Supernatural- "The Law of Conservation of Energy" (Ch 2)
Two
Castiel steps effortlessly into the world in between and shakes out his wings, all too familiar with the sensations that come with going from vessel to incorporeal form by now. He suspects that he is more familiar, more practiced, in this act than any angel before him. He automatically tucks Jimmy’s body safely inside of himself with a thought as he shifts into Death’s domain, as easy as taking one coat off and exchanging it for another. He blinks once, eases onto the reapers’ road more fully, and opens his eyes-both those that humans can see and those they cannot- to take in his surroundings. The facsimile of the mortal realm is a fair approximation of what he had just now left behind, a dingy building in an overcrowded ghetto where people had been yelling cheerful slurs in drunken Cantonese at each other over a game involving tiles while drinking cheap rice wine with an odor sharp enough to burn his vessel’s nostrils. Castiel can still see and hear the movements of the living here, can squint and view the whole Earth just as he always has been able. The only difference is that when he is here, the things he sees are no more than reflections of reality; images of light on glass that are bright and visible but for the moment, also untouchable because of the barrier of dimensions is a closed window between them.
It is peaceful somehow, in its own way, to be in the world but at the same time apart from it, not weighed down by his awareness of or concern for mortal life but walking-for the moment-far, far above it.
But that moment is gone quickly, disrupted by the very sound of one of those mortals dying in the immediate distance. It grabs Castiel’s attention and wrenches him sharply from the sensation of being apart through the unwelcome tones of an EKG monitor announcing a medically induced heart attack. It claims, however momentarily, the life of the person on the other side of the door Castiel is standing in front of in the long, lonely hallway.
When the door opens a few moments later it is the face of Dean’s soul that greets him. Castiel frowns into the room behind Dean and sees the body he has left behind inside, as it lies beside the squirrely back alley doctor who times Dean’s death on a cheap wristwatch while holding the paddles to the defibrillator that he will use to restart Dean’s heart several minutes hence. It will be unnecessary as far as Castiel is concerned, but then again, all of this is.
“Well?” Dean asks when he finds himself face to face with the angel. He glances around, somewhat anxiously. Castiel resists the urge to reach out and touch him, to send him forcibly back to his body and away from here. He does not like to see Dean this way.
Dean seems to read his thoughts and snorts. “I’m staying, Cas,” he rumbles defiantly as he shuts the door behind him with a sharp slam.
“I don’t require your help to speak with Death,” Castiel answers him darkly, half irritated that Dean mistrusts him enough now to think that he requires constant supervision and half frenzied at the sight of Dean being-for all intents and purposes-dead before him. Again.
And this time, because of him.
It is a deeply unsettling thing for Castiel to behold, because this, despite everything, has always been the one thing Castiel has been fighting so fervently to avoid above all else. Everything that has led them here comes from his desire for Dean to survive, more than the rest of humanity, more than the world, more than himself and all the angels in Heaven combined. Funny, then, that Castiel’s actions have only led to Dean insisting that he die. Maybe not funny. He doesn’t feel the need to laugh.
“Stop making that face. I’m already here so it’s not worth arguing about,” Dean barks at him, eyes flashing impatience. “Let’s just get a move on, before I really bite it.”
Castiel does not move. “I realize you no longer trust me, but you must at least believe that I do not wish to see you dead, even for a minute.” Pause. Sigh. “And I would not allow you to permanently die on that man’s table.”
Dean scowls and crosses his arms. “Well then quit worrying. The sooner we find Death, the sooner you can resuscitate me or whatever.” Dean makes a face. “Though I’m just gonna throw this out there, man. If you’d been the one to kill me in the first place, you coulda saved me a couple hundred bucks.”
“I will not kill you,” Cas snaps back, feeling the familiar edge of fury creeping into his tone at Dean’s odd demands on him. “You should know by now that I would never agree to end your life. Especially for something as superfluous as your presence here.”
Dean shifts. “Well I don’t think it is, so just humor me, okay? I want to know exactly what the hell you’re getting up to in here. No more sneaky deals, Cas. We’re doing everything out in the open.”
