Castiel was certainly willing to help, and I spent the rest of the afternoon testing his adherence to my only real command - that he consider each demand as a request, and contemplate his own consent before complying - or refusing to comply, if necessary.
"Tell me about the trade."
We were sat at the small dining table, yet another promptly-produced beer situated before me, and he hummed, entwining his fingers around his own bottle, making me smile. Convincing him to try a beer had been an interesting exercise; his own reservations about alcohol held him back, but his curiosity drove him forward, leading to a prolonged hesitation before he eventually took a sip, his eyes expressing several emotions in quick succession - before he took another, and I laughed.
The bottle was now being spun slowly in his grasp, long, deft fingers wiping condensation from the glass. "I… Will tell you the general parameters, but nothing specific, Sir," he replied eventually, brow furrowed. I nodded, mildly disappointed - but proud - and lent back in my chair, listening attentively. He sighed, releasing the bottle to wring his hands together.
"Every Earth year," he began, voice low and unsure, "there is a meeting. For millennia, that meeting has been between the Archangel Michael, and his brother, Lucifer. This year, that changed. Lucifer was usurped, and Crowley took his place."
"Typically, one or two angels are honoured, and taken by Michael to the meeting. There was only one this year - me." A soft, sad smile graced his lips, beautifully morose. "I was so flattered. Typically we're there only as a formality – a witness, on both sides, to ensure transparency. But this year was a big deal; alongside the usual soul discussions and statistic comparisons, there was a new King of Hell to meet. I was, to my shame, proud of being chosen."
"The meeting went as expected," Castiel continued, the smile becoming tense as he recalled memories I couldn't fathom. "Crowley gloated his superior soul count, as his predecessor was inclined to before him. But as the meeting ended, he raised his hand to stop us leaving."
I leant forward, breathing stucco and weak, my entire focus on the words of the angel before me as he hesitated. "He offered an... Exchange. All souls of minor transgression would be pardoned and, instead of facing Hell, would find salvation. For a whole month. Hundreds – thousands of souls. All he asked in return..."
Castiel paused, wincing, and I swallowed around the lump in my throat. "Was you," I finished, watching him carefully.
"Was me," he agreed, nodding. "Michael, of course, was hesitant. But I pleaded with him to make the trade. If I could save even a single soul, what was my suffering in contrast? We live to serve humanity, and this... This was the greatest sacrifice I could give."
"So he accepted?" I prompted, when the angel fell silent once more. Castiel's eyes glassed over, distant, and a hand went to his hair absently.
"Yes. He praised me for my selflessness, and wished me luck. There was so much pity in his eyes – but I don't think even he knew, not really, quite how... Hellish, it would truly be."
When Castiel's words stopped again, I knew that he would say no more, but curiosity led me onwards, poking at the wound. "What did he do to you?"
The angel before me met my gaze, his eyes dark and sad. "It doesn't matter. I do not regret my choices, Dean. Not for a moment."
I opened my mouth to respond, before closing it slowly. "... You called me 'Dean'. You actually said my name."
He smiled weakly, inclining his head. "Another choice I do not regret."
I felt myself grin, humbled by the strength of the celestial being before me. "Say it again."
He leant forward a little, crystalline eyes boring into mine. "Dean. Winchester."
I bit my tongue between my teeth, sucking in a slow, tortured breath. I'd heard my name fall from many lips, in many ways. It had been begged, moaned, sighed, cried and screamed. It had been said in anger, disappointment, love and euphoria – but never, never had it been said in this way. Never had the sound felt so caressed. So declarative. So much like home.
"You'll be the death of me, angel," I muttered, my heart still fluttering uneasily. I was resigned to my life before this day – fading through my work, drinking through my evenings, until I stumbled to bed, only to repeat the cycle ad nauseam. This frustrating, ethereal creature had barrelled into my existence with little warning, and revived a soul I didn't think existed anymore.
Castiel was still leaned over the table, smiling serenely. "You're already dead."
I snorted with laughter, his ephemeral spell broken – at least for now. "That's... A very good point." An easy silence settled between us, but concern and curiosity still wormed under my skin.
"An unasked question is the most futile thing in the world," Castiel quipped, not looking up from the table as he took another long swig of his beer. I hesitated, uncertain, but he spoke no further.
