Castiel hadn't meant to open the journal. Hadarniel was being difficult, trying to find the perfect place to perform vessel forming rituals en masse. Castiel squelched his comments about the older angel being a superstitious ancient in favor of peace.

The graces of ten angels still sat in a washed out Vaseline jar in the trunk, its hum grew more intense as time flew by.

They drove along a dusty country road, occasionally stopping in order for Hadarniel to get out and walk into the forest, test the air, and try out several strange bird calls. It was all very mystical, and Castiel found himself growing impatient. He picked at the skin of his thumb until in bled, then decided to take up nail biting instead. He'd always had little appreciation for this side of his faith, even as an angel.

Nevertheless, Hadarniel seemed to know what he was looking for. He always returned to the car disappointed, and Castiel would rev the engine again to continue on, stopping only at country stores to re-fuel and re-caffeinate.

Three days after dropping Liz off at her suburban home, Ambriel and Hadarniel were on a particularly lengthy jaunt in the woods and Castiel waited in his car, the radio turned down to a low hum on the classic rock station (for no particular reason of course). He sipped on weak coffee with too much non-dairy creamer, and contemplated a nap before thoughtlessly reaching forward into the glove compartment to retrieve the journal.

Out of all the human emotions Cas had experienced in the past few months, the strangest by far was nerves. The fluttering, achy sensation that started low in your belly, traveling up to form a lump in your throat.

Sam was sick. Dean's prose was calm and casual, but the hand that wrote it had been shaking. He could almost hear the hollow resolve in Dean's voice. I trust you when you say you have a plan though. No questions there. He felt the familiar churning of guilt in his gut along with anxiety. Such a useless emotion, he thought to himself, but the hardest to be rid of.

Dean trusted him to fix his brother. But what had Castiel done to earn that trust? Walked away? Abandoned one family for another? A darker fear tugged at him. What if he failed?

What if you can't save Sam?

This small, but powerful voice of doubt had tugged at him ever since Dean had written him in the middle of the night, telling him that he wished he had kissed Castiel back. Castiel wished he could have seen Dean as he was writing those words, interpreted the look on his face. Or heard the words spoken. He cursed himself for not at least keeping his cell phone, why did he have to pick the one method of communication that had gone out of style because of its tediousness and ambiguity?

He closed his eyes, leaning his head up against the headrest. Focusing on the pulse at his temples, he tried to clear his head, but to no avail. He couldn't shake the feeling that he would fail, that Dean would turn him away if he failed to fix his brother. It was juvenile, but the feeling was familiar and settled into the crevices of his mind.

His eyes flew open upon hearing three small knocks at the passenger side window. Hadarniel and Ambriel stood beside the car, motioning for him to roll the window down, their flailing arms comically un-angelic.

Ambriel's face was pink with excitement, if not genuine exertion. He voice came out in a huff. "We found a place. It's time."

The angels led Castiel, jar in hand, to an open clearing. The air felt thick.

"Feel's strange, doesn't it?" Ambriel asked.

Castiel nodded. "Almost… familiar in some way."

"It's a special place," Hadarniel called from ahead of them, "Almost identical to where we performed the last ritual. God left these places behind for us. Have you forgotten all our teachings, Castiel?"

Castiel shrugged, wondering if God bought real estate in forest clearings at the start of the universe.

Ambriel hid her smile behind her hand as Hadarniel explained the ritual to the jar of swirling, opaque grace, ever the serious soldier. Castiel wanted to ask the older angel if non-corporeal essence had a sense of hearing, but he knew it would only land him a stern look.

Once they were ready to begin, Castiel retreated off to the side amongst the trees with a stack of secondhand clothes for the angels once they materialized. In that moment he was grateful for his comfortable jeans and blue flannel shirt (the one with the red stripes) on top of a vessel he was more than accustomed to. He was at home in his skin, however guilty that made him feel. The angels were in for the shock of their existences.

Without the barrier of human vessels to extract the grace from, the rituals went much smoother than Ambriel's own rocky start to body autonomy. They stepped into their bodies naturally, without any fuss that came from exiting a human host and at first, Castiel was dazzled and in awe of the mighty power and spectacle of the transformation. However, after the fifth angel, anything can get old.