“You do not need to watch over my every action in this way, Dean,” Castiel repeats anyway, quieter now, but with a surprising sensation of hurt behind the words.
Dean frowns back at him and either doesn’t care that Castiel is wounded by his actions or is actually taking some satisfaction from it. “Yeah well, I didn’t need anyone watching my every move either, but you did it all last year anyway, didn’t you?” he throws back at the angel, without hesitation. They stare intently at each other in the hallway as those words draw a line in the dirt between them for a moment, before Castiel realizes that they are wasting time and that this is not new to Dean, this sensation of simultaneous loyalty and mistrust. It is, at the very least, something Castiel knows can be fixed between himself the human standing before him, if Dean does indeed consider him family. All it will take is time and the appropriate effort on Castiel’s part, as it had with Sam before him. At least, this is what the angel tells himself to keep hope alive, as he had been forced to do what seems a lifetime ago, when his grace had been waning and every corner of the Earth failed to reveal even the slightest glimpse of his Father. He had to believe then as well, or despair would have overtaken him and laid him flat-useless- in times of need.
The angel tears his eyes from Dean’s and for a second, feels a strange sympathy for Sam, who had stood in these very circumstances not so long ago, who always seems to be standing at the precipice of falling into them time and time again. Castiel supposes it’s good that he can still feel things like that. That he remembers.
“We should find Death,” he says eventually, eyes trained on the tops of his shoes as he turns and makes his way down the corridor before Dean can say anything else hurtful or already acknowledged simply for the chance to land Castiel a blow. As it stands, the frown lines at the edges of Dean’s lips say more than enough.
“Yeah. Just look for the reaper,” Dean murmurs at Castiel’s back, the illusion of his boots making the illusion of sound echo down the narrow hallway as he stubbornly pushes past the angel to the top of the staircase. He gives Castiel one last, unreadable look out of the corner of his eyes before plowing down the steps towards the ground floor. Castiel faithfully follows. “She usually shows up right about…”
Castiel finds himself having to reach forward to catch Dean by the back of his shirt when he abruptly runs into Dean’s back after the human inexplicably comes to a full stop at the base of the next landing. Dean would not really fall in this place, but Castiel suspects Dean would still feel the sensation of falling, which is disconcerting enough for any mortal, let alone one who is so recently dead. Castiel gently pulls his weight backwards, until Dean regains his balance again and can stand without falling down the final eight steps. Once settled on his own feet again, Dean hastily shrugs the angel’s hand from his back with a muffled sound of irritation-or gratitude, because for Dean they often sound similar- as he stares at the entity now before them, waiting at the foot of the stairs.
“Dean. Castiel,” Tessa says, and nods up at them in irate, but resigned greeting.
For a moment, the reaper’s voice is enough to make an angel still as well. He does not like her. She has always seemed unduly determined to collect Dean’s soul.
“Hey, Tessa,” Dean manages after a minute, sounding calm enough in the face of a messenger of death. Even still, Castiel sees it when Dean’s body leans forward slightly and to his right, feet shifting just enough to place himself more firmly between the reaper and the angel, instinctively protective. “Long time no see,” Dean adds, with a small upturning of his mouth that either means he is pleased to see her or that he takes amusement in the fact that she is probably displeased to find him before her again.
“I’m sick of seeing you so often, to be honest,” she answers plainly, because reapers have no need to play the little games humans do with their words and their looks and their strange actions. Dean’s amusement turns slightly more genuine upon hearing that, and he finishes descending the final flight of stairs in order to return to the noisy storefront. Castiel finds himself irritated that Dean shows so little wariness in the presence of the pretty reaper simply because she has become a familiar face to him now.
“Well, if you can go get us your boss, I’ll be out of your hair quick,” Dean tells her with a charming grin and a twinkle in his eye, while Castiel continues to loom menacingly behind him. The reaper notices, but does not seem appropriately intimidated by the angel’s glare or his impressive wingspan.
“Easy there, angel,” is all she says, holding both hands up in a placating manner. “Death is waiting. I’m just here to take you to your meeting.” She manages a slightly amused smile. “I know for us, Winchesters are okay to look at, but not to touch.”
