Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

October twenty-eighth rolls in on a stormy night, out in the parking lot. Dean sits motionless in his car. It's raining cats and dogs outside, he can't see past the river running down the glass. Over the windshield, the wipers beat out the rain in metronome precision.

Fshh                                                                        Fshh

Fshh                                                                        Fshh

Fshh                                                                        Fshh

Fshh                                                                        Fshh

Fshh                                                                        Fshh

Fshh                                                                        Fshh

It took forty-six hours of sleep deprivation, a snake, and an unhealthy amount of coffee just to get here, but this time for sure, it would pay off—he could feel it. No more bumbling in the dark, no more chasing after bullshit leads that were about as credible as second rate fairytales... He was done clutching at straws. It would happen tonight.

There was a plan... A plan that involved a flood of biblical proportions, by the looks of it. If Sam were here, Dean would have joked about it.

With both hands choking the steering wheel, Dean's vision grays from lack of blinking.

Sam had died.

It wasn't the first time either, but it never got easier. Especially in Dean's special condition.

He kills the engine and opens the door of the Impala without a glance back for the keys in the ignition. The rain flattens his hair almost immediately; he ignores this too. With cold practice, he yanks the hood of the trunk open and gets to business. The dagger slides into his belt, the hand pistol is tucked behind his back, at last, he grabs the shotgun. For the fifth time, he makes sure he's got enough ammo in the chamber, clicks it back, racks the slide. He tosses it in his other hand and slam the trunk shut.

The parking is completely desert as he trudges through; a ruin right out of the 20th century, all cracked asphalt and gaping holes.

"Motherfucker." Dean shakes his drenched boot out of a pool of rainwater. It was a proper minefield in this weather. He retrieves his flashlight and clicks it on. The light bounces off the submerged lot; a beacon swiping over black water. With his car's headlights his only hall of light in the night, he marches through the curtain of pelting water, straight for the one-story building ahead; it looks as miserable as the parking itself. As he approaches it, he can just make out the vintage discolored sign hanging atop: 'Dream within a Dream' it reads in shades of washed out blue, it must have been less creepy-looking in its heyday.

"It's you and me, bitch." He mutters.

Dean kicks at the twice-over mended wooden door, it rattles but doesn't budge. He rolls his shoulders. It figures. He throws a glance down the storefront, he's not into the idea of going all the way back for his axe so he can go Jack Torrance on the thing. That's when he spots it—the draft of air making makeshift shreds of dirty plastic flutter on the ground floor. He makes a beeline for it. There were marks of human presence here, going by the broken booze bottles and soggy cigarette filters littering the floor, which was more disconcerting a sight than one might think, considering the place was a real pain in the ass to get to.

The shattered body-length windows are covered in black duct tape and mangy plastic that does absolutely nothing in ways of protection against the elements. Dean uses the butt of his shotgun to break any sharp edges before he ducks his way through the glass mouth. As he straightens again, he does a sweep of the perimeter with his flashlight; there's debris and junk every which way. Sliced sofas bleeding yellow foam, old magazines cascading over pillaged cabinets, springs jutting out from disemboweled mattresses... For whatever reason, there's a kid's sneaker and a pacifier amidst the chaos. Dean subsequently sees and discards all of that information. He only knows three things: the first is that there's a backdoor behind the front counter. Second, there's another one on his left, and third; his escape route is literally made out of glass. Not that he plans to ever get out of this shop after tonight.

He's read the instructions a thousand times, mostly he keeps checking them out of habit. And so he props the flashlight on the reception counter—the only piece of furniture still standing—and fishes for the scrap of paper in his jeans.

Under all the convoluted directions that led him here, crossed or redacted, the near bottom line suggests to 'ring the bell and knock on Heaven's door'.

"Thanks for clearing that one up, Bob." Dean mutters sarcastically.

What the fuck was heaven's door even supposed to look like? A big silver gate?

He looks up and searches for whatever might work as 'the bell'. If it wasn't ass o'clock, he'd be able to tell a coat rack from a closet monster, then maybe he'd stand a snowball chance in hell of finding it. Everything looks like a hazard in the dark. He shoves the paper down his pocket and picks up the flashlight. He gunpoints it in different directions as he paces the grounds. He starts by making sure that no one—or nothing—hides in the storage room, and then goes for the left door. This one barely holds on its hinges; it leads down a long corridor, a sort of enclosed, narrow walkway. How far does this property run, anyway? He turns back towards the front door, hoping for a bell hanging from the ceiling by the door—no dice. He sets his gun over the countertop, braces his elbows on it. Presses the ball of his wrists against his eyes. Was there some kind of 'lost and found' spell he could use? Dean didn't know, and worst: there was no one left that he could ask. Well, sure, there was Castiel, but Dean would sooner shoot himself in the foot than pray the feathered bastard again. Their last talk told him exactly what the angel would have to say about Dean's current plans: it wouldn't matter that Dean was immortal, that Sam was forever out of his reach. Dean could almost hear his judgmental voice trying to talk him out of it. For Castiel, the sin would be too great, and the risk too steep; no—it was far better that he stayed off the grid. Calling the angel now, when it was as good as done, would only render all his efforts moot.

Dean shoves a hand through his drenched hair, and suddenly, there it is.

Son of a bitch. He smirks and shoves the pile of plastic binds and ratty paper off the counter, grabbing onto the service bell hidden behind. The off-gold metallic bell is covered in a thick layer of dust; does it work at all?

Only one way to find out.

He keeps the shotgun at his side as he taps it. The sound is clear; it hangs in the air until Dean starts to wonder if he's got tinnitus. As it slowly fades, the hunter is on the lookout. Thing is, it's too dark to see diddly squat, even if Bigfoot entered through the front door; his vision shrunk into the circle of his flashlight. To make a bad situation worse, the pelting rain covers any sounds that could've alerted him. The lack of both vision and audible clues is frying Dean's nerves raw.

"Anybody there?" He casts his voice, "Come on, I haven't got all night."

The hunter goes 'round the counter and knocks three times on the opened storage door. He closes it, opens it again, only to find the same disorderly mayhem behind. He walks to the front door and knocks on that one too, feeling like an utter idiot.

His flashlight gives out. The sound of rain fiddles and then stops altogether, it's like someone turned down the volume wheel on reality.

~"Have you summoned us?"

The voice is barely above a whisper. Dean startles, whirls around, and cocks his gun, all in one motion. There's someone behind the counter. Something. He squints; the hunter can only guess at an humanoid—if disproportioned—contour in the dark but not the details of a face. A solid black frozen shadow, and the more he looks at it, the less sense it makes.

"Who're you?"

~"Have you summoned us ?"  It repeats, like a scratched vinyl stuck on a loop.

"Sure." Dean puts his finger on the trigger, "If you're the deal breaker."

~"We do not seal deals. We dream."

"Hey, Morpheus, skip the red pill, blue pill talk. I have it on good authority that this store can get you places. The High kind."

'Good authorities' lived in a van out in the middle of Illinois. Dean had found 'good authorities' thirty years after an event reported in a local newspaper dated May 1964 that he had found by chance after months of fruitless research. The old guy the article was about could not explain to Dean what had happened that fateful night in May, only that his friend had gone to the rapture in this very store, leaving him alone to tell the tale. Since then, the village he used to live in either called him a murderer or a wacko. He never set foot in St. Mary again.

The entity remains motionless and silent. Dean frowns in an effort to make out its features, but there's no finite form to this... Presence. It has body mass and a mouth to speak with. Maybe. That's the extent of Dean's grasp. Getting a headshot is the start of a strategy, but he would rather know if it has a heart; if there's a beating heart, you can kill it.

He reaffirms the hold of his shotgun against his shoulder and takes a step.

"Listen, I played your stupid tag game, rang hell's bell; the whole dance! Now you do your part."

~"You smell of death."

Dean's dead heart jumps.

The shadow's voice is tiny and androgynous, ~"Death shuns you. You have been too many things."

"Get it right, buddy, I'm human."

~"Do humans usually lack the gift of mortality?"

Fuck knows how the thing could tell on him. The two bullet holes hidden behind two layers of clothes, one just above Dean's heart, had long since necrosed—a few of the many remnants of his latest crusade. With Sammy gone, Dean figured he'd follow with a bang—take as many motherfuckers down with him as possible. And then he did it again. And again. And again, for months. No grim reaper would come for him, and he couldn't fathom why.

"Yeah, well— Heaven's full of assholes who bounce you back at the gates. I just need you to fake my ID, then we party." The corners of Dean's mouth lift. Nobody needed to know how desperately he'd thrown himself against those doors.

~"Your soul is chained to your physical form. It will keep you here, until the end of everything."

"So break the chains."

~"I cannot."

Dean groans, "Can you get me off earth at all?"

~"I may."

"Should have led with that." The hunter lowers his firearm, "Lay it on me. What's your price?"

~"A dream."

"Uh—yeah; I'm gonna need you to elaborate on that."

~"We dream. In one dream, you have found us; in another, you will have your mortal end. There are as many as there are grains of sand rolling down the deep sea. Offer this one to me."

"What are you gonna do with it?"

The entity remains stoic and silent.

Dean throws his arm up, "Fine."

There's a sort of thrill in the air that strums his heartbeat at those words, like the wave of the bass without a note.

~"So it shall be. From there on, I will guide your steps."

"Guide on, Virgil."

An image imposes itself on Dean's mind; he recognizes it. Part of it, at least. It's an enochian sigil, or rather, it's two sigils; one weaved inside a bigger one he's never seen before. Where was Sam's encyclopedic brain when you needed it?

Dean flickers his tongue over his lip, "You want me to draw that? What does it do."

Silence again. Dean squints at his undefined guest. It's been utterly static throughout, which is probably the eeriest thing about it. As if it's not even a breathing, living thing. Dean's tempted to turn on the dead flashlight and point it at the fucker, but something tells him if he tries, all bets are off.

So without turning his back, he walks to the middle of the room. He props the shotgun against a turned-over sofa and gets to work.

Clearing the debris and dusting off years of litter from the dirty linoleum takes forever, but he needs to make a space wide enough to draw a two and a half-meter-diameter circle. He's not sure why that's a prerequisite, but there you have it. The whole deal smells fishy, honestly, but beggars can't be choosers, and if the weirdo got a backdoor into heaven, Dean wants in.

Once the cleaning is done, Dean reaches back for the dagger and cuts his fingers with it. Pesky magic circles had to be drawn with blood, of course they always were. Like a spell, the clouds outside part just enough to let him work by moonlight alone. He'll take it over botching his drawing in pitch black darkness.

At last, the hunter closes the final line of the outer circle, and wipes the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, "Hey, shadow guy. Now what?"

The sigil glisters amidst the broken things, a fresh, bright red that appears black in the night. Dean wishes he'd kept a batch of dead men's blood on him. Would have made vampires' existence relevant for once.

The static figure whispers, ~"Take the key."

Dean stares off in the reception's general direction, where he can feel the void staring back at him. Having done his homework beforehand, he remembers the key in question. He fishes inside the inner pocket of his leather jacket. He produces it, pinched between two fingers: a long golden feather. A wave of avowal washes over him—not his own, that goes without saying. The feather made him feel sick in his gut. He had to do... Unpleasant things to get his hand on it. Violent things. Castiel would not have let his sister fall prey to Dean's hands, had he known, and that was part of the reason Dean had to do this one alone. He did. It was done. It would be worth it, though. It had to be.

The sudden circular sound of a bowl settling down at his feet attracts his attention.

"What the hell?" He picks it up. A crude clay bowl the size of his palm.

~"Burn it."

Dean raises the gold plume, and a brow. He shrugs at the habitual lack of response. He sets the bowl back on the ground and produces his old lighter. He liked that lighter. He wished all his gigs were salt and burn; easy and clean. The good ol' days... He lits the fire at the top of the quill and tilts it, watching as it's quickly engulfed in sky-blue flames. The burning blue spectacle echoes twice in the back of Dean's pupils—a mischief hidden in the dark, only for his eyes. It's captivating. Perhaps because it is morally gauche, he's not sure—Dean feels like those kids who pull out bugs' legs with a satisfied sense of wonder. The feather melts. The blue flames fuse into a blue liquid mist, and it drips down into the bowl. It smells of myrrh, or some other kind of incense that he couldn't place. Before long, the feather was completely gone.

~"All acts must come in three. I offered you guidance; second, I shall offer pity. Thread no further, there is a price for your heresy."

"A bit late for the cautionary tale, pal." He wipes his red-soaked fingertips over his jeans, "Show must go on."

~"Beware: these actions cannot be undone."

"I'm damned into oblivion. Best you could do to me is get me killed."

Dean blows the wind out of his lungs, attempting to psych himself up. Last transgression to the finish line. One last, and he can meet Sam again. He can meet all of them. This is it.

~"So it shall be. Take the bowl; step in the circle."

Dean complies.

~"Drink, and you shall be forever untethered."

"I thought you said you couldn't break me out of this soul-chain thingy?"

Silence meets his question.

"So? How do you plan to 'unthether me' exactly? Oh, come on, talk to me!" Dean looks skyward, "This better not be some bullshit test of faith."

More of the same.

"Right."

Dean raises the bowl at eye level and dwells on the moment. The whirls of volatile ether are beautiful, but even a whiff is enough to make him lightheaded. He has no idea what's about to happen from here on; however, it can't be worse than the last six months. Can it?

Hope better be good enough for this, because he's got no goddamn faith to spare.

"To Sammy." He throws his head back. It burns down his throat like electric absinthe. He falls to his knees almost immediately.

"Godamnit, sonofa—!" He breaks into a groan as the liquid Grace twists down his intestine, soars through his lungs. He drifts on and off, barely aware of faint chanting in the room, it makes the whole place vibrate at heighten frequency, unless perhaps he's the one trembling.

Oi el gil de page. Par uran affa qaa.

The chant is guttural. He can't grasp the words, just that they're Enochian. Dean's head is about to split in two, his whole body feels like it's about to be torn in the middle. He writhes on the floor.

Par gil de aboapri a tabaan.

Dean is dying. Admittedly, that was kind of the idea. Only, it's more than that; he's dying, and something profoundly primal and eternal is burning right out of him. He has no clue what, but it is wrong. Like being ripped out and made to nothing, and Dean knows he's got to get out of here fucking yesterday.

His body is uncooperative. He's sprawled on the ground, the sigil shimmers steadily beneath him. He drags himself to the outer edge... If only he could roll out, or break the circle's line; he's almost there, reaching out with his hand. However, his fingertips can't even make it past the red border of the sigil. A terrible truth befalls him.

He's trapped inside, like a devil.

He screams in agony and frustration. He ain't got much longer; he can feel it. What a fucking moron! He should have covered all his bases. Sam is probably giving him that look from upstairs, if he sees this at all. Dean sure hopes not; it's running pretty high on his list of worst fuck's up.

ialpon c blans congamphlgh, ar par noan olpirt.

It's not a conscious action—the careless and voiceless thought that takes off him, the way a startled bird leaves in fright. No—more than a thought. A prayer.

Save me.

"This better be urg—Dean!" Castiel makes an aborted run towards the hunter, stopping short of breaching the circle, "What have you done?"

Castiel's gaze suddenly snaps to the corner of the room, towards the invisible presence. His angel blade slides into his hand, and he throws it, letting it fly through the room like a dart. It pins itself to the wall, seemingly encountering no resistance or mark. Castiel turns back to Dean.

"We're running out of time. You will follow my lead. You will do exactly as I say. Do you understand?"

Dean is pretty sure he'll scream himself raw if he opens his mouth, so he feverishly nods his head.

Castiel steps inside the angel sigil. There's a hiss coming from him as he does, like his skin started sizzling, but there's no trace of pain on Castiel's face. His outraged gaze falls on the discarded empty bowl, "You drank pure Grace ?" His blue, electric eyes narrow at Dean, "Are you insane?!"

Dean glares back with reddening eyes, blood drips down his nose. He can taste the metallic tinge clogging the back of his throat, he swallows it down. It is cold.

"We will talk about this." Castiel falls to one knee in front of his charge. This infuriating man who just wouldn't heed his warnings. How much further down was Castiel willing to follow? He asked himself time and again. He puts his hand on Dean's shoulder, over the imprint hidden beneath the clothes.

"Listen to me. This ritual is burning through your soul quickly, I can attempt to make up for what is lost. Do you give me your permission? You have to say the words, Dean."

Dean bites down the inside of his cheeks until it smarts, "Do what y' gott' do."

Castiel nods, and brings Dean's hand—the one he had to cut bloody for the sigil—up to his closed lips. He smears the tainted fingers over his skin, leaving long red streaks behind. Dean watches with a spike of anguish and unease as a new ritual takes place. With those same bloodied lips, Castiel kisses Dean's brow lightly. Dean has never seen or heard of a spell that requires a wholesome—and frankly, morbid—kiss on the head. Perhaps it was the angelic version of a crossroads demon's pact.

Castiel says, clear and articulate, "Ol arp g cnila od atraah g ol olpirt. Ar ge adgt noan el od a lel."

"Insulting me in Enochian?" Dean rasps.

"Be quiet."

The hunter can't figure out what Castiel plans to do at first, then it's obvious. Castiel's Grace, he's pretty sure, is slowly trickling within a pocket of his existence he didn't even realize existed. It's slowly putting out the fire eating away his soul. Dean knows it won't bring back what's already lost, but it's a start.

Castiel is here, offering help that Dean didn't ask for. He's here after everything, and that's enough for Dean to push through the shame and the bitter taste of his bruised pride. He remembers a night—the last he saw of Castiel. It was months ago, shortly after Sam had died. Dean remembers the anger, although he can't recall the words or what it was exactly that made him so angry then... It seemed like so many good reasons at the time; Castiel being here, Castiel not being here, more broken promises... But not this one, Dean swore; the one about never calling for the angel again. Castiel's answer had been a cutting 'I wouldn't come, even if you begged me.' His last words, for months, and Dean had half come to terms with the idea they would never see each other's shadows again.

Yet it only took one prayer; Castiel was here.

The words he holds at bay roll over Dean's tongue, two, three times...He cracks.

"Thanks. For... You know." He clears his throat.

"We're not done yet." The angel's grip on his shoulder intensifies, claws that dig into his flesh.

The fire is out, so what more is there to do? Before he gets a chance to ask, he's screaming again. This pain is different; but no less searing. The only thing keeping him from rolling into a ball is Castiel's iron grip.

"I'm sorry Dean. I can't think of any other way."

Something is knitting Dean's very soul. Forcing it into a new shape—an image of Castiel's design. Dean's not sure he wants to let anyone have so much control over him, especially an angel. Even if it's Cas. It is terrifying; he won't allow it.

"Bear with it Dean, or we both fall apart." Castiel chastise.

Well, fuck that! How was Dean supposed to fight instinct? Cas is seeing more of him than Dean's comfortable putting out there. The guy is tinkering with his soul, for Christ's sake! It doesn't get more personal than that. He physically recoils from it.

Castiel grabs the side of his jaw with his free hand, "Look at me. Look."

Dean does; Castiel's eyes are blue. There's light coming out from somewhere deep within them.

In the last few months, Dean had forgotten how intense those eyes could get.

"I won't let you fall."

He probably means it, too. That's the worst part.

Something inside clicks into place. A white, blinding light engulfs everything, accompanied by a high pitch to split Dean's eardrums. It strikes Dean like divine judgment. His whole body hangs suspended in shock, every vein, every muscle, is a live wire. Dean feels like a jigsaw puzzle thrown into a wood chip machine.

Then it's dark again.

In the silent ruins of the old shop, a low voice like smoke raises Dean's hair at the nape of his neck. It whispers from behind his ear.

Praise be, him who came from the earth's belly, the Angel of The Last Day.

The innermost enochian sigil under them gives one last flash, and the light banishes both Dean and Castiel away.

The empty room falls back to black.

Chapter Text

They're sitting by the window of what looks like a fast-food restaurant. Dean is puzzled as to how or when they got here, he only knows that when he opened his eyes, Castiel sat there, in front of him. No rain to be seen outside; only the afternoon sunlight.

The hunter readjusts his seating position over the orange leather chair. "The hell is everybody? Where are we ?"

"Take it easy."

"Cut the crap, Cas. This is one too many hocus-pocus shit-trick for a single day. What's up with the empty B&J's?" Dean inspects the parking lot outside the window; it is as devoid of human life as the diner itself. It's also in notably better conditions than the one he left behind.

"You 'cut the crap', as you put it." The angel quips, eliciting a frown from Dean, "This is your fault. All of it! I don't want to hear a peep from you."

The hunter works his jaw, but respects the silence order, which, as Castiel interprets, means there's at least a modicum of repentance there. Castiel's shoulders fall as he mellows a tick. "We're in heaven."

"No kidding?" Dean almost bounces off his seat in cheer, twisting his body to ogle the place again with a pleased smile, "Man, 'thought there'd be more burgers in my dream land. Or pies."

"This isn't your heaven. It's mine." An apple pie suddenly materializes in front of Dean.

"Sweet." Dean opens the cardboard box and digs in like a starving man—and perhaps this was closer to the truth than Castiel would like, considering Dean's latest endeavors.

Castiel peeks at him as Dean eats, his jaw ticking. He's not sure what to address first: his anger, Dean's idiocy, or the unforeseen result of Dean's ludicrous plan. A plan Castiel had told him repeatedly—

Dean splutters bits of pie back into the box, "What the hell?"

"What is it?"

"This ain't pie!" Dean drops the square of dessert like it insulted his car, "Are you having me on?"

"I'm not. The pie is fine, Dean."

Dean pushes the box towards Castiel, "Have a piece and say that again."

"You know very well that I—Ah."

"Yeah. Thought so." Dean grins with attitude.

The angel squints his eyes at him, thinking it over. Dean expects some sort of crime confession; what he gets instead is a nonsensical, "What does the pie taste like?"

"I don't know; does it matter?"

"Yes, Dean. It matters very much."

Dean lets his fist fall on the table lamely. Here they were. In heaven's diner. Arguing over pies.

"This is stupid."

Cas waits him out.

"It tastes like butter, okay? And apples, milk, flour... It's all of the crap without the actual blend."

"It tastes like molecules."

Dean points at him, "Yes!"

Castiel observes him carefully. "There's a conversation we need to have."

"Last time I heard those words, someone slept on the couch. Can't it wait until I've got actual pie in the engine?"

"No. Besides, they're all going to taste like this one."

Dean's brows gather, "How d'you figure?"

There's a loaded silence as they stare at each other across the table.

"You're an angel, Dean."

Dean pulls back, "That supposed to be a joke?"

Castiel snorts. "You... how did you put it last time? Ah, yes; you've got yourself the whole set. The halo, the lyre, and a pair of fluffy wings."

Dean's jaw clicks shut, every muscle tensing.

"Figuratively speaking, of course. The lyre, especially. I've never understood huma—"

"Wait, wait. Hold up." Dean laughs nervously, "You're saying I'm an angel? An honest to God, bona fide feathered-ass one?"

Cas squints his eyes with impatience, "Yes, Dean, that is what I'm saying."

Dean jumps out of his seat. He walks back and forth, a hand combing his hair. Cas rolls his eyes toward the window beside him.

"That was not the plan."

"Your stupid plan." He scoffs at the glass. "Throwing yourself into the pyre."

Dean doesn't deny it.

Castiel makes an honest effort keeping his voice subdued, despite the lack of other patrons, "I won't apologize for saving you."

The hunter turns on him, "You did this?"

"You left me no other choice."

"There's always another choice!" Dean's voice raises, "So, what, you figured since I wouldn't stay around as a human, cursed and all, that you'd just double down and have me live forever as a douchebag instead? That simple?"

Castiel forgets all about keeping the anger out of his tone. "I don't care what you are. Only that you don't erase yourself from the tapestry of the universe."

"Yeah well. Maybe we'd all be better for it."

In a split second, Castiel is standing in front of him, yanking the collar of his shirt, "You prayed to me for this." Castiel searches Dean's eyes: the same shadow of unworthiness shimmers within, but now he knows it intimately. He's been close to it.

"The world is better for you. Why do you persist doubting?"

Dean shoves Castiel's hands off, "Stop trying to read my mind, Cas, I swear to God."

'Then, stop running.'

Dean startles. That one rang straight from inside his head. Someone better tell him Castiel isn't in his actual brain, or he might just start running right the fuck now. Maybe he's lying in a hospital bed or an asylum somewhere, making all of this up; maybe Cas has always been some weird imaginary friend, or something. It doesn't sound that far-fetched, considering the alternative.

Castiel taps his temple, "Angel radio."

"Christ's sake."

"For an angel, you blaspheme a lot."

Dean glares right back at him, "You bet your holy ass!"

Cas frowns.

