The neon lights hummed above, casting the streets in a vibrant glow and haunted flicker as the bulbs threatened to fail. In the distance, sirens wailed, beneath the growl of engines and buzz of conversation. The air was chilled and tainted with the stench of sewage and gasoline, the thunder above announcing the clouds' threat of a much-needed shower for the city below.
Castiel ignored the distractions, stalking onward, his footsteps echoing across the cracked pavement, his trench coat flaring with his pace. At first, the urban landscape had been jarring, chaotic, and unsettling, considering the celestial realms he'd once called home, but now… he'd spent more time on the streets than in the sky, lately. He didn't fully understand it, still, but… he appreciated it, more. His gaze slid across a man curled alongside a row of garbage bags, almost invisible in his ragged dark coat. If he'd had more time, he might have found a convenience store to purchase the man a PB&J, which tasted far superior to the unpleasant, often hairy remnants of food in the garbage. But he couldn't afford such a delay—so he marched onward, scanning the shadows. He paused at an alley, squinting into its depths, before he started down it cautiously.
Graffiti cursed the walls, and Castiel could not help but wonder who the profane language was directed at. It seemed an inefficient form of communication, and a very public one.
A low chuckle echoed down the alley from behind him, and he paused. The sound was neither warm nor pleasant; it was the sound of a creature that delighted in despair and torment. The voice was slick, drenched in the oil of false camaraderie. "Are you lost, angel?"
Castiel turned, finding a man with his arms spread wide, approaching with a grin. Its human vessel was nondescript, but to an angel's eyes, the hideous, curling smoke that used to be a bright, pure soul contorted the vessel's face, twisting its flesh to mimic the torture that had wrought the soul's corruption.
Castiel's angel blade slid easily into his grip, its edge glinting in the neon light.
The demon reached into its jacket and removed an identical weapon, twirling it like a baton.
The splash of footfalls suddenly behind him made Castiel turn swiftly, ducking immediately out of the way as another demon lunged with an angel blade in hand. He plunged his blade into its side, not granting the slightest hesitation to recover, and quickly withdrew his weapon to catch his initial target's blade before it could split him from chin to navel.
The demon was strong, bearing down on him with a weight greater than its physical form possessed. A few days ago, he would have been at the demon's mercy. But now, with Castiel's grace recently replenished, a simple, singular demon stood no chance against a seraph of heaven. He shoved it backward, but refrained from sinking his blade into its chest. The demon stumbled, raising its hands defensively as it wielded the angel blade in a reverse grip.
"What are you doing out here, Castiel?" The demon tilted its head in mock pity as it adopted a pout, "The Winchesters kick you out again?"
Castiel ignored the taunt. He didn't have the time nor energy to play games. He deftly closed the distance and pinned the demon's wrist to the wall with his angel blade, forcing it to release its weapon as its hand spasmed reflexively. The demon screamed at the sear of the holy metal, but the wound wasn't fatal. As the demon reeled, Castiel snapped its other arm with the ease a child might a twig, exposing bone and tendon. He dropped the contorted arm to hang loosely as the demon grunted—the physical damage to the vessel not proving as agonizing as the wound wrought from a weapon from heaven.
"What do you want?" The demon ground out, its breathing shaky, though it still managed to meet Castiel's gaze.
Castiel frowned at the demon's misunderstanding. He collected its angel blade from the pavement, brushing off its edge against his coat.
"Look, I can help you," the demon stared at the blade in Castiel's palm, still not grasping its fate. Though, Castiel supposed, he couldn't fault its confusion.
He reached into his trench coat and withdrew a flask, the one Dean had shoved into his hands several hours ago and ordered him to fill.
"Just tell me what you want to know." The demon pleaded as Castiel approached, tensing. He didn't spare a single glance at the demon's face, nor a breath of explanation, as he drew the tip of the angel blade along the demon's arm, carefully severing the arteries to an immediate stream of blood. Castiel aligned the flask beneath the gash, allowing the blood to drip inside.
"What are you—" the demon jerked against the blade pinning his hand, disrupting the flow, "What are you doing?"
