Thank you so much Jenjoremy for beta'ing and Gredelina1 for guiding and assisting.

Chapter Fourteen

Castiel woke suddenly, the horrified cries of his dream still echoing in his ears. He swiped a hand over his brow to clear the sheen of sweat and sat up, trying to calm himself quickly in case someone came to check on him.

The bunker was extraordinarily comfortable compared to some of the places he'd slept as a human, but the inconvenience of the proximity of the other bedrooms posed a problem. He was sure he cried out sometimes in his sleep, and he was fearful of being heard. It had happened at least once; he had woken to find Dean beside his bed with his hand on his shoulder, expression concerned. Dean had tried to talk to him about it in his stilted way, but Castiel had refused and Dean had accepted that.

He wasn't the only one who had nightmares, he knew. He had woken to shouts before and raced to Sam's bedroom only to find Dean already there, shaking him awake and talking to him in calm tones, reassuring him. He understood Sam's nightmares, as there were horrors in his life to taunt him, such as his experiences in the Cage. Castiel had some inkling of what he might see as he had been there, too, when he had rescued what he had believed was Sam's whole self but was ultimately just his body. He had seen what the archangels had done to him. Sam would want to talk to Castiel about his dreams if he knew about them, he was sure, but how did you compare torture at the hands of the devil to dreams of a small cut on the throat and something so small being taken from you? Not that it felt small to Castiel. His grace had once seemed like everything. But comparatively, it was stupid. He was alive at least; no one was hurting him in his dreams. He was just losing who he had once been.

He swung his legs around to the edge of the bed and stood, relieved to find he was steady. The dream had already lost its hold on him. He grabbed some clean clothes and padded barefoot through the halls to the bathroom. Setting his clothes down on the counter, he took his wash-bag from the shelf where they were all lined up neatly, and smiled to himself. With their belongings gathered like this, it felt like a real home. Though it belonged to Sam and Dean, it was their legacy, they shared it with them all, giving their ragtag family somewhere to belong and come home to.

He relieved himself then washed his hands and brushed his teeth methodically. Running a hand over the scruff on his jaw he realized it was time to shave again. These human needs and customs still seemed unending to him. Dean had made one a little easier for him though. Soon after Sam had begun to heal, Dean had taken a trip into town and come back with a gift for Castiel—an electric shaver. He said it was the easiest method and had the added benefit of being able to be used on the road more conveniently than a wet shave. The simple thought behind the gift had made Castiel disproportionately happy. It was the assumption that he would be on the road with them in future. Dean was grouping him in their plans. He would have a use after all.

He flipped the razor on and rolled it over his face in smooth movements, checking his reflection as he did. When he was satisfied, he put the razor back into its case and washed his face.

He changed out of his t-shirt and sweatpants and into clean clothes that Dean had also brought back from his shopping trip. Dumping his dirty clothes in the laundry sack to wash later, he went back to his bedroom for shoes before wandering through the bunker into the kitchen.

Dean was sitting at the table, a mug of coffee cradled in his hands. Charlie and Kevin were working at the stove, scrambling eggs and frying bacon while having a heated discussion about someone named Aziz that he had never heard of before.

Kevin had returned to the bunker three weeks previously, retrieved by Dean from the motel he had been staying at to work on the tablet in private. He had initially been upset that he had been left alone so long without word and all of his calls unanswered, but when Charlie and Castiel had explained the circumstances of the Winchesters' lapse in communication, he had understood.

Within an hour of his arrival, Charlie had declared him, 'The world's best prophet' and adopted him as her new 'BFF'. What a BFF was, Castiel wasn't sure, but he understood the rest. Kevin was the world's only prophet so he was the best, and worst, and everything in the middle. Their relationship had been bonded over the weeks with much television, conversation and a video game called Skyrim.

Castiel only ever understood half of what they were saying to each other at any given time, but he liked that they had one another to lean on. Life with the Winchesters sometimes left you on the periphery, though much less for Castiel since his return to the bunker.

"Morning, Cas," Dean said, drawing the others' attention to him. They both turned and greeted him, Charlie waving a spatula and Kevin by name.