There's the sound of wings fluttering, and they both turn to face the interruption. A lithe and clean-looking woman wearing a white two-piece ensemble and straight brown hair cut at shoulder length, stands before them.

"Castiel, we sensed your return." She turns her head towards Dean, "Who...?

Dean steps towards her, a handshake at the ready. Angels may be angels, but this one is just too gorgeous to snob. Plus, adapt and survive, right? Might as well bring out his best game early on.

"Saureil." Cas nods his head in greetings, she reciprocates. Dean's hand falls back to his side. Douchebags.

"You left suddenly. Was this the reason?"

"This has a name, lady."

Castiel steps in front of his charge, "Yes. There's been a—disturbance of sorts. It's taken care of."

She gives Dean the once-over, "I advise you to step away. There is something unnatural about this one."

Dean pushes past Castiel, who extends his arm in a weak restraint, "Say it to my face." Dean bites back.

"I'm well aware. Was there something else?"

"Yes, actually. It's about Har Məgiddô."

Castiel flinches. Dean only notices because he's standing close.

"It has started." She concludes soberly.

***

Dean slouches against the immaculate white wall outside of what he's taken to call 'the pigeon's closet'. He exhales frustratingly through his nose.

Castiel had not let him say a word edgewise; he had brought two fingers to Dean's brow and zapped them here. Told him to 'wait'. Then he and his girlfriend slammed the door on Dean's face, and that was that. These angels' shitty manners were simply infuriating. Jimmy Novak once said: 'like being attached to a comet' in reference to Castiel. Dean felt more like a dog right now—still; Jimmy had the right of it. And that was despite the fact that he, Dean, was allegedly an angel himself. Allegedly being the operating word here. That angelic notion was still very much in court for debate; Dean would process the hell out of that hoax. So far, no sign of a single feather.

He started small; tried picking the Angel radio, or producing blue light with his fingers, shit like that. When that didn't work, he moved on to bigger things; summoning a pair of shadow wings, like those he fleetingly saw behind Castiel, once. At last, he got bored of waiting and tried to zap himself out of here. Nothing worked. Either Cas was pulling his leg, or Dean didn't have the mojo.

For the sixth time, Dean put his ear to the white door, straining to catch intel on this suspicious meeting.

"Can I help you?"

The hunter straightens, crossing the gaze of a young looking man down the corridor, average in stature, with a round, candid face and blond buzz of hair, the whole topped with a perplexed complexion.

"Hey man, so glad you asked. I'm looking for a place?" Dean squints.

"Are you lost?"

"First day on the job. Anyway, I'm looking for heaven. No—okay," Dean waves around to encompass the corridor, "I meant, people's heaven. Human's."

"I'm familiar." The boy nods.

"Great." He clasps his hands together, "Could you zap me there? I'm all out of juice."

"...zap?"

"Fly, poof, apparate..."

"Oh! Yes, that will not be a problem, sir!"

The boy puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, and the next second, the blank corridor transforms into a long hallway going down for miles, with hundreds of non-descript white doors lining on each side. It looks like a squeaky clean prison, truth be told.

"Here we are." The boy announces.

"Thanks, uh...."

"Tarwan, sir."

"Tarwan." Dean clasps his shoulder in turn, "I'll make sure to put in a good word with the Guy upstairs."

Tarwan breaks into a thousand watt smile, "Happy to be of help!"

Look at that; a good egg amidst the pigeon's flock. Dean sees him off with a grin, then turns to face the infinite white depths. Talk about seeing a tunnel of light.

"Sit tight Sammy, I'm coming for you."

***

Dean's method has not been very efficient insofar. Mostly, he's opened random doors and subsequently excused himself to the tenant. He's been repeating , "Hi", "Sorry," and "Wrong door." In that order, for the past hour. There's got to be another way. Is he an angel or what? If so, how come he can't make heads or tits of this bloody maze. The halo should come with the manual, damnit!

"Breath, Winchester." He scolds himself, "You got this. What would a winged jerk do?"

He closes his eyes and lets his mind go blank for a couple minutes. He's got time. Eternity, even. He'll sit here however long it takes.

He opens his eyes again; the corridor is gone.

Did I just zap myself? Well, I'll be damned.

Feeling quite proud of himself, Dean takes in the new scene; it's a cafeteria, full to the brim with young people. Students, Dean deduces, Uni students. Sam's heaven is a school. He scoffs. Of course it is.

Dean cranes his neck, is Sam here, somewhere, eating lukewarm porridge? He walks down the aisles made of long tables, grabs people's shoulders, and manhandles them this way and that.

"Have you seen a law student? This high, brown hair, goes by Sam."

"No, man."

Dean swears under his breath. Those stupid teenagers were of no help at all. He walks down the corridor that leads God knows where, pushing past the crowd of young people gathering near the lockers. You had to give it up to Sam; all the chicks in his heaven were pretty hot.

"Sam, you dog." Dean chuckles to himself.

"Um, excuse me." A high-pitched voice stops him, Dean looks down at a petit blonde with enough mascara to make Marilyn Manson eat up his mic, "You're not supposed to be here." She brushes her purple nails with the pad of her thumb.

"What's that?"

She articulates, "You. Not. Supposed. To be here."

Were teenagers always this aggravating? Had Dean been this bad once? Not a chance.

"Miss, I don't give a rat's ass what you think. As you were."

Her jaw drops, shaping her mouth in a perfect 'o'.

"You can't talk to me like that!" She shakes her head. Dean thinks about a tiny Chihuahua.

He shoves her aside, "I don't have time for this."

She shrieks at his retreating back. School drama, he didn't miss it. "Hell of a heaven you got there, Sammy." Following an impulse, Dean takes the stairs to the next floor two at a time. He only vaguely remembers about school layouts. Mostly, he remembers ditching the lessons for 'hot times' in secret rendezvous places. Dean pushes the first classroom door to his left, and stops in his tracks.

There, sitting at a bench in an empty room, taking notes in the bright afternoon sun, is Sam. Startled by the sound, the teenager raises his head.

"Dean?"

"Sam!" Dean's face breaks into a sunshine-punched smile; the spell is broken, and he walks in to gather his little brother in his arms, "Sammy!" He slaps his back comradely. Sam is okay. He's here, within arm's reach. All of Dean's desperate efforts, pain, and unshakable immorality; they all wash away like grime.

After a minute, they take a step back to take in the sight of each other.

Dean laughs, "Look at you. Fresh as the day we began hunting together."

"It's good to see you Dean." He beams, "I mean, sorry for your... you know..."

Sam's unnecessary skittishness amuses Dean, he can't help but tease him, "My what? We don't do dancing, Sam."

"Well. Your death." Sam motions at him, "You are dead, right? Not just temporarily dead—dead."

Dean half shrugs.

"Right?"

"Nhaa. Not my speed." He playfully winks.

"Not your—?" Sam's expression morphs into that particular bitchy flavor of exasperation, "What did you do."

"Me? Nothing. I'm sinless as an angel."

"A—Ah. Dean. I'm not joking. Are you even supposed to be here?"

"Relax, sheriff. If anyone asks, my papers are in order." Allegedly.

Sam tries to keep a straight face, call out Dean's bluff, but the smile pulling the corner of his mouth ruins it for him.

"So, no funny business this time? You're here to stay?"

"If you'll have me."

It's Sam's turn to half shrug, "Eh, sure. I guess."

Dean punches his shoulder. "Bitch."

"Jerk." Sam smiles brightly.

Dean thinks, as sure as blood is red, the last half-year was all worth this single moment.

Chapter Text

Sam puts an arm over Dean's shoulder and drags him back to his place, out of heaven Stanford University. As he leads him through the doorstep, he says, "I need you to meet someone." They enter the living room, "JESS?"

"COMING!" A woman's voice calls back.

Dean side-glances at his brother. "The Jess? As in, burned on the ceiling, Jessica?"

"Yeah, if you could please not mention that in front of her, though."

Dean gestures zipping it.

Jessica Moore, young and alive—well, alive-looking, for a soul—steps through the kitchen door. She offers a hand to Dean in greeting, which he shakes.

"The famous Dean Winchester! Here to steal my fiancé away?" She teases him. Dean can tell because she's smiling conspiratorially at him.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Dean answers sincerely. Sam seems to have something good going on here. He's not about to make the same mistake twice.

"You boys probably have a lot to catch up on, and I promised Jane I'd meet in a few." She wraps her arms around Sam's waist and gives him a peck on the lips. "Don't break Heaven while I'm gone." She waves at Dean on her way out. "And I hope we get a chance to lay all of Sam's dirty laundry out later, Dean."

"Sounds like a plan." He winks at his brother, who scoffs.

"See you later."

"Love you," Sam calls back, craning his neck. She blows him a kiss and closes the door.

Dean mock-gags.

"What? Oh, shut up, Dean. You're worse than I am, and you know it." Sam goes to the fridge and comes back with two opened beers. He offers one to Dean, who takes it.

"She seems all right."

"She's perfect. I can't believe how lucky I am."

Dean presses his smile against the bottle's tip, takes a gulp of his molecule flavored beer. He drinks in his little brother's happiness—his chest feels wider, lighter at the sight. Sam's face is relaxed and open, Dean can't remember the last time he saw it like this, if ever.

Sam giggles.

Dean raises a quizzical brow at him.

Sam waves it off, "Just recalling the first time you showed up here after years of silence, all geared up for a hunt."

Dean twirls the bottle between his hands, "Sorry 'bout that."

"No, it's fine! I didn't mean—okay, maybe at the time I did blame you, like, for a minute. But if you hadn't come look for me then, we wouldn't be us, here, now. I wouldn't change that for anything."

Dean bows his head. "For what it's worth, neither would I. Probably wouldn't have made it this far without you."

"Damn straight." Sam smirks and clinks his bottle against Dean's, "So what's up with you, anyway? How come you're up here?"

Dean sobers at once. Ah, the eternal dilemma of how much to hide to spare his brother's soul. He had not planned on lying, didn't account for his brother's curiosity; it was stupid of him, in retrospect. Of course Sam would ask.

"I'm not sure..." Dean settles for a white lie: "I stumbled on this new entity, some kind of...Shadow creep. Weird fucker. No pulse, no nothing—not a ghost, though."

Sam takes a swig of his beer. "What happened?"

Dean shrugs, "I got to the location with a loaded gun and a bucket of holy water—you know, the usual schtick. It was nighttime, like; pitch black darkness. "

Sam nods.

"Bugger took me by surprise. Next thing I knew..." Dean opens his arms.

"Just like that?"

Dean re-adjusts his sitting position. "Yeah, well. It talked to me? Yeah." He takes a long, tasteless gulp.

"So? Don't keep me hanging! What did it say?"

"Mmh? Oh, gibberish. Didn't make any sense. Something about some dream...crackhead talk."

"Uh. Can't say I expected that."

"Neither did I."

"No, I meant. I thought you'd spin me a story about facing thirty demons alone, with nunchakus."

"Totally happened too."

Sam snorts. Then he falls silent. Dean knows this face.

"Talk to me, Sammy."

"... Not sure how." The younger man yanks his hair back, "I don't want you to take this the wrong way."

"Too late."

"Seriously Dean. It's stupid, actually. Just... there's something about you. Something different, I can't put my finger on it."

"My gorgeous wrinkles?"

"Shut up. It's not that. It's like..." Sam's open palm raises in an offering of silence, frustration mounts as words fail him, "A vibe? Like, you sound the same, act the same..."

"But?"

Sam exhales, "I don't know. I'm probably being an idiot."

"Runs in the family."

Sam grins.

That was too close. For a hot second there, Dean really thought Sam had ghost psychic abilities and was about to figure him all out. And if Sam found out about his angel thing, he would ask why's, and how's, and Dean would have to reveal the whole suicide mission bit. Not to mention the 'Cas rearranged my soul' fiasco. Not a goddamn chance.

A flight of wings breaks Dean's thoughts. Castiel stands before the two of them.

Shit.

"Dean. I told you to wait."

"I'm not your dog, Cas!"

Castiel nods to the younger Winchester. "Sam."

"Cas." Sam smiles back.

"You don't get it, Dean. It's unadvised to saunter through heaven, especially in your state."

"Pshhh! Don't mother-hen me." Dean shushes him.

" 'In your state' ? What state is that?" Sam frowns.

"Dean had the brilliant idea—"

"Cas!"

Castiel turns angry eyes back on him. "No. We're not keeping this from Sam."

"Uh, guys? Getting a bit spooked here."

"Goddamn narc." Dean mutters.

"As I was saying, Dean had the bright idea of involving himself with powers he has no understanding of. The consequence of which almost got his soul wiped out of existence."

"You WHAT?"

"It's not that big of a deal. He's overselling it."

Dean's empty bottle explodes in his hand. "Hey! Watch it!"

Castiel straightens the knot of his striped tie. "Your brother took absurd risks, completely discarding my advice—

"—Oh your advice, was it that advice about sitting on my thumbs all day, for all of eternity ?"

"— as a result, I had no other choice but to intervene."

Sam looks between them, back and forth. "Okay. So, what does that mean, exactly? Is Dean some sort of half-dead freak or...?"

"I'm not a freak!"

"He's an angel of the Lord."

Silence. Sam bursts out laughing.

Dean frowns, despite himself. "It's not that funny. I could be an angel."

"Yeah, no doubt." Sam wipes the tears out of the corners of his eyes.

Castiel scans Dean as though with X-rays. "How did you get yourself into Sam's heaven ?"

The hunter wriggles his brows, "Zapped myself."

"I highly doubt that is the case."

"I'm a fast learner."

"Not about this. You probably haven't even picked up on angel radio yet, this is still far from your skill set."

Dean shrugs, "I said what I said."

"You guys are for real? Dean's an angel?"

"Scout's honor, Sammy. Better start behaving while I'm 'round." Dean jests. He really, really doesn't need Sam asking follow-up questions.

"Well, fuck. Uh, can I say that?"

"You're asking permission to swear?" Dean laughs, "Hey, if you want to put a penny in the cookie jar, be my guest."

"Fuck off Dean." Sam chuckles, "Wow. An angel, uh? Didn't know it was an option."

Castiel's eyes slide away. "It's... discouraged."

Dean observes him, "Is that Cas code for 'if they find out, we're screwed'?"

"... Perhaps. There's no precedent to go by."

"Grea—T." Dean gets off the couch, "Let's work this out then. Can't hide in here forever, can I?"

Sam hurriedly stands up, "How can I help?"

"Oh no, you don't."

"You're a liability to yourself, Dean. I'm not going to just stand around!"

"Sam. Look, I appreciate it; I mean that. But think about Jessica. Think about what you're getting yourself into." Sam opens his mouth, but Dean powers through, "We're going full circle here, man. I won't pass through that door and take you right down to hell with me. Again. Not on my watch."

"It's my choice."

Dean groans. "I'm getting sick and tired hearing about people's choices. What of my choices? Think about that?"

"I have a suggestion." Castiel pipes in.

Dean looks skyward, "Awesome."

"We need more clues on how to best approach this situation. I admit I... might have been overzealous in my endeavor. The ramifications of turning a mortal into an angel may vary in entirely unpredictable ways."

Dean's hands clasp on the sides of his tights on their way down. What 'unpredictable ways' ? Dean felt perfectly normal, to the point that it was almost disappointing.

"I can look into that." Sam nods eagerly.

Castiel nods back. He grabs Dean's biceps and flies them away. They materialize in a motel room.

"Come on man, at least let me say goodbye."

"My apologies. I was scattered."

"Whatever. I just wish you didn't pull Sam into our mess."

A little grin flashes across Cas' lips for a fraction of a second, "Don't worry, I sent him on a wild duck chase."

"Goose."

Castiel looks at him, confused.

Dean opens his mouth to explain, but thinks better of it, "What do you mean by that?"

Castiel's face melts into a rare smug expression. "There is not a single substantial written text to be found about a human ever becoming an angel."

"You bastard. You lied ?" Dean smirks. Sam was going to get an aneurysm with this one.

"I didn't lie. The part about not knowing the aftereffects of your transformation was truthful; I acted under pressure, there's no telling what the consequences of such a drastic change will have. If any."

"Well, ain't that a relief."

"I'm mostly positive you can handle it. We're past the worst part."

Dean can suddenly hear something brushing the edge of his brain. It sounds like white noise, with the occasional deep tone.

He can tell Castiel is having a similar experience by the glazed eyes.

"Angel radio?"

Castiel nods, "There's chatter."

Dean goes to test the springs of the bed; they're true to the original: shitty.

"Are we famous yet?"

"Not yet. Or, not for the reason you might think."

"Were there any other reasons?"

Castiel pins him with a withering look. "You're Dean Winchester. Heaven won't soon forget your name."

Dean smirks, "I'm heaven's Keanu Reeves?"

The pity morphs into fatigue. "I do no know this Keanu person." Castiel pulls in his lower lip, "I'll be honest. There is no way they won't find out about this, eventually. I'm surprised we fooled Saureil."

"You're the local expert. Give me the damage; are we lookin' at capital penalty?"

Castiel turns around. He pushes the mustard curtains apart to peer outside, "If you mean total annihilation, then, I'd like to think not. You aren't a Nephilim, after all. We have lost too many brothers and sisters in the war. Killing more, it would be—nonsensical."

Dean sensibly doesn't bring up the fact that Castiel himself was the reason for many of those losses. Instead, he says,

"I can work with that. So, we just need to figure out if they'd be willing to add a brand new angel to their flock, or if I should gear up for a fight. Unless you already have a game plan."

"I have been referred to in the past as one of heaven's best strategists." Castiel straightens, "But even for me, this case is a bit touch-and-go."

"Way to get my hopes up for nothing."

'You'll need all the weapons we can get you.'

Dean almost falls off the edge of the bed in surprise at the suddenness of the words in his head, catching his foot on the bed's leg. He manages not to end up face first on the carpet.

"Sonofa'—! Stop doing that!"

The angel turns around, his expression is unperturbed, yet Dean has the inkling he's laughing himself silly inside.

"This is the first step, Dean. You are an angel; learn to use those tools to your advantage." He walks halfway up to the hunter, "Starting with the angel radio."

"More like an angel megaphone."

"Our connection is stronger compared to other angels of the host, by nature of its fabric."

"By which you mean; the way you used your grace like an intravenous, and somehow it didn't burn out my eyeballs like marshmallows."

Castiel's gaze flits momentarily down to the carpet, breaking their visual connection. "It's your grace, now. But yes, I suppose that's the general idea."

His grace? Which part? How? The questions popping in his head naturally brought him back to the event of his transformation. He considers asking, but the whole deal was simply too embarrassing. Dean clears his throat, "So we have, what, a direct line?"

Castiel nods, "Try it on me, I have faith you'll get the trick soon enough."

Telepathy, uh? Dean shoves his hands in his Jean's pockets. He let his eyes travel the room; taking in the vintage nightstand lamp, the headache-inducing eye-shaped patterns of the carpet, and the permeating smell of cheap cigarettes sticking to the cream-yellow walls. He wills his thoughts to reach the man facing him.

Your personal heaven is all kinds of messed up.

"Got that?"

"Were you insulting me?"

A dumbfounded expression washes over Dean's face, "You actually did?"

Castiel smirks outright. "I guessed."

Dean grabs a pillow from the couch and throws it at the other's face. "You smug—"

It's intercepted one-handedly, as easy as playing catch.

"Try again."

He figures Castiel doesn't mean the pillow attack.

Dean hesitates, then he shuts his eyes. He drums his fingers on the side of his tights, searching for God knows what. Some kind of wacky door in his mind's eye, perhaps, or a flicker of light behind his eyelids. He chews on his inner cheek.

Cas? You hearin' me?

No answer. He forces his posture to relax, rolls his shoulders. Breaths in, and out. And then he startles. There. Just for a second, he had it; a silver line. With his heartbeat picking up just the slightest, Dean frowns in concentration. He's patient enough, and three minutes later, he finds it again. It's like he inadvertently passed his hand through the air and encountered a transparent fishing line. Now that he's caught it, he can feel it pull lightly somewhere deep inside the middle of his chest, somewhere far, far behind his ribcage. That kinda clears up where it starts, but where does it lead? Gently, he tugs at it, and feels resistance. There's a brief shuffling in the room; Dean ignores it. He's getting closer to success, and he's much too curious to consider the consequences.

But he can't exactly walk a distance inside his own head, though the line goes somewhere. He wills himself along it, outward. His inner vision tunnels for a sec before he snaps right back to the starting line. That's fine; he got the trick, he can push it till he makes it. He tries one, three, six times... Every instance takes him a little further down.

Seven is the charm, though.

On that try, he pushes himself until the very confines of the immense fishbowl, hits the glass. Just when he thinks he's met a wall, something grabs his wrist and rails him in past the soap bubble limit. On this side, the quality of the air shifts around him. Dean is still in his own body, —his vessel?—back in the motel room, but at the same time he's in ozone, and it gives off a familiar feeling. It presents itself like...a garden. It smells of grass and honey. He had never felt bluer skies; the kind that soaks his skin, set it abuzz with the limitless energy of the entire world, an oceanic feeling. The kind of blue that is so deep, you could fall in it.

'This is fucking awesome!'

An answer comes in a timid tone, 'Thank you.'

Dean has a mini heart attack. 'Cas?'

'Yes, Dean.'

'Are you the one showing me all this?'

'No. This is not so much what I do, as what I am. It's hard to explain. I did not account for you finding it.'

Dean's smugness mixes with his words, 'Told ya I catch up fast.'

'I never doubted.' Castiel deadpans.

Dean can feel the line's tension going slack, and the inner world fading away along with the pull. He holds onto it, wanting to bask in the sun for just a single second more, like he would a nice cozy dream.

'Let it go, Dean. It will be there when you look for it.'

The hunter's eyes flutter open, he squints hard a couple times, chasing away spots of bright color.

"Holy shit."

Castiel observes him silently, which is unnerving, but familiar. Cas is somehow always doing that.

"Can't believe angels could do this. Forget getting anything done, ever. I'm gonna be on vacation in people's heads all the time."

"Other than you, no one can come and go in as they please. Neither can you do this with—Saureil, for instance." Castiel's brow ticks.

Dean motions between them. "So, it's a you and me thing?" Why only you? Another follow-up question he can't quite make himself ask aloud. 

"Sorry to disappoint."

"Uh, no. I mean; it's weird, I guess. Wouldn't step inside just anyone...gotta at least buy 'em dinner first, right?" Dean winks.

Castiel tilts his head, perplexed. "Angels do not require substance, Dean."

Dean's fake grin goes flat. "Right. Anyways. Guess that means I passed the test."

"I suppose so, even though you went about it rather unexpectedly."

Dean crosses his arms, not breaking eye contact, 'You getting this, Jackass? '

'That is not my name. Chickling.'

Dean smirks.

There's white static suddenly assaulting Dean's head again, more urgent and a bit less unintelligible.

'...—tiel,...—ar—...—need—.....now.'

The angel's face turns somber. "I have to go."

"What, why? Let them figure their shit out. You don't own them."

Castiel shifts into place. "This is different."

"Then take me with."

The other's face closes off completely. "No."

"I know you're hiding something from me in that room, Cas, and it's not a surprise welcome party."

"I'll take you to Bobby's."

Dean opens his mouth, but Castiel has crossed the two strides separating them and placed his palm on Dean's heart, and just like that, they take off.

Chapter Text

"You don't get it, Bobby. We ignored each other for months, next thing, I'm his celestial plus one. Whom he ditches every time he gets a call, apparently! He won't even tell me about it."

Bobby grunts sarcastically, "Trouble in paradise?"

"That's paradise for you." Dean clinks their glasses of whiskey together, takes a gulp, "Goddamn, I always forget I can't taste the devil out of booze anymore." He mourns the filled glass.

Bobby chuckles lowly, "You? On sobriety order?"

Dean's glass hits the table with attitude, "That one time, Cas had to drink an entire liquor store to get himself pissed."

The older hunter whistles, "So find yourself a store. Problem solved."

Dean traces his index finger around the rim of the glass, "I'm not actually sure I can get myself downstairs, for starters."

"You've got wings now, don't ya? Get them flapping."

"You're hilarious, Bobby. It's a process, alright? I'm still learning the ropes."

"If you say so."

Dean hunches his body on the stool. He wriggles his hands, weighting out a conversation he's kept inside since he arrived.

"Out with it, boy."

Dean hangs his head, "There's more to it, Bobby. I haven't told Sam." Feeling Bobby's thunderous gaze digging in his skull, he adds, "You know why I didn't, so don't even start."

The older man works his jaw, but relents, "Let's hear it then."

Dean raises his head to look Bobby in the eyes. If he has to face the music, he'll take the full blast of it, "I think I might have made some kind of deal."

Bobby sighs, "This again."

"Well, it wasn't with a demon."

