Castiel stirs

The world blurs into shadows around him, shapes that hold movement his empty eyes cannot follow. By the time it stars reforming, blurring back into light and colour, Castiel remembers.

Festering bodies on the floor and the demons SCREAM. Pitching wails, black smoke pouring a tsunami towards them. MASTER. They call. MASTER. Shrieking and heaving and ripping and there are people here. A man who used to be a demon, crying and shaking and pleading. Bright white souls snatch him, pull him backwards. He knows demons are pressing close, burrowing inside his head. Tearing. Ripping. He cringes away, cowers against the warm light of the souls. He is whimpering and afraid. The demons scream. Agony ruptures itself open squeezing the life out of him.

Then blackness.

'I know you can hear me you son of a bitch…'
'… c'mon man, its wake-up time…'

Inside his head he responds, but his body fails to listen. Pressure points appear in darkness, touch without source, and he knows he's being gently shaken.

'… Cas?'

yes, he thinks but all his body does is tremble.

'Cas, c'mon.'

Trying to find small focus, he pushes his energy into cracking open his eyes. Deans face swims before him. His mouth says, 'hey', and a few seconds later the sound registers. Castiel forces his eyes open further, inhales the stale air. Dean's face goes slack for a moment before creeping into a faded grin. Then it drops and the mask is back in place.

'You're an idiot.'

If he had strength he would nod. But, like so many times before, whatever strange source of power inside him has shrivelled away to nothing. So he remains, slumped against the cold stone of the wall. But he understands numbly the worry and concern, though they are not his. He understands frustration and hardened responsibility, though they don't belong to him. The fingers gripping him, clinging as though he may dissolve, they are not his either. But he understands them.

'I mean, look at you,' Dean accuses. 'You're a mess.'

Castiel says nothing, but its a nothing borne of understanding. Knots and corners and lurid confusion are slowly smoothing themselves out in his mind. Dean is… protectiveness. Hope, pity, fear, strength, worry, sorrow, anger, anger. He'd forgotten the constant anger, how deep it lies buried, how every time Dean overrides it he becomes a new miracle. Because he's always angry. And for a creature like that, to hold the love he does, he is so much more than righteous.

'Hey,' Deans voice cuts through, 'you spacing out on me again?'

'Yes,' Castiel answers before he's even comprehended the question. He shakes his head, meets Deans eyes, weakly overlays turgid confusion with apologetic attention.

Dean says, 'the hell they do to you?' then falters.

He was ready for the question, knew it would rear its ugly head. The bite is just as strong, though he takes special care to keep his hands unclenched. Special attention to override the flinch. But regardless, he can still feel the unwelcome choking thickness. It claws heavy relentless in his throat and through his brain.

Deans gaze snaps taught, his face frozen as he blurts out, 'sorry, never mind. I get it now, you can't talk- you don't have to-'

'Sorry,' Cas says.

And Deans face falls.

Then the church breathes; a groan, long and agonising creaks through its scorched frame. It almost seems like the walls and ceiling are bending inwards, threatening to snap. Little clumps of dust patter down, depositing themselves in sporadic piles on the floor. The sound ceases almost as suddenly as it began, leaving only echoes of silence.

Castiel watches blearily as Dean straightens and glances round. Pieces begin to fit together. The church has been barricaded. Pews and benches, or whats left of them, thrown haphazardly against the door. Sam is securing them even now, half his face is smeared with blood and dust, smudged grey and dirty red. Deans knuckles are torn, bruises already forming across his jaw. Theres three new bodies on the floor.

'What happened?' Castiel's voice cracks.

Dean pulls himself to his feet and ignores him for favour of checking the door, but Sam glances over, his face somehow pleased, even if just for a moment, to see Castiel awake. He gestures to the high windows, blotch patchworks of stained glass.

'See for yourself.'

Through the patterns of colour a dark shape flashes past. Its distorted image twists like a snake, and the delicate panels rattle in its wake. Castiel feels the pathetic sliver of his grace instinctively swell with anger, it sends stabbing pains through his chest. Its a small blessing the cold stones have numbed the newly torn skin of his back, otherwise it might have been to much. The demon snakes past the window again.

