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Chapter Text

“Castielle!” Mirabel called her. “Castielle, we have to go.”

“Be right out.” she told her, but it was a lie.

It cleaved Castielle’s heart each time she lied. She didn’t like doing it, but she had no choice.

She couldn’t go out like this.

The room around her was glum. The only light was sunlight from a man-sized window, falling onto the mattress on the floor, the creaky black floor boards and the three-foot-tall mirror leaning against the wall.

Her eyes met those in the mirror, and she looked closer at them.

Cornflower blue.

She recognized the colour.

She watched at the pupils dilated when she moved in and out of light. How they followed her when she moved her head.

It sent a chill up her spine.

She diverted her gaze away from the eyes, lower, to the lips.

They were perfect; soft, glossed and naturally pink.

She reached up and touched the skin on her cheek bones. It was soft, and smooth. Flawless.

In fact, everything about this face was flawless.

But it wasn’t hers.

“Not mine,” she saw the lips moving in the reflection.

The eyes were hers, the mouth was hers, the nose, the forehead—but the sum of everything amounted to a figure that was distinctly not hers. It looked like an ill-fated piece of clothing with some areas disproportionately large and flowing, and others too constrictive.

“Castielle?” she was called again, “Ishim is waiting for us, sister, we have to go.”

She dropped her hand and stood back up.

This wasn’t important. She wasn’t here on a mission. Her concerns could be dealt with later; they weren’t higher than God’s work.

“Just one moment,” she said, and fixed the cap she was wearing, and then the hems of the dress.

Later, she told herself, turning away from the reflection. The more she would look at it, the worse it would get. so she did what humans did. If she couldn’t see it, it wasn’t there.

She could deal with this later, when she had enough time to waste in front of a mirror.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped out of the small room.

Chapter Text

She knew she had a mission; a destiny. A task assigned by god himself. Every angel had that, an assignment that was greater than all others.

Castielle had one too, but it was different from the other’s. In her core, she knew that her mission wasn’t a journey, or a fight. It was something else.

Something she wished she knew.

Castielle sighed, and unbuttoned the coat.

Her feet were muddy, and her dress felt too tight for her to be able to breathe properly in. No, it wasn’t the corset, it was the layers of fabric over it. They were a constant reminder to her that she was in a vessel. This body wasn’t hers. And the thought that she was wearing more than just the clothes constricted her breath.

Too many layers.

She wanted them off—no, she needed them off. As soon as she could.

“Castielle?” Mirabel called her name, and she turned to look at her.

“Yes?”

Her sister didn’t look up from the crocheting she was observing, but she pointed to the window behind Castielle.

She turned to see two grim-looking men pressed against the glass.

She clenched her jaw.

“You should be careful, Castielle,” Mirable murmured, and she rolled her eyes at that.

“I am not undressed,” she went to draw the curtains, dousing the room in darkness. “yet.”

“Mankind is lecherous,” Mirable said, and Castielle heard her put the crocheting down, “Our job is to save them from the fire, not to feed them to it. Their unclean thoughts add to their sins.”

Castielle knew that. She had been frequently lectured about it.

“I apologize.” She nodded.

“I forgive you, sister.” Mirable nodded.

With a replying nod, Castielle made her way to the smaller room, with the mirror. There were cleaner clothes there. Maybe some of them would be her style?

“Be safe, sister.” Mirable said, just when Castielle closed the door.

She sighed, and drew the curtains before she took the coat off, followed by the blouse, and the skirts, until she was down the bottoms and the corset.

The air on her skin felt good; clean.

She took the hat off and let her hair down. It fell down and spread on her shoulders, tickling her back. Like ghost fingers trailing on her skin.

Castielle shivered at that.

She reached up and put her hair in a bun. That should keep it away from herself.

Herself…

That felt so wrong.

This was a vessel. Not herself.

Herself was an ancient cosmic being, the size of the tallest mountains. A small clay figurine with a pulse wasn’t her.

Castielle looked down at the body she was wearing.

It wasn’t hers. It was a chaste woman—a Novak—who had offered it for her.

Castielle admired the woman for that.

But that was just about it.

Castielle looked at her body in the mirror by the wall again.

It was dark in the room; the light was dimmer than it was out in the parlor, and even then, these she was, a striking contrast against the dark background.

With the clothes off, Castielle could see the curves of her body, how they were perfectly proportional and appealing to one’s eye.

