Needs Better American
Slowly
Like a ladybird stealthily
Approaching the Ikea glass of port
Editing
Title: The Demiurge (2/3)
Rating: R for language and violence
Word count: 7,586 this part
Summary: Pre-Dean/Cas, Sam. Goes AU after around 6X20, vague spoilers up to that point. H/C.
Part 1 and full notes here.
.The Demiurge.
Two
They stop at a diner that evening instead of picking up whatever food they can salvage from gas stations and convenience stores and Castiel can't decide if it's a concession- not an apology but a peace offering- or Dean just needs better food to fuel his anger. His mood has not much improved and he gets out the car, strolling towards the diner without saying a word or waiting for either of them. Dean's hands are shoved deep in his pockets and his head is bowed as Castiel watches him move quickly across the forecourt. From the diner, light spills out into the darkening parking lot. Many of the street lamps here are broken, or burn dim yellows that barely give out any light at all. It's still raining, though not as hard as before and despite Castiel's almost desperate need to be out of this car he contemplates staying where he is because it will take him an age to make it to somewhere else out of the rain alone.
It's pathetic. An angel who can barely support his own weight, stuck in the car of a man who he isn't even sure he can call friend anymore. Castiel might still be able to hear his brothers, to manipulate the human world around him to an extent. He still might know the name of every creature in every language that there ever was, and know every tactic that any human or angel or demon ever thought of, but it's all useless, pointless if he doesn't even have the strength to cross a parking lot.
Perhaps Sam recognises something of his frustration because he offers, "Dean'll calm down. He's just cranky without meat."
Castiel wasn’t thinking about Dean he thinks sourly. Except where he was.
"Will he?" Castiel asks. He doesn't look at Sam but continues to watch through the diner windows to where he can see Dean holding up three fingers to a lady who greets him just inside the door. There are so many things Castiel wants to say; Nothing I do is ever good enough for him, and I only seem to make it worse, and Dean is never calm.
He's actually surprised when Sam answers, "Yeah," and sounds sure of it. "When it comes to family, he'll forgive pretty much anything."
It has been Castiel's belief that whatever kinship Dean felt for him has been long lost and it is strange now to hear Sam refer to him in this way without hesitation. Family. The one thing that consumes all Winchesters. The one thing Castiel wishes for, above all else.
Castiel replies, "That seems unwise." Certainly, Castiel knows all too well how foolish it is to trust so blindly those who can hurt you the most. There is no way Castiel can ever return to that unconditional faith which was once such a central part of his life. It's something of a miracle that after everything Dean has been through he still holds on to this familial trust. Castiel would scorn it, except he admires it and wishes he could feel something similar for his own brothers. He wishes he could believe they could ever be anything more than what they are. But angels are not made that way.
Duty. Obedience. It was never about emotion with angels, but about absolute deference and it has proved impossible to teach them any different.
And who is Castiel to teach anyone anything anyway?
"That's Dean." There is an unhappy look on Sam's face as he looks down at his own hands, shifting in his seat. Castiel knows that Sam carries too much guilt.
It's times like these Castiel wishes that he understood more of humanity, so that he would know what to say.
Instead, Castiel asks, "Would you assist me to the diner, Sam?"
If nothing else this should distract Sam- distract them both- from dwelling upon all the ways in which they've failed. It seems to work because Sam looks up and smiles at Castiel, and says, "Sure."
Outside, it starts to rain harder, the sound of it oddly entrancing, a steady dull beat. As Sam gets out of the car he pulls the collar of his shirt up over his head and Castiel wonders why he bothers. It seems unlikely it will help keep him dry at all. For a moment, Castiel watches Sam hurrying around the back of the car.
It's just as Castiel puts his hand on the door handle, because he might not be able to walk straight but he can certainly do something as simple as open a door, when he feels it; a familiar tugging in his Grace, the static ringing of wings approaching. There are angels close by. They're headed their way and Castiel isn't sure if they have come in peace, or if they have come to kill him. He doesn't dare open himself to their presence to find out, because then they will have his exact position, and they could harm him through that connection, and Castiel has to protect Sam and Dean.
Urgently, Castiel calls, "Sam," and Sam leans down and is smiling at him from the other side of the glass, his hair dripping rain, and he is in the way. "Move," he orders, and Sam's cheerfulness falls away immediately, stepping aside and pulling open the door.
"What is it?" he asks, helping Castiel stand. Castiel's hands feel cold where they grip the car frame above the door. Water is running through his shoes and it makes him shiver. Under other circumstances he might be interested in the new sensation but there's no time. It's too much effort, his head feels heavy and dizzy and all he's done so far is get out of a car. How he's supposed to protect the brothers like this Castiel doesn't know, but he's going to try. There's no time to tell Sam to retrieve the angel swords Castiel knows the brothers have in the trunk but don't talk about. Castiel can feel them, as a human might smell a rotting corpse. Once part of an angel they are decaying without the source of their strength. In time, they will crumble to nothing, and the name of the angel they belonged to will be lost forever. But now their names resonate through the blades and Castiel knows they once belonged to Suriel and Nakir. There is no time to warn Dean and run. There would be little point in running anyway.
"Angels," Castiel says. He must stand alone, give at least the impression of strength and resolve, so Castiel brushes Sam's hands away and turns towards where he knows his brothers will land.
"Should we-" Sam begins, but cuts himself off when two angels appear before them. They are dressed in impeccable black suits and that is not a good sign.
There is lightning and for a second it brightens the dull, darkening sky, casts shadows of their wings across the wet pavement. Castiel hopes that Sam doesn't see the shape of his wings, twisted broken things that have barely healed at all and Castiel has been trying to ignore since he awoke and felt the heavy, useless weight of them. It is agony to move them, but Castiel must, and he draws them back and away from where the other angels can see them. There can be no hint of weakness if Castiel can help it.
The rain doesn't touch the angels even as it soaks through Castiel's coat at his shoulders and slides down his face from his drenched hair. Thunder rumbles across the sky and Castiel can read enough of the angels' presence to feel their anger and their hatred.
Castiel greets them, "Brothers."
He knows the greeting will probably only anger them further, but he does it anyway because he never wants to forget that they are his kin, even if it comes to killing them. If he forgets, Castiel thinks, it would be like he'd stopped caring. As much as it might seem like the greatest of all curses at times, Castiel doesn't want to lose that emotion and empathy he has fought for, that he has given up so much for.
"I don't want to fight you," Castiel implores. He manages to straighten his back, square his shoulders and takes a couple of steps forward so he is between the angels and Sam. Somehow, Castiel keeps himself upright, manages to look steady on his feet in a way he hasn't for the past four days. It is a triumph and that, too, is pathetic.
Castiel carefully hides his fear, his pain, his doubt beneath layers of determination and affection for the Winchesters. These are foot soldiers, twisted by imaginations of betrayal and heresy. Or maybe twisted by the truth of it. He looks at them and remembers himself, before Hell and before Dean.
But Castiel has yet to find the right words to make them understand, as Dean once did.
One spits, "Castiel," and the name is an oath, something made of disobedience and blasphemy and disgust. He is Ramiel and he twice fought with Castiel along the Borderlands. When they were young they praised their Father and went to battle wrapped in armour of Faith, bearing their swords with the Righteousness of the brainwashed.
"You haven't changed," Castiel says, and wishes he had.
The other angel Castiel doesn't know, but he knows he is called Isda, as all angels recognise each other.
"I am as God made me," he states, prideful. His vessel is shorter even than Castiel but still he manages to look down at Castiel.
"You are as our superiors made you," Castiel tries. "You are as you made yourself."
Another flash of lightning. The dim street lights flicker as the angels' anger rises.
Castiel resists the urge to glance back towards the diner, to see if Dean is still safe inside. He wishes he had the strength to transport Sam inside with him. He wishes for too many things.
"What if I am?" Ramiel sneers. "Better to be that than ally myself with demons."
And this is why Castiel can never return to Heaven.
Any moral authority he once had is long lost. Working with demons. It's something no angel could ever forgive. Castiel had known that when he first made an agreement with Crowley, but back then there hadn't seemed like any other option. The worst thing, though, is that Castiel doesn't know if, given the chance to do it all over again, he would choose any different.
Ramiel's eyes are rage and hate and Castiel realises his brother is glaring at him as though he were a demon himself. It's not something he's ever considered, but now Castiel wonders what his form looks like to another angel. He has spent so much time with this vessel, saturated through its flesh. He has been remade and remade again, with Jimmy, without Jimmy. Angels are made for war and are made to withstand massive amounts of damage but Castiel knows he is scarred in a way few others are. That was Hell and Zachariah and Raphael.
"I won't argue with you," Castiel shakes his head. He is too tired and wet and cold for this, and he is done with trying to lead angels. Let them decide for themselves. Let them suffer the consequences for themselves. That, Castiel knows from experience, is the best lesson in free will there is. "Leave us in peace," he asks, and there is thunder so loud the windows of the diner rattle.
Castiel is not surprised when Ramiel refuses, "No." Nor is he surprised when in the next moment Ramiel has his sword drawn and pointed at Castiel's throat and is charging straight towards him.