Castiel slammed his arm into the demon's chest, ordering, "Stop moving." He realigned the flask, monitoring the river of blood.
The demon wriggled beneath Castiel's hold, "You want… demon blood? Why?"
The angel's eyes met the demon's, watching as the gears churned in his head. The hell spawn scowled, then his eyebrows raised, "Is it for your pal Dean? You still trying to cure him?" At Castiel's silence, or perhaps his lack of reaction, the demon tried again, "Don't tell me Sam's back on our team."
Castiel's gaze locked on the demon's—an impulse he failed to catch in time—as its guess edged too close to the truth.
The demon's eyes went wide, barking a laugh, "No. Way. We've got both Winchesters now?"
"You have neither," Castiel hissed, his face inches from the demon's as he shoved against its chest, ready to catch the demon if it tried to flee its vessel.
"I never thought I'd see the day," the demon shook his head in bliss, the pain of a holy blade splitting his hand evidently forgotten, "Y'know, if Sammy needs a little blood, all he's got to do is ask. A whole horde of demons would be happy to oblige our Winchester."
"I appreciate your concern," Castiel's tone adopted a sarcastic edge, "But Sam is fine."
"Really?" The demon jerked its head toward the gash on his arm, "That why you're fetching him some go juice?" It waited for Castiel's reply, but at his silence, it shook its head with a grin, "Ever the Winchester's faithful hound."
"Stop talking," Castiel pressed the flask tight against the demon's arm, trying to coax the blood to spill faster. He didn't need the demon's patronizing; he just needed its blood.
"You know, I was thrilled when I heard the older one was one of us. I thought we were about to enter a new era, the great Dean Winchester as Crowley's right hand man." The demon glanced at the stream of blood curiously, "But what a letdown. I thought Knights of Hell were supposed to be hell's greatest soldiers, not frat boys at happy hour. I think your golden boy actually managed to make hell weaker as a demon."
Castiel rolled his eyes, pressing harder against the demon's chest with his forearm, even though it wasn't trying to struggle anymore.
"You angels can have your Winchester back." The demon cocked its head with a smile, "Just send Sammy boy our way; tell him we'll get him all the blood he could dream of. Y'know, I was a Boy-King believer myself… too bad he didn't want to step up to the plate, but better late than never." Castiel's brow furrowed deeper at the demon's words, and the demon seemed to notice, its lips curling further as it continued, "See, Sammy gets stuff done. If he's chugging blood now," the demon chuckled, "He'll probably find a way to free Lucifer again within the month."
Castiel snapped the angel blade across the demon's throat. The flask was almost full, and the demon's blabbering exhausting. Blood spurted out of the slit as the demon gurgled, the wound sparking orange as the demon within the vessel burned away. Hastily, Castiel collected what he could before the flashing dwindled, securing the cap on the flask and tucking it back into his pocket.
As he glanced down, he noticed the spray of blood splattered across his trench coat. He breathed a sigh, instinctively raising a hand to cleanse his attire of the filthy gore, but he paused as his grace stirred. Even such a small expenditure of his power would be irrational. His borrowed grace was limited, draining slowly every minute to merely sustain his existence. Burning through it needlessly would merely expedite his inevitable end. And the Winchesters needed him, now, so he would conserve his grace for as long as he could to ensure they were safe.
Castiel yanked the angel blade out of the dead vessel's hand, stepping back as it crumpled to the ground to avoid its flailing limbs.
Normally, slaying a demon felt righteous, but this felt… filthy. Wrong.
He tried to console his unease with reminders of the wretchedness of demons, of the stain he was purifying. When the angels had raided hell to save Dean Winchester from its depths, the angel Ezekiel had encouraged his brethren with reminders of all the human lives they'd save, all the suffering they'd prevent, for every demon they felled. Castiel twisted his head, closing his eyes at the memory. How right it felt, laying siege upon hell, arm in arm with his brothers and sisters as the armies of heaven descended into the fiery depths to save a single human soul. How simple things were, then. When angels were unified, soldiers of God and justice and mercy, and demons were servants of the dark, insects to be crushed on sight.