Dean snorts and pushes on to the door. “All right, so where is he?”
“Having lunch,” Tessa shrugs, and Castiel feels it when she uses her power to bend the world around them just so, and they step toward the store’s doorway with a tinkling of a bell.
Once through, instead of on a street outside, they find themselves in a restaurant inside, where Death sits at an elegantly set, candlelit table, slowly sawing at a piece of bloody steak with a look of delicious anticipation on his face.
Death must notice their arrival, because even as he doesn’t look at them, the corner of his thin lips quirk ever so slightly upwards. “Dean. Castiel. Have a seat,” he says, and finally cuts clean through the first chunk of his meal. “Tessa, you may go.”
She bows and silently fades from the room as Death takes the moment to savor his first bite of grilled animal flesh, chewing it slowly, shutting his eyes, making an exaggerated expression of enjoyment. Castiel wonders if this display of humanity is for Dean’s sake or for his.
“Neither,” Death murmurs, eyeing Castiel like he is no more than a naïve child who needs everything carefully explained to him. Castiel bristles instinctively at the implication, but then remembers that before him sits the one being more powerful than God. He forces himself to quell his irritation.
Death smirks back, as if he knows exactly what the angel is thinking. “I really do enjoy a good steak every now and again, you know. In this day and age I find it has become my weapon of choice, really. Heart disease, high cholesterol, obesity, excess. It makes my job much easier. This modern day and age makes my job easier. And so I find I have more time to enjoy the little things.”
Beside him, Dean snorts. “What, so you’re saying now there’s an app for you?”
The words don’t seem to make sense to either Death or Castiel, and so go without response. Instead, Death pauses to sip at a wineglass and gestures to the two chairs opposite him again. “Please. Sit.”
Even as he says it politely, the words do not feel like a request. Cautiously, Dean hooks the toe of a boot around one of the chair legs and pulls it out before sliding into it. He gives Castiel a look that implores him to do the same. Castiel wordlessly takes a seat, watching Death carefully the whole time. Death doesn’t seem to care.
“So, what is it I can do for you this time?” Death asks Dean instead, perfectly amicably but with an edge in his voice that means he is not amused by this visitation, this open trespassing within the realm he rules. He eyes Castiel again, knife in hand, sawing at the grain of his meat. It oozes blood and grease onto the plate below and Castiel feels the thought of red meat make something in his human memory salivate and something else in his grace rebel. “Have you come to barter an angel to me for another favor?”
Dean bristles. “Like hell.”
Death smirks. “Why not? You seem rather put off by him at the moment. I could take him off your hands if you wish, easily enough. Angels used to be a rather rare commodity for me and mine, but lately it seems like they’re leaves in the wind.” Pause. “Though I suppose this one is special. I nearly had him twice already but then…” he snaps his fingers. “Gone every time. Just like that.” Sigh. “Just like a Winchester, actually.”
“Yeah well, you’re not getting Cas,” Dean reiterates, and the ferocity behind it in Death’s own face makes Castiel simultaneously rejoice and fear that Death will not take this lack of respect very well. Dean is often the only one who can evoke such contrasting emotions in Castiel, over and over again.
Dean clears his throat. “We’re just here for some information, and then we’ll be out of your hair.”
“Oh by all means then, trespass on my home, make trouble in the balance of life and death, spit in Fate’s face, and then ask me whatever you want. I’m all for helping you when I can, Dean Winchester,” Death drawls, cutting into his steak again, very calmly. “Especially when you bring me the one angel in all creation that is causing me almost as much trouble as you and your brother.”
Dean looks accusatorily at Cas. “Cas, you been giving Death trouble?”
“This is the first time I have seen him in person,” Castiel insists.
“Oh yes, and a war between Heaven and Hell over Purgatory has no bearing on what I do,” Death says, the brittle edges of his voice growing sharper still. “Because I don’t have to attempt to maintain a balance between the three despite all of your best efforts to destroy one another like spiteful children.”
“Yeah well, we’re working on that,” Dean says. “Cas is going to end it.”
