Previously: When Castiel hears that the Archangel Raphael made an appearance in Maine, he decides to go there to trap him and question him about God. Dean agrees to help him, but only if they drive there together. After a ten hours road trip during which they talked and got to know each other better, Dean and Castiel finally reach Waterville…

This chapter takes place in season 5 episode 3.

oOo

The holy oil

"Turn left now."

Dean obeys, moving his hands over the steering wheel. The tree leaves along the sidewalk cast fragmented shadows on the car.

"Go straight ahead."

An exasperated sigh rises.

"How much longer you gonna make us drive in circles around the city?"

"Until we reach our destination."

"And what's the destination, exactly? What are we looking for here? Where the hell is Raphael?"

"Turn right."

"How are we even gonna identify him, huh? Does he have a turtle shell and a red bandana or something?"

"I said turn right, Dean!"

"No need to yell at me, I heard!"

With a blatant eyeroll, he hits the brakes - which prompts a honk from the car behind us - and turns the wheel aggressively into the street that had been my goal all along and that I had spotted on a map of the city Bobby showed me. The police station comes into view, easily identifiable by the letters engraved on the building above the entrance: KENNEBEC COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE. Some policemen in uniform are having a conversation on the sidewalk.

"Don't you think it'd be nice to share with the class now that we're in Waterville, Cas? You told me you need my help, but I still have no idea what the plan is or how I can help you catch and question an archangel."

"Stop here."

"What, here? In front of the sheriff's office?"

"Yes. I'm going to tell you my plan."

"About damn time."

Dean manages to park the car in a tire-squealing maneuver. After hours spent in this vehicle, the sudden silence is striking once the engine is turned off. His eyes are on me, waiting for explanations.

"According to the information Bobby shared with me, Raphael was in this city two days ago. All we have to do now to find him is locate his vessel."

"Okay…" The car door squeaks when Dean gets out of the car and I follow suit, stretching my wings behind my back. "… And we're here why?"

No sign of Angels or demons around, yet there is a clear tension in the air. A residual energy. More precisely, a sense of danger that immediately puts me on guard.

"A deputy sheriff laid eyes on the Archangel."

"And he still has eyes?" Sparing me the tedious task of explaining that Archangels, like Angels, are required to be in a vessel to walk the Earth, Dean opens his mouth again, glancing at the police station. "Alright, what's the plan?"

I don't know why Dean seems to expect a sophisticated strategy when this is only about getting information, not about capturing Raphael yet.

"We'll tell the officer that he witnessed an Angel of the Lord, and the officer will tell us where the Angel is."

Dean raises his eyebrows, the expression on his face showing disapproval. I think there is also a hint of irritation, or perhaps surprise, or possibly amusement, but it's always hard for me to decipher the range of human emotions, which are infinitely more complex to interpret on their organic faces than through the movements of an Angel's wings or the radiance of their Grace.

"Seriously? You're going to walk in there and tell him the truth?"

"Why not?"

"Because…" Dean pulls something out of his pocket, and slips it inside my jacket, under the trench coat. I failed to catch a glimpse of what it was. "… we're humans. And when humans want something really, really bad…"

He reaches out to fix my shirt collar and insert the button into the matching hole, which tightens the shirt around my neck. His fingers graze against my skin in light touches radiating heat.

"… we lie."

His voice suggests that it's a fact, but this is one of the most nonsensical things I've ever heard in my life. Why would Humans lie when they want something? Granted, I've always watched them from a distance, never really listening to their conversations, but that strikes me as stupid and unproductive.

"Why?"

How are other Humans supposed to know whether one of their own is telling the truth or lying to get something? And how can anyone obtain what they want if they don't explicitly say what that is?

Dean finishes tying and fixing my tie. Our eyes meet, but once again, I struggle to interpret what I see in them.

"Because that's how you become President."

And without explaining what his answer means or why he touched my clothes, he walks towards the police station. I follow suit, not quite sure how to proceed anymore.

"Do you even know the deputy's name?"

"Yes. Walter Framingham."

"Perfect," he nods. "Here's how we're going to do this. You and me, we're FBI agents, okay? And we're going to interrogate the dude. Just follow my lead."

I understand now. Dean proceeds the same way he did on his monster hunts with Sam in The Winchester Gospel. I never grasped what "FBI" is supposed to mean, but it seems to make quite an impression on ordinary Humans. I assume it's the human equivalent of a higher level authority like the Council.

So he plans to pretend I'm a Human. This should not be difficult, with my appearance and my long experience of this species.

The building is swarming with Humans all wearing the same uniform. Exuding authority in his voice and appearance, Dean asks one of them to meet the deputy sheriff. I walk behind him like his shadow and we climb upstairs to the top floor.