This vessel must have many suitors, was Castielle’s first thought.

And the one that followed was that if she was a man she would’ve suited her too.

Then it struck her…

The five words…

If she was a man…

But she wasn’t… she wasn’t a woman either, she was an angel.

The person she looked at in the mirror wasn’t her.

“That’s not me.” she told herself aloud, for she needed to hear it.

“Who?” Came Mirabel’s voice from outside and Castielle quickly got up.

“Nobody.” She lied again, and it hurt her. It hurt her so bad to lie.

Chapter Text

Ever since then, Castielle didn’t look in the mirror.

She told herself that it was invasion of her vessel’s privacy; she was a female, and it was her right. It was wrong to possess her and then not be mindful about her presence.

But that wasn’t it, and Castielle knew it.

If it was just a matter of privacy, she wouldn’t be feeling the way she was right now as she washed herself in the bathroom.

They had just come back from a mission—there were some out of line demons that needed to be dealt with as soon as possible—and Castielle was covered in gore and mud. She had discarded the clothes as soon as possible, but the slimy feeling wouldn’t go away until she was washed.

As usual, she decided to wait until it was dark, so that she didn’t have to look at herself. Once the sun went down, she stepped out and went around the small house to the bath-place that was just behind it. It was a small wooden room, with a barrel of water for use.

The barrel was full when she came in.

In the dark, she had to feel her way to the hooks on the door to hang her clothes on. Once they were all safe and away, she made her way bare footed to the water and dipped her arm in it to get the can they used to take the water out with. She found it at the very bottom, and pulled it out.

That was the easy part of the whole ordeal.

The next part was what caused Castielle to gag.

She poured the water over herself, and felt it trickle down her shoulder, to her stomach and then down her legs to the floor.

She shivered, and it wasn’t just because of the cold.

She could feel it, this body—the vessel. She could feel every inch of the skin. The goosebumps on it. She could feel the blood rushing under it, the air rapidly going in and coming out. She could feel it all.

This wasn’t her.

But it felt like her.

It felt wrong.

“Not me.” she reminded herself, her voice barely audible.

Her eyes welled up. The cup dropped from he hands, and she gripped the sides of the barrel. The wood cut into her hands…

Even the voice wasn’t hers.

Not mine, she reminded herself. This wasn’t hers. None of it was.

She was just wearing it; this was a vessel.

A whimper left her mouth, and she closed her eyes.

The air around her was getting thin.

She needed to get away from this vessel. It was harming her. It was hurting her. It was a wrong choice. God made a wrong—

“No!” she stopped herself.

God never made wrong choices. He chose this vessel or her for a reason. A greater purpose. A…

Warm drops from her eyes mixed with the cold ones on her cheek.

This was a punishment. For what, she didn’t know, but it was. God—her own father—had put her in this body— the body that suffocated her, and burned her grace—to punish her.

The hair fell forward on her face, sticking to the wet skin. It felt like maggots crawling on her face.

“Off!!!” She commanded it, pulling it away from her skin.

She threw it away, and it stuck to her back.

Still here, it seemed to say, crawling on her skin like snakes.

“No,” she gathered it all up again and yanked at it, “No!”

The pain of the hair being pulled seared her scalp. But it wouldn’t come off. It was stuck.

She was stuck. She needed it gone. She needed it away. She pulled harder, and a strangled sound escaped her lips.

That sound wasn’t her own. It was foreign. And it was suffering.

Castielle loosened her grip. She was harming the vessel.

“I’m sorry!” she told it, still holding the hair away from herself. It was pathetic.

She was pathetic. Stuck in the body of a woman who didn’t deserve to be treated like this, crying in the bathing-place, unable to breathe, unable to call out for help, unable to get away, unable to escape.

She fell on her knees, her hands falling limp beside her.

She was pathetic, and she mourned that.

The vessel shook as it mourned with her.

Chapter Text

It didn’t get better after that.

Castielle knew that when she was doing it, she was falsely blaming the vessel for what she was feeling. The poor woman had done nothing. She was peacefully asleep, and had devoted her body to be used by the angel.

It was Castielle herself who was the problem.

She was the one who felt uncomfortable in this skin. She felt like a thief in it. This body didn’t belong to her, and still here she was, using it.

Her siblings noticed the change in her demeanor.

