[fic] Pesach
Title: Pesach
Pairing/Characters: Castiel, Naomi, Anna Milton
Rating: PG
Word Count: 855 words
Summary: Castiel has his orders, but he also has his doubts.
Notes: I wrote this about a year ago for Seasons: A Supernatural Fan Fiction Anthology, which was published several months ago. I posted the fic to AO3 soon after the publication, but only just now realized I never posted it here. Oops.
Thank you to story_monger for beta-ing!
Read below, or on AO3.
Anael, in all her resplendent glory, has fallen. Whispers in the garrison hint that the next of their Father’s plagues was too much for her to bear. Sympathizer, they call her, and foolhardy, and soft.
They, all of them, have visited holy wrath upon the heretics of their Father’s creation. First Sodom and Gomorrah, and now Egypt. Choosing to fall after the fact does not absolve the deed - does not wipe the blood from their hands. But the blood of sinners and nonbelievers must be shed in order for Father’s chosen to survive.
Anael believes that is wrong and has torn out her grace in protest, resigned to live out her days as human, wherever and whenever what’s left of her reaches Earth. But it is not wrong, Castiel thinks. It is just. The Jews must go free, and Pharaoh had his warnings.
---
Angels should not keep secrets. And yet, nobody else knows that Anael visited Castiel before her fall, and Castiel does not intend for their brothers and sisters to find out.
“This is not good, Castiel,” Anael whispers, wings trembling with - fear? Anger? It is dangerous, the level of emotion that she is emanating. It is corroding her grace, and Castiel feels his own grace twinge with sympathetic pain. “This is not right. This is not just.”
“It is Father’s will,” Castiel replies evenly.
“It is Michael’s will!” Anael hisses. “How can he know what our Father wants? How can any of us know, when He has not deigned to show himself in centuries?”
“Have faith, sister,” Castiel pleads. “This is right. This is just. This is good, Anael, please-”
“Goodbye, Castiel,” Anael says, and vanishes.
---
The garrison arrives in Egypt under cover of darkness. The streets are mostly empty, save for the occasional rat or dog sent scurrying once they sense the sudden angelic presence. A stray mutt sniffs at Castiel’s invisible feet before slinking away with a high-pitched whine, tail tucked between its legs. In the houses and courtyards, cooking fires are dimmed and voices muffled as families prepare for sleep.
Castiel watches a little boy, still unsteady on his feet, reach for his mother. She picks him up and plants a kiss to his head. He returns the kiss, palming her cheek with small, chubby hands, but his mind is on the sweetness of the dates that his mother will buy for him at the bazaar tomorrow morning. His mother, on the other hand, is praying to her false gods to protect her boy, finally conceived after years of fruitless efforts. She prays for his protection, for him to grow tall and proud and strong. She prays that he leads an easier life than she did, and for a beautiful woman for him to love and cherish, the way she and his father cherished one another before the bloody, flooding Nile took him. She prays for him to one day have children of his own, that he may experience the same love and joy that she feels every time she lays her eyes on him.
Castiel turns away, grip tight on his sword.
It is good, he reminds himself. It is Father’s will, and Father is good.
The children would have grown to one day take the places of their fathers. Another generation of slavers, of murderers and conquerors and heretics. Bloodshed now prevents more bloodshed in the future. And Father’s children, His worshippers, who have bled and cried and prayed so feverently to Him for so long - do they not deserve to be free?
What does it matter that the order came from Michael, and not God directly? It is His wish that they protect His people, so this is what they must do.
Still, this seems so different from the Heavenly Father of whom Castiel has only heard stories.
“And what would be your solution, Castiel?” Naomi lands by his side, head held high and proud. “Pharaoh made his decision with full knowledge that we will continue to rain retribution down upon his followers until he relents. We are merely the instruments of that retribution.”
“He cannot know the consequences of his actions,” Castiel replies. “His own son-”
Naomi laughs. “How can he not realize? We have taken everything from them. Water. Sunlight. Their crops, their livestock, their good health. What more do they think they have to lose but their entire futures?”
Castiel thinks but cannot find an answer.
“You will carry out our Father’s will, Castiel,” Naomi says. “You will do so quietly and effectively, and you will do it with love in your heart for our divine Father, with absolute faith in His command, and with utmost joy for the freedom of His people. We are warriors of God, Castiel, first and foremost. It is not our place to question His will.”
“Very well,” says Castiel, and falls silent.
---
Dawn has not yet broken, but the sky over Egypt is flat and grey, and Castiel has stood here motionless all night. He must finish this, he knows. He can hear the beating wings of his siblings in the wind as they flit to and fro, carrying out their Father’s will, and he envies their absolute faith. He wishes Anael had never come to him. This must be done, and her words are dangerous distractions echoing in his head.
The people of Egypt will wake with the rising of the sun they so heretically worship. The garrison must finish their task before then. Even one firstborn left alive, and God’s message to Pharaoh will fall flat.
One last Plague. One final blow to the nation that so cruelly enslaved God’s people and then had the gall to ignore His warnings nine times.
Let the tenth warning be the last.
The boy blinks the sleep from his eyes, looking at the space where Castiel stands, still invisible. He must know. Somehow, he must sense a presence here, even as his mother sleeps.
But the boy stares for just another second, then lets his eyes slide shut once more. He snuggles closer to his mother, dreaming of dates.
Castiel unsheathes his sword. This is good, he tells himself. The boy would only grow to become another heretic, another murderer. Another slaver, profiting off the blood and sweat of good, faithful people. This is his Father’s will, and his Father is good.
The sun inches closer to the horizon, but Castiel is faster. He moves, slipping in between the seconds.
The sun rises. Its rays peek through the open windows of the house, light glinting off the razor-sharp edge of the sword as Castiel pulls it from the boy’s chest. The boy feels no pain, and dies with the taste of dreamt-up dates sweet on his tongue.
This is good, Castiel thinks. He watches the boy’s blood spill out over his mother’s arms - watches as she wakes and sees what’s become of her little boy and lends her horrified wails to the cacophony echoing across the city.
This is right.
In a few hours, a grief-stricken Pharaoh will open the city gates to let God’s children walk free.
This is his Father’s will, and it is just.