'Theres a whole swarm outside,' Sam explains. 'Only two of them had meatsuits and they attacked. They, uh, killed the woman you saved but we got them after that. The others wouldn't enter the church so we managed to barricade ourselves in.'

'Sacred ground,' Cas says before his brain does.

'Which is great and all but now were good and trapped like rats,' Dean gives and upended pew a savage kick. 'Those smokey bastards aren't going anywhere till we do.'

Sam pushes his hair out of his face, further smearing the dirt and blood. 'Better than we were before.'

'Ha. Hardly.'

'Dean, we were pinned against the wall about to lose our entrails. Trust me, this is better.'

Dean mutters, 'yeah, for how long?' but he doesn't argue further, just fiddles more with the barricade, loads and re-loads his gun, stays pointlessly distracted. Castiel follows his movements blankly before Sam calls out to him.

'Cas…' he's standing by the pile of bodies in the centre of the room. The one the demons made. 'Whats this about? Doesn't quite look like a ritual, but some of it seems familiar.'

Again his mouth seems to talk without him. Maybe these aren't even his words. 'Deep magic. A reverse of a devils trap,' his hand numbly points around the room, pointing out the little hexagonal markings. In corners, on the ceiling. 'Hell spawn are not held within it, they're safe within it. Nothing may harm them,' his throat burns with every word.

'A safe zone?'

'Level up,' Dean mutters, 'no wonder the demon bomb didn't work.'

'Looks complicated,' Sam peers at the body parts all meticulously piled. 'Bet no ordinary demon would know about this, otherwise they'd all be doing it.'

'So were dealing with higher ups,' Dean follows. 'Lilith, Alistair, Yellow-Eyes-'

'-Abadddon.'

'Solas,' they finish together and glance at Cas.

Deep in the distance the earth and sky join together in a mournful brontide of thunder. The little church creaks again, laboured breaths threatening to cease. Then theres a whimper and a shriek and suddenly a small, unsteady man is scrambling to his feet.

'Demons!' he chokes wildly before lurching unsteadily across the room. Sam lets out a 'woah' and tries to catch him, Dean just mutters, 'here we go.'

'Th-there are more coming. More demons! There are more out there. There was one in my head- in me- I was-'

'Deep breaths,' Dean says.

Sam places a hand on the mans shoulder as he briefly hyperventilates and Castiel finally places him. He's the man who was saved; one of the possessed. A twisted demon who Castiel drove a shivering spark of grace into. He burned it all away, the demon was vaporised by his own weak light leaving only the man in its wake. Well good, one life saved. Tally that against the millions he's taken.

'Demons!' he pipes again, blinking incredulously at the brothers.

'Uh,' says Sam. 'Yeah, from what I could make out I'd say at least eight,' his voice echoes round the room.

Dean pulls his eyes from the window. 'Cas?'

'Seventeen,' Castiel says blearily.

'Sev- no, wait. Wait. Wait... What in our fathers name is going on? Who are you two, who is he, what is he?' the man darts furtive eyes at them, at the windows, at Castiel who blinks slowly at this new enigma, 'you,' he continues breathlessly, 'you destroyed the, the demon. How did you? What did you do to me?'

Sam explains. 'Demons. Heaven, hell, angels, demons, pretty sure you know all about them,' he eyes the mans dog collar sympathetically. 'Throw in some other stuff like ghosts and vampires and welcome to our lives.'

'Vamp-'

'Whats your name?'

'Mi- Mitchell,' he replies immediately. He's short and a little round, and has far too much energy to fit into his small frame. It spills out of him in strange, twitchy movements. He blinks far to much and far to fast. 'The demons. They possessed… I couldn't fight them, what they did, what I did… I prayed-'

'Fat lot of goof that'll do you,' Dean mutters. Sam shoots him a look.

Their voices mingle together in echoes and Castiel tries to find some constant, a through line he's supposed to be following… but he can't seem to stop staring at his hand. It's bloodstained and unsteady. Something is wrong. He tries to ignore Sam and Dean. He tries so hard it nearly works. Because if they're not here he can't hurt them. They're not real, he tells himself. Except that never used to work. Why would it start now? This is his hand. It held a sword before and slit throats with beautiful precision. If they came, if they came again… if they gave the command, even now-

He clenches it tighter to stop the shaking.