She refused to talk unless necessary, for she didn’t want to hear this voice. She never let the hair down, even to brush it, because it disgusted her. She turned the mirror in her little room away, so she didn’t have to look into it. She kept her arms on her sides, so that she didn’t have to feel the curves of the body in any way.

Now, she was just waiting.

Waiting to be called back to heaven, away from this body—to freedom, to peace.

Any day now, she told herself. Any day the orders would come, and her punishment would be over.

With that, she took a deep breath. The vessel needed to be returned safe and sound, and that meant that she needed to breathe. The air rushing into the foreign lungs that were inside her made her skin crawl, but this was necessary.

She scanned her surroundings again to distract her from her thoughts.

It was all perfect; methodical and flawless, exactly as god had commanded it to be. the water of the river rushed in its directed direction, not one drop out-of-place. The leaves rustles in the wind, adding the white noise, not one of them louder than the other, or different from the other.

There was peace and harmony.

The calm was in striking contrast to the calamity inside her.

“Castielle?” Mirabel called her, disturbing the calm.

She had definitely been sent here by their superiors.

Castielle sat on the rock at a river bank, her coat laying discarded by her side. She wasn’t wearing the skirts anymore; pants made her feel more comfortable. They didn’t flow around her, like the dresses did. They didn’t remind her of the gender of the vessel she was wearing. Her toes were still occasionally being kissed by the running water, and the wind with the petrichor felt good.

Castielle felt good.

And then Mirabel interrupted again.

“Sister,” she addressed her, “I have been looking for you.”

“I apologize.” She replied, not really meaning it. The roar of the water drowned the voice so she couldn’t hear it if she didn’t pay attention, and she kept her attention at the bank.

She could feel Mirabel standing over her shoulder; her presence was made her straighten her back. She knew Mirabel was going to comment on her clothing; say that it was improper and he need to look like a proper human so that no one is suspicious of her.

Iit was coming. Sooner or later, it was coming.

“It’s alright, I have found you now. It’s quite a spot that you chose, I must say. Quiet and peaceful.”

Castielle nodded, and her eyes once again scanned the trees on the other side of the river, deep green and brown, waving in the winds.

“I admire these places God has made.” She told her sister, and earned an approving hum.

“He has created everything in its finest form, complete and perfect. He never made anything flawed.”

Castielle looked down at her feet.

God had created everything perfect, and yet here she was; sitting by the waters, trying to drown her thoughts in them instead of being thankful. She was ashamed of herself.

“Are you only here to admire the view, sister?” she asked Mirabel. Maybe she would understand that Castielle needed to be left alone.

“I am here to talk to you, Castielle.”

Just what she didn’t want her to do.

“We,” Mirabel continued, “the garrison, have noticed you in distress.”

Castielle denied.

Her nails dug into the flesh of her palm.

Mirabelle sighed, and sat down by her on the rock.

“You know that it has been effecting your work.” It was posed like a question. Castielle knew that it wasn’t. “You have been distracted, Castielle, and it is undesirable. Is it the planet? Is Earth not suiting you?”

“It is not the planet.” That was a truth. It was herself. The grass, the trees, the sky, the sand—it all had nothing to do with her distress.

“Then?” Mirabel inquired.

Then what? Castielle thought. Then only that she was unworthy of being called an angel.

“It’s the vessel.” She told Mirabel. A half lie. Better than a full one.

Mirabel turned to look at her.

“Is it flawed, Castielle?” she asked. “Is there an injury?”

Castielle shook her head. The only thing flawed or injured was herself.

“Then what?”

“It’s not mine.”

There. She had said it. This body wasn’t hers. It didn’t belong to her. It was someone else. This wasn’t Castielle, this was someone else.

“Sister.” Mirabel looked like she had been told that Lucifer had been freed, “Do you realize what you’re saying?”

That was the whole problem. Castielle did realize what she was saying.

This vessel had been chosen for her. It had been saved for her, to be possessed and be used in the way of God. And by saying that it wasn’t hers—

“You’re being ungrateful,” Mirabel completed the thought, “and that is a sin! We, sister, are angels. We are pure. We do not sin. You’re a step away from blasphemy.”

Castielle closed her eyes.

Hearing someone say what had been going on her head made the storm inside her worse.

She knew it.

She knew what she was doing. She knew what she was feeling and what it was leading her to, and she was reminded of it every time she looked at her hands, or picked clothing, or talked to a person, or did anything—anything at all. Her whole existence was a constant reminder what she was heading for.

