Chapter 6: Bad Idea

Castiel knew this was a bad idea. It was obviously a very, very bad idea, and yet his feet carried him ruthlessly to the angelic prison.

Rage rose up in Castiel's chest like a snake rising from long grass the moment he caught sight of Metatron. A very bad idea.

The old scribe was sitting meekly on the stone bench in the back of the cell, hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees. His head was bowed and there was an air of defeat about him. Castiel tried not to find that too satisfying.

Once he had control over the anger inside him, Cas stepped forward to stand before Metatron, right by the bars of his cell. Metatron did not look up, but spoke to his visitor. "I suppose you've come to hear how he died, then?"

Cas bristled. "No. I've come to –"

"Kill me?" Metatron's head rose to meet Cas's glare, his face alight with a boyish grin.

Cas took a steadying breath as the anger flickered dangerously. "I've come for information. I need to know how to reinstate the line of prophets."

Metatron laughed, his posture relaxing as he leant back against the wall. "Oh that! My dear Castiel," he said fondly, "that's as irreversible as the spell that shut Heaven's doors."

Cas frowned as he digested this. Obviously he could be lying. Suddenly wishing he had the Winchesters' skill of sweet-talking vital information out of unwilling subjects, he tried a new tack.

"That spell isn't irreversible," he said knowingly, injecting a confidence he did not feel into his voice. "You underestimated the Winchesters. They figured it out. I just want to save time looking for this 'switch' you flipped."

For a moment, Cas thought the ploy had worked. Metatron's smile had faded and for a brief moment he looked worried. But then he smiled.

"Winchesters? Don't you mean Winchester? Or have you forgotten that poor old Dean is dead?"

Grief snapped furiously in Castiel's chest, and he inwardly struggled with the beast for a moment. Unfortunately, Metatron continued.

"Are you sure you don't want to know how he died?"

Cas looked up at him, unable to hide the fear and curiosity in his eyes. Metatron's smile widened. He clapped his hands on his knees and rubbed them with the air of someone about to tell their favourite story to an eager audience.

"He really thought he could beat me, you know. He trusted you'd find the Tablet in time and he'd be able to stick me with that old bone of his." He paused to allow his words to marinate in the air as his eyes flicked accusingly to Castiel's. His voice lost its jovial edge, replaced by a deadly serious tone. "But he never had a chance, of course. One punch, that's all he got. And then he was mine." His voice lowered as he continued, and Cas could hear his fierce pleasure in every word. "I threw him around like a rag doll, and oooh," he cooed, "he bled so easily. And just when he thought he could fight back, could at least die with my blood on his hands, I took my angelblade and I stabbed him right through his heart." He mimed the motion gently in the air, and Castiel felt as if he too was being stabbed as his heart gave an odd sort of shudder. His breath rushed out of him in a barely audible sigh and his stomach seemed to shrivel inside him.

Metatron's smile was cruel as he saw the anguish in Castiel's eyes.

"Why are you telling me this?" Cas's voice sounded as hollow as his chest felt.

Metatron chuckled. "So you know, Castiel," he replied in that falsely sweet, innocent tone Cas had come to despise. "So you know what this foolish quest of yours cost you. So you know exactly how the man you gave away an army for died. How much pain he was in – especially when that brother showed up!" Metatron laughed aloud at the memory. "Oh, his face! It was priceless!"

Cas tried to inhale but the breath seemed to stick in his mouth. Sam. Sam had been there with him. He wasn't sure if that thought heartened him or only added to the horror of it all – that Dean hadn't died alone, or the fact that Sam had had to watch, had to see his brother die, and that Dean was powerless to protect Sam from the grief that followed.

Castiel felt himself sinking, spiralling down into despair and heartache. He mentally shook himself, forced himself back under control, trying to slip into his old self, trying to be the angel who could just follow orders again. Except he had to give himself the orders now. So he commanded himself to take charge and interrogate Metatron, to learn how to save Heaven.

When he spoke, his voice was like steel, cold and immovable.

"Tell me how to reopen Heaven."

Metatron's smile faded as he considered Castiel's stern face, and he quickly sifted through the many scenarios that could unfold from this moment. It took no time at all for the former scribe of God to remember, evaluate, and dismiss every situation similar to this he had ever consumed, and before he drew his next breath, his plan was set.

Casting his eyes downward ashamedly, he fixed his features in their most remorseful configuration. Allowing a hint of the despair he felt at his earlier failure to seep into his voice, he answered:

"I wasn't lying, Castiel. That spell cannot be undone. There was no reversal spell or ritual or footnote in the Tablet – God never told me how to undo it. It's permanent." He raised his eyes, now full of compunction, to gaze imploringly into Castiel's steely stare. "I'm sorry. Heaven must remain closed." His features brightened and he injected a note of cheery optimism into his tone. "But think, Castiel! Even if my methods were harsh, angelkind needs this! We need time to remember our role in this universe! Now we have that chance, now we can start –"

"Shut up!" Cas groaned exasperatedly. He was wasting his time here; Metatron was a broken, irritating record. He would find the answers elsewhere. He had wasted enough time on this criminal. Without another word, he turned, and in a flash of tan trench coat, walked briskly out of the prison, leaving the slightly offended but smiling Metatron in his cell.

Once outside the prison, Cas came to a sudden halt as the unmistakable tremor of words spoken with the single intent of him hearing them shimmered through his consciousness, preceding a familiar voice whispering in his mind.

Cas? Castiel?

He froze. For one glorious moment he was sure it was Dean, somehow still alive. As soon as the thought materialized it dissipated, leaving the aching emptiness of disappointment behind.

It's Sam. Listen, Cas, I, uh ... Cas had been expecting to hear pain in the younger – in the only, he corrected himself with a pang – Winchester's voice, but the intensity of the emotions laced into the words still shocked him.

I don't know if you're even alive, but ... Cas, buddy, I really need you to be alive. Something's ... happened. Please answer, Cas. Dean's, uh ... Please.

The last word was softly spoken and echoed with a loneliness so deep it sent a shiver up Cas's spine. Not for the first time, Castiel wished prayers worked both ways so he could call back to Sam and tell him – what? That he was on his way?

Castiel's shoulders sagged as he was, once again, torn. Part of him wanted nothing more than to go to his hurting friend and offer what paltry comfort he could, and receive some in return, perhaps even the rare pleasure of a heartfelt hug. Another, more cowardly part, wanted to hide from the man's grief – his own was still so jagged and throbbing, how could he possibly bear another's pain as well? He felt ashamed to be so selfish; Sam was his friend – his only friend, now – how could he not go to him? How could he turn his back on one of the few people ever to truly accept him, enough to forgive all his unforgivable mistakes?

And then there was Heaven. If he left, how would he return? Even if his wings weren't charred and useless shadows of what they had once been, Heaven was locked. The only way to Earth and back was through the portal, and who knew if he could truly trust the angels left in charge of it? If he had their allegiance, he need not worry, but could he really expect angels to follow a leader who repelled the mantle that seemed to have, once again, fallen on his unwilling shoulders?

He knew he must stay. He knew he must try to return some semblance of order to the home of the angels. He also knew that he was utterly unfit and unequal to the task.

But it was what Dean would tell him to do.