"Deputy Framingham?" he says, walking up to two men. "Hi. Alonzo Mosely, FBI."

Dean shows some kind of plastic card, and the effect is immediate. I read about this in the Prophet Chuck's holy writings, but to witness it for real is captivating. The deputy's expression and stance completely shifted just hearing those three letters and seeing that badge. A subtle but clear flicker of respect and deference sparked in his eyes.

"This is my partner, Eddie Moscone…"

The Human laid eyes on me, with that same respectful hesitation, and I hold his gaze with what I hope to be an FBI agent's commanding stare.

I was skeptical of Dean's approach, but I have to admit his presence and his lies make things a lot easier. I probably wouldn't have been able to locate the deputy as effectively without him, I would have had to interview dozens of Humans or probe their souls to find the information.

"… Also FBI."

Dean's insistent tone snaps me out of my thoughts, and I realize that he's glaring at me, and that both he and the deputy sheriff seem to be expecting something from me. Should I say hello? Repeat the false name Dean chose for me?

Oh, of course. I see. Dean told me to do everything just like him, so all I have to do is mimic him. That would explain why he slipped something into my inner jacket pocket earlier.

So I pull the laminated, leather-wrapped badge out of my pocket and hold it up like Dean did. Walter Framingham doesn't seem all that impressed and Dean reaches out to return the object in my hand.

"He's, uh, he's new. Mind if we ask you a few questions?"

On the badge, Jimmy Novak's face stares back at me sternly when I take a look at it. Eddie Moscone's name is written there, along with a series of numbers and mentions of rank, dates, and the three large FBI letters.

"Yeah, sure," answers the deputy as he turns to guide us into his office. "Talk here, though. Hearing's all blown to hell in this one."

"That happened recently?"

The room is small, only lit by the sunlight filtering through the blinds. It smells like varnished wood.

"Yeah. Gas station." Framingham sits down behind his desk. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

I don't know how far Dean plans to take his lie and the sidelong glance he gives me isn't helpful.

"Yes, it is," Dean replies, taking a seat and I do it too. "You mind just, uh, running us through what happened?"

The officer joins his hands on his desk surface, almost like he's about to pray. His eyes are riveted on Dean and evade my gaze, as if he somehow instinctively sensed the human in him, and the inhuman in me.

"A call came in. Disturbance out at the Pump and Go on Route 4."

"What kind of disturbance?"

"Would not have believed my eyes if I hadn't seen it myself. We're talking a riot. Full scale."

"How many?"

"Thirty, forty, in all-out kill-or-be-killed combat."

"Any idea what set them off?"

Dean is digressing from our objective. This question is pointless and I already know the obvious answer.

"It's Angels and demons, probably," I tell him.

Walter Framingham gives me a bewildered look. In these apocalyptic times, I'm surprised that Humans still haven't realized what's going on. How many slaughters, storms and fire and blood rains will it take for them to reach the right conclusion? A few hundred years ago, they didn't need quite that much to wail about God's wrath.

"They're skirmishing all over the globe."

They deserve to know their end is near, should I fail my mission. I've been kept in the dark for too long myself and I won't treat the Humans the way the hierarchy treated the Garrison, no matter what Dean may think.

"Come again?" the deputy stammers, throwing a panicked look at Dean. "What did he say?"

He probably couldn't hear me, since his hearing was damaged by the explosion. So I raise my voice.

"Demons–"

"Nothing!" Dean interrupts.

"Dem–"

"Nothing!"

We share a look that tells me he won't yield. Why is he so adamant about keeping his kind ignorant?

"Demons, you know," he blurts out with a forced smile. "Drink, adultery. We all have our demons, Walt."

The officer seems skeptical. But the human inclination to deny an unpleasant truth at all costs is stronger.

"I guess."

Fine. After all, my mission isn't to spread the bad news about the imminent extinction of Humanity. What's really important is to find Raphael to prevent the Apocalypse from happening at all.

There is a smile on Dean's lips and in his eyes. I wonder what is so funny to him about this situation. Unless this is a different kind of smile. I know Humans can smile to express all sorts of different things.

Hester was right. Animals make so much more sense.

"Anyway," Dean says to Framingham. "What happened next?"

"Freaking explosion, that's what. They said it was one of those underground gas tanks, but, uh, I don't think so."

"Why not?"

There is some kind of confused awe in the Human's eyes. An indescribable expression I've often seen in Humans when faced with divine events for the first time. As it had been for Noah, Abraham, Joseph, St. Thomas, and most recently Bobby Singer.

"Wasn't your usual fireball. It was, um—"

"Pure white," I say to help him find the words.

Framingham freezes and stares at me like he's seeing me for the first time. I can see the sparkle of his soul in his eyes - an ordinary one, beautiful in its humanity and fragile in its convictions and perception of the world.