"Oh, right, there's no problem then, you moron. Will you Winchester's ever learn?"

"Let me explain, will ya?"

And Dean does, he doesn't spare a detail. Not his miserable immortal life, his multiple flirts with death—who'd always set him up. His plan, and the angel he had to trap and torture just to get a single feather. His encounter with the shadow entity. The only thing Dean glosses over is his falling out with Castiel; it's pretty much irrelevant, anyway.

"And that thing... you said it talked to you, right at the end?"

"Something along the lines of  'Praise the angel of the Last Day'."

Bobby ponders, "You think it has anything to do with why the angels are crapping their pants ?"

Dean washes both hands down his face, "I don't know. Maybe? Or maybe I dreamed of the whole thing. I was high on angel dust at that point."

The older man considers Dean's face, "You look like you could use some shut eye. Bedroom's upstairs, if you want it."

Dean sniggers, "I recently picked up a nice case of insomnia, but thanks."

"Hey, I might not know a whole lot about angels, but you've always operated by your own rules. Bet this time's no different."

Right on the mark. What was Dean, anyway? Not fooled by Castiel's claims, for one. An angel? Didn't make any sense. At most, he was a mangy soul thrown into a human vessel. An existence branded by grace deep enough to leave a scar; divine imprints smeared over his patchwork soul. What did Castiel change about him that he couldn't feel out, now that it was either cut off or twisted beyond his recognition ? Sam said it all; something about Dean was different. How different; that, he was reluctant to find out. And with Castiel constantly pulling the disappearing act... He was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

***

Dean took Bobby's suggestion and ran with it to the couch. It was exactly the same one from Bobby's old house on earth, down to the leather discoloration.

With sleep forever elusive, dreaming was completely off the table. He was therefore hard pressed to explain what was happening to him.

Last thing Dean knew, he'd shut his eyes for a few minutes, so how the fuck did he end up in a desert? Orange sand stretches out for miles around, not a cloud to be seen above. A weird instinct tells Dean he isn't really here—at least, not fully.

"This is a whole 'nother mind clusterfuck."

Dean picks a direction at random, and gets walking; no sense waiting around to get cooked like an egg. The walk goes for what seems long as a week, yet is over in an instant, and then he sees it.

There's a dark figure jutting out from the far horizon; a shadow standing between the junction of orange and blue. Dean shields his eyes from the sun with the palm of his hand, and spies ahead at this anomaly. It stands static. Dean resumes his walk, now having found a landmark.

More details become apparent as Dean closes in; the dark spot turns out to be a man, for one. His skin is tanned,  he has a dark short bear, and a night blue keffiyeh tied around his head. After an eternity and a half, they come face to face.

"Beburos." The man says with the sing-song accent of the South.

"Dean." Dean looks at him, a mix of amusement and apprehension.

The middle-aged man laughs; it was a nice laughter; sincere and good-natured, "Oh, no, friend! Beburos is not my name, it is yours."

"No offense, but pretty sure I know my own name."

The man acquiesces, "All is well. Your name is old, but rarely used."

Well then. There were more important issues than a godforsaken name. 

"Are you the one who pulled me in here?"

"No, son. Although, I'm very pleased to have met you, at last." The man waves, "Come, walk with me." 

Dean puts his game face on and catches up after him. Experience taught him that an affable nature often hid more selfish plans. Dream or not, Dean would uncover his motives. Besides, the old man was asking to be deceived; he'd already given Dean his fake name and mistook him for some other guy.

"Where's this place?"

"Aah. This?" The man opens the span of his arms, "This is your inner call." The man contemplates the vast hills of golden grains with an expression of profound peace.

Dean juts out his lower lip for a moment, "Too silent for my taste. I'm more a road trip kind of guy. Maybe a nice beach."

The man smiles with bright white teeth.

Dean darts his tong over his chapped, dried lips. The air is hot and dry, "Listen, good talk, but could you point me towards the exit?"

The man suddenly stops in his tracks, and crouches. The hunter frowns, on guard. The older gentleman straightens, he grabs Dean's wrist. He holds it into place with surprising strength.

"Here, take it." The stranger transfers what he had picked up from the ground into Dean's open palm, he makes sure Dean has a tight grip on it before letting go.

"Sand?" Dean watches the little grains fall slowly, inexorably, from his fist.

At once, the sky breaks into a far away rumble— inky clouds eat up the blue sky, and before long, it seems like nightfall has taken over the world. It starts raining. Dean looks back down at his companion.

"This is God's gift, Beburos. From now on, it is yours to uphold. Remember this."

Dean opens his palm, the downpour washes away every last grain of sand.

Thunder breaks the sky, sudden and sharp. The rain pelts over Dean's face double time, he can barely open his eyes. The hills of sand, once still, now roll like enormous, dark red waves. They engulf the unperturbed traveler. Dean tries to reach for him, but the man soon slips away from his grasp. Dean is holstered up by the elements. He coughs out a mouthful of sand that nearly suffocates him. He struggles against it for as long as he can, until his body betrays him, and then still he grasps at the heavy waves as they take him down into their cold embrace.

"Dean." Calls a deep voice.

"Dean!" His brother says.

Dean jumps out of his laying position over the couch, splutters, and coughs.

"Dean? You okay dude?" Sam is crouched across from him, his hand hanging in mid-air, "I tried waking you up, but you were, like, dead."

Dean takes short, scorching gulps of air, " 'm alright. Just a case of the wrong pipe, is all."

Sam snorts, "You really suck at lying."

Dean gets himself to a sitting position, too preoccupied by the evidence of few grains of sand sticking to his clammy palm, "Uh?"

"Come on, Dean. Was it a prank?" His brother raises an unimpressed brow at him, "Number one; you're not human, which means you literally can't asphyxiate."

Dean sends him a withering look.

"Number two." Sam goes on, "You're an angel, or so you claim. Which also means you don't sleep. So riddle me this." Sam stands and waves at the scene before him.

"I don't know Sam. What do you want me to tell you?"

"How about the truth, this time?"

"You want the truth? Here it is: I'm in over my head with this halo and wings bloody role-play! I haven't got a clue, alright?"

Sam waits until he's sure Dean is done, then he says, "Maybe I can help with that."

***

They're sitting at Bobby's dining table, him and Sam, with a full library of books spilled between the two of them. Cas promised him that Sam would be hunting for air, but clearly they had both underestimated him.

Sam is shoving a book under Dean's nose, "Yes, but get this. This manuscript says: 'And there shall be no Son of Angels, for that is the Lord's will, and He made them as many as the stars in their eternal glory, for ages and ages.' "

Dean ticks, " 'Son of Angels'; that reads more like Nephilim to me."

"How about this one:" Sam drags another open book and points to a paragraph, " 'Elisha went up the mount on the twenty-eighth day to implore the Lord. He said: Lord, woe me, who is Son of Man. I was made sinful in the womb, and will walk the ninth pits of hell...' bla bla bla... 'And the Lord said: Elisha, son of man; thou sin is as I will it. At the moment of your death, I shall gather your soul in the cradle, and give it angelic form. Then, you shall know that you were born to be a sinner.' "

"Okay, so basically, God gave the guy a promotion and then said, 'muck it up, sucker'."

"Pretty much. Point is: a mortal was turned into an angel."

"You forgot about the part where God is the one doing it, not just any angel on a Thursday."

Sam falls back on his chair, "Sure, I guess, but it's also the only evidence I got. Other than, well," he motions at Dean, "you."

Dean tries not to pull a face. As for calling himself an angel, he used that term very loosely. He scratches his brow, "Any idea what happened to that Elisha guy after he became a douche?"

"Nope. There's no angel name tied to him, no story of any downfall apart for Lucifer's, but I doubt this text is about him."

"Back to square one."

"Yep." Sam pops the 'p'.

Dean pucks his mouth, before he makes a decision, "Hey, I wanted to run something by you. It's probably nothing, though."

Sam twirls the pencil in his fingers, "Shoot."

"When Cas first dragged me up here, this chick Saureen showed up. She mentioned, err...was it har merigold? It definitely started with 'har'."

"Do you mean har Məgiddô ?"

Dean slaps the wooden table, "Yes! That."

Sam grimaces.

"What? What does it mean?"

"You really don't see it?"

"Sam. Don't be a smart ass."

"Come on, har Məgiddô. Armageddon. It's Hebrew, actually."

Dean's mind goes in overdrive; Armageddon, his dream, and the angel of the Last Day... He really didn't like where all of this was going. Not one bit.

"Cas knew. They were talking about it behind my back." Dean feels the blood rise to his face in anger. The light above Bobby's kitchen flickers.

Sam's attention shifts between him and the light, "Okay, let's calm down first."

"I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch." This time, the lightbulb does explode. Glass rains over the books on the table. Dean jumps out of his chair and walks into the living room, and he latches onto the fishing line within his core,

'CAAAAS!'

Silence.

Sam carefully stands back, "Dean, what are you—?"

'You better drag your ass down here, or so help me!'

There's the sound of folding wings, and then Cas is standing before the two brothers.

Sam frowns, "Cas? Why—" he glances at Dean's back, putting it together.

"You called?" The angel sounds flat, almost annoyed. The audacity.

"Damn straight. Wanna tell me what's going on?"

Castiel frowns, looking past Dean's shoulder, and at Sam, who gives him a 'what can you do' expression.

"I do not see a problem here."

"Oh, you don't? It's called honesty. Heard of it?"

"I sense you are being sarcastic."

"Give the angel a gold star!"

"Dean." Castiel complains.

"So, Armageddon. Thoughts?" Dean cuts.

Castiel's face hardens, "Who told you about that?"

"Your girlfriend. Soreen."

"Saureil isn't my"—Castiel air quotes—"girlfriend."

"Yeah? Then how come you two lock yourself in rooms to talk business together, but I have to learn from Sam."

"Ouch." Sam jokes.

"No offence."

"It is an official matter within the order."

Dean points at himself with both hands, "Hello, angel here? You're gonna need to do better than this."

"The other angels don't know about you yet, and we'll keep it that way for as long as possible."

"I can take care of myself, Cas. Angels, demons, let them come."

"This attitude is exactly why I didn't say anything to you about it."

Sam walks up to Dean's side, "So it's happening then, Armageddon."

Castiel's eyes rest on Sam's face for a long, awkward minute. Dean breaks the silence, "You know, I only have to pick up angel radio, and there's no keeping this away from me."

Cas let his gaze snap back to Dean, "Fine. Yes."

"Get talkin' "

"That's the issue. There's not much to tell. There've been signs of an upcoming change. The texts speak of a man, a messiah of sorts. He will usher in the end of earth as we know it."

Dean crosses his arms, "And how does he go about doing that?"

Castiel squints at Dean, "We don't know. The holy scriptures are, sadly, very lyrical in their revelation. To paraphrase: and the son of man will know bountiful joy, for he will receive the love of his father, the Lord, and walk among the sea of his innumerable creations. He will look upon the earth with a gaze of righteousness, and unburden his heart of earthly longing."

"Damn yappers can't talk straight to save their wings." Dean grinds his teeth.

Sam's brain gets into gear, "The son of man, so we're looking for a mortal dude, right?"

"The scriptures would suggest so."

"He will receive the love of his father. What could that mean? A man of the cloth?"

Castiel nods at Sam's suggestion, "It has been hypothesized."

"I need a drink for this." Dean says, already walking towards the cabinet. Castiel's hand resting on his forearm stops him, their gazes cross, and hold.

"Right. Shit. This angel sobriety thing sucks balls."

Castiel's hand falls away.

Sam chuckles, "Hey, at least you can mojo yourself anywhere you want. Think about it; the Bahamas, Mt. Everest, the deepest part of the ocean no one has ever seen ..."

"My wings are clipped, I'm at the mercy of my co-ride."

Sam pulls a face at his brother in sympathy.

"Your wings are perfectly fine, Dean." Castiel ponders over his next words, "I'm going to regret teaching you this, but maybe it's time you learned how to fly."

"For real? Awesome!" Dean smiles lopsidedly.

Sam pins Dean under a perplexed look, "You're happy about flying? But you hated taking a plane."

"It's not the same thing. I get to drive."

The younger Winchester remains doubtful.

"Dude. I'm going to crush this."

Sam raises a brow at his brother's enthusiasm, "Have fun, I guess?"

Dean claps his hands, rubbing them together, "No time like the present, eh, Cas?"

Chapter Text

The garden Cas brought him to isn't one of his weird personal heavens, nor is it the cozy vision within Castiel himself.

It's the heart of heaven, and it is beautiful beyond compare, save for—and Dean would never admit to this—the very one within Castiel.

This garden doesn't feel like home; more so the cliche Eden from a dusty theology book. It is a vibrant, cloudy green. Turns out, the birds make up the heavenly choir, they sing peace akin to one found at the first hour through daybreak.

Castiel stops by the shore of a pearl-grey lake, turning to face him, "Have you made progress with the angel radio?"

Dean pauses for two second, "I hear it, but the frequency is jumpy. Sort of like noise in the middle of sentences."

Castiel nods sagely.

"You think I'm ready for this, then?"

"Flying will come with practice, let's see if you can at least ensarkosis your wings into this plane of existence."

"English, Cas. You sound like that chick who talked me up with astrology."

"In your case, a hands-on approach should work best."

Dean smirks, "That's what she said as well."

It flies straight over Castiel's head, "Look closely."

Dean scans him up and down, waiting. The wait is short; there's a shimmer behind Castiel's back. The dark mist deepens into two immense shadows that tower over his head. The image juxtaposes with his memory of their first meeting. The haze comes into focus, and a pair of pure obsidian wings unfurls behind Castiel's back. Dean's pretty sure his jaw hits the floor.

Castile throws him a few furtive side glances. "Are they bad?"

"Are you kidding me?" Dean circles around him to get a complete look, "They're awesome."

Castile's wings rise a bit higher.

Almost without realizing it, Dean reaches out towards them. The motion is quickly curbed when the wings twitch the slightest distance away from his fingers. He covers for the awkwardness with a question. "Why are your wings black?" He knew this color was a trait particular to Cas, going by that golden feather he had stolen from another angel.

"It is an indicator of our occupation and rank."

"Which is?"

"I'm a soldier. And my rank is in the lower sphere. They used to be matte black, but..." Castiel extends his wings, stretching the feathers and letting them catch the sun, revealing an emerald green iridescence.

Dean is entranced by their beauty, and trying hard to mask it.

A hint of reverence slips into Cas' voice, "This new quality appeared after I raised you from hell. It puzzled me at first. I haven't known of another angel whose wings had changed--except for Lucifer's."

Dean let his eyes roam over the wings, "Not really the role model to strife for, I'll give you that."

Cas nods curtly, "At the time, I feared I had made a grave mistake; failed my mission in some way."

Dean knows it's more than that. Cas had betrayed heaven no long after, just because Dean had asked him to—he had admitted to it himself. "Is this the part where I should apologies?"

"No. It's the part where I thank you."

Dean feels an uncomfortable heat crawl up his neck. "Okay, hot wings, let's stick to business." 

Castiel's wings tuck themselves neatly behind his back, then disappear completely. He opens his mouth to say something more, but seeing Dean's expression, he reconsiders. "Of course."

Dean is almost mournful to see the obsidian wings vanish. He wonders if anyone else has ever had the privilege of seeing them like this — or if, in this too, he’s the exception to the rule.

***

Like everything about grace, finding the damn flappers turns out to be a pain. Dean's sanity is slowly seeping down the deep end.

"And I'm telling you, Cas; heightening the third cosmic plane until it reaches the point of pressure makes about as much sense as men's nipples."

Castiel huffs, "Did you even try?"

"It's all I've been doing! For like, what, the past three hours?"

"That is a gross overestimation. You know that time flows differently in heaven."

"Must be why it feels like an eternity." The hunter sits by the water side. He props his arms atop his knees and gets cozy. Cas idles behind him, straight as an arrow, observing.

"Don't be weird, Cas. Sit."

After a short hesitation, Cas lowers by Dean's side. Their arms would touch, if Dean moved just so.

Dean's gaze drowns in the lake, where his and Castiel's images shift, break, and merge again within the flow of silver water, and the glitter of gold. "You know, what if I'm just the type of angel who doesn't have wings." He starts conventionally.

Castiel listens.

"I'm barely an angel to begin with." Dean drawls, "More like a weird Frankenstein with a radio antenna stuck to his head."

Castiel grabs his biceps then, drawing Dean's attention, "You are much more than that."

Dean searches for the lie that is obviously there, and comes up empty. "How would I know? You're the one who tinkered under the hood. I ain't got a clue how to operate this thing."

Castiel frowns, "What are you asking for?"

"I don't know, talk me through the process, I guess. How do you create an angel?"

Castiel mirrors Dean's posture, "You are over-estimating me: to create a new angel would require a power far superior than I possess. I...only took what was already there, and broke it in half, to share."

The revelation hits him like a sucker punch in the guts, "Wait. Are you saying you cut yourself in two?!"

"In a manner of speaking."

"What the hell, Cas."

Castiel turns his head to give him a pointed glare.

"Take it back." Dean quips.

A ripple travels the bond between them like a tiny shockwave, surprising Dean. It's gone before he can make sense of its meaning. Cas' eyes flash. His gaze suggests he's having an internal battle about whether to invade Dean's thoughts or show restraint.

At last, he chooses speech over mind. "Do you find it so repulsive?"

Dean frowns at him.

"Having my grace." Cas clarifies.

Dean yanks grass off the meadow, trying to temper the rising urge to lash out. "It's not what I said—"

The angel loops his arms around his knees and hold his wrist in a lock. "There was no need to say it. I'm well aware how you feel about creatures of the lore—you call them monsters. I've been concerned about what you make of your... recent change."

"Well, I'm not thrilled about it. And don't try to psychoanalyze me!" He pushes all the air out of his lungs. "Listen. All I'm saying is that it's your grace, you should have it back."

Castiel's grip tightens. "I can't."

"Cas." Dean warns.

"No, Dean. I mean—I can't. I wouldn't know how. Besides, it's what's holding together what's left of your soul." His expression hardens at the reminder. Dean had been such a fool.

The fool digs the ball of his hands in his eyes, speechless. "Holy shit, Cas. What the fuck..."

Wasn't an angel's grace the closest equivalent to a human soul? Did he hold a half of Cas within himself? The thought alone made him queasy and slightly feverish. Maybe—for a second—just a little bit, Dean blushes beneath the cover of his hands. Heck, and so what if he does? Someone literally gave away half of themselves to keep him together. It’s too big a gesture to fully wrap his head around.

After a minute of heavy silence, Cas shuffles besides him. 

"Dean. This might be a bit forward of me... But if you're amendable to the idea, I have another method to help you find your wings."

The hunter's hands fall between his knees. He welcomes the change of subject. "How?"

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a maybe. Is it risky?"

Castiel shrugs one shoulder.

"Oh, what the hell. It's not like it can get any worst, can it?"

"Turn this way." Castiel commands; he himself angles his body a quarter to the left, so he's facing Dean. Naturally, they sit cross-legged in a mirror image of each other.

The angel's intense gaze meets Dean more uncertain one, "To put it in layman's terms, I'm going to jump start the process."

"What, like, putting jump leads on a flat car's battery?"

Castiel puts each of his hands on either one of Dean's knees, palms down, "Tell me when."

"No need to tiptoe around it, Cas, just—"

Dean's vision whitens, his body summersaults.

Castiel winces, "Apologies. It's my first time attempting this."

Dean would make a joke, but it's as if ants are running all over his tongue, and he's not sure he can manage a single word right now.

"I'll tone it down." And true to his promise, the next wave washes over Dean much gentler than the first. It raises like a wave, deep inside his bones, and once it's settled across every nerve, it starts to buzz, making Dean chuckle low in his throat.

"I'm glad you find this amusing." Castiel drones. The lines of his face are stiff from concentration.

"Why are you putting me on vibrate?"

The light buzz grows into a stronger hum.

"I'm trying to bring your awareness to the higher plane."

The vibration becomes a full on oscillation. Dean feels lightheaded with it, batting his eyelids to clear his head.

"Here, Dean. Do you see it?"

"Uh?" Dean takes stock of his body, the one here, on this plane, and the one trailing like the tail of a comet behind his shoulder blades. It's glaringly obvious. "Holy mother of—"

"Dean."

"Right, sorry. But shit Cas! That's them? My wings?"

Castiel nods. He let Dean drink in the feeling for a bit before asking, "I believe you could manifest them. Follow my lead."

Something about the way he says it, or just the process itself. Or better yet, the uncovered truth about their bond; Dean doesn't know really. It makes him bashful, almost anxious to break the physical connection between them.

His knees, on the points where Cas's palms rest, burn hot. It spreads to his tights with every passing minute. It's not that kind of hot—not by design, but it's too close for his peace of mind.

Castiel's voice is low and steady, "Just make sure to keep your attention on your wings at all times."

'Easier said than done.' Dean thinks, and realizes he's projecting afterwards. Great; giving away his thoughts carelessly, just what he needs right now.

Castiel is patient, Dean would be appalled by the proverbial handholding if it weren't for his undivided attention on the wings. The only way Dean could describe it would be like decreasing the number of rotations per second of a spinning fan. One moment it's going too fast to even catch a glimpse, the next it's slowing, allowing the naked eye to guess at its shape. Before long, Dean and Castiel have brought them to a sporadic pace.

Castiel looks beyond Dean's shoulder.

Dean echoes the angel's earlier sentiment, "That bad, uh?"

Castiel's hands on his knee clench. Dean cranes his neck to the side, as far as he's able. He sees them in his peripheral: sterling silver that reflects the setting orange sun like a million mirror shards, sharp and cold. Lethal.

"I'll be damned." The hunter mutters under his breath.

Castiel is a silent statue in front of him, but Dean's decided he can take over from here anyway. Ridding on age-old instincts, he wills them to extend forward, so that he can have a better view.

They obey, simple as an extension of his limbs, and when he spreads the primal feathers at the tip, the light reveals a shimmer of colors, the kind of iridescence that appears over Dean's CD's if he tips it just right, or of gasoline in the mid-day sun.

Dean tears his eyes away from them. "What do they mean?" He asks, wary.

Castiel's jaw slowly unclenches, "You're a dominion. You oversee and govern one of the universe's many creations." Castiel's voice goes raspy. 

"Did you say, govern? What does that even imply?"

"It's open to interpretation. The mirror quality may suggest either 'thou shall bring onto yourself as thou have done to others' or it might just mean that all creations who come before you must face the reflection thrown back at them, thus facing the judgment of their own gaze."

"Sounds like bullshit. What about this?" Dean bends the feathers to play the light over them again.

Castiel's eyes fleet past Dean's ear, "I wouldn't dare to presume."

Dean jumps to his feet, balancing his body with both arms stretched at either side of him, adjusting to the shifting of his center mass.

"Well, let's take these babies out for a spin." He declares, dusting his hands off.

Castiel's face goes slack, "Dean, don't."

"Aw, come on! You can't put me behind the wheel and not expect me to turn the keys."

"Let me explain first—"

The hunter waves him off, "Pshhh!"

With those parting words, Dean breaks into a sprint, flapping his enormous wings at an irregular tempo. After a few, he manages to lift his body off the ground one meter or two before plummeting head first into the grass.

The guardian angel presses his lips together in aggravation.

"Almost got it!" Dean groans, pulling himself up on his forearms, "Man, flying is a bitch."

"Leave it alone, Dean."

Dean raises an index, "No! Nope. We're not done here."

As the sun eternally sets over the holy garden, Castiel resigns himself to watch Dean fall in a hundred different ways. He might have tortured Castiel with a hundred more, had it not been for the interruption of someone walking down towards them.

"Mister Winchester!"

Dean, who had just finished dusting himself off, swings his head, "Taiwan! Glad to see a smiling mug. It's a change from this grouch over here." Dean thumbs in the direction of Castiel, who's on his way to them.

"It's Tarwan, sir."

"You met Tarwan?" Castiel zeros in on Dean.

"Kid helped me big time." Dean clasps Tarwan's shoulder, both of them look at Castiel, the smaller angel with a smile on his face, like Dean just gave him A+ on his math test.

Castiel's eyes fleet from one to the other, "Oh. That's—good. I'm glad."

The hunter shrugs off the ridiculous claim of friendship, but concedes, "He's alright, for a grain pecker."

"It's been my honor to help someone of your repute, sir."

"No need to lick my boots, kid." Dean crosses his arms across his torso, "Nobody likes a fake."

"I'm being sincere. I've followed your exploits since a long time ago, sir. If you allow me to say so, you are sort of a hero of mine. Is that the human phrasing ?"

Dean's cheeks are about to heat, "Okay, enough of that jibe. Don't you have, uh... choir lessons, or prayers to go listen to?"

"No such things, sir. I'm a messenger. That's why I'm here." he beams.

