The Celestial Evolution of Dean Winchester: Chapter One
Title: The Celestial Evolution of Dean Winchester: Chapter One
Author: muchofthetime
Rating: R
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam/Billie Jenkins
Spoilers: Anything's game.
Warnings: Somewhat sexy times, language
Word Count: ~33k
Summary: When a vengeful witch turns Dean into an angel, he, Sam, and Cas have to race the clock to get him turned back before his Grace explodes his fragile human body. Luckily, Cas has a history with the three most powerful good witches of all time, and they might be willing to help.
In the end, Dean decides he's not all that surprised.
It's been, and this should have been his first clue, relatively quiet for days. They've been driving west, the consensus being that it could be a spirit haunting Diane Johnson in Bakersfield, California. (Though he didn't miss Castiel's large eye-roll when Sam related the evidence: objects not being where she left them, and a slight chill. In the basement. She thinks.) The weather has been nice since they crossed into Nevada several hours back, and he's stumbled on a radio station doing a tribute to Zeppelin, so he's in an unnaturally good mood. So much so that Cas' cross examination as to the validity of titling Led Zeppelin "One of the Best Bands Ever, and that's not an exaggeration" isn't coming off quite as offensive as it normally would.
"They seem to have a lot of problems, however."
"Not everyone leads the carefree existence that we do, Cas." Cas' lips quirk up, and his eyes move to meet Dean's in the rear view mirror. He's been smiling more since his fall from heaven, Dean's noticed, though sorting out his opinions about things - other than food - is taking time. Which is one of the reasons Dean thinks that it's important that he make his arguments now, before Sam shoves his iPod on Cas and the former-angel ends up rocking out to Justin Bieber or something else equally horrifying. "But do you see what I mean? They're a classic." And truly, he can't bestow higher praise than that.
"I understand," Cas says, very seriously. "They're to be respected because they've been around so long." He pauses. "Though, of course, I've been around longer than English has been a language, and I cannot be trusted to pump gasoline into an automobile, but obviously that is quite different."
Sam snorts and Dean frowns. "Glad to see you're getting a better handle on sarcasm."
"Your brother has been helping me."
He shifts his glare to Sam, who shrugs innocently, "I thought we were teaching him to blend."
Dean doesn't reply, but thirty minutes later, when they stop for dinner, he chooses the dingiest, most run-down diner he can find, and shamelessly hopes they don't serve salads.
They do, but they're out of lettuce, which is ten times better.
"Out of lettuce," Sam repeats blankly to their server, once Dean and Cas have ordered identical bacon cheeseburgers. No tomato. "How . . ." His voice trails away as he refocuses on the menu, and Dean turns his attention to the other patrons.
There's a couple sitting in the corner, a cute redhead, and a dude that looks like a cautionary ad for spay tan. They're not speaking, but grinning in that way that people do in the beginning of a relationship, and when he leans forward to murmur something low, she lets out a giggle that just has to be rehearsed, no one sounds like that in real life. He does a mental impression of Cas' earlier eye-roll, and shifts his gaze.
Sitting directly behind Sam and Cas is a table consisting of a couple in their mid-forties, and a ten year old kid that he assumes must be their son. He's playing on one of those handheld game system things and doesn't look up, not even when his mother asks him, for the second time, what he wants to eat. Dean's not hugely surprised when she gives an embarrassed half-shrug, and orders him the chicken tender basket.
The waitress drifts away, and the husband, casting a quick glance at the kid (who, frankly, could not look less interested in his parents' conversation), raises an eyebrow at his wife. "That weather was something else," he says, his tone heavy with significance.
"You're telling me," she agrees. Her eyes flip to her son too, and her voice lowers slightly. Luckily, Dean's always had abnormally good hearing. "We both know I'm not a huge believer in that supernatural stuff, but I've never seen lightening like that. Over just one house, and I'm sorry, but that shade of blue wasn't normal either." She gives a resigned sigh. "Those people are going to Hell."
For a moment he's filled with indecision. After all, technically they're on their way to a previously agreed-upon hunt, but on the other hand, bright blue lightening over some farm house in the rural corners of Las Vegas, Nevada is sounding pretty intriguing when you compare it against a possibly chilly basement. He flicks his eyes to Sam and Cas, and to his relief, their expressions mirror his own interest. He raises his eyebrows at his brother, who leans ever-so-slightly back against the seat and cocks his head to listen.
Unfortunately, it's at that exact moment that the couple seems to grow bored with their discussion of magic and witches and souls burning in eternal damnation, if the wife's next comment of, "We need to go by the grocery store on the way home," is anything to go by.
Cas is on his feet before Dean realizes what's happening, and approaches the family with easy confidence. Dean's impressed.
"Excuse me for interrupting," he begins, in that gravelly voice that's been known to terrify demons, and even the occasional badass-est of the badass hunters. (By which Dean means, of course, himself.) Cas is suddenly standing right beside the husband, and it's just yet another example of how the depletion of his angel juice hasn't left Cas totally bereft of his trademark creepiness. Frankly, Dean's a little relieved each time he sees it back in action - Fallen Cas will probably always remind him of the Broken Cas he met in 2014. "I . . ." Cas' voice trails away, and Dean knows that he's silently trying to find a socially acceptable way of saying was listening to your private conversation about the supernatural. " . . . couldn't help but overhear," is what he settles on. He then gestures to Sam and Dean. "My comrades and I are in the area investigating the strange weather patterns and your comment about the lightening caught my ear." It's a convincing lie, rather smoother than he ever could have managed when he first fell all those months ago, and Dean feels a swell of pride. Sam may be teaching him sarcasm, but Dean knows that this is something Cas is learning from him.