Now, many of his brethren were dead, and no small number at his own hands. They had survived a direct assault into the depths of the abyss with few casualties, only to fall in multitudes at their own disunity.
And, now, the angel that had first reached Dean Winchester's soul, who had been charged with delivering him from the pit, who clutched the bright, beautiful thing tight to his chest as he tore upward, his wings burning from the strain and his body screaming as hell barraged him with its concentrated efforts to reclaim its prize, was alone in a dank alley, harvesting blood from demons to satiate the infernal addiction of the man created to house Lucifer himself.
Sometimes, he wished life could return to simplicity.
After collecting the spare angel blades from the pavement, Castiel paused, kneeling to reach inside the corpse's jacket. He removed a leather wallet, flipping it open to find a few dollar bills stuffed inside. He pocketed the cash, tossing the wallet onto the dead man's chest, before he exited the alley.
As he retraced his steps, he paused beside the row of garbage bags, earning a wary glance from the glossy eyes of the man huddled among them. Castiel retrieved the bills from his pocket, squatting beside the man to proffer the money, "I recommend Smucker's. The bread is soft, but not soggy, and the jelly is not overwhelming."
The man's brow furrowed in confusion, glancing around the space suspiciously, but his fingers grasped the cash, and he tucked it away quickly. Castiel smiled, offering him a nod, before he stood and resumed down the street.
When he reached his car, he dug for his phone, squinting at the screen as he composed a message and directed the device to deliver it to Dean.
Dean. I have obtained a sufficient quantity of demon blood and am on my way to the Bunker. – Castiel.
He twisted the key and shifted the car to drive, but before he could ease his foot from the brake, his phone buzzed. He found Dean's message at the top of the screen.
No more than the flask.
Castiel set the phone on the seat beside him, turning his attention to the road. Dean had insisted that Castiel bring back only an extremely limited supply. It seemed inefficient and imprudent, implicitly mandating that Castiel find yet another demon within a couple days, but Dean wouldn't budge. Apparently, Dean's refusal to allow any more blood than absolutely necessary in Sam's general proximity outweighed the risk of Castiel being unable to locate another demon in the tight timeframe. But Dean's mood was sour enough as it was, and he had ordered Castiel not to mention any details to Sam. So Castiel would merely endeavor to comply, one demon at a time.
The drive was gratefully uneventful. At some point, Castiel removed the flask from his coat pocket, propping it up in the passenger seat to offer some distance from the blood that felt heavier than its weight, that made Castiel feel vile in its nearness. Still, when the car rolled to a halt outside the familiar door, the angel clenched his jaw and stuffed the flask back inside his coat.
After a momentary pause to release a singular heavy breath, Castiel stepped out into the cool night air. Only a few stars managed to tear through the thick cover of clouds that had yet to unleash their promised wrath upon the nervous world below.
Castiel descended the bunker's stairs quietly, trying to avoid the announcing drumbeat of every footfall. When he reached the war room, he caught the soft buzz of familiar voices, and he glanced toward the library, where he sensed a distinct thrum of power. His brow furrowed and he hastened his steps until he spotted Sam, hunched over a tome, tracking his progress with a finger on the page as he uttered the spell in what Castiel recognized as ancient Hebrew. Dean stood before him, a scowl on his face, and his right arm extended to expose the Mark of Cain.
The angel slowed his approach, hesitant to disrupt the spell. Dean glanced up, noticing Castiel's arrival. He tilted his head faintly in acknowledgement, before his eyes skated back to Sam. The younger Winchester's back was turned, his focus resolute as he carefully weaved the incantation, every syllable precise. Tendrils of smoke from a small offering bowl at Dean's feet began to snake up his body, curling loosely around his right arm. Beneath their gentle kiss, the Mark began to shimmer. Dean's scowl deepened in clear surprise, a flicker of hope darting across his face that Castiel hadn't seen in a long time. Sam spoke the final line, his words almost a plea, and Castiel held his breath.
For a moment, time stood still. Then, the smoke dissipated, and the shimmer vanished, the ugly brand left in its wake, taunting them unperturbed.
