Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Castiel woke on cold pavement.

The impact of it lingered in his spine and shoulders, sharp in a way he had never truly felt before. He pushed himself upright, breath hitching—too fast, too loud—and began to run. His legs moved without thought, driven by an urgency he could not name, until his foot caught on uneven concrete. He pitched forward, palms slapping the ground hard enough to sting.

He stared at his hands. The sting deepened, blooming into heat. Burning. Pain. He pressed his fingers together experimentally and felt the jolt again. Yes. Pain.

He felt mortified. Something so simple as tripping had caused him pain. Since when did he trip over? What was happening to him?

The world around him was too much and not enough—colors blindingly sharp, edges over-defined, but stripped of the living hum he had always sensed. No threads of grace. No shimmering lines of energy weaving between creatures. The tiny murmurs of insects were gone. The silence felt… exclusionary. Like standing just outside a conversation everyone else understood.

He tried to listen to the familiar voices of his brethren and heard nothing.

Was this panic? Was he panicking?

His throat ached—dry and scratchy in a way he could not repair with grace. He coughed. It did nothing.

A thought slammed into him, sudden and unstoppable, like a truck barreling down the highway straight into his chest.

Human.

Humans required maintenance—water, food, warmth. The body was needy, dependent, always asking for something. Survival: the oldest language there was. Small, routine demands, yet essential to carry on. He was a soldier. He knew what it meant to endure.

He wondered how Dean and Sam managed it without complaint. As an angel, he’d needed nothing—no food, no water, no warmth. They were probably so used to it, they could hardly imagine what it was like to exist without the constant pull of need. He remembered vividly Dean’s shock when he’d explained that he didn’t eat or sleep—the way Dean immediately urged him to try food or drink. Dean hadn’t understood that Cas could taste every ingredient with unsettling precision, all the way down to its elements on the periodic table. Explaining to Dean that each bite was a flood of information, not just flavor, had been pointless. Dean had only laughed, insisting that was all the more reason to try pie. To Dean, food was comfort, nostalgia, a kind of love. To Cas, it was a study in structure—salt crystallizing on his tongue, sugars fracturing into sweetness, the faint metallic ghost of minerals. Dean never stopped encouraging him, as if the right bite might awaken a hunger like a human’s. But Cas had always struggled to make Dean understand what angels truly desired.

He found a fountain behind a building and drank too fast, water spilling over his lips. The greed of it embarrassed him. Was this humanity—this constant, humiliating need?

He walked until weariness forced him to stop. Another limitation. Fatigue. He leaned against a fence and glared at his phone, searching for a signal. When a single bar appeared, he called Dean.

Dean answered on the third ring. “Cas? Hey, buddy. What’s going on? Haven’t heard from you in a while.”

Cas squinted at a road sign. “I am in Delaware. I appear to be… unfortunately human.”

“You make it sound like you caught some kinda disease.” Dean huffed a short laugh.

“My apologies,” Castiel said, scuffing at the grass with his shoe. “Adjusting is… strange.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Look, just stay put, okay? Don’t go wandering off into the cornfields or whatever.”

“Where would I go?” Cas asked. “I have nowhere to be.”

There was a pause on the line. “…Right. Look ill be a few hours out okay?”

“I’ll see you shortly Dean.”

.

From the thin patch of shade beneath the tree, Castiel watched the Impala slow, its engine a steady growl. Dean stepped out, gaze sweeping the road until it found him. Dean crouched beside him, narrowing his eyes at Cas’s arm. “You’re lookin’ a little crispy. You get yourself sunburned?”

“I did not know the sun was capable of burning me,” Castiel said, eyeing the reddened skin with distaste. This body was unnecessarily fragile. He had stood in the heart of a star without injury. Now the light from this one was blistering his skin.

Dean exhaled in that particular way he did when irritation and concern were layered together. “Means your pasty ass can’t sit out here in the sun all day without turning into a lobster. Welcome to the wonderful world of SPF, pal.”

The comparison to an aquatic crustacean was unhelpful, but Castiel decided not to mention it. “I will not be human for long. Once I determine what happened, it will be resolved.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean pressed a bottle of water into his hand. “In the meantime—hydrate, eat something. Doctor’s orders. And by ‘doctor,’ I mean me.”

The bottle was cool against his overheated palm. Castiel drank, then accepted the small sealed packet Dean offered. The strips of dried meat tasted stronger than he remembered—saltier, richer. “It tastes… different.”

Dean stole a piece, chewing thoughtfully. “Different good or different bad?”

“Better.” Castiel extended the jerky toward him. Dean accepted without hesitation, their hands brushing briefly before they ate in silence. Dean’s presence was grounding—solid in a way that made the air feel less oppressive. The sensation was familiar, echoing the calm he had known as an angel. Yet beneath that comfort stirred a restless edge, an urge to pull away, to run. As a human he simply couldn’t fly away. The thought caused an unusual anxiety within him.

“So I thought, while we’re in Delaware, we could check out a lead. There’s been a suspicious series of deaths in town,” Dean said, eyes bright with that familiar hunting determination.

“I will help in any way I am able to,” Cas replied, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of something more—something hesitant, unfamiliar.

Dean smiled at him, soft and gentle, the kind of smile that made Cas’s skin prickle, as if electricity was running just beneath it. For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.

Impulsively, Cas moved a little closer, the urge to bridge the gap between them almost overwhelming. But Dean stepped back, just out of reach.

“Right. Should we get going then?” Dean said, clearing his throat, his easy confidence returning like a shield.

Cas frowned, unsettled by the sudden shift—the warmth fading, the closeness denied. He felt a flicker of confusion, maybe even frustration, though he wasn’t sure why. Was this… human?

He wished he could ask Dean—like he did about everything else human—but he had a feeling Dean wouldn’t welcome the question. So instead, Cas copied Dean’s easy confidence. He mirrored Dean’s posture, the practiced nonchalance, even the faint half-smirk. It felt strange, like slipping into armor that didn’t quite fit, but Dean accepted it without a second glance. They walked side by side, the space between them thick with unspoken things Cas couldn’t yet name. The moment they’d shared was already fading, tucked behind Dean’s shield, and Cas followed suit, pretending it didn’t matter.

They arrived at the motel, and Dean checked them into their room. As soon as they stepped inside, Cas headed straight for the bed, slipping off his shoes and peeling off his jacket without hesitation.

“Ah, crap” Dean said, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “You’re human now—means you actually gotta sleep.”

“Unfortunately,” Cas replied, pulling back the covers with a quiet sigh.

Dean glanced around the room, then back at Cas. “I could try calling the front desk, see if they have another room.”

Cas shook his head, voice low and tired. “I’m tired, Dean.” He gave a brief, almost plaintive whine. “We’ve shared beds before—when I was an angel. What’s the difference now?”

Dean’s face flushed a deep red, and he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly struggling for words. “You’re… sleeping now. It’s different.”

Cas regarded him for a moment, sensing the unspoken layers beneath Dean’s discomfort. “I will still watch over you, Dean, if that is your concern. Although… im not sure how to soothe your dreams now that I am human.”

Dean shrugged like it was no big deal, voice rough and straightforward. “It’s just not something that’s done, Cas.”

Cas exhaled slowly, the weight settling heavy in his chest. Weariness wrapped around him like a shroud. “Dean, I’m tired,” he said quietly, voice soft but steady. He wanted to do the right thing, to follow the unspoken rules he was still learning, but everything felt uncertain, like grasping at shadows. He let out a low sigh and rolled onto his side, shutting down the conversation with his retreat. “I’ll go sleep in the car.”

Dean’s voice came quick, a mix of concern and stubbornness. “Don’t do that, Cas. I’m used to sleeping in baby—it’s like home to me. I’ll go.”

“No, I can’t let you do that, Dean. Please—you paid for the room.” Cas’s words were gentle but firm. He wanted things to stay the same between them, the easy closeness untouched by awkwardness or change. The confusion twisting inside him was almost unbearable. He looked up, locking eyes with Dean, searching for some reassurance in the stubborn set of his jaw.

Dean held his gaze, unwavering and intense, as if daring Cas to argue. “Looks like we’re at a standoff. Only one solution.” He kicked off his boots and climbed into bed beside Cas.

Cas watched him, feeling the fragile thread of normalcy slip through his fingers. How could he fit in when he was still missing all the little rules and assumptions? Every gesture, every word felt like a test he wasn’t sure how to pass. Yet here Dean was, stubborn and steady, punching the pillow and settling in next to him. “Goodnight, Dean,” Cas murmured, clinging to the hope that some things—at least this—could remain unchanged, even as exhaustion pulled him under.

.

Cas woke up, still tired. He’d gotten eight hours of sleep, which, judging by Dean, seemed like plenty. He wondered if four hours really wasn’t as normal as he’d thought. Angels didn’t sleep so he wasn’t sure who was the normal one here. He might have to ask Sam to be sure.

Dean was already awake, moving quietly in the dim light. He was packing and unpacking his bag. Checking his gun in what could be constituted as a religious manner.

“How’d you sleep, Dean?” Cas asked.

“Got my four hours,” he replied.

“And that’s enough for you?”

Dean shrugged, “You are going to learn Cas that being human is different for everyone.”

Cas got out of bed, the cold floor sending a sharp chill through his feet—another inconvenient part of being human. He took the gun from Dean and, gently pulling him back onto the bed, said, “So humans all feel things differently. It feels lonely being human—like standing on an island surrounded by silence. As angels, we were like stars in a vast sky, connected by invisible threads, always able to see and hear one another whether we wanted to or not.”

Dean shook his head with a soft smile. “Well, no, Cas. Some things are the same, too.”

Curious, Cas reached out and touched Dean’s face gently. “How does this make you feel? Different from me, or the same?”

Dean’s cheeks flushed. “How does it make you feel, Cas?”

Irritated, flushed…” Cas leaned in, his breath warm against Dean’s lips before he kissed him.

Dean kissed back immediately, fingers tangling in Cas’s hair, pulling him closer with a magnetic force Cas couldn’t resist. His heart hammered in his chest, a fierce pull drawing him deeper into the moment, a tether tightening between them. After a long, electric beat, Dean pulled away, breathless.

“I can make you feel good, Cas. If you want the whole human experience.”

Cas shook his head, eyes serious. “No. I don’t want to just feel human. I want you, Dean.”

Dean blinked, puling back “What you’re feeling is horny, Cas. It’s nothing special. Don’t get it confused.” He sighed, running a hand down his face. “You know what? I’ve changed my mind. This isn’t a good idea.”

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Cas said quietly.

Dean stood up and began gathering his things. “I’m gonna talk to reception. See if they have that other room.”

The door closed with a soft click, leaving Cas alone in the early hush. The fading warmth of their brief closeness clung to the air like a cruel reminder. Cas buried his face into Dean’s pillow, but the softness didn’t reach the ache twisting deep in his chest. He felt like he’d ruined everything—broken what little hope he’d dared to hold. Shame flooded him, hot and suffocating, and embarrassment twisted his stomach into knots. Miserable and hollow, he forced himself up, fumbling with the toothbrush as if mastering it might fix the mess he’d made. Dean’s insistence on personal space only hammered home how far he was from understanding these human things—how lost and out of place he truly was.

Dean came back, the door banging open behind him. “They’re fully booked,” he said, running a hand through his hair, frustration clear in his voice. “Some damn cat convention’s in town. This is the last room they’ve got.”

Cas lowered his gaze, voice small. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’ll go.”

Dean’s eyes snapped up, hard but urgent, looking at him brushing his teeth. “Cas, you can’t go. You won’t survive out there.”

“I’m not a baby, Dean.”

“No? I found you dehydrated and sunburned under a tree. Doesn’t exactly scream ‘functioning human’ to me. Also the toothpaste goes on the toothbrush Cas.”

Cas looked away, irritation and exhaustion swirling beneath his skin. “I can handle myself Dean.”

Dean smirked, a flash of challenge in his eyes. Without warning, he shoved Cas—lightly at first—but the motion caught Cas off guard and sent him stumbling back onto the bed. Dean’s hand followed, pressing down on Cas’s chest, steady and firm. “Can you, Cas? Without that angel strength? Doesn’t look like it.” His gaze was sharp, almost daring.

Cas bristled, tension tightening in his muscles. He pushed back, harder this time, surprise flashing in Dean’s eyes. The shove grew rougher, their bodies pressed closer, hands gripping stronger. Neither of them seemed to notice how fast the balance of power was shifting, how their movements were becoming sharper, less controlled.

With a sudden burst, Cas flipped Dean over, not quite fully aware of the force behind him. His hands landed hard on Dean’s chest, fingers digging in. “I don’t need angelic strength to best you, Dean.”

Dean gasped, shoved Cas back with more weight and urgency than intended. His breath came harsh, chest heaving as realization dawned on them both. “I can’t do this, Cas.”

They paused, the fight hanging between them — rougher, harsher than either had meant it to be. “I’m sorry Dean.”

“That's another thing. Stop apologising.”

”I’m-“ Dean glared at him. “You think this is easy for me? I used to be something, and now I have to deal with being thirsty, hungry, and urination.”

“Cas, you gotta stop acting like being human is a curse. I was born this way—so yeah, it’s pretty damn offensive when you talk like that.”

“Im not-“ Cas sighed “I need some space Dean.”

“Nothings changed there.”

Cas glared at Dean and stormed out of the motel room.

He didn’t know where he was going—only away from Deans disappointment. He didn’t know what he had left to offer Dean now he was powerless. Pathetic. He didn’t doubt Dean had many good reasons for not wanting him. He was of no use to anyone like this.

Cas’s steps slowed as the corridor grew darker, the cold pressing against his skin like shards of ice. He sensed nothing—no flicker of unnatural presence, no whisper from beyond. Just the steady thud of his heartbeat, the quickening pulse beneath his fragile human flesh. Dean was wrong. He was still God’s warrior. He wasn’t scared of anything. He was capable—and he would prove it.

A voice, calm and easy, came from the shadows. “Hey, you look a little turned around.”

Cas paused, eyes narrowing. “Who’s there?”

A man stepped into the dim light, his smile warm and genuine. He had an open, relaxed way about him—as if he belonged here and somehow wanted Cas to feel like he belonged too.

“Name’s Lucian,” he said, extending a hand. “Don’t worry, happens to the best of us. Sometimes the alleyways all start looking the same.”

Cas hesitated but shook the offered hand, the firm grip surprisingly steady. Despite everything—Dean’s cold words, his own doubts—there was something in Lucien’s calm tone that made Cas want to let his guard down.

“I’m fine,” Cas said quickly, but his voice lacked conviction.

Lucien chuckled softly, stepping a bit closer, voice lowering just enough to feel like a shared secret. “Hey, no need to pretend. You don’t have to have it all figured out right now. Sometimes, you just need someone to help you find the way.”

Cas blinked, caught off guard by the kindness. The softness in Lucian’s eyes made the world seem a little less harsh, even if only for a moment.

“C’mon pretty boy I know a bar nearby we can drink your sorrows away.”

Chapter Text

The bar wasn’t loud so much as busy—low voices, a clink of glass, the hum of a neon sign washing everything in warm amber. Castiel sat at the corner where the counter curved, elbows tucked in, studying the condensation bead along his pint like it was a problem to solve.

Lucian was… symmetrical in a way that tugged at attention. Clean lines. Cheekbones that threw tidy, deliberate shadows. Dark hair combed back just enough to suggest order while a few strands pretended to rebel. His stubble was the sort that happened to other people on purpose. When he smiled, a dimple appeared like a footnote you actually wanted to read, and his eyes—green, bright—held a spark that made even the dusty bottles behind him look like they’d been arranged to flatter him. The air around him felt a shade cooler, the kind you notice only when he leans in and the hairs along your arm decide they’ve heard something. Castiel considered this, then the mirror behind the bottles. In it, their reflections sat companionably close. Lucian’s profile looked like it had been edited for publication; for the briefest stutter of the neon, his blink in the mirror seemed a half-beat late. Castiel’s looked… human. Uneven. Tired. He cleared his throat. “I think I am hoping for silence.”

“I can offer the second-best thing,” Lucian said. The neon sign buzzed and dimmed, then came back like it had agreed. “Conversation good enough to make the silence feel like it chose you.”

“That’s a confident claim.”

“I’ve been told I’m persuasive.” He lifted his glass in a small salute. The glass didn’t bead like Cas’s—no honest ring of water left on the wood when he set it down. “So, Cas—what is it you desire? Have you ever carried an unfulfilled wish?”

Castiel’s fingers tightened involuntarily. He set the beer down, more carefully than necessary, and turned to face Lucian fully. “That’s a very pointed question for a stranger.”

“Everyone’s a stranger until they’re not,” Lucian said, and he didn’t smile with that, exactly—he softened. The charm didn’t disappear; it just stepped aside to make room for something gentler. Somewhere near the door, the pub’s old blue heeler lifted his head, watched Lucian, then tucked his muzzle back under his paws with a faint whine. “Look, most blokes ask about your favorite band or your star sign. I can if you want. But you look like someone who doesn’t have time for scaffolding.”

“Scaffolding?”

“The small talk that keeps the structure from falling in before we get inside.” Lucian’s eyes warmed. “Tell me to shove off if I’m wrong.”

“You’re… not wrong.” Castiel shifted, uncertain what to do with the honesty he’d asked for and then received. “I wouldn’t know how to answer. About the wish.”

“Try something small,” Lucian suggested. “Tonight-scale. Not life-scale.”

Castiel thought. “I would like to drink this beer without feeling like I am failing at it.”Lucian’s laugh was low and unhurried, and the bartender glanced over like he’d heard a favorite song. “You’re not failing. You’re just… over-monitoring. Tip: stop negotiating with it. Don’t count sips. Beer is not a contract; it’s a coastline. Let it happen to you.”

“That is not biologically accurate.”

“Not at all,” Lucian agreed cheerfully. He lifted Cas’s glass—slowly enough to be seen coming—and repositioned it half an inch closer. His fingertips brushed the back of Castiel’s hand; the contact was light and precise, as if he knew exactly how much pressure would be welcome. “There. It’s now in the optimal spot for success. Science.”

Castiel fought the urge to glance at their hands. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Someone should be.” Lucian’s gaze flicked over Cas’s face, not greedy, just attentive, like he was reading a text written small. “For what it’s worth, you’re doing fine.”

“At drinking?”

“At existing,” Lucian said simply.

The words landed somewhere Castiel hadn’t realized was wanting. He took a breath like he’d been underwater for just a bit too long. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Lucian turned his own glass, the watch catching the light—its second hand didn’t tick so much as slide. “Second wish?”

“We have moved on to a series, then,” Castiel said, which was not a no.

“Unfortunately for you, yes. I’m relentless in a very polite way.”

Castiel studied him. Every component of Lucian was irritatingly handsome: the lines of his mouth, the calmness under the charm, the sharpness of his suit softened by rolled sleeves. There was a steadiness there that made the flattery feel less like bait and more like a seat offered to a guest. “I would like to sit here without worrying that I am… obvious.”

“Obvious how?”

“Out of place.”

Lucian’s answer was immediate. “You look like a man who knows what he wants but isn’t sure he’s allowed to want it. That’s not out of place. That’s just honest.” He tipped his chin toward the room. “We’ve got a guy in a high-vis jacket trying to seduce the jukebox, a woman in a pantsuit writing an angry email in drafts, and two tradies arguing about whether chips are better with vinegar or religion—trust me, you’re not the oddest thing in here.”

Castiel’s mouth twitched. “Vinegar.”

“Correct answer.” Lucian’s grin returned, softer at the edges now that it had done its job. “You want a third wish? I’m running a special.”

“You don’t have to keep… entertaining me.”

“Oh, this isn’t charity.” Lucian lifted his glass again and clinked it gently to Castiel’s. No ring on the wood, again. “I happen to be enjoying myself.”

Castiel took another sip. It went down easier this time. “I don’t know what to wish for.”

“I’ll loan you one of mine.” Lucian angled closer—not crowding, just letting Cas feel the line of his presence. The neon guttered and steadied. “I wish you’d tell me one thing you like. Anything. Doesn’t have to be profound.”

The neon flickered, the room carried on. Someone laughed too loud. A bottle cap skittered to the floor, made a perfect slow circle at Lucian’s shoe, then fell still. Castiel let the noise fold around them like a curtain, and, for once, it felt chosen. Cas could only think of one thing he truly desired but it was out of reach. “It’s nothing you can help me with.”

“C’mon, Cas, you’ll be surprised what I can help with.” Lucian’s eyes flashed black.

Cas’s breath caught. He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. He hadn’t considered—hadn’t even thought—that being human meant he couldn’t see a demon’s true face anymore. He’d left himself open. Exposed. Foolish. And now, the cold realization hit: he’d trusted the wrong person.

A wave of dizziness rolled through him. His vision blurred, the edges of the room smearing. The beer. He should have known better. Stupid. So stupid. He’d been in battles with archangels, faced death, and yet here he was—drugged like an amateur.

Fear crawled under his skin, sharp and cold. His body felt heavier with every breath. He didn’t have long. His mind moved fast, clawing for something he could still control. He fumbled for his phone, thumb slamming the speed dial for Dean.

The world tilted violently as Lucian’s hand closed around his arm, guiding—no, dragging—him toward the door. Cas’s legs refused to obey, his balance slipping. Darkness pressed in from all sides.

It didn’t go all at once. Sound funneled first, bar-noise shrinking to a thin, faraway hiss. The neon smeared into a green river and ran off the edges of his vision. His fingers forgot how to be fingers. A slow, soft weight pressed at the base of his skull, tipping the room on a hinge; the floor slid sideways; his heartbeat got very loud and very distant—both. Someone said his name from the end of a tunnel. He tried to stand and his body didn’t answer. Darkness came in from the corners like a tide and he fell through it, helpless, the last thing he knew a dimpled smile and the clink of glass that didn’t leave a ring.

.

Cas woke to muted grey leaking through cracked blinds. The room was unfamiliar—bare walls, cheap carpet, a narrow bed—sparse, cold, wrong. His head throbbed, a blunt hammer behind the eyes, each pulse a flare of nausea and a reminder: you weren’t here a second ago.

His stomach dropped. Time—gone. Not misplaced, not fuzzy—missing. A neat hole cut out of the night with clean edges. Panic lifted in his chest, high and breathless. He dragged in air that smelled like dust and old bleach and something metallic, tongue thick with a bitter taste he couldn’t name.

He did an inventory because that was what you did when you’d lost yourself: boots on, belt still buckled, shirt buttons in order. Wallet? Phone? His pockets came up empty. A bruise bloomed under his thumb when he pressed the side of his neck. He couldn’t tell if it had been there before. He couldn’t tell anything.

The ceiling felt too close. The walls leaned. He counted his breaths to make them behave—one, two, three—and every number only underlined the absence between the last thing he remembered and this. How long? Minutes? Hours? What had his body done while he wasn’t in it?

He swung his legs to the floor and the room tilted, a slow boat on black water. He steadied himself on the nightstand—cheap wood, loose screw, unfamiliar lamp—and the urge to be anywhere but here hit like a shove. Vulnerable wasn’t a feeling; it was a fact. He was a locked door someone else had the key to.

Cas swallowed against the ache in his throat, forced his hands to stop shaking, and listened. Nothing beyond the thin wall but the hum of a refrigerator and the rasp of the blinds in the draft. No voices. No footsteps. Just him and the hole in his night, yawning, waiting to be filled with whatever truth he could find before it swallowed more.

From the shadows, Lucien’s smooth voice sliced through the silence. “Welcome back angel. Did you enjoy your little nap?” Lucien stepped forward, that same easy smile twisted now with cruel amusement. “Powerless looks good on you.”

“How do you know who I am?”

“Oh angel, you might be human but I can still smell you a mile off. That holier than thou innocence.

“I wont give into you demon.”

“Oh, but you already have,” Lucien purred, circling him like a predator. “The question is—how far will you go to break free?”

Cas’s breath hitched. He knew he had to find a way out, to fight back with every shred of wit and strength he had left. Because if he didn’t—he might never escape at all.

Lucien leaned in closer, eyes gleaming with wicked pride. “You have no idea what this means for me. Capturing an ex-angel—Castiel, no less—will make me famous in circles you couldn’t even imagine.” He paced slowly, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Demons, spirits, hunters—they’ll all be talking about the one who finally brought down a celestial. It’s not every day that someone like you falls so… easily.”

Cas’s chest tightened. Fame in the underworld meant power—and Lucien was already riding that wave. But Cas wasn’t done yet.

Lucien smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. “Oh, don’t look so desperate. I’m sure you’ll provide plenty of entertainment before this is over.” He stepped back, arms crossed, savoring the hold he had. “And when the word spreads… well, I’ll be unstoppable.”

Cas swallowed hard, fury and fear warring inside him. He couldn’t let Lucien win—not like this. Somewhere, beneath the weight of his human weakness, that fierce spark still burned.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

The door slammed open with a violent crash. Dean burst inside, eyes blazing with fierce determination. Without hesitation, he lunged at Lucian, plunging the demon killing knife deep into the man’s side.

Lucian gasped, staggered, and collapsed to the floor, his smug smile fading into an explosion of light.

Cas blinked, stunned, caught between relief and humiliation. Dean was here—his savior—but the sting of helplessness burned hotter than the fear.

Dean’s gaze locked on Cas, fierce and worried. “You okay?”

Cas pushed himself up, brushing dust off his sleeves, voice tight. “I could’ve handled it.”

“Yeah, because this is exactly what ‘handling it’ looks like.”

Before Cas could retort, the door creaked open again and Sam stepped inside. “Hey, Dean. Looks like this guy’s the one stirring trouble around town.”

“You called Sam?”

Dean glanced over, shrugging. “He was already on the way.”

Sam gave Cas a small, encouraging nod. “Hey, Cas. Dean filled me in on the whole... human situation. How’re you holding up?”

Cas swallowed hard, a storm of emotions swirling beneath his calm—embarrassment, gratitude, frustration. “It’s… different. But I’m managing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m leaving.”

“We can’t let you do that, Cas.” Sam stepped forward, blocking his path.

Cas’s eyes narrowed, voice low but biting. “So this is the plan, Dean? Get Sam to help you kidnap me?”

Dean’s jaw clenched, voice rough. “Well, if you’re gonna be a stubborn son of a bitch, I’m gonna treat you like one.”

“Dean,” Sam warned quietly.

Cas’s voice sharpened, defiant. “What, you gonna lock me up in the bunker until I comply? Keep me chained like your prisoner?”

“Of course we wont do that Cas.” Said Sam placatingly. “Youre free to do what you want, and well respect your choice. Right Dean?”

Dean glared at his brother. Mumbling something Cas didn’t quiet catch.

Cas swallowed hard. The fight inside him flickered, but doubt gnawed at the edges. What did Dean really want from him? Annoyance simmered beneath the surface. Why was Dean so determined to keep him close? Was this care—or possession? Now he was a fugitive again, were the Winchesters trying to see what advantage he would hold, or worse, trying to protect him. He hated to be a burden. To put a target on all their backs. Human or not he could still take care of himself.

“You coming or not, Cas?” Dean asked, rough but—underneath it—asking him to come back.

The quiet invitation inside the challenge hooked something in him and twisted. Cas exhaled, feeling the ache of it and hating that it mattered. “Of course, Dean.”

.

The car ride back was uncomfortable, and quiet, just the usual hum of the road. The bunker felt too bright when they came in. Fluorescents buzzed. Paper and gun oil in the air. The brothers started a conversation with their eyes and finished it without him. Restlessness crawled under Cas’s skin with nowhere to go. Control, then. That he could choose. He headed for the liquor stash. If one well-dressed hellspawn had ever taught him anything useful, it was the mechanics of a proper bender.

He reached for bottle after bottle. From the map table, Dean leaned back, amusement flickering over something harder while Sam cleared his throat and thought better of it.

Cas switched to whiskey. Dean moved—hand on Cas’s wrist, bottle traded for a glass. The first swallow hit like a match. He doubled over coughing, eyes stinging, chest burning. How much of being human was just learning to live inside discomfort? He toed off his shoes and reached for the glass again.

Cas felt like he was drowning, sinking beneath a flood of sorrows that no earthly water could wash away. Each harsh cough was a desperate gasp for air, a silent prayer for relief from the weight crushing his soul. Yet the poison burned deeper, a bitter sacrament he forced down, hoping it might drown the ghosts haunting him.

“Easy there, Cas,” Dean muttered, snatching the bottle away. “You wanna kill yourself? Fine. But don’t do it with my good stuff.”

Cas leveled a glare, frustration knotting under his silence. He wrenched the bottle back. “Don’t tell me what to do, Dean.”

Dean didn’t let go. Knuckles whitening, jaw ticking, he kept his voice low. “You’re not an angel anymore, Cas. You can’t drink a liquor store dry and stroll it off in the morning.”

Cas shoved him, reaching for the neck of the bottle. “You think I’ve forgotten how human I am?”

“No,” Dean snapped, yanking it out of reach. “I think you don’t care. You’re done.”

“Give it back,” Cas said, calm as a threat.

Dean’s mouth flattened. “And if I don’t?”

Sam stood up, hands up. “Hey. Enough.”

Silence held; the sink ticked—drip, drip.

Cas reached past him, twisted the cap with a sharp click, and lifted the bottle like a dare.

Dean shoved him, steady and unyielding.

Sam’s voice went hard. “Dean.”

Dean cut Cas a look—half defensive, half blame. “He started it.”

“Then I’m ending it. Grow up, Dean.”

Dean eased back an inch like it cost him. “We’re not done,” he said, rough.

Cas met his eyes and nodded once. “No. We’re not.”

Dean’s boots faded down the corridor.

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, then planted himself in the doorway like a human roadblock. “You know he’s terrified he’s gonna lose you, right?”

The concerned, patient tone set Cas’s teeth on edge. He kept his eyes on the bottle. “We’re all terrified, Sam.”

Sam didn’t budge. “I’m serious. When he’s scared, he gets stupid. You push, he’ll push back harder.”

“Noted.” Cas’s voice went dry.

Sam tipped his chin at the bottle. “Right now you’re not helping. You smell like the problem.”

Cas’s mouth flattened. “I’m not the problem. ”

Sam’s tone softened, still annoyingly gentle. “Then don’t make him watch you disappear while you’re standing right here.”

Cas’s fingers tightened on the glass. “You excuse him. I can’t.”

Sam sighed. “Eat something. Sleep. Talk to him in the morning—when both of you are semi-sober. And don’t start copying Dean’s worst habits. There’s more than one way to be human. Dean’s… not the brochure. I’m not making excuses for him,” Sam added, softer. “I’m telling you why he’s an idiot tonight. Doesn’t make him right. Doesn’t make you the punching bag.”

“Why did you want me to stay, Sam?”

“Because you’re family, Cas. We don’t leave family—especially not now.”

Sam left him with the quiet and the click of the cap on the counter. Cas lifted the bottle, annoyed to find that Sam being right was even more irritating than Sam talking. Out in the hall, a footstep hesitated and kept going. Cas exhaled, swallowed, and waited for the burn to fade.

The door clicked shut, and the quiet made the weight settle harder. Cas let the bottle slip onto the bed and sank down, exhaustion breaking over him in heavy sets. Everything he’d lost—trust, certainty, the edges of who he’d been—pressed in until breathing felt like work.

Sam’s earnest voice still clung to the room, all patient advice and gentle warnings. He knew it came from concern for Dean; it still grated. Cas didn’t need a translator for Dean, and he didn’t need shepherding. The last pebble-lodged in his shoe—small, relentless, annoying.

A quiet voice broke through the dark fog. “Uh, Cas… you okay?”

He looked up to see Dean standing in the doorway, the usual rough edges softened by worry. There was something raw in Dean’s eyes—an unspoken apology wrapped in stubborn loyalty.

“Of course, you know me.”

“Don’t bullshit me Cas. I wasn’t born yesterday. I do know you and I know when you are not okay.”

“How can I explain what it's like to lose everything?"

Dean stepped inside, closing the distance slowly, like he didn’t want to rush or risk breaking what little was left. His hand reached out, not to grab, but to steady. His voice dropped low, steady as a lifeline. “Not everything. You still got me, Cas. You still got Sam. We’re not going anywhere. Not without you.”

Cas pulled back just enough to look into Dean’s eyes, pain and doubt swirling there. “I don’t know how to be human. I don’t know how to live like this... broken. I used to be something unfathomable, powerful, part of something.”

“Well fix It Cas. Well get your wings back. Find the son of a bitch that did this to you. Well make them pay.”

“Dean, even you have to admit that’s wishful thinking,” Cas whispered, voice heavy with exhaustion. “What if this… this is how it is now? I don’t know if I can bear it.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, eyes fierce. “I’m not giving up. Not on you. Not until we fix this—whatever it takes.”

Cas didn’t know how to explain to Dean what it felt like—this wrenching, impossible change from celestial being to fragile human. How the loss of his wings wasn’t just physical; it was like losing a part of himself, the light that had once defined him now dimmed to a faint, flickering shadow.

Every day felt like a betrayal. The body he now inhabited was foreign—awkward, weak, and maddeningly limited. The strength and grace he once took for granted were gone, replaced by aches, exhaustion, and a confusing tangle of emotions that he had no idea how to navigate.

Being human was unappealing, bewildering. There was no clarity, no purpose, only the relentless noise of doubt and vulnerability. Cas couldn’t see anything good about it. How had he fallen from something so infinite, so radiant, into this fragile, fumbling existence?

He felt empty, hollow, useless. The weight of it all was suffocating, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask Dean to carry it with him.

His body betrayed him, doubling over as a violent retch shook through him, his heaving breaths tearing through the silence. The cold floor pressed against his hands, grounding him in a cruel reality he couldn’t escape.

Humiliated and helpless, Cas swallowed hard, tasting bitterness that wasn’t just the sickness— but the crushing sorrow of loss.

Dean’s hand found his, steady and firm despite Cas’s trembling. The simple contact was like an anchor, lifting some of the weight from Cas’s misery. For the first time in a long while, he felt something solid beneath the chaos—a quiet, steady presence in Dean that promised something better, something real. “I’m sorry I vomited in your room,” Cas muttered.

Dean huffed. “That’s why the bucket’s there. Congrats on your first hangover. You’re getting more human by the minute. Lots of firsts coming for you.” Color crept into his cheeks. “But… it won’t matter soon. You’ll be an angel again.”

“The human experience,” Cas said softly. “That’s what you called it yesterday. Have you considered there might be no end? That this is just… what I am now?”

“What if it’s over tomorrow?” Dean shot back, too quick. “You go back to heaven and holy missions. We both know you guys are built different.”

The ceiling spun. Cas rolled into him and tucked his face against Dean’s chest. “Is it normal for the world to tilt like this? I don’t understand the advantage.”

“Water’s the advantage.” Dean pressed a cup into his hand. Cas sipped, then burrowed closer.

“I’ll sleep here,” he mumbled into Dean’s shirt.

“Okay, Cas.” Dean’s fingers threaded into his hair, slow and careful.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Cas woke still half-sprawled over Dean, cheek pressed to worn flannel, Dean’s heartbeat steady under his ear. The bunker was dim—green digits casting faint light from the nightstand clock, the low hum of vents, chalk-smudged warding above them like a warning or a promise. His head throbbed with a low, insistent ache that pulsed behind his eyes. Human pain. Petty and physical and lingering. He had no grace left to burn it clean.

He hated it.

The cotton in his mouth. The sour sway in his stomach. The cramped stillness of morning. Humanity, he decided again, was inefficient at best. At worst, a punishment.

Dean looked peaceful. Too peaceful. The sharpness he wore like armor had dulled in sleep, mouth slack, brows unfurrowed, a quiet version of himself Cas rarely got to see. Cas allowed himself a small, unguarded smile. It flickered briefly before the headache chased it away.

A low groan, close to his temple, pulled his attention back. Dean shifted beneath him, eyes blinking open—sleep-blurred, unfocused—and before Cas could move, speak, or make sense of anything, Dean leaned in and pressed a slow, warm kiss to his mouth.

Cas froze. Not startled. Just… still. As if movement might ruin something fragile he didn’t yet understand.

For a second—just a second—he thought: maybe this was just… normal now. Something unspoken but shared. A new pattern woven out of all the closeness they never talked about.