The man looks surprised, but not particularly angry. "Uh, okay," he says uncertainly. "What can we do for you?"
"I hoped you could perhaps tell us where we can find this house you mentioned before?"
The pair share an uneasy look before the woman speaks. "I'm not sure that's -"
"Please," Sam adds, and he's busting out with the poor-puppy-dog eye thing he does, and Dean knows it's all over.
The husband sighs and shrugs. "Sure, it's really easy. It's only about a five minute drive."
They pull up to the farmhouse just as the sun is beginning its slow decline, and Castiel can immediately tell that they're in the right place. There's just the right amount of . . . foreboding here - of heavy, palpable evil. He can't help the step he takes that puts him between his friends and the building and pretends not to notice the annoyed frown Dean doesn't bother to hide. Years fighting together and still he and Dean are having this argument: Who is more willing to die for the people they love? Sam hangs behind, knowing better than to throw a third hat into the ring.
This evening, however, Dean begrudgingly allows Cas to take point, though the half-step difference between the two speaks volumes as to how pleased he is with this arrangement. Cas would smile if he didn't think Dean would find offense.
Without a word, the three approach the front door, and Cas notes the peeling green paint, the rusted doorknob. This is not a place that has been cared for, though he supposes the manifestation of the dark magic could just as easily be the cause. He's never had much patience for witches; as often as not, the culprits are ignorant youths wielding power they don't understand in the name of the hope of a date with a pretty neighbor, and when you've seen the scope of damage evil magic can do - namely ending the whole world - fools are difficult to suffer. But as he turns the knob, and enters a large living room completely devoid of furniture and lays eyes on the blonde witch kneeling on the floor with a Book of Shadows flipped open in front of her, he realizes this isn't the work of an amateur.
He immediately turns to Dean, a warning rising to his lips, but before he can utter one word the witch's eyes find them.
"Castiel," she says, getting to her feet. There is no surprise in her expression and he feels the beginnings of fear curl in the pit of his stomach. There's heavy magic in the air here; so thick that it stifles his breathing. They are not prepared for a battle with a being this powerful, and instinct tells him they need to get out of there as quickly as possible, but he remains rooted to the spot, as though he were still an angel and surrounded by holy fire. "You finally made it. Those mobility spells have been hanging around in here forever. I have better things to do than wait on a couple of hunters and a former angel to drive through town."
"I cannot move," Cas murmurs to Dean, who shoots him a look that plainly says Yeah, me neither. Give or take an expletive.
"How are you doing this," Sam demands. It is a fair question. Only once in Castiel's long existence has he ever encountered witchcraft powerful enough to crackle through the air like barely-contained energy. "There's no alter, no bowl of blood-"
She rolls her eyes, taking slow steps towards Dean. Cas stiffens. "I don't need some silly demon's interference," she answers, almost lazily. "My power is my own." Though there's something in her tone, something in her expression, that makes Cas examine her a little more closely, and that's when he catches it. The smoldering, burning fury she's hiding everywhere but in her eyes.
Castiel has been a solider for a long time - longer than time itself - and he knows enough to keep her talking. "You lured us here. You sent that family to us."
She shrugs. "The family was real. If I timed my demonstration so that someone would be sure to catch the show, well, who can blame me?"
"Why," Sam demands, catching on quickly. "You don't even know us." Though he sounds a little doubtful. Cas supposes you can't hunt monsters for thirty years and be absolutely certain you recall every single encounter.
"No, you're right. I don't know you. But . . ." Her eyes move around the room, as though checking for eavesdroppers, then she lowers her voice slightly, losing none of its malice. "Maybe I know someone that does."
There's a loud clap of thunder right over the room, and Cas looks quickly to both Winchesters to see if they're still standing. They are, but the witch looks a little nervous, like it was a surprise to her too.
"I should probably get this started," she mutters to no one in particular. She crouches back down by the Book of Shadows, and begins flipping through the pages. She's looking for a specific spell, and something inside Castiel knows that he needs to run, knows that if he doesn't he's going to watch Dean and Sam die right here, right in front of him. His eyes fly around the room, looking for a possible escape.
The witch's hand stills as she finds the sought out page, and then she tears the paper from the book, getting to her feet. She says nothing, gathering seven white candles from a large bag at her side, and she arranges them, and lights them, in a circle around Dean, who is, thankfully, holding his tongue for perhaps the first time in his entire existence. Though that doesn't stop him from summoning a murderous glare and shooting it in her general direction.
As the last candle glows with a new flame, the witch inspects the paper in her hand, and then begins a slow chant in a language that no human should know. It's a spell, he realizes, but that knowledge doesn't scare him half as much as what his mind is telling him the appropriate translation of the words is.
I call upon the ancient powers, to bring forth heavenly Grace into this mortal, that he may take in all the powers that God's angels have at their disposal. Her eyes harden. And don't protect the vessel.
She repeats the words over Cas' terrified shouts, and he can do nothing but watch helplessly as Dean's limp body rises slowly into the air as though attached to an invisible string. Sam's half-choked sob echoes softly in the room, and he knows Sam thinks his brother is dead, because Sam can't understand Enochian, has no idea what's happening. Cas longs to reassure him, but he's not sure his words would be of much comfort, because . . .
Because when all this is over, Dean will probably wish he was.
He's so wrapped up in his fears for his friends, his preemptive grief, that his shout almost comes too late, but the words he hasn't uttered in what feels like a lifetime rise to his lips just in time: "Close your eyes!"