"Yeah. Gas station was leveled. Everyone was...it was just horrible."

The look in Dean's eyes has changed, his face locked in a stern expression. Perhaps he realizes now how powerful an Archangel really can be and how dangerous the mission I involved him in is.

"And I see this one guy." The officer seems absorbed in his memories. "Kneeling, real focused-like, not a damn scratch on him."

"You know him?" Dean says in a rough voice.

Framingham nods.

"Donnie Finneman. Mechanic there."

"Let me guess, he just vanished into thin air?"

"Uh, no, Kolchak. He's down at Saint Pete's."

No need to inform Framingham that he got Dean's fake name wrong. Because we just got the information I needed. Raphael's vessel's name and location.

"Saint Pete's," I repeat pointedly to Dean to subtly hint our next destination.

Dean stares at me blankly.

"... Thank you."

I grant him a conniving nod. This deceptive act really worked in the end. Walter Framingham never suspected for a second that I'm not human and that we're not FBI agents. This is a success.

Dean clears his throat and stands up, his chair scraping on the floor.

"Thank you for your cooperation, deputy Framingham. You've been very helpful."

"No problem. If the feds are digging into this, I guess it was more than Just a gas explosion, huh?"

They shake hands while I stand up.

"Not necessarily," Dean eludes. "Just a routine inspection. You know how it is, paperwork."

The officer seems hesitant, but at last holds out his hand to me. I grab it and shake it, looking him straight in the eye.

"None of this has anything to do with the Apocalypse."

The Human frowns and lets go of my hand.

"I guarantee you that Humanity is not in danger at all," I say, winking at Dean.

"That's… good to know, I guess."

Despite Framingham's puzzled tone and Dean's dismayed look as he pinches the bridge of his nose, I'm quite pleased with my attempt to lie. Levanael had taught me years ago that winking is a commonly used signal among Humans to imply something between two individuals.

"Goodbye, deputy Framingham," Dean interrupts us with his hand on my shoulder. "Come on, Eddie."

"Of course, Alonzo."

oOo

The red brick building is three stories high, casting a rectangular shadow over the parking lot. It turns out that Saint Pete's - or more accurately, Saint Peter's - is a private hospital complex, which only increases my suspicion that Raphael is already gone and we're too late. I can't think of any reason for an Archangel to stay in this place for several days, let alone with the Apocalypse coming.

"You remember what I told you, Cas?"

Dean's hand presses between my shoulder blades, infusing warmth through the layers of clothes.

"I should avoid talking at all cost and let you handle the situation."

"Exactly. Just look dark and broody as usual, it'll be perfect. And most importantly, not a word about angels, demons and the apocalypse, okay? They're specialized in mental illness here, so if we start blurting out the truth, trust me, we're going to end up in a straitjacket in a rubber cell in no time."

Together, we walk to the hospital entrance, pushing open the glass doors to get inside. Air conditioning and a smell of sanitizer immediately engulf us.

Without hesitation, Dean strides across the hall where rows of seats are lined up and heads straight for the front desk.

"Alonzo Mosely and Eddie Moscone, FBI."

This time, I make sure to draw the plastic badge together with him. The receptionist raises an eyebrow, gauging us over the frame of her glasses perched on her nose.

"We have a few questions for one of your patients, Donnie Finneman."

"Are you a relative?"

Dean merely blinks at the woman's cold tone.

"No. Like I just said, we're FBI agents. We're working on a federal case that–"

"Visits are restricted to family members, only from Monday to Thursday, 3pm to 5pm, with an appointment."

Following Dean's instructions, I stare as darkly as I can at the receptionist, but she hardly seems impressed. Her lips are pressed together and her hostility for the FBI is blatant in her voice.

Dean rests an elbow on the counter, leaning forward threateningly.

"You don't seem to realize, ma'am, that obstructing a federal case is punishable by-"

"I follow hospital regulations, young man. Complain to the director if you don't like it."

"Fine. Where is he?"

The woman gives a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"Away in Ohio for the week. But you can schedule an appointment when she returns."

I step in when I see Dean's jaw clench and his aura exuding frustration.

"Dean. Let me."

I think I hear him object as I reach over the counter, but it's all drowned out by a flood of sounds, colors and memories when my fingers make contact with the woman's forehead.

Exploring an information in a soul is a sophisticated process that requires expert skills. The mass of information expands, wiping out every sensation from my vessel, along with all notions of time and space. An entire life flashes by in a jumble of repressed traumas, subconscious memories, convictions, desires and regrets. All it takes for me is one thought to push aside Miranda Ruiz's childhood memories, thousands, millions of memories rolling in like a stormy ocean, to keep only the most recent, the last two days. I quickly find what I'm looking for.