But then Dean pulled back. Not violently. Not even quickly. Just far enough to cool the warmth between them. Far enough for Cas to feel the shift.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck like he was scrubbing away the last ten seconds. He didn’t look at Cas. Not even a glance. Like the kiss had been some unconscious tic, a thing his body had done without permission from his mind—and now it hung there, awkward and unresolved.

“Uh. Morning,” Dean muttered, voice rough with sleep and whatever whiskey was still lingering in his system. “That was— I mean— reflex. Muscle memory. Y’know how it is.”

Cas blinked. Slowly.

No. He didn’t know how it was.

He knew what kissing meant. In theory. Affection. Desire. Intimacy. A signal, not a reflex. Something deliberate. Especially when it was to the mouth. Especially when it was Dean.

And yet Dean had done it casually—without thinking, it seemed—like a habit, like it meant nothing.

Cas had seen him kiss people before. In bars. In alleys. In the dark curve of a car’s backseat. People with names Cas never learned, faces that blurred into motel neon and beer-stale breath. The kisses were always the same—effortless, practiced. Human. And afterwards, Dean would crack a joke, wipe his mouth, and never mention them again.

Maybe with Dean, that was all kissing ever was. A brief transaction. A moment of borrowed closeness.

Maybe it never meant anything.

So Cas nodded, slow and careful, even though his chest felt like it was being folded in on itself. “I see,” he said. “It was nothing.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Exactly.”

He sat up too fast, like he could escape the moment by changing positions. Reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, like that had always been the plan, and shoved it lightly into Cas’s hand.

“Hydrate, champ,” he said, voice back in the register of forced levity. “Hunter hangover cure step one.”

Cas took the glass and sipped. The water was cold, metallic, and faintly unpleasant. “The room is spinning,” he said flatly, eyes tracing the warding patterns on the ceiling. “I don’t understand the evolutionary advantage.”

“None,” Dean said. “It’s a design flaw.”

Cas kept watching him. “You don’t have to explain,” he said, not meaning the hangover. “I understand.”

Dean let out a breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite anything. “Yeah. Well. Lets get going than.”

They moved in silence after that. Cas brushed his teeth in tight, mechanical motions. He didn’t look at his reflection in the mirror. When he was done, he followed Dean down the hallway, their footsteps soft against the concrete floors.

The bunker felt louder than usual—vent hum, pipes behind the walls, the clink of Dean’s coffee mug as he filled it with mechanical precision. Cas's head was still pounding.

In the kitchen, Sam was already at the table, surrounded by a laptop, two newspapers, and a bowl of cereal that had gone soggy some time ago. He looked up and gave a quiet nod.

Cas nodded back but said nothing. His mouth still tasted like Dean.

“Morning,” Sam said carefully, eyes flicking between them. “Coffee’s fresh.”

Dean poured. Cas took a glass of water. For a minute there was only the scrape of chair legs and the laptop’s fan.

“I found a case,” Cas said, straight to it. “Three unexplained deaths outside Joliet. Bodies drained, puncture wounds in the neck. The pattern suggests a nest.”

Sam glanced at Dean. “Vamps, probably.”

Dean didn’t look up from the coffee. “Cool. You just found it five minutes after puking and forgetting how gravity works?”

“I remember gravity,” Cas said. “I dislike it.”

“Not the point,” Dean said, setting the mug down too hard. “You’re not going anywhere today.”

Cas blinked. “Why would I not go?”

“Because you’re human,” Dean said, like the word had edges. “And you’re on your first hangover. Your reflexes are trash, your stomach’s made of paper, and you don’t heal like you used to.”

“I am still a soldier,” Cas said, standing a little straighter. “My competence does not evaporate because my head hurts.”

“It does when your head hurts and your world’s spinning,” Dean shot back. “You don’t sprint into a vamp nest with a merry-go-round in your skull.”

Sam lifted a hand. “We could table this, get details, call Bobby’s—”

“No,” Cas said, eyes on Dean. “I am not an invalid.”

“What I require,” Dean said, jaw ticking, “is you not getting your throat torn out because you decided to prove something.”

“I am not proving anything,” Cas said, too even. “There is a problem. I can help solve it.”

Dean barked a laugh with no humor in it. “You can help tomorrow. Today you’re benched.”

Sam tried again. “We can start with research—”

“I am not benched,” Cas said, louder now. “Stop treating me like I am fragile.”

“Stop acting like you’re bulletproof,” Dean snapped. “You’re not. Not anymore.”

Cas’s hands tightened around the glass. “I am aware of my limitations. I am also aware that people are dying.”

“And I’m aware you almost fell over brushing your teeth,” Dean said. “So, no. You’re not walking into a nest with a headache the size of Nebraska.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, compromise. I’ll drive out and scout. Dean can—”

“I’m not sending you alone,” Dean said to Sam without looking away from Cas.

“Then we all go,” Cas said at once.

Dean turned back to Cas. “Listen to me. It’s not a simple salt-and-burn. It’s a nest. They’re fast, they swarm, and they don’t care that you’re having a very meaningful first day as a human.”

Cas’s voice stayed calm, clipped. “I know how to fight.”

“Great,” Dean said. “Fight me—two truths and a lie. Truth: you’re dizzy. Truth: you’re slower. Lie: you’re fine.”

Sam’s mouth twitched. “That’s not how the game—”

“Dean,” Cas said, ignoring Sam. “I am not a liability.”

“You are today,” Dean said, and the room went quiet on the word.

Cas flinched like it landed. “You think I’ll get you killed.”

“This is a layover, Cas. You’re gonna snap back to what you are. Angel of the Lord, batteries reinstalled, wings polished. Me letting you get chewed up now, when this is temporary? That’s stupid.”

“We should give him a chance.” Sam interrupted.

Dean’s head snapped over. “A chance to get his face chewed off? Should I start listing off everyone we lost because we took a chance? Jo, Kevin, too many people to name. Now we can Add Cas to the list.”

“Dean he want’s to go.”

“Great,” Dean said, “So now we are going by what the guy whose barely human wants. Fucking fantastic.”

Cas set the empty glass in the sink, precise. “And for the record,” he added, not looking back, “I was not going to fall brushing my teeth.”

Sam coughed into his fist. “Totally. No one said that.”

Dean took his mug, met Sam’s eyes over the rim, and muttered, “He absolutely almost fell.”

“I heard that,” Cas called from the doorway.

“Good,” Dean called back. “Means your hearing’s still superhuman.” He winced, corrected, “—uh, excellent. Just excellent.” Dean shook his head, mouth a hard line.

Cas didn’t go far. Just lingered in the hallway outside the kitchen, spine against the cool concrete wall, the ache in his temples throbbing like a second pulse. He’d said too much. Or not enough. Either way, the result was the same — Dean annoyed, Sam awkward, the day already soured and barely begun.

He felt useless. Unmoored. Like he was neither soldier nor friend. Just a complication. A thing to be managed.

Cas stood outside the kitchen a moment longer after the argument, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the floor. He hated the silence that followed a fight with Dean — not because of the anger, but because of the gap it created. The space where words should be, but weren’t.

He didn’t want to be benched. He didn’t want to be pitied. And more than anything, he didn’t want Dean to see him as something fragile. Something *less*.

So when Dean and Sam disappeared into the war room to dig into the case, Cas doubled back to the kitchen. Alone.

The refrigerator opened with a soft creak. He stared inside, blinking against the cold. Eggs. Bread. Cheese. Half a tomato in plastic wrap. He grabbed them all and set them on the counter. There was a pan. A spatula. He could do this.

Breakfast. That was a normal thing. Human. Useful. People appreciated it.

It wasn’t *combat*, but maybe it was a kind of peacekeeping.

He cracked the eggs. A little too hard — yolk and shell went everywhere. He tried again, more carefully. The stove burner didn’t light at first, and when it did, the flame leapt too high. He jumped back, startled, and nearly knocked the pan off the stove. The tomato slipped while he was slicing it, and he stared down at his hand as a thin line of blood welled across his palm. Not serious. Not deep. But it stung more than it should have.

He didn’t stop.

By the time Dean reappeared, led by the smell of something vaguely burnt, the kitchen looked like a war zone: eggshells in the sink, a suspicious scorched mark on one burner, and a pan of what might generously be called an omelet curling up at the edges. Cas stood at the stove, bleeding hand awkwardly wrapped in a paper towel, holding a spatula like a weapon.

Dean froze in the doorway, blinking like he’d just walked into an alternate universe. “Cas… are you trying to summon breakfast or kill it?”

Cas glanced over his shoulder, deadpan. “I made food.”

Dean stepped in cautiously, surveying the mess. “Huh. See, I thought someone dropped a grenade in here, but nope. Just you and your culinary crusade.”

Cas looked down at the pan, a sad, vaguely egg-like shape curling at the edges. “I followed the steps.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Dean said, pointing at the stove. “Step one: turn on fire. Step two: blacken the soul of the egg. Step three: injure self. Nailed it.”

“The bleeding was minimal.”

“I mean, I’ve seen less blood in a bar fight,” Dean said, already grinning. He grabbed a fork from the drawer like he was preparing for battle. “You made this by yourself?”

Cas nodded, watching him closely. “I wanted to prove I’m still useful. Even if… it’s not in the ways I’m used to.”

Dean paused, fork hovering over the pan. Something softened behind his eyes — just for a second. Then he stabbed a corner of the burned omelet and shoved it into his mouth like it was a shot of bad whiskey.

He chewed. Grimaced. Swallowed with effort.

“…It’s absolutely disgusting,” he declared.

Cas looked at him, expression unreadable. “But you ate it.”

Dean shrugged, already going in for another bite. “Yeah, well. Angel of the Lord cooks me breakfast? Gotta respect the effort. This is going in the Winchester history books.”

Cas nodded once. “I thought… if I contributed something, even small, it might demonstrate that I’m not helpless.” Cas frowned at his thumb. “The bleeding was incidental.”

Dean reached out and gently took his wrist, examining the makeshift bandage. “Next time you wanna prove you’re capable, maybe pick something that doesn’t require a knife before caffeine.”

“Duly noted,” Cas said.

Dean didn’t let go of his wrist right away. His thumb hovered just over the cut, not touching, just there.

They stood there for another moment before Dean gently let his arm go.

“Come on,” he said. “Sam’s got the case loaded up. Let’s get you patched, then we’ll figure out what to do next.”

Cas looked at the ruin of the stove. “Should I clean this first?”

Dean considered it. “Nah. Let Sam walk into it. Builds character.”

They started at the Will County coroner’s. Fluorescents buzzed, stainless steel everywhere, the air sharp with disinfectant. Cas looked through the three files on the counter and lifted the sheet on the latest victim. “Two earlier decedents—exsanguination with blunt tearing. This one?” he angled the light. “Human bite. Deep drain. No animal can do that.”

Sam paged through photos. “Toxicology?”

“Traces of bovine hemoglobin around the wound margins,” Cas said. “Mixed with saliva proteins I can’t place. Like the biter had animal blood in their mouth.”

Dean’s jaw worked. “So the nest is drinking cow, like the rumors say.”

“Most of them are,” Cas said, closing the file. “But somebody wasn’t.”

They hit the vet supply next. A manager with a harried ponytail unlocked a back fridge full of labeled bags.

“We sell to farms and the university lab,” she said. “Last two weeks, we’ve been short. No signs of break-in, just… short. Like someone with a key card is skimming.”

Sam took notes, eyes flicking to the access log. “Print that for us?”

“You a cop?”

Dean flashed a smile that wasn’t friendly. “Close enough.”

By late afternoon they were at the edge of an old rail yard where the tips said the nest kept low. A service door gaped into a dead warehouse—cold air, oil, dust. Inside, a folding table held a neat line of cleaned knives, a stack of cooler packs, and a handwritten sheet taped to the wall:

Rules: No humans. No turning. No hunting in town. We keep the deal.

Cas stared at the list. Nearby, a cooler cracked open showed six bags stamped “BOVINE—NOT FOR HUMAN USE.” One was torn, leaking dark across the ice. Beside the table: a rag too fresh, copper-sweet.

Dean crouched, lifted the rag with two fingers. “Somebody broke the deal last night.”

Sam knelt at a scuff trail leading deeper into the dark. “Drag marks. Recent.”

From the far end, a low voice: “We don’t hurt people.” A young vampire stepped into the light—eyes blown, hands up. Behind him, two more hovered, tense. “We don’t. We made a promise.”

Dean didn’t lower his knife. “One of you did.” He flicked a glance at the cooler. “And now your whole story’s a lie.”

The kid shook his head, desperate. “It was Bram. He fell off. We tried to stop him. We’re trying to fix it.”

Cas watched the kid’s hands—shaking, but empty. He moved a half step, the hangover’s ghost tugging once and fading. “Where is Bram?”

“He runs when he’s hungry.” The kid pointed toward the catwalks. “He said the animal stuff wasn’t enough.”

Dean’s mouth tightened. He flicked eyes to Cas, then back to the stairs. “Sam, you babysit the choir. Cas, with me.”

They followed the drag to a rusted office. The door was wedged with a crate; inside, another cooler sat open—empty—and the concrete was splotched with something too fresh to be old.

Dean swept the corners, voice low. “Nest keeps rules. One breaks, the whole thing bends.”

Cas’s gaze stayed on the floor, the cooler, the list on the wall he could still see in his head. “Rules don’t hold without choice,” he said, quiet. “And choice isn’t real without teeth.”

Dean shot him a look—something unreadable in it—then jerked his chin toward the catwalk stairs. “Teeth it is. Let’s find Bram.”

“Nest that ‘doesn’t touch humans,’ buys animal blood, plays nice with the locals. Coroner notes say two vics had trace bovine in their stomachs—means most of the nest is sticking to the diet. But the third vic? Fresh human bite, deep drain. Somebody inside broke the rule, and now the whole picture’s lying to us.”

Cas’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying choice fails.”

“I’m saying nature drags harder than rules,” Dean shot back. “Those vamps can swear off people till they’re blue in the fangs—one cracks, the rest get dead or hungry. Same with you: you can white-knuckle ‘human’ all you want, but the second Heaven flips your switch, this version of you is gone.”

Cas held his stare. “Being human isn’t pretense. It’s where I am.”

Dean huffed. “Yeah? Let’s be honest—if you had the choice, you’d go back to wings and forever. Leave us mud-monkeys to wrinkle and die. I’ve seen Doctor Who; to you we’re a blink.”

Cas frowned. “I don’t know this Doctor, and he has nothing to do with my choices.”

Dean blew out a breath and Bram came out of the dark like a bad thought—fast, teeth flashing. Dean pivoted, slammed him into the cinderblock, forearm to throat, machete kissing jawline.

“I slipped,” Bram rasped, hands up, eyes wild. “I was starving. It was a mistake. A lapse. Please—”

“Tell that to the three on Ortiz’s table,” Dean said, voice flat. “A ‘lapse’ put them there. Choices have consequences.”

Bram sagged against the blade, breath hitching. Cas stepped in, eyes cold. “You wrote the rules on your own wall. You broke them.”

“Won’t happen again,” Bram whispered.

“It already did,” Dean answered, pressure steady, no give in him.

“I wish I could take it back. I would,” Bram rasped.

Cas’s gaze didn’t waver. “That’s the thing about choices,” he said quietly. “You don’t get to unmake them.”

He took the machete without hesitation. One clean swing. Bram’s body dropped like a sack of meat. The warehouse went quiet, except for the sound of blood settling.

For a long moment, Cas just stood there, breathing hard. He could still feel the resistance of bone in his arms, still smell the rot curling off the corpse. The adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet. It never did fast enough.

Dean stepped up beside him, quiet but close. His hand brushed Cas’s arm, then settled on his jaw, thumb warm against his cheek. His touch was soft. Gentle in a way Dean rarely allowed himself to be.

Cas stepped back. Not violently. Just enough.

Dean’s brow furrowed. His hand dropped.

Cas looked away. His stomach twisted. He knew he was doing this wrong—whatever *this* was. The rules for human interaction remained frustratingly unclear, and he kept stepping on invisible tripwires. He wished it didn’t matter. But it did. To him, it always did.

Dean was already moving, already putting distance between them.

Dean grabbed his duffel from where it was half-slung on a broken crate. “We get your grace back, you’ll be back to normal. You’ll be free to… do what you want. Go where you want.”

Cas froze. The words landed heavier than Dean probably meant them to. Or maybe he meant exactly what he said.

*Free to go.*

Cas nodded once, though his throat had gone tight. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He felt like a burden, like a complication Dean hadn’t asked for, and had long since run out of patience tolerating. Maybe he was.

He trailed a few steps behind as they walked back toward the car, the vampire’s blood still tacky on his hands.

Chapter Text

The war room was quiet — not peaceful, but humming with tension. The only sound was the rhythmic scrape of pages turning, Dean hunched over ancient lore books with the grim determination of a man trying to outstare the impossible.

Castiel watched him from across the table.

Dean hadn’t looked up in nearly an hour.

Sam’s laptop clacked occasionally, a counterpoint to the silence, but even he seemed more cautious than usual — glancing between Dean and Cas as if anticipating a detonation.

Dean had been like this for days. Pulling texts from every shelf in the bunker. Calling contacts. Reaching out to hunters, witches, even people he swore he’d never speak to again. Anyone who might know how to restore grace that had been burned out of existence.

No one knew anything.

Cas wanted to help. He’d tried. Told them everything he remembered — which wasn’t much. Just fragments. Then the pavement. Cold and rough beneath him. A pain in his spine like lightning. Then nothing.

Cas didn’t need to ask. He already knew what Dean was thinking — he wasn’t trying hard enough.

He heard it in the tired way Dean sighed when Cas gave the same answer for the third time. In the hollow little “great” he muttered whenever another lead slipped through their fingers. In the silence that followed — heavier each time, harder to fill.

But it was the way Dean stopped looking at him that hurt the most. Like meeting his eyes was too much now. Like whatever was slipping between them might snap if they acknowledged it.

Cas wasn’t sure when that started. Only that it had — and that Dean had already begun to look away.

Dean grunted. Slammed the book shut, too loud.

“None of this is useful,” he muttered. “It’s all crap — mythology, guesswork. These people don’t know anything.”

“We’ve asked everyone we can,” Cas said. “I’ve told you all I remember.”

Dean snorted, tired and bitter. ““Yeah. That’s not exactly helpful, Cas. All you told us was you remember nothing except waking up on a sidewalk?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that?”

Cas didn’t move. “Just like that.” He paused, his voice growing cooler. “I'm sorry the experience wasn’t more enlightening. I’ve been busy adjusting.”

Dean didn’t look up. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

The words hit harder than Cas expected. He didn’t even know what they meant, exactly — only that they landed like judgment.

Sam looked up sharply from his screen. “Dean—”

“What?” Dean snapped. “I’m just saying, maybe if he focused, something would shake loose. I mean, you’re telling me you fell out of heaven and hit the ground and that’s it? You remember nothing?”

“I said I didn’t,” Cas said, forcing calm into his tone. “I would tell you if I did.” Cas swallowed hard. He could feel the wrongness inside himself — the weight of being unfinished, broken, different. He wanted his grace back. Wanted the sky to open and pour itself into him. Wanted to hear the song again. “There is nothing I want more than to return to what I was,” Cas said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “I’ve lost my purpose. My power. My… place.”

Dean gave a tight, humorless smile. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That part’s pretty clear.”

Cas looked down. He didn’t know what he’d hoped to hear. Not that. Not that cold confirmation.

Dean pushed back from the table, rising suddenly. “I’m gonna call Bobby again. See if maybe someone on his end’s got a brain.”

He walked out, mug in hand.

The room was quieter when Dean left, but not easier.

Cas sat with his hands folded in front of him, staring down at them like they might provide a better answer. Sam shifted his weight. Sometimes, he wondered what would change if he had his grace back — and if it would make any difference at all.

“Cas?” he said after a pause.

Cas looked up. “Yes?”

Sam hesitated. Then, cautiously, “Have you… thought about what it would mean if this doesn’t change?”

Cas tilted his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” Sam scratched the back of his neck. “If there’s no way to get your grace back. If this is permanent. Have you thought about what it means to… stay human?”

Cas blinked. The question landed wrong in his chest — jagged and heavy.

He stared at Sam for a beat too long.

“Why would I want that?”

Sam held up a hand. “I didn’t mean—just forget it.”

Cas turned away slightly, something sour in his throat. “I can’t fight like this. I can’t heal. I can’t protect anyone. I feel pain. I bleed when I cook eggs. I feel so alone. It's so quiet, being human — unbearably so. It's like someone’s turned the world down, and I’m left with nothing but confusion. I ask you Sam what possible reason would I have to choose this?”

Sam didn’t answer.

Cas exhaled through his nose. “You all keep asking me to be okay with this. Like it’s a lesson. Or a gift. But I don’t understand the purpose of being this way. I only know that Dean can’t look at me anymore. At least when I was an angel he would look me in the eye.”

Sam looked like he wanted to argue that last part. But he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest, gaze fixed somewhere over Cas’s shoulder — like if he didn’t make eye contact, it wouldn’t count as lying or telling the truth.

“You’re not wrong,” he said finally, voice low. “It’s not easy.”

Cas frowned. “Being human?”

Sam nodded once. “Yeah. It's... messy. Painful. And yeah, quiet, sometimes. Especially after what you’re used to. The—angel radio, the purpose. The noise.”

Cas said nothing. The silence felt too large to fill.

“But,” Sam continued, still not quite looking at him, “it’s not all bad.”

Cas waited. He didn’t ask how. He wanted to, but he suspected Sam didn’t have an answer either.

“There’s… good stuff too. Some of it takes a while to notice.” Sam gave a faint, helpless smile. “Like, I dunno—food that tastes good when you’re starving. Laughing so hard your stomach hurts. That kind of thing.”

Cas’s expression didn’t change. “You’re talking about distractions.”

“Yeah,” Sam admitted. “Maybe. But they help.”

Cas turned his gaze back to the table. “They don’t bring back what I lost.”

“No,” Sam said quietly. “They don’t… but there’s something special about being human too. Connection. Love. Stuff that matters.”

“We experience those as angels too, Sam. Just differently.” He reached out and turned one of the lore books toward himself, more for the motion than the meaning. His eyes flicked over the page, unseeing. “Do you think what Dean thinks?” he asked quietly. “That I’m holding something back?”

Sam blinked, then shook his head. “Dean’s just… frustrated. He wants to fix this. And he can’t.”

Cas’s jaw tightened. “Because I want to go back. I would leave this behind without hesitation.” He tapped a finger against the paper, once, sharp. “If someone offered it to me, I’d take it. Immediately.”

Sam leaned back, arms crossing tighter. He let the silence stretch a beat before answering. “Want to know what I think?”

Cas looked at him. “Yes.”

Sam sighed. “You’re grieving, Cas.”

Cas frowned, slow and deliberate. “Grieving.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “You lost your grace. Your place. Your whole… way of existing. You’re mourning it. That’s not lying to us. It’s not selfish. It’s just what happens when you lose something that big.”

Cas lowered his gaze back to the book, tracing a line of faded ink without reading it. “Is that all this is?”

Sam’s voice softened. “That’s human.”

Cas almost said something unkind. Almost. It caught in his throat.

Dean’s voice echoed faintly from down the hall, muffled but moving closer.

Sam glanced toward the door and then back at Cas. “Just… don’t write it all off yet. That’s all I’m saying.”

Cas nodded, but didn’t agree.

He folded his hands in front of him. Pressed his thumbs together. Tried to feel composed.

But all he really felt was like a problem no one could solve.

The war room door creaked open. Dean stepped back inside, a fresh mug of coffee in one hand, the other shoved deep in his jacket pocket. He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked past them both — quick glance at Sam, none at Cas — and set the mug down beside Cas’s elbow with a quiet clink.

Not a word.

Not even eye contact.

Cas stared at it.

Steam curled up from the surface. A ton of sugar and cream. Just the way he liked it.

Dean dropped back into his chair with a sigh that sounded less angry this time. He picked up a new book — something thinner, older, pages already fraying — and opened it like nothing had happened.

“Got a couple things from Bobby,” he said gruffly, eyes on the text. “Obscure stuff. Old rituals. Might be nothing.”

Cas glanced from the coffee to Dean. “Thank you.”

Dean didn’t look up. Just gave a vague nod.

.

The summoning sigil smoked faintly on the war room floor, lines still glowing with the last of the blood he’d drawn. Cas stood over it, shoulders squared, though inside he felt anything but steady.

The air shifted. A flicker of wings. Then Gabriel appeared, leaning casually against the table like he’d been invited to a party.

“Well,” Gabriel said, smirking. “Look who finally remembered my number.”

Cas’s hands curled into fists. “I need answers.”

“Straight to business.” Gabriel clicked his tongue. “Not even a ‘hi, nice to see you back from the dead for the third or fourth time.’ Typical little brother manners.”

Cas didn’t move. “Why can’t I remember how I fell? Why can’t I remember what happened to my grace?”

Gabriel’s smile thinned. He studied Cas for a moment, eyes sharper than his tone. “Because you did it yourself.”

Cas blinked. The words didn’t register at first. “…What?”

“You ripped it out,” Gabriel said simply. “Grace doesn’t just ‘go missing,’ featherbrain. You tore it out of yourself and tossed it. That’s why it’s not where it should be. That’s why it’s blank when you try to remember. You don’t want to.”

Cas’s chest tightened. He shook his head once. “That makes no sense. I would never—”

“You would if you had a reason,” Gabriel interrupted. He snapped his fingers, and with a shimmer of light, a small glass vial appeared in his hand. The liquid inside glowed faintly, familiar in a way that made Cas’s breath catch.

His grace.

Gabriel twirled the vial between his fingers, then held it out. “Here it is. All bottled up, safe and sound.”

Cas reached for it automatically, but Gabriel didn’t let go when their fingers brushed.

“Here’s the thing, bro,” Gabriel said, grin fading into something more serious. “You don’t get to just plug it back in like a phone charger. You need to figure out why you ripped it out in the first place. Until then? You’re just putting a loaded gun back in your chest without knowing who you were planning to shoot.”

Cas stared at the vial. The glow pulsed faintly, alive, familiar. He wanted it. Needed it. It was everything he’d lost.

But Gabriel’s eyes held him steady. “Find out why, Castiel. Then decide. Otherwise? You’re just making the same mistake twice.”

Gabriel pressed the vial into his palm, finally letting go. Cas closed his fingers around it, the warmth seeping into his skin.

When he looked up, Gabriel was already gone. Only the faint scent of ozone and burnt sugar lingered in the room.

Cas stood alone, the vial heavy in his hand.

And for the first time, the thought of having his grace back didn’t feel like relief.

It felt like a question.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Cas sat on the edge of the bed, the vial turning slowly between his fingers. The glow inside wasn’t bright so much as other—a shimmer that bent around itself, colorless and pulsing, as if it remembered motion in more directions than the world allowed. He remembered it too, not like a man remembers, but like a body remembers breath. Before lungs. Before limits.

It was him. What he had been before skin, before gravity, before the noise of human thought. That essence—his essence—waited in the glass, still intact, still patient. Still unclaimed.

And it called to him now. Softly. Persistently. Like something behind a mirror tapping to be let through. The longer he held it, the less real the room felt. The weight of the bed beneath him dulled. The air grew thin. Even the light from the lamp seemed to slow, struggling to touch him.

This was the price. He knew it. The ground would stop holding him. Names would stop fitting. The language of hands and mouths and eyes would fray at the edges. And whatever he’d learned to feel here would all peel away like old skin.

All he had to do was uncork the glass. Let it in. Let the earth fall from his feet. Let the shape he had borrowed collapse.

But Gabriel’s words still lingered.

You tore it out yourself.

That truth settled deep, colder than steel. If it was true, then there had been a reason—something buried so completely he no longer remembered choosing it. And if Cas didn’t know why he’d done it once… he wasn’t sure he could trust himself not to do it again.

Dean’s voice had been echoing just as loudly. You’re a liability. You’re not bulletproof anymore. It’s pretty clear you want to go back.

Cas had borne Dean’s anger before—weathered it like a storm. But this had been different. These weren’t sharp words meant to cut—they were tired ones, worn down by disappointment. Not anger, but resignation. The realization that Dean no longer saw him as a soldier, or a friend… just as something broken. Something fragile.

And yet, beneath the ache of that, something else pressed outward—quiet and persistent.

Longing.

To escape the weight of Dean’s distance, the space that had opened between them since he fell. To stop holding his breath, waiting for warmth that never came, afraid that every word might drive Dean further back. To leave, not to run, but to find what was left of himself in the wreckage. To understand why he had torn himself apart in the first place. Even if the truth hurt. Even if it changed him.

Maybe Dean wasn’t wrong. Maybe it really would be easier—for both of them—if he left.

He slipped the vial into the inside pocket of his coat. The weight of it settled against his chest like a heartbeat. Then he packed. Minimal. Efficient. He had learned to travel light.

When Cas stepped into the hall, duffel in hand, the bunker stretched around him—cavernous and still, but not asleep. The old hum of pipes and vents threaded through the stone, low and constant, the only sign of life besides his own footsteps—measured, deliberate.

He wasn’t trying to move quietly. Not exactly. He knew the timing. Knew the pattern. Dean always passed through this corridor just before six, half-awake, mug in hand, assuming the bunker was his alone until full consciousness set in. Cas could’ve taken the other route—he’d mapped three—but something in him, something he didn’t need to analyze, had chosen this one. Chosen now.

His steps were soft. Not careful. Controlled. Not enough to wake anyone. But just enough to register, if someone was already stirring. If someone was listening.

Dean appeared at the far end of the hall, coffee mug in hand, his posture loose with sleep, unguarded in the way only a place like this ever allowed. He clearly hadn’t expected to see anyone. Then he stopped short.

His eyes landed on the bag. “Seriously?”

Cas didn’t meet his gaze. “I think it’s best if I leave for a while.”

Dean walked forward a few steps, setting the mug down on a nearby shelf with a dull clunk. Harder than necessary.

“You mean bail.”

“I mean leave,” Cas replied. Calm. Quiet. Steady.

Dean crossed his arms. “Figures. Old patterns die hard.”

Cas looked up at that—expression unreadable, but something in it flickered like a blown-out match trying to reignite. “I’m not abandoning you, Dean.”

Dean gave a half-smirk that barely curled his mouth, the kind he wore like a mask. “Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered.

But the edge was gone.

He looked away. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, rough around the edges. “You sure about this?”

Cas hesitated. Not because he doubted himself—but because the question landed deeper than Dean probably meant it to.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I have to be.”

Dean didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him, jaw clenched, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek like he was swallowing whatever came next. Then he gave a small shrug—more shield than surrender.

“Yeah. Alright. Do what you gotta do.”

Cas nodded, just once. He shifted the duffel on his shoulder and moved past him.

Dean’s voice followed, quieter now, like it had fought its way through something. “Just… don’t be an idiot out there, alright?”

Cas paused at the threshold, his fingers tightening slightly around the strap. The hallway beyond felt colder now, like something was waiting on the other side of it. Or missing from this one.

Behind him, Dean still wasn’t looking at him. “You get in trouble, you call. I don’t care where. Or why. You hear me?”

Cas turned—not fully—just enough to see Dean in the dim yellow light of the bunker. He was half in shadow, arms crossed over his chest like armor. And brittle. So brittle, like he was bracing for a hit he couldn’t dodge.

Cas’s voice was steady, soft. “I’ve always come back, Dean.”

He let the words hang, just for a second. Waiting. Hoping Dean might say something. Stop him. Reach.

But the silence held.

So Cas added, more quietly, “Why would this time be any different?”

Dean looked up at last. Their eyes met—and for that moment, the rest of the bunker dropped away. In its place: old grief, older loyalty, and the whole tangled knot of things they’d never found the right words for.

Cas held the look a second longer.

Then he turned, stepped through the door.

He didn’t look back.

But he listened—just in case.

.

The bar was dark enough to forget things.

Not just dim—murky, like the air itself had weight. Smoke and shadow clung to the rafters, coiling in corners where the lights didn’t reach. Neon flickered over liquor bottles like dying stars.

Castiel sat hunched at the far end of the bar, one elbow braced against the counter, the other curled loosely around a glass of something thick and red and sharp enough to burn. He hadn’t asked what it was. The bartender hadn’t said. It slid across the wood like a silent dare, and Cas drank.

The place throbbed around him like a pulse, the music low and guttural, more vibration than melody. Basslines crawled through the floorboards. Laughter cracked like distant thunder, shattering against walls slick with condensation.

Everything blurred at the edges. Everything bled.

He let it wash over him. Let it smother the sharp edges in his head. The chaos wrapped around him like wings once had—loud and alive, warm with distraction.

Bass thumped through the floor like a second pulse. Someone laughed too loud. Lights smeared across his vision. The woman next to him had glitter stuck to her cheekbone—iridescent, clinging like stardust.

“Have you heard about any disappearances?” Cas asked, voice low, steady.

She turned toward him, narrowed eyes glittering more than the makeup. “Who’s asking?”

Cas slid the fake badge from his coat pocket and held it just long enough to be seen.

“Agent Constantine,” he said.

She leaned back, suspicious—but amused. “Ah. Agent.” A sip from her drink. “You sure don’t look FBI.”

Then her gaze slid lower, drawn—unconsciously—to the base of his throat. Her fingers hovered there, just above the collar of his shirt.

"What's that?" she murmured.

It wasn’t visible, not exactly. Not like it used to be. But the remnants of his grace lived there—fractured, coiled, dimmed down to a flicker— pulsing next to his skin like a dying star.

People felt it.

They didn’t know what they wanted from him, only that they wanted something. Something to lean against. To be lit by. To be saved.

But Dean had never wanted salvation.

Dean didn’t reach for him like the others did—like they were chasing warmth or mercy. Dean looked at him like he was something solid. Something real. Even when Cas wasn't.

Dean had always seen him for more than a warrior of God. His father’s soldier.

Dean saw everything —the failures, the mess, the fracture—and still stood beside him. Or fought him. Or bled with him.

Cas blinked, and the woman was still talking. Or maybe she wasn’t.

It didn’t matter.

He’d come here to disappear. But Dean still clung to the edges of his thoughts—stubborn as ever, impossible to quiet.

Her hand landed on his thigh like it had every right to be there.

He didn’t move it. He didn’t want her, not really. He wanted to be wanted.

Outside, the rain had turned into something heavier, mist mixing with the amber streetlight. A group stumbled in through the door, loud and wet and full of noise. One of them—tall, lanky, a silver ring in their eyebrow—locked eyes with Castiel as if they recognized him.

The woman vanished between shots—gone, as if spliced out of the reel. In her place stood the man: lean, soft-spoken, with a voice like radio static and lips cracked from the cold. He offered a cigarette. Castiel didn’t smoke. He took it anyway.

“I’m Jaimie.”

“Castiel.”

Jaimie lit his own. “You come here often, Castiel?”

“I’m investigating a case.”

“A case?”

“Missing person.”

Jaimie blew smoke toward the ceiling, watching it unravel in the dark like a thought he didn’t feel like finishing. “So. Who’s gone missing?”

“Young woman,” Castiel said. “Mid-twenties. Bartender. Disappeared after closing up last Thursday. Her keys were still in the lock.”

“Dramatic.” Jaimie glanced sideways. “And you think she’s here? Somewhere in the building?”

“I think something’s here,” Castiel said. He sounded certain, not excited. Just... sure. “It’s not a person. Too blatant. Too fast. Too clean.”

Jaimie raised an eyebrow. “Blatant?”

“The footage loops, but only once. Just enough to cover her vanishing. Everything else plays normally.” Castiel paused. “There was a sound distortion.”

Jaimie gave a small huff of laughter. “Okay. Let me guess. You think it’s a ghost. Or a vampire. Or what—mothman?”

“Could be.” Castiel said it flat, like he was listing breakfast items.

“You’re serious.”

Castiel turned to look at him, calm and steady. “I don’t lie.”

“That’s... somehow even weirder.” Jaimie took a slow drag from his cigarette. “Alright, spooky stranger. Do you always lead with cryptid talk or is this just for me?”

Castiel frowned slightly. “This is just the case.”