Dean turns to Castiel, expecting him to be the recipient of the message, but Tarwan says, "It's for you, sir." And hands him an envelope. Castiel grabs it before Dean has a chance to, turns it in his hand for inspection before passing it on to Dean.

"You can open it."

Dean gives him a nonplussed look, "Gee, thanks, mom." He throws a glance at Tarwan, who stays put with a polite smile on his face. Dean tears the seal open. His eyes jump over the paper.

Dean-o,

It's about time I gave you 'the talk'. Family business, and all that.

Tell Castiel; next time, keep your nasty wings out of the pie, you idiot.

Xoxoxoxo

"Gabriel says hi." Dean flips the card around, examining the picture. "He's in Japan... Somewhere."

"That's Dotonbori. Show me." Castiel practically rips the letter out of Dean's hand as it is handed over to him. His eyes do the same dance as Dean's a second ago. Thus having read it, he aims a perplexed expression at the other, "What's this nonsense about?"

Dean raises his palms up, "Hey, he's your brother, I've got my hands full with mine."

Cas sighs, "I suppose a visit down to earth is long overdue."

Chapter Text

Dotonbori is not only loud; it is also swarming with people, despite the evening hours. Everywhere Dean looks, there's an advertisement playing music or a gigantic crab of plastic mounted over a storefront. It's colorful, alive, and sparkling. In a word; it's Gabriel's wet dream.

Dean's a little put out that Cas didn't let him fly them down here himself, nor was he happy when it was time to put the wings away, but Dean was an angel after all; that meant some things about him were harmful to normal folks—namely, his wings. Not to forget, there was also the tiny matter of his 'true voice'. It seemed as though the number of things Dean had to learn from Castiel was never-ending. As luck would have it, this lesson had been just as much a pain in the ass as any of them. After many slip-ups and retries, Cas had assured him it 'would be fine, Dean'—like hell it would! He wasn't going to take any chances: the fewer people he interacted with, the better.

Dean's eyes trail after a group of loud tourists as they walk past him down the street. 'Where do you think Gabriel's hiding?'

Castiel accepts the flyer offered by a young woman dressed in a maid outfit. "Somewhere uncouth." He shows the flyer to Dean, "Here?"

'A cat café? Really, Cas?'

Castiel shoves the flyer down his trench coat pocket. "It's a perfectly reasonable option."

Dean sighs, his attention lingering after every ramen and takoyaki stand. 'Man, I'd kill for a burger. And working taste buds.'

"Concentrate, Dean."

'It's not like he'll jump out of the crowd and do jazz hands at us.' Dean retorts, then braces himself for that exact scenario to occur.

They walk. Dean had never been the 'waiting patiently' kinda guy; always the 'let's go face the music' one.

'Let's wait him out at a hotel. I'm tired of this aimless walking around.' He stops in the middle of a wide street that shows no sign of emptying any time soon.

"Angels don't get tired."

'Which sounds all kinds of wicked, but my point is: if Gabriel doesn't want to get found, we might as well dance naked in a park.'

Castiel aims a perplexed look at him. "I doubt our state of undress has any impact on our chances of finding my brother." 

'Neither is standing in the middle of the street like a couple of England foot guard.' He yanks on Castiel's sleeve, 'Come on.'

Dean finds them a nice hotel, close to the main street. He pats himself down for money as he approaches the receptionist. 'Crap. I left everything in the Impala.' He feels a pang as he's reminded of his car, rotting somewhere in Limbo.

"Let me." Castiel steps forward and initiates a conversation in fluent Japanese, which seems to impress the giggling lady who's now taking his fake name. He even kept his fake ID card; Dean should thank Sam for that one. At some point, Castiel fishes out a handful of bills out of his trench coat, which Dean is pretty sure came out of the holy spirit's ass. He has no idea if their room is cheap or what; the change is in yens, but there's a fuckload of paper money involved.

"Room 2002, second story." Castiel takes the lead. They ride the elevator.

Dean breaks the silence of the enclosed moving box. "Whatever you told her, she was totally into it."

"She wanted to know if I was married."

Dean raises a brow, "Check you out, Casanova. So, did you invite her for drinks later?"

"No."

Dean shakes his head. "You suck at flirting. Big time."

Castiel gets out of the elevator first thing at the ding sound. Dean follows, step for step, "Remember that hooker gal? You even made her cry." Dean laughs, sharing the joke.

Castiel wipes the electronic card over the door and pushes it open; it closes itself on Dean's back.

"And that reaper lady—"

Castiel turns around, walking Dean backwards up to the wall, crowding him. "Yes, Dean. How very stupid of me. I'm incapable of judging the sincerity of someone's affection."

Dean's eyes jump up and down Castiel's face. "Jesus, you don't mess around."

"There's no point messing around; it won't lead anyone anywhere."

"...Right."

It seems for a second that Castiel will keep hovering in his space, causing Dean's breath to shorten.

However, with one last meaningful look, Castiel steps back, "I need some air." He sees himself out of the room.

Dean walks to the foot of the bed and collapses onto it.

The heck is going on with him, then?

Since when was Castiel touchy towards the subject of physical intimacy? He had never shown any sign of it, even going as far as to French kiss a demon once. Dean wasn't about to forge that any time soon.

His musing is interrupted by the white static of the angel radio ringing in his ear. Dean has been reluctant to pick it up since the very start. He didn't need a bunch of holier than thou assholes chirping in his head, but if he was completely honest with himself, he'd just been pushing it back. Burying his head in the sand was a true and tried method—given, it never worked out too well for him in the past.

He hesitates now, wriggling his hands and rubbing them on his jeans. There's nothing else to do here but to wait. No distractions from the pressure over his temple. I'll tune in and right out, just as a quick peak. He concentrates on the frequency until the pitch starts to make sense.

'...shhHHIIIIiiiiii—but the signs are clear, Aker: Har Megiddo is fast approaching.'

'So you say, sister, but should I remind you how we failed to see Earth to its end before?'

'The Winchester's won't intervene. Rest assured; the youngest already rests within our kingdom.'

'It's the other one I have unfinished business with.'

'That disgusting mongrel? I can't believe Castiel made something so...vile. And what he did to our—'

'That's enough. Leave that wretch to me. Meanwhile, be sure to find Beburos before he does. We've waited long enough.'

'How will I recognize him?'

'By his wings. Use force, if necessary. They will be unlike any others: a myriad of mirrors.'

'It will be done.'

Beburos, that name again. He's...? Dean swallows dryly; his mouth is parched as the desert. An angel with mirror-like wings. They were looking for him. How did he tie up with the end of the earth? Why did a stranger in his dream know the name?

Dean paces the room, alone with his thoughts and the ticking of the digital clock over the nightstand. He sits, gets up, then sits again. He turns on the TV and hears about the slow but steady advance of the deserts of Israel. He yanks the TV's spine and walks inside the bathroom.

He turns the faucet on, splashing ice-cold water over his face, but barely feels the bite—just another reminder of his twisted nature. He braces his hands over the sink and glares unkindly at his reflection. The mirror glares back. It's as though god wants him to get the memo: you can't escape fate any more than you can outrun yourself. Just as it always had, Dean's existence stood for disaster. A world ruiner. Death in a meat-suit. The light bulb explodes. The sink's marble cracks under his fingers. Rage coils in his guts; the mirror breaks as though it's been shot. Two hundred eyes look back with scorn. Heaven wasn't done with him just yet.

'Gabriel.'

'Turned on the old, rusty radio just for me, didn't ya, Deano?' Comes in the voice inside Dean's head.

'Where the fuck are you hiding, you son of a bitch?'

'There, there, enough with the niceties. I'd give you a big 'ol hug, but I sense there's a conversation we need to have. Without Cassie peeking over the answer sheet. Am I right?'

'Spot on.' Dean sits on the edge of the bathtub and pulls pieces of broken porcelain out of his hand. The lacerated skin immediately stitches itself up.

'Before you harsh the vibe, I believe congratulations are in order: welcome to the family, bro.'

'Shut up. Tell me everything you know about Beburos.'

'Well, have you ever heard of the Angel of the Last Day?'

Dean washes the blood from his knuckle. His shiver has nothing to do with the icy water. 'It has come up before.'

'Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean...' There's the impression of a sigh on the other end, 'You sweet summer child. You're in over your head with this one.'

Dean is about to scold Gabriel for his infuriating secrecy when, uncharacteristically, the information is offered to him. Gabriel's voice is the soberest Dean has heard from him in years.

'The angel of the Last Day, whom very few know as Beburos, is the judge that watches over Earth's final act. He closes the curtain, so to speak.'

Dean yanks his wet hands through his hair and barrels out of the bathroom. 'Listen. I need a way to know for sure if Beburos is coming or not.'

Gabriel wheezes, 'You're just like all the other girls.'

'I'm not joking around with you.'

'What's in it for me?'

'Are you kidding me? Is preventing earth from going dark not good enough for you?'

'Eh, that's a Monday; no one likes it, but it comes around.'

'How about we say it makes up for all the crap you pulled until now.'

'Guilt pressure? Nhu-uh. Wrong move.'

'Fine, I'll bite. What do you want?'

'Atta boy. Let's just say, you owe me one.'

'Nothing that endangers people, or Sam. Or Cas. If you can get behind that, then you've got yourself a deal.'

'Come find me at this address tonight at 11.'

'What address?'

The line inside Dean's head cuts off. At the same time, a paper plane flies out of nowhere and lands over the bed. Dean grabs and unfolds it, and there it is. That answers about a single one of Dean's questions and none of the actual earth-shattering others.

Dean paces round and round, stuck in his head. Every two minutes, he checks the electric clock. Three hours to the meeting.

"I'm gonna go stir crazy."

Cas is MIA, Gabriel will only let himself be found exactly when and where he wants it, and Sam... Sam doesn't need to get involved more than necessary. There's just one thing for it: Dean needs to get himself a glass of whiskey and sweet ambrosia within the fugacious arms of a lover.

***

Language barrier is a bitch.

The streets of Osaka are pleasantly warm in October. Dean assumes it's still October; he's lost all sense of time since he ascended into heaven.

The jazz music is nice, and the bar is calmer on this side of the city than on the main street. Dean knocks over the bar counter and raises one digit to the barmaid. She slides the tenth glass of whiskey Dean has had within half an hour. He tips his head in thanks and downs half the beverage.

A rich Russian-accented female voice calls out to him, "You know, I've never seen someone hold their liquor quite as well as you do. My friends bet me that it was actually apple juice in your glass."

Dean turns on his stool. A tall woman with long blond hair takes a seat next to him. Dean returns her sweet smile with a pinch of mischief added for effect. He only worries about his true voice melting this beauty's eyes for half a second.

"I plead guilty. For my defense, it's very well aged appel juice."

She laughs. Some of the weight lifts off Dean's chest at the sound. Yes, this is exactly what he needed.

"So, a bet, uh? Maybe I should get some of that action."

"Honestly, I don't mind losing that bet. Maybe we make one of our own."

"Yeah?"

She puts her hand over Dean tight, a bit too high for ambiguity. Wow, alright then. Dean usually chatted them up for at least an hour into the night before going into second gear. Was it the angelic aura? Did it boost sex appeal?

She leans into him; her breath teases his ear as she whispers, "I bet you can hold well in other aspects too."

Dean's ears are burning. He puts on a nonchalant smile. "Oh, I don't know. With someone gorgeous like you, I'm feeling quite lucky."

"As long as there's a second round..." She raises a thin brow at him.

Dean downs the rest of his bland drink and puts the glass on counter on his way up the stool. The lady—whose name he has yet to ask—has her hand already snaking around his arm. The barmaid places the check in front of Dean.

He feels down his pockets. His face falls. "Shit."

"What is it? I know a nice hotel nearby." She entices him.

"Uh, that sounds perfect. I just need a minute?"

"Waiting is its own kind of fun, I suppose." She trails a nail lightly along Dean's neck, eliciting shivers. Damn, she was all kinds of trouble.

'Er, Cas? Pick up the phone; it's an emergency.'

'What do you want this time, Dean?'

Dean frowns at the angel's tone. What's with the attitude?

'Teach me how to turn wine into money. I'm out of cash.'

The door of the bar jingles, welcoming the familiar frame of a trench coat-outfitted angel cut against the hustle and bustle of the night street beyond. Castiel's eyes immediately fall on Dean and slide to the beautiful Russian attached to his arm, and Dean just knows he's caused some sort of friction. Which is ridiculous, because he hasn't done anything remotely wrong and therefore shouldn't feel like he's been caught red-handed, dammit.

Castiel takes three strides in and dislodges the lady's hold.

Her heavy accent sounds like caramel and damnation. "I didn't realize I had competition."

Dean's eyes widen, and his chuckle feels a little strained. "What? No! Absolutely not."

She and Cas have a stare contest; she doesn't break it as she tilts her head. "Then we don't have a problem. Unless he wants to join in?"

Dean's stomach coils, "No way in hell!"

Cas' frown turns into a full-on glare.

It was all going to crap. Dean should have just asked her to pay for his bill. Not classy, but a million times better than whatever this was.

Castiel grabs Dean's arm. He fishes a handful of cash out of his pocket and slams it on the counter, then he yanks the hunter towards the door, "Keep the change."

"Hey, I've got plans!"

This declaration only serves to make Castiel walk faster; Dean has a hard time keeping up.

"Seriously, Cas, don't make me fight you on this, because I will."

Castiel stops in the middle of the street, whirls around, and works his jaw. "Not her. Choose another one. Since apparently anyone will do."

"What's that supposed to mean? Is there some weird...angel's chastity law I'm breaking here?"

"No, this is about your choices and how you persist in running towards your damnation."

"It's just sex, Cas. Don't be a prude."

"I should never have let you out of heaven."

"Say what?"

"You act impulsively. You think you know what you're doing, but you don't."

"Right, because you know better." Dean bites back.

"Things aren't the way they were before. I'm only preventing you from making a mess."

"I didn't start this mess, Cas. You did."

Cas' shoulders drop. "If this is about me turning you into an angel, I understand why that would anger you, but I—"

"No, you don't understand a single damn thing. Not one." The ground shakes, reminding Dean to regain control over his true voice. "Every time something goes wrong; you're there. See the problem?"

Castiel's jaw ticks. There's a flash of pure betrayal glossing over his eyes. He says nothing, but Dean relishes the idea that he knew exactly where to cut to make it hurt.

The hunter steps backwards, "Forget it. I'm going back in there." He turns around and walks away.

He chews on his tongue. So he fucked up when he fell for that shadow creature's deal; he'll take his share of that responsibility. But everything else was on Cas. If Castiel hadn't come that day—if he had let him die on his own terms...

Castiel's grace stirs within. Alien. Nauseating. He wonders how much of this is still him, and how much is faked. A fabrication. A play.

Shit was going out of control: be it his nature, his death, or his own future. Even this one night. All of it—any of it: disorder starts with Cas.

Fuck that.

A tight grip clamps onto Dean's forearm from behind, forcing him to halt. Nothing but the strength of an angel could stop him now—Cas had caught up. The hunter swings his fist, aiming to clock one on the angel. His punch connects with Cas' jaw just as they're enveloped in a flurry of wings. The next moment, Dean is thrown off balance, carried by his momentum and falling face-first over Castiel. They crash onto the hotel's bed.

Dean pushes himself off, but the angel grabs his collar and pushes him down, reversing their position. Cas pulls his fist back, ready to give as much as he got. Dean tightens his grip on Cas' wrist—the one holding him down. Anyone else would have bruised or broken bones from the full blast of unnatural strength he fueled into his grip.

"Do it." He spits.

A shadow crosses Castiel's eyes. His fist opens into a palm, and slams down over Dean's heart with the full intensity of his broken grace. Dean sees white. The thin fishing line between them explodes into a magnet. Not a physical force that pulls his body, but rather a metaphysical, inescapable magnet. Everything clashes together. His mangy soul; Castiel's grace. The immense tapestry of the universe. The confines of three million solar systems and, finally, the void and profoundly hollowed depth of a black hole.

It's the weeping ache that lingers deep down. A still frame melting off the celluloid film of his most profound existence. An unbearable hunger, but for what? Dean's eardrums pop. When he's aware of his body again, he finds he's breathless.

"There's nothing I wouldn't give to you." Castiel confesses, "Not this."

Dean's chest rises and falls at fast rate. "You're slightly overreacting, don't you think?"

"She's a demon."

Dean bashes his head against the mattress.

***

"Are you sure this is the address he gave you?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Should I record myself saying that?"

"Where's that paper you claim he sent?"

"...it combusted."

Castiel sighs, and they both turn their eyes towards the love hotel.

"It's exactly the type of place he'd go." Dean advocates.

Cas tilts his head, "What makes you think so?"

The hunter gives him a flat expression, and enters the building.

The Japanese guy behind the counter does a double take when he sees them stand there. Dean knows exactly what's going through the guy's head. It happened a few times before with Sam as well, which was mortifying but soon forgotten once Dean explained they were brothers.

With Cas, it's different somehow. Dean considers lying; instead, he opts for a shit-eating grin to the clerk, and the opportunity passes by.

Castiel says, "We're looking for Gabriel." And repeats it again in Japanese.

This building has no lift, and they've been directed to the fifth landing. The clerk is lucky that angels don't break a sweat.

Dean gives three sharp knocks over the teal-painted door, then three more a few seconds later.

It opens as if by magic. Dean throws a glance inside the tacky, heart-themed room before inviting himself in.

"Deanooo!" Gabriel advances towards Dean, who squints at him menacingly.

"If you hug me, I'll break your arms."

Gabriel puts his hands up in surrender, "Though love. Capisce. And you, brother!" Gabriel opens the space between his arms and steps into Castiel's personal bubble, clasping his back and hugging him tightly.

"Hands off, Gabriel."

"Always a ray of sunshine, this one."

Dean crossed his arms, "Spill."

"Straight to business? Where's the fun in that." Gabriel leads them further inside the room, to another door that sits suspiciously right in the middle of the wall and looks unlike the hotel's style.

What Dean finds on the other side confirms his suspicion. A shallow water pond, sensibly decorated with mosaic tiles, sits at the center of an atrium of inlaid marble paneling and sustained by white columns. Dean remembers seeing this style in passing within the pages of a history book about ancient Rome.

On cue, Gabriel exclaims, "Welcome to my Roman Empire!"

There's a joke there that flies right over Dean's head, he suspects.

"Ladies? If you would be so kind, Daddy must entertain guests now."

Four busty women, each with a different hair color and wearing togas from the waist down, giggle as they scurry away. Dean presses his smile tight as he watches them go. He accidentally crosses Castiel's frown as he does, shrugs at him, and snaps his eyes back towards the archangel.

Gabriel produces two margheritas out of thin air and hands them over to them. "There we are!"

"Brother, time is of the essence." Castiel takes the glass and holds it away, like it might bite his face off.

"Yes, yes, time. Our short eternity beckons!" Gabriel rolls his eyes, "Live a little, Cassie." He drinks his own margarita, and his glass fills itself again.

"Salt or sugar?" He asks Dean.

"Come again?"

"In your drink, dumdum."

"Uh. Sugar?"

"A man of culture." Gabriel snaps his fingers, and the rim of Dean's glass is coated in powdery white.

"Right." Dean widens his stance. "Listen, Josephine, we're kind of in a situation."

"Don't I know it." Gabriel sighs, "The unstoppable wheel; always the same old story." He mimics snoring, "Boooooring."

"You know what's happening," Castiel confirms.

"Armageddon? We've been there before."

"This one's different." Dean argues, "Get serious, Gabe. This is about the fate of earth, godamnit!"

"Wrong, li'l bro. It's about love."

Dean's brows gather. He scoffs,"Love? What's love got to do with anything? Besides, love is supposed to be a good thing."

"Good. " Gabriel cackles, "If it saves you, it's just so it can put a foot through your mouth in the U turn. Don't get me wrong, though; that's what gets me going. I mean, come on, take Eurydice. Quasimodo. Patroclus. Ophelia, Adam and Eve...you!"

Dean raises a brow at that one.

"Oh, don't be coy. We all know about the Winchester's tendency for self-sacrifice. How's Sam, by the way?"

"Dead."

"Well, that's a twist."

Castiel lowers his full glass. "None of this is useful information."

"And don't think I forgot about you, Castiel." His brother cuts, "Obedient Castiel, always spinning the wheel. What an adorable little hamster." Castiel opens his mouth, but Gabriel beats him to it. "I know what you did, brother. I know who you did it for. You're an open book to me."

Dean turns to Castiel, "What does he mean?"

"I don't know." Castiel frowns.

Gabriel gives his brother the once-over, "You actually don't, do you? That's why you should have left Dean alone from the start." He raises an index at Cas, "Stop. Meddling!"

Dean dips his lips in his margherita to hide a smile. About time someone spoke some truths.

Cas has a look of slight injustice painted over his face. "I would do just that if Dean didn't constantly run himself into trouble."

Gabriel searches for divine help out of thin air, "So let him!"

"Let's get back to the end of the world part, maybe?" Dean steals Cas' drink for himself. "You're suggesting this Armageddon—and I can't believe I'm saying this—has something to do with love?" Dean leers, "From where did you get this crap again?"

"The book of revelation." Gabriel squints at him. "I'm sorry, have you read the Bible?"

Castiel looks nonplussed. "This has been a complete waste of our time."

Gabriel extends a bowl full of Chinese triangular patisseries at the hunter. "Fortune cookie?" He gives it a shake.

Dean's glare jumps from the stupid bowl up to its stupid owner.

Gabriel raises a meaningful brow at him, 'A deal is a deal.'

The hunter grabs a cookie and shoves it down his pocket, wondering if Gabriel's screwing with him or if this ridiculous fortune cookie actually matters. Given the archangel's track record, probably both.The whole bowl puffs away into smoke.

"One last piece of advice concerning our dear end-bringer." Gabriel pins Dean under a stare, "Don't poke a sleeping bear. Now," The archangel brings his hand together, "I must get back to my obligations." He points two finger guns, one at each of them, makes a pop sound with his mouth as he mocks shoot them.

Dean and Castiel vanish away.

Chapter Text

Dean sits at a standstill in the driver's seat of the Impala, the motor's purr fills his ears. An empty highway stretches before him; no start nor end on the horizon—only a burning red sun sinking far down the road. This is the heaven Gabriel dismissed him to.

He's Beburos.

Somehow, for whatever cosmic bullshit reason, he's the trigger of yet another impending D-day. As in doomsday—not Dean's day, though at this point they might as well rebrand.

Dean disengages the brake, rolls into second gear, puts his hands on the steering wheel, and hits the gas.

The car goes from zero to sixty under a few seconds, and doesn't let off speed. The arrow climbs to the hundred, then fifty more... Dean abruptly steers to the right, sending the car off-road and across the flat, endless wasteland. Lucky or not, there's nothing to crash into: only a no man's land and this copy-paste of his car. There was nothing as shallow as those heaven-made things.

A rock snags the side of his wheel, sending the Impala skidding into a series of wild spins. It halts, shrouded in a cloud of falling dust.

Dean's breath still runs a course.

So, he's Beburos. Isn't that great. It means he has control over the narrative, doesn't it? Control over what comes next. He has to believe that, if nothing else. Infuriated? Oh, he was. But not surprised.

Dean was...tired...

Back when he was 'alive', it was another thing: he was upheld by duty. Family business. What else did he know but this life? But even the hunt wasn't always enough. They were moments of doubt. Of surrender. Hope for a different life—or at the very least a different afterlife. Dean had been tired a long while ago. There should have been two sides to this shit cookie: eternal damnation or its heavenly equivalent. Peace; that's what he wanted. How was he supposed to carry on with this never ending fight? Bitterly, he already knew that he would. As long as there was a weapon in his hand and a battle ahead of him—until it tore apart every remaining piece of his ratty soul.

The hunter shifts in his seat in order to reach into his pocket. He retrieves Gabriel's parting gift, inspects the crumbling triangular piece of puff pastry. It breaks easily between his fingers. What's left is a rolled-up scrap of paper; there's a sentence inked down.

- I have seen the desert devour the great city of Babylon. You will know of it's coming through the piercing arrows, borrowed by cupids from the spires atop the House of God. Let his Name be known; his True visage be revealed. Let us take the World into the brightest night. -

And scribbled underneath,

-Yikes. Prophecies, am I right? -

His eyes jump again from start to finish, and then again, again...

"What the fuck am I supposed to make out of this?"

Babylon, cupids, and the house of God... Those parts were religious mumbo-jumbo. As for 'let his name be known'? Dean snorts; his name was already fairly unpopular both in heaven and hell. Unless, of course, this was about his newfound angel name. That checked out, or so he hoped. One good thing about this: no one knew he was Beburos yet.