Behind him, Castiel hears Sam yell, "Shit! Cas, you can't-" and then Ramiel is inches from his face, lifting his blade. There is such loathing in his vessel's expression, and his Grace burns with it. All Castiel feels is sadness and resignation. Four days ago- even two days ago- Castiel would not have been able to stop his brother, and he's not sure he would've been much bothered by that fact, except here and now he must keep Sam safe.
Ramiel's eyes widen, drawing his shoulders back, preparing for the kill, and in that last second as the blade hurries towards his throat Castiel manages to meet Ramiel's sword with his own, deflecting the point with a loud clang. He's surprised by how easy it is to fall back on instinct, on reactions formed over thousands of years of battles and fighting, trusting to his own instincts. He knows he doesn't have long before what little strength he has fails. This fight must be won quickly, or else not at all.
Castiel goes on the offensive, probably overreaching, but the aggressive attack takes Ramiel by surprise. The followers of Raphael, Castiel has found, always overestimate their skill and their strength. It is that deeply ingrained belief that the righteous will always be victorious. Castiel stopped believing in that, and in his own righteousness, a long time ago.
Ramiel missteps backwards and Castiel uses the opportunity to swing out, catching him across the stomach and it's deep enough to break through the vessel to the angel. Ramiel cries out, clutches at his stomach, bleeding bright white Grace, and retreating. It's reckless, but Castiel can feel the weariness of his limbs, his head heavy and dizzy, the pull and stretch and tearing open of his wounds, so Castiel presses his advantage, slashing out at his opponent, catching him again. His reactions aren't fast enough though, and he's clearly not thinking straight because Castiel had completely forgotten about the other angel.
Sam's warning comes too late, but it's enough so that Castiel can turn at least partly to meet the attack. He can't bring his sword up in time though and is forced to counter the other angel's blade more with his human elbow than anything. Better there than somewhere that might kill him.
Castiel feels the point dig deep into flesh, through muscle and sinew and right down to the bone. His arm instantly feels like it's on fire, like someone's dipped it in holy oil and set it alight, but Castiel suppresses the instinct to jerk away, for his fingers to loosen and drop the blade. Instead, Castiel pushes forward, punches Isda around the head with his uninjured arm and with all the power he can put behind it- anger and frustration and desperation- and is thankful when it sends Isda sprawling away.
There's no time to catch his breath or look to the damage, or anything more than half turn back towards where Castiel last remembers seeing Sam because then Ramiel is on him again, grabbing hold of his neck and squeezing. It shouldn't be as damaging as it is. Castiel doesn't need the air but he is so bound to this vessel he finds himself gasping and choking at the same time as Ramiel grips at his true self, digs fingers into him. He cuts at Castiel's wrist and in the shock of pain Castiel's fingers loosen and his sword slips from his hand. This close, Ramiel can't miss how weakened Castiel is, the damage wrought in him, and he grins. It's a cruel, merciless thing and Castiel wonders if angels were always such assholes.
Ramiel squeezes harder, sneers and taunts, "Look at you, Castiel. Broken, corrupt thing. There is nothing in this universe that could convince me you were chosen by our Father."
His vision is blurring and Castiel knows this feeling; the fading of consciousness before nothing and he can't let it happen. If he does he'll be dead, and Sam and Dean with him.
There's a shadow looming somewhere behind him and Castiel can sense that it is Isda and that he is raising his sword. Castiel watches as Ramiel nods, forcing Castiel's head forward. They mean to execute him and Castiel can't think of anything. He has no plan nor strategy to escape this. His millennia of experience come to nothing, replaced instead by a rising panic and he gasps for breath. It's raining so hard it almost feels like drowning. He reaches out, grabbing at his brother's arms and trying to pry them away from his throat, to loosen his grip, but Ramiel is unflinching and filled with all the vengeance of Heaven and Castiel can't escape. In his brother's grip, Castiel shivers, cold water running across the back of his exposed neck, down the back of his coat and shirt, down his human spine.
Perhaps Sam and Dean will run, Castiel thinks. Perhaps they are already safe. He doubts very much Ramiel or Isda have any real interest in them anyway. Angels are too arrogant to believe humans could be any threat to them. Both Lucifer and Zachariah paid for this presumption and, it seems, other angels have not learnt from their mistakes.
Castiel hears Ramiel say, "This is mercy, brother," and he hears the rain and the thunder, the blood of his vessel loud in his ears, and somewhere distant there is Sam calling his name.
The next thing Castiel knows the hand around his throat is suddenly gone. There's a flash of light that isn't lightning but instead the all too familiar blaze of an angel's Grace being extinguished. With nothing to hold him up Castiel feels himself fall against the wet, hard ground. Castiel gasps in breaths, forcing eyes open that he doesn't remember closing, blinking water away. His sword is in Sam's hand and the point is buried in Ramiel's back.
There is no time to mourn his brother though because Isda's eyes are filled with rage and now his sword is aimed at Sam.
"You," he spits, and Castiel can see that Sam won't be able to move fast enough to get away in time. Isda surges forward, going straight for Sam's heart, and Castiel makes a grab for his brother's ankles, trying desperately to knock him down. His hands catch, but he doesn't have the strength to pull Isda off his feet and all he succeeds in doing is slowing him for little more than a second. In that time though Sam, trying to dodge the blade, has moved inches to his left and the sword pushes into his chest rather than his heart. It's not much, but it's not instant death and it gives Castiel- and Sam- a chance.
It still hurts though, to see the shock and pain on Sam's face, in his wide eyes, as the cold, smooth metal splits open his skin and muscle and punches through into his lung. It hurts to know it's his fault.
Sam chokes, and Castiel sees blood on his lips as he falls, still clutching at Castiel's sword. Castiel hopes- because it is too dangerous to pray- that Sam can hold on for just a little while.
It's then- of course it's then- that Castiel hears Dean's voice and if there's one thing he didn't want Dean to see it was this; Sam's blood staining his shirt, mixing with the rain water on the ground and spreading out around him as he coughs and struggles for air he can't get enough of because one of his lungs has collapsed. Dean is calling Sam's name, and he's calling for Cas, and he's running towards them, Isda turning to meet him with Sam's blood on his blade. Castiel has to finish this before Dean gets to them.
That part of Castiel which is all cold, calculating soldier credits Dean's appearance with at least being the best possible distraction. He uses Isda's divided attention to gather himself, to push away the burning agony in his right arm, to concentrate on taking in Isda's stance, looking for a weakness, anticipating how his brother will try to counteract him. It's when he sees Isda shift his weight, the attention of the angel as well as the human eyes turned to Dean, disdainful and derisive, that Castiel sees his chance. He takes it without thinking, letting instinct take over again and before Dean can take one step closer Castiel is on his feet, crossing the space between himself and his brother and seizing Isda's sword arm, twisting viciously, breaking the human bone beneath with a snap that can be heard even over the thunder and the rain and Dean's yelling. Isda likely barely feels it, but for a split second the wrist of his vessel is vulnerable and before Isda can heal it Castiel has turned the sword towards his brother's heart, stabs down and the blade sinks deep.
Castiel holds his brother's vessel as his Grace dies. He feels life slip from him in the brush of wings against his face and his arms. It has been a very long time since Castiel felt the wings of another angel and it fills him with disgust and self-loathing at how he welcomes the touch, at how this is how he has ended up feeling them again. He lets go, takes an unsteady step backwards and watches the body that was once an angel fall. They'll know now, Castiel thinks. The other angels will know that he lived and they'll know what he's done and the war will go on as though nothing has changed.
It's Dean's voice that cuts through Castiel's despair, calling, "Sam!" and, "Don't you dare die." So often Dean seems to be the one watching his family and friends die, and Castiel would spare him this.
He stumbles towards where Dean has pulled Sam up onto his lap, is pressing down against the wound on Sam's chest. There's blood seeping through Dean's fingers, red stains at the cuff of his already soaked jacket. Sam is strong though, and he is fighting, his eyes still open and looking at his brother with regret. Castiel would tell him it's alright. That there was no need to fear but he can't seem to summon the energy. Instead, Castiel falls to his knees beside Sam and feels the cold and the weight of water soaking through to his legs. Dean doesn't spare him even the briefest of glances and Castiel thinks it likely he blames him for this too. It would, after all, only be the truth.
Dean's voice catches when he says, "Just hold on, Sam. I'll think of something." Rain streams down his face but his eyes are red and Castiel knows he's crying and desperate and he can see that there is no human medicine that could save Sam now. Not in the parking lot of a diner in the pouring rain in the middle of nowhere.
No human means.
Castiel reaches out with his one working arm to rest a hand on Sam's forehead and smiles when he sees Sam's eyes cross, following the movement. "Dean," he says. "Let go."
It's probably the most impossible thing of all to ask of Dean but when he looks to where Castiel's fingers are rested, when he looks up to meet Castiel's eyes in something between anger and surprise, his expression turns blank, suppressed hope, and Dean pulls his hands away. It feels like trust and Castiel nods once, smiling in what he hopes is a reassuring way before turning his attention to Sam.