“Hm.” Jaimie’s eyes flicked to Castiel’s neck “Well, I like a man with a rich inner world.”

Castiel didn’t respond. He was already scanning the edges of the room like something might pull itself out of the drywall. Jaimie watched him a moment longer, then exhaled smoke toward the ceiling again.

“You’re a little weird, you know that?”

“I’m aware.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

Jaimie kept glancing at Castiel’s throat. Once, his fingers drifted toward it, almost brushing the skin—hesitant, reverent.

“Huh,” Jaimie said, voice low. “Didn’t think you’d be warm. Cold night like this—I figured you’d be all marble and mystery.”

Humanity had it wrong. Being an angel wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t comfort. It wasn’t light the way they imagined—golden, soft, divine.

It was cold. Sterile. Formless. A constant hum of orders and alignment, of duty overriding identity. Heaven wasn't a choir of harmony. It was machinery.

Castiel didn’t step back. He just looked at Jaimie, unblinking. “I’m warm now. That’s real. The body—this body—it breathes, it feels, it burns. I used to imitate it. Now I live it.”

Jaimie raised an eyebrow. “You rehearsed that for a date, or is that just your idea of small talk?”

Castiel tilted his head, considering. “It’s only small because you expect it to be.”

That caught Jaimie off guard. He laughed, short and quiet, dragging on his cigarette to cover it. “Right. Of course. You’re full of surprises, Castiel.”

When he was out of his vessel—when he was only grace and will, floating through Heaven’s white expanse—There was no sound, not really. Just the echo of intention. Motion without momentum. No body. No breath. No heartbeat to tether him to place or feeling. No weight. No hunger. No gravity. No senses to root him. No hands to reach. No skin to bruise.

Since falling, since burning through humanity again and again, the line between grace and soul had blurred. His vessel was no longer just a shell—it had imprinted on him. Or he on it. He had been altered in ways Heaven wouldn’t understand. In ways he barely understood.

Even in the height of his grace, Castiel had never once felt warm.

He let Jamie talk. Let him laugh. Watched the way his eyes crinkled when he did, how he kept glancing over like Castiel’s silence meant something solid. He let him believe, for a moment, that Castiel was someone worth orbiting—and wished it could be true.

Outside again. His coat hung open. He didn’t remember putting it on, but someone must’ve helped. Rain slicked down his face like it knew he needed reminding. They kissed like it meant something—like a dare, yes, but also like the world might stop if they didn’t. Someone else joined them halfway through—another woman, or maybe a man, laughing and spinning like they belonged to the moment more than anyone else. Castiel tried to see them all clearly. He wanted to.

They touched him like he was safe, and for their sake, he tried to be.

They leaned in like they wanted to be blessed.

He let himself be pulled along. He wasn’t looking for pleasure. He was looking for communion. Skin and breath and voice tangled up in something almost divine. Like the moments when humanity had prayed and he had heard them all at once.

They took a rideshare somewhere. The apartment wasn’t his. That didn’t matter.

The smoke hung thick in the air—sweet, herbal. It clung to the curtains, to his clothes, to the back of his throat. The scent reminded him, distantly, of burnt offerings. Bodies pressed close. Music slowed down. The floor felt warm beneath him, or maybe he was just too far gone to notice the difference.

Someone laid a hand flat against his chest, right over his heart, and murmured, “You feel like something I’ve been missing.”

He’d touched three bodies tonight. One woman. Two men.

None of them looked like Dean. That part mattered.

If kissing meant nothing to Dean—just an act you did, casual, forgettable—then Castiel would learn that too. He would kiss until the meaning bled out of it. Until his mouth stopped searching for something it would never find.

He would collect strangers like answers. Press his lips to enough unfamiliar mouths until the mystery unravelled. Until it all felt as hollow as Dean claimed it was.

But it never did.

That was a problem.

Every hand that had touched him, every breath once caught against his mouth, every thigh that had pressed close — it all lingered. Not as sensation, but as imprint. Memory. The ghost of contact that felt both too much and not enough.

Castiel couldn’t stop seeing the people. Not their faces, not clearly. But the weight behind them. The endless, shapeless need that clung to their bodies like fog. Desire masquerading as desperation. Desperation mistaken for love.

He remembered their prayers. A thousand thousand voices rising in smoke and static, indistinct, overwhelming. Prayers mumbled into pillows, muttered over steering wheels, screamed into empty air. Human voices asking not for salvation, but for mercy. For reprieve. For attention.

He had noticed. He had always noticed. He hadn’t had a choice.

There was a time — long ago, though the memory remained untouched — when he stood above it all. A commander. A blade in service to Heaven. One voice among many, but loud enough to give orders. He had directed his brothers and sisters like instruments of light, sent them down like fire to protect a creation that never even knew it was being watched.

And the Host obeyed. Not for love. For structure. For hierarchy. For obedience.

They tore themselves apart because he told them to. Because that was the task. Because Heaven decreed that humanity was to be served, no matter how weak, no matter how loud, no matter how undeserving.

Humanity was need without limit. Fear without reason. Want without end. A creation built to break — and somehow convinced it deserved to be mended.

To him, they were small. Clumsy. Endlessly self-absorbed.

And still, they asked. They begged. They reached upward, always, with shaking hands and open mouths, demanding answers, demanding comfort, demanding to be seen.

That weight hadn’t left him. Not even now. Especially not now.

Stripped of rank. Of wings. Of the architecture of Heaven that had once made sense of everything — Castiel still felt it. The call. The reflex. The hollow instinct to protect. To obey.

Even here, walking in flesh that wasn’t his, he could feel the echo of their trust. The prayers that still clung to him like old oil. The voices that once fell silent the moment his shadow passed.

He had ordered angels to die for these souls. Not because they were noble. Not because they were strong. But because they were fragile. Because they were Heaven’s project. And he was Heaven’s hammer.

And now he walked among them. Felt their touch. Heard their laughter. Watched them fall apart behind closed doors.

They didn’t know. They never had.

What it had cost to keep them breathing. What it still cost him to carry out the orders, long after the mission had ended.

What it meant to serve without meaning. To love without warmth. To protect what he could never understand.

She laughed nearby—close, distracted. Then a hand slid into his, closing his fingers around something small.

Pills. Two of them. Chalky white. No label. No explanation.

“Don’t think so hard,” she said, breezy, almost kind. “Just take it. You’ll float right out of your head.”

“I’m trying,” he said quietly, “I’m trying to forget.”

The hand on his chest slid lower. He closed his eyes and let himself fall— Not like before. Not like Heaven.

This fall was slower. Heavier.

The room was dim and loud in the wrong ways—low music, someone laughing in the kitchen, the floor vibrating faintly under him. Castiel exhaled, slow and even, trying not to think.

She leaned in again—lip gloss, peppermint breath, a hand sliding up under his shirt like they’d done this before. Maybe they had. Maybe he’d kissed her already.

He didn’t stop them.

Their mouth found his neck. He tilted his head back, let it happen. The skin there was sensitive. Too sensitive. His fingers curled loosely against the carpet.

He wasn’t sure if he liked it or if he just liked that it was happening.

There was warmth—too much of it. On his skin, in his throat, in the noise of someone else’s pulse pressed up against him. It was hard to hold onto his name like this. That was good. That was the goal.

Another kiss. Sloppy, eager, landing half on his mouth and half off. He kissed back anyway. Slower than they wanted. Too careful.

Dean never kissed like this.

He blinked hard. Once. Twice. The ceiling swam.

Jamie laughed against his collarbone, breath warm and damp. "You're so quiet," he said, fingers tugging at his belt loop. "You okay?"

He nodded. He didn’t know if it was true.

He just wanted the night to keep going. Wanted to keep moving, touching, forgetting.

He kissed him again. Harder, this time.

.

Castiel ignored the call.

It was only Sam after all.

He was facedown on the carpet, someone’s leg draped over his back. The apartment stank of wine, stale weed, and the raw scent of skin. Somewhere in the corner, music was playing—something ambient and pulsing, like a heartbeat slowed to molasses. Someone was laughing.

Someone else was crying.

It was him.

The tears weren’t loud or cinematic—just silent and constant, soaking into the floorboards. His face was hot, wet, uncomfortably close to the carpet. His chest ached in that hollow, bottomless way that made breathing feel like punishment.

The sadness was a gravity. Heavy and colorless. Not sharp enough to scream, not dramatic enough to be interesting—just thick. Like breathing in fog. Like drowning under a blanket.

Someone touched his back. Just a palm, warm and steady between his shoulder blades.

Another hand brushed his hair off his face.

“Hey,” a voice whispered. Gentle. Female. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

He didn’t recognize her. He hadn’t learned her name. But she touched him like they’d known each other for years. Like she could feel something breaking and couldn’t look away.

A leg folded beside his. A hand rubbed slow circles between his shoulders. Someone tugged a blanket from the couch and laid it over him. Fingers carded through his hair.

The touch between his shoulders lingered — soft, grounding — and it scraped against something raw in him.

Castiel didn’t move at first.

But then, slowly, he pushed himself up — not with urgency, but with quiet precision, like a machine powering back online. The blanket slid off his back and pooled at his waist. The hands that had comforted him retreated slightly, uncertain now.

The woman’s face was close, brows knit in concern. “Do you want to talk?”

Cas wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. His voice, when it came, was even. Collected. Measured in a way that didn’t match the redness around his eyes.

“No,” he said, quiet but unyielding. “I want something easier.”

She didn’t question it. Just slipped two pills into his palm—efficient, familiar, like muscle memory. He swallowed them without ceremony. No pause. No second thought.

Then he turned to her—met her eyes, fully this time.

There was no flinch. No flicker of apology or doubt. Something in him had gone still—settled.

He leaned in, slow and controlled, voice dipping into something quiet and dangerous. “Touch me,” he said. Not pleading. Not tender.

Just matter-of-fact.

“Not to comfort,” he added, a breath behind the words. “Just... touch.”

Her breath caught slightly, surprised but not retreating.

He kissed her — not desperate, not passionate, just precise. Enough to shift the atmosphere. Enough to redirect.

A barrier. Not intimacy. Not vulnerability.

He wasn’t reaching for connection. He was building a wall with his body.

She kissed him back, her hands returning to his hair, his chest. The others in the room noticed but didn’t interrupt — this was normal here. This kind of silence. This kind of translation.

Cas let himself go through the motions. Not out of desire. Not out of want.

But because it was the one thing no one would question.

Because if his hands were occupied, if his mouth was busy, then no one would ask why he had been crying on the floor like a broken thing.

Because he knew how to be used. And using was easier than being held.

The thought cracked something open.

And suddenly he was back—there.

Not in the smoke-filled apartment. Not in his body.

But in the blinding expanse of Heaven.

Bound.

The weight of celestial chains cutting through what should have been light. Grace stripped raw, ripped from him in ribbons. Blades pressed into places no body could bruise. Every strike meant not to destroy him but to remind him of what could never be his: freedom. Desire. Choice.

Their voices were louder than sound—orders, accusations, corrections—hammered into him until thought was impossible. He was not supposed to want. He was not supposed to ask. He was not supposed to be.

He remembered the sensation of being pulled apart molecule by molecule, not dying, not living. Just enduring.

Enduring because that was what angels did.

Enduring because there was no corner to retreat to, no floor to collapse on. Just white and endless and pain until the lesson stuck.

Castiel blinked, and the room swam back into shape—low light, smoke, bodies too close. His chest was heaving. His hands shook against the fabric clinging to him.

He pulled back suddenly, out of the kiss, out of the touch. The confusion in her eyes barely registered.

Cas moved to the corner of the room, away from everyone. Away from her. He didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. The weight of their attention was already too much, dragging across his skin like wire.

He sat down hard, spine to the wall, knees pulled in until his chest could feel the edge of his own breath. Like maybe the shape of his body could become small enough to disappear. Fold in. Collapse.

He didn’t explain.

Didn’t speak.

There was nothing left in him that wanted to be witnessed.

His arms came up around his knees, fingers gripping at the sleeves of his coat like anchors, like maybe if he held himself tightly enough, he could prevent something from spilling out. He didn’t know what. Maybe grief. Maybe memory. Maybe blood.

He curled down onto the mattress — stiff, thin, hollow-feeling under him — and let gravity win.

The corner wasn’t safe.

But it was empty.

And empty was close enough.

Touch was unbearable now. The thought of fingers on his skin made his stomach lurch. Every imagined contact felt like being pierced — not deeply, not cleanly, but shallow and relentless. A thousand tiny cuts, all reopening at once.

His body felt like paper. Like a mistake held together by pressure and prayer. Too thin. Too loud. Too much.

The memory of warmth — of someone else’s hand, someone else’s breath — was a phantom that wouldn’t leave. It hovered at the edge of him like a shadow trying to crawl back inside.

He wanted it gone.

He wanted silence. Blankness. The end of the inside-voice that kept naming what he couldn’t afford to feel.

More than anything, Castiel wanted oblivion.

Not death — not exactly.

Just… the absence of being. Of being seen. Of being touched. Of being asked to be anything at all.

He closed his eyes.

And let himself fall — not into sleep, but into away.

.

The room looked like it had been pulled straight from Dean’s mind—soft light bleeding from crooked lamps, a half-empty glass on the table, old rock humming low from unseen speakers. Everything felt touched—used, lived in, familiar in ways Castiel wasn’t prepared for.

The couch slumped in the middle like someone always sat in the same spot. There were boots by the door—scuffed, unlaced. A flannel thrown over the back of a chair like it had been taken off in a hurry.

Castiel stood in the center of the room, unsteady, waiting for the world to correct itself—for Dean to appear in the doorway, feigning sternness with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and say the words Castiel almost believed he’d once spoken: “You’re not supposed to be in my dreams, Cas.”

But no one came.

Just music. Just the weight of his own body, hot and heavy and aching.

Cas walked through the house, washed in soft afternoon light. Tall windows breathed gold across wood floors. A breeze moved through gauzy curtains. The walls were pale, familiar like a prayer said too many times to question.

He turned around and Dean was there. Standing in the doorway, backlit by sunlight. Shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. His face—softer than it ever looked—carried no tension. No weight. Just stillness.

Castiel’s heart stammered in his chest, he tried to speak, but the moment swallowed sound. Dean was already walking toward him—easy, steady, like they’d done this before.

“There you are,” Dean said softly.

He reached out and touched Castiel’s face, thumb brushing just beneath his eye. “Took you long enough.”

Castiel flinched, not from pain but from tenderness. It was too much. Too easy. Too close.

Dean’s hand didn’t move away. “Hey,” he murmured. “You’re okay.”

“You’re not supposed to …” Castiel began, but he didn’t finish. He couldn’t. There wasn’t a word for what he meant.

“Supposed to what?” Dean asked. His thumb traced down to Castiel’s jaw. Castiel wanted to step back.

Dean’s hand stayed on his face.

“You’re allowed to want it,” he said quietly.

The words echoed—too big for the space, too soft to be real. They circled Castiel like birds made of light.

“I’m not,” he said, voice quiet, cracked around the edges. “Not really.”

Dean’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t pull away. His thumb still rested just beneath Castiel’s jaw, like he was holding him steady. Like he wanted him steady.

“Then why’d you come back?” he asked, voice low, distant.

Castiel blinked. The question didn’t make sense. Or—it did, but not here. Not now. “I never left,” he said automatically.

Dean gave a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t you?”

Castiel’s gaze dropped. His voice was quiet, tight with something barely contained. “I didn’t understand what it would mean… changing.” A breath. “To fall was one thing. To lose Heaven, my grace… I thought I could survive that. I thought I knew what came next.”

Dean was quiet for a moment, then shrugged—casual on the surface, not so much underneath.

“You haven’t changed that much, Cas. Not really.”

Castiel looked up, eyes narrowing—not angry, just… tired. “What’s that supposed to mean, Dean?”

The house blurred at the edges. Doorways where there hadn’t been any. A second sun through the window, low and gold, pulsing like a heartbeat.

Castiel turned away—but found himself still facing Dean.

Time slid sideways. Dean sat on the couch now, head tilted back, eyes closed. Light cut through his lashes, scattered across his cheeks.

Castiel reached for him.

His hand passed through air.

The floor turned to water. The ceiling to stars. Dean looked up at him from beneath the surface, not drowning, just waiting. Like Castiel was late again. Like he always was.

“Why now?” Castiel whispered, but no voice came out. Only breath. Only wind.

Then they were outside. A field. A truck door open behind them. Fireflies hung like lanterns in the trees. Dean stood at the edge of it all, hands in his pockets, backlit by moonlight now. Softer. Older.

“I’m not ready,” Castiel said. He wasn’t sure if it was to Dean, or the sky, or himself.

Dean smiled. It wasn’t sad. It wasn’t patient. It just was. “You don’t have to be.”

Then they were back in the house. Dean’s arms around him. His face tucked against Castiel’s neck. A kitchen behind them, humming with quiet life. A mug left on the counter. A grocery list written in unfamiliar handwriting. A jacket slung over the back of a chair that had never belonged to either of them.

Castiel blinked again—and Dean was gone.

The air collapsed inward. The light turned cold. Curtains froze mid-motion. The kitchen vanished first. Then the windows. Then the smell of coffee and sunlight and something like safety.

Castiel stood alone in the doorway now, barefoot, the floor beneath him slick like glass. The walls breathed. The ceiling cracked.

“You’re allowed to want it,” Dean’s voice echoed, but distant now. Fading.

And then—

He fell.

Not metaphorically. Not slowly. Just—

Down.

Through floorboards that weren’t there. Through layers of memory and color and sound, all unravelling like thread.

His heart slammed against his ribs—too fast, too loud, like it was trying to break through. He gasped and forced his eyes open, but the room didn’t settle. Shapes bled at the edges, Dean’s voice still echoed behind his ears.

The room was dark. Not empty. The air pressed down—humid with sweat, stale smoke, someone else’s breath still lingering like a hand that wouldn’t let go.

Beside him, a body shifted. Warm, slow, too familiar. An arm slung over his waist like they belonged to each other.

Castiel stared up at the ceiling, lungs refusing to settle.

He had seen the birth of stars. Had watched the edge of time unfurl in silence so complete it would unmake a lesser mind. He had held truths so vast they burned language away.

But this—

It was unfathomable.

“Cas?” Jaimie’s voice rasped—groggy, confused. “What—what time is it?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. His skin felt alien. His mouth tasted like ash and regret. It was already vanishing, but the feel of it clung—Dean’s flannel, Dean’s boots by the door, Dean looking at him like maybe he’d stayed. Like maybe Castiel was wanted there.

But he wasn’t.

He was here, in some stranger’s apartment with last night’s haze still clinging to his spine. Jaimie’s voice. Jaimie’s touch. Not Dean.

“I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I thought I was inside Dean’s dream.” He pushed himself upright and walked toward the bathroom on unsteady legs, leaving the door open halfway. Cold water. That was the only answer he had right now.

The faucet creaked as he turned it. He braced both hands on either side of the sink and stared into the drain. The mirror loomed above him, untouched. He wouldn’t look.

“Everything okay?” Jaimie called from the bed—uncertain, but still trying.

Castiel didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

Silence. Running water. The hum of a bathroom fan that sounded like buzzing in his teeth. This was humanity. This was what it meant to burn low instead of bright.

This was why they touched. Why they drank. Why they begged.

Not for pleasure.

Not for love.

But to stop remembering.

Castiel didn’t move. The water kept running. His knuckles had gone pale from how tightly he gripped the sink. Behind him the creak of the mattress. Bare feet padding across the floor.

Jaimie appeared in the mirror—not fully, just a slice of his reflection caught in the corner. Castiel didn’t turn. He didn’t want to see himself next to someone. He wasn’t good at this. Not at being human. Not at pretending he belonged in the soft spaces between people. Not at carrying a body like it was his to keep. He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t simple. He didn’t laugh at the right moments or know how to let go. He broke things when he tried to hold them. He wanted too much and understood too little.

“Cas,” Jaimie said softly, her voice still hoarse with sleep. “You said you thought you were in someone’s dream. Dean, right? Who is he?”

Cas didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted toward the water, unfocused.

“It felt like him,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Everything... it was all built around him. Like the whole place was waiting for him to show up.”

Jaimie gave a soft snort. “Yeah, that’s usually how dreams work. Your brain grabs stuff it doesn’t know what to do with and throws it at you sideways. Like—feelings, memories, stuff you’re not ready to think about when you’re awake.”

“I don’t dream,” Castiel’s grip on the sink tightened.

Jaimie took another step in. Close enough now that Castiel could feel the body heat ghosting off him. He didn’t touch him. Just stood. “First time for everything.” Jaimie’s voice stayed low.

He shook his head again. “But I felt—when he looked at me, it felt real.”

Jaimie leaned on the other side of the sink, facing him now in the mirror. “Yeah, well. That’s the problem with being human the mind plays tricks. Your brain isn’t loyal, Cas. It’ll serve you up whatever version of reality keeps you from tearing yourself apart. Doesn’t mean it’s true. Doesn’t mean it’s real.”

Castiel’s mouth parted slightly, but he couldn’t find words.

“You felt him,” Jaimie went on, “in the dream. Sure. But that doesn’t mean it was some cosmic message from the universe. That’s just chemicals firing in the dark. Your subconscious trying to give shape to something it doesn’t understand.”

Castiel’s gaze dropped from the mirror, from his reflection — from the haunted hollow of his own eyes. The ache hadn’t left his chest. It pulsed there, sharp and nauseating, like grief and heat all tangled up together, pressing against the inside of his ribs like it wanted out.

He turned.

Jaimie was still watching him — quiet, steady, shirtless, hair sleep-tousled, the corner of his mouth tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite sympathy. Just there. Undemanding. Unafraid.

One hand rose slowly, like he was giving Castiel time to move. When he didn’t, Jaimie’s fingers found his jaw, thumb brushing the sharp line of bone like it was something delicate.

Then he kissed him.

Soft. Unhurried. Mouth parted just enough to say you don’t have to take, but I’ll give anyway.

And Castiel—

Castiel took.

Not because he deserved it.

Because he didn’t.

Because the ache in his chest had nowhere else to go.

He surged forward, hands fisting in Jaimie’s hair, dragging him closer, deeper. The kiss turned molten instantly—hungry and uncoordinated, teeth scraping lips, breath passed back and forth like a lifeline.

Jaimie let out a sound—half-moan, half-protest—as Castiel spun them, pressing him back against the tiled wall. One hand gripped his hip; the other was already behind him, wrenching the shower knobs open.

A second later, the pipes groaned.

Cold water crashed down over them, merciless and unrelenting.

Jaimie jerked like he’d been slapped. “Shit! Fuck—Cas!”

But Castiel didn’t let go.

He kissed him harder—his mouth chasing Jaimie’s even as the water drenched them, soaking through cotton and skin and hair. His coat sagged, sodden and heavy, clinging to his shoulders like a shroud, but he didn’t shrug it off. He welcomed the weight.

The cold bit in—sharp, clean, punishing. It reminded him of before. Of what he used to be.

Of Heaven.

Not the golden lie humanity clung to—but the truth of it: form without feeling. Purpose without pleasure. The precise stillness of obedience.

“I needed to feel it,” he gasped, voice shaking.

Jaimie braced his hands on Castiel’s chest, shivering violently now. “Feel what? Hypothermia?” he breathed, forehead pressing to Castiel’s. “Cas, this is insane—”

Castiel didn’t back away.

“What the hell is this, a baptism?”

“It’s clarity,” Castiel whispered. “This is what it was like. Before. Before the body. Before the wanting. Before the noise.”

His hand slid under Jaimie’s shirt, pressing flat against his chest, palm to heartbeat. The warmth there felt like a betrayal.

“You’re shaking,” Jaimie murmured.

“I know.” His voice barely carried over the water. “I want to remember what it was like not to.”

Castiel kissed him again.

Not gentle.

Not even kind.

Castiel’s breath came in shallow bursts. “I needed to feel it.”

“You feelin’ it now?” Jaimie’s voice broke around a wet, shivering laugh.

Castiel leaned in again—slower this time. Their noses bumped. Water hissed down between them.

“This is real,” Castiel murmured. “This. Not the dream. Not him.”

His hand slid up under Jaimie’s shirt, palm flat against his chest—feeling the heartbeat. The thrum. The life of it.

Jaimie’s lashes were soaked. He blinked hard, eyes locked on Castiel’s. “Yeah. It’s real.”

The water kept falling—louder now, relentless—until everything else was washed out but skin, breath, and the sound of being alive.

The cold kept coming.

It soaked them, inch by inch, until every breath turned shallow and hard. Castiel barely noticed. The sting on his skin was just enough to keep him upright—enough to hold off the gravity of the dream, of the memory, of Dean.

But Jaimie was shaking now—violently. His teeth chattered. His shoulders curled inward.

He pulled back from the kiss, breath ragged. “Jesus, Cas—what the hell is wrong with you?”

Castiel blinked, slow. The words barely registered.

Jaimie shoved at his chest—not hard, not violent, but enough to push him back an inch. “Seriously. What is this? Are you trying to punish yourself? Me?”

Castiel stood still, dripping, lips parted but silent.

Jaimie hit the faucet hard. The cold stopped, sudden and brutal.

Silence fell like a slap.

They stood there, clothes clinging, both of them shivering.

Castiel finally spoke, voice thin. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Jaimie laughed, but it was bitter. “Yeah, well. You did.”

He stepped out of the tub, hands shaking as he peeled off his soaked clothes. He paused, turned back—water dripping off his chin. Jaimie grabbed a towel, drying his hair with rough, angry motions. He didn’t speak again. Just left the bathroom, bare feet smacking wet against the floor.

Castiel sat down hard on the edge of the tub. Water pooled beneath him. He didn’t try to get dry.

He didn’t move.

His body felt wrong. Not in a catastrophic way — just... off. His chest ached. Not from injury — not something visible — but a deep, nauseating pressure that curled in low and sharp behind his ribs. He didn't know what it was. Couldn’t fix it.

It was just there.

Heavy.

His stomach turned, like he’d swallowed something rotten. The kind of slow, crawling nausea that didn’t rise or fall — just lingered. Clinging to the edges of him like the wet clothes still plastered to his skin.

He wrapped his arms around his middle, not for warmth, but because he didn’t know what else to do with them. The shaking wouldn’t stop.

He felt hollow. Not light — not free. Just empty. Like something important had been carved out and discarded, and now everything inside him echoed.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest. Nothing changed. The feeling stayed.

He hated this. Not the moment — the being. The not knowing what to feel. The inability to stop feeling it. The confusion of it, how grief and shame and sickness bled together with no separation, no logic.

He wanted to vomit. Or sleep. Or disappear.

He was miserable.

And the worst part — the part that made him almost afraid — was that there was no injury to fix. No spell to reverse. No curse to break.

It was just him.

Him, and the way he felt now.

Broken in ways no one could see. And no one could touch.

Castiel moved slowly. Mechanically. He peeled off the soaked layers clinging to his skin, shirt by shirt, sleeve by sleeve. Everything felt heavier than it should’ve. Like he was trying to take off guilt, not fabric.

The towel scratched against his skin as he dried off, and the sensation made him shiver — not from cold, but from how exposed he suddenly felt. How alive his skin was.

He dressed without thinking. Clothes from the pile on the counter — none of it clean, but dry was enough. Cotton, denim, the weight of a sweater. None of it made him feel better. But it made him covered. Contained.

Still damp, still aching, he opened the door.

The hallway was dark, narrow, quiet in a way that felt like it was holding its breath. He didn’t call for Jaimie. He didn’t know what he would say if he did.

He just moved, bare feet whispering against the floor. Each step felt like it cost something — some reserve he didn’t remember agreeing to give away.

When he found the room, the light was off. Moonlight spilled across the floor in silver slats. The air smelled like wet towels and old cigarettes.

Jaimie was curled on the far side of the bed, turned away, back rising and falling in quiet, steady rhythm. Still awake. Or pretending to be.

Cas hesitated in the doorway, sweater sleeves hanging past his wrists, hair still dripping into his eyes.

Then he stepped inside.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

Just crossed the room — slowly, carefully, like the floor might give out — and sat on the edge of the bed. His throat worked, dry and raw. The words were there. Somewhere. But his body moved first.

He leaned forward. Crawled across the blanket — cautious, unsure — until he reached Jaimie’s back.

Paused.

Then, like a penitent animal, Castiel folded down beside him. Pressed his forehead gently between Jaimie’s shoulder blades. His fingers closed around the edge of the blanket, but he didn’t pull it away. Just held on.

Jaimie didn’t speak.

Didn’t move at first, either.

But then his hand reached back, casual and practiced, like he’d known Castiel would come crawling back the whole time.

He held out the bottle.

No lecture. No warning. Just the cold rattle of plastic and pills between his fingers — held there in the dark like a quiet deal neither of them would say out loud.

Castiel took it without looking.

His fingers brushed Jaimie’s as he did, Then he turned, grabbed a fistful of Castiel’s sweater, and pulled him in — hard, fast, like he didn’t want to be gentle about it. Like softness was too close to breaking.

Castiel went easily.

Didn’t resist as Jaimie pushed him flat against the mattress, blanket bunching beneath him, the air knocked out of his lungs in a dull rush. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t have to. That wasn’t the point.

The bottle was still in his hand.

He didn’t count them. Didn’t check the dosage. Just shook too many into his palm and swallowed them dry — no water, just the dull scrape down his throat. They sat like stones in his stomach, heavy and quiet and welcome.

He stopped thinking.

Stopped being, just for a little while.

—

Two days later, they were both sick.

It started with a cough. Then a sore throat. Then the kind of full-body ache that made standing feel like a sin.

Jaimie sprawled on the couch under a nest of blankets, hoodie zipped up to his chin, red nose, eyes bleary. “Just so you know,” he said hoarsely, “if I die, I’m haunting your ass.”

Castiel sat cross-legged on the floor, bundled in a blanket that Jaimie had thrown at him with an impressive amount of spite the day before. He didn’t look much better—gray under the eyes, skin too pale, mouth chapped.

“I don’t think it’s lethal,” Castiel rasped.

“Oh good,” Jaimie muttered. “You’ve diagnosed us with your infinite wisdom.”

Castiel didn’t respond.

He stared at the floor like it might give him answers.

Jaimie sighed, dragging the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “Next time you wanna self-flagellate, maybe just scream into a pillow like the rest of us.”

A beat.

Then softer: “You really scared me, man.”

Castiel looked up.

He wanted to say I scared myself.

He wanted to say Thank you for staying.

He wanted to say I’m sorry.

Instead, he coughed.

Jaimie snorted weakly. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Castiel pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, as if he might be able to push the fever back down. The ache behind his eyes throbbed with every heartbeat. His body felt wrong — heavy in all the wrong places, light in others. Imprecise. Like a spell that hadn’t taken properly.

He stared down at his knees beneath the blanket, vaguely offended by them.

This was going to last forever.

He was certain of it.

Not in a dramatic sense. Just… factually. There would be no end to the tightness in his chest, the weight in his bones, the thick, cloying exhaustion that made even blinking feel like work.

He thought about blood magic. Purification circles. Sigils that could be carved into the soles of feet to draw out corruption. He remembered rituals meant to cleanse entire cities — surely that energy could be redirected.

He wondered, absently, if he could convince Jaimie to let him draw a burning symbol on the kitchen floor. Just for balance.

Jaimie groaned from the couch like he’d heard the thought. “You’ve got that face again.”

Castiel blinked. “What face.”

“The ‘I’m-about-to-light-a-bonfire-of-herbs-in-the-living-room’ face.”

Castiel didn't deny it.

“I could try something,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “If I still had the right tools. There are plants. Stones. Names.”

Jaimie let out a soft, crackling laugh, muffled by his hoodie. “Jesus. You’re seriously trying to exorcise a cold.”

Castiel frowned. “It’s not just a cold. My head hurts.”

“Yeah, that’s called a fever, genius.” Jaimie shook his head, which he immediately regretted. He winced and flopped back deeper into the cushions. “You really think you’re the first person to get a virus and want to die about it?”

Castiel looked at him. “Yes.”

Jaimie laughed again — full-on this time, even as it turned into a hacking cough. He covered his face with the blanket and wheezed through it. “Oh my god, you would think that.”

They were quiet for a moment after that. Just the sound of the old heater rattling in the wall. The wind outside. Their own unsteady breathing.

Then Jaimie peeked out from the cocoon of his blanket, his face still red from laughing. “It’ll pass, Cas.”

Castiel didn’t answer.

He wanted to believe that. But right now, everything in his aching, sore, fogged-up human body insisted that this was the end. Of time. Of dignity. Of him.

Jaimie must’ve seen it in his face, because he added, a little softer, “I promise. You’ll feel better.”

Castiel let his head drop forward again, eyes closed, breath whistling slightly through his stuffy nose.

“I don’t think I want to be mortal anymore,” he muttered.

“Too late,” Jaimie said, yawning into his sleeve. “You already caught the plague with me. That’s a soul-bonding experience, man.”

Castiel didn’t know what that meant.

But the room was warm. The blankets smelled like detergent and sweat. And Jaimie was still here.

So he let himself believe — just for a minute — that maybe it would pass.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

The flier was stapled to a telephone pole two blocks from Jamie’s building.

MISSING — hand-drawn stars in pink ink around the photo of a man in his twenties. Soft jawline. Tired eyes. A hoodie Castiel had seen before in the hallway, walking past him with headphones on.

He stopped. Looked at it. Then looked at the others.

Three faces. The original missing women. A barista from the shop on the corner. A man from Jaimie’s building. All disappeared in the last eight days.

The corner of the flier fluttered in the heat. Castiel reached out and smoothed it flat.

The barista’s name was Lucy. She had given him an extra cookie once. Smiled without condescension.

Castiel stepped back from the pole. Looked around.

Cars passed. Someone was yelling into a phone across the street. Music played out of a cracked window above the bodega.

But beneath the noise, something sat wrong in the air.

It wasn’t angelic instinct anymore. Nothing divine. But he’d learned that human instinct wasn’t worthless. It was quieter. Harder to trust. But still there.

Castiel stepped into the alley beside the old butcher’s shop. It was empty. Warm and quiet. He waited. Listened.

Nothing.

Then—a flicker.

His grace pulsed, slow and deliberate, the vial rested against his throat. A hum. A tether.

He reached for it and slipped in.

The dream opened like a doorway.

A small kitchen, dimly lit. The woman stood at the stove in a hoodie far too big for her—probably his. She stirred something in a pan, wrist moving in lazy circles. The man leaned against the counter behind her, watching. Not talking. Just watching her like the silence between them meant something.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, not turning around.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m gonna disappear.”

He smiled. “You do that sometimes.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Only when you’re being a dick.”

“So... Thursdays.”

She laughed—small, real. She bumped his hip with hers as she passed him a bowl. He took it wordlessly, set it down beside her.

“You didn’t have to stay,” she said, quieter now. Her voice thinned out at the edges, like she hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

He didn’t answer right away. Just reached out and tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

“I wanted to.”

That was it. No declarations. No big moments. Just the ease of it. The stillness. A kind of closeness that didn’t ask for proof.

Castiel stood at the threshold of the dream, watching from nowhere. He could smell the salt from the pan, hear the low rattle of a spoon against ceramic. It felt unreasonably real. Unreasonably gentle.

He didn’t know them. But something about the man’s voice, the woman’s silence—

It stirred something in him he didn’t have a name for. A soft ache in the hollow of his chest. Like a memory that wasn’t his.

He blinked hard and let go of the dream.

Reality slammed back into him—harder than it should’ve. The world was too cold. Too quiet. The aftertaste of someone else’s joy clung to him like ash.

Castiel stood in the middle of the alleyway, fists clenched. The overhead light buzzed faintly. Something in him buzzed louder.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and moved.

The sigils had faded from the doorframe. That was the djinn’s mistake. It got lazy. Complacent. It fed without cleaning up behind itself.

Castiel drew the blade from his coat—steel bright and humming—and kicked the door in with one clean motion.

The air inside was thick and wet with rot. Not quite decay—just something wrong. Something alive and slow and feeding.

Castiel moved carefully through the dark.

The only light came from a single fluorescent tube, flickering weakly overhead, casting long, sickly shadows along the concrete walls. The space reeked — rust, blood, stale rosewater, and something worse: dreams rotting in air.