Perhaps Gabriel was pulling his leg because this 'prophecy' might as well be written in Mandarin. Dean turns the paper over, heaves out a deep sight, drums his fingers over the steering wheel. There was a prophecy about him. Another one. He hated them—the idea that he had no say on his future was pure bullshit, and he had quite enough of that with Chuck's stupid book. This one was counting on him becoming the angel Beburos. Come to think of it, all his problems started the day he grew these goddamn wings, and suddenly there laid the solution: Dean just had to cut his grace off. He grins, it was a genius idea actually. Cas himself had fallen once before, surely, so could Dean? He simply was gonna need a fuck ton of help to make it happen.

***

It was just him, Bobby and Sam in the study room, and Dean saw an opportunity. It still took him two hours into their research session—which, by the way, he damn well knew was leading them nowhere—before he got the balls to break the silence.

"I'm the angel of the Last Day."

There's a moment of suspension where Sam lowers the lid of his laptop, "O—kay. Is that supposed to mean anything?"

Bobby squints, "You're the angel of Sundays?"

"The last day. Capital D."

That sends a chill over the room.

Dean cuts through the tension, "What, no comments?"

The older hunter frowns suspiciously. "Is this your idea of a joke, son?"

"It's really not, Bobby."

Bobby grumbles as he readjusts his cap.

Sam stands up, throwing quick glances between them back and forth. "Well? What do we do?" 

Dean places his clasped hands on the table, "Simple. We hit reverse on this angel trainwreck. Turn off the halo."

Bobby grimaces, "You're planning to fall?"

Dean glances from Bobby to Sam. Falling meant being cast out of heaven, and this time, probably for good. Sam's throat bobs, and Dean knows they share the same thoughts. He has to force the words out.

"If that's what it takes."

"Dean, are you even sure this is about you? I mean, wasn't this...antichrist dude supposed to be mortal? Cas said—"

"No, Sam."

For a split second, Dean wonders if he should confess that Cas gave away half of his own grace to him, but he quickly dismisses the idea. What did it matter who's grace it was? Dean was gonna get rid of it, either way.

Sam's mouth opens and closes, no doubt mentally running through many counter-arguments.

"Listen." Dean shifts closer to the edge of his seat. "I haven't told Cas about any of this."

Bobby scoffs.

"And we keep it that way; do I make myself clear?"

Sam argues, "If anyone can come up with a better plan, it'll be Cas. He knows more about angels and heaven than the three of us put together. I mean, falling, Dean? Seriously?"

"Yeah, Cas would know. That's part of the problem, Sammy."

Dean produces a tiny scrap of paper out of his jean pocket and hands it over to Bobby's outstretched hand, "I got this from Gabriel. He called it 'a prophecy'."

Sam closes in to read it over Bobby's shoulder. "You have a True Name? What's that?"

"Trust me; the less people know, the better."

"You think Cas would figure it out?" Sam follows the logical thought.

Dean returns a stern look, "It's bad enough that Gabriel might already. Fate or whatever; I'm not taking any risks. No one must know."

Sam steals the paper out of Bobby's grip, "And all he gave you is this? Nothing else?"

Dean sneers, "His advice was to stay put and twiddle my thumbs. He thinks this prophecy has something to do with love—of all the stupid things." He pulls a face. There's love as he knew it; sensual and ravenous as a wildfire, and then there's those ridiculously sappy chick flick doom story he wants no parts in. And he wouldn't; not then, and especially not now. Where was Gabriel even going with this?

Bobby crosses his arms, "Love uh. Any jealous secret lover we should know about? Maybe some psycho who's ready to set the world on fire for you?"

"I have some standards, thanks."

"Guys, this is serious."

"No shit, Sammy."

Sam huffs, and places the paper on the table in front of Dean, "Look. It says that you will know of it's coming through the piercing arrows borrowed by cupids." He taps the words with his finger, "Assuming it stands for 'the end of the world' , that means we'll see these cupids before anything else can happen."

"Those the big babies that shoot arrows at your ass?" Bobby asks.

"Try your heart." Sam corrects.

"Long road since the four horsemen."

Sam snorts, they had seen a few 'end of the world' situations before, but facing a bunch of bald matchmakers was a new flavor of fucked up.

There's an unacknowledged flicker of hope blooming inside of Dean. What if he didn't have to fall? What if they stopped this shit before it even started?

Dean reclines on his seat, "I say we find the winged bastards and break some bows."

"Hold your horses, idjit. Who says your prophecy ain't self-fulfilling?"

Dean leers, "Look who just jumped on Gabriel's wagon."

"There's a difference between looking for trouble and preparing to take it on, you brat!"

Dean bites on his tongue. "What's your gran' plan then, Bobby?"

"It's called info gathering."

"More books?" Dean bemoans.

Sam hides a quick grin at his brother's misery.

"It's 101 of hunting, so get to it." Bobby orders.

***

Dean knew that Sam knew that they both had been making circles around the conversation.

Dean would rather not address it at all, but knowing Sam, slim chances his brother pushes it off much longer.

As it happened, Sam had not broached the subject of his brother's angelification because he could tell it was going to be one of those 'leave it alone, Sam' moments.

For the umpteenth time, Sam sighs—a fact that Dean had resolutely ignored by appearing overly invested in his own research.

Sam combs his hair. He leaves his book—Love; the oldest law of attraction. A study across time and culture—cracked open in front of him, and turns towards Dean's side of the table. The title of that book alone was enough to make Dean cringe  every time he caught a glance of it.

"Dean."

Dean flips another page of The Great Almanac of Esoterism. It was lucky that Dean had the Men of Letter's bunker amongst his private heavens. In particular the library part of it. Although it was failing him right now. Admittedly, how to kill a cupid was awfully specific and generally frowned upon.

"Dean."

"Mmh."

Sam exhales through his nose, yet again, "Alright, you know I have to ask. How did you turn into an angel in the first place? I mean, Cas said that angels don't have souls. So, are you, like...soulless now, or something? Or did your soul turn into Grace? And how—"

"Too many questions, Sammy. Bottom line: it happened. Deal with it; simple as that."

They both sit in silence.

"Okay, so you just don't want to tell me."

"Jeez, Sam." Dean's chair creaks as he straightens, "Listen. I didn't even realize I was being turned. One moment Cas' chanting in enochian, next thing you know: Bob's your uncle."

Sam frowns, "No weird ritual? No funky blood sacrifice? That's too easy, Dean. There's always a price."

There had been a price alrighty—his freedom from an angelic bond, half his soul, his nature, and now apparently, a whole fucking planet. But that was a conversation Dean didn't care to have, let alone with his little brother. Instead, he raises his brows, "Oh, you mean that sheep we had to chase down for two hours?"

Sam recoils. "You killed a sheep?"

Dean wriggles his eyebrows.

"Dean, seriously. What if it helps us figure out the prophecy."

"Nha. It really won't."

"Okay, fine. Don't tell me how, but at least tell me why."

"Do we pretend we understand why Cas does what he does? Guy's a weirdo."

Sam gives him a nonplussed look. "He didn't turn you out of nowhere. He said you made a deal that went wrong. Yes, I remember."

Dean shuts his book. Damn Cas' big mouth.

"Okay. Fine. That son of a gun I met on earth tricked me good. It was a sort of one in a million, high risk, high reward, kinda thing."

Sam's face is drenched in terror. "Please don't tell me you tried to bring me back."

Dean smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes, "Not this time. More of the other way around, actually:  thought I'd pay you a little visit. Almost got me wiped out. Cas saved my ass, end of story."

Sam remains silent for a couple seconds, probably gauging whether Dean is telling him the truth. How drastic 'paying a little visit' really meant?

"Dude. Next time, just try to Ouija me first."

"Uh—uh."

Sam falls back into a contemplative silence. Dean has no illusion it will last for long, however. On cue, Sam finds a new angle to his interrogation.

"I thought you were cross with Cas for turning you." Sam glances up at him under his bangs, "Last time in my heaven, you both seemed, uh, a little tense."

Dean opens his book at a random page. "Couldn't imagine why." He says sarcastically.

Sam twirls the ball pen between his fingers. "Well, you can't be that pissed given you both hang out together, like, all the time."

"Is someone jealous?"

Sam huffs ostensibly, it's very fake. "He does always play favorites."

"Shut up, Sammy. It's not like we're stuck together 24/7!"

"Dean." A gruff voice calls.

The hunter jumps around in his seat; Cas stands behind him, looking a mix of murderous and anxious.

Sam raises a pointed brow at his brother.

"We need to leave." Cas says, "Now."

Dean gets up. He puts some distance between them in case the angel decides to zap him away as he pleases. "I don't need to do anything."

Cas only gets more impatient, "Dean, please. The Host found out. They'll be on their way."

The brothers share a silent conversation across the room. What exactly did the other angels know? What intentions did they have? Was this the prophecy into motion?

"Let them come, then."

Cas' shoulders fall with resignation, "I was afraid you might say that." His angel blade slides into his palm.

Dean raises both hands in a pacifying gesture. "Wow, hey."

Sam jumps out of his seat, "Cas?"

"I'm sorry, Dean. It's my fault." Castiel strides across the room, straight towards Dean, his blade hanging from his fingers. "Too many of my brethren have died since heaven decided to meddle with the affairs of mortals. I can't watch it happen again." His eyes are pleading now. "I can't."

Dean reaches behind his back for his gun. He doesn't want to pull it on Cas. It would be useless, for one thing. "Cas, what are you doing?"

Suddenly, a very legitimate fear bites into Dean. That night, in the hotel room, when he listened into the angel radio. That very night they said his angel name...What if Cas was also listening in? Put it together? What if he knew?

Cas' voice breaks him out of the spiral, "I want you to make me a promise."

Dean shakes himself out of it, "A promise?"

"Spare them. My siblings."

The hunter glances at the blade by Cas' side and up at his tense expression, "Are you serious? You're defending those sons of bitches?"

"Dean." Sam berates.

His brother rolls his eyes to his side of the room, "Come on, Sam. Some help here!"

"They're his family." Sam advocates.

"Sure, but they suck at it!"

The angel raises the blade, Dean grabs his gun; before he can raise it though, Cas twirls the weapon between his fingers so that the handle now faces Dean.

"Your promise in exchange for my blade. Do we have a deal?"

Slowly, Dean puts the gun away. He's offered a mean to defend himself, and he's hardly in a position to refuse it. Did Castiel know how impossible it was to keep such a promise? Dean could lie. Take the blade; kill them anyway. The idea crosses his mind, but he would hate to break Cas' trust.

His teeth graze against his bottom lip, "What if they don't leave me a choice?"

Castiel solemnly swears, "I won't let it come to that."

Dean has a very hard time believing it. Cautiously, he reaches for the silver sword's handle. "Alright, you got it." He chuckles—the nerves, he thinks. "Damn, Cas, you sure had me guessing for a hot minute." Cas' hold unravels. Dean tests the blade's weight.

Sam clears his throat. "So. What did the other angels discover, exactly?"

The question seems to jolts Cas, turning his expression meek, "Apologies. I shouldn't have taken you to the garden, Dean. I didn't think—"

Dean raises a hand, "alright, save the remorse for later. Did they see my wings?"

Castiel shakes his head. "But they could tell that you were using grace. You've become...a curiosity. They will want to make sure you do not represent any danger."

"Oh, I definitely do." 

This declaration makes Castiel grind his teeth.

Dean conceals a sigh of relief. This was no news to him: he already figured out they were after him yesterday, when that angel—was it Akel? Abel?—when that guy seemed to have some beef with him. He throws a quick glance at Sam, where he thinks Cas won't get suspicious.

Cas goes on, "I only managed to gather their next location before they cut me off their channels."

Sam strides around the table. "Where?"

"There is no time to explain." Cas grabs Dean's biceps, "We have to leave before they find the man responsible for Earth's demise."

***

Dean was more than happy to hunt down some other dude and have him shoulder the responsibility of the apocalypse in his stead, really.

Only that he wasn't, because, as far as he knew, Cas was on the warpath to kill an innocent.

As they walked side-by-side down the red dirt-beaten roads that lead up to some milk-white church, he hadn't found a good way to refute Cas' misguided assumption, other than with perhaps; Hey! This totally slipped my mind earlier, but I'm Beburos, the actual mother fuckin' end bringer. By the way, if you see a cupid, could you beat him into the next age of creation? Thanks, man.

So he shoves his hands down his pockets and asks, "Who are we meeting anyway?"

"A priest who fits the description of the scriptures. He lives here, in Nigeria. The host doesn't know I'm scouting ahead independently. I had to move fast."

"I don't know about this, Cas. Pretty sure you're setting yourself up for disappointment."

"From what I gathered, this man performs miracles. Furthermore, he is a person who has abandoned all of his worldly possessions in pursuit of his faith."

"Dude lives under a bridge, is what I'm hearing."

"That would be very hypocritical of you to say, Dean."

"Hey! There are circumstances. A life on the road comes with the job."

They were fast approaching the churches' gates, and Dean raises his arm to block the other's path, "Wait. What's your plan here? Smite the guy on sight?"

"If necessary. We can't allow heaven to obtain such a powerful weapon."

Weapon. Ugh.

"You better be a hundred percent sure about this, Cas. We're not killing an innocent guy."

Castiel scoffs, "Of course we aren't." He pushes Dean's arm down.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Castiel flattens his palm on the door; there's the click of a lock being magically disengaged, and he pushes it open. It creaks loudly on its hinges.

Dean had not walked inside a church since his mortal days. And even then, as a cursed man, he avoided it like the plague, afraid that Cas might somehow find him in there—as if god would tell on him. Now that he was an angel, it was a completely new experience.

They walk down the aisle, Cas in the lead. The deeper inside they go, the heavier this place weights over Dean.

"Something feels off."

"Define off." Cas walks on.

"I don't know. It's icky. Heavy."

"Oh, you mean the prayers."

"The what now?"

Castiel turns around to face him in the middle of the long wool runner. High above his head, a carved figure hangs on a wooden cross, looking over them with unseeing eyes.

"The prayers. People come here to bring grievances. Sometimes, they're too strong, which  leaves a trace."

Dean looks around; his eyes stop briefly over the tapestry on the walls depicting the painful procession of a man crushed under the weight of fate, up until his gory condemnation. The sacrifice of an innocent leaves a sour taste in Dean's mouth.

"Yeah, well, it's either that or the interior design." Dean shudders. "Churches, I swear to God."

"Could you refrain from talking His name in vain in His house?" Castiel quips.

There's the sound of a door opening ahead of them, and they both redirect their attention.

A dark-skinned man wearing white robes exits the sacristy. He stops dead in his tracks when he notices the two of them standing in the middle of the room.

"How did you—? Sorry, but I must ask you to leave. We are closed at this time." He says in a slight french accent.

Dean jumps in, "Hi, father. Sorry to impose; we didn't know it was closed and all. We're just taking a quick look. Right Cas?"

Castiel is a marble statue at his flank, taking in the man before him as if he were about to fight a demon army. Dean grabs his shoulder, pushing it in a silent order; stand down.

"Oh." The priest's scowl melts into a smile. "You must be the couple I spoke to on the phone yesterday. The one scouting for their wedding? I wasn't expecting you today, Mr. Jakob, and...?"

Dean gives Cas a look like, Can you believe this guy? Or maybe it's his Marriage? Nope! look.

"Yep. That'd be me! And this is Cas. My, uh..." He clears his throat. Dean takes his hand off Cas' shoulder. On second thought, this priest could definitely use a little roughing up. Him and Cas? The man was clearly fucking blind.

"We just had a few questions, for the—the wedding. Didn't we, honey?" Dean smiles at his accomplice.

Cas trades it with a look between concern and confusion.

'Play along, idiot. Ask your questions so we can get out of here already.'

"We did...darling?"

"Of course! Anything you need." The priest generously offers. He beams at them both.

"It's very simple." Cas addresses him in a neutral voice.

He slams his hand over the closest wooden bench; the sound echoes like thunder in the empty space, making them all jump.

"How do you plan to bring about Earth's demise?"

For fuck's sake, did he remember anything from what Dean taught him about interrogations?

Startled, the priest reaches for the cross hanging from his neck, "Sorry? What kind of sick joke is this?"

Dean's eyes wearily follow after Cas' back as the angel strides forward. "The end of the world. Is it your design?"

The middle-aged man backs down, "Get out! I'm calling the police."

Oh, this was going splendidly.

There's a loud bang back at the entrance. Dean snaps his head around. The doors hang open on its hinges. Three figures step over the threshold. Dean recognizes the woman standing on the left: Saureil. The guy on the right looks heavy, wears thick, solid black sunglasses, his mouth moves around like he's tasting vinegar.

The angel in the middle flashes Dean a commercial perfect smile. He's tall and lean, with tousled short sandy hair and a rectangular face. 

"Dean Winchester." His gaze cuts from the priest, to Castiel, and circles back to Dean. "Three birds; one stone. This must be my lucky day."

Chapter Text

From his spot—idling between Saureil and Godzilla—the taller angel snaps his fingers and points an index at Castiel in a patronizing manner. "You shouldn't have come, Castiel. Thin ice."

Cas straightens. "I have as much a right as anyone."

"That was before we discovered about your"—his eyes briefly cut through Dean—"little experiment. To think; I actually believed it when you crawled back to us, swearing you'd never hear of a Winchester again." He clicks his tongue. "Mercy upon your name, brother."

Dean's blood boils. Cas was at their mercy? These uptight assholes' ? And for what, answering Dean's prayer?

"Take your mercy, and shove it up your ass!"

The electric blue eyes snap back at the hunter, and they stay there this time. His whole face darkens. "Spoken like the snake you are. Leading my brother astray. Putting words in his mouth; lies in his head. Murdering my sister."

Dean's jaw tightens. Flashes of memories flood him; he pushes them back down...Cries—pleas—a bloody sigil on the floor—the flurry of golden feathers...

"Aker." Castiel warns, even as he throws Dean a fearful look. One that doesn't quite dare to ask aloud is it the truth?

Dean shuts down the assaulting thoughts, weary that they might jump into Cas' mind inadvertently. Another detail calls for his attention, something Cas had just said...That name...?

—but the signs are clear, Aker: Har Megiddo is fast approaching.

Aker, that's the dude Dean heard on the radio—the one who was dead set on hunting him down. Fuck.

A loud clattering echoes through the church. Their heads twist in its direction: the priest freezes in fear, all escape attempts forgotten. The toppled-over candlestick rolls at his feet.

Saureil gives the frightened man a cold, analytic stare. "Is it him?"

"The man of the prophecy." Aker confirms.

Oh great, they don't know.

The priest looks at them with manic eyes. "Please...please, let me go..."

Aker jerks his head, and Saureil flies from his side; she reappears behind the priest and strangles his neck with her arm. Her other hand, holds her angel blade. She stabs it in the priest's shoulder. The poor man screams; his eyes bulge with fear, pain, and tears. Dean doesn't understand why she'd hurt Heaven's head boy for the Apocalypse, until she says,

"Come on," she whispers behind his ear. "Show us your true visage."

Dean's face pales. She means to torture him into his 'heritage'; betray his nature by using his power to save himself. The hunter runs to his rescue, but Aker cuts his path and shoves Dean's chest, sending him flying through the row of wooden benches. They break and splinter, wrecking half of the row before they stop his momentum. He stands over the debris, reassessing. He checks on Cas to confirm the angel has managed to put himself between Saureil and the mortal man. This is not so much great news as maybe more of a problem... After all, Cas doesn't stand to gain by keeping this man alive. In fact, as far as he believes, it's more of the opposite. In a weird twist of fate, Dean hopes Saureil can protect their fake Messiah long enough for him to get there.

Wait. Wasn't there a third guy?

Dean has no time to ponder on that, because in the next second Aker is over him, weapon raised, and striking.

"An angel blade?" Aker spats.

It was the only thing now blocking its twin counterpart from lacerating Dean's throat. Aker snarls, clearly unimpressed with this new development.
In this very moment, Dean is thankful for supernatural strength, else his head would be rolling.

"Is this what you killed my sister for? Power?" Aker spits.

Dean slashes across the guy's heart; a miss.

"Or is it just another filthy human game? Hunting for the glory?" Aker's swings are vicious; hard to parry. Many cuts bloom across Dean's forearms under the raw furry of a fully fledged angel. Time works against Dean in a fight like this. In a desperate effort, he sees an opportunity and strikes, but so does his opponent, the both of them capturing the other's wrist, turning the skirmish in a wrestling match.

Aker leans in with his entire weight, "ANSWER ME!"

Dean cannot. Why? Why did he capture an angel? Forced her to her limits, broke her until she'd reveal her nature, stole from her? Dean had his excuses ready, but here, meeting Aker eye to eye, he couldn't utter a single one.

The flutter of wings, accompanied by a sonic boom reverberates across the hollow space of God's house, and Dean finds himself up in the air, trapped between the high ceiling and Angel Retribution incarnate. If possible, Aker shoves him through the concrete even harder. It cracks and fissures, ruining the ceiling's fresco. Ironically, the sacred image portrays a scene of the Last Judgment: high and mighty angels with golden wings, draped in white linen. Heavenly warriors stabbing their swords through the naked humans' hearts, whose faces, contorted in agony, gaze into emptiness itself. Sitting aloft the gray clouds above, the choir sounds the heavenly trumpets. Dean is confined, flesh and blood; a misshaped piece forced into the divine frozen picture.

Aker's large gray wings beat through the air to keep himself afloat. Dean spies them through the slits of his eyelids. And fuck, this is the difference between them, Dean thinks. And Dean fancied himself an angle? What a joke. He wasn't only wholly unprepared; he was overconfident. Complacent.

Suddenly, Aker let go of his throat, and with nothing to keep him tethered, Dean plummets.
There is nothing to do but brace for the fall, for he certainly cannot risk flying in front of them. One untimely revelation, one hint at his wings in flight, and that's it—they'll know. The unique mirror shape of his wings is a dead giveaway.

The marble floor shatters under his momentum, as do his bones. But then, he's an angel—no matter how small that part amounts to—and he can hear them snapping back into place, healing, even as he pushes himself up to his forearms.

"I will break you, Dean Winchester, as you broke her." Aker lands a pace away from him. The hunter looks up at his figure, full of wrath and vindication. The expression is not unfamiliar.

"Don't move." Cas' voice comes from the far end of the room. Aker has his back turned to it; but Dean only has to shift his eyes upwards and watch. Saureil is apparently out of commission, body sprawled akimbo on the stairs—dead? No. Cas had even made him promise not to kill these pricks. Dean's pulse picks up as he realizes Cas is the one holding a blade to the priest's throat now, and unlike the three musketeers over there, he'll have no qualms using it, if only to accomplish what he believes is right. But for now, it's enough that it serves as a distraction, and it's working too. Aker turns around, attention fully diverted.

"Castiel. I've made all sorts of excuses for your behavior. It's past time you listened to me, brother."

Castiel's blade digs a little deeper, and the priest whimpers. Dean jumps to his feet, pain forgotten. An innocent is in danger because of his dirty little secret—and still he hesitates. Even now. Even when a man's life is on the line. The risk weighs heavily in the balance; what if Dean confessed to his True name? What if that simple act is enough to trigger the apocalypse? The world's fate for a single man's life...he just couldn't take those odds, and it was tearing him inside.

Aker's shoulders ease. "The second you take his life, Castiel, is the same one your creature dies."

This mercy is a lie, of course; Dean almost snorts at how blatant it is. Dean's name is on the Black List either way—underscored and marked with an exclamation point. But Castiel flinches away, seeming not as sure, and Dean has never been more grateful for his friend's slight naivete.

If Castiel's gaze hadn't shifted towards Dean's side of the room in that moment, he might never have noticed the arrow.

"Dean!"

There's a whooshing sound, a thump, and suddenly Cas stands behind him.

Dean feels something hot blooming in the middle of his chest, spreading through the link like phantom heat. It burns so intensely that for a moment he's convinced he has been shot.

Pain of much higher degree flares through Cas' left pectoral. He hadn't yet glanced down and noticed the hole in his heart—dripping and wet, red like a warning. Thus, confusion fills Cas' mind as his legs give out beneath him, and in the next tick, he's on the ground.

"NO!" Aker shouts.

Castiel wonders at feeling this much pain. His heart thumps in counter-tempo, missing a beat on the quarter. His vessel's heart is all but useless to him, yet it's failing him all the same.

"CAS! Hey, hey, Cas?!" Dean's hands flutter urgently above the wound, not daring to touch. The pain in his own chest is slowly receding.

Castiel bows his head, and looks down at himself. "Oh."

Well, that explains quite a bit.

" 'Oh?' That's all you wanna say?! For fuck's sake! Cas, there's a fucking arrow sticking out of your chest, man!"