Doors swing open. Two policemen burst in, holding a wobbling Donnie Finneman. Alarmed, Miranda jumps to her feet to run over to them.

« Oh my God, what happened to him this time? »

Only when she gets in front of him does she realize that Donnie's gaze is glassy - he barely stands on his legs, and there's saliva dripping from his gaping mouth.

« We don't really know. » Walter Framingham sighs. « He's not wounded but he hasn't uttered a word since we found him wandering the streets, and we're not even sure he understands what we're saying. All I can tell you is, he was there at the explosion this morning. Physically he's okay, but mentally speaking, he's not. »

Miranda takes a closer look at Donnie, a man she knows quite well. Not only because he's repaired her car countless times over the last ten years, but also because a few months ago he'd been interned in a hysterical delirium, shaking, sobbing and claiming to anyone who would listen that he'd been possessed by an angel who'd killed another angel. It had taken almost a week to calm him down and convince him that he'd only had a psychotic break due to his mother's recent death.

He doesn't react when she waves a hand in front of his eyes. If he weren't breathing, she'd have thought him dead.

Nurses rush in, and Miranda helps them seat Donnie in a wheelchair as carefully as possible. They head for the corridor, take the elevator and walk past several doors before settling him in a room and making an urgent call to the psychiatrist.

The memory recedes in a flurry of echoes. In Miranda's whirling memory, I grab the most recent flash of the conversation she's just had with Dean and delete it. A pulse of my Grace through her body plunges her into a deep slumber, and I remove my hand, regaining all of my vessel's senses.

"Cas, what the hell are you doing?!"

I turn on my heels and start walking, my trench coat opening out behind me.

"I know where Donnie Finneman is. Follow me."

Dean strides to catch up with me, glancing back over his shoulder at the receptionist who slumped limply in her chair.

"What did you do to her?"

"I probed her memories and put her to sleep. She'll wake up in a few minutes and won't remember talking to us or even having seen us."

With a flick of my hand, I open the doors leading to the corridor from afar. As we rush in, I hold out my arms to knock out to sleep two bewildered nurses standing in our path. They collapse like broken puppets under Dean's shocked eyes.

"Why'd you never told me you can do this kind of stuff?" he asks, stepping over the passed-out bodies on the ground.

"Because you never asked. Come on, it's on the second floor."

I push the button and the elevator doors open, no one paying any attention to us - a nurse just noticed her two coworkers lying on the floor and she's rushing at their side.

"I'm asking now," Dean says as the doors close on us. "What else can you do?"

The elevator starts up like in Miranda's memory. I turn my head to look into the righteous man's eyes. His newfound interest for my power is flattering, and I can't help puffing up my feathers, my Grace flaring in my veins.

"I'm cut off from Heaven and most of my powers, but I can still explore, alter and erase human memories. Actually, I'm a specialist when it comes to this, and also in seal making. I speak every known language, I can move anywhere on Earth with a flap of my wings, I master telekinesis and have above-average strength for a soldier of my rank."

Dean stares at me intently, his eyes scrutinizing my facial features, lingering on my mouth until the elevator doors open onto the second floor with a loud chime.

"This is our floor," I say, tearing myself from the sight of his soul in his eyes. "Donnie Finneman is in the third room on the left."

Once we reach the room, there's no need to open the door to confirm what my incursion into Miranda Ruiz's memory revealed. Glass windows allow us to peer inside at the slouched body in a wheelchair - the very same body that, filled with Raphael's divine wrath, annihilated me with a snap of fingers. This body, now vacated, has become a prison for the soul it contains.

"Here he is."

My voice sounds hoarse, emotionless. I knew with how incredibly slow Dean's car was, that the probability was low for the Archangel to still be in the city when we would get there. Perhaps that's not such a bad thing, after all.

Had Raphael been present when we arrived, he would most likely have spotted us first, and it would have been difficult - impossible, even - to set a trap for him unnoticed.

"I take it that's not Raphael anymore," Dean states after a silence.

"Just an empty vessel."

"So is this what I'm looking at if Michael jumps in my bones?"

"No, not at all."

There is a strong probability for Donnie Finneman's vegetative state to be an intentional move from Raphael, so he won't have to seek the vessel's oral consent the next time. In times of apocalyptic crisis, it makes sense that he would choose to fry his brain to gain valuable time and avoid being denied. It wouldn't be the first time this happened, even though this kind of practice always goes unofficial from Angels who resort to it, since it's a blatant violation of free will.

But as Anpiel revealed to me about how Archangels truly use vessels, it's more likely that Raphael has drawn energy from his vessel's soul, draining it as a source of power to secure victory in losing battles. With the Riders of the Apocalypse chained to his command, Lucifer has a significant advantage.

"Michael is much more powerful. It'll be far worse for you."