Castiel's relationship with Kevin was not as good as his one with Charlie. The first time he had met the prophet had in been his troubled—some might say crazy—time following his absorption of Sam's hell. The next time he had pinned him to a wall and lectured him on the duty of a prophet. It was not the best basis for friendship. Not that Kevin seemed to resent him. It was more that he was guarded, uncertain of Castiel's intentions. He wished he knew the words to apologize and sound sincere.

"Where is Sam?" Castiel asked.

"Sleeping still," Dean said. "He seems to need a lot."

"He's healing still," Charlie said knowledgeably. "He's already loads better, but he's not fully functioning yet."

Castiel wished he could sense Sam's health the way he had been able to as an angel. The damage wrought on him by the first two trials was catastrophic, changing him on a subatomic level. It would have helped him to know just how far from healed he really was now. He seemed much better. He didn't need assistance to walk now; he could make his way around the bunker easily under his own steam even if it was a little slower than before. He said his pain was less, and his fever was completely gone, but the fact there was still pain at all was a failure to Castiel's mind. There was once a time when he could have eased that hurt for his friend.

Charlie slid the bacon onto a platter and Kevin scooped the eggs into a bowl. They carried it over to the table and Charlie asked, "Are we saving Sam some or are you waking him?"

"I'll wake him," Dean said.

"Good," Kevin said. "I put a lot of work into those eggs and they'll go rubbery if they sit too long."

"Sure, princess," Dean said, a grin curling his lips. "I'm sure all the beating and stirring really took it out of you. I'll get Sam."

"No need," a sleepy voice said from the hall. Sam shuffled into the room, barefoot and still dressed in his sleep clothes.

"Is it dress down Friday?" Dean asked.

Sam waved a hand at him. "I smelled bacon."

"Ah, the lure of the pig," Charlie said, scooping bacon onto her plate.

Kevin raised an eyebrow. "That's gross, Charlie."

Charlie laughed. "I'm sorry. Did I burst your bubble? Bacon comes from pigs, Kev. And you'll never guess where chicken comes from!"

Sam snickered and began to scoop food onto his plate.

They ate in companionable quiet for a while, the only sounds the scraping of knives and forks on plates.

When he had eaten his fill, Dean pushed away his plate and sipped his coffee. "What's everyone up to today?"

Kevin rolled his eyes. "Tablet, of course."

Dean nodded. "Charlie?"

She nodded at Sam. "I've got a hot date with the library again."

"You enjoy that," Dean said vaguely, glancing at Sam.

"I'm with Charlie," he said. "There's got to be something in the library that can help us."

Castiel knew he was referring to his mission to find and kill 'Ezekiel'. He was devoted to the idea, and though Castiel feared for him and had told him so, Sam was immovable. What the angel had done to him was terrible, but even at full strength, Sam would not be a formidable match against an angel. Castiel was scared he was going to get back to full strength only to be smote by the rogue angel.

"What about you, Cas?" Dean asked, breaking into his troubled thoughts.

"I think I will venture into town for groceries," he replied. "I know we are short on some supplies."

"Awesome," Dean said. "There's a list of what we need on the fridge. If you guys think of anything else, add it. Oh, Cas, see if they have any—"

"Pie," Castiel finished for him. "Of course."

Castiel liked going into town. He missed parts of his life as Steve—though the parts he had gained in return far outweighed his losses—and being around other people was one of those things. He hadn't made many friends at the Gas-N-Sip other than Nora—and she'd tried to maintain a professional relationship with him as her subordinate in the Gas-N-Sip hierarchy—and Bill who had delivered the papers daily. He had enjoyed what Nora called 'people watching' though. He liked to imagine what their lives were and what people were a part of them. Being in town among others enabled him to do it.

He drove his borrowed car—he was sure he would return it one day—into Lebanon and pulled to a stop in a parking spot outside the grocery store. With a practiced glance around him, checking for anything out of the ordinary, though he didn't expect to find it in this small town, he made his way inside.