"Are... Your wounds. Will they heal?" I knew my question was transparent – my true inquiry evident – but Castiel responded only to my words.
"In time. This form has proved, time and again, that it is capable of many amazing feats." His smile was forced as he assessed the damage of his forearms, before drawing a finger along a razor-thin slice, a celeste light following his touch, making me squint at the brilliance. By the time my eyes were clear once more, hands lowered, all that remained of his wound was a silver scar, almost imperceptible.
"That's... How did you do that?" I whispered, moving my chair a little closer to gaze in wonder at the faded remnants of his injury. His smile broadened, and he shrugged a shoulder.
"I'm an angel. Grace – our angelic force, so to speak – is capable of many astounding things." As if to prove his point, he vanished before my eyes, leaving me stunned and blinking for a heartbeat before his hand touched my shoulder lightly.
"You... Can teleport?" I clarified incredulously, head snapping between his vacant seat and where he now stood beside me. He laughed shortly, returning to sit opposite me.
"Parlor tricks, Dean. Our true capabilities – especially those of a higher rank in the celestial garrisons – are beyond your imagining. Many are unknown even to myself."
I hesitated again, rolling my jaw thoughtfully, and he raised an eyebrow. "You're wondering why I don't just leave – flee to Heaven, or seek refuge elsewhere?" When I nodded, his smile slipped, and his gaze grew serious once more. "You already know the answer. Regardless of the particulars of this role, I am here, generally speaking, because I was ordered to be. As I said – I have no regrets for the choices I have made. I know I could flee, if I so wished. But the ramifications of those actions would be a weight I could not bear."
Nodding slowly, I toyed with the peeling label of my beer. "Why don't you heal yourself, at least?"
He hummed thoughtfully before standing, moving to the fridge and fetching us both another beer, popping the tops and taking a sip before he answered. "My grace is similar to a battery. And down here, so far from home... That battery never has much power. Simple tricks, like the ones I have demonstrated to you, deplete my reserves, and it can take hours, even days, for me to recover. By which point, my wounds would have been replicated ten times over – and likely worse. Crowley did not approve of my nature," he added gently. I winced in sympathy; I'd had enough of my own experiences that I could fully understand Castiel's fear.
"What about your... Your wings?" I probed, shaking my head lightly, bemused by the surrealism of the conversation. Castiel snorted gently, shaking his head.
"A source of great emotion for him. I think he was drawn to them – to the unknown – and he despised me for it. Many of his torments were designed specifically for this new appendage he found himself with access to."
I blanched, hands trembling. "You don't mean...?"
The angel's head cocked curiously, and he nodded once. "You didn't notice?" I shrugged, embarrassed. My attention to detail, once impeccable, had evidently failed me. Castiel hesitated, then, without warning, the enormous black precursors to his corporeal wings filled the room, followed, after a nervous, steadying breath on his part, by a rustling of feathers, emerald plumage invading my senses.
I was once more stunned by the sight before me, the surrealism of those glorious wings still just as potent. But this time, the shocked revere had chance to fade, and i began to take in the horror amongst the beauty.
Many of the feathers were soiled or broken, with vast areas ripped clean out, the skin beneath ranging from open wound to the soft, downy plumage of replacement growth. The end of one hung limply, twisted at a gruesome angle, evidently broken and left unset. Further still, there were the feathers with no colour, the skin peering through a violent red – indicative of some form of bleach or other caustic.
My fingers reached out of their own accord, but the wing closest to me flinched away when my skin was mere millimetres away. I glanced at the angel apologetically, and found him trembling, eyes locked low, breath hiccuping his chest.
I winced, and dropped my hand. "I'm sorry. For not asking... And that this happened to you."
Castiel looked up slowly, mistrust and uncertainty evident in his gaze, before he shook his wings lightly, releasing the tension and sending a few more loose feathers scattering. "Here..." He extended his hand to me, and I placed mine in his, feeling the clammy, anxious skin of his palm and receiving a fresh pang of guilt for my rash actions. With a deep breath, he guided me, manoeuvring my fingers to a thicker patch of plumage.
I couldn't help but gasp. There were so many emotions coursing into me though the contract. Disgust, distrust, shame, fear... And, as my hand caressed the satin delicately, a deep sense of growing pleasure and comfort.
When I next looked to the angel's face, he was still shaking with anxiety, but his eyes were closed, a serene smile gracing his delicate features.