A moment of complete silence, then brilliant white light explodes into the room, knocking Cas and Sam onto their backs, bursting the windows apart and littering glass across the dated hardwood. He can't see it, not with human eyes, but he knows Dean's body is lit up like the North Star, every inch of him filling with the Grace that has just come into existence at the young witch's words. Her Enochian slows to a stop, but the light doesn't dim, and not a heartbeat passes before it's joined by a sharp, high-pitched shriek. Cas' hands fly to his ears to protect them from the (no, it can't be) voice.
Then it's gone, and the room is plunged into darkness and eery quiet.
"Okay, well, I've got to go," comes the female voice, but there has to be a misunderstanding, because she can't really mean she plans to let them live?
Cas cracks his eyes open, and to his complete disbelief, she's gathering her thick book into her arms, and strolling towards the door. Like she didn't just essentially murder someone in cold blood because she's . . . What? A friend of an enemy?
"Good luck with your buddy, there," she continues, letting out a low, mirthless chuckle. "You might want to start with teaching him to breathe."
The door shuts behind her, and after a few seconds a car roars to life somewhere out back. He looks to Sam, trying to convey with his expression, the way the boys often do, that now is not the time for questions. Sam stares back, his lips pursed resolutely together, and the tears in his eyes have dried. Something must be telling him that Dean still stands a chance, which means it will fall to Castiel to rip that hope apart.
Minutes pass, stretching on endlessly, and he spends the time with his gaze trained on Dean, whose skin has returned to its natural color. He doesn't move, doesn't breathe, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't need to now.
Not really.
Finally the mobility spells' effects dissipate, and almost at the same time, he and Sam jump into movement, flying to Dean's side. Sam's hands grasp Dean's forearms, and he searches his brother's face for any signs of life. He doesn't find any.
"Cas . . ."
"He's . . " Cas' voice dies in his throat, but one look at Sam's expression, and he forces himself to say the words. "He's not dead, Sam."
Sam's face erupts with such joy and relief that Cas' stomach clenches painfully. He determinedly keeps talking, because if he stops, he'll never be able to continue. "But what that witch did to him - he won't survive it." He swallows hard, staring down at the man who's been his best friend, the best man he's ever known, and tries to imagine the world without Dean Winchester. Sam without Dean Winchester.
Castiel without Dean Winchester.
He runs his fingertips along Dean's forehead, brushing stray hairs from his eyes, as he hears Sam draw in a shuttering breath. "Cas, please," he says. "What's going on?"
He turns and looks straight into Sam's eyes. "She turned Dean into an angel."
"An angel," Sam repeats blankly. He stares down at his brother like he expects him to suddenly sprout wings, or draw an angel's blade from thin air. Maybe he does. "Like, an angel-angel? How? Is that even possible?"
Castiel takes a deep breath, something he's learned humans do to soothe their nerves, steady their hands, and somehow he finds that it does calm him slightly. He can continue this explanation, at least. "It's never been done before, as far as I know, and certainly not by a witch. Power strong enough to create Grace from nothing, to infuse it into a human who was never supposed to be an angel-"
"But he was," Sam argues, desperation creeping into his voice. "He was supposed to be Michael's vessel."
"Yes, Michael's vessel. Michael's Grace, Michael wielding power he had eons of practice with." He looks down at Dean and his words echo back to him. Years of fighting side by side, the best and most unlikely friendship he's ever known, a man who's inspired him in every way, to be cut so short by the words of a witch. "The fact that Dean's body was supposed to be a vessel for Michael means he will have more time than most-"
Hope floods back into Sam's face, and it tugs at Cas with a force that surprises him. He should know better, he's seen angelic Grace destroy many human vessels in the past, but something traitorous whispers a quiet memory. You said no to Michael.
"How much time?" Sam's determined tone jerks Cas from his thoughts.
He fights for objectivity as he considers everything he knows about Dean. Everything he's been, everything he's done. Cas thinks about the brightest, the most beautiful soul he has ever known. He thinks about the fight for Sam, the limitless love there, purgatory, and bravery that just never ends. "Four days," he decides. "Five, at most."
A week, is apparently what Sam hears. It's what he mutters, anyway, and he gives a short nod to himself before taking one of Dean's arms and wrapping it around his own shoulder. Cas takes the other, and together they carefully haul Dean to his feet. "We need to get him to a hotel. Try to figure something out there."
"He's still not breathing."
It's two hours later, and Sam is trying really hard to have the faith that Cas does. Dean's lying on one of the beds in their recently acquired motel room, his body motionless, and there's been no sign of life at all since they left the farmhouse. Nevertheless, Cas has maintained that Dean is not dead, and is in no immediate danger.
"Breathing is not the same for angels as it is for humans," Cas answers, his voice steady and calm. "Breathing is used to help the other systems of the vessel continue functioning in preparation for the return of its true owner. The Grace inside him will sustain him until his lungs begin functioning again."
Sam sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. But the question is that when Dean wakes up, will they be able to offer anything resembling a plan? He can't watch his brother die again, that is simply not an option, so he needs to decide on a course of action, like, right now.
As though reading his thoughts, Cas suddenly says, "I may have an idea."
Sam's eyes fly to Cas' face. Please . . . "What?"
"This witch that cast the spell. I know of witches much more powerful than she - we met once, in the past. If we take Dean to them, perhaps there would be something they could do."
Sam opens his mouth to answer, but the words die in his throat as the sound of sharp inhalation rises from the mattress. Then Dean's eyes are fluttering open, and they're focusing on Sam, then, after a moment, on Cas, and it might just be the greatest thing Sam's ever seen. He could sob in relief, and the stuttering breath coming from Cas says that he is in complete agreement.