He had the list in his hand, with Dean's scrawled items, Charlie's feminine script, and Kevin's neat hand on it, and he took a cart and made his way along the aisles. Taking what was required from the shelves and stacks, he smiled as he read Dean's first item: Salad and crap for Sam. Though he knew Dean had been trying to persuade Sam to bulk on calories since his illness and possession to regain some of the weight he had lost, he was still taking Sam's preferences into account.

He scanned the items on offer and gathered a selection of healthy alternatives to Dean's personal choices.

He was wandering the beverages aisle, trying to find the usual coffee Sam and Dean stocked, when he felt someone bump into him from behind. He turned, an apology on his lips though he knew it was no fault of his own, and froze.

The woman behind him was dressed in a two-piece black pantsuit and white blouse. Her unusual grey eyes were narrowed and when she spoke it was not English but Enochian. "You!"

"Sister, please," Castiel said, unsure what he was pleading for, but desperate nonetheless.

"You call me sister?" she asked incredulously. "How dare you?"

At the cuff of her right sleeve the tip of a silver blade appeared. Castiel swallowed hard. "Please."

"You will come with me, Castiel, or I will end every life in this building. Would you like more deaths on your conscience?"

Castiel released his ironclad grip on the handle of the cart and nodded. "I'll come. Please don't hurt anyone."

She gestured for him to go ahead of her and he walked on shaky legs toward the exit, feeling her at his back. They drew curious looks from the clerk and other customers as they walked past the register, but they didn't speak, seeming to know instinctually that to do so would be to put themselves at risk.

When they got outside, the sun seemed to blind Castiel. The sky was incredibly blue, and yet the air cooled on his face. He thought it strange that he noticed these things at the moment of his death, unaware of the effects of adrenaline on a human body.

He wished he had someone with him, someone who could tell Sam and Dean what had happened to him to save them an endless and fruitless search, but perhaps that was better. Anyone with him would be at risk, too.

"Over here," she said, prodding him toward a black SUV. Confused and thinking perhaps his death wasn't going to be the quick affair he had hoped for, Castiel walked towards it. He hesitated at the side, unsure whether he was supposed to get in or wait for something, but the angel behind acted before he could ask. He felt a sharp blow on the back of his head, blinding pain, and then nothing as he slipped into darkness.

When he started to wake, he heard voices around him. He knew enough from Dean and Sam's instruction to not stir but to listen carefully, keeping his breaths steady and even and his eyes closed.

"Where on earth did you find him?" a voice asked.

"In a grocery store," the female replied. "He was walking the aisles pushing his cart like a human." She said the word derisively.

"He is a human now," the male voice replied.

"He is pathetic," she said. "The Great Castiel, once a leader and formidable angel, reduced to grubbing on the ground like one of them."

"Yes. He is also awake, aren't you, Castiel."

Knowing there was no point pretending anymore, Castiel opened his eyes. He was lying on a thickly carpeted floor with his hands bound uncomfortably behind him. He knew there was no need to bind him. They had done it to humiliate him, to show that he could be held like this; there was no need of holy fire for him anymore.

Castiel didn't recognize the angel in front of him, as he had never seen him in a vessel before. He had no idea what their history might be and how it would impact the outcome of his capture—whether the angel had retribution in mind for one of Castiel's many crimes or if he would allow him a swift death.

"It is good to see you again, Castiel," he said mildly.

"I am sorry, I do not recognize you," Castiel said.

The angel's mouth curved into a mirthless smile. "Why would you? We only fought in battle side by side once in the battle of Dereisa. You fought many times with many angels. I took a blade for you, but I am sure many angels have done that over your lifetime."

"Mikhail," Castiel said. "I am sorry. I remember you, of course. You saved me."

"My mistake," Mikhail said.

Castiel tried to shift himself so that he was sitting, a slightly more dignified position than lying prostrate on the floor.

"Help him up, Bethiah," Mikhail said.

The woman stared incredulously at him for a moment before obeying, confirming to Castiel that Mikhail was the superior there. Castiel was hauled painfully to his feet and he wavered for a moment before regaining his equilibrium.

"Now, Castiel, what were you doing in Kansas?" Mikhail asked.

"I was traveling through," Castiel said, knowing that whatever they did to him, he would not betray Sam and Dean's location. "I have been living on the road since my… fall."