And one thing is certain. When Lucifer and Michael fight each other, they'll permanently destroy Sam and Dean, body and soul.

"Okay… I see…"

I hear a sigh, barely above the background noise of nurses' footsteps in the corridor and vocal messages. I shift my focus away from the empty vessel to Dean who's running a hand over his face, trying hard to swallow back any emotion he may be showing, his expression hardening into a harsh mask.

"So, plan B it is, I guess? Where you threaten to smite the crap out of that poor guy to lure Raphael into a trap?"

"Yes, we'll trap him tomorrow. But first, I have some things to prepare."

Dean holds my gaze with that fascinating blend of impetuosity and determination you would expect from a celestial soldier.

"What kind of things?"

A nurse walks past us, pushing an old woman in a wheelchair. The building is humming with human activity on all floors. At least a hundred souls who could be atomized if my strategy were to fail.

I'll make sure it won't come to that. Tomorrow, Raphael will be pinned down, at my mercy. And he'll have to answer my questions. Any mistake in my strategy, any incident means death for me and mission failure.

"We'll need a place cut off from Humans. Somewhere out of sight, where we won't be disturbed."

Dean tilts his chin up with newfound self-assurance in his stance.

"You mean a hideout. You're speaking to the right guy, I've got just what we need."

oOo

"Last time I was here, it was, like, seven years ago. I knew no one would've bought the domain since then."

The car bumps along the path covered in weeds, and low tree branches brush against the bodywork. In what seems to be nothing more than a reflex, Dean lowered his head, as if to protect it from hitting the trees. At the end of the tortuous path, a house looms, gloomy and dark. The front door is wide open, and two upstairs windows are broken.

"How could you be so sure?"

Dean slows down in front of the decaying structure, turning the wheel to park.

"Because…"

He turns the key and the engine goes silent, replaced by the leaves rustling in the wind and the distant chirping of a bird. He turns his chest to me with a smirk.

"… back then, me and my dad exorcised a super violent ghost that haunted this house. Anyone who came near it ended up dead with their guts splattered all over the place. No one wants to live in a house where there's been so many bloody, unexplained deaths."

While talking, he opened the door with a squeak and slid out of the vehicle. I follow suit, peering intently around.

The house is a vast, abandoned mansion surrounded by acres of forest, quite a distance from Waterville. No human presence for miles around.

I couldn't hope for a better place to set up my strategy.

"At the time, Sam had ditched us for Stanford a few months before," Dean continues, climbing the front steps. "We could have used his help on that one, we nearly got killed."

He comes to a halt in what seems to have once been a living room, where all that remains is an upside-down table, chairs stacked in a corner and covered in spider webs, dusty rubble and a shabby armchair. He points with his chin to a dark stain encrusted on the floor.

"I remember falling down right there, screaming while that fucking specter ripped my guts open. If my dad hadn't stepped in right then and shot him with loads of salt, I'd have died."

He reaches up to brush his fingertips against the wall, where the bullet holes are still there, with some kind of reverence. Then, like he suddenly remembers I'm standing right next to him, he clears his throat and wipes the melancholy expression from his face.

"We kicked that son of a bitch to the afterlife and he'll never bother anyone again. This house is safe, guaranteed visitor-free."

Again with his irritating habit of walking around while he's talking to me, he circles me until he's behind my back.

"So? How's that for a hideout?"

I can hear him set up the table and chairs.

"It's sufficient," I say, remaining in my position. "There's only one thing missing."

"What is it?"

"A key element in the ritual to trap Raphael."

I can feel his eyes on the back of my neck as I slowly spread my wings.

"Stop playing mysterious, Cas. What element?"

With a strong flap of my wings, I fly out of the house, away from the continent, and it takes me only a fraction of a second to cross the ocean and land in the city of Jerusalem. Where Balthazar said he would leave holy oil for me.

I just hope this isn't a trap and that he kept his word. He might have changed his mind and warned Zachariah of my coming. Either way, I have no choice but to take the risk.

The contrast between the abandoned house's fresh, dark humidity and Jerusalem's streets is striking. This is the second time I set foot there at human height instead of watching from above in my true form, but I didn't take the time to linger the first time, as I had only briefly visited the holy places, keeping my eyes fixed on Dean's useless necklace.

The sun was pale and high in Waterville, but in this part of the world is melting into the skyline, bathing the town in rosy light and pastel shades. The cobbled ground and stone walls radiate all the heat absorbed during the day. The air rushing into my lungs is dry and warm.

Only then, as I stare into the narrow street, do I realize that I have no idea where Balthazar might have placed the oil. So I start walking without any specific destination in mind, looking around me for the slightest clue that would put me on the right track.