Castiel's hand raises, feeble, to the protruding black iron rod. The arrow is embedded in deeply. Apart from angel's blades and holy oil, nothing  should easily harm him. This is no ordinary arrow.

"Damn it. Don't you die on me, you son of a bitch!"

" 'M fine," Castiel winces.

Dean scans in the direction the arrow came from. The imposing frame of the third angel is cast in shadows, hidden in the alcove. He lowers his bow as he says, "Shit. Sorry, Aker. He flew in as I took the shot."

"It's fine, we can—we can heal him. Afterwards." Aker spins his angle blade in his hand. The broken pieces of wood of what remains of the benches snap like twigs under his foot as he marches towards Dean. The hunter tightens his grasp over his own weapon—the blade Castiel offered him in faith, asking only for one small thing in return: to spare them.

It was always going to be a broken promise.

Aker is almost over him now. "Do not worry, brother. I will free you from his manipulative influence."

Castiel groans through his teeth, attempting—unsuccessfully—to put his legs under him and stand. He sees the blade hanging at Dean's fingers, and he reaches out, grazing the hunter's sleeve.

"Wait..." He grunts.

The link flares up, and anxiety seeps inside Dean's chest. He fights down the panic attack—there's no other choice now. But then it amps up another notch, grows as the distance between them and Aker shortens. Dean's wings press against the skin of his shoulder blades, begging for release... And really, that's the last thing he needs right now! But it all builds and builds—the anxiety, the pain in his chest, his tenuous promise, Aker's oppression, the tightness of his grace behind his back... Dean overloads—his true voice booms across the room, commanding. Imperious.

God-like.

"STAND DOWN."

Every stained glass window explodes like firework. An incredible, terrible thing happens then: the angels do. With contorted faces and wry grimaces. It's as though the invisible hand of a giant fell over their shoulders and pushed, forcing the two angels to crumble to one knee right where they stand.

"You—?! What?!" Aker looks underneath him, no doubt searching for the trace of a sigil under the rubble. He finds none.

Dean is just as bewildered. What the hell?! 

Rising above the fog of his surprise, Dean's hunter instincts recognize an opportunity. They are incapacitated. He could finish them off for good right here. The thought settles in his mind the way a blanket of mist rolls over a lake, and quite without realizing it, colors seep out of Dean's vision. Voices and sounds become white noise; a background interference he needs not pay attention to. Dean's feet carry him half a step down a path of violence. He stops short almost as soon, impeded by the resistance hanging at his wrist. He glances down with a faraway curiosity, aware of every feeling and action as though they're second-handed to him, as one might listen to a narration of events rather than be their actor.

He's the witness to a scene he no longer pertains to.

The shackle that roots him is very real, however.
Slowly, like a signal that stabilizes, the noise clears from the picture, and Dean sees it—the stain of blood expanding over Castiel's chest. The pallor and shine of his skin. The shortness in his breath.

"Dean." Castiel's grip is weak, shakable.

"Damn it." Dean glances back towards Aker and them. He can't explain how he knows this, but whatever influence has them pinned down is about to unravel. Last fucking chance.

"Dean, listen. Give me a second, I'll take us out of here."

"Godamnit." The angel blade is like ice on his palm, in the hand that is still shackled down by Cas' grip. "Just—just wait, Cas. I have to—"

A flurry of feathers and the scene changes, replaced by a muddy slope of land covered in bushes and wild trees. The thorny plants scratch their ankles.

Castiel makes a monumental effort to stand up. The moment they landed, he let go of the hunter's wrist. "I couldn't fly us inside. Follow." He takes the lead, walking in a pathetic drag that coaxes a wince out of him. Dean, mercifully, won't see it from behind his back. It's just another beat before the hunter catches up to him, puts an arm around his waist, and helps him move along. Castiel doesn't comment on it.

They trudge upwards through dead leaves and low roots. "This way." Cas' hand holds his middle as they both hike uphill. Dean side-eyes the black metallic arrow still protruding from the other's chest with a twist of worry in his stomach. The forest opens up over a highroad. There's no mistaking where they are; Dean can't believe Cas brought them to the bunker—the real earthly one. Home.

"We better get inside before they track us." Castiel leans his body against the side of the garage's entrance; one hand pushed beneath the bloody arrow and the other, soaking red, hangs limp at his side. Dean knows better than to argue at this time. They make their way out of the garage, shutting the entrance tight behind them. With a single thought spared for his lost car, out there in a ghost parking lot, Dean opens the march into the atrium. A wave of bittersweet nostalgia, and homecoming, hits him square in the middle as he enters. The bunker is just as he left it.

There's the dull sound of a body collapsing behind Dean's back.

"Cas?! Hey, what's up with you? Talk to me!" Dean crouches down and secures one of the angel's arms around his shoulders.

Castiel groans in pain, "S'fine. Give me a second."

"Let's get you off the ground." He hauls him up. Castiel's weight shifts between relying on Dean and his own legs. Getting him down the flight of stairs turns out to be a painful, arduous prospect.

Dean stops in the middle of the steps.

"Wait. I just got a genius idea."

"Dean?"

They both vanish from the staircase, reappearing a second later at the landing.

"Woo! There we go, baby!" Dean cheers.

Castiel collapses further against his side. "You fly the way you drive." He complains.

"Hey grumpy, don't puke on me, yeah? We still have a bunch of jumps to make." He holds back a grimace at the other's greenish face. "Hold on tight."

Castiel's grip clamps over Dean's shoulder; a silent cue; I'm ready. Dean zaps them through the bunker in 5-meter intervals, all the way to Castiel's room.

The angel collapses on the bed, wincing when that makes the arrow grates against his ribcage.

"I'm never flying with you again." He grunts.

"Let's see that wound then."

Unprompted, Castiel raises his hand to the arrow, wrapping his fingers around it, and yanks it out. He bites down on a scream, but Dean wouldn't have heard it over his own frantic yell.

"CAS WHAT THE HELL?!"

The angel drops the arrow to the floor, and it's like his whole body loses its strength as it clatters down the pavement.

Castiel cranes his neck to assess the damage. The effort costs him too much, and he lets it fall back on the pillow. "How is it?"

"Too fucking bloody to tell." Dean chides. He takes a breather. This is not helping. "Let me—?" Dean raises his hands to Castiel's coat, waiting for Cas' permission. He's not sure why he's being polite about it, but Castiel nods sharply, so whatever.

Dean pushes the trench coat off his shoulders and quickly unbuttons the white—or rather, red at this point—office shirt. Castiel does him the favor of loosening his tie himself. Dean reveals the wound with a spike of apprehension. His expression is carefully crafted blank mask that he doesn't drop when he sees the gaping hole in Cas' chest.

"Why won't it stop bleeding? I thought angels were bulletproof, and so on."

Cas nibbles on his lip. "The arrow was tampered with."

"Meaning what?"

"I have no idea; perhaps it's been dipped in holy oil. Whatever the case, it was meant to strike an angel down."

Take me down. Dean supplies in his head.

Dean picks the innocuous arrow up from under the bed and rolls the thin iron line between his fingers. "There's something engraved on this." He brings it closer; the scripture is so light that he almost missed it. Enochian.

"I have no idea what this says." He hands it over to Cas.

Cas is completely silent as he takes a turn inspecting it. It goes on for so long that Dean can't help prompting him. "So? What's the word doc, cursed arrow: Yay or nay?"

Castiel hums, "I need to borrow some of your Enochian texts to be sure."

Dean pushes him back down by the shoulders. "Wow, calm down, sheriff. The texts won't go anywhere till you get this hole in your chest mended."

Castiel croaks as he lets himself be manhandled. Blood still oozes from the wound. Dean is right; something must be done about this ridiculous injury. Castiel closes his eyelids, his brows pinching in concentration. He attempts to mojo himself back to health.

His frown deepens, "I can't heal it."

Dean looks down at him for a few seconds. The words tumble out of his mouth before he had even thought them through. "I can give it a try."

Castiel pins him with that sulky, reprimanding stare. "No."

"Why not?" Dean splutters.

"It's far beyond your skills."

"Hey! Do you know how many flesh wounds I had to patch up between me and Sam? I lost count; that's how many." Dean crosses his arm as if to say, argue with those facts.

"Yes, Dean, I believe you, but this is, ah, a more delicate procedure."

"It wasn't planning on going at it like a butcher on the meat table, Cas. And thanks for the vote of confidence, by the way."

Cas has the gall to scowl at him. "Sewing is not the same as performing miracles. As for my vote, I'll reserve it until your can fly straight." He looks away from Dean, signaling that this conversation is over. "It'll heal on it's own."

Dean let his eyes roam again over Cas' torso. The wound is still wide open. Dark red blood runs in rivulet across his skin, pooling in the dips of his collarbone, and soaking the mattress underneath. There's still this white quality to Cas' complexion, even his lips have paled. That's a big yikes, angel fast-recovery abilities or not.

"Wait here. Don't move."

"Where am I su—?" Castiel's mouth clicks shut; Dean ran out the door half way through his sentence. Maybe that's for the better. Castiel can concentrate now. He can focus all his attention on healing. He makes a halfhearted attempt at using his grace again, but he expects it when it doesn't work any better than the first time. He sighs deeply. How long will the healing take? They don't have time for this. Cas is a dead weight, what else is new? At least he's not human this time around.

He flinches when he hears the door of his room rattle, and Dean comes blazing in, hands full.

"Okay, so—" Dean drops the products one at a time on the nightstand as he explains, "I've got some disinfectant, some clean gauze pads, and some antibiotics if you need 'em." He scratches his jaw. "Uh, can angels catch infections?"

"I appreciate the thought, but—"

The chair Dean drags across the floor makes screeches over whatever Cas was about to say next. The hunter falls in it and gets to work.

"Shut up, Cas. Just look at this mess... It won't stop bleeding."

Dean gets to work.

It's sometime later—between Dean's ceaseless cleaning of the blood, and his expression growing ever darker—that Castiel relents.

"Fine. I'll allow it."

Dean lifts his head. "Say what?"

"Healing me. Using grace." Castiel waves, "But on one condition."

Dean sits back in his chair, cleaning the blood off his hands with the towel he had been using on Cas' wound. "Shoot."

"If I say to stop, you do so immediately. This job requires nerves, intuition, and timing. You have to apply exactly the right amount and withdraw at precisely the right time. No trespassing beyond any borders. Do I make myself clear?"

Dean whistles, "Talk about an intervention. You always make it look easy; are you sure you're not overselling it?"

"I'll talk you through it. I trust you'll heed every word."

Dean mocks salute military style.

Castiel attempts to drag himself to a half-sitting position against the headboard, and Dean moves the pillow up, offering assistance.

"First of all," Castiel murmurs, "Can you feel your grace?"

"Pretty damn hard to ignore the bugger."

"Thing of it is as...water." He explains, "Imagine yourself as its recipient. Tip the jar, and make grace flow down your arm."

"Like this?" He bends down the middle, letting his right arm hit the floor.

"Dean, this is serious."

Dean straightens. "Yeah, water. Jar. Roger that."

"I want you to be careful as you let grace flow between us; too little and it won't budge, too much and you might deplete yourself completely." Castiel coughs, a dry sound like sandpaper.

"Alright. Done with the theory?" Dean watches Cas slowly lose consciousness.

"No. Intention comes next. Imagine a balm, for instance—whereas grace..." Castiel's eyes flutter shut with torpor. Dean lightly shakes his shoulder once, to no avail.

Right. It's go big, or go home. Dean's gonna have to nail this in one, or he might seriously put them both in dire straits.

"Easy as pie." Dean psyches himself up; he brings two fingers together and presses them to the crown of the angel's head, the way he often did to him in the past. He's infinitely careful as he nudges the grace sitting in his chest. It barely moves at all at first, then it flows too quickly down his arm, and Dean has to adjust immediately before he over-shots.

"Damn thing is prissier than fucking Oolong tea." Dean mutters to himself.

He thinks he's got the balance right; it trickles down inside the length of his arm in a thin stream. Dean has no idea how Cas manages to make this so effortless and instantaneous. He feels like he's leaning over a surgical table over here, and every movement can fuck it up in a second. At last the grace reaches the tip of his fingers and passes from him to Castiel. Dean imagines this 'balm' in board terms. He repeats it in his head over and over again, willing grace to somehow stop the bleeding.

The hole does start to mend. The skin is slowly stretching over the hollowness left by the arrow. Cas lays down comatose.

"I'm fucking awesome." 

Just then, something like a magnetic pull makes him falter.

What the hell is that about?

Curiosity must also hold intent, because in the next second his grace expends within Castiel's chest the way ink takes to water and the net he has over the angel grows tenfold. The overload of informations he gets suddenly makes him dizzy. He can't make heads or tails of most of it, but there's the hint of something which runs deep, alive and powerful. Something that calls out. Every nerve in Dean's body melts, his breathing synched with the other, and his eyes become blind to his surroundings. Where he once thought of his grace as oil that never mixed with the ruins of his human soul, something inside Cas resonates here with the fabric of Dean’s metaphysical tapestry. He’s close enough to read its impression: loyalty loudest, and an obstinate, almost frustrated desire to do right by him. There’s something else, Dean knows — far below the surface, secrets untouched even by Castiel. If Dean could just reach out, and let himself know it...

A hand shoves him away, snapping the connection.

Dean feels whiplash as the room bleeds into view behind his pupils.

"Never do that again." Castiel seethes.

Chapter Text

Cas sleeps the entire day away, and Dean doesn't mess with grace again; lesson learned. He's not sure what happened there, but leaves it at that for now.

The thing is, though, the memory sticks. Like a bad tooth you can’t help running your tongue over. Dean catches himself dwelling on it; a secret so thoroughly hidden that Castiel woke himself up for a few seconds, just to pry Dean away from it. Try as he might, he couldn’t begin to grasp what it might mean--or whether there was meaning to be found in the first place. It was bullshit, and many times he resolved to set it aside, distracting himself between his research on Armageddon and short flying sessions in the war room.

Castiel finally wakes around ten the next day, with a splitting headache and a thorn-like feeling in his chest. The first thing he does is ask Dean for a glass of water—human enough a request to put the hunter on edge then and there.

Dean holds it out to him. "How are ya feeling?"

Cas downs the glass in one motion, "Like a target board." He grimaces, letting his head fall back on the flat mattress. He rubs his upper chest, and it's glaringly obvious that Dean's magical touch left something to be desired.

Dean pops his lips. "Guess it didn't work, uh... Well, you know what they say about first tries..." The joke falls flat as he trails off.

Cas blinks at him. Dean's attention slides from Cas' prone figure to the uninteresting desk sitting at the opposite side of the room. What kind of awkward mood was this? Dean would rather be chewed out for not following orders, especially when they came with such extensive warnings. He mentally tugs on the line between them—a reflex he had picked up while waiting for Cas to come to—and then stops himself in self-consciousness.

He clears his throat. "Give it to me straight—how bad did I fuck up?"

The bed covers pool in Castiel's lap as he works his way into a sitting position. A pause. "The merging of grace within an unstable environment, without a safe degree of control, could have triggered a chain reaction comparable in potency to that of a nuclear fission."

Dean simmers with that information for a full minute. "Does this mean you could have died?" He puts a hand on the headboard and squeezes. The wood underneath groans.

Cas’s unimpressed look meets Dean’s. “That sigil you drew back then, it wasn’t there to look pretty, Dean. It’s the only reason my grace was contained as I...” He makes a sharp gesture with his hand, encompassing Dean.

Dean releases the headboard, rallying himself. "Look, I just wanted to help, alright? I didn’t know about that damn sigil."

"You draw it, yet you didn't even—?" Cas’s words break into a hiss. His hand zips to his wound, pressing against the gauze with a quiet grunt. He peels his fingers away; a red patch spreads across the white cotton.

Instead of taking it easy—like Dean was about to suggest—Cas shoves the covers aside completely and swings his legs out of bed.

"Where the hell do you think you’re going?"

"To fix this."

Dean immediately falls into step behind him.

Cas throws him a look over his shoulder. "Dean. I’m perfectly capable of—"

"Nope. Stitches. End of story."

***

They find their way to the monochromatic tiles of the bathroom.

"Wound's deep. That bastard got you good." Dean stifles a sympathetic grimace as he presses a cotton soaked in disinfectant to the cut.

Castiel hums, "I can think of worst outcomes."

Dean falls silent. The arrow should've hit him instead. Like it was supposed to.

He chucks the red-stained cotton into the bin. "Hey. Uh...I should probably thank you for this. I mean, not this"—he gestures at the wound—"but, y'know...for the saving-my-bacon bit."

"Of course, Dean."

It's just the two of them in this big-ass white bathroom. How can a space feel so vast but constraining at the same time?

Dean puts the sewing needle between his teeth—good excuse to stop running his mouth. He pulls the reel of sutures from the medic kit, along with a pair of scissors. The silence holds while he stitches Cas’s skin closed. The wound is deep, but thankfully not too large; before long, Dean has secured the stitches and is moving on to dressing it up.

Castiel lowers his chin, lost in his own thoughts. And so his words catch Dean off guard, when they break the lull. "Heaven has their weapon now. We have failed."

Dean's brain needs a second to catch up. Oh, right. The priest. Dean sorta kinda forgot about him—what with hiding his True name, Cas taking an arrow to the heart, and all that other crap. Cas’ worries aren’t misplaced; Dean’s pretty sure the priest is a dead man walking the second the Host figures out they picked the wrong guy for the job.

As for the fate of the world, as much as Dean wants to reassure the angel that time isn't running as short as it might look, well... He keeps his peace as he works around Castiel, warping the bandage over his wound, securing it under the angel's right arm, then above his left shoulder, around his chest, then again and again.

Cas lifts his head, catching Dean’s eyes as he makes another pass. “You don’t seem worried.”

Dean shrugs. “World’s still spinnin’, isn’t it? Maybe they got it wrong.”

There’s an edge of disbelief in Cas’s voice. “You're making quite a reckless assumption.” How come this answer didn't seem right at all? When had Dean become so nonchalant about such matters?

“I was just stating a fact. And hey—what if the guy doesn’t even wanna end the world? Couldn’t he just, y’know… say, ‘no thanks’?”

“It is never that simple.”

“Well, it should be.”

Dean finishes wrapping the gauze and claps him lightly on the shoulder. He moves back in front of the angel for the finishing touch, pulling the pins from between his teeth. He keeps his eyes anywhere but on Cas’s steady gaze.

" 's rude to stare, Cas."

"Apologies." The angel’s eyes flick to the side for barely two seconds before finding their way back to Dean. Lost cause.

A crease forms between the Castiel's eyebrows. "You are far more pleasant to look at than most humans I've met." The tone is perfectly matter-of-fact.

Dean splutters; the pins he was using to secure the bandage very nearly pricks his finger. "Wow, easy with the intrusive thoughts." He jokes, but from this close up, there's no way Castiel can miss the rush of blood that has slightly overtaken his skin.

Unbidden, Castiel idly wonders what would happen if he kept showering Dean with compliments... Something about that harmless idea seems quite pleasant.

"Good as new." Dean straightens from his stool suddenly, like he had been sitting on a fire. Castiel nods and stands into Dean's space. There's a beat where they both look at each other. Words seem to hang by the angel's lips...but at last, he turns on his heels and hightails it out of the bathroom.

Dean clicks his tongue. "You're welcome. Jerk." he mutters to himself, without bite.

He gathers the bloodstained towels and puts away the medical kit.

'Thank you, Dean.'

Dean washes his hands, unaware that the mirror above the sink betrays the small smirk on his face.

***

Dean's pretty sure Cas is hiding something from him, for a change. And yes, that makes him a hypocrite—sue him: he hates secrets. Especially  the ones he isn't in on.

It's a dead giveaway: Cas spends most of his convalescence in the library, reading obscure Enochian manuscripts. They don't exchange a word all afternoon. What's more suspicious, Cas barely acknowledges the hunter's presence. Scrap that—he point-blank ignores him! And if that doesn't spell 'sketchy', Dean will eat a cowboy hat.

By late evening, Dean had given Cas more than a few opportunities to share with the class, including the times he very deliberately sauntered into the room to check on him.

It was time for 'Operation Red Handed'. To all units; move out!

Dean slips out of the dark corner behind the library entrance, where he’d been sort-of covertly spying on Cas. And what does the angel do? Mostly just cart scrolls to the table, shuffle papers, or poke at that same old book. Nothing worth reporting… yet.

Dean makes himself look unassuming as he takes a seat at an adjacent desk that is neither too close nor out of view from where Cas is standing. In fact, if the angel would simply raise his head, he'd notice Dean sitting right there, pretending to leaf through an old motorcycle magazine. But Cas doesn't so much as bat an eyelash at him; Dean might as well have been made out of cardboard. Undeterred and impatient, Dean finally caves in and decides to just go for the kill. He beelines it to Cas' table, keeping quiet as he stands there, just to really drive it home that Cas is being weird.

He's being weird.

"Hey." Dean shoves his hands in his pockets. "So. What have you been workin' on, Grumpy Cat?"

Cas hums, "This and that."

"Uh-huh. You found anything interesting in all that babble dabble?" The first thing Dean found out was that he couldn't even tell what Cas' idea of a good read was. He really should get around learning Enochian some time yesterday. A pity language skills didn't come ready-made with the angel wings.

Cas traces a line down the book as he reads, "Not really."

"Awesome." Dean replies sarcastically. "Maybe I could help with... whatever this is."

Cas does look up at him then, albeit with the most dubitative expression, something akin to, That's adorable that you'd think so, Dean. "You can read Enochian?" He asks instead.

"Well, no, but if you'd explain—

Cas looks back down his papers. "It's fine; just a personal hunch. More importantly, do you have a plan concerning Armageddon?"

"I'm on top of it." Like, literally.

Dean grinds his teeth, but Castiel reads on.

This is only a momentarily retreat, Dean promises himself as he walks out the room.

***

What is he thinking about?

Dean feels more than a little cross that Cas could read others' minds but hadn't taught him that particular trick. In the end, he was constrained to fall back to tried-and-true methods. Observation. Subtlety. Patience. What should have been an easy mission was already turning out to be a lot trickier.

The second time, Dean finds him in the infirmary as he's passing by on his way to his room. He stops, and pushes the door open the rest of the way.

"Cas?"

"Hi, Dean."

The hunter frowns, "All good in here?"

Cas motions the roll of gauze in his hand, "I was changing yesterday's bandages."

...or trying to. The old bandages were lying on the ground by the bed, at the angel's feet. They are, in some part, soaked in dried blood. Dean had privately hoped that the wound had properly closed by now. Nothing about this was normal—from the slow healing process to the very fact the wound had been inflicted.

He steps the rest of the way inside. "Here, I'll help. Go sit on that infirmary chair for a sec."

Dean plucks the fresh roll out of Cas' grasp. This was a good chance to grill him; he wasn't going to pass on it.

Castiel sits half naked— and what does that matter?  Dean meant to ask Cas about something...

"Any breakthrough on that hunch of yours? " Dean unwraps the bundle.

"Nothing helpful."

"Don’t play me, Cas. You’re shifty as hell about it."

"I'm not shifty. I assumed angelic texts bored you. But if you insist, I can begin reciting the Book of Revelation, starting with Ezekiel’s accounts, as written from the perspective of—"

"Alright, you can stop there. I know it has to do with your wound." And the arrow. What else could it be? What else could hold Cas’s attention like this, other than finding an explanation why he wasn't healing?

Cas shifts his weight, "You're overthinking."

"Am I?" Dean couldn't see Cas' eyes from where he was standing. A shame too; Castiel's eyes always betrayed him first.

With jerky motions, Dean wraps the fresh bandage around the angel’s torso. His fingers graze the skin of Castiel’s spine as he does, making Castiel straightens his back a little out of reach.

Dean had a few preconceptions about skinship. He knew the feel of skin with the same kind of familiarity he knew the weight of a gun, or the taste of apple pie. This? This had the bearings of a slightly foreign experience. Was it because Cas was a man? Or an angel? A friend? Not that it mattered in the end. Dean wonders at the buzzing sensation in his fingertips, and decides it must be because of their shared Grace, after all. He had felt something similar when Cas had put his hands on him while helping him find his wings, in Eden. It was reasonable to think that Grace was the likely culprit. Convenient, too.

Before he knew it, the mending job was done.

"I'll see you later, Dean." Cas is out the door before Dean can say 'pie'.

***

Distinguishing the cycle of night and day had always been tricky, down here in the bunker. This isn't helped by Dean's new nature, which eludes the need for sleep.

All the same, he could appreciate a bit of me-time. And that's how the evening found Dean laying on his bed, freshly remade with clean bedding. His head pillowed over his crossed arms as he looks at the ceiling with an absentminded gaze.