"Uh, Sammy," Dean begins uncertainly, slowly sitting up.
That's too much, and barely a heartbeat passes before Sam's throwing his arms around his brother. "Oh, God," he hears Dean mutter, as he carefully hugs him back. "Did I die again?"
"Not exactly," Cas says, his voice maybe a little gruffer than normal. "Dean . . ."
Sam pulls away, and gives Dean his most sympathetic look. "I don't think you're going to like this."
There's a brief moment of silence, in which Sam assumes that Cas is steeling himself, and a quiet intake of breath. "You're an angel now, Dean."
Dean's eyebrows dart to his hairline and he blinks. "I'm sorry, is that a flirtation?"
Which Sam doesn't get at all, but judging by the disparaging look Cas shoots his brother, he does. "Dean, this is not funny."
"No, it's definitely not," Dean reluctantly agrees. "But, I mean, really, what am I even supposed to say? I got turned into an angel. Okay, it's not the worst thing that's happened to me in this job. Doesn't even rank." He throws a glance over his right shoulder, then his left, then turns back to Cas. "Do I have wings?"
Cas huffs out a frustrated breath, but frankly Sam thinks this is a fair question. He can't help squinting, in a useless attempt to catch a glimpse of them, himself. "Yes, Dean," Cas says. His shifts his eyes to the space behind Dean's shoulders, and presses his lips into a tight line. "It is better to leave them veiled for now, however."
"Even from myself?" Then he switches gears. "What about the healing? The bringing people back from the dead thing?" He grins in a way that reminds Sam jarringly of a large open field and a trunk full of fireworks. "Smiting?"
A flicker of something crosses Cas' features, and Sam immediately sobers. Since they met, Dean has taken great pleasure in exposing Cas to various aspects of humanity, from the epicness of a crepe-maker to the unending list of reasons cat people cannot be trusted, and Cas has always indulged him, resignation and fondness bright in his eyes. But Cas looks, well, not all that indulgent at this particular moment, which probably isn't so good a thing.
"I don't think it's wise for you to make use of these powers," Cas says, pulling Sam from his thoughts. "Forcing your body to use this Grace is dangerous - I'm sure you remember the state of Lucifer's temporary vessel. You were not meant for this power, Dean."
For a moment it looks like Dean is going to argue, but when he slides his eyes over to Cas, he sees something there that halts his words in their tracks. "Okay," he says, holding his hands up in surrender. "Whatever, it's fine. So, how do we turn me back? I'm assuming my life is on the line here?" He turns questioning eyes on Sam, who shrugs a What else is new. "Great. Anybody have a plan?"
"Cas does."
Castiel hadn't been an angel for very long before he began hearing the whispers of his Father's plan for the planet, Earth. It was to have both water and land. Oxygen. It would be inhabited by mammals called humans and they would be imperfect, broken creatures. They would betray the Father's trust in the garden of Eden, they would kill each other for favor, for passing pleasures. They would lie and cheat and take pleasure in each others' pain, and some would even turn away from the One who created them. And Castiel hadn't understood, not really, why this race should deserve something as beautiful as a colorful, livable planet to call their own.
That is, until he saw them.
They were everything he expected. Eve bit the apple, Cain killed Abel, Egypt's Pharaoh brought sorrow to his people but amid all the ugliness were acts so selfless, so loving, that they spoke to Castiel. And it seemed as though no time passed at all before he could no longer take part in discussions of humanity's many faults because he was, to his own amazement, rooting for them. Hoping they would overcome their many, many obstacles, find peace.
He started listening for news, and by the time he heard that a prophecy had been foretold of three good witches that would be the most powerful of all time, he had seen so much good in the world that he thought he was prepared, that he couldn't really be taken off guard anymore.
He had, once again, underestimated humanity.
It was an honor to watch. The three sisters were deeply close, almost unparallelled in their devotion to each other, and, with time, their destiny. He watched as they saved innocent after innocent, vanquishing demons the world had never seen the equal of, making decisions he could not have imagined to make himself. So, the day he met Piper Halliwell, he was rather disconcerted when their casual discussion descended into a full blow argument.
She wasn't supposed to fall in love with her Whitelighter, a good witch's guardian angel. It was against the rules, and though Castiel's love for humanity was beginning to reach new heights, the moment he realized what she was intimating about her relationship with Leo when they spoke that afternoon Leo brought her up to Heaven to meet his bosses, he had immediately gone to his own supervisors to report the transgression. And when he confessed to her what he had done, she had been . . . very angry.
It's of all this that Cas is thinking as he and the Winchesters carefully ascend the steps of 1329 Prescott Street in San Francisco, California. He leads the way because, as Dean pointed out, he's the one who has already made acquaintance with at least one of them, though privately Cas thinks this actually works against them. He's fairly certain he can guess what Piper's response is going to be once she realizes who is standing at her threshold.
Nevertheless, he presses his finger against the doorbell determinedly.
It's fairly quiet, considering the information he received the last time he asked about the Halliwells. Living at this residence should be Piper, her husband, and their three children, ages approximately eleven, ten, and seven, and while Cas has no real experience with children himself, he has managed to gather that they are a rather loud and disobedient breed. Shouldn't it be nosier than this?
Just as he begins to wonder if they should consider the possibility that the Halliwells may have moved, the door swings open.
It's not Piper that stands before him; not a Halliwell at all, judging by the shoulder-length blond hair. Every single female in that family is a brunette. She isn't looking at them with even the smallest note of surprise, though, which he hopes is a good thing.