An arched eyebrow. “Oh? And that’s what you need me for?”
“Your information,” Castiel clarifies. “I would not expect a neutral entity to take a side in this war.”
“And how is giving you information maintaining neutrality?”
“You may see fit to give it to anyone who asks you for it,” Castiel says. “The fact that we have simply asked first shows no particularity on your part.”
“Comforting,” Death murmurs, and puts his knife and fork down. “All right then, what information are you looking for, Castiel?”
Castiel looks Death in the eye. “We wish for you to tell us where angels go when they die.”
Death actually smirks at that. “Shouldn’t you be the expert?”
Castiel hesitates. “I believe both instances of my demise were too brief to experience or recall any sort of angelic afterlife, if there is indeed such a thing,” he says. “And my second death was as a human.”
“Well, you were a bit of a special case in both instances,” Death concedes eventually.
“And no one less special than Cas has come back to give us the lowdown,” Dean interrupts. “So that leaves you. I mean, you can reap God, so clearly you’re the guy with the highest level clearance on this stuff.”
Death almost laughs at Dean. “So you’ve killed yourself to ask me an existential question? That’s rather comedic.”
“I told him his presence was not required here,” Castiel intones again.
Dean glares at them both. “Well if you’d just tell us, we could get the hell out of here and let you get back to lunch. Would be a shame to waste a cut of ribeye like that.”
Death contemplates the suggestion and eventually seems to find the reasoning behind it sound enough, despite the source. “Everywhere,” he says, after what feels like a very long time of swirling the wine around in his cup.
Castiel and Dean share a rather confused look. Castiel wonders if sharing these types of things with a human also makes him, officially, Heaven’s stupidest angel.
“Everywhere what?” Dean asks, not bothering to hide how little that makes sense to him.
“When an angel dies,” Death repeats, slowly, “it goes everywhere.”
Dean blinks. Castiel contemplates this.
“It’s like watching a star explode at the end of a galaxy,” Death murmurs, voice vaguely far off. “All the base components it was comprised of suddenly separate, flying off in every possible direction, in the air, the dirt, the water, sometimes even into the life forms around them. They ripple outward with energy, as far as the violence and power behind their death sees fit to take them. Wherever they land, these components remain until they slowly decompose, reabsorbed into Heaven to begin the cycle anew.”
Dean blinks. “So angels…go to Heaven when they die?”
Death’s gaze on him is like a laser point of disdain. “Most of the components will make their way back to their point of origin as a source of energy, much as your human body will one day become nothing more than insect excrement to fertilize the grass. But bits and pieces of grace might get stuck along the way-preserved like a mummy, if we are going to continue to liken this to the decomposition of a human- and meld with the Earth like a residue rather than fall into the regular cycle of life and death in Heaven.”
Castiel frowns, tilting his head sideways as he absorbs this. “Is it possible to capture this loose energy that does not return to heaven?”
Death shrugs. “The pieces would be too small to make the effort worth it, I’d imagine. Your kind explodes very well, from what I’ve been able to observe thus far.”
“What about for an archangel?” Dean pushes. “They’re…bigger, or whatever, right?”
Death considers this. “An archangel has never died before Gabriel,” he admits. “Usually they are impossible to kill, which was why Lucifer was thrown into the Pit instead of destroyed for defying God’s will. But you are correct on that front; from what I know of the archangels’ creation-and God did like to show those of his toys off more than any other- the shock of something as large as an archangel’s grace being reabsorbed into Heaven all at the same time would overload the system, in a manner of speaking.” He sighs then, and fiddles absently with a corner of his napkin. “I will admit that if nothing else, God was a brilliant engineer. There is a failsafe on the offhand chance that an archangel would die, which is, I suppose, what you have somehow managed to stumble upon with your tiny monkey brains.”
Dean scowls.
“Or Sam, I’m guessing,” Death continues, nonplussed by both Castiel and Dean’s umbrage at his remarks. Castiel is slightly cowed at not having thought of this option himself, in retrospect. He wants to blame it on the fact that his universe has since narrowed to a point upon first pulling Dean from Hell, and he has never been able to see past the immediacy of that since. At the same time, an angel thinking like a human during a war with other angels seems incredibly stupid; he is surprised he has somehow managed to make it this far doing so.