In the end, what was going on with Cas? Was Dean being too paranoid? If not for the wound, was Cas’ aloofness because he was suspicious of Dean’s role in all this—or worse, had he already figured everything out? Because that would really muck his plans about keeping this prophetic crap under wraps. Or maybe it really was about the wound, and how it wouldn't heal... Dean worries his lower lip. Originally, he was pretty good at making smart guesses. Maybe he’d lost that ability along with his humanity...Maybe cluelessness was an angelic trait.

He flops on his side, punching his pillow into a better shape. No use losing sleep over it. Tomorrow. Dean would get to the bottom of this. And then he could move on to his other tiny, world-shaped problem that he had put on the back burner. He closes his eyes, and then remembers with a spike of longing that angels do not sleep.

"Godamnit."

It was going to be a long night.

***

There's a lake stretching in front of Dean, encircled by dark and tall pines, and in front of him, a person sitting in a chair on the pier, fishing. Dean walks towards them without hesitation.

As he approaches, something becomes increasingly clear: he knows this fisherman.

"Cas? The hell are you doing here?"

"Hello, Dean."

Dean looks around. The lake, the pier, and the angel—nothing else stands out.

"Did you enter my dream?" He accuses.

"Angels do not dream." Castiel rails the line in; it's empty. He sets the rod away.

"Yeah," Dean frowns, "so you said. Mind explaining what this is about, then?" He waves his hand to encompass the scenery around them.

Castiel stands up from his chair. He's close. There's a different air about him, like he knows something Dean doesn't. Like he's taking Dean's measure. The hunter straightens his back, not to be outdone.

Castiel—if indeed it was him—inhales, "There is a price for knowledge. I believe it's not time yet."

"Time for what?" This was a dream alright. The only other explanation? Castiel was high as a kite.

"Time for this to happen," Fake—Castiel turns towards the lake, and after a second of hesitation, Dean flickers his eyes down at it.

Castiel's likeness extends his hand above the clear water. A drop of night ink escapes from his fingertips. Dean watches as it crashes into the water with a little plick. The tiny stain of black expends within the lake like smoke on slow motion, overcoming the clear, transparent water with its opaque shine.

Gray clouds gather above their heads. A distant rumble growls, light rain falls on his skin, warm and thin. Dean looks down at his hand, where the drops gather in his palm; they are the same charcoal black.

"Do you understand?" Castiel asks.

The lake is completely dark now. Dean whips his head towards fake-Castiel with a question burning on his lips, but it's forgotten the moment he sees that Castiel is much closer than he realized. He's so close, Dean can see the gray speck in his iris. The urge  to step back is great, but one glance over his shoulder informs Dean that the pier has mysteriously shrank. A new wave of panic strikes his heart—a trepidation not wholly unlike facing a monster on a hunt, exhilarating but dangerous. Castiel leans closer still, and if he doesn't stop soon— All Dean can do is raise his hands to push him away. He expects to meet strong resistance; instead, he's surprised when Castiel crashes through his fingers and then his arms, dissolving into dark rain the second they make contact.

The rain keeps on blackening the lake. It keeps on falling over Dean's face, leaving soot trails over his skin.

Dean stands alone on the pitch-black pier, besides an empty chair and a discarded fishing rod.

"What the hell is going on?"

Chapter Text

Dean jumps to a sitting position on his bed, fighting his sheets. His breath is ragged. He forces down a gulp.

Get it together, man. He drags a hand through his hair, sticky with sweat. The damp sensation re-kindles a memory: a black pier. Rain. Castiel. Images that trickle down one by one. He sits there, motionless in the dark.

I'm going bat-shit crazy. Losing my goddamn mind.

Why would he dream of Castiel—no, why would he dream at all? This weird shit kept happening to him. 

In a darkness made whole by the lack of windows, Dean blindly looks at his hands. Were they clean? Or black? He fumbles for the nightstand lamp, turning on the light. The clock strikes 3 am. No trace of soot rain. He exhales. So maybe he's only partially brain damaged. Small miracles.

He can't remember falling asleep. Angels definitely didn't do that. There could only be one explanation: Dean wasn't as much a divine creature as Cas made him out to be. Perhaps because Dean had been a demon in the past. Or otherwise, what's left of his tattered soul is enough to hold onto a shred of his lost humanity. The idea feels...disturbing. More keenly than he had before, Dean feels torn in halves.

The hunter's head hits the wall behind him.

Time flies by. The seven o'clock alarm shocks him right out of his trance.

***

Dean rolls the aggravating iron arrow between his fingers. The promise he had made himself to confront Cas the other night is now distorted through the lens of his dream. Of all the details to be stuck on, it is that last second—Cas dissolving into rain—that has him on edge. There was a warning in those dreams. Dean is starting to dread that sharing half of his Grace with Cas came with long-lasting sides effects. And who could tell him otherwise? No one but Cas had been crazy enough to do this.

"Dean?"

The hunter raises his head, and finds Cas reading him instead of the book on his desk. "You seem troubled."

Dean waves it off. He leans on the far opposite desk, his own pile of books discarded. From here, he’d been watching Cas at work—still neck-deep in his mysterious research. The angel had lost the trench coat sometime during his study session, had even rolled up his sleeves. It was a strikingly human look—one Dean hadn’t seen since Cas’ mortal days. He looked—

An exhale. "Just ask your question, Dean."

Dean huffs, "Not goin' to ignore me today?"

Cas sets his jaw, not denying it.

Dean rolls the arrow again. The Enochian sentence stares back at him, innocently.

𐑒𐑜𐑢𐑓𐑒𐑨𐑢𐑒𐑟𐑢𐑢𐑞𐑒𐑢𐑡𐑒𐑕𐑤𐑒𐑞𐑣𐑟𐑓𐑜𐑟𐑗𐑓𐑘𐑣𐑕𐑢𐑢𐑟𐑡𐑕

Ol adrpan voh droln parach tan, sobol noan — od busd cronz. It reads. Dean had spend his entire morning translating it: I know not where one quenches the burning heart, if salvation comes — or drowning follows.

It reminded him of his dreams; of burning eyes, dry bottomless deserts, and black lakes. But none of it had anything to do with him... After all, it was Cas who had been stabbed by the arrow. The longer he stares, the surer he is—certain questions just didn't warrant asking.

"What's the deal with me, Cas."

They'd sat in silence long enough that Castiel went back to reading. Without looking up he says, "Elaborate, please."

Dean runs a hand over his throat. "That shit I pulled in the church. You know—about ordering 'em all to stand down. It was downright freaky. I mean, can angels even do that?"

Castiel stayed quiet, as if trying to make himself forgotten. "No, most of them cannot." He admits.

"Meaning, some can."

Cas assents with a tilt of his head. "Some, yes. Dominions."

"Dominions." Dean echoed the word, flat. Cas had called him that the first time he'd seen his wings—a judge of sorts?

"A Dominion ranks at the second sphere, with only one above it. For instance, Gabriel, who's an archangel, is still below a Dominion in power."

Dean stares. "I'm Gabriel's boss ?"

The angel clicks his tongue. "That's not the way it works."

"Sure," Dean points the arrow at Cas. "Anyway, this dominion crap is the reason they listened to me, is it. Some sort of 'respect the sheriff' law."

"This is what I've been trying to explain to you for years, Dean. Angels and humans are inherently dissimilar for one crucial reason." Castiel closes his book, and walks around his desk. "We lack free will."

"Could’ve fooled me—I've seen you use it plenty."

Cas shakes his head, "Against my own nature. We are set into our roles. I only changed because I wanted to. That I should want at all is already an aberration."

"Doesn't add up. You wanted out. You walked away from Heaven. That was your call."

"I only made that call..." Cas straightens his back, "...because you asked for my help, and I was tempted enough to give it. I suppose, in that sense, I do have a will." Cas' eyes fasten on the arrow hanging by Dean's fingers. "A somewhat breakable will," he grouses in undertones.

"Is that what I did to those angels back there? Break their wills?" The idea alone sickens him.

Castiel stares at him, "It is a Dominion's prerogative."

Oh fuck, he had.

He had robbed them of their free will. The very thing he fights for. Would this happen every time he used his True voice? Would he be responsible for what they did afterwards? His own actions already screwed everything up half of the time. Dean finally sees how he could bring about the end of the world; it was simply too much power for one man to hold. He wanted none of it.

And then, a spike of doubt stabs him: if angels have no free will, then what became of his? Was it already—

"Dean," Cas' voice cuts through his spiral. "Give me the arrow."

Dean looks down—indeed, his fingers were grazing the arrow’s head. He quickly averts them.

"Give me the arrow, Dean." It's less of a suggestion this time.

"Why?" Dean's eyes narrow.

"I just..." Cas searches for a reason, when none is forthcoming, he presses his lips in a thin line. He always had been averse to lying. "I would like to see it. Please."

Dean recalls one thing out of his dream, and another about angel's arrows. He doesn’t know what he’s about to do, only that he’s doing it. He's walking towards Cas.

"Let's cut the crap. This is a cupid's arrow." Dean waves it, "Isn't it?" So much for not asking questions you don't want the answer to.

Castiel remains still, but Dean immediately feels tension hum down the line. It is more of an answer than he'll get from Cas' unreadable face. He's not above using it.

"Just give it to me straight. What kind of curse are we working with here?" Dean stands two paces away, arrow in hand.

"Anyone can notch an arrow, Dean." Castiel raises his head. "It doesn't mean it's cursed."

"And how many of those can make an angel bleed?"

Castiel huffs.

Clearly, giving an angel the third degree was like pulling chicken's teeth. Perhaps, this was the time to stop talking, and start baiting. This was the most ludicrous, awkward, nerve-wracking interrogation Dean would ever set himself as bait for. So of course, he had to do it.

He comes closer still. The kind of distance where Dean would usually throw out a 'personal space' warning. Now he’s breaking his own rule. The link sends goosebumps down his spine, indicating the angel is affected, yet none of it shows on Cas' face.

"See, I'm wondering..." Dean sets the arrow on the desk besides Castiel, his hand resting over it, "Would you even know if you were cursed?"

Castiel stays perfectly put together, arguably 'trapped' between the desk and Dean's arm, propped on his left. His eyes do neither waver nor drop Dean's for a second.

Dean frowns at the apathy. It had been a shot in the dark.

Cas' voice drops. "Are you provoking me?"

Dean steps back with a plastic grin. "Nah. Just covering all our bases, y'know."

"Tell me, then." Cas runs a finger on the arrow's blade, "What does it seem like to you?"

The link warms, beckoning Dean to step closer again.

It can do that?

Dean’s face heats with the burn of his own stupidity. Goading Cas? He was out of his goddamn mind. He shoves his hands in his pockets, about to call a retreat. Maybe pour his shame into some car-related busywork, anywhere Castiel wasn't. Before he has the chance, Castiel shoves himself off the desk and encroaches his space, arrow forgotten.

"You were willing to use yourself to prove a point. So make your point." Castiel challenges.

"Wow, take it easy, man." Dean means to pull his hands out of his pockets and push him away. By the time he manages to free them, he only has a second left to catch the opposite desk's edge behind him before Castiel crowds him in a reverse configuration of their earlier position. The difference is that Castiel clasps both hands on the table's edge at each sides of him, and Dean is almost sitting over it in his attempt to pull away.

"These games you play—where you throw yourself in like a bargaining chip. I really hate them. Do you know what humans call that?"

At this close a distance, Dean can't do much else but to look him square in the eyes. "Beats me." He snarls.

Castiel grabs Dean's collar. "Fuck around and find out." 

Dean's eyes widen. "What the hell are you doing?" 

"I have no idea." The angel's gaze travels down Dean's face, "This was your brilliant plan. Tell me."

It is like an echo of last night's dream. Castiel face is close—close enough to see those specks of dark in his pupils. But with the added knowledge of the cupid's curse, it's pretty damn clear where this is leading to, if he lets it. And so, just like in the dream, Dean shoves the angel away.

Castiel looks at him like Dean just slapped him in the face, and isn't that just the cherry on top of the dumpster fire?

"What the hell?!" Dean is caught between anger, fright and vindication. Because he was right. Ah!

Castiel has gone very still. The link; very cold.

"I knew it! You're cursed!" Dean sizes him up with one glare, daring him to refute it.

For his part, Castiel's entire world is tilting on its axis. His face drains of colors.

"I can't be." He claims, more so to himself, needing to believe it—to hear the words said out loud. He had found no records of a cupid's curse working on an angel, not in any of the Men of Letters' books. Not in any of the angel history that he knew of. For all intent and purposes, it wasn't done, and it wouldn't take.

"Then how do you explain—? There's no way you'd— That you'd do that!" Dean slides off the desk he had somehow ended up sitting on.

"You misunderstand. I..." He... What? Wasn't planning to? Meant nothing by it? The angel frowns at his own lack of insight.

"It's a cupid's curse, Cas. It's pretty damn self-explanatory."

Castiel's mouth twists like he's trying to hold a frog inside of it; something that wants out, but would make the mood awkward. Dean wishes he won't say anything, but he can't deny there's a very tiny part of him that is curious, too.

Castiel looks at him. A silent beat passes, two...

"...I'm not cursed."

"Clearly."

Castiel rolls his eyes, "I'm not, but for the sake of the argument: what are you so mad about, Dean? Is it that I might give a damn about you...because of that?"

"News flash: this stunt you just tried to pull," Dean motions between the two of them, "it's a little above 'giving a damn'."

"You pull this stunt pretty often yourself. You do it all the time, to many people. Do you give 'a little above a damn' for each one of them too?"

Dean presses his fingers over his eyelids until he sees stars, "Listen, can we just say you're cursed and leave it at that?"

The angel's jaw clicks shut.

The link is a buzzing mess, it makes Dean feel like ants are running up his skin.

Dean catches himself looking a the other's lips—jerks his eyes away.

"I'll just have to break it, then." Cas says.

"What do you mean, you'll just break it?"

"What else could I mean? The curse."

"Right, but—", Dean's not sure what he wants to say. The words die before they reach his lips. He tries again, "That easy?" Love really was cheap.

"Yes. It's that easy." Clouds gather behind blue eyes as he looks over the hunter. Angels did not fall in love. That wasn't wishful thinking, just fact.

Dean wets his lips, Castiel frowns at the action.

"I need a drink." The hunter declares. There's a rush of wings taking flight—and then he's gone. There's a sense of unbalance from this sudden vanishing act; like walking down to the stairs expecting one last step, suddenly finding none...

Castiel cares nothing for falling.

***

The walls were closing in. The next thing he knows, Dean is out of the bunker—flying with no destination in mind. He goes far, and fast, in a vain attempt to outrun Castiel's sharp words.

Fuck around and find out...

...I might give a damn...

...I'll break it.

Dean is trapped—body and mind. Even now, there's a line hooked through his core, reminding him he's half a part of someone else. The grace stirs within—like a fish speared by an harpoon. Like Dean is the one with a heart maimed by an arrow. It is so absurd he'd almost laugh.

Things were clear just a couple hours ago. Now he cannot make sense of anything. His mind keeps running in circles.

They were friends. Family. Cas almost blurred a line, but they could fix this. It was just a curse. Just a stupid curse.

Beyond the awkwardness and trepidation, Dean worries about the prophecy.

You will know of its coming through the piercing arrows, borrowed by cupids from the spires of the house of God.

Time is running out.

Dean flies, not realizing he'd blinked across miles. He goes to the one person he never thought he'd willingly seek help from.

Gabriel opens his hotel room's door. 

Dean's breathing sounds loud to his own ears.

Gabe pushes the door open wider in invitation. "Don't ever give kids advice. It's like they have to spite you with it."

Chapter Text

"You know," Gabriel says around a mouthful, "after a lover's spat, most people go whine to their moms." He pops another grape into his mouth.

Dean twirls the angel blade between his fingers. It spins and spins...

They're in Gabriel's domus— the archangel sprawled across a reclining couch, Dean hunched forward on the edge of his.

"He's not my lover." Dean grouses.

"Cassie got your halo all twisted up, huh?" Gabe throws a raisin up in the air, and it turns into a white dove. The bird lands on his shoulder.

Dean snaps, "Forget about Castiel already, we have bigger problems."

Gabriel tuts, "Too little, too late for that. You got him shot down like a baby pheasant."

"He got himself shot down, I was handling it!"

Gabe brushes a finger over the dove’s feather. "I just knew you'd drag him down into your prophecy. Well, more so than he already was."

Dean squares his jaw. "And that's my fault?"

Gabe scoffs. "Sure ain't mine."

"Last I checked, I'm not the one who bibbidi boo'd those wings on my back."

Gabriel raises a pointed brow at him, Dean turns his head, refusing to address it.

The hunter squeezes the blade's handle. "Doesn't matter now. Can you fix him or not?"

"I'd love to, but last I tried my method on Sam, it kinda fucked him up a little bit."

Dean's attention is suddenly razor sharp, pointing the blade at the other man, "What did you do to Sam?"

"Oh, pffff, peanuts! Some light therapy."

Dean looks him over, severe. He doesn't buy it for a second, but it's neither here nor there. "Well? Did it work at least?"

"On Sam? No. And his lesson was only about letting go. Cassie's is about wrecking the whole thing down with a sledgehammer,..." Gabriel pulls his lower lip between his teeth. "...a few tricks won't cut it."

Dean recognizes a flash of frustration as it crosses through the archangel's eyes, and says, "Well, thanks for nothing." In the silence that follows, he slowly resumes twirling the blade between his fingers. That settles it then; Dean has to fall from Grace. One way or another.

Gabriel jerks his head at the blade, "My brother gave you that?"

Dean makes a jerky nod. The trickster scratches his jaw.

Navigating this damn prophecy was like steering a sailboat in the middle of an infinite ocean. Only, his sails were dead and any fruitless progress was made by the effort of his own tired paddling—and now this thing with Cas as well. Fantastic.

"How do you know so much about the prophecy, anyways? Always seemed fishy to me."

"Ah." Gabriel turns the dove into a dart, he throws it towards the farthest table, where a plate of fruits sits like a picture of still life. The dart stabs a deep red apple. A perfect hit.

"Funny thing: I'm far from the only one in the know. Ever wonder how angels got wind of har Məgiddô so early on in the game?"

"How the fuck should I know. Crystal balls?"

Gabriel's eyes are on the golden plate. There's a dark spot growing around the stab. It spreads fast, and the apple rots, sitting amongst the other pristine fruits. 

"Beburos is one out of nine angels implicated with the prophecy. The other eight got the memo long before you even entered the picture."

"Are you saying there's another eight bozos out there that can ruin it for all of us?"

"Oh, they certainly tried." Gabriel chuckles, then sobers at Dean's gaze, "Not me though! Unlike you, I follow my own advice."

"You? You're one of them?"

"Guilty. A few of the others gave it an honest shot. It got reeeeally messy. Ever met a Nephilim? Anyways, turns out you can't force the end of times. We all lack a ~lil' something extra."

Dean breathes a bit easier, "So what I'm hearing is that they're a non-factor. First good news of the day."

Silence falls. The evening is fresh, smells of earth and rain, dousing the day after a scorching sun. Any other time, Dean would have enjoyed it.

It's a while before Gabriel asks dryly, "What's the master plan?"

Dean gives the blade one last twirl, and stops. He contemplates it. It's stainless, but he knows Castiel used it many, many times before.

He presents the handle to Gabriel. The trickster's brows shot to his hairline, the little smile etched perpetually on his face becomes a rictus. He pushes himself up the rest of the way, swings his legs to the side and sits. His gaze bores into Dean.

"Dean-o."

"No. Not gonna hear it."

Gabriel stares at him for a beat. On an inhale, he says, "We both know that if I do this, Castiel will have me smited into next Thursday."

Dean's hand stays up, offering the blade. "You're afraid of Cas?"

"You grossly underestimates the powers at play. Not to worry though; that's nothing new."

"I'll tell you what's new." Dean bites out, "Me, or you; someone is getting dusted tonight. Your choice."

Gabriel pulls a face, "Please. We both know you still have half a soul under that grouch."

"That's what I'm betting on." The blade flips in the hunter's hand. In the next motion he strikes at himself.

No pain—that's unusual. He looks down, and Gabriel's hand is bleeding all over his shirt.

"ARE YOU A BLOODY WACKO?!" Gabriel pulls out the blade impaled in his hand. "You—I can't fucking believe! "

"Godamnit, Gabriel. Give it back—"

Gabriel sidesteps, blade out of reach, leading him 'round the pond in an odd game of tag. "Why Castiel would give a piece of his grace to a feather-hater maniac like you, I’ll never understand. Do you realize what you are?"

Dean stops in front of the trickster, the pond stands between them. He gives him a saccharine smile. "Yeah. Pretty goddamn pissed." 

"Your little Bollywood playacting almost signed us off into a halo-shaped big bang mushroom. And they say I'm the one who should mind my status." He snorts.

"You've gone ballistic."

"Dean, you're a Dominion, for Dad's sake! Cosmic ultra wave of destruction upon death? Rings a bell?"

"Oh, shit." The pond's water lurches away under the unintentional use of his true voice.

"Uh-huh."

Dean starts pacing, "I have to get rid of this Grace, Gabe. Give me somethin' to work with here."

"Well, any blessed moron would tell you to find a pocket out of space before you pull another Michael's Bay."

Dean mentally shuffles through possibilities, any place that would be safe enough...an idea strikes him. A two-shots, one-stone, sonofa' plan. "I have just the place."

"I'm sorry, that was a joke. Were you actually planning to blow yourself? And not in a fun way, at that. Don't take this as misplaced sentimentality, but let's put a pin on that thought."

"What's the hold up?"

All amusement —faked or otherwise—washes away from the archangel's face. "I want you to return his Grace to Castiel."

That gives Dean pause. "I thought we were long past the point of fixing his Grace."

"I said that my tricks won't cut it, not that you didn't stand a chance at all."

"Alright, I hear you. As long as you promise Cas is the one who gets it. I've seen this movie before."

"I swear on my honor," Gabriel says with a wink. "Our first brotherly quest. Think it might make Sam jealous?"

"I'm not your brother." Dean turns to go sit on his abandoned couch.

The trickster's smile drops behind Dean's back. Indeed, Gabe only had one brother, and he wasn't about to lose him over this sad excuse of a so-called 'love'. Quote unquote.

Dean opens the span of his arms. "So, how do we do this thing? Do I throw up Grace in a bucket, or...?"

Gabriel throws the blade back at Dean, who catches it mid-air. "Oh, no. This is heavy work. I'm talkin' breaking down foundations."

Dean lets himself fall against the backrest. "Nothing's ever fucking easy."

"Listen kiddo, theory goes that after you cut grace in half, you throw a line to make this piece sink down." Gabe shoves his index over Dean's heart.

Dean swats the hand away. "A line, uh? Yeah, I can see that." It was impossible to ignore the Grace still stirring within, but Dean was using his entire willpower to block out the link between them.

"The line is just a byproduct though; it's the anchor you want."

In a put-upon tone, Dean says, "So, find the metaphorical anchor in my metaphorical body. Why didn't you just say so?"

"You won't literally be looking for an anchor, dumbass. It's enough to know what kind of faith Cas placed in you when he made it, and then to break that faith. Voilà!"

Dean sounds a little strangled when he asks, "Wait. You want me to betray Cas?"

"The question you really wanted to ask was: would that be betraying him, or saving him?"

Chapter Text

The moment Dean flies away, Castiel binds himself to a promise.

They had more pressing concerns than Castiel's...frazzled mind. Namely, an Apocalypse of which he knew next to nothing about. Castiel finds himself on his own—truly on his own: completely cut out from the angel radio and any information it might provide. It was maddening.
 
And the link, Castiel could tell this; Dean was flat lining his thoughts and emotions in a bid to keep them from spilling down the line. He wasn't entirely successful in this, however, and if he really wanted to, Castiel could have broken his way past this flimsy attempt.
 
He's being ridiculous. Cas' every instincts usher him to break the distance; to make a show of proving the futility of raising walls between them. Just like there was no left without right, no dusk without dawn, or no exhale without an inhale; you could not keep apart that which was made of two intrinsic halves. What holds Castiel back ultimately is a little voice in his head. His own—no doubt about it, but it sounds suspiciously like Dean's, and it chides 'Personal space'.

At a loss, standing in the heart of a silent bunker, Castiel vows to break this pesky curse, first and foremost.

The gravel road crackles beneath his shoe as he marches out of the bunker. His thoughts spiral, like a marble circling a drain. He could hardly believe he was cursed at all—and yet, the evidence was there; revealed in his earlier...display. Of all the curses to be subject to, this one is the most disarming of all. Not least because of its consequences on his mind, but more so due to his own profound lack of knowledge on the matter at hand. If knowledge is power, Castiel is humbled to find the depths of his own weakness. He's in dire need for answers, and who better than a master of the craft to give them?