"Hello," he greets. He glances at Sam and Dean, who both give their own versions of a supportive smile. "I'm-"
The young woman turns away and yells into the house, "They're here!"
next
master post
previous
Author: muchofthetime
Rating: R
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam/Billie Jenkins
Spoilers: Anything's game.
Warnings: Somewhat sexy times, language
Word Count: ~33k
Summary: When a vengeful witch turns Dean into an angel, he, Sam, and Cas have to race the clock to get him turned back before his Grace explodes his fragile human body. Luckily, Cas has a history with the three most powerful good witches of all time, and they might be willing to help.
In the end, Dean decides he's not all that surprised.
It's been, and this should have been his first clue, relatively quiet for days. They've been driving west, the consensus being that it could be a spirit haunting Diane Johnson in Bakersfield, California. (Though he didn't miss Castiel's large eye-roll when Sam related the evidence: objects not being where she left them, and a slight chill. In the basement. She thinks.) The weather has been nice since they crossed into Nevada several hours back, and he's stumbled on a radio station doing a tribute to Zeppelin, so he's in an unnaturally good mood. So much so that Cas' cross examination as to the validity of titling Led Zeppelin "One of the Best Bands Ever, and that's not an exaggeration" isn't coming off quite as offensive as it normally would.
"They seem to have a lot of problems, however."
"Not everyone leads the carefree existence that we do, Cas." Cas' lips quirk up, and his eyes move to meet Dean's in the rear view mirror. He's been smiling more since his fall from heaven, Dean's noticed, though sorting out his opinions about things - other than food - is taking time. Which is one of the reasons Dean thinks that it's important that he make his arguments now, before Sam shoves his iPod on Cas and the former-angel ends up rocking out to Justin Bieber or something else equally horrifying. "But do you see what I mean? They're a classic." And truly, he can't bestow higher praise than that.
"I understand," Cas says, very seriously. "They're to be respected because they've been around so long." He pauses. "Though, of course, I've been around longer than English has been a language, and I cannot be trusted to pump gasoline into an automobile, but obviously that is quite different."
Sam snorts and Dean frowns. "Glad to see you're getting a better handle on sarcasm."
"Your brother has been helping me."
He shifts his glare to Sam, who shrugs innocently, "I thought we were teaching him to blend."
Dean doesn't reply, but thirty minutes later, when they stop for dinner, he chooses the dingiest, most run-down diner he can find, and shamelessly hopes they don't serve salads.
They do, but they're out of lettuce, which is ten times better.
"Out of lettuce," Sam repeats blankly to their server, once Dean and Cas have ordered identical bacon cheeseburgers. No tomato. "How . . ." His voice trails away as he refocuses on the menu, and Dean turns his attention to the other patrons.
There's a couple sitting in the corner, a cute redhead, and a dude that looks like a cautionary ad for spay tan. They're not speaking, but grinning in that way that people do in the beginning of a relationship, and when he leans forward to murmur something low, she lets out a giggle that just has to be rehearsed, no one sounds like that in real life. He does a mental impression of Cas' earlier eye-roll, and shifts his gaze.
Sitting directly behind Sam and Cas is a table consisting of a couple in their mid-forties, and a ten year old kid that he assumes must be their son. He's playing on one of those handheld game system things and doesn't look up, not even when his mother asks him, for the second time, what he wants to eat. Dean's not hugely surprised when she gives an embarrassed half-shrug, and orders him the chicken tender basket.
The waitress drifts away, and the husband, casting a quick glance at the kid (who, frankly, could not look less interested in his parents' conversation), raises an eyebrow at his wife. "That weather was something else," he says, his tone heavy with significance.
"You're telling me," she agrees. Her eyes flip to her son too, and her voice lowers slightly. Luckily, Dean's always had abnormally good hearing. "We both know I'm not a huge believer in that supernatural stuff, but I've never seen lightening like that. Over just one house, and I'm sorry, but that shade of blue wasn't normal either." She gives a resigned sigh. "Those people are going to Hell."
For a moment he's filled with indecision. After all, technically they're on their way to a previously agreed-upon hunt, but on the other hand, bright blue lightening over some farm house in the rural corners of Las Vegas, Nevada is sounding pretty intriguing when you compare it against a possibly chilly basement. He flicks his eyes to Sam and Cas, and to his relief, their expressions mirror his own interest. He raises his eyebrows at his brother, who leans ever-so-slightly back against the seat and cocks his head to listen.
Unfortunately, it's at that exact moment that the couple seems to grow bored with their discussion of magic and witches and souls burning in eternal damnation, if the wife's next comment of, "We need to go by the grocery store on the way home," is anything to go by.
Cas is on his feet before Dean realizes what's happening, and approaches the family with easy confidence. Dean's impressed.
"Excuse me for interrupting," he begins, in that gravelly voice that's been known to terrify demons, and even the occasional badass-est of the badass hunters. (By which Dean means, of course, himself.) Cas is suddenly standing right beside the husband, and it's just yet another example of how the depletion of his angel juice hasn't left Cas totally bereft of his trademark creepiness. Frankly, Dean's a little relieved each time he sees it back in action - Fallen Cas will probably always remind him of the Broken Cas he met in 2014. "I . . ." Cas' voice trails away, and Dean knows that he's silently trying to find a socially acceptable way of saying was listening to your private conversation about the supernatural. " . . . couldn't help but overhear," is what he settles on. He then gestures to Sam and Dean. "My comrades and I are in the area investigating the strange weather patterns and your comment about the lightening caught my ear." It's a convincing lie, rather smoother than he ever could have managed when he first fell all those months ago, and Dean feels a swell of pride. Sam may be teaching him sarcasm, but Dean knows that this is something Cas is learning from him.