This injury was his doing, and Dean is relying on him, so Castiel pours everything he has into Sam. He knits together every torn piece of flesh, he fills Sam's body with what blood he's lost, reinflates his lung, reconstructs a shattered rib, ensures there is no bruising, nothing where it shouldn't be, not even a scar. Once, fixing a human this way was a simple thing. Now it takes everything from Castiel, and more, but he holds on until he's sure everything is done. Perfectly fixed. Then Castiel lets go.
***
"...send it to my phone." A pause, and then Dean says, "Yeah, I know." He sounds resigned and exhausted and he's keeping his voice quiet.
The radio is turned on low and Castiel can just about make out the words of a song he's heard before over the Impala's engine and the shushing sound of tyres speeding along a wet road.
There's another pause before Dean says, "He's woken up a couple of times. No damage far as I can tell."
He's hearing half a conversation, Castiel realises. Dean must be on his cell phone.
"No," Dean says, and there's tension in his voice. "He's still breathing. That's something, right?"
Castiel wonders who Dean is talking about, and who he's talking to. There aren't many people Dean would call, the most likely of them in this car. Sam.
His presence is close by, sleeping peacefully, and Castiel is relieved.
Something, though, is making Dean on-edge. Castiel can hear it in the way Dean talks; carelessly, like it means nothing when it means everything. Short answers that don't give too much away. Dean is wary and distrustful, filled with an uneasiness Castiel doesn't understand.
This is Dean's car and Castiel has never known Dean to be anything other than soothed, warmed, made to feel secure, by it. Humans, Castiel thinks, are strange in the way they associate objects with emotion. But then, in the years since he first inhabited Jimmy's body Castiel has become fond of his coat. It was a constant when everything else changed. When he was losing his Grace it gave him warmth. When he was fighting the war in Heaven it reminded him of what he was fighting for. It's then that Castiel realises the familiar weight and smell of it is gone. There's the scratchiness and the old musty smell of the blanket he'd been covered with before instead. The smell is worse now, stronger. Castiel tries to push it away but finds his arms hurt when he tries to move them.
His brothers, Castiel remembers, and he can still feel the ghost of Ramiel's blade cutting across his wrist and Isda's sword embedded deep within his elbow, both shredding his already ragged Grace. If he continues this way, Castiel thinks, there will be nothing left of him.
Dean is saying, "I don't know what else to do, Bobby." He sounds lost, and Castiel can sympathise.
The sounds are growing dim and Castiel knows he's either falling asleep again or into unconsciousness. It's tedious, and he'd thought he had more strength than this, and as Dean's voice slips away Castiel realises he hadn't even opened his eyes.
Sam's voice is the next thing Castiel knows.
"...at some point. We can't drive forever, Dean."
This argument again. Castiel wishes he'd stayed asleep, but Sam's voice is urgent.
"I think we should try and get Cas to drink something. He looks like crap."
Castiel feels like crap too, and is sure the aching and the nausea wasn't this bad last time he awoke. His skin feels like it's crawling and Castiel has the sudden urge to scratch it all off. It's like his Grace is burning through his human boundaries, seeping out into the skin, and it's too hot and too confining.
"I'll stop for water," Dean allows. His voice is sharp, irritated, and Castiel wonders how long the brothers have been arguing. Castiel remembers it was still dark the last time he was awake, and now the sun is high, setting again.
"No, Dean," Sam presses. "We need to get out of these wet clothes. We need to clean Cas up. We need to eat real food. You need to sleep. You're gonna run us off the freaking road if you keep-"
"I'm not stopping," Dean cuts in.
There's a long pause, and Castiel hopes that perhaps he'll be able to rest now because he doesn't want the pain and the discomfort he can feel with increasing clarity. But then, more softly, Sam tries, "This isn't helping."
"You don't know that, Sam," Dean defends, then makes a frustrated sound. "I stop once. I take my eyes off you two for five fucking minutes and everything goes to hell. What do you expect me to think?"
It was bad luck, Castiel thinks he should tell them. Castiel's luck. Winchester luck.
The angels had been following for some time, searching Castiel out, wrapped in the guise of rain and thunder. Thunder had always been a friend of Ramiel.
Outside it's still raining. Castiel can hear the pattering of water against the windows, the whirring of the windscreen wipers, but the sky is silent. It's easier to listen to this than the clamour of the other angels in his head. There is anger and confusion and Castiel wishes he knew a way to make things right.
"I don't know, Dean," Sam says. "But we can't just drive around forever hoping that nothing catches up with us. You know something always does."
Sam sounds well, Castiel thinks. At least that was something he was able to fix. Like the Winchesters, Castiel isn't sure he could live with knowing he was responsible for his friends' deaths. Castiel has the desire then to see Sam, to see for himself that Sam is healed.
Opening his human eyes takes some effort and Castiel wonders if he'll ever again be as he was before; full of power such that even when his human eyes were closed he could still see, through time and across Earth and Heaven and into the Grace of his brothers and the souls of humans. After all he's seen, though that is a power Castiel doesn't regret losing.
Dean is arguing, "You give me some other idea of what the fuck we're supposed to do and I'll be glad to listen."
Castiel tries to blink away the blurriness and the front seat of the Impala comes into vision. There's the back of Dean's head, part turned away from the road.
The road ahead of them is deserted. It's impossible to see much of the sky where Castiel has been propped up in the corner of the backseat, but he imagines it to be filled with dark grey clouds promising more rain. There's a chill in the air that makes Castiel think there will be hail soon.
At the other end of the back seat, Sam has his jacket done up as far away as it will go and his hands are pushed deep into his pockets. Definitely alive and breathing and unharmed. He's scowling at the back of Dean's head.
"Stopping," Castiel offers, and finds his throat dry and soar. "Stopping will make no difference." The words come out as more of a cough but before Castiel has time to try speaking again the car is swerving and Dean is yelling, "Jesus fucking Christ, Cas!" At least this time the momentary loss is not so bad that Castiel topples over.
Beside him, Sam shoots Dean a frowning glare as his brother rights the car before he slides himself closer to Castiel's side. He lays a heavy hand against Castiel's arm and Castiel wants to shake it off because it is too hot and the weight of it is too much but Castiel holds himself still. He doesn't know why he's reacting this way. A hand should be nothing, even as a human.
"Hey," Sam smiles at him. "How you doing?"
"Fine," Castiel responds, because he's been worse. Sam looks doubtful, like he's waiting for more, so Castiel adds, "I don't like this blanket. It itches."
"Sorry man," Sam says apologetically. "It's the only one we have."
Castiel sighs, resigning himself to the discomfort until he can heal himself. If he can heal himself.
His clothes are still damp and Castiel grimaces at the half-dried cotton against his arms. One of the brothers must have taken off his shoes and socks, and Castiel flexes his toes. They're cold.
"Cas," Dean calls, and when he looks up Dean is frowning at him in his rear-view mirror. Castiel can only see his eyes but they are dark and tired and it makes Dean look far older than his years. "You need to stop doing shit like that."
For a long moment Castiel just looks at Dean before asking dryly, "Like saving Sam's life?"
"That's not what I mean and you know it," Dean snaps in reply.
"There was no time for anything else." And Castiel doesn't have the patience to justify his actions to Dean.
"You could've-"
"No, Dean," Castiel interrupts. "I knew what had to be done, I knew that I could, so I did. And you would have done exactly the same thing, given the opportunity."
It's only the truth, and from the way Dean looks away, back to the road, turns his head so that Castiel can no longer see his eyes, Dean knows it too.
He shifts in his seat and Castiel thinks Dean is working himself up to something. It's likely an argument neither of them wants to have.
"That why you went and got yourself pretty much killed by Raphael?" Dean says in a low voice. "Is that why you never asked us for help?"
"Maybe now isn't the time-" Sam tries.
"It's never gonna be the fucking time, Sam." Dean is angry, back stiff and shoulders set and Castiel wishes he had more strength to deal with this; human emotion that Castiel is still trying to understand both in himself and in those around him. He hates it very much. He hates that Dean refuses to see anything beyond his own world, where family is everything, where the Supernatural is the enemy. Castiel hates that Dean takes everything as a personal affront, and most of all Castiel abhors that for much of the time Dean won't listen.
"I'm not going to explain myself to either of you," Castiel tells them. Both the brothers are still alive and well, their world is intact, and for at least a while the threat of apocalypse is averted and Castiel really can't comprehend what more they could possibly ask for.
"Cas," Sam says and it sounds like a warning.
"So you don't care?" Dean's voice is cold, indignant. "You don't care that you screwed us over? That you fucking lied to us? You don't see anything wrong with that?"
Even like this, drained and over-warm and exhausted Castiel feels irritation, an anger at Dean that is all too familiar.
"I did what needed to be done. I don't regret that."
Castiel can see the disappointment on Sam's face and he turns away, letting his forehead rest against the cool glass of the window. It's a welcome relief, even if the vibrations make Castiel dizzy and maybe a little nauseous. Castiel didn't ask to be saved. He owes the Winchesters nothing. There are more important things to Castiel beyond the Winchesters. Except, that's not exactly true.