The two survivors were unconscious on the floor, limbs entangled like they’d been trying to hold on to each other in sleep. Unmoving. Breathing, but shallow. Pale. Dream-trapped.

He was too late for the woman from the bar.

The woman’s skin had grayed. Veins dark. Her body limp and sunken. Dead for days, maybe more. Castiel looked away.

He turned just as the djinn stepped out from the shadows — tall, sinewy, and wrong. Human-shaped, but too still. Eyes glowing faint blue. Skin patterned faintly with symbols, old and curling like tattooed veins.

“You don’t belong here,” it said. Its voice was calm. Almost bored. “You’ve already lost your usefulness.”

Castiel stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately. “If you don’t let them go,” he said, voice low and flat, “I will end you.”

The djinn tilted its head, considering. “Why are you angry? I showed them what they wanted. That’s more than your kind ever does.”

Castiel’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t give them what they wanted. You gave them silence. You fed off the shape of their dreams and left them hollow.” He stepped forward, blade catching the low light. “You think that’s mercy?”

The djinn bared its teeth in something like a smile. “Isn’t it what you want? To be nothing for a while? To forget who you are?” The djinn’s head tilted. “I can help you forget Castiel.”

It moved fast — faster than it should’ve. A blur. Castiel barely dodged in time, shoulder crashing into the wall as the djinn’s hand slashed the air where his neck had been.

Pain lanced through him. His breath caught.

The djinn lunged again. Castiel ducked, rolled. Came up hard with the blade and slashed — shallow, across the creature’s arm. Not deep enough.

The djinn let out a hiss, then smiled.

“You’re slower now.”

Castiel gritted his teeth. “I only need one shot.”

The fight turned vicious. Messy. The djinn was stronger, faster, and it knew it. It taunted him between blows. Castiel’s body took hit after hit — ribs cracking against concrete, blood in his mouth, the blade slipping in sweaty fingers.

But he didn’t stop.

He thought of Lucy. Of the woman on the flier. Of the man in Apartment 3B.

He thought of them trapped in the djinn’s dream world.

He thought of his own dreams — and how easily he could have stayed in them.

The djinn pinned him against the wall, hand at his throat, pressure crushing down.

“You don’t matter anymore,” it said. “You’re just flesh. Blood. Noise.”

Castiel’s hand fumbled downward, scraping against the brick. His fingers brushed broken pipe. Metal edge.

Not his blade. But enough.

He swung the pipe up hard — into the djinn’s temple. The creature reeled back, hissing, dazed for one second too long.

Castiel dropped, grabbed the blade from the floor, and drove it upward — hard, deep, right beneath the jaw and into the base of the skull.

The djinn froze.

Its body spasmed once.

Then it crumpled.

Dead.

Castiel collapsed beside it, coughing, shaking, ribs on fire, hand slick with blood that wasn’t all the djinn’s.

He stared at the ceiling, breathing hard.

Then he crawled to the nearest mattress and checked the pulse of the girl lying there.

Still alive.

Still here.

He closed his eyes for one long second.

Not saved. Not yet.

He couldn’t feel grace anymore. Couldn’t sense minds or memories. But he didn’t need to. They were waking up now.

The man blinked first, groaning quietly. He turned toward Lucy immediately, his hand instinctively finding hers. She didn’t pull away — not at first. But when she sat up and took in the warehouse, the blood, the broken tools around them, her whole body tensed.

Then she pulled her hand back.

“My husband,” she said, suddenly. “I have to get back.”

The man didn’t argue, but his face gave him away.

Castiel stayed silent. He recognized the moment. He’d seen versions of it before.

Lucy stood. Dust streaked her jeans. She smoothed them down with quick, shaking hands.

The man rose slower. “We were happy,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear.

She closed her eyes for a beat. “It wasn’t real.”

“It felt real.”

She didn’t answer.

“You painted again,” he said, voice cracking. “You hadn’t painted in years.”

“I know.”

The words sat between them like a fresh wound.

“I don’t regret it,” he said. “Any of it.”

“I have a child,” she replied, her voice quieter now. “He’s three. He needs me more than you do.”

The man didn’t argue. He just nodded once, tightly, like it hurt.

Castiel’s throat felt tight. He looked away, as if giving them privacy, but didn’t move.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Me too.”

Then she walked toward the exit without looking back.

The man stayed. Watching the spot where she’d stood.

After a moment, Castiel stood beside him. His legs felt stiff. He hadn’t spoken since the djinn died. Now his voice came rough and quiet. “She didn’t deny it.”

The man let out a hollow laugh. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Castiel said. “You remembered each other. That’s more than most people get.”

The man looked at him, eyes rimmed red. “What good is love, if I cant have her?”

Castiel didn’t have an answer.

He thought about how easily people let go of the truth — because it was inconvenient, or complicated, or came too late. He thought about how the djinn didn’t create fantasies out of nothing. It used what was already there.

Desire. Longing. Regret.

Castiel understood what it was to live in the space between what is and what could have been.

“You made it out,” he said finally. “That’s something.”

The man didn’t respond.

Castiel didn’t expect him to.

.

The sun was rising when Castiel left the warehouse.

The sky had soured to a bruised orange-gray, mottled and uneven, casting a light that made the world look older—tired and stained. He walked with his coat pulled tight, shoulders curled inward, ribs aching beneath the fabric. Dried blood crusted like rust along the hem of his overcoat, flaking with each step.

No one stopped him. No one noticed.

The streets were wet with last night’s rain. Newspapers stuck to the sidewalk like dried wings. Castiel moved slowly, step by step, through alleyways and half-lit intersections, cutting a path back toward Jamie’s apartment — his temporary home.

The man's voice from earlier clung to him. "What good is love, if I can't have her?" Castiel had no answer. Not for him. Not for himself.

He knew something about loving people from a distance. About watching them walk away — not because the world conspired against it, but because some lives just aren’t built to hold the weight of that kind of honesty. Especially when it isn’t returned.

He knew the ache of dreams that couldn’t survive daylight.

As he passed the back of a shuttered corner store, he heard it — a soft rustling. Not threatening. Small.

He paused.

A wet cardboard box sat near the dumpster, half-collapsed. Something moved inside it.

Castiel crouched. Winced. Slowly lifted the lid.

A guinea pig blinked up at him. Beige and white. Mismatched ears. Shivering.

He stared at it. It stared back.

No collar. No food. A dirty towel underneath, soaked through.

Someone had dumped it here.The little creature squeaked once — high and plaintive --Not big. Important.

He looked around. No one in sight.

Castiel pulled the towel gently out, cradling the small body inside.

It was warm. Surprisingly light.

As he turned back onto the street, the city waking around him in flickers of light and engine noise, the guinea pig nestled deeper into his coat, a warm and fragile thing.

Castiel glanced down at it, brow furrowed. “What’s your name?” he asked softly, unsure if it even had one. Humans named everything—cars, sandwiches, storms—but he wasn’t certain if the names meant anything to the things themselves.

The guinea pig didn’t respond. It just closed its eyes, trusting, unafraid.

“I suppose you don’t speak,” Castiel murmured. “That’s all right. Most beings don’t, even when they can.”

He looked forward again, walking slowly. “You were going to die,” he said matter-of-factly. “And now you’re not. That’s good. That’s… better.”

Another life saved. Small, perhaps. But not meaningless.

.

Castiel sat cross-legged on the carpet, hunched slightly forward, watching the tiny creature with the intense, rapt attention of a prophet receiving a vision. He was holding a leaf of romaine lettuce like it was sacred scripture, inching it forward with two fingers.

The guinea pig—Clementine, Jamie had called her—sniffed it twice, then took it.

She made a noise. A soft, rapid-fire chirping “She speaks,” he whispered.

On the couch behind him, Jamie laughed—a warm, breathy sound that came from behind a curtain of tangled hair. A thick glass bong rested beside him, still faintly warm. Smoke curled in the air like something living. “She’s hungry, man. You could feed her drywall and she’d speak.”

Castiel didn’t look at him. He was transfixed.

The creature’s fur was patchy and coarse in places, soft and strange in others. A combination of fluff and function.

On the couch behind him, Jamie passed the bong down without a word. Castiel took it carefully, he mirrored what Jamie had shown him—thumb over the carb, lips to glass, the soft inhale that always started too gentle, then too deep. Smoke filled his chest like light, then clawed its way out in a violent cough that left his eyes watering. Jamie was already laughing again.

“You’ll get it,” Jamie said.

Castiel didn’t answer. He reached for the bottle on the table, unscrewed the cap, and tapped a pill into his palm. He didn’t know what it was. Jamie never said. But he trusted it. Trusted him.

He swallowed it dry.

Then he turned back to the floor.

The creature was still there—Clementine—munching at the lettuce with determined focus, her tiny jaws moving in perfect little eights. Her fur was uneven, soft and wiry, like she'd been assembled by several different intentions. Her eyes were impossibly black and glassy, reflecting nothing but the overhead light and the world behind it.

Everything slowed. His ribs didn’t ache as much. His hands stopped shaking. The edges of the room softened.

A pulse of joy ran through him, thin and electric. He couldn't remember the last time anything felt like this. So… small. So focused. So free of grief.

“She accepts the offering,” Castiel murmured, reverently.

“Yeah, because it’s food.” Jamie snorted. “She’s got like four neurons and three of them are about lettuce.”

Still, Castiel felt honored.

Clementine chewed methodically, eyes half-lidded with rodent determination. Her body vibrated softly with satisfaction.

“She’s the best thing I’ve ever seen,” he said. His voice was hoarse. Honest.

Jamie shifted behind him, one knee tucked up beneath the blanket he hadn’t bothered to put on properly. “You are so fucking high right now.”

“I know,” Castiel said. It wasn’t an apology. Castiel ran a thumb gently down the side of Clementine’s body. She squeaked in mild protest, then settled again.

“She’s not afraid of me,” he said.

“She thinks you’re a vending machine,” Jamie said.

Castiel considered that, thinking of all the vending machines he’d seen outside motel rooms with Dean.

Jamie, half-slouched on the couch with the bong in his lap, let out a slow, wheezy laugh. “Yeah, well. She doesn’t know you’re terrifying.”

Castiel looked up, brow faintly furrowed. “What?”

Jamie blinked, stoned and slow, like his mouth had moved faster than his brain. “I mean—not, like, in a bad way. You’re just… you’ve got that whole intense thing going on. It’s a vibe.” He gestured vaguely with the lighter, then dropped it and didn’t bother picking it up.

Castiel turned back to Clementine. The guinea pig blinked once, then resumed chewing with focused determination. Her body vibrated softly, content.

“She’s not afraid,” he said again, quieter.

Jamie exhaled a puff of smoke and muttered, “Yeah. Must be nice.”

Castiel didn’t respond. He just kept petting her.

His touch was slow. Careful. Like she might break. Or disappear.

The music looping from the Bluetooth speaker had no words—just soft, electronic tones that pulsed like a slow heartbeat.

“Don’t get me wrong, I like being around you Cas,” Jaimie said, voice soft and drawn-out.

Castiel blinked slowly. Turned his head just enough to look at him.

“I mean it,” Jaimie added, looking up with a half-smile that didn’t quite mask the vulnerability. “You’ve got this thing.”

Castiel exhaled through his nose. The heat on his skin from the weed still lingered, ghosting along his jaw. “You don’t like me,” he said, almost distantly. “You’re just drawn to my Grace. That happens, sometimes.”

He pulled out the small vial from around his neck. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat caught in glass.

Jaimie’s eyes tracked the movement, but didn’t widen. Didn’t flicker the way Castiel had expected. “I’m not,” he said simply.

Castiel frowned. The vial hovered between them, its glow pushing pale shadows across Jaimie’s cheekbones.

“I like your eyes,” Jaimie went on. “And the way you laugh—like it’s a mistake you keep making. I like that you try to hide how much you care, even though it’s obvious.” The words felt slow, but not sloppy. Castiel looked down at the vial. The light suddenly felt louder than the music.

“You shouldn’t admire me,” he said, voice fraying at the edges now. “You don’t know who I am, what I’ve done.”

“I don’t care about that,” Jamie started, but Castiel cut across him, eyes still on the glow between his fingers.

“I’ve killed angels,” he said flatly. “I let entire towns burn. I said yes when I should’ve said no. I wanted to feel important, and people died for it. I’m not a savior. I’m not even human. I’m just... what’s left.”

Jamie stared at him. No smile. No quick reply.

Castiel blinked slowly, the pills making the room shift again, like the walls had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.

“I’m unstable,” he said, voice quieter now. “You don’t know what you’re sitting next to. What I could do if I stopped trying. Or if I didn’t care.”

Jamie let out a half-laugh before he could stop himself. “Yeah, well—maybe I like danger.”

The words landed. Hung there.

Castiel didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Jamie’s face shifted almost immediately. “Wait—no. Fuck. That’s not—” He sat up straighter, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Castiel just watched him, the dim glow from the vial casting pale shadows across his jaw.

“I mean—shit, Cas, I say dumb things when I’m high, okay?” Jamie added, voice softer now. “I don’t like danger. I like you. Even when you scare me a little. Even when you say things like that.”

He gestured vaguely toward the bottle, the bong, the weight of Castiel’s presence.

Clementine shifted in Castiel’s lap. Still curled. Still trusting. Still unafraid.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said quietly. The words tasted thick. “I didn’t mean to…”

Jaimie opened his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel—” Castiel tried again, but the sentence collapsed under its own weight.

Jaimie shook his head, gentle. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Castiel added, voice too even to be steady. “I didn’t mean to… be something you wanted.”

“Cas,” he said gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Castiel shook his head. “I shouldn’t be here. I should’ve left before—”

“You didn’t owe me anything,” Jaimie interrupted, not unkind. “I caught feelings. That’s not your fault.”

Castiel looked down at his hand. The vial still rested there, cold and quiet.

“You deserve more than this,” he said. “Than me.”

Jaimie shrugged. “Maybe.” A pause. Then, quietly: “But I’ll get over you.”

Castiel looked up.

“I already started,” Jaimie added, almost smiling. “The second I realized you weren’t mine to want.”

Castiel’s mouth opened, then closed again. There were words in his head—something about sorrow, or regret, or gratitude—but none of them were clean enough to give away.

“You don’t have to fix this,” Jaimie said, softer now. “You don’t have to turn it into something meaningful so I won’t feel stupid.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “You’re not—”

“I know,” Jaimie said. “I know.”

He leaned back again, arms folded behind his head like he was trying to float in shallow water. Clementine nudged his shoulder, and he let her climb over his chest without flinching.

Clementine settled on Jaimie’s chest, nosing at the collar of his T-shirt. He scratched behind her ears absently, his eyes on the ceiling.

For a moment, Castiel thought that was the end of it.

But then Jaimie spoke again, voice quieter now—measured, but still sharp with something unspoken. “This guy,” he said. “The one you’re hung up on.”

Castiel didn’t answer, but the silence gave him away.

“He better be worth it,” Jaimie went on. “All this… devotion. The way you look like you’re carrying him in your lungs.”

Castiel’s shoulders tensed. The air in the room felt thicker again.

“I mean it,” Jaimie said, still staring at the ceiling. “You don’t even say his name, but it’s like he’s in the walls.”

Castiel looked down, as if the vial might offer him some defense. It didn’t.

“He’s not mine,” Castiel said, almost inaudibly.

“I figured,” Jaimie replied. “But that doesn’t mean he deserves you.” Jaimie shifted just enough to glance at him sideways, Clementine still curled in the dip of his ribs. “You’re not just some empty thing waiting for someone to fill you up, Cas,” he said. “If he makes you feel like that, I hope you leave him behind.”

“He doesn’t make me feel like that,” Castiel said His voice was low, precise.

Jaimie turned his head toward him. Castiel didn’t look back.

“He doesn’t make me feel like that,” Castiel said. His voice was low, precise. “He’s one of the most caring and loving people I’ve ever met. He’s always trying to do the right thing,” Castiel continued. “Even when he believes he’s beyond redemption. Even when he fails. He still tries. He protects people. Not because he thinks he deserves love, but because he gives it anyway.”

Jaimie sat up. Clementine let out a tiny indignant thump as she was displaced. She scurried under the coffee table, out of the way.

“I’m not—” Jaimie started, then stopped. His jaw tensed. “You know what? Never mind.”

Castiel looked at him, confused.

“What?”

Jaimie stood. “Forget it.”

Castiel followed with his eyes. “You asked me why I cared about him. I thought—”

“I didn’t ask you to give me a monologue about the man who’ll never love you back,” Jaimie snapped. “Jesus, Cas.”

Castiel blinked.

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“You just told me,” Jaimie cut in, voice rising, “that he’s the most loving person you’ve ever met. You said that after I told you how I felt about you.”

Castiel stared. “That wasn’t meant to be a comparison.”

“No, it wasn’t meant to be anything, because you don’t think about what it means to say stuff like that,” Jaimie said. “You don’t realize how it sounds to someone who’s been trying, in his own way, to care about you—for weeks.”

“I do realize it,” Castiel said slowly. “I just didn’t think it would—”

“Hurt?” Jaimie laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “You didn’t think it would hurt?”

Castiel shifted his weight. His hands were still open in his lap. “I didn’t mean to make you feel... less than.”

“But you did,” Jaimie said, voice quiet now. “You talk about him like he’s some divine thing. Like he’s already forgiven for every mistake. But when I say I like you—when I try to see you—you treat it like a misfire. Like I’m just reacting to your Grace or your aura or whatever the hell else you want to blame it on.”

Castiel opened his mouth, then closed it.

“I’m not trying to replace him,” Jaimie said. “I just wanted to know you. And you made it very clear that there’s no space in you for anyone else.”

Castiel looked down at the vial in his hand. He couldn’t tell if the light inside had dimmed or if it was just the room.

“I don’t understand what I did wrong,” he said finally.

Jamie exhaled, long and uneven. “Nothing, Cas,” he said again, quieter this time. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” Jamie crouched in front of him. Close. Their knees touched.

And then, wordlessly, Jamie kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t pleading. It wasn’t gentle, either—not at first. It was familiar. The kind of kiss you give someone not to woo them, but to anchor them. A physical shape that said stay. That said I know you won’t let me have you, but I can keep you here for a little while longer.

Castiel didn’t return it, not fully. But he didn’t stop it, either. His mouth stayed slack beneath Jamie’s, breath caught between reaction and surrender. His hands hovered, useless, like they’d forgotten what they were for.

Jamie kissed him like he always did. Like that was the one place Castiel didn’t vanish.

His palm cupped the back of Castiel’s neck, grounding him. His body leaned in, slow but certain, until Castiel was pinned by nothing more than touch. No force. No pressure. Just the presence of him. The weight of being wanted—held in a shape Castiel didn’t know how to resist.

“I know you’re not mine,” Jamie whispered into the space between them. His voice trembled, but his grip didn’t. “But I can keep you like this. For a minute. Just long enough to believe you might stay.”

Castiel’s eyes fluttered shut. His pulse thudded against Jamie’s fingers, faint but real. He didn’t speak.

Jamie leaned his forehead against Castiel’s and exhaled.

“I know this is the only way you let me have you,” he murmured. “So I’ll take it.”

His lips brushed Castiel’s again—softer this time. Slower. A kind of apology for needing him like this.

Jamie’s lips barely left his. A breath, a beat, and then they returned — slower now, more careful. Like he was afraid Castiel might vanish mid-kiss. Or worse — that he wouldn’t.

Castiel let him.

He tilted his face slightly, let the contact deepen just a little, just enough to taste it. The want. The heat. The pressure behind the gentleness.

And God — he wanted him.

He wanted the press of Jamie’s mouth. The way Jamie’s fingers tightened at his nape. The shape of this moment — quiet, immediate, human. It was messy. Imperfect. Real. And it was here.

Jamie pulled back just enough to look at him — eyes half-lidded, raw with too many things he wasn’t saying.

Castiel didn’t look away.

He was high. He knew that. Could feel it behind his eyes — that slow-burning softness, like someone had sanded down the inside of his skull. The pills made the guilt feel smaller. Manageable. A distant ache he could walk around if he didn’t look too close.

He felt Jamie’s heartbeat under his palm, he let his lips move. Let his hand find Jamie’s waist. Let the moment stretch, slow and warm and wrong.

The guilt was there. Of course it was.

But it was quiet.

And right now, that was enough.

Jamie let out a soft sound — not surprise, not pleasure exactly. Just relief. Like he’d been holding his breath for too long and had finally been granted one more minute of air.

Castiel’s hand slid along his ribs, fingers grazing skin under fabric.

Jamie kissed him again. Deeper this time. And Castiel let him.

And maybe just for now — being wanted wrong was better than not being wanted at all.

Jamie pulled back just slightly, just far enough to breathe against Castiel’s mouth. His eyes flicked over Castiel’s face, searching it like a map he didn’t expect to finish reading.

“You don’t even know,” Jamie whispered. “How heavy you are.”

Castiel blinked slowly. The words didn’t make sense, at first. Or they made too much.

Jamie’s voice dropped. “You walk into a room and it’s like gravity changes. Like the floor wants to collapse under you. People feel it. Even if they don’t know why.”

Castiel didn’t move. His hand stilled against Jamie’s side.

Jamie gave a breath of a laugh. “It scares the shit out of me. You scare the shit out of me.”

Castiel’s jaw tightened. “Then why—”

“Because I want it,” Jamie said, too quickly. Then quieter: “I want you.”

He kissed Castiel again, slower now, like he was testing the truth of his own words.

“I want the weight of you. I want the fear. I want to feel what it’s like to touch something that could unmake me and doesn’t.”

Castiel’s eyes closed. Just for a second.

Because it wasn’t lust. Not exactly. It was reverence. Worship twisted up in adrenaline. Jamie wanted the myth, the unknowable, the heat under the violence. And Castiel wanted to give it to him.

Even though he shouldn’t.

Even though this was the moment he should walk away.

He didn’t.

Instead, he touched Jamie’s face — not tenderly, but like someone checking if a wire would spark. His thumb grazed the corner of Jamie’s mouth.

“You shouldn’t want that,” he said, voice low, caught somewhere between warning and confession.

Jamie’s eyes didn’t flinch. “I think I do.”

Castiel looked at him, and in that moment, wanted to believe him.

But another part of him — older, darker — knew better.

He wasn’t built for this.

He was a weapon walking on borrowed time. Dulling at the edges, yes — but still sharp.

And Jamie was too close. Too warm. Too willing to bleed for the wrong reasons.

And Castiel — in the haze, in the weightlessness of pills and smoke and want — let him.

Jamie’s hand stayed pressed lightly over Castiel’s chest — and beneath it, the vial of Grace pulsed. Castiel felt it instantly — the ripple of something ancient pulling upward from inside him, from the piece of Heaven he still carried like a wound. And without meaning to, without consent, it reached out.

Not with violence. With light.

It touched Jamie’s soul like the brush of two notes in the same key — resonance, quiet and deep. A contact that should have been sacred. Holy.

But to Castiel, it felt like a betrayal.

Jamie gasped softly — not with fear, but with reverence. His eyes fluttered half-shut, breath catching like something sacred had passed through him. Like blessing.

And that was the worst thing of all.

Castiel recoiled — not physically, but inwardly. His stomach twisted. His hands went cold. Castiel watched his face shift — that same quiet awe he’d seen on believers, on dying men, on those who’d once begged for absolution.

Not from him. But from what he was.

And it was happening again.

Jamie opened his eyes slowly, as if waking from something holy. “I felt it,” he whispered.

“I know,” Castiel said, voice flat. Hollow. “It wasn’t supposed to touch you.”

Jamie’s lips parted — a half-smile forming. “Don’t be sorry. It was beautiful. It felt like… like something inside me came unknotted. Like the best drug you’ve every tasted.”

And there it was.

The confirmation Castiel hadn’t wanted.

“I knew you still had that light in you,” Jamie continued, voice soft, awed. “You’re still part of it, Cas. You’re still—”

“Don’t,” Castiel said sharply.

Jamie blinked. “What?”

“Don’t call it beautiful.” His voice cracked. “Don’t… don’t thank me for it.”

Jamie pulled back slightly, frowning. “Cas—”

“You said you wanted me,” Castiel said, eyes hard now, colder than before. “But the moment my Grace touched you, you looked at me like I was—” He swallowed. “Like I was a church.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You want healing. You want to be forgiven.” Castiel’s voice was low, bitter. “You want to be transformed.”

“No,” Jamie said. “I just—”

“You felt something divine,” Castiel shook his head. “It wasn’t me you liked. It was what I used to be.”

“That’s not true,” Jamie said, quickly now, the awe in his voice gone, replaced by panic. “Cas—no. I swear it’s not that. I need you.”

But Castiel was already shaking his head. “No,” he said, voice quieter now—but colder. Sharper. “You touched something holy, Jamie,” Castiel interrupted. “And now you think it means something about us. About me. But it doesn’t. It’s not love. It’s not knowing me. It’s a high.”

Jamie flinched. Castiel kept going.

“You said it yourself,” he spat. “‘Like the best drug you’ve ever tasted.’ That’s what this is to you. Not connection. Not intimacy. Just another fix.”

“That’s not fair,” Jamie snapped. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“But it’s what you’ve been feeling,” Castiel said. “Isn’t it?”

Jamie’s mouth opened, then closed again. He didn’t deny it.

Castiel looked away, jaw tight, his gaze falling to the floor like it weighed more than he could hold.

“My divinity…” he started, then laughed once—humorless. “It’s just another thing you’re addicted to. Like the pills. Like the smoke. Like the idea of me.”

Jamie’s breath hitched. “Cas—”

”I want to be in this apartment with you and not wonder if the light in this vial is the only reason you keep coming back. I want someone to see me,” Castiel went on, softer now. “Not the echo of what I used to be. Not the Grace. Not the myth. Just me. Can you do that for me Jaimie?”

The question hung there, unanswered. It wasn’t rhetorical, but it wasn’t a plea, either. It was something else. A test, maybe. Or a surrender. Something worn and bare and too raw to dress up as anything but what it was: a wound turned outward.

Jamie didn’t answer at first. His mouth moved, then stopped. The pulse in his throat jumped once, hard.

Castiel didn’t push. He didn’t move. He just waited, still as an icon — hands in his lap.

“I want to,” Jamie said finally, voice threadbare. “I really want to.”

Castiel nodded like he expected that. Like he’d already accepted it wouldn’t be enough.

“But maybe I can’t,” Jamie admitted, the words cracked open now. “Not all the way. Not yet.”

Castiel hated it. That *shine* behind Jamie’s eyes. That shimmer of being touched by something not of this earth and loving it more than the creature behind it.

“I spent years chasing highs,” Jamie whispered. “Thinking if I could just find the right mix, the right moment, I’d feel… connected. To *something*. To *anything*.”

Castiel didn’t speak. He knew this story. It wasn’t new. It was the same ache he’d seen in dying soldiers and mourning priests. The same ache in himself.

“And then you walked in,” Jamie said. “And it was like—like someone turned my face toward the light again. I hadn’t even realized I’d been living in shadow. And you—”

“Don’t say it,” Castiel said, too quiet to sound sharp but too hard to ignore.

But Jamie went on anyway. His voice low. Unsteady.

“You looked like what I used to pray to when I still believed in salvation. And maybe that’s not fair to you. I know it’s not. But that doesn’t make it less real.”

Castiel closed his eyes. Something twisted behind his sternum. Not pain—just recognition. The curse of being *seen* for what you used to be, and never for what you are now.

“I’ve fallen, Jamie,” he said. “In every way that matters. I’ve lied. I’ve betrayed Heaven. I’ve broken the laws of God and grace and blood. I’ve wanted things I should’ve buried.”

“And I’ve buried things I should’ve wanted.”

The words came like confession. Not seeking forgiveness—just saying them aloud, because there was no one left who remembered what they cost.

Jamie’s voice was hoarse. “You’re still trying.”

Castiel laughed, but there was no joy in it. “Trying doesn’t make me clean. It just makes me tired.”

He looked down at the vial. The faint flicker of Grace still burned there. Dim now. Tired, too.

“You know what’s funny?” he said, more to himself than to Jamie. “For all that power—for all the glory and terror that’s been burned into the name Castiel—what I want more than anything is to be ordinary.”

Jamie stepped forward. Carefully. His voice was almost reverent. “You can’t erase the light, Cas. No matter how far you fall.”

Castiel met his eyes. “I’m not trying to erase it.”

He held the vial out between them, fingers loose around the chain. “I’m just tired of being worshipped for something that has nothing to do with who I am. Tired of being a reflection of what people need, instead of what I am.”

Jamie looked at the vial. The light in it pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat from somewhere else.

“So what are you?” he asked. Not unkind. Just curious. Gentle, even.

Castiel was quiet for a long moment.

“Fallen,” he said. “Exiled. Lost. I’ve walked through too many heavens and burned too many bridges to pretend I’m still holy.”

He paused. Looked at Jamie again.

“But I’m still here. Still trying. Still… turning my face toward the light.”

Castiel’s words hung heavy between them, like ash that wouldn’t settle. Jamie stared at him for a long beat, the shine in his eyes dimming into something harder, more restless.

“Yeah,” Jamie said finally, voice low. “Still turning your face toward the light.” He shook his head, a humorless smile twitching at his mouth. “But what if—for once—you just turned away from it? Just for a night?”

Castiel frowned. “What do you mean?”

Jamie moved past him, crouched by the coffee table, and pulled open the drawer beneath it. A glass vial rattled against plastic, followed by the crisp tear of a baggie. He didn’t look back at Castiel as he spread the powder onto the glass, hands practiced, almost casual. Like making coffee. Like rolling a cigarette.

“I mean,” Jamie said, lining it out with a card, “maybe you don’t have to be an angel, or a soldier, or some fallen saint tonight. Maybe you can just be here. With me.”

Castiel stared. His fingers tightened around the vial of Grace at his chest. The faint pulse there felt mocking now, alive in all the wrong ways.

“Jamie—”

“Forget it,” Jamie cut in, not unkind. He tapped the line once, neat and precise, and slid the glass toward him. “You want to stop being worshipped? Stop being haunted? This is how you do it. One night where none of it matters. No Heaven. No Grace. No weight.”

Castiel didn’t move. The air between them felt brittle.

“It won’t change what I am,” he said at last.

Jamie looked up at him, eyes tired but steady. “No. But it might let you stop caring for a few hours. Isn’t that what you want?”

Castiel exhaled, long and low, like something breaking. Then, slowly, he reached out. His hand didn’t shake until it touched the glass. Jamie’s eyes flickered at that—triumph and pity bound together.

Castiel bent down. The burn was sharp, instant. Chemical and cruel. His head snapped back, breath catching as the world tilted, edges blurring and brightening all at once.

Jamie was there the second he came up, fingers in his hair, mouth on his. No hesitation, no pause. Just heat and relief, the taste of powder still sharp on Castiel’s tongue. The kiss wasn’t careful this time—it was rough, urgent, teeth dragging, lips pressed too hard.

Castiel let it happen. His hands finally found purpose, pulling Jamie closer, clinging like this was the only language left he could speak.

Jamie pressed into him, murmuring against his mouth, “See? Just you and me. No angels. No gods. No light. Just this.”

Castiel closed his eyes. The guilt was still there, a shadow in the haze. But the lines blurred enough that he could almost believe Jamie.

Almost.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

.

The phone buzzed against the floor beside his head, its screen lighting up his cheek with each vibration.

Sam again.

Castiel stared at the glow, waiting for a different name. For Dean. Some part of him still expected it. But it never was. It hadn’t been in a long time. Only Sam. Always Sam. The disappointment sat heavy, familiar. He didn’t let it show, even to himself.

He didn’t reach for the phone. Being human gave him an excuse — people forgot, ignored, let things slip. But the truth was, he’d ignored Sam often enough as an angel too, until Dean had told him otherwise. He thought of that. Then decided it didn’t matter.

“Hey,” Jaimie murmured behind him. His voice was thick with smoke, softened by the room. “Your phone’s going off again.” He leaned across the floor, squinting at the screen. “It says ‘Dean’s brother.’ You got a text. Seems important.”

“Read it to me.” Cas mumbled, distracted, pressing his mouth against Jaimie’s neck. His lips felt heavy. The pills slowed him, blurred the edges, made the act thoughtless instead of chosen.

Jaimie went still beneath him. His pulse jumped against Castiel’s mouth. It wasn’t just the contact—Castiel could feel the way the air changed, the way Jaimie’s whole body seemed to clutch tighter to his. That trembling, greedy way humans sometimes had when they brushed against what they thought was holy. Like the warmth radiating off him was enough to quiet something gnawing in Jaimie’s chest. Castiel could sense it: the relief, the hunger behind it, the need to draw closer, closer still. It disturbed him, but the haze kept the feeling dull, muffled beneath chemical calm.

“Dean’s in the hospital,” Jaimie read at last, though his voice sounded far away, thinned by something unspoken. “It’s bad. Call me.”

Castiel’s body went cold. The haze couldn’t blunt it. The words cut through the chemicals like glass. He pushed upright too fast, the room swinging violently, black edging into his vision. His fingers fumbled against the phone until he caught it, staring at the message, trying to force the shapes into sense.

Behind him, he felt Jaimie’s hand still clinging at his arm—too tight, too desperate, as if Castiel might slip away if he didn’t hold fast. That same clutching warmth, that need that wasn’t about him but about what leaked out of him, about what he carried and couldn’t hide. Castiel didn’t turn. He couldn’t. He only stared at the words glowing on the screen, and the cold spread deeper through him, sharper than the drugs could ever soften.

Castiel shoved himself to his feet, balance swaying under him. The room pulsed once, then steadied. The haze broke just enough for clarity to cut through: Dean. Hospital. Bad.

He bent to grab his coat from the floor. But Jaimie’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist. Too tight. Nails pressing. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t go.”

Castiel stilled. Looked down at him. Jaimie’s eyes were wide, bloodshot, desperate.

“I have to,” Castiel said. His voice came rough, but steady. Clearer than it had been in days. “Dean needs me.”

Jaimie’s grip tightened, dragging at his wrist, like he could anchor him there by force. “You don’t get it, Cas. You leave now, you don’t come back. I know it. You’ll go to him, and I’ll just—” His throat worked. “I’ll be nothing again.”

The words struck him hard. Not because of their weight, but because of their nakedness. That hollow, addict need. It wasn’t love—it was hunger. It wasn’t about him—it was about the way his Grace filled the silence. Castiel felt it like chains wrapping around his throat.

“I am not yours to keep,” Castiel said, low. His wrist twisted sharply, breaking Jaimie’s grip.

“It’s always him!” Jaimie’s voice cracked, rising with a sharpness Castiel had never heard. “You talk about him like he’s salvation and the rest of us are scraps. What the fuck do you even see in me, then? Just someone to burn time with?”

“I never asked you to—”

“No, you just let me,” Jaimie snapped, cutting him off. His chest heaved. “You let me fall into you, let me think you wanted me here, let me—” He broke off, swallowing hard, eyes glassy. “And now you’re just gonna walk out? For him?”

“Yes.” Castiel’s voice was sharp now, stripped bare. “If it is between you and Dean, there is no question. There has never been a question.”

The words seemed to shatter something. Jaimie recoiled like he’d been struck. His mouth opened, closed, no sound at first. Then, finally: “You’re cruel, you know that?” His voice shook. “You act like you’re too broken to love, but you already chose. You just won’t admit it. You strung me along with false hope only to leave now”

“I never lied to you, Jaimie.” Castiel's voice was low, steady. Final.

Jaimie’s body sagged like the strength had drained out of him. Then, all at once, he surged forward again. “No—Cas, please. Don’t go. Not yet.” He reached out, like trying to grab onto something slipping through his fingers. “I need you, okay? I’m not— I’m not ready. Just stay a little longer. Please.”

A beat. Silence like the breath before a storm.

And then Castiel said, quietly: “You don’t need me.”

“That’s not true.” Jaimie’s voice was thin now, as if something inside him had folded. “I do. I need you.” He wasn’t shouting anymore. The fight had drained from his limbs, leaving only a hollow kind of urgency in his eyes. “You don’t understand.” He swallowed, jaw tight. “I can’t go back to what I was before you. I was already halfway gone when you found me.”