Where has all the anger gone? Why is he sitting here with nothing left? It had been angular and sharp and painful but at least it was a goddamn certainty. It was fuel, not fumes, to his fire. But now its burned away to nothing and he's left in a charred crater. Empty and hollow.

Focus, Castiel, he tells himself. He tries to concentrate on Sam and Dean. They're talking about… they're talking. Problems with the- everything. Imminent death perhaps-

whats wrong?

Castiel screws his eyes shut, feels the pinching stabs of his bruised flesh pressing together. Plunges into darkness and watches frantic static swarm his vision.

whats wrong?

With the anger gone there is nothing left but a gaping hole. A wound that is quickly and venomously growing wider. In a small defiled church, then thin fibbers of Castiel still clinging together finally break apart.

'-and this is Cas. Castiel. He's-'

Mitchell gasps. 'Castiel the angel?'

Sam blinks. 'You know him?'

'I'm a servant of God,' he answers thickly. 'I know all of his children, their duties and their histories, the archangels and the-'

No.

'I'm not an angel,' Cas blurts, please make him stop talking. Dean glowers and Sam glances at him, thin-lipped.

Mitchells round face falls. 'Oh…'

'You bet your ass he is,' Dean corrects sharply. 'Straight up bonafide cloud-hopper.'

I'mnotpleaseyoudon'tunderstand. But Cas is just too tired to say anything, he lets his head drift backwards until it hits the wall with a soft thunk. Sam works his mouth and glances at the high windows. Dean shifts his gun, glowering at the church because anything is easier than glowering at the angel. Mitchell, however, is watching Castiel with strange intent.

'So what are you?' he asks.

Castiel blinks. He thought maybe it didn't matter anymore, when the angels took him away. After what… it didn't matter what he was. But then Heaven cast him down and from the numb emptiness he had emerged like lightning, not human, and certainly not an angel, but he's world-weary enough to know that simply being 'Castiel' isn't enough.

He allows his memories to unravel. They are thick, dark and tainted. How much have they been twisted? Or maybe they've always been like this… they flare and decay and overwhelm with a stench that burns his throat.

What are you? Not an angel, nor a brother anymore. Not a guardian or a friend. He was a soldier once; a warrior, leader, betrayer and blasphemer. He rebelled. He was spy and a traitor and a liar… a killer, a torturer, a conquer, a slaughterer… He was a monster…

Then he knows the answer, and speaks it calmly into the quiet.

'A murderer.'

And after that there is only deadened silence.

Two agonising hours later, Sam marches up to Dean. He's crouched in a corner picking dirt from his fingers.

'So,' he starts, Dean's jaw clenches, 'I'm gunna skip the part where I remind you how completely stupid and reckless you are.'

'Wow.'

'Driving halfway across country and just storming in without,' he counts off his fingers, 'a plan, preparation, or even any idea what you were up against? Dragging Cas into this with the way he is? Hell, dragging me into this.'

'Thought you said you were gunna skip it?'

'Oh, these are the footnotes.'

Dean sneers, 'well thanks.'

'You're a dick,' Sam says, then slides down the wall to sit next to him.

In the unhappy silence Dean breathes in slowly and softly lets it go. 'Yeah,' he answers quietly.

Sam nods, 'what do we do?'

Dean casts a vague glance around the room. 'Thought you'd've guessed by now: fuck all.'

'No not… not about this.'

A poignant pause.

'You mean Cas?'

'I mean Cas.'

'We don't to anything,' Dean says firmly.

'Dean…'

'What the hell we supposed to do? Guy can't talk about it, got that angel-mind-lock whatever the crap, and we're holding up in a shitty little church with seventeen demons outside. We'll deal with it later.'

'Later?'

'We need to get out of this mess, and get out alive. Priorities.'

Sam holds the silence for a moment, then says, 'I think you should talk to him.'

'Sure,' Dean nods emphatically, 'sure. Its a good thing I baked these cookies earlier. D'you think he'll prefer chocolate or raspberry?'

'I'm serious.'

'So am I! Sammy, we need to be sensible, we need to hold it together. We need to be calm and focused.'

'I just think-'

'We don't have time!'