Dean is saying, "I don't know why I fucking bother. You never change."
"You once told me not to," Castiel reminds him. It's not hard to see that Dean is spoiling for a fight, but Castiel is not going to give him one. There is nothing to say.
Looking at the rain, at the reflection of his vessel in the window glass, a face he barely recognises, Castiel realises he can't feel his wings. They were so damaged in the fight with Raphael that Castiel knows he should be glad for the numbness but all he can think is that he'll never fly again. That he is Falling again, and this time there will be no going back.
Dean, it seems, will not be deterred, ignoring Castiel and going on, "You don't tell us what you're doing. You leave us to think you're not coming back, and you wouldn't have, would you? If me and Sam hadn't tracked you down you'd have died and never come back. We could have helped you."
They couldn't have, as far as Castiel can see, but Castiel knows Dean well enough to know that's not what he wants to hear. That that's not something he could ever accept.
"Dean," Castiel says and it's both exasperation and plea.
There's more to this than Dean feeling betrayed. Knowing Dean, it's likely guilt. Perhaps frustration and helplessness. Castiel understands these things, remembers them and the anger that followed.
"I get that we're only human," Dean starts, and it's at this point that Castiel decides he's heard enough. Instead, Castiel concentrates on trying to push away the blanket he still has wrapped around him because it's too hot and confining. The movement causes his elbow to hit the door and Castiel grits his teeth as pain shoots along his arm. He holds himself still, closing his eyes tightly and hoping it passes quickly. The continuous thrumming of the car is not helping.
Slowly, infinitely, the pain recedes and Castiel realises that Sam has a hand pressed lightly against his good arm and is telling Dean to shut up. "Cas, man, you okay?" he asks.
"This arm," Castiel admits and looks down at the useless thing, hidden under the blanket, blinking his eyes open because the light is too bright.
"I wrapped it up the best I could," Sam says. "Let me see."
He shuffles closer, peels the blanket away from the arm and for the first time Castiel can see where his arm is bandaged from wrist to elbow. Castiel wonders that he can't feel the bandages, but his skin is all crawling discomfort. Red stains have bled through where he was cut and stabbed, fresh blood that Castiel can smell. Beside him, Sam is frowning.
"I thought this had stopped," he mutters unhappily. Sam reaches to take Castiel's arm. All Castiel's instincts tell him to pull away, to not let Sam touch him, but he stays himself with a discipline he has learnt over thousands of years. No matter how gentle Sam is, it hurts when he curls his fingers around Castiel's forearm and draws it towards him.
"Sorry," Sam apologises. "I know this has got to hurt."
"It's fine," Castiel lies, because Sam is doing his best.
Dean snorts. "Yeah, right."
"It's fine because there is nothing that can be done about it," Castiel snaps with a vehemence he didn't intend, but he doesn't regret because he is sick of Dean's sniping. His head hurts and these human limbs ache and he's never felt so bad before, not even when he was human and Castiel wishes he had somewhere to go where he could just rest.
"Don't, Dean," Sam warns and Castiel is grateful for a moment, until Sam begins unwinding the bandages. Then there's just a lot of pain and if Castiel thought he felt terrible before, he feels even worse now.
"Dude," Sam says when he's unwrapped enough to reach skin. "Are you supposed to be this hot?" He adds quickly, "And no Dean, that is not a come on."
Leaning forward, Sam lays the back of his hand against Castiel's forehead. He's too close, Castiel thinks, and can't understand it because he doesn't remember ever feeling claustrophobic before. Still, the hand is cool, like the car window.
"Jesus," Sam swears. "You're burning up. That can't be normal."
"I feel very warm," Castiel informs Sam. He's not quite sure what Sam wants him to say but he thinks to ask if maybe they could open a window, or let him out of this blanket. It's shameful. It's intolerable, to be so weak he can't even throw off a length of fabric.
"Do you feel sick?" Sam asks.
Castiel has watched humans live and die with so many diseases and ailments, but he's never experienced them for himself. He has no comparison. "I don't know how that feels," he replies.
"Your head hurt? Your stomach feels weird maybe? Your limbs ache?" Sam frowns at Castiel's arm. "I guess that last one is a given. Cas, you gotta let us know what's wrong."
"And don't you dare say you're fine," Dean cuts in and Castiel closes his mouth, rethinks what he was about to say.
"Yes," he settles on.
Sam has returned to unwrapping the bandages from Castiel's arm and Castiel really wishes he hadn't. "Yes?"
"To all those. My head. There is... nausea. I'm very tired."
"It's gotta be infection." Sam is looking down at Castiel's wrist, lightly prodding at the long, straight cut, and Castiel hisses. "Sorry. Shit. I didn't even- I didn't think I needed to clean these."
"Can you clean it out?" Dean asks, and Castiel can't work out who he's talking to, but is thankful when Sam answers, "Yeah. Yeah. But we have to stop. Get supplies. Do this right."
Castiel is finding it hard to concentrate on what's going on. The thrumming of the car, welcome before, grates on his nerves now. He wants to fly away, to feel the cool wind across his Grace. His throat is dry and Castiel remembers that this is thirst.
In the next moment Sam is shaking his shoulder and calling his name and he's losing time again. He doesn't remember falling asleep. If that was asleep.
"He's not waking up." Sam sounds panicked about something.
The sun is lower in the sky now. Castiel can see it even with his eyes closed.
Dean's voice, then, and for once it doesn't sound angry. "What do we need?" he asks.
The next thing Castiel knows, Sam is pressing plastic against his lips and there is water. "Drink," Sam instructs, and Castiel obeys. The water cools his throat, but it feels heavy in his stomach. His human stomach. It hurts, and Castiel wonders why he hasn't healed whatever's wrong with him. He doesn't know why he can't see, why sound is muffled and distant, why his senses are confusing and disorganised and make no sense. His brothers are loud. He can't hear them. There's a demon seven miles away to the east. Dean is consumed with memories of Castiel's second death.
"We're gonna stop," Sam is telling him. "Cas, please wake up." The sun is lower in the sky, and Castiel can't remember why that matters. If it matters. "You gotta help us make it safe for us."
"There is no safe," Castiel manages. Of all beings, Castiel would have thought that Sam and Dean knew this. And his voice is strange. Not his voice. Someone else’s voice. A human voice.
"Not helping, Cas."
Castiel hears Dean speak, and he's close by, not in front of him as Castiel has become accustomed to, but somewhere beside him. The door is open, Castiel realises. They've stopped. The door is open and there is rain falling against his face. It's not cold enough, Castiel thinks.
"Fuck," Dean swears. The rain is gone, and when Castiel opens his eyes there is Dean hovering above him, a hand on his cheek. "You really weren't kidding. You think we should put him in the tub with ice or something?"
"No," Castiel protests. No matter how much he would like the burning to stop, he dislikes the sound of an ice bath even more. Heat, at least, is familiar. Hell is hot. Heaven is warmth. Was warmth.
"Sorry, dude," Dean says, and Castiel feels a hand against his neck. "You don't get a say."
Above Dean is a ceiling, paint peeling and plaster cracked, yellowed with age and cigarettes.
"We're not in your car," Castiel tells Dean. It's difficult to read the expression that crosses Dean's face, almost impossible when Castiel can't focus with his human eyes. Instead, he reaches out with his Grace and understands that Dean is worried. That Dean is afraid he's watching Castiel die again.
"I'm not dying," Castiel reassures him, and Dean pulls his hand away.
"You can't heal but you can read my mind?" Dean's voice is cold, but he is thinking that he is glad Castiel at least has something angel left in him.
"I couldn't see with these eyes," Castiel explains. "I wanted to see."
"You can't- Oh, Jesus," Dean starts. He turns his head away, sitting up. Castiel can't see but he can tell from the way Dean redistributes his weight on the bed beneath them, at the way the mattress moves and creaks. "Sam," he calls, "Hurry up in there."
There is water running, the sound echoing off porcelain, and Castiel finds Dean's arm, tries to tell him, "I don't like the cold."
"Yeah," Dean agrees, but Castiel knows he's unsympathetic. He's thinking better to be cold than dead. "I hate the cold too."
"I'm not dying," Castiel insists.
"I'd believe that more if you didn't have a temperature of, like, five hundred degrees, and if half the crap coming out of your mouth wasn't in some language even Sam's never heard before."
Castiel has no memory of speaking anything other than English. He wonders what he was saying.
In front of him, Dean is a blur of colours. He bends closer to Castiel. "You know what I'm thinking, right?" he asks quietly. Castiel can see that Dean is imagining looking for Castiel, after that night when they had gone their separate ways. There were omens, and there is a memory where Dean is looking at reports of death and disaster and trying not to wonder if he'll have to kill Castiel. He doesn't know if he could ever really do it. Everything they've done together, and everything they've lost, and Dean doesn't want it to end like this. "So don't let it," Dean says.
And Castiel promises he won't.