Dean exhaled, his expression returning rapidly to resignation. Castiel sighed, unable to deny the disappointment that weighted his chest. They could use a win right now—and certainly one less problem. Curing the Mark of Cain would go a long way, in that regard.
Sam cursed, slamming the tome shut and sending a cloud of dust into the air, his fist pressed over his mouth as he paced a few steps. His movement granted Castiel a better view of the younger Winchester, and it made his gut twist. His condition had worsened substantially since Castiel had seen him several hours ago. His skin was pale, slick with sweat, his limbs shaky.
"Sammy," Dean's voice was low, a warning, a question.
"I know, I know," Sam nodded, pausing his pacing at the edge of the table to whisper, "I just… I needed this to work."
Dean had no reply, coaxing his sleeve back over the Mark, his concerned gaze not departing from his little brother.
"It's fine," Sam resolved, flipping open the tome again, "There's another spell for purification that might—"
"Sam," Dean grabbed his brother's arm gently, "Maybe it's time for a break."
Sam blinked at him, then nodded, "Yeah. Yeah, you're right," he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sorry, I'm sorry, it's just—" he glanced over his shoulder, startling as he noticed Castiel.
"Cas?" he greeted, a forced levity in his smile, "How long have you…" Sam trailed off, his eyes flicking over the angel's coat. After a brief pause, he twisted his head away, closing his eyes.
Castiel glanced down at the blood flecked across his clothes, wishing he'd expended the grace to cleanse it, or at least remembered to shirk his trench coat in the car.
Dean's expression darkened, and he tossed Castiel a glare, but his admonition didn't extend further.
"I'm sorry," the angel hastily apologized, "I didn't—"
"It's fine; don't worry about it," Sam dismissed, but he didn't look back toward Castiel. His body was trembling visibly, like he was suddenly tossed out into the snow. He looked like he might collapse beneath the softest breeze.
"Did you get it, then?" He asked quietly, fidgeting with his hands, his eyes locked elsewhere.
Dean's gaze sharpened as he looked from Sam to Castiel, his knitted brow a silent question. The angel raised his shoulders slightly—he hadn't shared anything of his endeavor either, but Sam wasn't a fool. Clearly, he could deduce to where Castiel had disappeared and why.
The angel paused, allowing Dean's intervention if he wanted an opportunity, before answering, "Yes… I have it."
"Good," Sam winced at the word, as though it slipped out before he could catch it. He folded his arms, perhaps for warmth or perhaps simply to occupy them, though his leg still drummed. "Dean, it's, uh…" Sam started slowly, his glance toward Dean nervous, eyes betraying his desperation, "It's time."
Dean checked his watch, then glanced up at Castiel. It had been approximately thirty-seven hours and forty-nine minutes since Sam's relapse. Given that he'd burned through most of it in restraining a Knight of Hell, albeit one human enough to cross a devil's trap, Sam had predicted he'd need his first dose anywhere from thirty to forty hours later.
Glancing at him, Castiel couldn't help but wish he'd driven faster, couldn't help but miss his wings and the immediacy of travel he'd taken for granted for so long.
Without a word, Dean left his brother's side, extending his open hand toward Castiel.
The angel retrieved the flask from his coat, resting it in Dean's hand and sharing a glance with the Winchester. For a moment, given the look of disdain, disgust, and hatred, Castiel thought Dean might open the flask and dump the blood down the drain. But instead, he started back toward Sam, slowly unscrewing the cap.
Castiel noticed the way Sam's gaze fixated on the flask, and he knew Dean saw it too.
"Sam?" Dean started, earning Sam's gaze for a brief moment. But Dean apparently had no further words, no warning, no question, no assurance he could offer—not that Castiel knew what to say either. Dean's hesitation allowed Sam's jittery agitation to compound as his hand twitched, his leg bounced, his eyes flicked. For a moment, Castiel couldn't help but wonder if Sam would lunge for it, if Dean delayed much longer. Finally, Dean removed the cap and extended the flask to Sam.