'Dean, right now? We've got all the time. While we're trapped here we've got nothing else to do.'

'Sam, look-'

'You can't pretend you haven't noticed. You can't pretend he's not hurting.'

'He's been hurting since we found him!'

'Not like this! No like- somethings broken in him Dean, somethings happened and I don't know when but it has. And you know it.'

Dean mutters, 'we'll deal with it later.'

'Sure,' Sam gives a sad shrug, 'and what if there isn't one?'

Three hours after that, Mitchell sidles up to Cas.

For a while he just sits nearby, watching purposefully. Its not like the room is big enough for any sense of privacy, any conversation is easily carried and the echoes pick up even the softest voices. You'd have to be half out of it, like Cas, not to hear every little thing being said. But still, it looks like the man wants to have some deep, meaningful conversation with the way he's steeling himself. Dean watches warily.

'So…' Mitchell begins, nudging himself closer, 'if you're not an, an agent of heaven…' he chews his lip. Castiel blinks at him. 'I mean, you are. I felt you when you destroyed the demon. I felt the light, I've… I've never felt anything so holy before.'

A small distressed whine escapes Cas' throat.

'But if you you think you're a murderer, then… well what do you want to do?'

Pause.

Except its not a pause, because a pause is a promise of more words to come. Its a silence.

'Do you... want atonement?'

Castiel lowers his eyes. 'No,' he finally says. 'I don't deserve that.'

'Everyone deserves to be absolved, no matter what their sin,' Mitchell leans forward slightly, honest eyes wide. 'Everyone, Castiel.'

Cas gives a weary one shouldered shrug.

'Y'know, I don't think you're a murderer,' Mitchell declares. He speaks in absolution, like his word is conviction to the world. Eyes wide and wetly blinking and shimmering in faint awe. 'I mean,' he continues, 'I don't know you but… I know you. You're not a murderer.'

Cas blinks away dust, 'I was called a hero once.'

'Yeah?'

'After I murdered my brother.'

A horrific silence. Sam clenches his teeth, Dean's glower could destroy cities. He directs it at Mitchell with full force but the man simply twists his face into sadness. 'Was it... just?' he asks hopefully.

'No, it was murder,' Castiel sighs and lifts a hand to rub his right eye. Except it doesn't quite reach. It hovers inches before his face and trembles.

'What was his name?'

Dean nearly punches the bastard. Stop talking about it you fucker. But Cas just drops his hand, all fight just… beaten out of him.

'Samandriel.' Then even quieter, 'he didn't deserve it.'

'You're not a murderer,' Mitchell tries with gentle sternness.

Castiel looks up at him. 'You're a good man,' is his only response.

Thirty minutes later Dean's pacing is interrupted by Sam. He grabs his arm and frantically pulls him towards the door.

'Samandriel,' he says, hushed and fast. He gives a furtive glance to Cas but the angel seems to be gone, eyes unfocused, body unmoving save for the slow rise and fall of his chest. His face is still bruised, fresh cuts on his cheek and jaw, bloody nose, unkept hair, clothes filthy and bloody too. His hands and knuckles are raw, his back is leaking blood.

Dean blinks. 'What?'

'Samandriel, Dean, the angel we tried to save?'

'Yeah, I know,' he squirms in his shoes. 'Whats your point?'

'I mean, you heard him… he thinks he murdered him. But remember Cas said he was acting in self defence? But he wouldn't just flat out stab his brother in self defence.'

'Whats your point, Sam.'

'So he was already under heavens control. All that time and we didn't…' he cringes in his own guilt. 'His eye, remember? They'd probably already dril-'

Dean walks away. Because he's already knows.

Eight hours in and their air is stifling. Sam checks and rechecks the barricade, not long ago a demon screamed its way into the room and launched itself at Mitchell. The man had screamed and curled onto the floor while the brothers stood above him fending off the putrid smoke. It had risen to the ceiling and coiled around the beams shrieking before they finally managed to exorcise it.

Now the church is silent again, save for the occasional streak of smoke past the windows outside. Castiel is unconscious, has barely stirred for hours, not since Mitchell had spoken to him. And as much as Dean doesn't want to agree, Sam had been right. It wasn't the injuries (severe as they were) that were crushing the angel… Dean sighs and plonks himself onto a pew.