A rustle of wings, and Castiel is gone. He lands no long after, under the night sky of Italy, shrouded in the orange electric lights of tall street lamps. Inclined as he is to blame the sultry nights of Firenze, Castiel knows that the heat of the curse hasn't completely drained from his blood—it merely simmered down like coals, ready to devour him again at a moment's notice.

The overwhelming feeling had been so alien, so one-minded...Castiel is tempted to let it reign free, and bask in its might. For just one blessed moment, he had felt empowered. Driven. Foolish, almost. He itches to take arms now; fight to prove himself worthy of another... But that was the snake on his shoulder whispering in his ear, and shame follows on the heels of reason, reminding him that not only was his yearning a hoax; it wouldn't do to fight a hopeless war. Castiel knows of war—he's Heaven's strategist. As such, the plan is clear: forbidden to conquer another's heart, he instead walks a path to subjugate his own.

Castiel cuts one last corner and stops in front of the vibrant blue door of a club—or as cupids preferred to call it—the hunting ground. He pushes the door and walks in.

His trench-coat flutters around his ankles as Castiel glides though the shapeless forms of the bodied-mass; a sea of men and women swimming indistinguishable in the fervor of dance. Castiel brushes past the heat of bodies, cut by strobing lights. He stays his course, walks almost invisible among them. The electronic music chops and stutters. A nameless hand lands over his shoulder like a bird, washed away in the next step as Castiel never stops, eyes pinned on his destination: the club's opposite wall, and to one particular table.

"Hello, Berry."

Sitting alone at the most recluse table, a tight clutch on his whiskey neat, the fourty-something man—at least, going by appearances—startles at his name. He tears his eyes away from the couple he had been tracking across the dance floor. From under his fedora, his eyes raise up to meet the angel's. 

"Castiel?" His frown is as pronounced as his British accent. "Well, isn't that a laugh. Did they cast you down again?"

Castiel sinks on the chair he hadn't been offered yet. He glares at the man across from him, pondering how much he would have to reveal. As much as he wants the curse broken, some affairs are simply too personal to lay bare for all to see.

Berry raises a brow at him. After a few seconds of silence, he asks, "Are you being intimidating, or are you flirting with me? I can never tell."

Castiel quips, "A mistake has been made by one of the Cherubim. It needs to be fixed."

"Heaven doesn't make mistakes." Berry shifts on his chair. "Bit busy with work, if you hadn't noticed." He stretches his neck, gazing past Castiel's shoulder.

Cas' blade slides in his hand, he let the metal catch the light. "So am I."

Berry tips his fedora and grumbles, "It's always down to the fancy blades with you lot! Well, let's hear it, then."

Castiel loosens the noose of his tie, undoes the first few buttons of his shirt and pulls it sideways to reveal the scar left by the arrow: a red line over his heart, the skin is inflamed and irritated. He had done away with the bandages since it didn't bleed anymore, thankfully. It could have passed for a somewhat normal flesh wound, but the cupid in front of him recognizes it for what it is.

"What in the bloody fates?! But—How—?"
Berry gapes at him. He only takes his eyes away from the scar because Castiel yanks his shirt back into place. And still the cupid looks about to faint as he asks, "You're not...compelled, are you? What am I saying—of course you're not! You're an angel!" A nervous laugh spills from his lips.

Castiel buttons his shirt up. "How do I track down the one who made it?"

"Sweet Eros, you can't! Everyone knows it goes the other way around. We can track our previous targets, but you better believe whoever did this will steer clear of you after such a blunder." Berry gestures his hand at the scar.

Castiel bites down on his frustration. "Then, how about his arrow?"

"What about it? Next, you'll tell me there's a cupid out there who shoots actual arrows." Berry snorts, "This ain't the Stone Age." He takes a sip of his whiskey, with attitude.

Castiel produces the aforementioned arrow.

The cherubim breaks in a coughing fit. Castiel graciously waits until he recovers. The cupid says, "Are you taking the piss?!"

Under Castiel's no-nonsense expression, he immediately backpedals, "Well, uhm, shall I take a look?" He casts a somewhat guarded gaze at the arrow, even as he plucks it from Castiel's offering hand.

He holds it horizontally—each extremity resting on the tip of his fingers, careful not to touch the arrow head. He declares, "Haven't seen one of these buggers in a millennia. Old magic, this." 

He rolls the arrow between his fingers. He sucks in a breath as he reads the Enochian inscription. He quickly puts the arrow down on the table. "I want nothing to do with this—ain't got the foggiest about it, anyway." He shoves his fedora further down his head.

Castiel slams his hand on top of the arrow. Berry jumps. The angel's stare cuts sharper than the cursed object itself. "You expect me to endure this?"

Berry fishes a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabs across his forehead. "Do you mean to tell me...you're actually affected?" His tone catches between horror and wonder.

Reluctantly, Castiel tips his head to concede this.

"But... An angel...?" His tongue swipes over his bottom lip, "I don't think there's any way..."

"Think again." The tone is flat, but his angel blade slides in Castiel hand, and in the next swing, he stabs the table—one breath away from Berry's wrist. The hem of the cupid's vest is effectively pinned down by it. He shrieks.

The coals of the curse buried in his chest flash heat across Castiel's vessel languidly, and he knows he's being a little short here, but there isn't time to cajole answers out of this fool.

"There m-might be a temporary solution. But I wouldn't recommend it." Berry hurries to say.

"Talk."

The cupid nervously swirls his whiskey with his free hand. "A cupid's oath. Antiquated, but effective. Old magic, just like yours." He nods at the arrow. "We take it to prevent little 'accidents'. You know, it's like that human saying...Can't get high on what you supply, and all that jazz."

"And this...oath... it'll break the curse?"

"Never been tried. We take it to prevent, not remediate. My bet? It just might. That is: given you manage to abide by the oath in the first place."

Castiel retrieves his blade, and says, "I'll take those odds."

Berry hides his hands under the table. "Listen. Before you do this, you should know that this, uh, condition of yours ain't gonna get any better. It'll stretch you thin. Drop an oath on top of that paper castle and call yourself a wizard—because if it doesn't topple down, you bloody well are one!"

Castiel grinds his teeth. "Be that there was any other way, I wouldn't be forced to make this choice." The offensive arrow disappears back into Castiel's trench coat.

Berry sinks his teeth into his lower lip. "Well... It's a bit unorthodox, but...why not simply let Fate run its course, mh?"

Hot adrenaline shots through Castiel at the suggestion. The reckless idea has him swallowing the metaphorical approximation of liquid thunder. It simmers in his guts, crashing across his nervous system. It's a tantalizingly dangerous cocktail: risk and yearning.

"I don't—" Castiel cuts himself; inhales sharply. After a second, he springs to his feet. He grips the chair's back tightly and leans over. "I refuse to bend to the whims of someone else's lie."

"A lie? That is not what we do!" Berry's shoulders raise with a scoff. "I've met blind clients in my days, but this takes the cake."

Castiel closes the two strides that separate them and grab the hem of the cupid's grey vest, shaking him once. "I don't care for semantics. Tell me of the oath."

"Yes—yes, fine!" Castiel's grip unravels, leaving Berry to brush off nonexistent dust from himself. "Well, don't just stand there, all threatening-like! People will stare." As if illustrating this, Berry throws concerned glaces around the club. Castiel doesn't feel the same compulsion. It's rather dark here, the music is loud enough; no one will pick on what might otherwise pass as complete nonsense. It takes Berry a few more seconds to understand Castiel means to stand right there, unflinching, until he gets what he's been promised.

Berry sighs heavily and shifts on his chair. "Do not say later that I didn't warn you." He bends at the middle, seemingly picking something from the floor. Castiel frowns, curious, and then confused when he understands that the cupid is pulling one of the nails free from the floorboard. He straightens with a grunt, a metallic nail about 6 centimeters long held between two fingers. Berry grasps it between his fist and tightens it until his muscles shake from the exertion, then he mumbles a few words in Enochian. A small sigil lights up on his wrist that Castiel recognize as the one every cupid possess: a bow and arrow. When he opens his hand again, the nail has turned charcoal black.

"Now for the ugly bit." Berry sets the nail down on the table. He throws an anxious look at Castiel. "...Are you absolutely sure?"

Castiel squares his jaw and Berry goes, "Alright, well, this bugger will act as an antithesis to the ol' cupid's arrow. And yes, you're going to have to drive it through your heart."

Castiel eyes fasten on the innocuous nail. "How will I know if it worked?"

The cupid claps his thigh. "Well, no more butterflies in you stomach is a good start. You'll also want to mind the color: when the nail turns into gold, that's how you'll know. And make no mistake, it won't happen like that—" Berry snaps his finger. "Time. That's the last ingredient."

"How long?"

"Depends. How infatuated would you say you are, on a scale of ten?"

Castiel stiffens, "Fairly quickly, then."

Annoyingly, a smile stretches slowly on Berry's lips. "Right, brilliant. Oh! And mind the small print on that oath contract."

Castiel narrows his eyes, expecting an explanation to be forthcoming.

Berry obliges. "Just a few clauses. Wouldn't want any accidents, or for the oath to break, now would you? So; no confessions of love, no romantic overtures, no courting of any kind! That holds for as long as you have the nail embedded in your heart. Ideally, I suggest keeping as far away from your lover as possible. Or at least until this starts to take effect." The cupid taps the table with his finger, where the nail rests.

"He isn't my lover." Castiel frowns against the curse's bite at those words, but dismiss it in favor of contemplating the cupid's suggestion. 

Castiel shifts on his feet, caught between caution, longing and duty. Duty wins, or so he tells himself as he says, "I can't. Dean will need my help."

Berry straightens in his seat. "Dean? Dean Winchester?"

Castiel scolds his own negligence. He grabs the black nail off the table, ready to bolt. "This better work." He throws the warning over his shoulder, and then disappears between waves of strangers.

Chapter Text

Sitting with his hands tightly clasped, Castiel lets his head hang low. From a distance, he could be mistaken for praying. 

Castiel didn't get to where he was today by making thoughtless plans. To reach a desirable outcome, one must pursue a goal with single-minded determination—he reminds himself as he prepares to make his next move.

He knows this much: the longer he lets the curse run rampant, the weaker his resolve becomes. He has already wasted days recovering, and more still on fruitless research. All this hesitation was for nothing; the result was already decided.

Opening his palm, Castiel lifts the cold, black nail and rolls it between his fingers. Would this thing incapacitate him, as the arrow had? And if so, for how long? He should've asked those questions when he had the chance.

There is one more mission — one that can't wait for him to recover. Judging by the quiet, apocalypse-free plaza around him, chances were high the priest failed whatever test his siblings had set. That meant one of two things: either a man was dead, or it wasn't too late yet to stop Judgment day.

***

There is an old, oval study lined with wall-high bookshelves, somewhere in the Vatican. It's where Aker finds himself, buried in research. If time had a scent, it lingers in places such as this. The angel wrinkles his nose; he has long disliked the mortal concept of time.

His eyes, tracing the lines of a scroll, stop as an alarm bell goes off in his mind.

The first thought that comes to him is that Castiel didn’t climb the ranks by sheer luck alone. Otherwise, how could he have tracked him down so quickly, and further, dared to face him on his own? Aker can’t tell if this is Castiel's arrogance or his confidence in his own ability. Either way, he isn't pleased.

"How's your wound?" Aker drawls, not lifting his eyes from the scroll. He'd done well inscribing those alarm sigils earlier. He carefully rolls the parchment but leaves it on the desk, curious to see if Castiel will try to take it.

"Where is the priest?" Castiel demands. He stands in the doorframe, not yet stepping inside the room. 

"You don't need to concern yourself with him." Aker finally meets Castiel's gaze—a look that dares him to challenge it.

"He's only human."

Some bite creeps into Aker’s voice as he leans forward, both hands on the mahogany desk. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Castiel's glare morphs halfway into a scowl. "You've set yourself on a quest to find this herald—why? Do you really mean to wipe out humanity?" 

In truth, Castiel is most puzzled about this part. Of all his siblings, Aker had shown hatred for humans only for the first couple centuries of their existence. Given, in those days, he was never shy to make his distaste known to the Host—but then, his tune had inexplicably changed. Not that Aker would advocate for mortals exactly, but his silence had been enough to convince Castiel he'd had a change of heart. Now it seems rather that Aker had only been biding his time. 

"I don't care about humanity," Aker spits. "I'm not looking for a fight, Castiel, but I'll warn you: if you have plans to harm that priest, there shall be war."

"And if he turns out to be just a man? Will you kill him then?"

"As I said—it's not your concern."

"I'm making it my concern," Castiel replies sternly.

The corners of Aker's lips twitch upward, then fall again. "That hunter, Winchester. You turned him into an angel. Why is that?" His tone is flat, unreadable. 

Castiel freezes at the unexpected mention of Dean's name. The curse riots against his ribcage, as though the name alone threatens to shatter his composure. He clamps down on the turmoil, calling upon eons of self-discipline.

Aker takes the silence as his answer. “You’ll regret it.”

An old clock somewhere in the room goes tick four times — one for each second before Aker speaks again. 

"It isn't too late to stop now. That kind of man—"

"You don't know his kind."

Aker lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “He’s merciless. Self-serving.”

"He—"

"—killed our sister. But you already knew that. You must have."

Castiel swallows back his words. There's a ringing in his ears, his hands are a little numb.

He had suspected...No—he's conveniently ignored the truth. There weren't that many ways a human could get into possession of an angel's feather—not without burning their own eyes out. All of them brought an angel to the threshold of death. Castiel had seen the remaining grace in the ceremonial bowl, and on a subconscious level he had known. 

He'd known—and so to reassure himself, he made Dean promise to spare his siblings. 

"Why are you doing this, Castiel?" There's an edge to Aker's voice—pity, perhaps, or exhaustion.

Castiel doesn't answer. Instead, he steps into the study, toward the desk. Two steps in, he stops at the sound of a splash—the faint give of liquid beneath his shoe. He glances down, and not a second later, the strange fluid ignites, tracing a line of fire that cuts the room in half. 

He reaches toward it, only to snatch his hand back. Holy oil.

Alarm shoots through him as his eyes search for Aker. His brother picks up the parchment and tucks it into his vest. His intention is clear — he means to leave. But just as he’s about to take flight, he halts and meets Castiel’s gaze through the golden-white flames.

“Whether he’s human or not, I won’t take that priest’s life. You have my word.”

Castiel shakes off his confusion. “And how can I trust that?”

“You’ve trusted worse things.”

With that, he’s gone.

*** 

Dean shoves his hands in his pockets, squaring his jaw, as he stands in front of the bunker's garage door.

Come on, just walk in there, he thinks. He's cursed—not fanatical. 

So what if Cas is on the other side of the door? Nothing to be afraid of. It's just Cas, for fuck's sake! 

He swipes his tongue under his teeth. They'll work it out. No problem. Dean wasn't gonna make it one.

Right.

Dean unlocks the door and takes a determined step inside. There—no one dropped dead. He forces himself to keep the momentum, and before he knows it, he's crossed the atrium and enters the study room.

Where the hell was Cas?

He only hesitates for a couple seconds before calling down the corridor, "CAS?"

No answer. Uh. Dean isn't sure if this is a good or a bad thing. He's not exactly eager for the awkward fest, but major plans disagreed with him on that one. And if only for that reason, he considers releasing the link long enough to send along a quick call... But then, maybe Cas wasn't here because he didn't want to be here. And all things considered, perhaps it was better this way.

It's a short-lived reprieve, Dean knows: you can't betray someone you keep at arm's length. But he doesn't need to think about that part yet. There's time.

Before it came to that, Dean has a date with a shadow monster in a run-down shop. It's the plan he came up with at Gabriel's: find the entity responsible for all of this bullshit, shake some answers out of it—in whatever case, kill it.

It happened as Dean was on his way back from the armory, carrying a couple bags full to the brim with weapons. He takes a turn, and nearly collides with someone going the opposite direction.

"Damn it! Cas!" Dean's eyes go skyward, looking for patience, and a little fortitude.

"Dean." Castiel's tone falters, "I thought you left."

"Well, so did you." Dean answers shortly. If you ask about my whereabouts, I'll ask about yours. This was implied.

"...Yes."

There's a story there, Dean suspects. He gives the angel a quick once-over. He opens his mouth but can't form the words. It's too ridiculous a sentence to speak out loud. Was he supposed to ask a question as cringe-worthy as: 'So. How about that love-curse...?' Not a fucking chance. In fact, he wasn't going to think about it at all.

"Hey." He clears his throat. "Don't let me keep you from, uh, whatever it is you were doing." 

"I was looking for you."

"Oh." Because of the curse? Nope, not gonna ask. "Well, here I am."

Castiel glances at the bags, one in each of Dean's hands. "You're leaving?"

The hunter glances down as well. "Just following a lead."

Cas nods almost imperceptibly. "I understand."

Dean fumbles for words. "Right. You too." He walks past Cas—then mouths, 'you too?' shaking his head at himself.

Castiel observes Dean's back as the hunter walks away. Hidden within the pocket of his trenchcoat, his fingers fidget with the nail. 

"Wait. Dean."

Dean does, turning around with a quizzical look.

"I'm coming with you." 

A beat passes, then Dean throws one of his bags at him. Castiel catches it deftly. 

"Get a move on, then."

***

There's a bunch of dusty old cars abandoned in the Men of Letter's garage, none of which came close to Baby's wheels.

Castiel grunts, "We could fly."

"Nope."

"It's much quicker. Safer, too."

"Not going to happen. There's no shortcut into that godforsaken shop, Cas. It's off-grid."

Castiel sulks behind Dean as the hunter inspects a 1983 Alliance sedan. Dryly, Cas argues, "I found it just fine the first time."

Dean flicks the dust off the mirror, and keeps walking. " 'cept you weren't looking for the shop itself. You were looking for me—whatever. You go ahead and fly then, let me know how that goes for ya."

Approaching another car, the hunter pulls off the ratty yellow fabric, revealing a dark blue Aston Martin. "Now we're talkin'."

There's the sound of rustling wings, and Dean doesn't need to turn his head to know Castiel is gone. 

Shrugging, Dean yanks the driver door open. He slides behind the wheel with a sense of approval. Apart from the stagnant smell mixed with leather, it's a pretty well maintained car. He throws his bag on the backseat.

Key, keys... Dean's attention goes to the sun visor, which he flips open. Nope. He searches into the door's compartment next. Just then, Cas opens the passenger door, sits down with no small amount of displeasure.

The hunter stops just long enough to consider him. He tries not to openly smirk as he asks, "How was the shop?"

Castiel scowls. "Drive."

"Easy with the enthusiasm, sunshine," Dean says with some levity. "Goddamn keys..." He leans into Castiel's side to open the glove box. The angel presses himself into the backrest. Oblivious, Dean straightens again, flips the passenger's sun visor. There's a metallic ring as something falls in the angel's lap. Well, he isn't going to reach for them now... Thankfully, Castiel does, so Dean only has to pluck them out of his hand.

He turns the ignition on. "Alright girl, show me what you got."

The flat battery had something else to say about that. "Son of a bitch."

Castiel taps a finger on the dashboard, and the car roars back to life. Dean raises his eyebrows. "You have to teach me that trick next time."

***

It's smooth sailing for the first couple hours. Dean is enjoying it while he can. He's relaxed in a way he hadn't been since learning of his angel name. Driving took him back to the old days, like damn clockwork: the lull of following the white lines, the roar of the engine, the tic-tac of the blinker... He loves it all—the mundanity of it.

Cas just couldn't let him have it.

"Dean. I should tell you..."

Oh no. Don't.

"...about the accident from before."

"Let me stop you there. You were under a curse, and I pushed you too far. As far as I'm concerned, case closed." 

Was he still cursed right now? Probably not. Dean throws a glance where he thinks he won't get caught doing it. 'I'll just break it.' Such a declaration was made right before Dean left.

"Nevertheless, I owe you an apology. I didn't mean to scare you."

Dean nearly splutters. "I wasn't!"

"...Of course, Dean."

The hunter steps on the accelerator. "Hey, don't give me that tone—you caught me off guard, is all. Can we just put it behind us, man?"

Castiel put his elbow over the window ledge, propping his chin in his hand. 

Oh, great. Now he's sulking. Dean bites his inner cheek. Was the guy cursed, or not?

He seemed to be acting normal. Ish. Dean had fully expected to have to fight off hugs, minimum.

It's another hour of silence before their car leaves the highway. Castiel asks, "You remember the way to the shop?"

"No. My old compass burned off. We're making a stop to get another one."

No long after that, they turn onto an auxiliary dirt road, somewhere between fields, just past a village no larger than 200 inhabitants. The car drifts to a stop, the wheels biting on the gravel like crunchy cereal. The hunter slams the door on his way out. Castiel displays far less haste as he slowly ducks out, eyes riveted on the rickety wooden shack standing before them; a lone place in the middle of the boonies. It heavily smells of pines.

Dean is already half way to the door, as Cas reads the posted signs. The first one says: 'Edna's wildlife shop' and another: 'Private property, keep your stupid kids out of my land!'

The bell jingles and Castiel walks in Dean's wake.

It's quickly apparent, to Castiel's immense displeasure, that this is a taxidermist shop. More than fifty dead animals are propped across the room, leaving just enough space to step between them. There's a red fox standing on a rock on his right, and an immense brown bear taking most of the space in front. And the smell? Ugh.

"Oh, balls, not you again."

Castiel glances towards the direction of the elderly voice—a gravelly tone, just like the lawn outside. It hinted of tobacco, or some other similar intoxication.

Dean gives the bulky old woman the brightest smile Cas has seen from him in days. "Here's the lady of all my dreams!" He declares with exaggerated cheer.

She scoffs, then spit at her feet behind the counter, where she's sitting, "Cut the crap, boy. Here to hunt sasquatch again? Fuckin' lost a grand from the wreckage last time, what a damn mess." She turns another page of her magazine, not even looking up at them anymore.

Castiel sends Dean a questioning look.

The hunter leans on the counter. "It wasn't a sasquatch."

"Sure, nerd," she drawls, "Either way, buy somethin', or get your ass out of my shop."

"I'm buying. Don't shoot."

Edna closes her magazine and slaps it on the counter, between a dead rat and a mangosteen. Castiel is curious enough to peek at the cover. The magazine boldly declares: 25 Hot stories of the summer! You won't believe what she did! Page 28 for all the burning details... The picture is that of a woman in a bikini, wearing shades and holding a margarita. There's an unidentified hand wrapped around her waist. The bottom line is hot pink: 3 Easy steps to find your soulmate! Guaranteed!! Castiel had this thought many times before, but humans were weird. And confusing.

Edna is asking Dean, "What's it gonna be this time? A bat? Zebra? Crocodile?"

"Just the usual."

She frowns at Dean, "What did you do with the last one?"

Dean's brows raise. "Nothing. I just figured it could do with a little friend."

She pins him with a look. "...Whatever." She stands and opens a back door, disappearing behind it.

Castiel fidgets on the spot. "You came here on a hunt?"

Dean tilts his head this way and and that. "Not really. The hunt sort of happened as a bonus. What can I say—I'm a trouble magnet. " Dean smirks and mentally tugs on the invisible line between them—that damn habit! It makes Castiel startle; it'd been dampened for quite a while... Dean is about to feel awkward about it, but then Castiel tugs back. Dean's not sure how he feels about that, so he stops taking stock altogether.

Luckily, Edna chooses that moment to burst back into the shop. "Only got the one left. You better not use it for some satanic ritual crap. I've got standards." She puts a rectangular glass case on the counter, on top of her discarded magazine. There's a mummified cobra inside.

"Demonic rituals? Sweetheart, I'm too much of an angel for that."

The grey-haired woman raises a brow, "Ya look like you only preach in bed, boy. I'm old, not blind." She looks past Dean's shoulder at Castiel. "And don't tell me 'nothing. The less I know."

"You're sure it's got all its bones?" Dean immediately cuts that line of thoughts. He inspects the carcass behind the glass.

"All 375 of 'em." Edna taps the glass with her palm.

"You got yourself a deal." Dean turns to Castiel.

The angel frowns at him, a whole conversation goes only through their eyes. Dean raises both brows at him, Castiel's gaze slide to the cobra, snap back to Dean's, and then his lips part in understanding.

He dives his hand in his pockets, retrieving a bunch of dollars. Dean steals it and puts them on the counter.

Edna stares down at it, momentarily stunned. "That should 'bout cover it," she drawls.

"What about the change?" Dean teases.

"I'm cutting you a deal. Take it, and get out of my shop."

Dean puts the snake in the glove compartment, and Castiel's eyes stay on it until Dean turns on the radio.

"Hope you're up for a drive." Dean releases the parking brake and makes a U-turn. It's a long ride towards the west.