“In any case,” Death continues, eyes trained on Castiel, “the failsafe seems to work in your favor this time. An archangel’s grace would not return at once to Heaven; it shatters, just like the others do, but lays dormant for a time, until it is faded enough that it can be reabsorbed into the universe without hurting the system with more energy than it is used to processing at once. I suppose it’s not unlike how you humans store nuclear waste when you bury it underground until enough time has passed for the radiation levels to die down to an acceptable level.”
Castiel frowns. “So the pieces of Gabriel’s grace are lying dormant until they are weak enough to return to Heaven without causing us pain.”
“For the time being,” Death agrees. “I suspect you shouldn’t have to wait very long until they are ready to return home, however. It has been some time since I took him, after all.”
Castiel turns to Dean, vaguely panicked at the thought. “Dean,” he intones, “we must hurry then, or the grace will reintegrate into Heaven, and will only provide a greater amount of fuel for both armies to feed off of.”
Dean balks. “Yeah, I get that. But how many friggin’ pieces are there? How long will this take?” He crosses his arms impatiently. “I mean, will this still work if we only get half of them?”
“It is unlikely,” Castiel surmises. It is true Gabriel had been considerably older and more powerful than Raphael, but it does not mean Raphael lacks strength. Half of Gabriel’s grace would be a boost, but not likely enough to give Castiel a permanent advantage against a full-fledged archangel.
“Seven pieces,” Death interrupts, when he seems to grow bored of watching Castiel think. “Your Father created angels with seven base components. When grace shatters, it breaks down into these basic pieces, like stars exploding into their atomic elements.”
“The seven principles with which God created us all,” Castiel agrees, while Dean just looks confused. “It is strongest in the archangels, his first true children.”
“Okay then. Seven’s not so bad,” Dean breathes, seemingly more to reassure himself than Castiel. “So that means we’re doing this.”
Death stands to leave, wiping his fingertips clean with his napkin. “I suppose you are. Though, one final word of warning, because I am feeling generous after such a wonderful meal,” he adds with a smile that is more grim than anything else. “If our little angel here wishes to upgrade his battery to the new and improved archangel sized model, I would recommend getting rid of the old one first. An archangel’s grace and Castiel’s original-and somewhat undersized- essence fighting for dominance within the same angel would not, I surmise, bode well for our friend here. Especially since there is no way his grace would win that battle. Taking into account what I know of God’s tendencies as an engineer, chances are that a fight of that magnitude would just make poor little Castiel explode. For, what, is it the third time now? I can never keep up with you Winchesters and your many inexplicable resurrections.” He waves a hand dismissively before donning his hat and turning to go. “Wonderful seeing you boys again,” he drawls somewhat ironically, before heading towards the door.
“Wait!” Dean calls after him, clearly not satisfied with this advice as he leaps to a standing position at the table, full of bluster and incomprehension. “So, what, you’re saying everything we do, all that work, and all it could get us is a dead angel in the end? How the hell do we keep him from exploding?”
Death looks at his watch. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You’re nothing if not imaginative in all the ways you have learned how to avoid me over time. Goodbye, Dean, Castiel,” he says, and pushes through the door without so much as a pause or a backwards glance. The tinkling of the small bells hanging over the restaurant’s exit and Dean’s huffed indignation are all that can be heard in the room in the moments immediately following Death’s departure from it.
Eventually, Dean turns to Castiel, looking a mixture of enraged and stricken. “So what, we do your magical archangel parts quest and you could just explode again because you can’t handle the juice? There’s got to be another way, man.”
Castiel doesn’t believe there is, not at this point. So rather than answer, the angel focuses on the ticking of a cheap wristwatch some distance away, and the growing panic of a pasty old man in an illegal back alley clinic as the defibrillator paddles in his hands once again fail to resuscitate a patient who has been dead on his table for more than eight minutes now.
Wordlessly, the angel reaches out and presses warm fingertips to Dean’s forehead.
BACK// NEXT// MASTERPOST