A pause. The air between them pulled tight.

“You made me believe there was still something worth holding onto.” He met Castiel’s gaze, and his eyes were wet but steady. “I started thinking maybe it wasn’t too late.”

Castiel eyes searched Jaimie’s face, full of sorrow — not regret for feeling, but for failing to guard something he should’ve known was never his to offer. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Measured. Not sharp — never that — but like rain falling in a chapel. “Jaimie… I should never have let it go this far.”

A flicker of confusion crossed Jaimie’s face, but Castiel pressed on. “You were hurting. You reached for light. And I…” His eyes lowered, heavy with shame. “I let you too close to something you weren’t meant to carry. My grace isn’t love, Jaimie. Not the way you needed it to be. It felt like healing because it is — but only for a moment. And then it leaves a hunger. I should have known better.”

Jaimie’s lips parted, but no sound came. Just breath. Just disbelief. A wounded animal’s silence.

Castiel took a step closer. Not to hold him — but to see him fully.

“You were never just someone to pass the time with,” he said. “I see you. I have always seen you. And I care for you more deeply than I should have allowed myself to.”

He reached out then — gently, reverently — and let his fingers graze the edge of Jaimie’s wrist. Just once.

“But I cannot stay.”

A beat.

“Not like this. Not when what you want from me is deliverance.”

Jaimie’s eyes brimmed again, but this time the anger was gone. Only ache remained.

“I thought you were different,” he whispered.

Castiel’s face was soft, solemn.

“I am. And that’s the problem.” He stepped back, guilt blooming in his chest like a wound, ancient and familiar. “I am sorry.”

And then, finally — he turned.

Not out of coldness.

But because mercy, sometimes, means leaving.

But Jaimie didn’t let him go.

Not with silence. Not this time.

“You always do this,” Jaimie said, quietly—too quietly. Not pleading anymore. Not begging. Just… truth. The kind that draws blood. “You wrap your guilt in poetry and call it mercy.”

Castiel stilled. His back was still half-turned, but his shoulders had gone taut, like a thread pulled too tight.

“You talk like you're this great, tragic force — like your grace is some forbidden fire mortals shouldn't touch.” Jaimie’s voice sharpened, slow and deliberate. “But that’s not what this is, Cas. That’s not who you are.”

He took a step forward. Just one.

“You’re not leaving because I’m addicted to you.” His tone was level now, but every word struck. “You’re leaving because you’re the addict. You always have been.”

Castiel turned, slowly. His face unreadable—but no longer serene.

“You need the distance. The ache. You need to be wanted but not touched. Needed but never needed back. You live off it like a drip-feed. Because if you ever actually stayed—if you let someone all the way in—you’d have to stop pretending you're above it all.”

Jaimie’s eyes didn’t waver. Not now.

“You think too much of yourself,” he said. “You still think you're something sacred. But you’re not. You’re here. With the rest of us. In the dirt. In the mess. You’ve been here for years, Cas, and you still don’t know how to sit still in it without trying to float above it all.”

The words landed like soft blows, bruising slowly.

“You say I’m the one who can’t live without you, but you’re the one who can’t bear being seen. Not really. You run the second someone sees the cracks. You call it mercy, call it damage, call it grace—”

A beat.“But it’s just fear.”

He let the silence sit there. Let Castiel taste it.

“You want to do something noble?” Jaimie asked, quieter now. “Then stop running. Let it be hard. Let it hurt. Let yourself be fucking uncomfortable for once without folding yourself back into myth.”

Castiel turned sharply, eyes burning—not with sorrow this time, but with something uglier. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you? You think I want this?” He gestured between them. “You think I liked any of this? You think being needed like this—by you—was comforting?”

His gaze locked on Jaimie’s, and this time, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t pretend to be above it. Just met him there in the wreckage.

“Do you know what it’s like,” he said suddenly, voice low, “to fall from something infinite into this?” He motioned to himself. A body. A cage. “To go from vast to small—so small that you can feel every edge of yourself all the time?”

Jamie shook his head. Not in refusal. Just disbelief.

“I used to hear stars. I don’t mean that poetically. I heard them. Felt them pulsing through creation. I used to move through time like it was a hallway. I didn’t have to breathe. I didn’t want. I just was.”

His hand clenched at his side.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Castiel said, his voice breaking now — not from tears, but from the sheer exhaustion of trying to explain what wasn’t built to be explained. “To go from being everywhere to being... here.” He glanced down at his body, his hands. “To be trapped in skin. In want. In fear.” A pause. Then, quieter: “To be reduced to one person who wakes up alone.”

He looked at Jaimie. Beautiful, human Jaimie. He didn’t look like Dean — not in the eyes, not in the face. But the sharpness in him, the defiance under the ruin, the way he met pain with bite instead of surrender — that was familiar.

Not Dean. Never Dean. But close enough to make leaving harder.

“And still, it’s beautiful. It is.”

His voice softened — not warm, not cold. Just honest.

“The way you feel things. The way it all matters to you, even when it hurts. You fall apart and still try to reach for someone. You ache and still choose to stay. It’s...” He blinked hard. “It’s more than I’ve ever seen my brethren do.”

“You want to know what’s more than Heavenly?” Jamies voice was quiet, but steady. “It was you, lying on the floor with me. Lit up by a lamp we forgot to turn off. Mouth dry from pills we couldn’t name. That was more. The chemicals. The noise. The taste of nothing.” A pause. He stepped forward. Just enough to be close without touching him. “So stay Cas, please stay.”

His voice dropped. Soft. Pleading, but not with hope. With habit.

“Stay here. Stay numb. Let the world blur. Let the sky fall apart and the light cut out. Let it all go quiet again.”

Then, without looking at Castiel, he moved to the table. Swept the ashtray aside. Tapped out the little glass vial and the razor blade. Silence between them like a tide pulling out.

Wordless, he sat beside him. Watched Jaimie cut the line with a practiced hand. Like this was still who they were.

Jaimie leaned down, sharp inhale. The burn. The drop. The nothing.

He handed the rolled bill over.

Castiel took it.

And for a moment — just a breath — he was still.

Then he bent low, and disappeared into it.

“You want to be human?” Jaimie asked. “Then do what we do. Stay high. Stay wrecked. Stay inside this city until it swallows us whole and we can’t feel the difference.”

Jaimie’s voice turned to a whisper.

“Don’t chase meaning. You’re not built for it anymore. Just stay here. Get lost with me. We’ll vanish in Powder City, and no one will ask who we were supposed to be.”

Silence stretched again.

Thick with the weight of everything they'd used to avoid feeling.

And all Castiel had to do was say yes.

“No I cant. Dean needs me.” The words weren’t cruel. They weren’t even firm. They just were.

Like gravity.

Like the inevitable end of something that should’ve never started.

Jaimie didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

The light in the room felt too bright all of a sudden. His skin felt wrong. Everything itched.

Jamie blinked once. Twice. Then said, almost casually, “Yeah.” A nod, slow. “Of course he does.”

His voice didn’t shake. His hands did.

He turned away, crossed back to the table, and dragged the razor across the glass with the ease of muscle memory. White dust lined up neat, sharp, waiting. The sound filled the silence Castiel had left hanging between them.

Jaimie bent low, breath sharp through the rolled bill. He straightened, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and let the quiet swallow him again.

Behind him, Castiel still hadn’t moved.

Jamie turned, not away from Castiel — just toward nothing. The wall. The window. The endless smear of the City outside, where sirens sang lullabies and lamplight blurred the edges of people trying to disappear.

“You should go, then,” he added, softer.

Not an invitation. Not sarcasm. Just… fact.

“He’s waiting. I’m not.”

Castiel didn’t answer.

Jaimie didn’t look at him again. Castiel noticed that much — the deliberate turn of his shoulders, the way silence took the place of words.

Across the room, a lighter snapped. The smell of smoke bled into the air, sharp and bitter. Jaimie’s hand shook faintly around the cigarette, though he held it to his lips like a lifeline, inhaling as if smoke might be sturdier than air. Castiel watched, and for a moment he thought of speaking — but the words didn’t come. None that would change anything.

His gaze dropped to the clutter near the bed. The amber bottle glinted in the lamplight, half-forgotten. He bent, picked it up, and slipped it into his coat pocket without thinking. The gesture felt mechanical, practiced — like tying a knot or sheathing a blade.

He didn’t look back at Jaimie. He couldn’t. He only turned, and the door closed behind him with a hollow weight that followed him out into the corridor.

________________________________________

The ER was overlit and freezing. The smell of disinfectant made his stomach turn. He found Sam in the waiting area with his head in his hands. When he looked up and saw Castiel, his eyes narrowed.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Sam’s voice hit him like a slap, sharp and shaking with barely-contained fury.

Castiel didn’t answer. He didn’t trust his voice. His mouth felt too dry, his body unmoored—like the whole hospital hallway was floating just slightly off the ground, or he was. He walked past Sam without meeting his eyes, the weight of everything pressing down on his shoulders like wet wings.

Inside the ICU, the world narrowed to a steady beeping.

Dean looked wrong. The kind of wrong that made Castiel’s stomach drop, not from the wounds—bruises bloomed across his face like rot, sure—but from the stillness. Dean was never still. Not like this.

Castiel stepped to the side of the bed, slow and unsure, like Dean might vanish if he moved too fast. His hand hovered in the air for a moment, shaking slightly, before it came to rest on Dean’s chest.

Nothing happened.

No warmth. No spark. No grace responding. Just flesh on flesh. Cold, soft, human failure.

“I can’t fix him,” Castiel said, barely above a whisper. The words scraped out of his throat like ash.

His fingers fumbled toward the chain around his neck—a habit, unconscious now. It pulsed faintly with something locked away, something he didn’t understand. Something he’d once been.

Maybe the key to it all.

Maybe just a curse.

“You think I didn’t try calling you?” Sam’s voice came from behind, sharp. “Look at you, Cas. You look like crap. You’ve lost weight. Your eyes—” he shook his head. “What the hell happened to you?”

Castiel didn’t turn. His eyes stayed on Dean. “You think I was trying to forget,” he said, quiet. “I wasn’t. I was trying to remember.”

Sam barked a humorless laugh. “Remember what? By disappearing? By letting yourself get this bad?”

Castiel’s shoulders stayed rigid. His reply came low, even. “That isn’t your concern.”

There was a pause. Then Sam’s voice, low and rough: “You think you’re the only one hurting? Dean’s been a mess ever since you left. He won’t admit it, but he’s been asking for you. Over and over. Too damn stubborn to just say it out loud.” Sam’s breath hitched, anger bleeding through. “And now this happens. You really think it’s a coincidence?”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. They felt like absolution—and a sentence—twisted into one. I should’ve come sooner, he thought, but didn’t say it. Saying it would make it real. Saying it would break him open.

“Oh, great,” came a groan from the bed, rough with pain and morphine. “Lay it on thicker, Sammy. Why don’t you just start a goddamn fan club while you’re at it?” Dean shifted, face tight, eyes half-lidded but sharp. “You make me sound like some—some pining housewife.”

His gaze flicked to Castiel, quick and sharp, before sliding away again. “Which I’m not,” he added, gruff, the denial landing harder than it should’ve. Then, after a beat, his jaw tightened. “And quit acting like this is his fault. You wanna be pissed, fine — but don’t dump it all on Cas.”

Sam let out a breath, half a laugh, half a sigh. His shoulders eased, some of the fight bleeding out of him. “You’re awake,” he said, almost like he didn’t believe it himself. A small smile tugged at his mouth, quick and unguarded. “Still a pain in the ass, though. Figures.”

Castiel watched as Sam stepped closer to the bed, ignoring Dean’s tone, ignoring the jab. Relief had taken hold of him, stronger than his anger. Castiel could see it in the way Sam’s posture softened, in the way his voice steadied. His brother was alive. For Sam, that was enough.

Castiel stepped closer to the bed.

“What the hell happened to you?” Dean squinted at him through the haze of painkillers.

“You were unconscious,” Castiel answered.

“Not blind,” Dean muttered. His head tilted a fraction toward him, lids heavy but tracking. “You look like you went ten rounds with a shifter. And lost.”

“I didn’t,” Castiel said evenly. “It was a djinn.”

Dean gave a breath of a laugh, then hissed, a hand pressing against the bandages. When he looked back up at Castiel, his eyes were sharper, studying him.

“You’re all banged up,” Dean said. His hand lifted—slow, unsteady, but deliberate—reaching for Castiel’s face.

Castiel froze where he stood, every part of him held in place by the movement.

Dean’s fingers brushed his cheekbone, over the bruise already turning yellow. His thumb skimmed the edge, careful despite the smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You let it clock you?”

“I didn’t let it,” Castiel replied, flat.

Dean tilted his head, eyes narrowing just enough to be playful. “Uh-huh. Big bad soldier of Heaven, taken down by a right hook. This from the guy who once went barehanded at a leviathan.” He huffed out something close to a laugh, then winced.

“It was quicker than retrieving a weapon,” Castiel said. “And my Grace was—”

“I know,” Dean cut in, eyes narrowing slightly. “It’s always your Grace lately.”

Dean’s hand drifted down, resting briefly against Castiel’s jaw. It was too soft to be casual, too casual to be confession.

“You okay?” Dean asked, voice rough now. “Like—really.”

Castiel hesitated. The truth hovered just behind his teeth.

Instead: “I’m not the one in a hospital bed.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, well. I got stabbed. You look like you got your soul dragged through gravel.”

He let his hand fall away, but not before giving Castiel’s coat a little tug—just enough to keep him close.

“You been sleepin’? Eating?”

Castiel frowned. “That’s not necessary.”

Dean gave him a look.

“I eat when I remember to,” Castiel added, quieter.

Dean shook his head slowly. “You gotta take better care of yourself, man.”

There was warmth in the words—real, solid. It did something strange to Castiel’s chest.

He looked down at Dean’s hand, still resting against the edge of his coat, fingers half-curled.

“I didn’t know if you’d wake up,” Castiel said.

Dean blinked. The moment thinned. His expression softened around the edges.

“Hey,” he said, a little hoarse. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”Castiel nodded, but the movement was slow, uncertain—like agreement was a formality, not belief.

Dean watched him for a beat, then scrunched his nose. “…Why do you smell like Burning Man?”

Castiel blinked. “I was… experimenting.”

Dean squinted, eyebrows inching up. “With what? Incense and regret?”

Castiel looked away. “I was… acquiring the human experience.”

Dean snorted, then shook his head, jaw tightening. “Yeah, well, last I checked, you didn’t need a damn field trip for that. You had—” He stopped, teeth clicking shut, eyes cutting toward the wall. His voice came rougher when he went on. “You had people. Right here.”

He shifted against the pillows, grimacing. “But no, you had to go off and—” his hand waved vaguely, dismissive, “—sample the local buffet. Real classy, Cas. Real educational.”

Castiel didn’t answer. He watched Dean’s hand move instead—sudden, deliberate. Fingers caught the edge of his sleeve and tugged it back before he could react. The fabric dragged against his skin, baring the inside of his forearm.

Dean’s eyes fixed there. Castiel followed his gaze. The skin was a map of damage: puncture marks stippled in rows, dark bruises blooming around them. Scratches raked over the veins where he’d clawed at himself in restless nights. Old scabs, half-healed, sat beside new ones, raw and angry. There was no mistaking it. Not battle wounds. Not chance. A record of every time he had pressed needle, glass, or powder into his body and called it survival.

Dean’s hand stilled on the fabric, but he said nothing. The silence that followed was heavier than any words. His grip stayed there, half-tight, as if holding on might stop the truth from vanishing back under the sleeve.

Dean exhaled hard through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching into a humorless smile. “Hope it was worth it. I mean, you gotta catch up, right? I’ve had years to make mistakes. You’re behind. Gotta rack up those sins while you can.”

Castiel stared at him.

The grin was wide, too wide, the kind Dean wore when he was covering ground he didn’t want to stand on. The words sounded approving, almost celebratory—but his voice came out too quick, too sharp around the edges. Castiel realized he hadn’t answered yet. He was still silent.

He lowered his eyes to his hands, folding them deliberately in his lap. “I wasn’t chasing sin,” Castiel said quietly. “That was never my intent.”

Dean gave a quick, almost too eager shrug. “Hey, I’m not judging. Just sayin’, you’re finally cutting loose. All part of the experience, right?”

Castiel looked at him, steady. “Sex isn’t a sin, Dean.”

Dean’s smile twitched, brittle. “Yeah, no kidding. Guess it’s just… nice to know you’ve been busy. Real busy.”

“It wasn’t about bodies. It was about proximity. The act itself was… incidental. There were… multiple people,” Castiel added, eyes narrowing slightly as if searching for the correct numerical qualifier. “Three. Sometimes four. One night, five. They weren’t all interacting directly with each other. It was more of a rotational structure.”

Dean’s head jerked back. “Rotational—? Christ, Cas, what is this, speed dating for nudists?” He laughed, short and humorless. “Five people, huh. That’s… that’s a hell of a party. Must’ve had your hands full.” His voice dropped, muttering, “Not like you had time to drop me a line.”

Castiel frowned.

Dean barked a laugh. “Yeah, well, lucky them, huh? All those strangers gettin’ their enlightenment, meanwhile I’m over here wonderin’ if you fell off the map for good.”

Castiel tilted his head. “I thought you would be happy I was experiencing things.”

“I was! I am! But Jesus, Cas, you don’t gotta give me the play-by-play. ‘Rotational structure’—what even is that? I don’t need diagrams, man.” He looked at him sidelong, eyes tight. “Unless you’re gonna tell me you saved a slot for me, which, hey, newsflash, you didn’t.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed as he studied him. He didn’t hesitate. “If you—”

Dean shot upright, cutting him off fast. “Nope. Nuh-uh. Don’t.” He pointed a sharp finger like a stop sign, shaking his head hard. “Don’t you even finish that sentence, Cas.”

“But if it’s what you—”

“I said don’t!” Dean’s voice cracked, too loud in the quiet room. He scrubbed a hand down his face, trying to cover the heat rushing up his neck. “God, you can’t just— you don’t just say stuff like that.”

Castiel blinked slowly, unbothered. “Why not?”

Dean’s hand dropped, his jaw working like he had ten answers and none he could say out loud. “Because… because some things you keep to yourself,” he muttered finally, bitter and low. “Some things… ain’t for sharing.” Dean cut him off, voice rough. “Forget it.” He reached out suddenly, fingers brushing the chain at Castiel’s neck like he needed a distraction. The vial slipped free, catching the light.

Castiel stiffened—slightly. Not from fear. From recognition.

Dean’s hand curled around the chain beneath Castiel’s shirt. He tugged it free just enough to catch the glint of metal in the fluorescent light.

“The hell is this?” he muttered, tugging gently.

Castiel didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed on the vial, watching it flare as if it belonged to someone else entirely. Light pulsed inside the glass—brighter now, steady but insistent, like it was answering something in the room. He let it glow, unacknowledged, as though ignoring it might make it fade.

Then, softly: “It’s my grace.”

“Hold up.” Sam’s voice cut in from the doorway. Both their heads snapped around, like they’d forgotten he was there. He stepped closer, eyes narrowing at the vial hanging between them. “Did you just say grace?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

“Cas, buddy…” Dean’s voice was hoarse but steady, his eyes locked on Castiel like he was trying to solve a riddle he didn’t like the shape of. “Help me understand. Isn’t this what you wanted? To be an angel, the way you were before? I thought you couldn’t stand being human.”

Castiel looked between them—Dean in the bed, Sam standing just behind him, both staring at him like he was something cracked open and leaking light.

“I don’t know what I want” Castiel said quietly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean shot back, sharp and defensive.

Cas exhaled. The silence between them was thick—too thick. Dean’s arms were crossed, jaw set tight. Sam just watched him, brows drawn low, concern quietly radiating off him.

Cas met their eyes. He hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to explain—he did. But there were no clean words for this. No tidy version.

“Gabriel told me I ripped my grace out.”

He said it flat, but the truth of it pressed hard against his ribs.

“You have to understand,” Cas went on, voice low, “when an angel does that… it’s not symbolic. It’s not a ritual. It’s mutilation.”

Dean shifted his weight. Sam didn’t move.

“You’re not just giving something up. You’re hollowing yourself out. You sever your wings, your sense of purpose… your connection to Heaven, to the earth, to—” He stopped short. “To each other.”

Cas looked down. The vial of grace pulsed gently against his chest. His fingers moved toward it, slow, reverent. It was beautiful, in the way a scar could be.

“I must have had a reason,” he said. “A good one. Even if I can’t remember it now.”

He looked up again, catching Sam’s frown, the glint of something unreadable in Dean’s eyes.

“That’s not something we do lightly. It’s unfathomable—choosing to sever your connection to the host. It’s like waking up to find part of your mind gone, the comfort of being linked to others suddenly stripped away. It’s disabling. Isolating. I can no longer heal, or cross space in an instant, or touch a higher plane. I chose to be diminished. Mutilated. Dulled.”

The last word sat heavy on his tongue. He didn't try to soften it.

Sam’s voice broke the silence, quieter than usual. “Yeah… but being human isn’t nothing, Cas. You lost power, sure, and that connection—but you’ve got something now too. Choice. Feeling. The kind of bonds that aren’t just given, but built. That counts for something.”

Cas looked away then. The walls of the room felt farther than they were. So did the two men in front of him.

“It’s the kind of thing you do when the pain of staying whole is worse than being broken.”

Dean was silent for a long moment, staring at the ceiling like it might hold some hidden answer. Then he shifted in the bed, gritting his teeth against the pain as he turned more fully toward Cas.

“Alright,” he said. “Then we need to find Gabriel.” Dean’s voice steadied, finding its usual grit. “If he was the one keeping your grace, then he knows what happened. He has to. Maybe he’s the one who talked you into it. Maybe he did something to you. I don’t know. But he’s our only lead.”

“He said he was just holding onto it,” Castiel murmured, almost to himself. “He said I gave it to him willingly. That I asked him not to return it.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, well, that sounds like the kind of cryptic crap Gabriel would say while watching the world burn from a recliner.”

“He’s not easy to find,” Castiel said, a bit hollowly.

“Lucky for you,” Dean said, voice low, “I’m good at finding assholes.”

Cas looked at him again, eyes narrowing. “Dean, you were nearly killed.”

Dean gave a tired shrug, as if that were barely worth mentioning. “Not the first time.”

Sam crossed his arms. “You sure he’ll even talk to us? Gabriel’s not exactly known for being cooperative.”

Dean grunted. “Then we make him talk.”

“Even if he’s telling the truth?” Castiel asked.

Dean met his eyes. “Then we find out why you were so scared of being yourself that he let you gut yourself like that.”

That struck something deep in Castiel—because Dean didn’t say it with judgment. He said it like someone who understood exactly what it meant to be afraid of who you were becoming.

Castiel looked away, voice low. “I don’t remember being afraid. But I can feel it. Whatever I was running from… it’s still there.”

Dean shifted, eyes flicking to Sam. “Hey, think you can raid the storeroom? Grab some extra supplies.”

Sam crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Just so you know, I’m not happy with this. You should be in that bed at least another day.”

Dean smirked faintly. “Yeah, thanks for the pep talk, Dr. Oz. I said I’m fine.”

Sam huffed. “Jerk.” He turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Dean called after him, grin tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, and don’t forget my supplies while you’re at it, bitch. Maybe grab some gauze, a couple syringes, and—hell—see if they’ve got any Jell-O cups left.”

Silence pressed in. Castiel leaned closer, his fingers brushing Dean’s wrist before curling around it, steady, like he needed the pulse beneath his hand to anchor him. His eyes held Dean’s, steady and searching. “What happened to you Dean?”

Dean tried a grin that didn’t stick. “What, you don’t read hospital bracelets now? Says ‘stabbed idiot.’ Pretty straightforward.”

Castiel didn’t blink. “Where. When. By whom.”

“Relax, RoboCop. I’m fine.”

“I want it from you.” Castiel’s grip tightened—barely. “I wasn’t here.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “Not your fault.”

“That is irrelevant.”

A beat. Machines ticked. Dean’s breath came shallow and stubborn.

“Bar fight that wasn’t a bar fight,” Dean said finally, picking the easy pieces. “Guy with a knife. Or a thing that looked like a guy with a knife. Real crowd-pleaser.” He shifted, winced. “We’ve had worse.”

Castiel studied his face, then the bandage line along his abdomen. “That is not an answer. And it would not be enough to incapacitate you like this. A simple blade could not have done so much damage.”

“It’s an answer adjacent.” Dean’s humor faltered. He looked past Castiel’s shoulder like there was something worth lying to. “Cas, drop it.”

“No.” The word came quietly, like a lock turning.

Dean’s jaw worked. He tried to pull his hand back; Castiel didn’t let him. “Let go,” Dean said, low.

“Tell me.”

“Tell me, Cas. What’ve you been doing while you’ve been away? What’s all this crap?” Dean flipped the amber pill bottle over in his hand, shaking it once. “These don’t look very legal.”

Castiel’s gaze tracked the bottle, then Dean’s fingers around it. He hadn’t even felt the man slip it out of his pocket. That alone unsettled him. Dean, half-drugged and stitched together, had still outmanoeuvred him. He was… impressed. And wary.

He said nothing at first, but his mind was already working through it tactically—how close he’d have to get, how quickly he could take the bottle back without hurting Dean, without breaking the fragile trust strung between them.

“Those aren’t yours,” Castiel said finally, voice quiet, measured.

Dean smirked, shaking the bottle again. “No kidding. Question is—why are they yours?”

“You weren’t careful,” Castiel said. His voice wasn’t angry. It was worse—measured, quiet, certain.

Dean scoffed. “When am I ever careful?”

“You put yourself in its path,” Castiel pressed. “On purpose.” His gaze moved over Dean—too steady, too exact—taking in the angle of the wound, the depth of the bandages, the bruising where he’d twisted to shield something else. “The strike wasn’t meant for you. You intercepted it.”

Dean’s jaw flexed. He didn’t answer. Just rolled the bottle between his fingers, eyes locked on Cas. “Funny. I’m not hearing an explanation from you, either.”

The silence stretched, taut as wire. Two arguments standing off, neither willing to give ground.

Dean’s thumb tapped against the cap of the bottle, steady as a metronome. He didn’t blink. Didn’t break first.

Castiel’s jaw tightened. He could have deflected again, but Dean’s silence pressed harder than words. Finally, he said, “Those pills are not mine.”

Dean huffed, low, disbelieving. “Yeah? Then why’re you carrying ‘em like they’re communion wafers?”

“I took them from someone else,” Castiel replied evenly. “Because they were dangerous in his hands.”

Dean leaned back against the pillows, expression unreadable. “That your story, or the truth?”

Castiel’s stare didn’t waver. “Both.”

Dean let the silence sit, heavy. He turned the bottle in his hand again, the rattle of pills louder than it should’ve been. “You know, Cas… for a guy who’s usually Mister Straight Answers, you’re real cagey all of a sudden.”

Castiel didn’t flinch. “I’ve told you what matters.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, see, that’s the thing. I don’t buy that. You’re hiding something. And until you spill, don’t expect me to play twenty questions about my end of things.”

Their eyes locked—Dean’s sharp, suspicious, Cas’s unyielding. It wasn’t anger that held them, but a stalemate, each waiting for the other to crack first.

The clock on the wall ticked, steady, merciless. Neither moved.

His gaze dropped to the orange bottle still turning in Dean’s hand. In the same breath, his free hand darted out, quick and precise, aiming to snatch the pills back. Dean saw it coming. Even stitched up and tethered to an IV, he jerked his arm away fast, holding the bottle out of reach with a sharp grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Ah-ah,” Dean said, breath rough. “You don’t get to play disappointed dad and desperate junkie at the same time. Pick a lane.”

Castiel straightened, his hand still hovering in the air for a moment before curling back into a fist at his side. His expression didn’t shift, but the tension in his shoulders did. Calculating. Waiting for another opening.

“You purposefully put yourself in harms way.” Castiel said, low.

Dean’s eyes flicked back at him, wide for just a second before narrowing into something harder. “That’s a hell of a thing to say.” Dean shook his head, the movement sharp. “That’s the job.”

“That’s not the job,” Castiel shot back, startlingly loud, the words cutting through the air like a blade. “I can’t heal you anymore if you get hurt Dean.”

Dean’s mouth opened, then shut again, his jaw working. He looked away, throat tight, eyes fixed on some blank corner of the ceiling. “Yeah, well… guess I’ll just have to make do without your magic hands, won’t I?” The sarcasm was brittle, paper-thin.

Castiel didn’t move. “You think this is a joke?”

Dean’s eyes snapped back to him. “No, Cas. I think it’s reality. People get hurt. I get hurt. And you can’t fix it anymore. So what? That supposed to mean I sit on my ass while Sam bleeds out? Not happening.”

Castiel’s voice dropped, but the intensity didn’t. “It means you can’t keep treating yourself as expendable. Not when the cost is this.” His gaze flicked to the bandages again, then back to Dean, sharp enough to pin him in place. “You are not replaceable.”

The air between them tightened, heavy enough to feel like gravity shifted.

Castiel leaned closer—fractional, instinctive. Dean didn’t move back.

“You’re too close,” Dean muttered, voice low, strained, but he didn’t push him away.

Castiel’s brow furrowed. He didn’t move back. “I needed to be certain you were listening.”

Dean huffed, but it came out thin, not amused. His grip on the coat didn’t loosen. “Yeah, well. Loud and clear.”

The silence stretched until it snapped.

Castiel’s hand moved—fast, precise, honed from centuries of striking true. He went for the bottle again, fingers closing around Dean’s wrist, angling for leverage.

But Dean was faster. Even tethered to the bed, stitched and bruised, he twisted hard, yanking his arm free and shoving Castiel’s hand back. The motion was sharp enough that Castiel’s knuckles cracked against the rail of the bed. Pain flared through his hand—sharp, human, humiliating.

Dean held the bottle up, just out of reach, his chest heaving. “See that?” His voice came rough, fierce. “That’s you, slow. That’s you sloppy.” He shook the bottle once, sharp, like punctuation. “You’re all twisted up about me taking a blade, but look at you—you’re strung out. You can’t fight like this, can’t watch my back like this. On a normal day? You’d have had me on the floor before I blinked. But I’m the one stuck in a hospital bed, gutted—and I still beat you to the punch. Liability. You hear me? You’re the one who won’t make it if something goes sideways.”

Castiel drew his hand back, flexing the fingers once. The ache lingered. He didn’t look at the bruised skin—he kept his eyes on Dean, unblinking. “I heard you,” he said evenly.

Dean stared at him for a long moment, jaw tight, bottle still clutched like a weapon. Then he leaned back against the pillows, muttering, “Damn right.”

Castiel’s fingers flexed once more, the ache biting down to the bone. His eyes stayed locked on Dean. “And you?” His voice was level, quiet. “You think you’re not a liability? Throwing yourself in front of blades, bleeding out because you’d rather die than ask for help?”

Dean’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away. He shook the pill bottle once, sharp, the rattle loud in the stillness. “Difference is, I know what I’m doing. You don’t. And you’re not getting these back.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed. His silence was louder than protest.

“You’re gonna get off this crap Cas. Because if you don’t, I’ll do what I do with junkies. I’ll throw your ass in Bobby’s bunker and lock the damn door until you sweat it out.”

The words hung, brutal, no room for misunderstanding.

Castiel didn’t speak. He stared, unblinking, the weight of humiliation searing into him. For a heartbeat, he almost looked more angel than man—shoulders rigid, eyes burning. But there was no Grace behind the glare, no vastness to draw on. Just a man, cornered, glaring at Dean like defiance might be enough.

Dean exhaled through his nose, unshaken. He tightened his grip on the bottle and slid it onto the table beside him, where Cas could still see it but couldn’t touch it. “Glare all you want. Doesn’t change a damn thing.”

The silence pressed in, but Castiel felt something else tugging at him—warmth, sharp and insistent. His gaze dropped, unbidden, to the vial resting against his chest. It glowed brighter now, as though roused by the tension in the room, its light pooling faintly across the front of his shirt. Too alive. Too loud.

“Cas… I missed you,” he said quietly. “The way you were. Before all this.” His eyes flicked up, catching Cas’s, the faintest crack in his voice. “You used to be… hell, I don’t even know. Stronger. Surer. Like nothing could touch you. And now…” He shook his head, staring down at the blanket instead. “Now I don’t even recognize you half the time.” The words weren’t sharp. They just sat there between them, heavy and aching, like a truth Dean hadn’t meant to spill.

Unbidden another face flickered in his mind. Jaimie. Hands clutching too tight, eyes gone desperate. Addicted to the taste of what leaked out of him, mistaking Grace for love, hunger for closeness. Castiel had seen what that looked like—what it made of a person. A wreck who couldn’t let go.

The thought sliced through him: Would Dean look at me like that, if I let him? The possibility made his chest tighten, his stomach twist. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—see that look in Dean’s eyes. Not from him. Never from him.

His hand moved before he thought. To his collar. To the chain that had hung there. He tugged it free, the vial catching the hospital light in a muted, steady glow. Grace, contained. His last piece of what he had been.

Dean frowned, confused, already opening his mouth. Castiel didn’t let him speak. He tore the chain from his neck and dropped it onto the blanket across Dean’s lap. The vial bounced once, then stilled, pulsing faintly against the pale blue of the sheets.

“I don’t want it,” Castiel said. His voice was low, scraped raw, a verdict handed down.

He didn’t stay to explain. He couldn’t. The thought of Dean holding onto it—onto him—the way Jaimie once had made his chest constrict. He turned and strode for the door, movements clipped, coat flaring as he shoved it open harder than he meant to. The sound echoed in the sterile hall as he left.

Behind him, Dean’s confusion hung in the silence. Castiel didn’t look back. He couldn’t bear to.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

The doors waited ahead—silent, automatic—but Castiel stopped short of them. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring through the glass. Not seeing. Just light and color smeared into abstraction, edges blurred by the strain behind his eyes. His body didn’t hurt in the usual way but a weight clung to him anyway, slow and suffocating.

Leaving didn’t make sense anymore. Not now. Not like this.

He let out a breath, slow and shallow, then turned away.

The hallway stretched long and pale under sterile lights. His steps made no sound on the linoleum, but each one dragged a little more than the last, as if gravity had changed its mind about him. He passed the nurses' station without a glance, a blur of shapes behind glass and half-muted voices. No one called his name.

By the time he reached the bathroom at the far end of the west wing, something inside him had already started to crack. Quietly. Like thawing ice. You wouldn't notice by looking at him. Not yet. But the edges were shifting—nerves flaring, thoughts folding in on themselves.

His breath caught on the way in. Then again on the way out. Too tight. Too fast.

He slipped inside and locked the door behind him, the click louder than expected. It didn’t help. Nothing moved.

The air was wrong—too still, too thick. The overhead light buzzed faintly, but the sound needled him, turned into something sharp behind his eyes. The mirror above the sink reflected a shape he didn’t want to look at. He didn’t.

Instead, he braced both hands against the edge of the porcelain basin and bent forward, breathing like something might rise from his stomach and claw its way out. His jaw clenched. Fingers flexed. Something was coming apart, and he knew it—he felt it. The slow climb of pressure behind his ribs, the spiraling static of his thoughts, the cold flicker of dread flicking its tongue inside his chest.

It would get worse. That part, he was sure of.

So he didn’t wait.

His hand moved on instinct, reaching inside the lining of his coat—fingertips finding the hidden seam, the stitched pocket he’d made himself. Two white tablets dropped into his palm.

Water wouldn’t be enough. Not now.

He brought one down hard against the edge of the sink. The other followed. He ground them flat with the blunt side of a key, until the powder smeared across the porcelain like chalk dust.

And then, without ceremony, he bent low.

The burn in his nose hit fast, sharp and chemical, but it was the weight behind it he was after—the drag, the hush. A flood of nothing. He braced his hands on the sink and waited for the noise in his head to dim.

For a moment, the mirror swam in and out of focus. His fingers curled tight around the sink's edge.

The hallway swayed under his feet as he stepped out. The light was wrong. Too bright. Too wide. He blinked against it, forced one foot in front of the other.