Mikhail nodded as if he had expected the answer. "And Bethiah came across you in a grocery store. What are the chances of that?"

That was a good question. What was she even doing in a grocery store? He didn't dare ask the question, but Mikhail answered it anyway.

"We have been tracking the Boyle podcasts viewers, and there was one in Lebanon. Bethiah was searching for the person to see if they were ready to give consent to a brother or sister."

"There are still some without vessels?" Castiel asked.

Mikhail scoffed. "Of course. You and Metatron emptied Heaven of every angel, and there are only so many vessels suitable for possession. There are even less that are devout enough to give themselves over. It's not like the old days when religion was as much a part of life as food and sleep for the humans. So many have lost the path."

"I did not empty Heaven," Castiel said.

Mikhail looked amused. "And yet… you were known to be working with him. You were last seen with him in Heaven, and now you are human. Was that the bargain, Castiel? You became a human so you could live out a human lifespan with those Winchesters you are so fond of? It seems ridiculous to me, but then you always were a very strange angel."

"No," Castiel said. "I was taken prisoner by Metatron. He stole my grace to complete a spell. That is how the angels were expelled. He took more from me than from you all." The words slipped from him without thought, but he supposed it was right. If he was to die here, it was to be on his terms as much as it could be. With them knowing the truth.

"More from you? He burned our wings away, Castiel. The parts that make us what we are. We were stricken to earth, left helpless and without vessels. We were less equipped to deal with it than humans would have been."

"I am sorry," Castiel said. "It was never my intent to make that happen. I thought I was doing the right thing when I helped him."

"And what, pray tell, were you helping him with if not our fall?" Bethiah asked.

Castiel didn't answer. He thought the fact that he had been trying to lock all angels in Heaven rather than casting them out would be no more welcome than what they already believed.

"I don't know," he lied. "Metatron said he had a plan to return angels to their former glory and unification." Not a complete lie, but not the truth either.

Mikhail stared at him, seeming to be searching for something. Castiel stared back at him, wondering how long he had left to live in a disconnected way, as if in his heart he had already made peace with his fate. Perhaps he had done so a long time ago, the moment he woke on earth as a human

At that moment the door opened and a man strode into the room. He was obviously superior to both angels as they ducked their heads at his entrance and stepped away from Castiel.

"Castiel," he said, spreading his arms in what seemed to be welcome. "It's good to see you again."

Castiel looked at him and realized that, through the new haircut and modern clothes, he recognized the angel in the vessel he had once known. "Bartholomew."

"You do recognize me," he said gleefully. "I wondered with the modernization of the vessel if you would." He held out a hand for Castiel and then laughed. "Of course, you cannot shake my hand with yours tied behind your back." His blade slid into his hand and Castiel flinched as he grabbed his shoulder and spun him. Castiel wondered if this was how it would happen: a stab in the back, what had once been called a coward's death, stricken as they ran away. He didn't strike though. He cut through the bonds holding Castiel, freeing his hands. He spun him back with ease and then took Castiel's right hand and pumped it up and down.

Castiel's surprise must have shown on his face, as Bartholomew laughed softly. "No need to look so afraid, Castiel. We're not going to hurt you."

Castiel didn't believe him, but he didn't speak up.

"I think our guest would be a little more comfortable with some space," Bartholomew said. "Bethiah, Mikhail, you can leave us."

The two angels nodded and left the room without a word.

"They're obedient to you," Castiel observed.

"Of course they are. I am their leader. You remember how it felt to be a leader, don't you, Castiel?"

Castiel nodded. It had been empowering, heady, sometimes frightening, and always stressful.

"Take a seat," Bartholomew said. "I imagine you are tired. I understand humans tire easily. And your head must be hurting. Would you like me to heal you?"

"It's nothing," Castiel said.

He glanced around the room. There was a large light wood desk and a comfortable looking office chair behind, with two less comfortable looking seats in front of it. He perched on one of those and rested his hands in his lap. Bartholomew sat opposite him, smoothing the creases of his pants.

"We need to talk," Bartholomew said. "I have a proposition for you, and I would like you to give it some serious thought before making up your mind to agree."