As I climb up a passageway's steps under a vaulted stone arch, I catch sight of two Humans with sunburned shoulders. They cast me a lingering glance as they walk past me - then I hear them mutter something in Italian behind my back about the way I'm dressed, but I don't care.

Dean is waiting for me. Scouring the city inch by inch to find the oil would be tedious, but I can't see any other way. Could this be just another one of Balthazar's schemes to waste my time? Or is he hoping I'll pray to him so he can try again to convince me to let go of the Winchester brothers?

The alley opens onto a wide walkway where a sparse crowd saunters around. Stores and restaurants glow artificially in the waning daylight and lengthening shadows. There's a gentle buzz, a blend of distant roaring vehicles and voices chattering in all the world's languages.

I walk through a square of outdoor chairs and tables, with the smell of food in the air. The last sunbeams make the mosque's golden dome shimmer in the distance, only partially visible behind the stone buildings. I've been wandering around the city for almost two hours in vain, the walls are now wrapped in shades of blue and orange, and I still refuse to pray to Balthazar for help. I don't want to see him. Not after he betrayed my trust.

Methodically, I survey the city, walking down every street and checking for anything that might contain liquid. It's night-time now, but the main streets are still busy and bright, vibrant with life under the starry sky.

Where could Balthazar have stashed the oil? I think it's time I start exploring inside the buildings and then the tunnels, one by one.

I'm deep in thought when the distinctive sound of flapping wings rises behind me, stopping me short.

"Castiel?"

That voice sounds familiar, just like the aura invading the hot, dry air. I'd know it anywhere.

With stiff shoulders, I stare blankly at the street ahead, with its artificial lights and flow of cheerful Humans.

"Zedekiel."

My voice comes out as a hoarse whisper that betrays nothing of the turmoil inside me. I turn to face my brother-in-arms and former subordinate. He's still in the same young body, with long blond hair tied up in a bun, but surprisingly he's no longer wearing the standard outfit that was approved by the Council twenty years ago - instead of his usual suit and tie, he's wearing jeans, a T-shirt, sandals and a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. Except for the lack of sunburn on his pale skin and the translucent wings folding behind his back with a silky rustle, nothing would distinguish him from the tourists exploring the city.

"It took me a while to spot where it came from, but I definitely sensed your aura." He takes a tentative step closer. "Balthazar told me you would come."

In my forearm vein, my boiling Grace is ready to forge a blade any second, but Zedekiel's attitude is not threatening. Quite the opposite actually: he's glancing around nervously, and his wings are twitching like he's afraid he's going to be attacked any second.

"Are you here to seize me and hand me over to Zachariah?" I ask anyway, not letting my guard down.

Zedekiel stiffens, and over his flesh and blood shell, on his true face floating translucently, his three ice-blue eyes narrow.

"I could do that." He brushes back a lock of hair from his forehead. "In fact, I should. You've brought more disgrace on the Garrison than Anna ever did, and we're all under orders to capture you. But no, brother. I'm here to help you."

He heaves a deep sigh.

"I'm really stupid to do this and I'm going to regret it," he mutters quietly to himself. "Come on, let's talk somewhere a bit more private. Preferably without tourists watching."

Zedekiel turns on his heels and I follow him into a dark alley. Our footsteps whirl up ochre dust and I keep my eyes on the back of my brother's neck, so many questions racing through my head. A few blond locks of hair have escaped from his bun, swaying in rhythm with the bag slung close to his hip.

"I confess I didn't expect to see you here, Zedekiel. So Balthazar asked you to come and meet me?"

Zedekiel slows to a halt. He stays silent for a moment before he turns around, staring straight at me. The night paints shadows on his vessel's face and intensifies the hard glare in his eyes.

"More or less. I've got the holy oil here with me, if that's what you want to know."

Like to prove it, he carefully lays his hand on his shoulder bag's bulge. He suddenly averts his gaze and presses his lips into a thin line.

"To tell you the truth, I've been assigned to guard Jerusalem since... since Raphael killed you. Supposedly to prevent demons from invading a place so symbolic to Humans."

It isn't hard to guess from his attitude and how bitter his voice sounds what he's not saying.

"Zachariah wants you away from the Garrison. Why?"

His wings droop and he takes a deep breath before he looks up, a defiant gleam in his eyes.

"You know, I thought we'd gone through the worst two thousand years ago with Camael's death and the revolt crushed by the Archangels. When Anna rebelled twenty years ago too, I thought it couldn't get any worse. But this last year..." He lets out a broken laugh and nervously pushes a lock of blond hair away from his face. "This past year has been the worst I've ever lived. We lost so many brothers and sisters in such a short time, and all for... nothing! So when they dragged me out of rehabilitation only to tell me that you'd been executed for rebellion and the Apocalypse was coming... I couldn't handle it. Zachariah was not pleased with my... emotional outburst, and I think the only reason he didn't execute me was not to get one more negative report on his record. Instead, he keeps me down here to rot as punishment. I suppose he'll deal with me once the Apocalypse is over."