The door was half open. Castiel stood there for a second, fingertips grazing the frame, like he wasn’t sure if he’d been invited—or if it mattered. Then he pushed it wider and stepped inside.

Dean stirred, wincing as he shifted against the pillows. The lines in his face were carved deeper tonight, like pain had been etching into him all day. His jaw tightened when he saw Cas.

“Hey,” Dean muttered, voice hoarse and uneven, slurred at the edges. “About earlier…”

He didn’t quite look at him. His gaze hovered somewhere near the middle of Castiel’s chest, like maybe eye contact would make things worse.

“I was doped to hell on morphine, alright? Mouth was movin’ faster than my brain.” He gave a laugh that didn’t make it past his mouth—dry, sharp, like it hurt to push out. “Should’ve kept it shut. Didn’t mean half that crap I said. Or—maybe I did. Just… not like that.”

His hand drifted across the blanket like he was reaching for something he couldn’t name, then gave up halfway.

“I’m a damn mess right now,” he added, softer. “Don’t hold it against me.”

There was a pause—one of those jagged ones where everything unsaid hovered just beneath the surface. Then Dean snorted, bitter and quiet.

“Forget it. Doesn’t mean anything.”

Castiel stood there, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.

I know, he thought.

He didn’t say it. He didn’t need to.

He’d known for a long time that he didn’t mean what he wanted to mean to Dean. Not like that. Not the way he offered it—steadily, quietly, in all the small, stupid ways Dean refused to look at. The gestures that didn’t land. The silence that never got answered. The space between them that he kept trying to close without asking.

It was fine. He’d made peace with it. Or something close enough to peace that it stopped waking him up at night.

But then the room shifted. Subtle at first—just a ripple along the edge of his vision. The walls breathed in. Then out.

His balance slipped a little behind his breath.

Castiel blinked—slow, unfocused—like he’d missed a step walking downhill and couldn’t remember when he’d started falling. A moment ago, he’d been standing. Now the floor tilted hard to the left, then snapped back, like the world had skipped a frame.

His knees buckled before he could stop them.

Dean’s hand shot out, fingers locking around his arm, fast and tight. “Whoa—Cas—hey.”

The voice came through distorted, like it was underwater or coming from the wrong end of a tunnel. Too far away. Too thin. His chest felt too full, his limbs too light. There was a strange, floating warmth under his skin now, not comforting, not safe—just loose.

“I’m fine,” he said, or tried to. The words were fragile, smeared around the edges. Like the thought had slipped through his hands before he could finish shaping it.

Dean’s grip tightened. “Yeah, you look real fine.”

The ceiling spun in a lazy arc above him. The corners of the room swam and stretched like they were breathing.

Castiel’s brow furrowed, his mouth tightening. He fought it—tried to. His other hand curled into a fist, like he could force clarity back into himself with sheer tension.

Not like this. Not in front of him.

His heart was racing. His head felt too full. Every noise was too loud, every movement too slow. His body didn’t belong to him anymore—it was moving, swaying, sinking into itself, and he couldn’t stop it. He could feel the artificial warmth spreading through his chest, threading behind his eyes like static, soft and invasive.

“No,” he muttered, barely audible. “No, no—this is nothing—just give me—”

He blinked again. Lost his words.

The nausea came next, riding the edge of the euphoria like a knife under velvet. It made him angry. Furious, even, in a slow, smothered kind of way. Why couldn’t he just stay upright? Why did it feel good and wrong at the same time? Why now was it different?

He tried to pull away from Dean’s hold, but his body didn’t respond the way he wanted. His limbs lagged behind the command.

Dean didn’t let him go. Instead, he climbed back into the bed, pulling Castiel down with him until there was no space left to argue. The hospital bed was narrow, awkward, but Dean didn’t seem to care. His arm came around him, steadying, anchoring. Castiel lay still, the steady beat of Dean’s heart loud under his ear. The machines filled the silence with their rhythm.

He stayed there, listening, hand curled lightly against Dean’s chest as if to prove he was real. When he spoke, his voice was low, wandering without aim. “I kept thinking about those movies we watched. The one where Superman was a robot that turned into a car… or maybe it was the car that put on a cape.” He paused, brow knitting faintly as though trying to make sense of it.

Dean huffed, a sound caught somewhere between exasperation and a laugh. “Cas… Superman’s the guy in the cape. The robots? That’s Transformers. Two totally different things.” He shook his head, fond irritation softening his voice. “Only you could mash up Saturday morning cartoons with comic book legends and make it sound like gospel.”

Cas blinked at him, expression steady, almost solemn. “Yes. They are different. But both… resonated with me. Superman was an alien, trying to live among humans. The machines were not human either, but they disguised themselves, tried to belong.” His gaze lingered on Dean, unblinking. “They were out of place. And still—they were seen. Recognized. That is what I understood.”

Dean’s mouth twitched, like he wanted to argue but didn’t. Instead, he just tightened his arm around Cas. “Yeah, well… you’re not wrong about that part.”

The words slowed, grew hazier, like he was pulling them from somewhere older, stranger. “Sometimes… I miss the things that you don’t even know you carry. The colour of your soul when you’re tired, that green-gold ache when you think no one’s watching.” His hand pressed harder, just a shade, over Dean’s chest. “I missed the beauty of it—fragile, human, fleeting.” His gaze drifted past Dean, unfocused, but his touch lingered, unmoving, like he was unwilling to let him go. “Humans burn so quickly. Sparks against eternity. But you—” his jaw clenched faintly, as though holding something back, “—you’ve always burned louder. Brighter. Like you wanted the whole of creation to notice you were here.”

The words carried a raw edge, a claim hidden inside reverence. His hand stayed curled tight in Dean’s shirt, holding him there as if he feared the smallest shift might take him away.

He trailed off then, voice unraveling back into silence, monitors filling the room with their steady pulse

Dean swallowed, his arm tightening without thought. He tried for a smirk, but it faltered. “You sound high as a kite, Cas,” he muttered, rough. He cleared his throat, forcing something lighter into the space. “But, uh… yeah. You’re my best friend too. Always have been.” He gave a small huff of air that was almost a laugh, almost steady. “Even when you’re rambling like a drunk poet on cough syrup.”

His hand lifted then, rough palm brushing against Cas’s forehead, fingers lingering as though to test for heat. The gesture was clumsy but steady, a quiet check born of habit. “You’re warm,” Dean muttered, brows pulling together. “Probably fever. Figures.” He tried to sound casual, but his eyes stayed fixed on Cas, watching every flicker of his expression.

Castiel’s brow furrowed faintly. “Human language…” His voice was softer now, but edged with irritation, like it was failing him. “It’s imprecise. Crude. There aren’t words for what I mean. Not in English. Not even close.”

Dean shifted beside him, but Castiel hardly noticed. His hand moved instead, slow and unthinking, sliding across the blanket, over the ridge of bone beneath thin fabric, until it found the edge of the hospital gown. He pressed his palm flat against warm skin, over the rhythm he sought—steady, human, alive. Deans eyes closed, and for a moment he looked almost pained.

“OL LAPAR CALZ VOVIM; ANOK PE-OLZ CHIS VREH. TA VIN, OL SONF; CHIS OL SONF, ANOK ENAY. ZIRDO NOCO, TA MAD, TA ALDON — ANOK ALDON CHIS VREH.” Cas whispered. The sound of it made the monitors shiver, as though the air itself recognized something not meant to be spoken here.

The syllables dissolved into the air, heavy and vibrating, and Castiel let the stillness swallow them. His palm stayed pressed to Dean’s chest, fingers spreading as though to claim every beat he felt beneath his skin. The rise and fall of breath shifted against his hand, unsteady, uneven, as if each inhale fought him and reached for him all at once.

He moved without thought, thumb brushing a slow path along the curve of bone, tracing the steady thrum as though he could write it into memory. Dean’s skin was warm—too warm—and the heat pulled at him, tugged him closer.

His fingertips drifted upward, grazing along the ridge of collarbone, then back down again to where the heart beat strongest. He let his hand linger there, splayed wide, feeling not just the rhythm but the fragility of it—the reminder that Dean was breakable in ways Castiel could no longer heal. The thought flickered, unbidden: he remembered the first time he shaped this heart, cradled it out of ruin, stitching each thread of muscle back into being. Every rib, every sinew, rebuilt with precision, sculpted from memory and grace. Dean’s body had been ash and echoes, yet Castiel had remade him—deliberate, careful, perfect. He knew the map of him better than Dean ever could.

Castiel felt the catch in his breath, the thrum of a heart suddenly faster beneath his hand. His fingers wandered, restless, skimming over warm skin like they were searching for something. Dean caught them mid-motion, his rough palm closing firmly around Castiel’s, stilling it. The haze didn’t quite clear, but it sharpened—anchored by the grip. Dean’s voice came through low and rough, quieter now. “What’s that mean, Cas?”

“It doesn’t translate cleanly,” he murmured, the lie already shaping itself on his tongue. “Close enough,” he whispered. “It means… as you said. Best friends.”

The words felt thin, a pale imitation of what he wanted to say, but Dean didn’t press. Couldn’t.

“Why’d you give me your grace, Cas?”

“For safe keeping.”

Dean squinted up at him, skeptical. “That’s it?”

Castiel’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re the safest place I know.” The words hung there between them, quiet and precise.

Dean swallowed, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t even ask me.”

“You would’ve said no.”

Dean let out a faint snort, barely more than a breath, but Castiel caught the flicker of a grin ghost across his lips before it vanished beneath something harder. “Damn right I would’ve,” Dean said, voice low, almost proud.

Castiel held his gaze. “I'm not taking it back. If that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I wish you would,” he muttered. “Or at least tell me what the hell’s really goin’ on.” He shifted, voice low but edged. “This trust you’ve got in me... you ever think maybe it’s a mistake?” He let the question hang a second, heavy. “Your grace—whatever’s left of it—it’s not small stuff, Cas. I know damn well what kind of power you’re sittin’ on.”

“I’ve made mistakes before, Dean. Plenty. But not about this. Not about you.”

Dean let out a soft, almost bitter breath through his nose, like he didn’t know what to do with that.

Castiel tilted his head slightly. “You’re the one I trust to do what’s right, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

Dean’s eyes flicked up, caught Castiel’s, and for a moment the air in the room felt different—closer, heavier. The hum of the monitors filled the silence, too steady, too obvious against the stutter of his own breath. Dean leaned in, slow, almost careful, until Cas could feel the warmth of him crowding the space between them. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to Cas’s mouth. Then up again. Then down.

Castiel stayed very still. Rationally, he knew Dean wasn’t going to close the distance. Dean never did. But when Dean’s breath brushed his cheek, something inside him misinterpreted—catalogued the nearness as intent. For a fraction of a second, he thought Dean meant to kiss him. The idea was absurd, impossible, and yet it struck through him with sharp, unwelcome hope.

Then Dean’s arm shifted past his shoulder. His fingers found the lamp switch, and with a click the room dropped into shadow. “Light was bugging me,” Dean muttered, rough, as if the excuse were sufficient. He settled back into the pillows without meeting Cas’s eyes. “Too damn bright.”

Castiel blinked once, the thought correcting itself—of course Dean hadn’t meant to kiss him. That had been his own projection, an error in interpretation. He should not expect things that were not offered. He knew that. He had always known that. Still, the miscalculation lingered, heavy, as though some small, human part of him resented being wrong.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas mumbled, voice heavy with exhaustion. In the dark, his hand drifted upward almost without thought, fingers brushing along Dean’s jaw, the rough line of stubble beneath his touch. He traced it gently, reverent, as if confirming Dean was really there.

Then Dean moved—sudden, unhesitating. His lips caught Cas’s in a quick kiss, rough-edged, fleeting, gone before Cas could even draw a breath. It was impulsive, careless in its speed, like Dean hadn’t thought about it at all.

But Cas felt it with startling intensity, the contact sparking through him, chest tightening until he thought it might collapse inward. That brief press of lips carried too much meaning, more than he’d ever let himself hope. And yet, as soon as it ended, Dean’s voice came low, casual: “Goodnight, Cas.”

Dean’s arm tightened around him, steady, grounding, his tone folding the kiss into silence as though it were nothing unusual—just comfort, nothing remarkable. Something casual. Ordinary.

Cas let his head sink forward, his forehead settling into the curve of Dean’s neck. His hand slipped back down against the blanket, retreating, though the echo of that kiss still burned inside him. He wanted it to mean something, but Dean’s ease told him it hadn’t. Not for him. Just a small gesture in the dark. A habit. Nothing more.

So he stayed quiet. And neither of them spoke of it. Not then. Not after.

…..

A few hours later, the steady rhythm of the monitors and the warmth beneath his cheek was disturbed by the faint squeak of hinges.

A voice slipped into the room, careful, hushed. “Dean?”

Castiel stirred, heavy-limbed, caught between sleep and waking. The world blurred as he blinked, only fragments registering: the rise and fall beneath his palm, the steady thrum still beating against his hand, the weight of an arm wrapped across his back, anchoring him. Too much to move without breaking it.

Footsteps, hesitant, then still. Castiel did not lift his head. He felt eyes on him—on them—but he stayed where he was, breath slow, body refusing to yield its place.

Silence stretched, broken only by the monitors. Then a quiet exhale, and the faintest rustle as someone shook their head.

Castiel kept still, eyes closing again, the moment passing over him like a shadow. His fingers tightened imperceptibly in the fabric at Dean’s side, a silent refusal to let go.

Dean stirred, groaning. “What time—” His voice cracked, rough with sleep. His eyes opened just enough to register Sam. “Shut the door, Sam.”

Castiel shifted, meaning to sit up, but the bed was far too narrow, and Dean’s arm—still locked around him—tilted his balance the wrong way. His hand slipped on the sheet, and before he could correct himself, gravity dragged him sideways.

He landed on the linoleum floor with an unceremonious thud.

Dean barked out a hoarse laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Smooth landing, Cas.”

Castiel sat up stiffly, wings of his coat pooling around him, expression flat as he dusted his palms on his thighs. “Hospital furniture is poorly designed,” he said, as though that explained everything.

Sam pressed a hand over his mouth, failing to hide the grin tugging at his lips. “Uh-huh.”

Dean smirked from the bed, eyes still half-closed but bright with amusement. “Don’t worry, Sammy. He’s just testing out the crash mats.”

Castiel shot him a look that was equal parts weary and indignant, then pushed himself back to his feet with as much dignity as he could manage. The warmth of Dean’s skin lingered against his palm, but he said nothing of it.

The silence that followed was awkward, heavy in the corners of the room, but Dean’s grin didn’t fade.

Dean shifted against the pillows, stretching like the explanation had been waiting for him all along. “He had a fever and he was about to pass out,” he said, voice still rough with sleep but steady enough to sound rehearsed. “Figured if he hit the floor, you’d just yell at both of us. Bed was the safer option. We needed the rest, that’s all.”

Castiel blinked at him, surprised by the swiftness of the defense, the way Dean’s tone carried a note of practiced ease—like he’d already run through the argument in his head and stored it for exactly this moment. He considered correcting him, pointing out that he hadn’t had a fever, not exactly. His symptoms had been chemical, not biological. But Dean’s jaw was set in that familiar, stubborn line, and decided silence was going to be okay here.

“Supplies are in the trunk,” Sam said, tone neutral. “Car’s loaded. We can be ready in ten. It’s not too late, you know. You could stay another night. Get more rest.” He glanced at Dean, but Castiel knew that look. It wasn't just for him.

“Both of you could,” Sam added, like an afterthought. It wasn’t.

Dean shook his head. “Nope. We’re good to go.” No room for discussion. The kind of finality that used to work better when Cas had wings.

Castiel shifted his weight subtly, masking a wince as the dull ache in his side flared again. He hadn’t mentioned it. It didn’t seem necessary. He was fine—or fine enough.

The truth was, his vessel had lived a full life before him, and now it was aging the way human bodies do: slowly, inevitably, and with small betrayals. The skin wore thinner. The bones settled harder. The pain lingered longer than it used to.

He found himself thinking, suddenly, about aging further. About gray in his hair. Slower steps. The steady erosion of time. It didn’t frighten him—not the way he once assumed it might.

Angels didn’t age. But he wasn’t quite an angel anymore.

And the thought of becoming something new—something he’d never been before—felt less like a loss and more like… possibility.

And then, without meaning to, the thought sharpened.

He imagined aging alongside Dean.

The image was sudden: silver creeping through Dean’s hair, the weight in his shoulders settling deeper, the lines around his eyes softening instead of hardening. A life shaped not by war, but by time.

Castiel’s chest tightened.

He stopped the thought before it could go any further. Slammed the door on it without examining why.

He told himself it was just a stray idea.

And let it stay that way.

“You sure?” Sam asked, tightening the strap of his duffel like it gave him moral high ground. Then, offhand, too casual: “Cas looks like he’s running on fumes.”

“I’m not,” he said quickly. Too quickly. His voice was sharper than intended. Defensive. “I’m perfectly capable.” He finally looked at Sam, jaw tight. “You don’t need to monitor my condition.”

Sam didn’t rise to it. Just held his gaze with that unreadable stillness. Not mocking. Just… there. Watching. Like he knew something Castiel didn’t and wasn’t going to say it.

Dean glanced over at Castiel then. Not for long. Just a quick look—eyes dragging over him like a mental checklist he wasn’t sure how to finish.

“He’s fine.” Dean said.

The room settled into silence—but not stillness. Castiel caught the way Dean’s eyes narrowed, a subtle flash of green sharp with warning. Drop it.

To Castiel’s eye, the exchange was strange—wordless, yet heavy with meaning. A shift of shoulders, the faint twitch of Dean’s mouth, Sam’s measured inhale as though biting back words. It was a language they had spoken long before he’d entered their lives.

He studied them both, trying to parse the layers hidden between the small gestures and half-looks. His gaze dropped, unsettled. His hand flexed once against his thigh. The words had not been his, yet his name lingered between them, carried on meanings he couldn’t fully untangle. He felt a pang low in his chest, an old, familiar weight—the realization that they were arguing about him. About his mistakes. His flaws. His inability to fit cleanly into their world. And though neither said it aloud, he could feel it all the same, pressed into the silence like a verdict he could not contest.

“I’m going to the bathroom” He mumbled. Castiel lingered a moment longer, eyes still low, then turned wordlessly and slipped down the hall. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him with careful precision. Not loud enough to draw attention. Just final enough to cut the thread of the room’s silence.

The light overhead buzzed faintly, too white, too sharp. He kept his eyes on the sink as he reached into the inside lining of his coat again—stitched shut, once, now frayed from being opened too often.

Two more tablets into his palm. He hesitated. The hesitation felt familiar. Useless.

He crushed them against the sink’s edge with the heel of his palm, ground them to powder with the side of a motel key, and bent low.

The burn came fast, sharp as before—but not clean. It caught in the back of his throat. His eyes watered.

He braced his palms against the sink, waiting.

But the hush didn’t come.

Not this time.

Instead, something else curled in behind his eyes—tight and electric. His skin prickled. His pulse began to stutter, not in rhythm but in volume, loud now, thudding like a warning. He stood still, but everything around him felt like it was shifting one inch to the left, then one inch to the right.

There were no voices—but the idea of them pressed in. The hallway outside seemed too quiet. The way Sam had looked at him. The way Dean had said he’s fine without actually looking him in the eye.

What had they said when he wasn’t in the room?

What had Sam seen?

He stared into the mirror. His reflection blinked a half second too late.

He closed his eyes hard, reopened them.

Still there.

Still him.

He wasn’t sure that helped.

Something crawled up the back of his neck, and he turned around too fast—heart thudding—to find only the closed door behind him. His breath hitched.

They were talking out there. He was sure of it.

About him.

About the pills. About how much he needed them now. About how fragile he looked. How much he was costing them just by being here.

He turned back to the sink, gripped the edges, tried to breathe. In. Out. But his chest felt like it was closing in.

The drugs were wrong today.

Too much. Or not enough. Or maybe just different.

Through the door, he thought he heard footsteps. Or breathing. Or his name.

He closed his eyes again.

It didn’t help.

Sam was pacing, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other curled tight around a coffee cup. “We need to wait another day.”

Castiel’s jaw tightened. The words were calm, careful. The kind of tone Heaven had used when it wanted obedience without argument. You’re broken. You can’t handle this. We’ll decide for you.

Dean shifted on the bed, already bristling. “Sam—”

But Sam kept going, as if Dean hadn’t spoken. “It’s not complicated. You need rest. And Cas—” that glance again, measuring, dismissive in its softness—“if you burn yourself out, you’re no good to anyone. We can handle things until you’re steady.”

The muscles in Castiel’s hand flexed against his coat. Handle things. Manage without him. As though his presence was a liability. As though he hadn’t already survived centuries of orders that stripped him down to blade and obedience.

“I am steady,” he said flatly. He wanted distance. He wanted quiet. Instead he bent, picked up one of the bags by the door, and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ll wait outside,” he said. His voice was even, but his grip on the strap was white-knuckled.

Dean’s gaze followed him, steady, unreadable. Sam’s didn’t.

The hallway was dim and quiet — the kind of quiet Castiel usually preferred. But now, the silence scraped along his nerves like a wire pulled too tight. He set the bag down beside the wall and leaned against it, arms crossed, head tipped back. The low, artificial hum of the fluorescents filled the space where Sam’s voice had been.

It should’ve helped.

It didn’t.

Sam’s voice still echoed in his head — calm, clinical, threaded with that intolerable logic he wielded like a scalpel. Always instructing. Always assessing. Always so certain he knew what was best for everyone. And Castiel had endured millennia of that voice — not Sam’s, but voices just like it. Orders dressed in concern. Condemnation disguised as compassion. It was Heaven all over again.

No, not Heaven. Worse. Heaven had never pretended it cared.

Sam did. And that made it harder to see the knife coming.

Castiel shifted, jaw tight. His skin felt wrong. Tight around his bones. His coat too heavy, his breath too loud. The drugs weren’t numbing anymore — they were amplifying. His thoughts looped in fast, fevered circuits. Sam had been watching him. Taking stock. Quietly documenting every flaw, every stumble, every sign of weakness.

It wasn’t just judgment anymore.

It was strategy.

The way Sam kept his distance. The way he softened his voice around Dean, but not around him. The way his hand had hovered near the drawer that morning — the one with the gun in it.

Castiel swallowed. The hallway seemed to narrow slightly, the shadows pressed closer to the edges of his vision.

He’s planning something.

He thinks you’re too unstable to be trusted.

You’re not safe to have around Dean.

You’re not safe at all.

He squeezed his arms tighter across his chest. Tried to force the thoughts away. They didn’t move.

Sam wasn’t Heaven. He wasn’t one of the Host. He wasn’t designed to destroy what he didn’t understand.

But humans had always found creative ways to eliminate what frightened them.

Castiel closed his eyes. Just for a second.

He didn’t need to like Sam. It was enough that Dean did. That was supposed to be enough.

But would Dean even stop him if it came to that?

Would he know what was happening until it was too late?

The sharp rhythm of boots on tile snapped him back into his body.

Dean’s gait — purposeful, heavy — echoed down the corridor. Each step landed like punctuation: angry, angry, angry.

Sam trailed a beat behind. Slower. Quieter. But still there. The weight of him pressing in.

Castiel straightened instantly, shouldering the bag as Dean shoved through the double doors and into the parking lot.

He wanted — with a kind of ache that had nothing to do with affection — to reach for Dean. To catch his sleeve. To ground himself in the one person who didn’t seem to be waiting for him to slip.

But Dean’s shoulders were set. His jaw clenched. His entire body crackled with tension.

Touch would only spark it hotter.

So Castiel kept his hands to himself.

Pretended composure.

And told himself — lied to himself — that none of this was unraveling.

Castiel’s vision blurred at the edges, a rush of heat behind his eyes, and before he could stop himself—before he even thought—his feet were moving.

Not toward them.

Castiel’s vision narrowed to movement and breath and the slap of his boots against broken asphalt. The night stretched out ahead — cold, unlit, empty.

Away.

A sharp pivot on his heel, the bag slamming against his side as he broke into a run across the cracked asphalt of the lot.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice rang out, confusion cutting through the air like a whip.

“Hey—Cas! Where are you—?” Sam called, footsteps starting behind him, unsure.

He couldn’t hear what they were saying anymore — couldn’t look back.

He just ran.

Ran from the way Sam had looked at him. From Dean’s silence. From the weight of being known too well by people he could no longer trust.

From the moment he’d felt the shift — when everything familiar turned dangerous, and everything dangerous felt inevitable.

“Cas!”

Dean’s voice, sharp now. Anger rising under confusion.

“Hey—Cas, stop!” Sam’s feet hit the pavement behind him, faster now. “Cas—come on!”

But Castiel didn’t stop.

Can’t stop.

If he stops, they’ll corner him. Contain him. Fix him.

Break him.

The sound of pursuit grew louder. Closer. Sam’s strides were longer, faster — but it was Dean’s voice that made something in Castiel crack.

“Stop running—goddamn it, Cas!”

The words hit like a blow. Not the volume — but the strain. The pain in Dean’s voice.

Castiel stumbled, legs faltering mid-stride. He turned — just in time to see Dean catch up, grimacing, one hand braced against his side. The other grabbed Castiel’s arm, hard.

Dean shoved him backward with more force than Castiel expected.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Dean barked, breath ragged.

Castiel’s back hit the side of a streetlight post, the bag thudding to the ground beside him. Dean staggered, clutching his side, teeth bared in pain.

Castiel’s panic evaporated in an instant, washed out by guilt. He reached forward, hands open.

“Dean—are you—did I—”

“I’m fine,” Dean snapped, though his face was pale.

Castiel opened his mouth, closed it. Then, softer: “I’m sorry.”

He reached for Dean again, slower this time, fingers brushing his arm. “You shouldn’t have chased me. You’re hurt.”

Dean didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched Castiel’s face, too sharp, too knowing.

Then he asked, voice low and deliberate:

“Are you still using?”

Castiel froze.

For one breath. Then another.

“It was the last of it,” he said, too evenly. Not quite a lie. Not quite the truth.

Dean stared at him, unmoving. Then shoved him — hard — right down on his ass.

Castiel hit the pavement with a startled grunt, bag shifting beside him.

Dean leaned over, pointing a finger straight in his face.

“It better be.”

Behind them, Sam finally caught up — breathing hard, eyes flicking between them, trying to piece together what had just happened.

Cas’s stomach tightened. Sam’s gaze lingered too long, too sharp, as though he already knew more than he should. The thoughts came fast, stacking over each other, each one louder than the last. What if Sam had been following him? What if he’d seen the pills, heard the words, noticed the tremor in his hands? What if Sam was only pretending to catch his breath, buying time, calculating what to do with the knowledge? His eyes seemed to flicker with accusation, with judgment, with something Cas couldn’t decipher but was certain was dangerous.

And then the spiral reached deeper, dragging old terror with it. Heaven had watched him too—always watching, always rewriting. They had stolen his memories, replaced them with obedience, rewritten the very fabric of him until he couldn’t trust what was his and what wasn’t. He remembered the blankness afterward, the sick disorientation of being told what he had done, who he had been, as though his own history was nothing but suggestion. Sam’s eyes now carried that same weight, that same authority to strip him bare, to decide what was true and what wasn’t. What if Sam wasn’t just seeing him—what if he was measuring him, recalibrating him, ready to alter the story? Ready to decide for him, like Heaven once had?

His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out the rest of the world. His palms prickled with heat. He couldn’t make sense of what was real—only that Sam was watching, and that being watched meant being known, and being known meant being exposed. The spiral pressed hard, crushing, unbearable.

“I have to go,” Cas insisted, his voice fracturing at the edges. “Back to Jamie’s. He’ll understand. He has more pills. They’ll help me calm down.”

“Cas who is Jamie?” Dean repeated, like the word itself offended him.

Castiel didn’t respond—just turned, unsteady, getting ready to run.

But Dean moved faster.

His boots scraped hard against the gravel, all instinct and anger, and in a flash he was there—grabbing Cas by the arm, yanking him back before he could take another step. Cas stumbled against him, balance giving way, but Dean didn’t let him go. His grip tightened, both hands on him now, one at his elbow, the other fisting in the fabric of his coat as if sheer force could anchor him. “Oh no you don’t,” Dean growled, breath hot with fury. “You’re not running from me. Not this time.”

Cas twisted, weak and uneven, but Dean held on, dragging him closer, chest to chest, like the only way to keep him here was to cage him with his own body. His jaw clenched hard, eyes wild, every muscle wired tight as steel. “You think you can just bolt the second I ask a question?” Dean’s voice cracked sharp, low and dangerous. “You don’t get to do that to me. You’ve been crashing at some guy’s place—some dealer’s place—and didn’t tell me?” Dean’s voice cracked, too loud, too raw.

“Dean—” Sam started, already stepping in.

“Don’t,” Dean snapped, voice low and dangerous. His eyes locked on Castiel, wild with something deeper than rage. “Tell me the truth. Right now.”

Castiel tilted his head, calm on the surface—but there was something tight in his expression, something guarded. “I was doing what you said you wanted, Dean,” he said evenly. “Living the human experience. Thought that was the whole damn point.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “This is not what I wanted.”

Cas blinked slowly, words spilling out too loose, too unfiltered. “Jamie… he makes it easier.” At first, his tone was soft, almost dreamy, the words hazy at the edges. “The way he kisses—slow, steady—like he knows what I need before I do. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t pull back.” A faint, crooked smile tugged at his lips. “He’s good at it. Better than I expected.”

Dean stiffened at that, his jaw flexing, eyes narrowing in that way he always did when he was holding something back. Cas caught it—of course he did. The little twitch of muscle, the clench of teeth, the way Dean’s gaze cut sharp, then broke away like he couldn’t stand to watch. The sight sent a hot ripple of irritation through him, faint at first, almost buried beneath the drugged haze.

Still, he kept talking. “The pills help too. He knows which ones to use, how much, when to take the edge off without killing the high. We’d lie there, laughing at nothing, until the room stopped spinning. Sometimes we didn’t even move for hours.” He huffed out something that was almost a laugh. “It was… nice. I didn’t plan it. I just… ended up there.”

Dean’s mouth tightened. He didn’t say anything, but his silence was loud—accusing, judgment in the shape of clenched fists and a glare he couldn’t quite hide. Cas’s fingers twitched against the gravel, annoyance pricking sharper now, his chest tightening. His words sharpened with it. “He’d put his hands here—” Cas brushed his own chest, absently, “—steady, certain. Like he wanted me. No hesitation. When he kissed me, I didn’t feel… wrong. Just human.”

Dean flinched. Cas saw it—the flicker in his eyes, the way his throat worked, the half-step forward like he might say something and then swallowed it back. That restraint, that constant restraint—it made Cas’s teeth ache. His tone grew heavier, more deliberate, as if his words were no longer memory but weapon. “Jamie knew how to hold me. He kissed me like he meant it. Always. No second-guessing.”

By now the dreaminess had burned away, replaced by a low, simmering heat that threaded every word. Every detail was sharper, aimed like a blade. And it was Dean—his silence, his clenched jaw, the way he looked at Cas like a problem to solve—that made him keep talking. “With Jamie, I never had to wonder. He made it simple. He made me feel wanted.”

Dean’s face darkened, his fist curling tight, knuckles white. Sam saw it and stepped in fast, a hand hovering near Dean’s shoulder. “Whoa—hey! Dean! Stop!”

Dean resisted, breath ragged, arm straining in Sam’s grip. “He lied, Sam! He ran to some stranger and got high while we were out here losing sleep worrying about his ass!”

Sam held on, jaw clenched, both hands digging in. “You swing on him now, and you’ll regret it. You know you will.”

Dean’s arm stayed tense, mid-swing, every part of him braced to fight. But his eyes were locked on Cas.

“I thought I could stop,” Castiel said, voice thin. “I wanted to. I thought I could make it through and you’d never have to know.”

Dean's voice cracked as he stepped in closer, too quiet now. “And what if you'd OD'd, huh? Alone? On a goddamn hospital floor?”

Castiel blinked at him. “That’s not what I wanted—”

“It’s what would’ve happened!” Dean said, the pain finally catching up to the anger. “Look at you. You’re a goddamn angel who turned himself into a junkie in a trench coat. Wandering the earth like some burned-out, sandal-wearing hippie, chasing pills and random hookups. A strung-out drifter, a lost cause, like some dropout who never figured out which way was up.” His lip curled, the words spilling harsher with each one. “You’re a walking cautionary tale, Cas. You know that?”

Castiel recoiled slightly, affronted. The terms struck like blows—junkie, hippie, dropout—strange, too human, slippery in meaning. He understood their edges but not the whole, their cultural weight lost on him. They tangled in his mind like an unfamiliar language, bruising more for their incomprehensibility. He felt heat rise in his chest, not from guilt but from bewilderment—labeled and reduced in ways that made no sense to him. His jaw tightened, voice low and rough. “You use words I cannot reconcile. You turn me into shapes that aren’t mine. I don’t even know what they mean.”

“Get in the car.”

Castiel blinked. “What?”

Dean didn’t look at him when he said it: “We’re finding Gabriel. He can fix this. Put you back to normal. End this charade.”

Castiel went still.

Dean kept going, voice sharp and bitter. “Because this human crap? It’s not working. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

The words echoed in the air, cruel in their clarity.

Sam shifted beside them, visibly uncomfortable. “Dean—”

“No,” Castiel cut in quietly, gaze dropping. “It’s fine. I understand. I thought I would adjust,” his brow furrowed, but he kept his tone steady. “I thought I could manage the pain. That I could find meaning in it. But it just… lingered. Got heavier.” He finally glanced up—eyes dull, shoulders drawn inward. “But maybe you were right. Maybe I’m not meant for this at all.”

Dean let the silence hang for a beat too long, jaw tight. Then he scoffed. “Well, finally,” he muttered, pushing past the ache in his chest. “Someone around here’s making sense.” He gave Cas a light shove toward the Impala—not rough, but firm. “Now get in the damn car.”

Castiel slid into the back seat without a word, folding himself into the smallest shape his body would allow. The door shut with a soft click, sealing him in with the quiet. He stared out the window, hands limp in his lap, watching the two figures near the hood of the Impala—Sam steady, Dean pacing like a storm waiting for a reason.

He couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to. The gestures were enough. Sam’s arms moved in deliberate, measured shapes. Dean’s didn’t. Dean was all clenched fists and sudden turns, frustration building in sharp, erratic movements. Whatever he was saying, it was loud. Fast. And getting worse.

Until he stopped mid-sentence—shoulders rigid, chest heaving. His hands went to his hips, then into his hair. He turned away from Sam like the air between them had become too much.

Castiel looked down.

He already knew the argument wasn’t about logistics.

It was about him. Too many things were. The arguments, the silences, the sharp edges between brothers—all of it seemed to lead back to him, and the weight of that truth pressed cold and sad against his ribs.

Dean drove like he always did when angry—tight grip on the wheel, eyes fixed forward, jaw grinding. The engine roared under his foot, every shift a little sharper than it needed to be.

Cas sat straight, still, his voice caught behind his teeth. Dean didn’t talk. Not even a grunt. His hands stayed fixed on the wheel, knuckles pale.

Sam glanced back once, mouth opening like he might say something, but the look Dean cut him in the rearview snapped it shut.

Cas folded in on himself, silent. Pretending composure. Pretending he didn’t feel the sharp edge of Dean’s temper vibrating through the car.

Finally, Dean gave up the pretense. With stiff fingers, he reached forward and clicked on the radio. A burst of static filled the air, then resolved into a slow, pulsing synth line—soft, almost too soft—and a male voice began to sing, distant and aching.

Castiel didn’t recognize the song.

But Dean did.

“Come on, baby, dry your eyes…

Wipe your tears…”

Dean didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just kept his eyes on the road, jaw set tight.

“Daddy’s here with you, no more cries…”

The beat was slow. Minimal. Almost cruel in how intimate it sounded.

Then the chorus hit.

“I’m only human

Of flesh and blood I’m made

Human…

Born to make mistakes…”

The words slid into the silence like a knife.

Castiel leaned his head against the window. The glass was cold, but not enough.

Nothing felt real in the right way anymore.

Human.

That word again.

Always that word.