And she didn’t need to be reminded of it again.

“Castielle?” Mirabel’s voice was a distant ringing bell, “Are you listening to me?”

No, she thought, no!

She didn’t want to listen to Mirabel. She needed out. she needed relief, peace, serenity—not this.

No.

“Castielle?” Mirabel put a hand on the vessel’s shoulder.

No.

In that moment, she hated herself; her whole existence, her choices, her appearance, her feelings—

“Castielle?” Mirabel called again.

And her name.

That name…

It kept reminding her that she looked like a female. That she was in this vessel of a woman. She wasn’t a woman, she was an Angel, yet still, here she was.

She hated it all.

And that was going to be cause of her fall.

She could already feel her wings start to burn.

“Very well,” Mirabel got up, “I will talk to Isham about this, Sister, please know that.”

Castielle didn’t reply. She already knew she was to be one of the fallen. She will be called back, and she willed be sent back to Earth, as a human.

Then she would be stuck forever.

This was her fate, her destiny. She could see it right in front of her.

It took her a lot more than it did before to calm herself down.

Chapter Text

Mirabel didn’t talk to Isham at all.

Castielle didn’t knew why but she liked to believe it was because Mirabel thought it was just a phase, and it would pass.

Mirabelle, a few days later confirmed that, when she said “some angels do go through that. Being in a vessel is confining, and the human limitations makes it hard to be an angel.” She also added that she would get used to it, but Castielle herself didn’t see that happening anytime soon.

Or even later for that matter, but she didn’t want to think that. Being hopeless was a sin, and she was already doing enough of those.

This wasn’t just confining; it was absolute disgust, that made Castielle want to tear this vessel of herself.

To make it worse, the dysphoria got worse each passing day. everything that reminded her of being in the vessel made her want to rip her hair out.

When a human man would look at her for even a second longer than he was supposed to—or in fact, would only be polite to her, her thoughts would automatically go to ‘he likes me because of this appearance.’ It was the vessel who was getting the compliment, not her. the vessel that she hated and wanted to set fire to for making her feel the way she did.

She became purposefully rude to people who were just being polite to her, because she didn’t want them to compliment her. That worked really well, because when people and comrades alike noticed that she was stoic and wasn’t up for small talk, they didn’t compliment her. it was for the better.

Then, as if it wasn’t enough, one of the angels she was working with, Mendrion, called her sister at a very bad moment.

They were looking for a human boy who was going to be a Prophet one day. They had been told that he was in grave danger, and needed to be rescued as soon as possible. Finding him wasn’t that hard—despite the pouring rain and the afterhours. Connvincing him to come with them was.

Mendrion knocked on the door of the little house, willing his vessel dry after he stepped into the shade of the house. Castielle dried too, she didn’t like the feeling of the skirts sticking to her body.

When no one answered, Mendrion suggested that they go back. Maybe there was no one at home.

“They’re humans,” she reminded him, and knocked again.

Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance.

“Hold yer horsed for goodness sakes,” came a male voice from inside, followed by heavy footsteps.

“The Father.” Mendrion told Castielle.

She raised her chin up.

The door opened, and they saw the man; stout and short, dressed in his finest clothes—which weren’t as fine as he thought them to be. A silver cross shone around his neck, Castielle wondered how did he find a chain long enough to go around his head.

“Good evening.” Said Mendrion.

“Who’re you?” the man looked only at him.

“We,” Castielle gestured between herself and Mendrion, “are here for Asa.”

The man still didn’t look at her.

“You’re from the church?” he asked Mendrion.

“We’re not,” She told him, and the man didn’t approve of both her talking to him and that they weren’t from the church.

“I aint givin’ the lad away to a lassie—or in fact anyone, but the church—” and just then, Mendrion touched his fingers to the man’s brow and he fell to the floor with a loud thud.

Castielle frowned at the man.

He wouldn’t talk to her because she was female. She hated it here already.

She stepped around the man and went inside the house, followed by Mendrion.

The boy—Asa—was right there, in the parlor.

“Asa,” she addressed him, but as soon as the boy saw them, he jumped off the chair he was sitting on and hid behind it.

“We are here to help you,” Castielle assured him, holing out her hand. The boy stepped back until he pressed into the wall.

“Sister,” Mendrion called her, and she stopped and looked back at him.

“Yes?”