In all, ten angels manifested from the combined grace trapped in the jar. They milled around the field, staring at their new bodies with puzzled, but calm expressions. He passed out jeans and t-shirts quickly purchased from the thrift store on the way, haphazardly sized using cheap plastic belts.

The angels came in all shapes and sizes. Some had wide, bright features and angular bodies where others were small and soft. He carefully averted his eyes as to respect their newfound humanity, even though their quizzical stares at their fingers and toes, along with their torsos, legs, and nether regions, were far from bashful. They pulled on the clothes mostly in silence, whispering softly in Enochian to each other.

It was eerie.

Ambriel sidled up next to him. "I believe the humans would call this an awkward moment," she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

"No kidding," Castiel said as ten pairs of dark eyes rose to stare at them as they finished getting dressed. Most looked serene and curious to see. A few angry faces, but he had expected screaming and writhing in pain along with perhaps his own smiting by their hands.

One of them spoke up, a small woman with honey-colored skin and deep black eyes. "I—" interrupted by a cough, she sputtered until she could continue. "Why is it so quiet here?"

Oh.

The other angels nodded, as if experiencing the same symptoms. Cold sweat beaded on the back of Castiel's neck. A fresh wave guilt washed over him. Was this truly the right thing for the angels? He had adjusted to the almost unbearable silence, but would they? Had he made a rash decision to save Sam without even thinking about the welfare of his brothers and sisters?

He opened his mouth to apologize, or to explain, he didn't know which.

Luckily, Hadarniel did it for him.

"You have your own bodies now; a physical representation of your individual grace. But you are still angels. You are still here to carry out God's mission," Hadarniel said, "There are no more archangels. We can't go home. The only thing we have is our will to do what is right."

The angels murmured to each other, most with assenting looks on their faces. The wind began to pick up, bringing a new chill into the forest clearing. The ancient angel continued.

"We are here to protect humanity but also to learn from them. We need them as much as they need us, and more than that, we owe them that. They've lived too long in a Godless Universe."

Silence. Hadarniel's rough voice still rang out in the air, righteous and true, but the angels just continued to stare. Some of them rubbed vigorously at their temples, as if trying to seek out a combined consciousness that was forever lost.

A tall, milk-white male angel cleared his throat towards the back. His overlong limbs poked out from the bottom of his jeans. "I believe in you convictions, brother, but if I'm not mistaken, you're standing next to the angel who is responsible for our fall. Why should we listen to you?"

Hadarniel opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by Ambriel. "Oh Remiel, still so bright." Her voice was laced with sarcasm. "Have you forgotten that you were, until very recently, trapped inside a jar meant for petroleum jelly? And that we freed you? And that Castiel, after accepting Heaven's rejection for millennia, risked his life to save you? His human life?"

"That's enough Ambriel." Castiel felt his face grow hot, a combination of rage and embarrassment flooding his cheeks and neck with color. He turned to the angels, trying to keep his face passive.

"We can't trust you, Castiel," the tall angel said, his face cold. A few others nodded in agreement.

Castiel sighed, rubbing his face vigorously with his rough palms. His stubble scratched at his hands; it had been a while since he had gotten his hands on a sharp razor. His voice bubbled up rough and distant in his throat, but he spoke loudly nonetheless.

"You shouldn't trust me," he began, "You have no reason to. My failures have been catastrophic for our race, and I will spend whatever time I have trying to fix them." He looked up, their eyes boring into him, "But, I'm not here to ask for your loyalty. Or your forgiveness. There is no war to fight and we're too scattered even if there was. I am only a human, and I'm praying for your help. I just need you to cure one man." His voice quieted, settling into a plea.

"The boy with the demon blood," Hadarniel clarified.

"His name is Sam Winchester," Cas interrupted, trying to steady his shaking voice, "And he is only a victim of his circumstances. After that, the choice is yours. I won't take your free will ever again."

The silence was steady, their faces passive. Castiel waited for an answer, knowing it would decide his future.