I take one step towards him.

"You could join me. Fight by my side to stop the Apocalypse and save Humanity."

Zedekiel smiles wanly and shakes his head.

"To fight in vain against Fate, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, the Council, the Archangels and the entire celestial and demonic armies? And end up executed with a snap of fingers, thrown into rehabilitation like Anpiel for complicity with you, or worse, fallen, banished, and slowly drained of my Grace? No, Castiel. I'm not like you. I don't care enough about Humanity to sacrifice myself."

Any hope I'd felt immediately vanishes. Zedekiel opens his bag and pulls out an amphora, which he hands to me as a gesture of apology.

"Balthazar told me what you plan to do with that oil. Like him, I think it's suicide, but... I've always respected you, and today I admire your determination in a hopeless battle. I wish you luck, brother."

The amphora is warm and feels dry in my hands, heavy and radiating power. One of Heaven's most lethal weapons, capable of igniting a fire that would kill any celestial being with just a touch.

"If I can give you some advice," Zedekiel says nervously, "wait until dawn to trap Raphael. The entire Garrison will be busy fighting a group of demons in Europe, and they won't be able to come to his rescue."

"Zedekiel." I look up. "I…"

I'd like to ask him how the Garrison soldiers are holding up, but the question stays stuck in my throat. Except for my brief talk with Rachel, my violent altercation with Hester and Htmorda, Zachariah's attack in the ocean, and then Balthazar's brutal betrayal, I haven't had a chance to see my brothers and sisters since I died. After a lifetime spent by their side, I find their absence leaves a void in me that grows with each passing day.

I don't know if Zedekiel knows I killed Anna and stopped her from undoing the last twenty years to bring our siblings back to life, and I'd rather not know if Balthazar told him.

Finally, I open my mouth again, forcing myself to articulate the words.

"I wish things had gone differently. I'm sorry."

Zedekiel stares at me for a long time before he replies.

"Me too, Castiel. Me too."

I'm not stupid. I'm perfectly aware that Balthazar and Zedekiel are right, even with a strong strategy, trying to capture and interrogate an Archangel is suicide. I'm on a path of no return. If God won't answer me, if my entire family rejects me and my mission is doomed to failure, I see no other option but death. Why should I keep fighting?

This is probably the last time I ever see Zedekiel, and there's still so much I'd like to say. But words can't express what's inside me, thousands of years of deceived illusions and crawling doubts, the raw wound of my severed link with Heaven, the guilt and anger toward God and my own selfishness that made me choose my fondness for Dean over my duty and my family.

Silently, I grip the precious amphora tighter and spread my wings under my brother's haunting gaze. With a flap of my wings, I fly off and circle the globe in the opposite direction, heading straight back to Waterville.

The search for the holy oil took longer than I expected. When I reach the abandoned house and the damp, moldy smell invades my senses, it's already getting dark. This means I've left Dean alone all afternoon, which explains the unwelcoming look he shoots me when he realizes I'm there.

"Where've you been?"

"Jerusalem."

I step forward, letting the air thick with dust wash over my clothes and skin.

"Oh, how was it?"

The sarcasm in his voice is obvious, even to me. I'm not in the mood to appease Dean or endure his unspoken scolding. Not now.

"Arid."

His eyes snap instantly to the amphora when I place it on the table.

"What's that?"

"It's oil. It's very special. Very rare."

We'll have to wait close to seven hours before dawn to try to lure and capture Raphael. I opt to sit down as Dean suggested in the hotel room - staying up all night is not socially acceptable among Humans, that much I understood.

Dean, though, stays on his feet, looking down at me with his typical impatience.

"Okay, so we trap Raphael with a nice vinaigrette?"

"No."

"So this ritual of yours, when does it got to go down?"

"Sunrise."

My short answers don't seem to put him off questioning me. Perhaps I should have stayed away until dawn. I could have spent my last hours on a beach, gazing at the waves the way I did in my first moments living.

But to let Dean unsupervised and with no explanation is a risk I can't take. I know him well enough to know he'd react in a bad way.

"Tell me something. You keep saying we're gonna trap this guy. Isn't that kinda like trapping a hurricane with a butterfly net?"

At least he is aware of the mission's danger and risks, even though he can't possibly grasp how powerful an Archangel really is.

"No, it's harder."

"Do we have any chance of surviving this?"

I look up. After a year walking the Earth at Human height, I am now able to tell them apart better than I ever could before. Dean's face is engraved in my mind down to every last detail, and I could rebuild it from memory, and not just because I wrenched his soul from Hell and restored his body. What started out as a mission to complete shattered all of my convictions and the foundation of my devotion to the hierarchy. Through him, I came to love Humanity, and he helped me find out what it means to be free, with all the suffering that entails.