He closed his eyes, jaw tightening. He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask if Dean meant to put the song on. If it was a message. A dig. A defense.

It didn’t matter.

The lyrics kept going, softer now, as if mocking him gently:

“I’m only human…

Born to make mistakes…”

Castiel folded his hands in his lap, knuckles white, and stared out into the dark. He told himself the song was random.

And kept pretending he wasn’t still waiting for Dean’s voice.

Cas imagined how simple it would be, if he still had his powers—reduce the radio to ash with a thought, or, if he were feeling thorough, slip back through time and silence the singer before the song was ever born. The notion clung to him longer than it should have, heavy, unkind, but fitting for his mood.

Instead, he tapped Sam on the shoulder, voice low and flat. “Change the station.” It wasn’t hope so much as resignation; maybe if they both pressed Dean, he would relent. Maybe not. Either way, the song would continue, and the dull ache beneath it would linger.

His mind slipped elsewhere, unbidden—Jamie. Clementine. He wondered if she was being looked after, if Jamie was feeding her, remembering the small rituals that kept her calm. The thought gnawed at him, soft but relentless, the same way the music did: an irritation that burrowed deeper the longer it was ignored.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

The road had become an endless ribbon of sun-bleached asphalt, stretching flat and featureless beneath a cloudless sky. Nothing but the low hum of the tires and the drone of heat rising off the pavement. The air inside the car had turned sticky, the kind of heat that clung to skin and made denim feel like a punishment. No conversation—just the hollow quiet of exhaustion, the kind that settled deep and made time feel heavy.

Dean kept his eyes fixed on the road, jaw tight, fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. The radio buzzed low—some classic rock track bleeding through a haze of static, the vocals too faint to make out. Sam sat in the passenger seat, hunched slightly, eyes scanning the pages of a worn book on angel lore. He hadn’t looked up in miles.

In the back seat, Cas leaned forward, eyes flicking to the open page. The words were familiar—but only barely. Reading in English still took effort. His brain, once fluent in every language—human, celestial, even the unspeakable ones—now stuttered over grammar and idioms, forced to slow down, to decipher. The letters on the page didn’t sing to him like they used to but he made himself read anyway. The passage described angels not as protectors, but as distant, cold enforcers of divine will—unfeeling, absolute, instruments of punishment cloaked in light. Terrifying in form, obedient without question, immune to human suffering. Words written in ink that didn’t know him. That didn’t want to.

Cas’s gaze lingered on the page, unreadable, then slowly drifted away. He leaned back, turning toward the window, watching the fields blur past. Whatever he might’ve said about it, he didn’t.

The ache started small at first—a dull pressure behind his eyes, like something had lodged there and refused to move. He blinked, tried to focus, but the light outside had grown too sharp, cutting in slanted lines across the seat. His head throbbed steadily now, a slow pulse that pushed against his temples and made his vision blur just slightly at the corners.

He pressed his fingers to his forehead, digging in as if pressure could dull the noise building behind his eyes. There was no grace left to dull it. No internal stillness to retreat to. Just neurons, firing too fast or too slow, and the unfamiliar ache of a headache he couldn’t will away.

<

“Cas?”

Sam’s voice, low and uncertain. Cas opened his eyes—he hadn’t realized they’d closed—and looked up. Sam was turned slightly in his seat, brow furrowed, book now closed in his lap.

Cas straightened, blinking against the brightness. “I have a headache,” he said quietly, like the words tasted strange. “Do you have anything for it?”

Dean made a small noise in the front—something between a grunt and a scoff—but didn’t comment. His fingers just tightened once on the wheel, then settled again.

Sam reached into the glove compartment and fished out a battered bottle of ibuprofen. He shook two pills into his palm and passed them back without a word, along with a half-empty water bottle from beside his seat.

“Thanks,” Cas murmured, swallowing them down with the practiced awkwardness of someone who still found it strange that a body could hurt like this—and stranger still that relief came in the form of tiny coated tablets.

He leaned his head against the glass again.

…

He woke up to a hand on his shoulder.

“Cas.” A nudge. Then a shake. “Hey. Hey—wake up.”

Cas opened his eyes to Dean crouched beside the open car door, brows drawn together, mouth set in a hard line that didn’t quite hide the worry behind it.

“You were out cold. You okay?”

Cas blinked at him slowly,

< “You look like hell. You’re sweating through your coat.”

Cas glanced down. His palms were damp. His shirt stuck to his back. His stomach churned with a slow nausea that hadn’t been there before. And beneath all that, his skin itched. Like something under it was crawling upward.

Dean stood and jerked a thumb toward the building. “Come on. Inside. We’ll get you some food, something with salt. You need to eat.”

Cas hesitated. His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled himself out of the car. The sun, even through the glare, felt too bright. Too loud. The heat was inside him now, pressing outward from his bones.

Dean kept glancing over—subtle, but constant. Like he expected Cas to stumble. Like he was preparing to catch him if he did.

Cas didn’t stumble. But each step felt like it came at a cost. His limbs ached—not the kind of pain that cried out, but the kind that settled deep, like an old bruise under the skin. His thoughts were still clouded, his stomach a slow, sour knot. Something in him had gone off-kilter, and he didn’t know how to set it right again.

“Go on in,” he murmured once they reached the door. “I’ll meet you at the table.”

Dean hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Alright.” He pushed the door open for Cas, lingering just a beat too long before letting it swing shut behind him.

Cas made his way to the restroom, pushing past the rattle of silverware and the low murmur of tired conversations. Inside, the light was harsh and flickering overhead, the mirror warped at the edges. He looked into it and barely recognized what stared back—his face pale, damp with sweat, dark circles pooling under his eyes. He didn’t look sick—exactly. Just wrong. Off. Like a painting hung slightly crooked, or a song played in the wrong key. Something subtle enough to miss unless you were looking.

He splashed cold water on his face, gripping the sink with both hands. The shock helped—barely. The chill cut through the haze just enough to steady his breath. He straightened slowly, water dripping from his chin, eyes meeting their reflection in the spotted glass.

The shirt he pulled from the emergency duffel wasn’t his. A black band tee—soft with age, the print cracked and faded. Dean’s. Cas didn’t hesitate. He figured Dean wouldn’t mind. The fabric still carried a trace of him—leather, oil, warmth. Familiar in a way nothing else was. Cas paused, fingers tightening slightly in the cotton, then pulled it on without ceremony.

He looked at himself one last time. Still pale. Still worn thin around the edges. But cleaner. Grounded. Like someone trying to pass for okay.

When Cas stepped out of the restroom, the world still pressed in at odd angles—light too sharp, sound too close—but it was manageable. Bearable. He moved with more purpose this time, each step solid beneath him. No more sway in his gait. No tremble in his fingers.

He spotted them by the window—Dean slouched deep into the booth, Sam thumbing through his phone, half-distracted. The menus were still open, but mostly forgotten. Familiar terrain.

Dean looked up first—and went still.

His eyes tracked Cas automatically… then stopped. Froze. Not at his face, but at the shirt.

Cas lingered half a beat longer than he meant to, heat creeping into his ears. He hadn’t asked. He should’ve asked. Borrowing Dean’s things without permission—it was presumptuous, careless, a human intimacy he wasn’t entitled to. The thought twisted in his chest, sharp with self-reproach.

“Hope it’s okay I borrowed it,” he said at last, voice low with apology. He meant the words as explanation, an attempt to justify the mistake—that he had only reached for the nearest thing, that he hadn’t intended to impose. But it sounded thinner than he wished, like an excuse that didn’t hold.

Dean didn’t answer right away. He blinked once, like recalibrating, then gave a low grunt that might’ve meant anything. “Yeah. Looks better on you anyway,” he muttered, too quiet for anyone but Cas to hear.

Sam didn’t seem to notice. “Feeling better?” he asked, as Cas scooted into the booth

“A little,” Cas said. He didn’t look away from Dean, not yet. “Enough.”

Dean cleared his throat and dropped his gaze to the menu, flipping it open like it had just insulted him. “Order the damn waffle this time, Cas. Last thing you need is another burger. Your stomach’s not built for it.”

Cas tilted his head slightly. “But I like the burgers.”

Dean huffed—part exasperation, part something else. “Yeah, well… just don’t throw up in my car.”

Cas allowed a faint smile, barely there. “I’ll do my best. What is a ‘Super Deluxe Choco-Fudge Volcano Sundae Surprise’?”

“It’s ice cream,” Sam explained. “Cold dessert. Usually comes in a glass, topped with syrup, whipped cream, sometimes a cherry.”

Cas’s brow furrowed. “So what makes it a surprise?”

”The surprise is you still got teeth after eating it.”

Cas frowned, tilting his head. “That doesn’t sound like a fun surprise.”

Dean barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, welcome to American cuisine. Half the menu’s tryin’ to kill you, the other half’s just gonna make you regret living.”

Cas’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his tone stayed mild. “And yet you order from it daily.”

Dean smirked over the rim of his coffee cup. “That’s because I’m a professional. Years of training.”

When the waitress came by, Dean straightened slightly, all easy charm and worn-in confidence. “Hey there,” he said, voice dropping just a touch. “We’ll take two of your best burgers, fries, coffee—black as sin, thanks.”

She smiled, tucking her pen behind one ear. “You sure know what you want.”

Dean gave her that familiar half-grin, the one that curled slow at the corner. “Well, I know a good thing when I see it.”

Sam rolled his eyes without looking up. Cas said nothing—but his eyes didn’t leave Dean’s face.

Dean jerked his chin toward Cas, still looking at the waitress. “And whatever he wants, too.”

Cas, watching the entire exchange with a gaze that felt both distant and too direct, finally said, “The same.”

Cas didn’t miss the way Dean slid the fake credit card across the table with practiced ease, the motion quick, almost careless, like he’d done it a thousand times. Sam kept his eyes down. None of them mentioned the truth: every meal like this was borrowed, stolen on plastic with someone else’s name on it. Food wasn’t comfort. It was survival, and even that came on credit.

He thought of Jamie—how easily he’d pull crumpled bills from his pockets, casual as breathing. Flashing cash like it didn’t cost anything. It probably came from the same place his brightness did: pills and powders, little orange bottles rattling in drawers and glove boxes. Cas remembered the hum in Jamie’s voice after a dose, the soft blur at the edges of his words, like nothing could hurt him anymore. Like the world had been turned down to something manageable.

The craving rose quick and sudden—white-hot and sharp. Not for a high. Just for relief.

He looked down at his own hands—still, pale, unremarkable. Human. Empty.

Cas’s wondered If he stayed human… then what?

He’d need money. A job. Something real—something steady.

Heaven hadn’t prepared him for this.

He’d spent lifetimes walking through the heavens of others—scenes looped in soft light: families at dinner tables, lovers wrapped in each other, children laughing in backyards that never wilted. It was what souls wanted. What they clung to.

Those places had always felt too loud. Too close. All that warmth pressed into forever, and none of it meant for him.

Angels didn’t have children. They had Father. They had each other. That was it. Mates, families, parenthood—those were human things.

Gabriel had tried, in his own scattered, chaotic way—half-human children left behind in stories and bloodlines. Cas had never understood how he did it. How he belonged in both places.

His eyes drifted toward the counter just as the waiter came back with their food, three burgers stacked carefully on plates balanced in each hand. He slid one in front of Sam, then Dean, and finally set Cas’s down last. When he straightened, his gaze lifted, and their eyes caught—just a glance, but it held too long. His pupils were blown wide, a jitter beneath his smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Cas recognized it instantly—the restless edge, the way need sat just beneath the skin.

The man was handsome—sharp jaw, tired eyes, the kind of roughness that made him look both breakable and dangerous. His hand lingered on Cas’s plate a moment longer than necessary. “Burger’s best hot,” he said, voice pitched low, almost conspiratorial. “Bet you’ll like this one. It’s my favorite.”

Dean’s fork clattered against his plate before he even picked it up. “Yeah, thanks, we’re good here,” he cut in, voice rougher than it needed to be. The waiter flicked him a quick, cool glance, then looked back at Cas, grin tugging sharper.

“You let me know if it’s not cooked right,” he said, tone dropping into something almost teasing. “Wouldn’t want you walking away disappointed.”

The words landed heavy, pointed. Cas’s chest tightened, and he swallowed hard, the hunger burning hotter, tangled—drug and desire, indistinguishable, relentless. He looked up at the waiter. Held the gaze this time. “I’ll let you know,” Cas said, his voice rough, low. “Though I doubt I’ll walk away.”

The waiter grinned wider. “Good to hear.” He tapped the edge of the table twice, a light rhythm that sounded like a promise, then turned and walked off — slow enough to be noticed.

“Well, damn,” Dean said, dry as dust. “Didn’t know flirting was part of the lunch special.” He took a sip of coffee, eyes fixed on his plate. “Might wanna tip him extra for the show.”

Sam cleared his throat and leaned back, tone shifting lighter. “So, about that nest in Topeka—think we’re gonna need more silver rounds, or did we burn through the last of the stock? Might be worth swinging by Bobby’s before we head out again.”

Dean’s eyes flicked up, “We’ve got enough. What we need is to keep the damn trunk organized. Last time I couldn’t even find the machete.”

Sam nodded, seizing the thread, feeding it back. “Yeah, well, maybe if you didn’t toss everything in like it’s laundry, we wouldn’t lose half our arsenal under a pile of greasy rags.”

Cas stayed quiet, listening. He recognized the rhythm—Small talk, work talk, talk that wasn’t about him. A fragile reprieve, but a reprieve all the same. Still, the words scraped against him. “The… uh… knives could be sorted by length,” he added, tone brisk, almost studious. “Shortest to longest. That would make retrieval efficient. Or perhaps by sharpness, though that would require regular assessment.”

Maybe that was what was left. Just more hunting. Another war. Only now there was no grace to shield him. No power to knit wounds closed. Just skin and bone and consequence. One mistake, and someone might not come back. Maybe him.

Dean stared at him for a beat, then snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, Cas, we’ll get right on the blade-measuring contest. Real practical.” His mouth twitched, betraying the start of a grin he didn’t bother to hide. “God, you’re terrible at small talk.”

Cas tilted his head, considering this. “It wasn’t meant to be small. It was meant to be useful.”

Dean huffed, the sound closer to a laugh this time.

Cas, encouraged by the shift, tried again. “Light can also be sorted. By wavelength. Humans only perceive a narrow spectrum—visible light—but there are countless others layered around you. Infrared, ultraviolet, gamma. It’s strange you can’t see them. You walk in a world saturated with color, yet you’re almost blind to most of it. The same cant be said for the humble rabbit who loves to jump amongst light and wavelength.”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, but his grin widened anyway. “Cas, seriously? We’re talking about weapons, and you jump to—what? Gamma rays? You’re like a walking science channel.” He shook his head, amused despite himself. “No wonder you’re crap at small talk.”

Cas frowned faintly, but only said, “I was attempting to participate.”

Dean let out a rough chuckle, softer this time. “Yeah, well… mission accomplished. You’re definitely participating.” He shot him a look across the table, fond despite the words.

Cas tilted his head, considering Dean’s words. “A scientist,” he repeated, like he was testing it aloud. “That’s… a job?”

Dean blinked. “Yeah, Cas. It’s a job. People actually get paid to talk about gamma rays and rabbit eyes. Hell, if you stayed human, you’d probably run a lab within a month. Terrify the interns.”

Cas narrowed his eyes slightly, not entirely sure whether that was praise or insult. “I wouldn’t terrify them. I’d explain things clearly.”

“Exactly,” Dean said, biting back a smirk. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Dean reached across a moment later, plucked a fry from Cas’s plate, and flicked it at him. It bounced harmlessly against his coat. Cas only raised a brow, picked it up, and ate it as though nothing unusual had happened.

Dean barked a laugh. “God, you’re such a weirdo.”

Cas tilted his head. “You’re the one throwing food.”

“Point still stands.”

There was a small pause—comfortable, quiet. Then Cas said, more to his menu than to either of them, “I couldn’t be a scientist if you were still hunting.”

Dean looked up, caught off guard. “Why not?”

Cas didn’t hesitate. “Because I’d be thinking about what you were facing. About whether you were injured. Whether you’d come back.”

Dean’s smirk faded—just slightly. He shifted in his seat. “Well, then I’d be your lab assistant,” he muttered, almost too fast. “You could boss me around with clipboards and graphs. I’d wear a white coat and everything.”

Cas blinked. “You don’t even like paperwork.”

Sam glanced between them, chewing slowly. “I’m just picturing Dean trying to operate a centrifuge.”

Dean shot him a look. “I’d figure it out.”

“You once tried to fix the toaster with a gun.”

“That toaster was *possessed.*”

“It was unplugged.”

Cas was quiet, then said, completely serious, “I could teach you. The lab equipment. Not the toaster.”

Dean gave him a sideways look—half amusement, half something else. But it faded fast. His smile didn't quite stick. He leaned back in the booth, mouth tightening as he grabbed his drink and took a long sip.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice flatter. “Well. None of that’s happening, so.”

Silence blinked into place for a beat too long. Sam glanced down at his plate.

Dean kept going, eyes fixed somewhere far past the window. “You’re not staying human. And this is the life. That’s just not how it works.”

Cas didn’t respond right away. He only watched Dean, expression unreadable. But something in him went still—like a door closing quietly somewhere deep inside.

Dean must’ve felt it. He shifted in his seat, ran a hand down his jaw like he was brushing something off. “It was just a joke,” he muttered. “Forget it.” Dean nudged his glass toward Cas with the straw tilted over. “You got Coke, right? Just regular?”

Cas glanced at his own drink—dark, fizzing softly. “Yes.”

“Cherry’s better,” Dean said, almost smug. “Here—try mine.” He pushed the glass closer, insistence wrapped in casualness. “Can’t go through life without knowing what you’re missing.”

Cas hesitated, then leaned in, taking a measured sip. His brows drew together, faintly puzzled at the sweetness. Dean was watching him, waiting, the corner of his mouth already quirking up.

“Well?” Dean pressed, grin tugging wider. “Worth it?”

Cas’s lips curved faintly, almost imperceptible, but real. “It tastes good. Sweet.” His gaze stayed on Dean as he said it, as though the verdict mattered more than the drink itself.

Sam snorted, leaning back against the booth. “Cas, you don’t have to agree with everything Dean likes, you know. Pretty sure cherry Coke isn’t a sacred bond.”

Dean shot him a look, half a glare, half amusement. “He’s his own person, Sam. He can like what he likes.” He tipped his chin toward Cas, grin edging back in. “Right, Cas? You’ve got your own opinions.”

Cas’s smile widened by a fraction. “Yes, Dean.” He spoke it with quiet certainty, as though it were not about the drink at all. “I do.”

Sam groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Perfect. That right there? Prime example.”

Dean only laughed under his breath, shaking his head, but he didn’t look away from Cas. Not right away.

When the waitress came back, Dean didn’t bother with the menu. “One Super Deluxe Choco-Fudge Volcano Sundae Surprise. Extra cherries.” He tipped his chin toward Cas like the decision had already been made for him. Then, with a quick flash of a grin, he added, “And make sure it’s the biggest one you’ve got. Guy’s got an appetite.”

The waitress smirked as she jotted it down, her eyes lingering on Dean just a beat longer than necessary. Dean gave her a lopsided smile in return, easy and practiced, the kind of charm he pulled out like a spare weapon. “Appreciate it, sweetheart,” he drawled, handing the menu back with a wink that made her laugh on her way to the counter.

Cas’s jaw tightened. Flirtation, casual and careless, His eyes had caught on the table’s surface—dark varnish worn thin in places, the grain of the wood running in uneven waves. He traced the lines with his eyes, following them back to the idea of the tree they’d been cut from. Once alive, now flattened and lacquered, holding the weight of their elbows and their silence. He wondered if Dean ever noticed such things, or if he was the only one distracted by the ghosts in ordinary objects. Almost without thinking, his nail scratched lightly at the finish. A thin curl of lacquer lifted under the pressure, revealing the truth beneath: not wood at all, only imitation pressed and painted to resemble it. Not real, never had been. Just a surface pretending to be something stronger, older, alive.

Before he could say anything else, the waitress returned with a massive sundae balanced in her hands—towering with whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and an almost ridiculous pile of maraschino cherries.

“One Super Deluxe Choco-Fudge Volcano Sundae Surprise,” she announced, setting it down in front of Cas with a wink. “With extra cherries. Just like he ordered.”

Cas didn’t look at her. His eyes were still on Dean. “Thank you,” he said—though it wasn’t entirely clear who he was thanking.

The chill spread unpleasantly through his chest, sharp as winter air. He could not fathom how humans endured it for pleasure. Still, he let his expression remain neutral, even slightly curious, as though he were considering the flavors rather than fighting against them. But after a few more attempts, the act frayed. The cold made his jaw ache, his stomach twist. Cas lowered the spoon and slid the glass carefully across the table. He watched the condensation trail down the side of the dish. Something about it felt temporary. Melting. Already ending.

Dean leaned back in the booth, stretched his arm along the top of the seat, and said, too casually, “Better enjoy it while you can. Might be your last real meal before Gabriel zaps you back into the sky. I just meant—y’know. Once you’re back to full power. Angel stomach doesn’t really do sundaes.”

His jaw tightened, words weighted. “I don’t remember asking to be fixed.”

Dean froze with the spoon halfway to his mouth. For a beat, the only sound was the clink of glass from another table, the low hum of the diner’s neon sign. He set the spoon back down, too hard, and cleared his throat. “That’s not what I meant.”

Cas didn’t look away. “Then what did you mean?”

Dean shifted in his seat, arm slipping from the booth as if the casualness had burned out of him. “Just—look, Cas. You were never built for… this.” He gestured vaguely at the table, the sundae, the diner around them. “You’re meant for more than greasy spoons and credit card scams.”

Cas’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table, the imitation wood biting against his skin. “And yet,” he said evenly, “this is where I am. Now if you would excuse me.”

Cas moved through the diner with careful purpose, slipping past the counter and around the corner toward the hallway marked Restrooms. But instead of entering, he redirected to the counter where the waiter was stacking plates onto a tray. Cas paused for only a second—but it was enough.

The waiter glanced up. His smile shifted, caught somewhere between interest and calculation. “You guys just passing through?”

Cas tilted his head slightly, eyes unreadable. “Yes.”

“Shame.” The guy stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You’ve got one of those faces. Like you’ve seen hell and walked out with the matchbook.”

Cas blinked slowly. “More than once,” he murmured.

Their eyes held—longer than necessary. Cas wasn’t smiling, but something in his stare tugged the air tighter between them.

“You work late?” Cas asked, voice low and measured.

The waiter’s smile widened, intrigued now. “Late enough. You trying to make plans, stranger?”

Cas didn’t break eye contact. He leaned in, slow, like gravity didn’t apply to him. His voice dropped to something rougher—still quiet, but thick with weight. “You think you can convince your boss to let you slip out for a few? Say… five minutes?”

Eli’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he didn’t move back. If anything, he shifted forward. “You got something in mind?”

Cas’s lips barely moved. “I think you know what I’m looking for.”

Silence stretched between them—taut, electric. Then Eli nodded, almost imperceptibly. His voice came low and certain. “Out back. Five.”

Cas straightened like nothing had happened. Just a blink, just a breath. He turned and walked away without another word, like he’d merely confirmed the weather.

The alley behind the diner was narrow and half-lit, the air thick with fryer grease and the hum of a buzzing utility light. A single dumpster stood crooked near the back wall, the ground stained with old oil and gravel dust. Cas leaned against the bricks, arms crossed, breath low and even—but his eyes didn’t stop moving.

He didn’t feel steady. But he stood still anyway.

Footsteps echoed around the corner a minute later—soft, quick. Eli stepped into view, still in his apron, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. He glanced back once before facing Cas, slower now, reading the air.

“Didn’t think you’d follow through,” Eli said, voice quieter now, lacking the earlier flirt. He wasn’t performing anymore.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” Cas replied.

Cas had come looking for it. That much was clear to himself, even if he didn’t name it out loud. His steps had led him here with a single intention: score something strong enough to quiet the static in his chest.

Eli came closer, steps soft over the cracked pavement, and the air between them shifted. Not tense, but charged. When Cas leaned in, the kiss wasn’t tender, wasn’t desperate—it was measured, a soldier’s move, direct and efficient. An opening. A way to get what he came for.

Eli’s grip tightened in Cas’s coat, holding him in place like he wasn’t ready to let go. Cas didn’t close his eyes. He kept them open, steady, watching, offering nothing but presence. It was enough to make Eli pause, then laugh under his breath. He slipped a hand into his apron and pulled out a small pill bottle, label rubbed blank. He held it low, shaking it once so the pills rattled inside. “This what you’re after?”

Cas didn’t answer right away, only tilted his head, gaze steady. The hunger in his chest spoke louder than words. Eli’s lips curved, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. He tipped the bottle, shook a few pills into his palm, then lifted his hand to Cas’s mouth. Cas parted his lips without hesitation, the bitter chalk pressing against his tongue. Before he could swallow, Eli leaned in, chasing the taste with a kiss—hard, insistent, carrying the faint dust of powder between them.

The world thinned to breath and heat, the sharp edge of chemicals dissolving down Cas’s throat. Eli’s fingers lingered at his jaw, holding him there like the moment itself was the drug. “Don’t rush it,” Eli murmured against his mouth, voice rough. “Better when you let it in slow.”

Cas didn’t reply. He only followed, the line between want and need already blurred, his hand curling into Eli’s shirt as if to anchor himself to the promise of silence, of escape.

….

Dean didn’t say anything at first, but his posture had shifted—the slight lean forward, the look over the rim of his cup. His eyes tracked Cas all the way back to his seat.“You’ve been gone a while.”

Cas didn’t blink. “I was making conversation.”

Dean took a long drink of his soda, then set it down harder than necessary. “I don’t trust that guy,” he muttered.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Who?

The waiter. Too friendly. You see the way he smiled? That’s predatory behaviour.”

Sam blinked, turning toward him. “Cas, did he seem like a predator to you?”

Cas didn’t answer right away. His mind flicked back—grit under his boots, Eli’s hand at the back of his neck, the sharp taste of breath between closeness and transaction. The alley had smelled like grease and heat and asphalt. Nothing dangerous. Nothing kind, either.

He kept his expression neutral. Detached.

“He seemed... pleasant,” Cas said.

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. Eli had smiled. He’d touched Cas like someone who knew what was being offered. He hadn’t asked questions. That was what Cas needed.

Across the table, Dean made a scoffing noise. Sam was still watching him, brows creased. Cas looked down at his water glass, eyes tracking the condensation sliding down the side. The ice had nearly melted.

“I’m just saying,” Dean continued, eyes still narrowed at the counter like the guy might sprout fangs at any moment, “could be a shapeshifter. Or a siren. I’ve seen worse disguises. That guy’s probably lured half the town into a walk-in freezer by now.”

“He gave me his number,” Cas said calmly, “Not a knife.”

Dean frowned. “That’s exactly how sirens start. Real charming. Real nice hair. Next thing you know, they’re eating your liver.”

Sam looked at him over his burger. “I doubt a guy named Eli who serves coffee and wears sneakers with skulls on them is a monster in disguise.”

“You cant know that Sam.” Dean snapped, way too fast.

Cas didn’t say anything. He took another sip of his water, eyes still steady on Dean.

Dean looked at him. Then at the slip of paper. Then back at him.

“...You’re not gonna text him, right?”

Cas tilted his head slightly. “Why not?”

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Took another angry sip of his Coke.

Sam sighed, leaning back in the booth. “This is gonna be such a long trip.… What’s that?” His eyes weren’t on Cas’s face anymore—they were fixed lower, narrowing at the faint shimmer peeking from beneath Dean’s collar. It pulsed faintly, golden-white, a glow muted by fabric but unmistakable to anyone who knew what to look for.

“Its nothing Sammy.”

Sam leaned back slightly, frown deepening. “Dean,” he said carefully, “why the hell does it look like you’ve got a piece of Heaven strung around your neck?” His tone hovered between accusation and disbelief, as if asking out loud might change what his eyes had already told him.

Castiel blinked at him, then followed his gaze, realization settling in without alarm. His lips parted. “That is my grace,” he said simply, the words quiet, unguarded, offered like fact rather than confession. “I entrusted it to Dean for safekeeping.”

Sam’s head snapped back toward him, expression caught somewhere between shock and incredulity. His brows lifted, mouth opening as though to form the obvious question. Cas watched the reaction unfold, faintly puzzled at the intensity of it. To him, it had been natural. Necessary. Barely worth remarking on. But Sam looked as though the floor had just given way beneath him.

Across the table, Dean still didn’t look at Cas, didn’t look at Sam either—just kept his gaze fixed on some invisible point over Sam’s shoulder, as though by sheer will he could force the subject away. But his silence carried weight, heavy and raw, and Castiel could feel it pressing between them like a verdict he hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

“Why would you do that, Cas?” Sam asked, eyes narrowing. “That’s not just some weapon you hand off. That’s your grace.”

Cas blinked, then glanced at Dean—just briefly—before answering “It’s like… planting a seed in a field you know will burn,” he said, voice low and strange. “So that when the ash cools, and nothing remembers the fire, the first thing to rise will be the thing that matters most.”

The silence that followed was thick, unbroken.

Sam frowned. “What does that even—”

Cas tilted his head, expression unreadable. “Dean understands,” he said softly.

Dean let out a slow breath through his nose, the muscle in his cheek twitching once. “You sure as hell like talking pretty when you don’t want to explain a damn thing.”

Dean’s boot pressed against his shin beneath the table. Not hard—just enough to carry intent, a silent command to stop speaking. Castiel blinked at the contact, faintly puzzled. It was not language he understood. If Dean wanted silence, why not simply say so? Still, the pressure lingered like a challenge, and Castiel answered in kind, nudging back with deliberate precision.

Dean did not withdraw. Instead, his foot shifted forward, catching against Castiel’s ankle. Castiel tilted his head slightly, outwardly calm, but beneath the table he maneuvered his own shoe over Dean’s boot, pinning it. Dean countered, slipping free only to trap him again. The rhythm built quickly—press, retreat, trap, release—an unspoken contest unfolding in the narrow space between them.

Sam, absorbed in his own thoughts, noticed nothing. Dean’s mouth twitched once, betraying the edge of a smile before it disappeared.

Eventually their boots caught and held, tangled together in a stalemate. Neither moved, neither yielded. The warmth of Dean’s leg pressed through the barrier of fabric, and Castiel did not pull away. He assumed this was what best friends did—small games, wordless contests that proved the connection between them. It wasn’t something he would attempt with Sam; he did not particularly like Sam, and whatever existed between them lacked the same tether. No, this was theirs alone. A manifestation of that profound bond he and Dean shared, a way to play without speaking.

Dean shifted back suddenly, his shoulders stiffened, his gaze dropping to his plate. Color touched his ears, quick and unguarded. Castiel did not follow. He turned instead toward the window, watching the neon sign outside stutter against the daylight. Better, perhaps, to look outward than to dwell on confusing situations.

Sam stood, muttering something about the bathroom, and left them with the clatter of the diner fading behind him. The moment he was gone, Dean reached across the table—not hesitantly, not gently. His hand closed over Castiel’s, firm and grounding, as though daring him to move.

Castiel blinked, startled by the sudden warmth. His eyes flicked down to their joined hands, then back up.

“Why do you look like that?” Dean asked, voice low, edged with something closer to demand than concern.

“Like what?”

“Your eyes are blown. You’re slow. You keep smiling at nothing.”

“I feel fine,” Castiel said, unsure whether it was the right answer. It was true. He did feel fine. Lighter than usual. Buoyant, even. “Better than fine.”

Dean’s grip tightened. “Don’t give me that.” He leaned in, tone dropping. “I know that son of a bitch gave you something, Cas. Do I need to search you again?”

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “Search me?”

Dean’s gaze held his, unrelenting. “This—” he tightened his grip, “—this is what you wanted, right? To find Gabriel. To get answers.”

“Of course.” Castiel squeezed back, steady, as if the pressure of his hand could carry all the reassurance words couldn’t.

Dean let go only long enough to tug the cord from around his neck. The necklace hit the table between them with a soft clink. He pushed it across the worn surface. “Take it.”

Castiel didn’t move. He regarded it the way one might regard an artifact too powerful to touch—something dangerous in its simplicity. At last, he lifted his gaze to Dean.

“You’re holding it for a reason,” he said quietly, tone even, deliberate. “And I’m not ready to take it back.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “The reason being?”

Castiel hesitated. Part of this had been an experiment. He needed to see if Dean behaved differently with grace close to him—if it pulled at him the way it had pulled Jamie, twisting awe into hunger. But beneath that, something older stirred, buried deep in the core of what he was. An angelic instinct—unfathomable, protective, rising without his consent—urged him to anchor his grace to Dean, to keep him shielded from harm. And tangled with it, something more unsettling, something he couldn’t untangle or name: the need to mark Dean as his, to make it known. A claim. A message. It confused him, unsettled him, yet the impulse clung all the same, undeniable.

He leaned forward before Dean could press him further, raising a hand to Dean’s face. His touch was featherlight at first, fingertips tracing the line of Dean’s jaw as though steadying him in place. Then his thumb moved, brushing along Dean’s lower lip—slow, deliberate, instinct carrying him past reason. Dean’s breath hitched at the contact, and suddenly they were too close, the air between them shared, warm with mingled breath.

It was ironic but Cas needed to know as he searched his eyes for signs—flickers of need, the hollow gleam of dependency.

“Cas—what the hell are you doing?” His voice cracked low.

“Looking,” Castiel said simply, tone calm, almost clinical, though his voice had roughened too. At last, he withdrew fully, watching Dean, cataloguing every shift in his expression. “How do you feel?”

“How do I feel?” He scoffed weakly, leaning back into the booth as if distance could undo what almost happened. “Like I’ve been living on bad coffee and worse sleep. Same as always.” He shoved the necklace an inch closer, jaw set, though his eyes betrayed the weight of what lingered unspoken. “Take it back,” Dean said. “Take your grace back.”

Cas didn’t move.

Dean’s voice went low. Tight. “Because I swear to God, if I have to watch you spiral into some junkie knock-off of yourself while babysitting your nuclear heart around my neck? I’ll lose it. I’ll fucking lose it, Cas.”

The words hung there, sharp and final. But his hands stayed on the table, palms open, like maybe—just maybe—this was a plea more than a demand.

”I need you to keep it Dean,” he said, his voice softer now but unwavering. “Just a little longer.”

Dean’s eyes flickered, his mouth twitching like he might argue again—but instead he nodded once, abrupt. “Okay,” he said, voice low, agreeable in a way that surprised Cas. Then Dean leaned in slightly, his tone dropping to something rougher, more private. “But I want you to do something for me too. And don’t ask questions.”

Cas tilted his head, already preparing to answer, to give. But the request never came. The bathroom door creaked, Sam’s long stride cutting back across the diner floor. The moment folded in on itself, Dean snapping upright, his face shuttering back into practiced indifference. He disappeared into himself in an instant, shoulders locked, jaw hard, as though nothing had been exchanged at all.

Dean muttered “Bathroom” under his breath, and stood, already turning away before Sam could respond. His retreat was too quick, too sharp, leaving the air hollow in his absence.

Sam slid back into the booth with a sigh and some perfunctory comment about the coffee being sludge. The words barely registered. What struck Castiel more was the hollow space where Dean had been. The absence ached, sharp and unwelcome, tugging at him with more force than he wanted to admit. He was touching Dean too much lately, letting instinct and want drive him past restraint. He needed to pull back before it unraveled him further. He shifted slightly in his seat, realizing he might be stuck here awhile, the ache not going anywhere. So he forced himself toward the only distraction at hand: Sam. He turned just enough to acknowledge him, catching the thread of whatever question was hanging in the air about angels, about grace. The words were dull, flat, but at least they gave his mind something else to gnaw on.

Sam leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, his tone sharper now. “Why’d you give it to him, Cas? Grace—whatever it really is to you. I mean, I get that it’s power, but it’s more than that, isn’t it? What does it mean?”