Part 3 >>
Comments and concrit appreciated and loved.
Like a ladybird stealthily
Approaching the Ikea glass of port
Editing
Title: The Demiurge (2/3)
Rating: R for language and violence
Word count: 7,586 this part
Summary: Pre-Dean/Cas, Sam. Goes AU after around 6X20, vague spoilers up to that point. H/C.
Part 1 and full notes here.
.The Demiurge.
Two
They stop at a diner that evening instead of picking up whatever food they can salvage from gas stations and convenience stores and Castiel can't decide if it's a concession- not an apology but a peace offering- or Dean just needs better food to fuel his anger. His mood has not much improved and he gets out the car, strolling towards the diner without saying a word or waiting for either of them. Dean's hands are shoved deep in his pockets and his head is bowed as Castiel watches him move quickly across the forecourt. From the diner, light spills out into the darkening parking lot. Many of the street lamps here are broken, or burn dim yellows that barely give out any light at all. It's still raining, though not as hard as before and despite Castiel's almost desperate need to be out of this car he contemplates staying where he is because it will take him an age to make it to somewhere else out of the rain alone.
It's pathetic. An angel who can barely support his own weight, stuck in the car of a man who he isn't even sure he can call friend anymore. Castiel might still be able to hear his brothers, to manipulate the human world around him to an extent. He still might know the name of every creature in every language that there ever was, and know every tactic that any human or angel or demon ever thought of, but it's all useless, pointless if he doesn't even have the strength to cross a parking lot.
Perhaps Sam recognises something of his frustration because he offers, "Dean'll calm down. He's just cranky without meat."
Castiel wasn’t thinking about Dean he thinks sourly. Except where he was.
"Will he?" Castiel asks. He doesn't look at Sam but continues to watch through the diner windows to where he can see Dean holding up three fingers to a lady who greets him just inside the door. There are so many things Castiel wants to say; Nothing I do is ever good enough for him, and I only seem to make it worse, and Dean is never calm.
He's actually surprised when Sam answers, "Yeah," and sounds sure of it. "When it comes to family, he'll forgive pretty much anything."
It has been Castiel's belief that whatever kinship Dean felt for him has been long lost and it is strange now to hear Sam refer to him in this way without hesitation. Family. The one thing that consumes all Winchesters. The one thing Castiel wishes for, above all else.
Castiel replies, "That seems unwise." Certainly, Castiel knows all too well how foolish it is to trust so blindly those who can hurt you the most. There is no way Castiel can ever return to that unconditional faith which was once such a central part of his life. It's something of a miracle that after everything Dean has been through he still holds on to this familial trust. Castiel would scorn it, except he admires it and wishes he could feel something similar for his own brothers. He wishes he could believe they could ever be anything more than what they are. But angels are not made that way.
Duty. Obedience. It was never about emotion with angels, but about absolute deference and it has proved impossible to teach them any different.
And who is Castiel to teach anyone anything anyway?
"That's Dean." There is an unhappy look on Sam's face as he looks down at his own hands, shifting in his seat. Castiel knows that Sam carries too much guilt.
It's times like these Castiel wishes that he understood more of humanity, so that he would know what to say.
Instead, Castiel asks, "Would you assist me to the diner, Sam?"
If nothing else this should distract Sam- distract them both- from dwelling upon all the ways in which they've failed. It seems to work because Sam looks up and smiles at Castiel, and says, "Sure."
Outside, it starts to rain harder, the sound of it oddly entrancing, a steady dull beat. As Sam gets out of the car he pulls the collar of his shirt up over his head and Castiel wonders why he bothers. It seems unlikely it will help keep him dry at all. For a moment, Castiel watches Sam hurrying around the back of the car.
It's just as Castiel puts his hand on the door handle, because he might not be able to walk straight but he can certainly do something as simple as open a door, when he feels it; a familiar tugging in his Grace, the static ringing of wings approaching. There are angels close by. They're headed their way and Castiel isn't sure if they have come in peace, or if they have come to kill him. He doesn't dare open himself to their presence to find out, because then they will have his exact position, and they could harm him through that connection, and Castiel has to protect Sam and Dean.
Urgently, Castiel calls, "Sam," and Sam leans down and is smiling at him from the other side of the glass, his hair dripping rain, and he is in the way. "Move," he orders, and Sam's cheerfulness falls away immediately, stepping aside and pulling open the door.
"What is it?" he asks, helping Castiel stand. Castiel's hands feel cold where they grip the car frame above the door. Water is running through his shoes and it makes him shiver. Under other circumstances he might be interested in the new sensation but there's no time. It's too much effort, his head feels heavy and dizzy and all he's done so far is get out of a car. How he's supposed to protect the brothers like this Castiel doesn't know, but he's going to try. There's no time to tell Sam to retrieve the angel swords Castiel knows the brothers have in the trunk but don't talk about. Castiel can feel them, as a human might smell a rotting corpse. Once part of an angel they are decaying without the source of their strength. In time, they will crumble to nothing, and the name of the angel they belonged to will be lost forever. But now their names resonate through the blades and Castiel knows they once belonged to Suriel and Nakir. There is no time to warn Dean and run. There would be little point in running anyway.
"Angels," Castiel says. He must stand alone, give at least the impression of strength and resolve, so Castiel brushes Sam's hands away and turns towards where he knows his brothers will land.
"Should we-" Sam begins, but cuts himself off when two angels appear before them. They are dressed in impeccable black suits and that is not a good sign.
There is lightning and for a second it brightens the dull, darkening sky, casts shadows of their wings across the wet pavement. Castiel hopes that Sam doesn't see the shape of his wings, twisted broken things that have barely healed at all and Castiel has been trying to ignore since he awoke and felt the heavy, useless weight of them. It is agony to move them, but Castiel must, and he draws them back and away from where the other angels can see them. There can be no hint of weakness if Castiel can help it.
The rain doesn't touch the angels even as it soaks through Castiel's coat at his shoulders and slides down his face from his drenched hair. Thunder rumbles across the sky and Castiel can read enough of the angels' presence to feel their anger and their hatred.
Castiel greets them, "Brothers."
He knows the greeting will probably only anger them further, but he does it anyway because he never wants to forget that they are his kin, even if it comes to killing them. If he forgets, Castiel thinks, it would be like he'd stopped caring. As much as it might seem like the greatest of all curses at times, Castiel doesn't want to lose that emotion and empathy he has fought for, that he has given up so much for.
"I don't want to fight you," Castiel implores. He manages to straighten his back, square his shoulders and takes a couple of steps forward so he is between the angels and Sam. Somehow, Castiel keeps himself upright, manages to look steady on his feet in a way he hasn't for the past four days. It is a triumph and that, too, is pathetic.
Castiel carefully hides his fear, his pain, his doubt beneath layers of determination and affection for the Winchesters. These are foot soldiers, twisted by imaginations of betrayal and heresy. Or maybe twisted by the truth of it. He looks at them and remembers himself, before Hell and before Dean.
But Castiel has yet to find the right words to make them understand, as Dean once did.
One spits, "Castiel," and the name is an oath, something made of disobedience and blasphemy and disgust. He is Ramiel and he twice fought with Castiel along the Borderlands. When they were young they praised their Father and went to battle wrapped in armour of Faith, bearing their swords with the Righteousness of the brainwashed.
"You haven't changed," Castiel says, and wishes he had.
The other angel Castiel doesn't know, but he knows he is called Isda, as all angels recognise each other.
"I am as God made me," he states, prideful. His vessel is shorter even than Castiel but still he manages to look down at Castiel.
"You are as our superiors made you," Castiel tries. "You are as you made yourself."
Another flash of lightning. The dim street lights flicker as the angels' anger rises.
Castiel resists the urge to glance back towards the diner, to see if Dean is still safe inside. He wishes he had the strength to transport Sam inside with him. He wishes for too many things.
"What if I am?" Ramiel sneers. "Better to be that than ally myself with demons."
And this is why Castiel can never return to Heaven.
Any moral authority he once had is long lost. Working with demons. It's something no angel could ever forgive. Castiel had known that when he first made an agreement with Crowley, but back then there hadn't seemed like any other option. The worst thing, though, is that Castiel doesn't know if, given the chance to do it all over again, he would choose any different.
Ramiel's eyes are rage and hate and Castiel realises his brother is glaring at him as though he were a demon himself. It's not something he's ever considered, but now Castiel wonders what his form looks like to another angel. He has spent so much time with this vessel, saturated through its flesh. He has been remade and remade again, with Jimmy, without Jimmy. Angels are made for war and are made to withstand massive amounts of damage but Castiel knows he is scarred in a way few others are. That was Hell and Zachariah and Raphael.
"I won't argue with you," Castiel shakes his head. He is too tired and wet and cold for this, and he is done with trying to lead angels. Let them decide for themselves. Let them suffer the consequences for themselves. That, Castiel knows from experience, is the best lesson in free will there is. "Leave us in peace," he asks, and there is thunder so loud the windows of the diner rattle.
Castiel is not surprised when Ramiel refuses, "No." Nor is he surprised when in the next moment Ramiel has his sword drawn and pointed at Castiel's throat and is charging straight towards him.