He came up to her, and said quietly so that Asa didn’t overhear.

“The boy ran away from because of abuse from his mother.”

If Castielle was holding something, she would’ve crushed it. Now the vessel was keeping her from doing her job too.

As politely as she could, she nodded, and walked back out of the house. She didn’t step around the stout man this time, she stepped over him.

She didn’t register that she was clenching her fist too tight, because the rain drenched her completely. A tear slipped from her eye and mixed with the drops from heaven.

Mendrion appeared before her a few moments later.

“The prophet has been secured, sister,” he said, and she clenched her fist harder at that, trying not to scream. “Thank you, for your service.”

If she opened her mouth, she would’ve wailed.

Sister… another title for a female.

It had never bothered her before. She didn’t pay it any heed, but now, the word cut through her like her nails did her palm.

She gave him a curt nod, hoping she hadn’t flinched.

Mandrion hesitated a little—he wanted to say something—but he nodded too. looked like she had flinched after all. He didn’t say anything though; with the next thunder-clap, he was gone.

Castielle fell to her knees in the middle of the small flooding street with a loud splash.

After that, each time she was called sister, it was like a thorn in her side. A very big pointy thorn that impaled her. she needed to get away from it. She was an angel, not a human. Her physical tolerance maybe higher, but mentally…

She was already crumbling at the edges. She didn’t know how long she had before she was completely broken.

Chapter Text

The only time she didn’t think about all of it was the time she was on a mission, and so she started taking more of those, making sure she was doing it alone. She didn’t allow anyone to help her. Solitude was peaceful; busy solitude was heavenly. Sometimes it was just guarding, and sometimes it was listening to prayers and filling them—and Castielle did that with utmost dedication.

What her superiors saw as commitment was escape and distraction to Castielle, but she didn’t correct anyone. This feeling—this ‘dysphoria’ she felt—she more than hated it, and she did everything to avoid it.

And she did it to an extent that impressed her superiors… a lot.

When the archangel Camael came to her at first, she thought—no, she knew it was over. He was here to force her out; out of her vessel, and down—just like he did for Adam and Eve—just that they were forced out of heaven down into Earth, and she was going out of Earth, into hell.

It was over. Her vessel—despite being as chaste and pure as it could be—was going to be the reason she was going to be a fallen angel. She hated it even more.

“Castielle.” Camael greeted her with a nod as she came out of her little room.

“Brother.” She greeted him.

She tried to read his expressions, his aura—anything, but she couldn’t read an archangel.

His eyes, an old experienced gray were fixed on hers. His mouth didn’t even twitch, much less smile. Not a single crease formed on his olive forehead.

Nothing.

He was silent in every way, until he spoke

“How are you, Castielle?” he asked, his voice deep and husky, face still expressionless. It only sounded polite.

“I am—” just coming back from a task, trying not to breakdown while I put on the other clothes which don’t make me want to rip them to threads, “—great. How are you?”

She was just trying to delay it, but it wasn’t working. Her lie didn’t seem necessary.

She resisted digging her nails into the palm.

“I am here—” here it was. He was going to tell her the punishment of blasphemy, and force her out of Earth, “— with a message for you.”

Castielle tilted her head. When did they start giving eviction notices before damnation?

Camael conjured a sealed scroll from the pocket of his pants, and held it out for her.

Just the sight of it made Castielle want to cry.

Was it that Camael felt pity for her? Was that why he wasn’t saying the words out loud her?

Castielle looked down at the papyrus scroll and the seal, and it didn’t give away anything either. It just seared through the flesh of the vessel and burned her own angel hand. That was enough proof that it was an order for Camael to damn her to hell for eternity. She would have to work for Lucifer, after her wings were burned off, and her halo was lost.

“Thank you,” she said in despite, holding the scroll tight in her hand.

Once again, Camael’s expressions gave away nothing.

Castielle gulped.

She felt Camael’s eyes on her as she broke the seal and unrolled the message, to see enochian text on it. She held what she knew was her last breath on Earth, as she read it.

Castielle, Angel of the Lord,

Stationed: Earth.

Congratulations.

Seeing your hard work, skill, and dedication, you are officially being—

“Promoted?”

The chill that took over her was the opposite of what she had prepared herself for.

Castielle looked up at Camael, who’s silence screamed ‘what else did you expect.’

She turned back to the letter, and read the body again.