Mitchell sidles up to him.

'Yeah, you know what?' Dean says before he can speak. 'I'm not going there.'

'He doesn't think he's an angel though,' Mitchell persists. 'Thats… thats big, right? I'm not talking about your feelings, I'm talking about his.'

'Okay,' Dean rubs his face. 'I get that you're trying. But just don't. You don't know anything. Heaven's not the utopian place you think it is, its full of dicks and they kicked him out, then took him back, then kicked him out again. Harder. He's been though shit. And he's an angel pure and simple.'

Mitchell nods rapidly. 'Sure, I believe you. Heck I think I've seen enough proof myself. But its not about what you are, its what you identify as.' He gives a wave of his arm, 'and for all he is or has been, what Castiel believes himself to be is a murderer.'

'We're all murderers,' Dean snaps, throwing his arm towards the bodies on the floor. 'After today, you're one too.'

Mitchell blinks then gives him a strange look, eyes considering. Dean doesn't like the pity there, the man's twitchy righteousness sets him on edge. He doesn't need to be preached at on how to help his friend.

'I am…' Mitchell hums in consideration. 'I am a man, I… am a son, I'm a brother and a husband. I'm an uncle and one day I'll be a father. I'm a servant of god and I'm a friend. I'm a gardener, don't give me that look. I'm a lover of books, I'm a fantastic cook,' he smiles slightly. 'I'm all of these things Dean, all of these things. And, yes, as you so callously pointed out, now I suppose I'm a murderer as well. But I'm all of these things first. Being a murderer comes at the end of a long line of other things I know I am, and its these things that make me who I am. What does Castiel believe makes him who he is? What does he believe he's good for?'

Dean breathes dust and it coats his throat, he's uncertain now. 'Murdering…?'

The mans face falls, and Dean knows he hasn't quite understood.

'No, Dean,' his soft voice matching his eyes. '… I don't think for a second you believe that.'

And he doesn't. He really doesn't. But he suddenly doesn't know what else to say. In front of this man, with his certainty and belief, Dean's nothing but a child. And it strikes him, in a cold shudder, that he's felt like this once before, when an angel walked towards him in a rain of fire and told him he was important.

'Then what?' he croaks.

'What does Castiel think he's good for?' Mitchell shakes his head, 'what are murderers good for?'

No answer springs forth.

'What does society believes murderers are good for?' suddenly Dean doesn't want to know. 'To be made an example of, Dean… Punishment, death, loathing and hatred. Things to be spat at for their sinful deeds.'

Dean shuts down.

'So… maybe stop trying to tell him to be an angel again, and maybe stop trying to pretend things will get better, and actually just convince him he's worth a damn.'

Nine hours in Dean can't take any more.

He pulls himself up and storms over to Cas, stands there and- and… doesn't know what to do… doesn't know what to say… he just stands wordlessly above him and tries to calm his heavy breaths and thudding heart. Because he's just figured out whats so wrong. Figured out what burns him sharp as ice. Angels aren't supposed to… what, feel? No, he's pretty sure they do, even if its just contempt for humanity or selfish self-preservation. Even if it's a muted shade of humanities colours, angels are definitely supposed to feel.

But they're not supposed to hurt.

Ageless, endless, eternal holy creatures. They are not human. Filled with intent and purpose, an existence of absolution. Faith. No doubt exists for them. They cannot fathom hopelessness or loss, abandon or need. They are not human. You can spit at them and rail at them, insult and blame and attack them. You can beat them down and break them in half and they wouldn't crumble.

They're supposed to be above all that.

They're not supposed to hurt.

Castiels hollow eyes crack open, like he could sense Dean standing there. A few heartbeats pass, loud as drums, and Dean watches as he blinks dazedly. He should say something now. He should start. Cas looks so lost. He should say something... and then Cas is squinting upwards and his eyes lock onto Dean, one stark blue in emptiness, the other swathed in bloodshot ruin, bruises and faded blood.

'Dean?' he asks cautiously.

And then the words just tumble out. 'He said you think you're a murderer because murderers should be punished. You want to be punished?'

'Dean...'