Behind him, Castiel hears Sam yell, "Shit! Cas, you can't-" and then Ramiel is inches from his face, lifting his blade. There is such loathing in his vessel's expression, and his Grace burns with it. All Castiel feels is sadness and resignation. Four days ago- even two days ago- Castiel would not have been able to stop his brother, and he's not sure he would've been much bothered by that fact, except here and now he must keep Sam safe.
Ramiel's eyes widen, drawing his shoulders back, preparing for the kill, and in that last second as the blade hurries towards his throat Castiel manages to meet Ramiel's sword with his own, deflecting the point with a loud clang. He's surprised by how easy it is to fall back on instinct, on reactions formed over thousands of years of battles and fighting, trusting to his own instincts. He knows he doesn't have long before what little strength he has fails. This fight must be won quickly, or else not at all.
Castiel goes on the offensive, probably overreaching, but the aggressive attack takes Ramiel by surprise. The followers of Raphael, Castiel has found, always overestimate their skill and their strength. It is that deeply ingrained belief that the righteous will always be victorious. Castiel stopped believing in that, and in his own righteousness, a long time ago.
Ramiel missteps backwards and Castiel uses the opportunity to swing out, catching him across the stomach and it's deep enough to break through the vessel to the angel. Ramiel cries out, clutches at his stomach, bleeding bright white Grace, and retreating. It's reckless, but Castiel can feel the weariness of his limbs, his head heavy and dizzy, the pull and stretch and tearing open of his wounds, so Castiel presses his advantage, slashing out at his opponent, catching him again. His reactions aren't fast enough though, and he's clearly not thinking straight because Castiel had completely forgotten about the other angel.
Sam's warning comes too late, but it's enough so that Castiel can turn at least partly to meet the attack. He can't bring his sword up in time though and is forced to counter the other angel's blade more with his human elbow than anything. Better there than somewhere that might kill him.
Castiel feels the point dig deep into flesh, through muscle and sinew and right down to the bone. His arm instantly feels like it's on fire, like someone's dipped it in holy oil and set it alight, but Castiel suppresses the instinct to jerk away, for his fingers to loosen and drop the blade. Instead, Castiel pushes forward, punches Isda around the head with his uninjured arm and with all the power he can put behind it- anger and frustration and desperation- and is thankful when it sends Isda sprawling away.
There's no time to catch his breath or look to the damage, or anything more than half turn back towards where Castiel last remembers seeing Sam because then Ramiel is on him again, grabbing hold of his neck and squeezing. It shouldn't be as damaging as it is. Castiel doesn't need the air but he is so bound to this vessel he finds himself gasping and choking at the same time as Ramiel grips at his true self, digs fingers into him. He cuts at Castiel's wrist and in the shock of pain Castiel's fingers loosen and his sword slips from his hand. This close, Ramiel can't miss how weakened Castiel is, the damage wrought in him, and he grins. It's a cruel, merciless thing and Castiel wonders if angels were always such assholes.
Ramiel squeezes harder, sneers and taunts, "Look at you, Castiel. Broken, corrupt thing. There is nothing in this universe that could convince me you were chosen by our Father."
His vision is blurring and Castiel knows this feeling; the fading of consciousness before nothing and he can't let it happen. If he does he'll be dead, and Sam and Dean with him.
There's a shadow looming somewhere behind him and Castiel can sense that it is Isda and that he is raising his sword. Castiel watches as Ramiel nods, forcing Castiel's head forward. They mean to execute him and Castiel can't think of anything. He has no plan nor strategy to escape this. His millennia of experience come to nothing, replaced instead by a rising panic and he gasps for breath. It's raining so hard it almost feels like drowning. He reaches out, grabbing at his brother's arms and trying to pry them away from his throat, to loosen his grip, but Ramiel is unflinching and filled with all the vengeance of Heaven and Castiel can't escape. In his brother's grip, Castiel shivers, cold water running across the back of his exposed neck, down the back of his coat and shirt, down his human spine.
Perhaps Sam and Dean will run, Castiel thinks. Perhaps they are already safe. He doubts very much Ramiel or Isda have any real interest in them anyway. Angels are too arrogant to believe humans could be any threat to them. Both Lucifer and Zachariah paid for this presumption and, it seems, other angels have not learnt from their mistakes.
Castiel hears Ramiel say, "This is mercy, brother," and he hears the rain and the thunder, the blood of his vessel loud in his ears, and somewhere distant there is Sam calling his name.
The next thing Castiel knows the hand around his throat is suddenly gone. There's a flash of light that isn't lightning but instead the all too familiar blaze of an angel's Grace being extinguished. With nothing to hold him up Castiel feels himself fall against the wet, hard ground. Castiel gasps in breaths, forcing eyes open that he doesn't remember closing, blinking water away. His sword is in Sam's hand and the point is buried in Ramiel's back.
There is no time to mourn his brother though because Isda's eyes are filled with rage and now his sword is aimed at Sam.
"You," he spits, and Castiel can see that Sam won't be able to move fast enough to get away in time. Isda surges forward, going straight for Sam's heart, and Castiel makes a grab for his brother's ankles, trying desperately to knock him down. His hands catch, but he doesn't have the strength to pull Isda off his feet and all he succeeds in doing is slowing him for little more than a second. In that time though Sam, trying to dodge the blade, has moved inches to his left and the sword pushes into his chest rather than his heart. It's not much, but it's not instant death and it gives Castiel- and Sam- a chance.
It still hurts though, to see the shock and pain on Sam's face, in his wide eyes, as the cold, smooth metal splits open his skin and muscle and punches through into his lung. It hurts to know it's his fault.
Sam chokes, and Castiel sees blood on his lips as he falls, still clutching at Castiel's sword. Castiel hopes- because it is too dangerous to pray- that Sam can hold on for just a little while.
It's then- of course it's then- that Castiel hears Dean's voice and if there's one thing he didn't want Dean to see it was this; Sam's blood staining his shirt, mixing with the rain water on the ground and spreading out around him as he coughs and struggles for air he can't get enough of because one of his lungs has collapsed. Dean is calling Sam's name, and he's calling for Cas, and he's running towards them, Isda turning to meet him with Sam's blood on his blade. Castiel has to finish this before Dean gets to them.
That part of Castiel which is all cold, calculating soldier credits Dean's appearance with at least being the best possible distraction. He uses Isda's divided attention to gather himself, to push away the burning agony in his right arm, to concentrate on taking in Isda's stance, looking for a weakness, anticipating how his brother will try to counteract him. It's when he sees Isda shift his weight, the attention of the angel as well as the human eyes turned to Dean, disdainful and derisive, that Castiel sees his chance. He takes it without thinking, letting instinct take over again and before Dean can take one step closer Castiel is on his feet, crossing the space between himself and his brother and seizing Isda's sword arm, twisting viciously, breaking the human bone beneath with a snap that can be heard even over the thunder and the rain and Dean's yelling. Isda likely barely feels it, but for a split second the wrist of his vessel is vulnerable and before Isda can heal it Castiel has turned the sword towards his brother's heart, stabs down and the blade sinks deep.
Castiel holds his brother's vessel as his Grace dies. He feels life slip from him in the brush of wings against his face and his arms. It has been a very long time since Castiel felt the wings of another angel and it fills him with disgust and self-loathing at how he welcomes the touch, at how this is how he has ended up feeling them again. He lets go, takes an unsteady step backwards and watches the body that was once an angel fall. They'll know now, Castiel thinks. The other angels will know that he lived and they'll know what he's done and the war will go on as though nothing has changed.
It's Dean's voice that cuts through Castiel's despair, calling, "Sam!" and, "Don't you dare die." So often Dean seems to be the one watching his family and friends die, and Castiel would spare him this.
He stumbles towards where Dean has pulled Sam up onto his lap, is pressing down against the wound on Sam's chest. There's blood seeping through Dean's fingers, red stains at the cuff of his already soaked jacket. Sam is strong though, and he is fighting, his eyes still open and looking at his brother with regret. Castiel would tell him it's alright. That there was no need to fear but he can't seem to summon the energy. Instead, Castiel falls to his knees beside Sam and feels the cold and the weight of water soaking through to his legs. Dean doesn't spare him even the briefest of glances and Castiel thinks it likely he blames him for this too. It would, after all, only be the truth.
Dean's voice catches when he says, "Just hold on, Sam. I'll think of something." Rain streams down his face but his eyes are red and Castiel knows he's crying and desperate and he can see that there is no human medicine that could save Sam now. Not in the parking lot of a diner in the pouring rain in the middle of nowhere.
No human means.
Castiel reaches out with his one working arm to rest a hand on Sam's forehead and smiles when he sees Sam's eyes cross, following the movement. "Dean," he says. "Let go."
It's probably the most impossible thing of all to ask of Dean but when he looks to where Castiel's fingers are rested, when he looks up to meet Castiel's eyes in something between anger and surprise, his expression turns blank, suppressed hope, and Dean pulls his hands away. It feels like trust and Castiel nods once, smiling in what he hopes is a reassuring way before turning his attention to Sam.