To his credit, he didn't immediately toss it back. He stared into the mouth, releasing an audible, shaky exhale, every muscle taut. After a few seconds, he brought it to his lips and tilted the flask, closing his eyes as he swallowed draught after draught.
It was painful, witnessing Sam's desperation. Dean shook his head, stepping back, unable to watch. Castiel glanced away. It felt wrong, glimpsing the relief etched across Sam's face, watching the tension ease from his wired frame.
The process lasted no more than thirty seconds, but each one exacted its heavy toll.
When Sam finally released a heavy breath, as though he'd forgone breathing in favor of the blood, Castiel dared to glance back.
To a human's eye, Sam's improvement was remarkable, nearly instantaneous. Color returned to his skin, the tremors ceased, and his body gradually relaxed into an easy, casual strength. The shift was jarring, but the recovery undeniable—to an ignorant observer, it'd look like the blood had been a balm, a boon, his salvation.
To an angel's eye, though, it had all but sealed his damnation. Before him, Castiel saw the miasma of shadows escape from deep within Sam's soul, snaking along his body like veins. The darkness bore an eerie resemblance to that of a demon, yet scored with wisps of crimson, smoldering like hellfire, and crackling with black electricity, as though his very being was a natural disaster.
Castiel could sense the unholy power from across the room—the dramatic switch the demon blood flicked, to turn a man so fragile he might be toppled by a strong gust to one that could kill a demon with a mere thought, in the span of seconds. It was wrong, and everything in Castiel felt reviled in its presence, for his Father's holy soldiers were not made to abide such atrocities.
Still, he did not avert his gaze, his disturbed curiosity catching a glimpse of the brilliance of a human soul beneath the writhing of the shadows. Sam's wasn't as bright, as pure as a human soul should be—even without the recent wretchedness the blood had unleashed from deep within. It had never been, for the seed of his corruption had been planted when he was a mere babe. His body had suffered the festering infection of blood from one of the oldest, most powerful demons, of Lucifer's most faithful prince, for all his life—a curse of such evil that could not avoid twisting his very soul. It hadn't been pure since he was six months old.
It was little wonder the angels, and even Castiel himself, at one point, saw only an abomination. If the humans shared the angels' vision, they would assuredly flee at the sight, not that Castiel would blame them, either—if he didn't know the man, he would have drawn his angel blade upon encountering the unique, cosmic monstrosity of a being. But, knowing him, Castiel would readily die for the man. The angel thought it no accident that his Father had created Sam to bear such a burden, to carry such evil. For, surely, very few others could withstand the crushing weight of evil burnishing his body, his soul, and cling so valiantly to the light as his very nature urged him deeper into the dark.
Since his agonizing lifetimes in the Cage, Sam's soul, even scourged as it was, had never been the same. For several months upon his return, Castiel could not help but think it would be a mercy to snuff the little, mockery of light remaining, for every pulse, every breath, every second was a reminder of the awful horror beyond conception. The thing had been unrecognizable, unbearable to view. Even a glimpse threatened to drive the battle-hardened angel to tears. Somehow, the soul had regained some of the light it had lost, but the scars were deep, and they would never heal. The shadows seemed to gather more densely around them, almost tenderly, as though to shield its lingering vulnerabilities in their roiling strength. Or, perhaps, to hook their claws ever deeper, should he try to squelch their presence.
Castiel finally dropped his gaze with something of a sigh. Sam's soul was old to still indwell a breathing body. Castiel could see it was tired. And it didn't deserve even a pinprick of further suffering. It deserved to rest in the fields of glory, to spend eternity at peace. Thus… as he witnessed the infernal power twist Sam's already tormented soul… Castiel couldn't help but wonder if their path was the righteous one.
Sam cleared his throat, his eyes dark, furtively flicking between his brother and angelic friend. Now, he found himself struggling to hold their gazes yet again, though perhaps for a different reason. His shame was palpable, almost a tangible thing—perhaps there existed another entity that could see it as clearly as Castiel could see the demonic evil that caressed his soul.
He ran a hand over his mouth self-consciously, though he hadn't let a single drop spill. His gaze flicked downward, toward the flask still in his hand, as though he contemplated another swig, for any of the dredges that had coagulated at the bottom, but he tore his attention away and extended the flask toward his brother.