"You do."

Should I fail and Raphael kill me like he already did in Prophet Chuck's house, I know Dean will keep fighting with the strength and conviction I admire so much in him. He will deny himself to Michael and obstruct Heaven's and Hell's plans. Dean will live, a magnificent incarnation of Humanity and living insult to Fate's tyranny. And should he finally yield as he did under Alastair's torture, he'll have ruined the delusion about sacred free will the Council has been trying so hard to nurture for so long.

The wind rises outside, whispering wistfully through the swaying leaves.

"So odds are you're a dead man tomorrow."

"Yes."

For some reason, the thought seems to shake Dean to the core. I may have fallen, but I'm still an Angel, a soldier. I've always been ready to die to complete a mission. Besides, I've already died once, so I know that there's nothing awaiting me after I die. Which is somehow both terrifying and reassuring.

And even though I won't allow myself to hope, I can't help feeling that since God brought me back to life once, maybe He'll do something if I get killed again. I don't know what He expects of me or why He won't answer my prayers, and I'm tired of trying to understand an absent Father.

"Well. Last night on earth."

Dean has walked a few steps and is now behind me. I certainly won't bother twisting around in my chair or standing up to face him. He can just talk to my back if that's what he wants.

"What are your plans?"

That's not really a question I was expecting. Why would I have planned anything?

"I just thought I'd sit here quietly"

"Come on, anything? Booze? Women?"

I have no real interest in alcohol, even though there's something not entirely unpleasant about the warmth it causes in the stomach, as I discovered at Bobby's house after emptying three of his whisky bottles after Balthazar's betrayal.

But women? I'm guessing he means sex?

Dean comes closer behind me, I glance over my shoulder and immediately lower my head at his smirk and the mocking gleam in his eyes.

I suddenly can't help recalling the Winchester Gospel scenes describing Dean's sexual interactions with women in graphic detail. I had read them with much attention and curiosity, as they provided a whole new insight into this repetitive act of sweaty friction and penetration that I've witnessed hundreds of millions of times over the course of this species' evolution. Prophet Chuck's holy writing managed to make this fluid exchange fascinating, describing sexual acts between two Humans as extremely pleasurable and providing sensations close to the divine.

As captivating as it had been to read Dean in such situations, the very thought of being involved in such an organic act myself, secreting fluids and uttering grunts as mortals do when they copulate, is extremely embarrassing.

I remember the words Uriel used, laughing, about Anna when he found out she'd copulated with Dean. Fornicating with monkeys. Disgust fuses with my mortified curiosity. This is a further step in my downfall I'm not sure I want to take.

"You have been with women before. Right? Or an angel, at least?"

With no regard for my growing discomfort, Dean just took on a judgmental tone. He doesn't seem to realize that something ordinary from his human perspective is perceived as an abomination for a celestial being. Did he not grasp that in my real form, I have no genitals?

I don't need to see him to feel Dean leaning behind me and through my right wing - I retract it at once behind my back like the touch burned me.

"You mean to tell me you've never been up there doing a little cloud-seeding?"

His voice now clearly sounds teasing.

He may be under my protection, it's still humiliating to be patronized by a Human who's barely lived three short decades. I suddenly feel the need to explain myself and reclaim the respect I inspired in him when we first met. It's been only a year since I took possession of an organic body, a year spent on the battlefield fighting an impending apocalypse, and I'd never have considered using it for such a thing.

Except for Anna, who was fallen and stripped of her Grace, to my knowledge no Angel has ever indulged in such practices with Humans.

"Look, I've never had occasion, okay?"

My tone was dry, perhaps a little too defensive. There's a long silence, during which I focus on a patch of mold on the wall.

"… Alright." Dean comes back into my sight to pick up his jacket from the other chair. "Let me tell you something. There are two things I know for certain. One…" As he slips on his jacket, he gives me a hard stare, forcing me to hold his gaze. "… Bert and Ernie are gay. Two, you are not gonna die a virgin. Not on my watch."

And leaving me no time to ask who Bert and Ernie are and what does this have to do with the concept of virginity, he closes his father's diary on the table with a snap.

"Let's go."

And he's already striding out of the room, leaving me no choice but to stand up and follow him apprehensively.

oOo

In the next chapter

"When an Angel makes a promise, all Heaven is bound by it. Whereas a promise made by a Human is only worth something to those who trust it. There's nothing unusual about breaking a promise for your species. In fact, it's quite common, and usually entails no consequences."

"Hey, Cas, you're trashing all of humanity here. I'm gonna make it personal if you keep saying shit like that."