This injury was his doing, and Dean is relying on him, so Castiel pours everything he has into Sam. He knits together every torn piece of flesh, he fills Sam's body with what blood he's lost, reinflates his lung, reconstructs a shattered rib, ensures there is no bruising, nothing where it shouldn't be, not even a scar. Once, fixing a human this way was a simple thing. Now it takes everything from Castiel, and more, but he holds on until he's sure everything is done. Perfectly fixed. Then Castiel lets go.
***
"...send it to my phone." A pause, and then Dean says, "Yeah, I know." He sounds resigned and exhausted and he's keeping his voice quiet.
The radio is turned on low and Castiel can just about make out the words of a song he's heard before over the Impala's engine and the shushing sound of tyres speeding along a wet road.
There's another pause before Dean says, "He's woken up a couple of times. No damage far as I can tell."
He's hearing half a conversation, Castiel realises. Dean must be on his cell phone.
"No," Dean says, and there's tension in his voice. "He's still breathing. That's something, right?"
Castiel wonders who Dean is talking about, and who he's talking to. There aren't many people Dean would call, the most likely of them in this car. Sam.
His presence is close by, sleeping peacefully, and Castiel is relieved.
Something, though, is making Dean on-edge. Castiel can hear it in the way Dean talks; carelessly, like it means nothing when it means everything. Short answers that don't give too much away. Dean is wary and distrustful, filled with an uneasiness Castiel doesn't understand.
This is Dean's car and Castiel has never known Dean to be anything other than soothed, warmed, made to feel secure, by it. Humans, Castiel thinks, are strange in the way they associate objects with emotion. But then, in the years since he first inhabited Jimmy's body Castiel has become fond of his coat. It was a constant when everything else changed. When he was losing his Grace it gave him warmth. When he was fighting the war in Heaven it reminded him of what he was fighting for. It's then that Castiel realises the familiar weight and smell of it is gone. There's the scratchiness and the old musty smell of the blanket he'd been covered with before instead. The smell is worse now, stronger. Castiel tries to push it away but finds his arms hurt when he tries to move them.
His brothers, Castiel remembers, and he can still feel the ghost of Ramiel's blade cutting across his wrist and Isda's sword embedded deep within his elbow, both shredding his already ragged Grace. If he continues this way, Castiel thinks, there will be nothing left of him.
Dean is saying, "I don't know what else to do, Bobby." He sounds lost, and Castiel can sympathise.
The sounds are growing dim and Castiel knows he's either falling asleep again or into unconsciousness. It's tedious, and he'd thought he had more strength than this, and as Dean's voice slips away Castiel realises he hadn't even opened his eyes.
Sam's voice is the next thing Castiel knows.
"...at some point. We can't drive forever, Dean."
This argument again. Castiel wishes he'd stayed asleep, but Sam's voice is urgent.
"I think we should try and get Cas to drink something. He looks like crap."
Castiel feels like crap too, and is sure the aching and the nausea wasn't this bad last time he awoke. His skin feels like it's crawling and Castiel has the sudden urge to scratch it all off. It's like his Grace is burning through his human boundaries, seeping out into the skin, and it's too hot and too confining.
"I'll stop for water," Dean allows. His voice is sharp, irritated, and Castiel wonders how long the brothers have been arguing. Castiel remembers it was still dark the last time he was awake, and now the sun is high, setting again.
"No, Dean," Sam presses. "We need to get out of these wet clothes. We need to clean Cas up. We need to eat real food. You need to sleep. You're gonna run us off the freaking road if you keep-"
"I'm not stopping," Dean cuts in.
There's a long pause, and Castiel hopes that perhaps he'll be able to rest now because he doesn't want the pain and the discomfort he can feel with increasing clarity. But then, more softly, Sam tries, "This isn't helping."
"You don't know that, Sam," Dean defends, then makes a frustrated sound. "I stop once. I take my eyes off you two for five fucking minutes and everything goes to hell. What do you expect me to think?"
It was bad luck, Castiel thinks he should tell them. Castiel's luck. Winchester luck.
The angels had been following for some time, searching Castiel out, wrapped in the guise of rain and thunder. Thunder had always been a friend of Ramiel.
Outside it's still raining. Castiel can hear the pattering of water against the windows, the whirring of the windscreen wipers, but the sky is silent. It's easier to listen to this than the clamour of the other angels in his head. There is anger and confusion and Castiel wishes he knew a way to make things right.
"I don't know, Dean," Sam says. "But we can't just drive around forever hoping that nothing catches up with us. You know something always does."
Sam sounds well, Castiel thinks. At least that was something he was able to fix. Like the Winchesters, Castiel isn't sure he could live with knowing he was responsible for his friends' deaths. Castiel has the desire then to see Sam, to see for himself that Sam is healed.
Opening his human eyes takes some effort and Castiel wonders if he'll ever again be as he was before; full of power such that even when his human eyes were closed he could still see, through time and across Earth and Heaven and into the Grace of his brothers and the souls of humans. After all he's seen, though that is a power Castiel doesn't regret losing.
Dean is arguing, "You give me some other idea of what the fuck we're supposed to do and I'll be glad to listen."
Castiel tries to blink away the blurriness and the front seat of the Impala comes into vision. There's the back of Dean's head, part turned away from the road.
The road ahead of them is deserted. It's impossible to see much of the sky where Castiel has been propped up in the corner of the backseat, but he imagines it to be filled with dark grey clouds promising more rain. There's a chill in the air that makes Castiel think there will be hail soon.
At the other end of the back seat, Sam has his jacket done up as far away as it will go and his hands are pushed deep into his pockets. Definitely alive and breathing and unharmed. He's scowling at the back of Dean's head.
"Stopping," Castiel offers, and finds his throat dry and soar. "Stopping will make no difference." The words come out as more of a cough but before Castiel has time to try speaking again the car is swerving and Dean is yelling, "Jesus fucking Christ, Cas!" At least this time the momentary loss is not so bad that Castiel topples over.
Beside him, Sam shoots Dean a frowning glare as his brother rights the car before he slides himself closer to Castiel's side. He lays a heavy hand against Castiel's arm and Castiel wants to shake it off because it is too hot and the weight of it is too much but Castiel holds himself still. He doesn't know why he's reacting this way. A hand should be nothing, even as a human.
"Hey," Sam smiles at him. "How you doing?"
"Fine," Castiel responds, because he's been worse. Sam looks doubtful, like he's waiting for more, so Castiel adds, "I don't like this blanket. It itches."
"Sorry man," Sam says apologetically. "It's the only one we have."
Castiel sighs, resigning himself to the discomfort until he can heal himself. If he can heal himself.
His clothes are still damp and Castiel grimaces at the half-dried cotton against his arms. One of the brothers must have taken off his shoes and socks, and Castiel flexes his toes. They're cold.
"Cas," Dean calls, and when he looks up Dean is frowning at him in his rear-view mirror. Castiel can only see his eyes but they are dark and tired and it makes Dean look far older than his years. "You need to stop doing shit like that."
For a long moment Castiel just looks at Dean before asking dryly, "Like saving Sam's life?"
"That's not what I mean and you know it," Dean snaps in reply.
"There was no time for anything else." And Castiel doesn't have the patience to justify his actions to Dean.
"You could've-"
"No, Dean," Castiel interrupts. "I knew what had to be done, I knew that I could, so I did. And you would have done exactly the same thing, given the opportunity."
It's only the truth, and from the way Dean looks away, back to the road, turns his head so that Castiel can no longer see his eyes, Dean knows it too.
He shifts in his seat and Castiel thinks Dean is working himself up to something. It's likely an argument neither of them wants to have.
"That why you went and got yourself pretty much killed by Raphael?" Dean says in a low voice. "Is that why you never asked us for help?"
"Maybe now isn't the time-" Sam tries.
"It's never gonna be the fucking time, Sam." Dean is angry, back stiff and shoulders set and Castiel wishes he had more strength to deal with this; human emotion that Castiel is still trying to understand both in himself and in those around him. He hates it very much. He hates that Dean refuses to see anything beyond his own world, where family is everything, where the Supernatural is the enemy. Castiel hates that Dean takes everything as a personal affront, and most of all Castiel abhors that for much of the time Dean won't listen.
"I'm not going to explain myself to either of you," Castiel tells them. Both the brothers are still alive and well, their world is intact, and for at least a while the threat of apocalypse is averted and Castiel really can't comprehend what more they could possibly ask for.
"Cas," Sam says and it sounds like a warning.
"So you don't care?" Dean's voice is cold, indignant. "You don't care that you screwed us over? That you fucking lied to us? You don't see anything wrong with that?"
Even like this, drained and over-warm and exhausted Castiel feels irritation, an anger at Dean that is all too familiar.
"I did what needed to be done. I don't regret that."
Castiel can see the disappointment on Sam's face and he turns away, letting his forehead rest against the cool glass of the window. It's a welcome relief, even if the vibrations make Castiel dizzy and maybe a little nauseous. Castiel didn't ask to be saved. He owes the Winchesters nothing. There are more important things to Castiel beyond the Winchesters. Except, that's not exactly true.