The man looks surprised, but not particularly angry. "Uh, okay," he says uncertainly. "What can we do for you?"
"I hoped you could perhaps tell us where we can find this house you mentioned before?"
The pair share an uneasy look before the woman speaks. "I'm not sure that's -"
"Please," Sam adds, and he's busting out with the poor-puppy-dog eye thing he does, and Dean knows it's all over.
The husband sighs and shrugs. "Sure, it's really easy. It's only about a five minute drive."
They pull up to the farmhouse just as the sun is beginning its slow decline, and Castiel can immediately tell that they're in the right place. There's just the right amount of . . . foreboding here - of heavy, palpable evil. He can't help the step he takes that puts him between his friends and the building and pretends not to notice the annoyed frown Dean doesn't bother to hide. Years fighting together and still he and Dean are having this argument: Who is more willing to die for the people they love? Sam hangs behind, knowing better than to throw a third hat into the ring.
This evening, however, Dean begrudgingly allows Cas to take point, though the half-step difference between the two speaks volumes as to how pleased he is with this arrangement. Cas would smile if he didn't think Dean would find offense.
Without a word, the three approach the front door, and Cas notes the peeling green paint, the rusted doorknob. This is not a place that has been cared for, though he supposes the manifestation of the dark magic could just as easily be the cause. He's never had much patience for witches; as often as not, the culprits are ignorant youths wielding power they don't understand in the name of the hope of a date with a pretty neighbor, and when you've seen the scope of damage evil magic can do - namely ending the whole world - fools are difficult to suffer. But as he turns the knob, and enters a large living room completely devoid of furniture and lays eyes on the blonde witch kneeling on the floor with a Book of Shadows flipped open in front of her, he realizes this isn't the work of an amateur.
He immediately turns to Dean, a warning rising to his lips, but before he can utter one word the witch's eyes find them.
"Castiel," she says, getting to her feet. There is no surprise in her expression and he feels the beginnings of fear curl in the pit of his stomach. There's heavy magic in the air here; so thick that it stifles his breathing. They are not prepared for a battle with a being this powerful, and instinct tells him they need to get out of there as quickly as possible, but he remains rooted to the spot, as though he were still an angel and surrounded by holy fire. "You finally made it. Those mobility spells have been hanging around in here forever. I have better things to do than wait on a couple of hunters and a former angel to drive through town."
"I cannot move," Cas murmurs to Dean, who shoots him a look that plainly says Yeah, me neither. Give or take an expletive.
"How are you doing this," Sam demands. It is a fair question. Only once in Castiel's long existence has he ever encountered witchcraft powerful enough to crackle through the air like barely-contained energy. "There's no alter, no bowl of blood-"
She rolls her eyes, taking slow steps towards Dean. Cas stiffens. "I don't need some silly demon's interference," she answers, almost lazily. "My power is my own." Though there's something in her tone, something in her expression, that makes Cas examine her a little more closely, and that's when he catches it. The smoldering, burning fury she's hiding everywhere but in her eyes.
Castiel has been a solider for a long time - longer than time itself - and he knows enough to keep her talking. "You lured us here. You sent that family to us."
She shrugs. "The family was real. If I timed my demonstration so that someone would be sure to catch the show, well, who can blame me?"
"Why," Sam demands, catching on quickly. "You don't even know us." Though he sounds a little doubtful. Cas supposes you can't hunt monsters for thirty years and be absolutely certain you recall every single encounter.
"No, you're right. I don't know you. But . . ." Her eyes move around the room, as though checking for eavesdroppers, then she lowers her voice slightly, losing none of its malice. "Maybe I know someone that does."
There's a loud clap of thunder right over the room, and Cas looks quickly to both Winchesters to see if they're still standing. They are, but the witch looks a little nervous, like it was a surprise to her too.
"I should probably get this started," she mutters to no one in particular. She crouches back down by the Book of Shadows, and begins flipping through the pages. She's looking for a specific spell, and something inside Castiel knows that he needs to run, knows that if he doesn't he's going to watch Dean and Sam die right here, right in front of him. His eyes fly around the room, looking for a possible escape.
The witch's hand stills as she finds the sought out page, and then she tears the paper from the book, getting to her feet. She says nothing, gathering seven white candles from a large bag at her side, and she arranges them, and lights them, in a circle around Dean, who is, thankfully, holding his tongue for perhaps the first time in his entire existence. Though that doesn't stop him from summoning a murderous glare and shooting it in her general direction.
As the last candle glows with a new flame, the witch inspects the paper in her hand, and then begins a slow chant in a language that no human should know. It's a spell, he realizes, but that knowledge doesn't scare him half as much as what his mind is telling him the appropriate translation of the words is.
I call upon the ancient powers, to bring forth heavenly Grace into this mortal, that he may take in all the powers that God's angels have at their disposal. Her eyes harden. And don't protect the vessel.
She repeats the words over Cas' terrified shouts, and he can do nothing but watch helplessly as Dean's limp body rises slowly into the air as though attached to an invisible string. Sam's half-choked sob echoes softly in the room, and he knows Sam thinks his brother is dead, because Sam can't understand Enochian, has no idea what's happening. Cas longs to reassure him, but he's not sure his words would be of much comfort, because . . .
Because when all this is over, Dean will probably wish he was.
He's so wrapped up in his fears for his friends, his preemptive grief, that his shout almost comes too late, but the words he hasn't uttered in what feels like a lifetime rise to his lips just in time: "Close your eyes!"