'No, man, I get it, atone for your sins and all that crap. How d'you think I felt after hell? After dad died for me?' he takes a breath. 'But c'mon, heaven kicked your ass into oblivion, don't you think you've been punished enough?'

'I think I'm...' Cas briefly lowers is head, draws in breath, makes a decision… loses it and falls silent. His eyes hold painful guilt and Dean wishes he knew why.

'It's- It's not about that anymore, its not about punishment. You were doing things, weren't you? You said you were helping people? Thats better than punishing yourself. Don't- you don't need to do that. All you need to do is forgive yourself. So just… forgive yourself, okay?' ladies and gentlemen, the worst argument point in history.

Castiel looks sadly at him.

'Yes,' he says and his voice is hollow.

Dean wants to punch something.

'You did bad things and you were punished, okay? Punished by heaven, by fate, even by yourself. So you've done all that atonement crap, okay? You are atoned,' he waves his hands in the vain hope it will magically make things better. 'You are forgiven by the world, you just need to forgive yourself. Kinda… get over it sort of thing. I mean, for all that stuff before? Sam's forgiven you, I've forgiven you-'

Castiel flinches.

Dean stops and slowly lowers his hands. 'You knew that right?'

'Yes,' Castiel says quickly to the floor.

'Cas?'

'Yes,' he echoes again. The floor receiving his full attention.

Dean stares at him and feels weight compressing his ribs.

Eleven hours later and they all sit in empty silence. The sun should be rising, staining the sky with whitewashed flecks of colour. But it has not appeared and the world around their prison stays resolutely dark. Dean, Sam and Cas lean against respective walls, all silent. Mitchell, however, is peering out a window, standing tiptoe on a half shattered pew. It creaks each time he wobbles, which is so frequently its near constant, but he makes to move to jump down, instead leaning forward and smushing his nose against the grimy glass. Dean's about to snap at him when he turns his shiny face to them and says, 'theres a man outside.'

'What?'

'Outside.'

Theres a sharp scrabble as Sam and Dean fight to join him. Mitchell shuffles precariously sideways, almost falls off before Dean absent-mindedly grabs his shirt and yanks him back. The pew creeks unhappily as the brothers shield their eyes to see outside. Through the dirty panels they can see a thin gravel path which curls tidily around the edge of the church. And there on the corner, right where the path disappears round the front, is a man.

He stands calm and still in a mismatched suit. Brown trousers, black shirt, grey jacket, no tie. Like a patchwork attempt to look like a businessman from a body and mind ill suited to be one. Yet here he is, standing in profile to them.

'Demon?' Sam mutters.

The mans head tilts like a bird as he considers something around the corner. The demonic coils of smoke drift lazily around him, infused by some hypnotic sway. Calmly and with no hesitation, the man raises a palm to the sky, the ill-fitting suit riding up in all the wrong places. The demon coils shiver in the night, winding themselves around him affectionately. If they had voices they'd probably be purring.

Then the man balls his hand into a fist.

And every single demon bursts into flames.

The church shakes. Dying, wailing shrieks fill the darkness. Smoke-trails blossom into comets of writing fire. It sudden, un-relentless, ruthless. Its horrific. Jerking uncontrollably backwards, Mitchell falls off the pew with a sharp cry. The brothers don't notice, slack jawed, unblinking, unbelieving as seventeen demons are obliterated in front of them.

The man hasn't moved.

'Not a demon,' Sam croaks.

Dean twists around sharply. 'Cas?!'

He's already on his feet, stock still and focused on the door. The barricaded door, Dean madly thinks, we barricaded it. We're safe- oh fuck we're not fucking safe. Castiel is so calm its unnatural. Its maddening. Its beautifully concealed terror.

'Here,' he snaps. 'Now.'

They obey without question, stumbling away from the window. Sam snatches a whimpering Mitchell and drags him forcefully to the back of the room. They dump him against the wall and turn to the door. Mitchell, them, then Cas in front.

'Who-'

The door explodes. Debris of the barricade burst apart and fall like confetti around the desecrated church. Lighting splits the sky apart, alighting the whole wold with blinding white. High pitched noise pumps thickly into the air. And there he is, standing silhouetted in the doorway.

Every single window shatters into a thousand pieces.