Dean is saying, "I don't know why I fucking bother. You never change."
"You once told me not to," Castiel reminds him. It's not hard to see that Dean is spoiling for a fight, but Castiel is not going to give him one. There is nothing to say.
Looking at the rain, at the reflection of his vessel in the window glass, a face he barely recognises, Castiel realises he can't feel his wings. They were so damaged in the fight with Raphael that Castiel knows he should be glad for the numbness but all he can think is that he'll never fly again. That he is Falling again, and this time there will be no going back.
Dean, it seems, will not be deterred, ignoring Castiel and going on, "You don't tell us what you're doing. You leave us to think you're not coming back, and you wouldn't have, would you? If me and Sam hadn't tracked you down you'd have died and never come back. We could have helped you."
They couldn't have, as far as Castiel can see, but Castiel knows Dean well enough to know that's not what he wants to hear. That that's not something he could ever accept.
"Dean," Castiel says and it's both exasperation and plea.
There's more to this than Dean feeling betrayed. Knowing Dean, it's likely guilt. Perhaps frustration and helplessness. Castiel understands these things, remembers them and the anger that followed.
"I get that we're only human," Dean starts, and it's at this point that Castiel decides he's heard enough. Instead, Castiel concentrates on trying to push away the blanket he still has wrapped around him because it's too hot and confining. The movement causes his elbow to hit the door and Castiel grits his teeth as pain shoots along his arm. He holds himself still, closing his eyes tightly and hoping it passes quickly. The continuous thrumming of the car is not helping.
Slowly, infinitely, the pain recedes and Castiel realises that Sam has a hand pressed lightly against his good arm and is telling Dean to shut up. "Cas, man, you okay?" he asks.
"This arm," Castiel admits and looks down at the useless thing, hidden under the blanket, blinking his eyes open because the light is too bright.
"I wrapped it up the best I could," Sam says. "Let me see."
He shuffles closer, peels the blanket away from the arm and for the first time Castiel can see where his arm is bandaged from wrist to elbow. Castiel wonders that he can't feel the bandages, but his skin is all crawling discomfort. Red stains have bled through where he was cut and stabbed, fresh blood that Castiel can smell. Beside him, Sam is frowning.
"I thought this had stopped," he mutters unhappily. Sam reaches to take Castiel's arm. All Castiel's instincts tell him to pull away, to not let Sam touch him, but he stays himself with a discipline he has learnt over thousands of years. No matter how gentle Sam is, it hurts when he curls his fingers around Castiel's forearm and draws it towards him.
"Sorry," Sam apologises. "I know this has got to hurt."
"It's fine," Castiel lies, because Sam is doing his best.
Dean snorts. "Yeah, right."
"It's fine because there is nothing that can be done about it," Castiel snaps with a vehemence he didn't intend, but he doesn't regret because he is sick of Dean's sniping. His head hurts and these human limbs ache and he's never felt so bad before, not even when he was human and Castiel wishes he had somewhere to go where he could just rest.
"Don't, Dean," Sam warns and Castiel is grateful for a moment, until Sam begins unwinding the bandages. Then there's just a lot of pain and if Castiel thought he felt terrible before, he feels even worse now.
"Dude," Sam says when he's unwrapped enough to reach skin. "Are you supposed to be this hot?" He adds quickly, "And no Dean, that is not a come on."
Leaning forward, Sam lays the back of his hand against Castiel's forehead. He's too close, Castiel thinks, and can't understand it because he doesn't remember ever feeling claustrophobic before. Still, the hand is cool, like the car window.
"Jesus," Sam swears. "You're burning up. That can't be normal."
"I feel very warm," Castiel informs Sam. He's not quite sure what Sam wants him to say but he thinks to ask if maybe they could open a window, or let him out of this blanket. It's shameful. It's intolerable, to be so weak he can't even throw off a length of fabric.
"Do you feel sick?" Sam asks.
Castiel has watched humans live and die with so many diseases and ailments, but he's never experienced them for himself. He has no comparison. "I don't know how that feels," he replies.
"Your head hurt? Your stomach feels weird maybe? Your limbs ache?" Sam frowns at Castiel's arm. "I guess that last one is a given. Cas, you gotta let us know what's wrong."
"And don't you dare say you're fine," Dean cuts in and Castiel closes his mouth, rethinks what he was about to say.
"Yes," he settles on.
Sam has returned to unwrapping the bandages from Castiel's arm and Castiel really wishes he hadn't. "Yes?"
"To all those. My head. There is... nausea. I'm very tired."
"It's gotta be infection." Sam is looking down at Castiel's wrist, lightly prodding at the long, straight cut, and Castiel hisses. "Sorry. Shit. I didn't even- I didn't think I needed to clean these."
"Can you clean it out?" Dean asks, and Castiel can't work out who he's talking to, but is thankful when Sam answers, "Yeah. Yeah. But we have to stop. Get supplies. Do this right."
Castiel is finding it hard to concentrate on what's going on. The thrumming of the car, welcome before, grates on his nerves now. He wants to fly away, to feel the cool wind across his Grace. His throat is dry and Castiel remembers that this is thirst.
In the next moment Sam is shaking his shoulder and calling his name and he's losing time again. He doesn't remember falling asleep. If that was asleep.
"He's not waking up." Sam sounds panicked about something.
The sun is lower in the sky now. Castiel can see it even with his eyes closed.
Dean's voice, then, and for once it doesn't sound angry. "What do we need?" he asks.
The next thing Castiel knows, Sam is pressing plastic against his lips and there is water. "Drink," Sam instructs, and Castiel obeys. The water cools his throat, but it feels heavy in his stomach. His human stomach. It hurts, and Castiel wonders why he hasn't healed whatever's wrong with him. He doesn't know why he can't see, why sound is muffled and distant, why his senses are confusing and disorganised and make no sense. His brothers are loud. He can't hear them. There's a demon seven miles away to the east. Dean is consumed with memories of Castiel's second death.
"We're gonna stop," Sam is telling him. "Cas, please wake up." The sun is lower in the sky, and Castiel can't remember why that matters. If it matters. "You gotta help us make it safe for us."
"There is no safe," Castiel manages. Of all beings, Castiel would have thought that Sam and Dean knew this. And his voice is strange. Not his voice. Someone else’s voice. A human voice.
"Not helping, Cas."
Castiel hears Dean speak, and he's close by, not in front of him as Castiel has become accustomed to, but somewhere beside him. The door is open, Castiel realises. They've stopped. The door is open and there is rain falling against his face. It's not cold enough, Castiel thinks.
"Fuck," Dean swears. The rain is gone, and when Castiel opens his eyes there is Dean hovering above him, a hand on his cheek. "You really weren't kidding. You think we should put him in the tub with ice or something?"
"No," Castiel protests. No matter how much he would like the burning to stop, he dislikes the sound of an ice bath even more. Heat, at least, is familiar. Hell is hot. Heaven is warmth. Was warmth.
"Sorry, dude," Dean says, and Castiel feels a hand against his neck. "You don't get a say."
Above Dean is a ceiling, paint peeling and plaster cracked, yellowed with age and cigarettes.
"We're not in your car," Castiel tells Dean. It's difficult to read the expression that crosses Dean's face, almost impossible when Castiel can't focus with his human eyes. Instead, he reaches out with his Grace and understands that Dean is worried. That Dean is afraid he's watching Castiel die again.
"I'm not dying," Castiel reassures him, and Dean pulls his hand away.
"You can't heal but you can read my mind?" Dean's voice is cold, but he is thinking that he is glad Castiel at least has something angel left in him.
"I couldn't see with these eyes," Castiel explains. "I wanted to see."
"You can't- Oh, Jesus," Dean starts. He turns his head away, sitting up. Castiel can't see but he can tell from the way Dean redistributes his weight on the bed beneath them, at the way the mattress moves and creaks. "Sam," he calls, "Hurry up in there."
There is water running, the sound echoing off porcelain, and Castiel finds Dean's arm, tries to tell him, "I don't like the cold."
"Yeah," Dean agrees, but Castiel knows he's unsympathetic. He's thinking better to be cold than dead. "I hate the cold too."
"I'm not dying," Castiel insists.
"I'd believe that more if you didn't have a temperature of, like, five hundred degrees, and if half the crap coming out of your mouth wasn't in some language even Sam's never heard before."
Castiel has no memory of speaking anything other than English. He wonders what he was saying.
In front of him, Dean is a blur of colours. He bends closer to Castiel. "You know what I'm thinking, right?" he asks quietly. Castiel can see that Dean is imagining looking for Castiel, after that night when they had gone their separate ways. There were omens, and there is a memory where Dean is looking at reports of death and disaster and trying not to wonder if he'll have to kill Castiel. He doesn't know if he could ever really do it. Everything they've done together, and everything they've lost, and Dean doesn't want it to end like this. "So don't let it," Dean says.
And Castiel promises he won't.
Part 3 >>
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