A moment of complete silence, then brilliant white light explodes into the room, knocking Cas and Sam onto their backs, bursting the windows apart and littering glass across the dated hardwood. He can't see it, not with human eyes, but he knows Dean's body is lit up like the North Star, every inch of him filling with the Grace that has just come into existence at the young witch's words. Her Enochian slows to a stop, but the light doesn't dim, and not a heartbeat passes before it's joined by a sharp, high-pitched shriek. Cas' hands fly to his ears to protect them from the (no, it can't be) voice.
Then it's gone, and the room is plunged into darkness and eery quiet.
"Okay, well, I've got to go," comes the female voice, but there has to be a misunderstanding, because she can't really mean she plans to let them live?
Cas cracks his eyes open, and to his complete disbelief, she's gathering her thick book into her arms, and strolling towards the door. Like she didn't just essentially murder someone in cold blood because she's . . . What? A friend of an enemy?
"Good luck with your buddy, there," she continues, letting out a low, mirthless chuckle. "You might want to start with teaching him to breathe."
The door shuts behind her, and after a few seconds a car roars to life somewhere out back. He looks to Sam, trying to convey with his expression, the way the boys often do, that now is not the time for questions. Sam stares back, his lips pursed resolutely together, and the tears in his eyes have dried. Something must be telling him that Dean still stands a chance, which means it will fall to Castiel to rip that hope apart.
Minutes pass, stretching on endlessly, and he spends the time with his gaze trained on Dean, whose skin has returned to its natural color. He doesn't move, doesn't breathe, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't need to now.
Not really.
Finally the mobility spells' effects dissipate, and almost at the same time, he and Sam jump into movement, flying to Dean's side. Sam's hands grasp Dean's forearms, and he searches his brother's face for any signs of life. He doesn't find any.
"Cas . . ."
"He's . . " Cas' voice dies in his throat, but one look at Sam's expression, and he forces himself to say the words. "He's not dead, Sam."
Sam's face erupts with such joy and relief that Cas' stomach clenches painfully. He determinedly keeps talking, because if he stops, he'll never be able to continue. "But what that witch did to him - he won't survive it." He swallows hard, staring down at the man who's been his best friend, the best man he's ever known, and tries to imagine the world without Dean Winchester. Sam without Dean Winchester.
Castiel without Dean Winchester.
He runs his fingertips along Dean's forehead, brushing stray hairs from his eyes, as he hears Sam draw in a shuttering breath. "Cas, please," he says. "What's going on?"
He turns and looks straight into Sam's eyes. "She turned Dean into an angel."
"An angel," Sam repeats blankly. He stares down at his brother like he expects him to suddenly sprout wings, or draw an angel's blade from thin air. Maybe he does. "Like, an angel-angel? How? Is that even possible?"
Castiel takes a deep breath, something he's learned humans do to soothe their nerves, steady their hands, and somehow he finds that it does calm him slightly. He can continue this explanation, at least. "It's never been done before, as far as I know, and certainly not by a witch. Power strong enough to create Grace from nothing, to infuse it into a human who was never supposed to be an angel-"
"But he was," Sam argues, desperation creeping into his voice. "He was supposed to be Michael's vessel."
"Yes, Michael's vessel. Michael's Grace, Michael wielding power he had eons of practice with." He looks down at Dean and his words echo back to him. Years of fighting side by side, the best and most unlikely friendship he's ever known, a man who's inspired him in every way, to be cut so short by the words of a witch. "The fact that Dean's body was supposed to be a vessel for Michael means he will have more time than most-"
Hope floods back into Sam's face, and it tugs at Cas with a force that surprises him. He should know better, he's seen angelic Grace destroy many human vessels in the past, but something traitorous whispers a quiet memory. You said no to Michael.
"How much time?" Sam's determined tone jerks Cas from his thoughts.
He fights for objectivity as he considers everything he knows about Dean. Everything he's been, everything he's done. Cas thinks about the brightest, the most beautiful soul he has ever known. He thinks about the fight for Sam, the limitless love there, purgatory, and bravery that just never ends. "Four days," he decides. "Five, at most."
A week, is apparently what Sam hears. It's what he mutters, anyway, and he gives a short nod to himself before taking one of Dean's arms and wrapping it around his own shoulder. Cas takes the other, and together they carefully haul Dean to his feet. "We need to get him to a hotel. Try to figure something out there."
"He's still not breathing."
It's two hours later, and Sam is trying really hard to have the faith that Cas does. Dean's lying on one of the beds in their recently acquired motel room, his body motionless, and there's been no sign of life at all since they left the farmhouse. Nevertheless, Cas has maintained that Dean is not dead, and is in no immediate danger.
"Breathing is not the same for angels as it is for humans," Cas answers, his voice steady and calm. "Breathing is used to help the other systems of the vessel continue functioning in preparation for the return of its true owner. The Grace inside him will sustain him until his lungs begin functioning again."
Sam sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. But the question is that when Dean wakes up, will they be able to offer anything resembling a plan? He can't watch his brother die again, that is simply not an option, so he needs to decide on a course of action, like, right now.
As though reading his thoughts, Cas suddenly says, "I may have an idea."
Sam's eyes fly to Cas' face. Please . . . "What?"
"This witch that cast the spell. I know of witches much more powerful than she - we met once, in the past. If we take Dean to them, perhaps there would be something they could do."
Sam opens his mouth to answer, but the words die in his throat as the sound of sharp inhalation rises from the mattress. Then Dean's eyes are fluttering open, and they're focusing on Sam, then, after a moment, on Cas, and it might just be the greatest thing Sam's ever seen. He could sob in relief, and the stuttering breath coming from Cas says that he is in complete agreement.
"Uh, Sammy," Dean begins uncertainly, slowly sitting up.