"You seem sure I will," Castiel said.

"I am," he replied. "This is what the humans call an offer too good to miss." He looked at Castiel with sympathy that Castiel wasn't entirely sure was genuine. "I heard some of your conversation with Mikhail and Bethiah, and I understand you were not as we believed a part of Metatron's plan to expel the angels."

"Not intentionally," Castiel said.

"I cannot tell you how much it pleases me to hear it. I didn't want to think you would stray so far from what is right. Now, that understood, I want to make my offer. You were a great angel, Castiel, as you know. You once led me, and I have tried to model myself on you since taking up the mantle."

"I wouldn't do that," Castiel said. "It did not end well for me."

"Perhaps not in the end, but before you failed, you succeeded." He drew a breath. "I would like you to join us, Castiel. Be my second. We are going to war against Metatron, and I think, of all angels, you owe him retribution the most."

"I am human," Castiel stated. "I can advise you, perhaps, but that is all. I am not the angel I was before."

Bartholomew smiled. "That is where my offer sweetens. I have something you need." From his pocket he pulled a small vial of blue-white swirling light. Castiel knew at once that it was grace.

"Is that mine?" he asked. "I thought Metatron used it all for the spell."

Bartholomew shook his head. "He may have. I don't know. This is not yours. This is Malachi's. I defeated him a week ago, absorbing the survivors of his army into my own. I want you to take this grace and become what you were again. Be an angel, Castiel."

Castiel leaned away from him and the vial of grace, disgusted. Malachi was one of the worst of all angels. Cruel, sadistic, violent. He and Thaddeus had presided over Heaven's jail, and their talents had been utilized to punish the angels held within. The thought of taking something of that angel into himself was abhorrent.

"Oh," Bartholomew said. "You're not eager."

"No," Castiel said, his tone hard. "I cannot take that."

"You disappoint me. I thought you would jump at the chance to be one of us again. One of mine. This pains me, Castiel. I didn't want it to end this way."

Castiel flinched. "That is my choice then: take the grace and join you or death?"

Bartholomew looked surprised. "Of course not. What kind of animal do you take me for?"

"You are a leader. Sometimes difficult choices and sacrifices must be made."

"As when you destroyed Raphael's followers?" Bartholomew said. "As you said, you made mistakes. I will not make the same. I am offering you a choice. Become what you were. Join our just cause. Make right what you did, or stay as you are, a human living a nomadic and unfulfilling life."

Castiel chose his words carefully. "I think I have made too many mistakes as an angel. I cannot hurt angels anymore as a human. It would be better for you all if I was to refuse."

Bartholomew tapped his chin. "Perhaps you are right. Yes. For now, you are perhaps better as a human." He tucked the grace back into his pocket and stood. "In that case, our business is concluded.

Surprised by the abrupt dismissal and awestruck that he was apparently going to make it out of this alive, he stood. "I can go?" he asked.

"Yes. Would you like someone to drive you back to Lebanon?"

"No," Castiel answered quickly, then amended. "Thank you, but no. I am living, as you say, a nomadic life now. I can find another car and move on from here as easily as anywhere."

"Very well." Bartholomew shook his hand again, a little too firmly this time. "I will see you again, Castiel."

"Perhaps," Castiel said.

"No," he said seriously. "I will."

Castiel heard the underlying warning in the words, and he nodded.

He turned from Bartholomew, still wary of an attack, and made his way out of the room. He came to a plush reception hall with a polished marble desk behind which a young woman with blonde hair sat. Ignoring her, he made straight for the exit, stepping out into the open air and taking a deep breath. Hurrying down the street, he took three random turns before taking his cell phone from his pocket and hitting the first speed dial.

Dean answered on the first ring. "Cas? Where the hell are you? Are you okay?"

"I am fine," he said. "I have much to tell you, but it will have to wait until I am back."

"Okay," Dean said, relief obvious. "Yeah. You get your ass home and we'll talk."

Castiel smiled. Home. He liked that. He was going home.

So… What do you think? Did Castiel make the right choice refusing the grace?

Until next time…

Clowns or Midgets xxx