Dean accepted it, his face still rigid in disturbed shock and… Castiel wasn't always the best at deciphering human emotion, but he thought he glimpsed a strand of fear in the older Winchester's eyes. Though Dean might be unable to see it, he knew his brother better than himself—maybe he could sense the shift beneath the surface. Or maybe he was just similarly worried about the narrow tightrope they walked blindly.
Dean screwed the cap on the flask, staring at it distantly for a moment, as though to digest what had occurred, before he blinked and straightened. He cast one final glance over his brother and started down the few steps into the war room. As he passed Castiel, he pressed the flask into the angel's chest wordlessly, before disappearing down the hall. A few moments later, the thud of a closed door announced he'd locked himself inside his room.
Castiel knew they should talk—they'd need to discuss securing Sam's next dose, assuming the first hadn't changed Dean's stance on the matter—but he would wait. It was probably better to allow Dean time to unwind, to clear his head.
"Thank you, Cas," Sam murmured, descending into the war room and approaching the angel slowly. He offered a halfhearted smile, his expression still twitching in adjustments beneath his unease, but he met the angel's eyes.
"Of course." He glanced over the Winchester, who, in the physical, already looked… normal. Good, even. Nonetheless, Castiel tilted his head, inquiring, "How are you feeling?"
Sam's gaze dropped to his feet, and he shuffled one with a low, self-deprecating, nervous chuckle, "I, uh… I think I might've been a little off in my time range. The, umm… the symptoms hit faster than I thought."
The angel's heart twanged in pity. "I'm sorry, Sam. You don't deserve this."
"Yeah, well…" Sam huffed, sitting on the edge of the war room table. He scratched the back of his head, "You don't happen to have a demon blood detox manual, do you?"
"Unfortunately, you would be the first to undergo such a detoxification."
Sam nodded, undoubtedly already knowing the answer.
"Sam," Castiel started again slowly, earning the Winchester's glance upward, "I'm sorry I wasn't here to help further in your search for Dean. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you needed me. If I had been…"
"Cas, none of this is your fault," Sam rejected immediately, glancing between his eyes, "Your grace was fading, you needed to recover, and I was…" Out of control, Castiel finished silently before he could help it. Recklessly chasing feeble leads with little disregard. Violently torturing demons, throwing himself into danger. And with the angel's grace failing, he couldn't stop Sam—he only endangered him further. Sam shook his head, muttering, "I probably would've gotten us both killed if you'd stayed."
Castiel frowned but said nothing.
Sam looked back toward the angel, seeming to focus, "How are you, by the way?"
"I received… borrowed grace," Castiel replied tersely, acknowledging the unspoken concern in the inquiry. "But the solution is temporary."
Sam bit his lip, exhaling quietly. After a long silence, he hazarded the question, "How long?"
"It's difficult to be certain," the angel admitted, "It could be a few weeks, it could be a few months. It depends largely in part on how much grace I expend in the meantime."
Sam's eyes searched him, though Castiel wasn't exactly sure what they were looking for. Perhaps his brain whirred for a solution to the angel's prognosis. Finally, he spoke, "I'll look into it, see what I can find."
"You should focus on Dean," Castiel refuted, "The Mark of Cain is a far more pressing concern."
"Yeah, well…" Sam's voice dropped again, "I'm running out of places to look."
Castiel looked at him sincerely, "If anyone can find the cure, it's you, Sam."
He replied in another half-smile, heaving an exhale as though to expel his doubts and remind himself to remain optimistic, "I've got another lead I want to look into, but… it'll still be there tomorrow, I'm sure."
Sam exhaled, sliding off the table, "I should probably try to get some sleep." Though his tone dressed the idea as more of a hopeful suggestion than an expectation of relief.
"That's probably a good idea," Castiel agreed, "You need to rest."
Sam nodded in agreement, but not with any conviction he'd find success as he started toward the hallway, "Good night, Cas."
Castiel watched him depart, "Good night, Sam Winchester."