Promotion… change in orders… details of rank…

Return to heaven…

Immediately…

The words caught her eyes and she read and reread them again and again.

Return to heaven! Leave the vessel, be free again, be you again!

She looked up at Camael again, unable to believe if this really was the truth. What if this vessel had finally succeeded in driving her crazy and this was a hallucination?

“Congratulations.” Camael said, still expressionless, but that word coming out of his mouth made her want to hug him.

She was free!

She was leaving this vessel and everything associated with it—the disgust, the hatred, the sadness, the identity-- everything! She was no longer going to be a human woman!

For a moment it felt like the joy that killed was taking over. Then the breath that she had been holding left her like it was escaping.

She read the letter again.

Was this real?

That was a question humans asked when they came close to realizing who she was. And now, she was asking it when she stood so close to what she was.

The scroll didn’t burn her skin, she realized, it soothed her. And she had found it searing because she was no longer used to the feeling.

She held it to her chest, close to her core; ticket to freedom.

It felt warm. Cleansing her of the feeling that came with the vessel. It was a rope tied around her waist, pulling her away from the bottom of the ocean she was in, showing her the light that was calling to her from the heavens.

Then she noticed it; her name.

Castielle.

The gut twisting feeling clouded her moment of happiness.

She would leave the oceans— this vessel— and all the things that linked her to it behind… but her name would always stay there, attached to her like a leech that was attached to her core, sucking the euphoria out of her.

She didn’t want that. She wanted to be free. To be rid of it. This gray area—even though it was very minor—it needed to be gone.

“Is there a problem?” Camael tilted his head.

She needed everything that attached her to this vessel gone…

She was leaving. She wanted to leave permanently.

“My name is misspelled.” She told him, and that was when she registered all the possible replies to her words.

The first of them being ‘you haven’t said that for 400 million years.’ Then, ‘why does the name matter? This letter is for a promotion, not name changing!’. Then ‘I am not the one you should be complaining about that to’. And then the worst of them, ‘God gave you that name, Castielle, you can’t change it. It’s blasphemy!’.

She had to forcefully remind herself that now, she was not what she was in those four hundred million years. This was her chance to get away. She was not going to be a coward and end up with the name that would forever remind her of the hell that was this vessel-

“How do you spell it?” Camael asked instead, and she did a double take.

Stupid idiot, she cursed herself. All that argument with herself…

She could’ve thought of the alteration instead!

“It’s Castielle...” She told Camael, with no idea of what she wanted it changed to.

The archangel looked at her, probably thinking what was wrong with her. Maybe he was contemplating taking away her promotion? His face wouldn’t give away anything, and that gave Castielle Anxiety.

Then, he nodded, and placed his hand on the scroll.

Was he going to take it away? She prayed he wouldn’t take it away. This was her ticket away, she needed it, it was important.

She held it tighter.

He would have to tear it out of her grip.

Then he removed it…

Castiel’s legs almost gave away and a smile spread across her lips.

It was perfect.

It wasn’t feminine, and it wasn’t masculine either.

“Shield of God,” The archangel said, “Your name is your identity, it is only to identify you.”

Her identity…

Her? Why her?

The new name wasn’t female. It wasn’t exactly male either. It was… both? None?

Then…

Later, Castiel thought, she and/or he can be dealt with later.

“Castiel”, The name sounded so right to say out loud when it was said with these new spellings in mind. It was like being reborn, free of all the troubles and pain. “Shield of God.”

“We shall see you in heaven, Brother.” Camael said, still no sign of emotion.

And with that, he was gone.

“Brother…” Castiel looked at the place Camael had stood before.

Camael must’ve understood…

A tear slipped and fell on the papyrus in her hand. It wasn’t hers; angels didn’t cry.

Did Camael go through all that too? Was Camael going through that now? He was an archangel… but an angel nonetheless.

If it could happen to Castiel, it could happen to any other angel too. Mirabel said some angels do feel out-of-place in a new vessel. She had said it like it was nothing, but castiel knew how much they had suffered.

Castiel felt bad for all of them, and Camael.

If it were anyone else, they wouldn’t have cried like Castiel did while holding the promotion letter. Anyone else would be glad, be jumping up and down, be on cloud nine.

Castiel wasn’t anyone else. So instead of stupidly grinning and squealing, the Sheild of God sat on the floor and wept for all the other angels who had gone through the same hell, or were still going.