That's too much, and barely a heartbeat passes before Sam's throwing his arms around his brother. "Oh, God," he hears Dean mutter, as he carefully hugs him back. "Did I die again?"
"Not exactly," Cas says, his voice maybe a little gruffer than normal. "Dean . . ."
Sam pulls away, and gives Dean his most sympathetic look. "I don't think you're going to like this."
There's a brief moment of silence, in which Sam assumes that Cas is steeling himself, and a quiet intake of breath. "You're an angel now, Dean."
Dean's eyebrows dart to his hairline and he blinks. "I'm sorry, is that a flirtation?"
Which Sam doesn't get at all, but judging by the disparaging look Cas shoots his brother, he does. "Dean, this is not funny."
"No, it's definitely not," Dean reluctantly agrees. "But, I mean, really, what am I even supposed to say? I got turned into an angel. Okay, it's not the worst thing that's happened to me in this job. Doesn't even rank." He throws a glance over his right shoulder, then his left, then turns back to Cas. "Do I have wings?"
Cas huffs out a frustrated breath, but frankly Sam thinks this is a fair question. He can't help squinting, in a useless attempt to catch a glimpse of them, himself. "Yes, Dean," Cas says. His shifts his eyes to the space behind Dean's shoulders, and presses his lips into a tight line. "It is better to leave them veiled for now, however."
"Even from myself?" Then he switches gears. "What about the healing? The bringing people back from the dead thing?" He grins in a way that reminds Sam jarringly of a large open field and a trunk full of fireworks. "Smiting?"
A flicker of something crosses Cas' features, and Sam immediately sobers. Since they met, Dean has taken great pleasure in exposing Cas to various aspects of humanity, from the epicness of a crepe-maker to the unending list of reasons cat people cannot be trusted, and Cas has always indulged him, resignation and fondness bright in his eyes. But Cas looks, well, not all that indulgent at this particular moment, which probably isn't so good a thing.
"I don't think it's wise for you to make use of these powers," Cas says, pulling Sam from his thoughts. "Forcing your body to use this Grace is dangerous - I'm sure you remember the state of Lucifer's temporary vessel. You were not meant for this power, Dean."
For a moment it looks like Dean is going to argue, but when he slides his eyes over to Cas, he sees something there that halts his words in their tracks. "Okay," he says, holding his hands up in surrender. "Whatever, it's fine. So, how do we turn me back? I'm assuming my life is on the line here?" He turns questioning eyes on Sam, who shrugs a What else is new. "Great. Anybody have a plan?"
"Cas does."
Castiel hadn't been an angel for very long before he began hearing the whispers of his Father's plan for the planet, Earth. It was to have both water and land. Oxygen. It would be inhabited by mammals called humans and they would be imperfect, broken creatures. They would betray the Father's trust in the garden of Eden, they would kill each other for favor, for passing pleasures. They would lie and cheat and take pleasure in each others' pain, and some would even turn away from the One who created them. And Castiel hadn't understood, not really, why this race should deserve something as beautiful as a colorful, livable planet to call their own.
That is, until he saw them.
They were everything he expected. Eve bit the apple, Cain killed Abel, Egypt's Pharaoh brought sorrow to his people but amid all the ugliness were acts so selfless, so loving, that they spoke to Castiel. And it seemed as though no time passed at all before he could no longer take part in discussions of humanity's many faults because he was, to his own amazement, rooting for them. Hoping they would overcome their many, many obstacles, find peace.
He started listening for news, and by the time he heard that a prophecy had been foretold of three good witches that would be the most powerful of all time, he had seen so much good in the world that he thought he was prepared, that he couldn't really be taken off guard anymore.
He had, once again, underestimated humanity.
It was an honor to watch. The three sisters were deeply close, almost unparallelled in their devotion to each other, and, with time, their destiny. He watched as they saved innocent after innocent, vanquishing demons the world had never seen the equal of, making decisions he could not have imagined to make himself. So, the day he met Piper Halliwell, he was rather disconcerted when their casual discussion descended into a full blow argument.
She wasn't supposed to fall in love with her Whitelighter, a good witch's guardian angel. It was against the rules, and though Castiel's love for humanity was beginning to reach new heights, the moment he realized what she was intimating about her relationship with Leo when they spoke that afternoon Leo brought her up to Heaven to meet his bosses, he had immediately gone to his own supervisors to report the transgression. And when he confessed to her what he had done, she had been . . . very angry.
It's of all this that Cas is thinking as he and the Winchesters carefully ascend the steps of 1329 Prescott Street in San Francisco, California. He leads the way because, as Dean pointed out, he's the one who has already made acquaintance with at least one of them, though privately Cas thinks this actually works against them. He's fairly certain he can guess what Piper's response is going to be once she realizes who is standing at her threshold.
Nevertheless, he presses his finger against the doorbell determinedly.
It's fairly quiet, considering the information he received the last time he asked about the Halliwells. Living at this residence should be Piper, her husband, and their three children, ages approximately eleven, ten, and seven, and while Cas has no real experience with children himself, he has managed to gather that they are a rather loud and disobedient breed. Shouldn't it be nosier than this?
Just as he begins to wonder if they should consider the possibility that the Halliwells may have moved, the door swings open.
It's not Piper that stands before him; not a Halliwell at all, judging by the shoulder-length blond hair. Every single female in that family is a brunette. She isn't looking at them with even the smallest note of surprise, though, which he hopes is a good thing.
"Hello," he greets. He glances at Sam and Dean, who both give their own versions of a supportive smile. "I'm-"
The young woman turns away and yells into the house, "They're here!"
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