Castiel held his gaze, expression flat. “It means many things.” He let the words hang there, heavy and insufficient. Sam didn’t blink, didn’t let him stop there. His mind reached for the words in Enochian, the language older than human speech, layered in meanings Sam would only half-grasp. “Ⲉⲣⲉⲑⲉⲓ ⲕⲉⲣⲉ ⲭⲁⲣⲉⲛⲟⲕⲉ,” he said, voice low, steady. Then softer still, almost to himself, “Ⲙⲁⲣⲉⲕⲓ ⲟⲩⲣⲉⲅⲉⲛⲓ, ⲕⲉⲛⲓⲟⲩⲗⲓ ⲁⲣⲭⲉⲓⲛ.” The syllables shimmered with layers of meaning—protection, anchoring, the act of binding light into flesh.

“Protection against collapse?” Sam frowned, trying to follow, his brow knitting with concentration. He knew Enochian, yes—but haltingly, like someone navigating scripture with a cracked lens. He caught fragments, but never the whole.

Cas could feel the gap, the way Sam strained to interpret, and leaned into it, hiding comfortably in half-truths. “Grace is… essence,” he added in English. “Breath. Fire. What remains when flesh is stripped away.” He let the thought trail, the edges blurred. His own memory betrayed him, gaps widening where once knowledge had lived clear. Ⲁⲣⲭⲉⲓⲛ ⲉⲣⲉⲩⲭⲉⲛⲓⲁⲥ, he thought suddenly—the root that steadies the vessel—but even that felt hollow, stripped of context.

Sam leaned forward. “Sometimes what?”

Cas blinked, the words slipping away. He reached for the pen stuck behind the waitress’s pad on the table and snatched a napkin. Without speaking, he scrawled a rough Enochian sigil across the thin paper, the lines crooked under his rushed hand. He turned it toward Sam. The symbol glared up at them, stark and angular. Sam studied it, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cas stared at it himself, unsettled. Once, it would have sprung to his tongue effortlessly—every curve alive with layered truth. Now it was just a mark he recognized without knowing why. The meaning hovered, empty, unreachable. He felt irritation coil in his chest, sharp and restless. “It means…” He shook his head once, jaw tightening. “I don’t recall.”

He crumpled the napkin in one hand, the ink bleeding faintly into his palm. Annoyance radiated through him—at the lapse, at Sam’s persistence, at himself. “Some things aren’t meant for translation,” he muttered, dismissive, though the hollowness of the words scraped at him.

He thought about the gap that stretched between them—between their two worlds, their two cultures. To Sam, everything was meant to be explained, translated, made orderly. To Cas, some things simply were. The language of angels wasn’t built for human mouths, just as human questions were never built to hold the weight of eternity. And sitting here, caught between them, he felt foreign. Always foreign. At odds with the room around him, straining to bridge a divide that would never close.

He realized, with a hollow pang, that he was always trying too hard with Sam. Trying to phrase things in ways that would land, to be understood, to make himself less alien than he was. And still Sam looked at him like he was broken scripture—half readable, half nonsense. And maybe Sam was right. Maybe he was broken. The thought pressed heavy in his chest, unwelcome but undeniable. His memory fractured, his words incomplete, even his own explanations slipping like water through his fingers.

He folded the crumpled napkin tighter in his fist, frustration grinding against the ache inside him. When he opened his eyes again, he didn’t meet Sam’s gaze. Instead he fixed on the neon outside the window, its stuttery glow more honest than anything he could offer. “I can’t make it make sense,” he admitted, the words low, raw. “Not even to myself.” The truth tasted bitter.

“C’mon, let’s get moving,” Dean said as he came back, his hand landing on Sam’s shoulder in a quick, familiar clap.

Sam pushed back from the booth and sprang to his feet, grabbing his jacket in the same motion. Castiel rose after him, offering Eli a small smile as he passed.

Eli didn’t smile back. Instead, his hand shot out, catching Castiel’s sleeve. He tugged him just enough off balance to lean close, voice low and hurried. “Your boyfriend’s crazy,” he whispered, breath warm against Castiel’s ear. “You need to be careful.” He shoved the pill bottle into Cas’s hand. “Call me if you need anything.”

Castiel blinked at him, puzzled. He felt the strain in Eli’s grip, the urgency in his tone, Before he could respond, Eli released him, turning back to the counter like nothing had happened.

Castiel slid into the Impala behind Dean, the leather cold against his back. “What did you do to him?” he asked, his voice even.

Dean didn’t turn. His eyes stayed fixed on the dark stretch of road ahead. “Didn’t do anything.”

Cas studied the hard line of his jaw, the way his hands tightened against the wheel. “He seemed afraid,” he said.

Dean’s grip twitched tighter, knuckles pale in the dashboard light. “Yeah, well… I just made sure he wasn’t something we’d have to gank. That’s all. Human. End of story.”

“It wasn’t necessary,” Cas said. His tone didn’t rise, but the words cut clean. “I told you he was human.”

Dean gave a short, humorless laugh. “I’m just doing my job, Cas.”

“I wasn’t aware your job included harassing innocent humans,” Cas said, his gaze steady, unblinking. He let the silence stretch, pressing down heavy in the car until even the engine’s rumble felt loud. Then, quieter, cutting through the stillness, he added, “I know what this is really about.”

Dean’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer. He only drove faster, headlights cutting sharp across the empty road. “What’s that, Cas?”

“You don’t trust me,” Cas answered. His voice stayed flat, but his gaze didn’t waver. “You think I can’t take care of myself. That I’m… incapable.”

Dean’s mouth opened, then snapped shut again. His jaw worked, teeth grinding as he kept his eyes pinned to the asphalt rushing under the beams. “That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?” Cas pressed.

Dean’s knuckles whitened on the wheel until the leather creaked. “It ain’t important. Just drop it, Cas.”

From the back seat, Sam shifted, uncomfortable, glancing between them but staying quiet. He didn’t risk stepping into it.

Cas turned back to the window, the faint reflection of his own frown staring back at him. No one offered him an answer. And that, more than anything, told him he was right.

The window buzzed faintly against Castiel’s temple, the last smear of sunlight gone. Warmth and exhaustion pulled at him, and he let his eyes drift shut.

He woke to the sound of Dean and Sam arguing, their voices carrying sharper than they intended. They’d forgotten themselves, let the volume slip. Cas kept his eyes shut, breath steady. It was easier to continue to pretend to be asleep.

“You’re not looking at him, Dean.” Sam’s voice was low but sharper than before, threading through the hum of the road. “Not really. You’re seeing what you want to see—like you always do with Cas.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m tired of tearing him apart every time he breathes. He’s here. He came back. That’s more than I can say for most.”

“And you think that’s all it takes?” Sam pressed. “Coming back doesn’t mean he’s okay. Hell, you know that better than anyone. How many times have we come back wrong?”

Dean’s jaw flexed. His hands tightened on the wheel, but he said nothing.

“He handed you his grace, Dean. Just gave it up. Do you even know what that means? Has he even told you?”

Dean’s voice was gravel. “He trusted me. That’s the whole story.”

Sam shook his head. “No, it’s not. It’s never that simple. I’ve been digging into the lore, Dean. Enochian, pre-Babylonian stuff—old texts, untranslated fragments. And guess what? Cas’s version of things? Doesn’t always match. A lot of it contradicts him.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, well, lore’s screwed us over before.”

“So we just ignore it?” Sam snapped. “Pretend the rules don’t matter this time? That what he gave you isn’t nuclear-level power strapped to your chest? What happens if that grace reacts? If it burns through you? Or if someone finds out you have it?”

Dean didn’t respond, but the weight in his silence deepened.

“And then there’s the other thing,” Sam continued, voice lower now. “He was out there hooking up with strangers, disappearing into bed with anyone—”

Dean barked a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Wow. So now you’re keeping tabs on his sex life? Gonna write up a Cas report card?”

“It’s not about that,” Sam snapped. “It’s about why. What if they weren’t strangers? What if he’s mixed up in something? Something that puts us in the crosshairs too?”

Dean slapped the wheel, eyes on the road. “You’re reading too much into it. He’s not scheming — he’s just... living. For once.”

Sam pressed on. “You still haven’t asked the real question. Why doesn’t he want his grace back? Not can’t—doesn’t. He could snap his fingers and be whole again, but he won’t.”

"Hell, maybe he just likes the burgers. Or maybe he finally pulled his head outta his ass and figured out being human’s not the worst thing—realized his dick’s got more use than just lookin’ pretty."

You really believe that?

“Hell no. We both know Cas wouldn’t last five minutes as a full-time human. And look at him — he’s proving it.” Dean’s grip tightened on the wheel, jaw tight. “He’s strung out, half-starving, waking up in places he doesn’t remember, hooked on crap that doesn’t even do anything for him. You think that’s him enjoying life? That’s not living — that’s him breaking. ”He shook his head, voice rough. “Cas… he’s too innocent for this. He’s got no idea how to lie, how to protect himself down here. Not really. He thinks people are good just because he wants them to be. And now he’s out there, no powers, no backup, getting used by whoever gives him a smile and a bed for the night.” Dean’s voice dropped lower, somewhere between anger and something else. “He’s not built for this, Sam. He’s not supposed to feel all this crap — guilt, pain, loneliness. Angels weren’t wired for that. And now he’s stuck in it, all of it, raw. No filters. No grace to balance him out.” His voice cracked slightly, barely. “He needs to go back. Before there’s nothing left to fix.” A beat. “But I know him — if he yanked out his grace, he had a damn reason.”

“That’s not an answer Dean. That’s blind faith. And blind faith has gotten us killed before.”

The Impala roared louder as Dean pressed the gas. The silence that followed cut raw. Then—thwack. Dean’s arm shot out, smacking Sam in the chest with the back of his hand. Not hard. Just final.

“Drop it Sam. Were finding Gabriel. Than were fixing this whole messed up situation. I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

Sam sucked in a breath, startled, then let it out slow. “Fine.” The word was bitten off, surrender in sound only.

Castiel shifted in the backseat, just enough to make his presence known. He didn’t say anything at first. Just let the silence drag long enough to be uncomfortable.

Dean glanced up at the rearview mirror, grunted. “You have a good nap, Sleeping Beauty?”

Cas didn’t look away from the passing trees. “That man—Eli. He thought you and I were… involved.” A pause. Longer this time. “I’m still not sure what gave him that idea. Human behavior is… inconsistent.” He turned, just a little. “Maybe it was the way you kept hovering.”

Dean stiffened behind the wheel. “Yeah, well. He also thought Bigfoot lived in his shed, so maybe don’t put too much stock in his people-reading skills.”

Cas kept going, voice cool. “Still. He seemed pretty sure.’”

Dean gripped the wheel tighter, his fingers tapping against the leather. “Yeah, well, people see what they wanna see.”

Cas tilted his head. “Maybe. But I’ve been wondering—if it was just a misunderstanding, why did he assume it was you?”

Dean blinked. “What?”

Cas continued, voice low, almost contemplative. “Sam was there too. Statistically, the odds were equal. But Eli looked right at me, then right at you, and just… decided.”

Dean shifted in his seat. “So now we’re talking stats?”

“I’m just curious,” Cas said innocently. “There must’ve been something.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, okay. Maybe it was the trench coat. Or the way you stare like you’re trying to drill holes into my soul.”

“I stare at Sam, too,” Cas said.

Sam raised a brow. “Please don’t bring me into this.”

Cas turned his gaze toward him, dead serious. “I’m just making an observation. You’re also tall. And proportionally… symmetrical. It’s a compliment.”

Dean barked a laugh, but it came out a little too sharp. “Great. Now he’s flirting with you? What is this, a side effect of humanity — hitting on everyone with a pulse?”

Sam raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Is this bothering you?”

Dean shot him a glare in the rearview. “What, Cas batting his lashes at you? Yeah, I’m real broken up about it.”

Cas looked between them, as flat as ever. “I wasn’t ranking either of you.”

Dean exhaled hard. “Great. Now he’s neutral and weird about it.”

Sam shrugged, casual. “You’re the one who got all twitchy over a burger and eye contact.”

Dean pointed at him without turning. “Keep talking, Sammy. I will end this road trip real fast.”

Cas blinked. “You can’t pull over here.”

Dean muttered, “Watch me.”

The car jerked abruptly to the right. Gravel popped beneath the tires as Dean pulled into a turnout—abandoned, empty, except for tire tracks like scars in the dirt.

Castiel didn’t move.

He watched Dean kill the engine and shove the door open in one fluid, angry motion. His movements were sharp, efficient—classic Dean in a mood. Sam followed a moment later, muttering something too low to make out, but Castiel didn’t try to catch it.

His fingers toyed absently with the cap of the pill bottle in his pocket. He hadn’t meant to bring it with him. He hadn’t meant to need it this badly.

Outside, the trunk slammed open. Dean’s voice cut through the cool air: “Nest’s two miles off the road. Locals say it’s vamps. Bodies drained and dumped along the creek. Let’s clean it up.”

Castiel still didn’t move.

He didn’t look up until Dean’s voice, closer this time, snapped, “You coming or what?”

Cas blinked at him, slow. Dean’s face was tight, lit from below by the harsh orange glow of the open trunk.

“I don’t think I’ll be much help,” Castiel said quietly.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Bull. We’ve seen you handle worse.”

“That was when I had grace,” Cas replied, his voice flat. “And conviction. And something worth proving.”

Dean just stared at him.

“I don’t,” Castiel added.

A long beat passed between them. Sam appeared beside Dean, machete in hand, scanning the tense silence.

“What’s going on?” he asked, gaze flicking between the two of them.

“He’s bowing out,” Dean said, tone like a blade drawn too fast.

Cas didn’t flinch. “It’s the smart call.”

“You sure?” Sam asked, cautious but not unkind.

“No,” Castiel said. “But it’s the one I’m making.”

He turned away from them both and shut the car door. The world beyond the glass dimmed instantly. He sat in the silence, the pill bottle resting in his hand, rolling end to end in slow, distracted circles. The ache in his chest tightened—not pain exactly. More like pressure. Like something was trying to collapse inward and he was letting it.

Outside, the trunk slammed again. Footsteps crunched over gravel, then faded into the trees.

Castiel closed his eyes, tilting his head back against the seat. He could still hear Dean’s voice—rough, impatient, laced with something harder to name. “Lets go, Before I say something I regret.”

Cas doubted that was true. Dean rarely regretted anything when it came to him. He just buried it deep and called it moving on.

Cas cracked open the pill bottle.

Maybe he’d stay just a little longer in the in-between—half-alive, half-wreckage, watching the rearview mirror for something that would never turn around.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13

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Mildew clung to the warehouse like rot behind plaster — old, cloying, inescapable. It mixed with the iron tang of motor oil and the dust of machines long since forgotten. The fluorescents overhead stammered in their sockets, spilling weak light that dragged shadows out too far, as if unsure of where to stop.

Castiel blinked against them. Human eyes struggled with nuance. The lines were sharper now, but emptier. Shadows no longer whispered meanings beneath their shape.

The summoning circle at his feet pulsed faintly. The paint was still wet in places — meticulous sigils drawn by hand, not grace. His fingers ached. Not from effort, but from the act of remembering how. Every stroke had been an imitation of something he once performed instinctively. Now it was just muscle memory and stolen knowledge from a life no longer his. He flexed his right hand, absently, as if the tingling might somehow resolve into certainty.

Dean loomed near the entrance, arms crossed, wearing that particular brand of restlessness that made him look like he might start pacing without realizing it. He hadn't spoken in minutes. He didn’t need to. The rhythm of his foot against the concrete — impatient, irregular — said enough. Castiel found himself watching it more than the circle, as if the uneven beat might somehow keep the world steady. It shouldn’t have mattered. It did. He would never admit aloud how grounding Dean was, even in his agitation. Once, divinity had been his compass. Now, it was this man, scowling in bad lighting, shifting his weight like he’d fight the air itself if it crossed him wrong.

Sam, more deliberate, crouched to inspect the perimeter of the circle, the glint of holy oil catching in the flicker of weak light. Castiel envied that deliberation. Sam’s hands moved with the careful logic of research. Dean’s fists curled with the promise of defiance. Both had their place.

Wind roared through the rafters. A metal chain rattled violently behind him; papers tore loose and spiraled into the chaos. The taste of ozone hit his tongue like a communion wafer left too long in the sun. He almost laughed at the sacrilege of it — how easily memory twisted sanctity into something stale.

The air snapped.

Not a sound, exactly. More like a rupture in pressure — the world holding its breath and exhaling all at once. He felt it first in his bones, the way a dog senses thunder before the clouds arrive. The circle blazed to life — not white, not yellow, but divine gold, the kind that scalded retinas and dragged reverence from marrow. Instinct made him flinch. Once, he would not have. Once, that light was home, kinship, command. Now it only reminded him how far he’d fallen, how much softer he’d become.

And yet — when he blinked through the brilliance, it wasn’t Heaven that steadied him. It was Dean, still there by the door, narrowed eyes catching the glow like green glass in firelight. Cynically, Cas thought he ought to resent that shift of loyalty, that dissonance between then and now. But the truth was simpler. Dean was no angel, no vengeful throne of light. Just human. Maddeningly, magnificently human.

When the light withdrew, something ancient lingered in the stillness. Grace—residual, but fading fast. He could almost miss it. Almost.

Gabriel stood in the center of the circle, barefoot, in a threadbare hotel bathrobe and novelty slippers shaped like some obscure cartoon animal. His hair jutted out, as though he’d only half-decided to materialize upright. He looked at them like a man confronted by a very disappointing room service order.

Castiel stared at him, unsure whether to speak, to step forward, or to apologize.

Gabriel’s arms crossed, mirroring Dean’s posture almost mockingly. His voice, when it came, was sandpaper coated in sugar.

“Seriously?” he said, voice sharp with irritation. “Middle of the night, abandoned warehouse, creepy chalk art on the floor—what part of this screams emergency?” His eyes slid to Castiel, narrowing. “And you. Little brother. You couldn’t just… call? Text? Carrier pigeon?”

Castiel didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, steady. “We need answers.”

“Yeah, well, I need REM sleep.” Gabriel gestured at his robe with both hands. “See this? This means I was off the clock. Do you even know how rare that is for me?”

Dean huffed. “Pretty sure your whole existence is off the clock.”

Gabriel shot him a look, then back to Castiel. “So. Let’s hear it. What was so important you had to drag me out here looking like the world’s saddest Hugh Hefner?”

Castiel’s gaze didn’t waver. “It’s about my Grace.”

For a moment, Gabriel’s expression flickered—irritation shifting into something harder to read.

“Of course it is,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. His eyes lifted again, and this time they caught on Dean. More specifically—on the faint glow of the vial resting against Dean’s chest.

Gabriel stilled. Then, slow, incredulous, he pointed. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me. Tell me I’m still dreaming, because there is no way you’re letting him wear that like it’s some kind of mood ring.”

Dean frowned, glancing down at it. “What? Cas gave it to me. Big deal.”

Gabriel barked out a laugh, though it came out sharp. “Big deal? Dean, that’s not a necklace. That’s an angel’s Grace. His Grace. You don’t slap that on a human unless—” He stopped, shaking his head, pacing once in a tight circle. “Unbelievable. He’s not just tangled up with you two anymore. He’s practically knotted.”

Castiel couldn’t not remember the significance Gabriel spoke of—but he refused to ask. Better silence than admitting the gap gnawing in his mind.

Gabriel gestured wildly between them. “You realize how wrong this is, right? Dean Winchester playing dress-up with what’s left of your soul? That’s not loyalty, Cas, that’s—you’ve hit a new level even I didn’t think you’d sink to. Congratulations.”

Dean bristled, jaw tightening. “Alright, slow down with the cryptic crap. What’s it mean then, huh? Why don’t you enlighten the class?”

Gabriel stopped, blinked, and then grinned—a mean, sharp edge to it. “Oh, that’s rich. You don’t even know what it means, do you? Walking around with that thing against your heart like it’s just another trinket. I swear, Winchester, you’re either the dumbest human alive or the luckiest. Probably both.”

The words hit the air heavy, half-joke, half-warning.

Then Gabriel’s grin thinned, his gaze snapping to Castiel. “But you—” his voice sharpened, humor stripped away, “you don’t get to play the ignorance card. Not with me. You knew exactly what you were doing when you handed that over. You’re reckless, but this?” His voice lowered, rawer now. “This isn’t just reckless—it’s dangerous. For you. For him. For all of us. You’ve crossed a line even Heaven wouldn’t dare touch.”

Castiel’s silence stretched. He searched for the memory Gabriel was certain existed, but found only absence. He schooled his face into stillness, unwilling to betray the hollowness behind it.

Dean looked between them, irritation mounting. “Cas—what the hell does he mean?”

Castiel’s eyes flickered to Dean, then away. “It isn’t important.” The lie was smooth, practiced. It was easier than admitting he didn’t know.

Gabriel laughed once, humorless. “Oh, it’s important, little brother. You just don’t have the guts to admit it.” Gabriel’s laugh snapped off, brittle. He fixed Castiel with a stare sharp enough to cut. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember. You knew, little brother. You always knew. And you stayed quiet. Soldier to the end.”

Castiel’s shoulders stiffened. Memory pressed in at the edges: blood on snow. Not the clean kill of a battlefield, but the messy spatter of something cornered, hunted. The wolf’s howls rattled chains hammered into stone, each cry less beast and more child. Naomi’s hand had been on his shoulder, hard, unyielding. Stand still, she’d ordered, and when he tried to move, soldiers twice his size forced him back into line. His arms pinned, his body braced between them, he had been made to watch as Heaven pried the wolf’s jaws apart and sealed the fetter with glowing sigils.

The sea boiled red with the serpent’s thrashing. Its coils shattered fleets, water surging high enough to drown the coast. The host had lined the cliffs in ranks, spears raised. Castiel had strained forward, desperate to break formation, but Naomi’s fingers dug into his wing, grinding bone, her voice cool in his ear: Hold your post. And when he tried again, hands seized him, shoved him to his knees, held his head toward the carnage as the spears rained down. He had been forced to watch the serpent bleed into the waves, every scream dragged into his ears as lesson.

The girl’s face haunted him most. Pale, still, gaze unflinching even as her sentence was spoken: condemned to rule the forgotten dead. Gabriel begged, voice cracking, fury and grief all tangled into a howl that made Castiel want to tear the walls down. He had tried to lunge forward then, wings flaring, but Naomi’s guard caught him, slammed him back against cold stone until his skull rang. Her grip in his hair forced his head upright, eyes fixed open as his niece was dragged through the gate. The doors shut, her scream echoing long after.

He had known. He had obeyed. He had turned away when Gabriel wept. Not because he chose to — but because they had bound him there, body and sight, until the lesson sank into his marrow.

And when he rebelled — when he disobeyed Naomi outright, clawed at his chains and tried to break formation — the white room followed. Angels pinned his limbs to the chair while she spoke calm as scripture, and the pain came not as correction but as annihilation. Blades carving into his grace, instruments tearing through feather and flesh, until his body convulsed and his cries gave way to silence. When it was over, he remembered nothing but the order she placed on his tongue. The fragments of defiance were erased, leaving only the hollow ache of something lost.

Gabriel’s children had been murdered not just to punish him, but to punish all of them. Their blood made into spectacle, obedience hammered into the ranks. This is what happens when you resist. This is what happens when you dare to love.

Now, in the warehouse, those memories bled back in jagged flashes: the grip on his shoulder, the weight of hands forcing him down, the echo of Gabriel’s begging. His fingers twitched uselessly at his sides, the ghost of restraints he could never fight off.

Dean stepped closer, the tension in his shoulders ratcheting higher. “Cas.” His voice was low, dangerous. “You gonna clue me in here, or do I have to start guessing?”

Castiel met his eyes for half a second—green fire and demand—and looked away again. “It isn’t—” His voice faltered. He forced it steady. “It isn’t your burden to carry.”

Dean swore under his breath, the sound rough with frustration. “The hell it isn’t. You hand me part of your soul and then tell me not to ask questions? That’s not how this works.”

Gabriel’s laugh rang hollow, brittle. “Oh, Cas. Still trying to shield him? That’s cute. It’s also pathetic. You kept silent when my children were dragged into chains, when they were torn apart for the crime of existing. Now you’re keeping silent for him.” His chin jerked toward Dean. “Different battlefield, same cowardice.”

Castiel’s fists tightened at his sides, nails cutting crescents into his palms. “Enough.”

Gabriel’s eyes burned, but he didn’t look away. “You think silence is mercy, little brother? All it does is write the obituary early.”

The weight of it hung between them—Dean’s anger, Gabriel’s bitterness, Castiel’s shame—until Sam finally stood, stepping away from the circle, his voice cutting through like steel.

“Then stop talking in riddles,” Sam said, calm but firm. “If there’s something we need to know—say it.”

Gabriel broke first, laughter ripping out of him — too loud, too jagged to sound amused. It bounced off the warehouse walls like glass shattering. He clapped once, twice, too many times, until the sound warped and carried on without him. “Riddles, huh? Sammy-boy wants answers? Fine, fine, I’ll play teacher.” He spun on his heel, robe flaring like some drunken king’s mantle. His eyes caught on Sam and lit up with wild delight. “Ohhh, tall, dark, earnest. Always loved the serious ones. You and me, big guy — we could’ve been a thing. Candlelight, cheap whiskey, maybe a little apocalypse in the background for ambience—”

.

The change is so sudden that Castiel doesn’t feel the shift, only the silence.

One moment, he’s standing in front of Gabriel, with Dean demanding clarity. The next, he’s nowhere—yet somewhere known. The Pit.

He’s back at the moment Dean broke in Hell.

“Dean?”

Dean doesn’t respond. Dean can’t see him.

Castiel moves, though his feet don’t quite touch the ground. The air is thick here, heavy with smoke and ash, screams pressed into the stone walls like stains that never fade. He knows this place. It’s the scar left on creation, the wound that never closes.

He remembers the first time he set foot here—not to watch, but to fight. He hadn’t come alone then. He’d led his brethren, a whole flock of angels, wings bright, swords drawn, their voices raised in harmony as they plunged into the Pit behind him. He was their commander, their shield, their hope. They followed without hesitation, trusting his lead into the black fire.

None of them made it out. Not one. Their light snuffed, their grace shredded, their voices silenced. Only Castiel survived, clawing his way back from the rot. Alone. Carrying the weight of every name, every face, every wing torn apart because they had trusted him.

Hell had changed him for it. Its corruption clung like tar, seeping into his feathers, staining them with streaks that never faded. His wings never gleamed again. He returned fractured, marked, the leader who lost everyone but himself.

Dean was what pulled him through. Meeting Dean had been the only thing that kept the rot from claiming him whole. Without that anchor, he would’ve been just another angel lost to the Pit’s hunger, one more blade dulled in the endless dark.

Cas looked up as another angel descended. Their wings slice through the dark like black fire, scattering lesser spirits. Their grace burned a path, fierce, uncompromising. They are not gentle in their descent; they are a weapon dropped into rot.

Dean stands over another spirit, its face twisted in pleading, its hands bound by chains that bite into nothingness. Dean’s laughter scrapes raw out of his throat, ugly, frantic, almost joyless in its edge. He doesn’t stop. The knife drives down again and again, and with each strike, blood that isn’t blood spatters the stone.

Then Dean shifts his grip, shoving his fingers into the screaming spirit’s face. With a sick, eager strength, he digs deep and pops one of its eyes free. The sound is wet, obscene—like something soft bursting between his fingers. He grins wider, holding the orb up between thumb and forefinger as if it were nothing more than a sweet plucked from a jar. With a careless flick, he tosses it aside, letting it roll across the stone. Another follows, just as quick, ripped free and discarded. Popping them out as easily, as thoughtlessly, as candy spilled from a bag. He doesn’t even flinch. He only laughs harder.

The angel halts.

Castiel watches their expression twist—first in recognition, then horror, then something colder. Disgust. He sees it settle on their face like a final judgment. For a moment, they linger. A hand lifts, almost reaching, almost daring. Their jaw tightens. They take a step forward.

He knows what they’re thinking. He’s thought it himself.

This—what he’s become—is a violation. Not of Heaven’s rules. Not just that. It’s deeper. Older. A crack in the order their Father left behind.

Angels weren’t made for destruction. Not in the way humans understand it. They were created to protect. To serve. To preserve the divine design—not dismantle it. Even when they were called to battle, it was never for conquest. Never for ego. It was always for order. For balance. For life.

And life…

Life was not just precious. It was *holy.*

He remembers what it felt like to first witness a human soul. Not just see it, but *feel* it—its radiance, its complexity, its unbearable fragility wrapped in such coarse matter. Every soul bore a different shape, a different color, a resonance that was singular and unrepeatable. No two were the same. Not ever. Not across centuries, not across galaxies. Each one was born of breath and chaos and will. Unscripted. Unreplicated.

Souls weren’t meant to be broken. Or used. Or spent like coin.

They were meant to be saved.

He had never done that before.

For millennia, Castiel had followed orders. He had watched cities fall, floods rise, temples crumble. He had watched civilizations rot from within and done nothing. Intervention was forbidden. Mercy, optional. He had never reached down. Never pulled anyone up. Never even *tried.*

Until Dean.

Dean’s soul had been buried in Hell when Castiel found it—chained, torn, corrupted at the edges. But it still burned. Brighter than anything he'd ever seen. Even in that place, surrounded by screams and ash, it had not dimmed. It fought. Even broken, it fought. And Castiel—against Heaven’s silence, against Hell’s claim—*took it back.*

That was the first good thing he had ever done.

Not following orders. Not killing demons. Not standing watch over sleeping empires. But this: one soul, torn from the pit, restored to the world. It had been a moment of clarity. Purpose. Almost...grace.

He hadn’t saved the world. Just one soul. But it had mattered.

Dean Winchester had mattered.

To see such a bright soul, once radiant, reduced to this—dragged down, broken, forced into cruelty. He had pitied him, mourned him, even as he reached to pull him free. It had never been Dean’s sin in his eyes, only Hell’s theft.

This angel sees differently. Where Castiel saw tragedy, they see only corruption. Where Castiel grieved, they condemn. Their face hardens, mouth set as though what crouches before them is no longer a man worth saving, but a thing that deserves to be put down.

Dean looks up.

His eyes catch the glimmer of grace, and something changes in him. His grin stretches too wide. His knife stills. Slowly, deliberately, he rises, wiping gore from his chin with the back of his hand.

The angel falters. A second too long.

Dean lunges.

He moves with a predator’s certainty, blade flashing upward. The angel recoils, shock sparking into fury at the audacity—at being challenged by a soul so twisted, so ruined. Their wings flare wide, black fire against the dark, and their grace lashes out in a violent arc meant to sear Dean back into the dirt where he belongs.

Dean only laughs, the sound jagged, mocking. His knife carves wild at the burning light, each strike reckless, defiant. He isn’t fighting to escape. He isn’t fighting to be saved. He fights because he wants to stay. Because this rot, this torment, has become his kingdom. His grin splits too wide as he spits, “I don’t need your damn rescue.”

The angel’s anger deepens, not only at the attack but at the insult of it—that a corrupted soul, one dragged into ruin, would dare to resist salvation. Their jaw clenches, eyes burning with contempt as they press forward. Grace flares again, sharp as a sword, intent on forcing submission. On dragging him out, willing or not.

“Stop,” Castiel whispers, voice raw, though no one can hear him. His throat aches with the plea. “Please—don’t do this. He isn’t just what Hell made of him.” His hands tremble uselessly at his sides. The words dissolve into silence. The angel doesn’t hear. Dean can’t hear.

He remembers the way it had been before—the way he had descended, wings already blackened, voice a command cutting through the screaming dark. He hadn’t begged then. He hadn’t pitied. He had demanded. He had forced Dean’s head up, had bound him in orders sharper than chains, had dragged him out whether he thought he deserved it or not. Dean had submitted—not willingly, not happily, but he had submitted. He had been saved because Castiel left him no choice.

But here, now, Castiel can only watch, powerless, as another angel tries and fails, and Dean bares his teeth against salvation itself.

The angel finally wins out and Dean staggers back into the world, dirt beneath his hands, air in his lungs.

But the angel who raised him doesn’t follow.

Their grace ruptures as they fall, light collapsing inward, silent as snowfall. No triumphant return. No flare of wings. Just the soft hush of something holy being extinguished. They die topside—alone, far from Heaven, their form scattered to wind and ash before any could even speak their name.

Castiel watches, powerless, as Dean drags himself forward. He can’t feel the grit in Dean’s mouth, the ache in his chest, but he knows what it is to crawl from the Pit—raw, ruined, unsure if the sky above is real or another trick of Hell. Dean makes his way to Bobby’s door, but it isn’t warmth that greets him. It’s the muzzle of a shotgun and suspicion hard in Bobby’s eyes.

“Get off my porch.”

Dean doesn’t argue. He doesn’t flinch. He almost agrees. Castiel feels the thought as much as sees it—Dean believing he belongs out there, in the dark, not here on earth. Bobby circles him, salt lines already laid, holy water waiting. “You ain’t him. You can’t be. He’s rotting six feet under and I burned the bones myself.”

Dean only stands there, silent, because part of him believes it too. Part of him thinks he’s still on the rack, still laughing in the dark, still chained in the Pit. That this is just another layer of torment. Castiel aches to reach for him, to say his name, to steady him—but he cannot. He only watches as Dean doesn’t blame Bobby, because how could he? When even Dean doesn’t believe he’s back.

When Sam finally finds him, Dean is already drinking hard. They hug like strangers. Castiel sees the hollow weight in Dean’s shoulders, the emptiness he carries, but there’s no name spoken for it. No confession. Just silence. The hole inside him festers. Without Castiel there to tell him otherwise, to insist he’s worth saving, Dean lets it rot. Dean is drowning in blood. Alastair is dead, but so is something that used to hold him back. He kills easily now. Too easily. Without Castiel’s hand to lift him *completely* free, the darkness never leaves—it just waits. Sam turns darker, faster. Ruby’s grip is absolute. The seals fall, one by one. And Dean, despite his protests, *lets them.* Not because he wants the world to end—

—but because he no longer believes he belongs in it.

Flicker.

His eyes stay shadowed. His soul—what’s left of it—slips out of reach. Sam dies—once, twice, more than Castiel can count. And Dean becomes something colder. Not a man clinging to purpose. A shell clinging to momentum. He kills with precision. He drinks without joy. He stops speaking. His reflection grows unfamiliar. What was unfinished in Hell becomes whole again. There is no Team Free Will. No grace. No anchor. Only Dean—reborn the way Hell intended. Smirking. Sharp. A demon with muscle memory and a blade in hand.

Castiel watches all of it unfold, He hunts. He eats. He drinks. He doesn’t speak unless he has to. And he never looks up.

Castiel watches all of it unfold, grief pressing into him like stone. This is Dean without him—this is the life he would have lived. Depression without reprieve. Rage without anchor. No reminder, no voice in the dark to tell him he was more than the Pit’s ruin. Just a man convinced he was never worth saving.

His chest tightens. His voice cracks as it leaves him. “You’re showing me this… because of my grace.”

The word tastes heavy. He presses on. “Because I gave it to him. Because I trusted him with it.” His hands clench, human and trembling. Even as he speaks, his gaze sweeps the void, cataloguing details, testing for weakness—the horizon too straight, the silence too absolute. “It was a risk. I knew it was. Grace is power. And power corrupts.” He takes a step, dragging his hand along the wall that isn’t a wall, fingers searching for a seam, some flaw in Gabriel’s illusion. His breath shudders, but he refuses to falter. “But I know him. He is my best friend. He is not what you showed me.” He presses harder against the false edge, nails digging into smooth nothing, willing it to crack. “He bore corruption before, yes—but he carried it and still came back. Still fought his way free.”

He shakes his head hard, jaw tight, still pacing, still probing. “You can show me a thousand ways it could go wrong. I don’t care. I will not take it back. I chose him. And I would choose him again.”

His voice echoes, small in the nothing. Still no Gabriel. Only Castiel—human, vulnerable, defiant—pushing against the edges of the dreamscape, testing every angle, every sound, every shadow for its weakness. “Show yourself,” he mutters.

There’s no answer. Only silence, mocking and vast. Castiel grits his teeth.

“I know you’re watching,” he snaps. “You always are. Hiding behind symbols and riddles and half-truths. Enough.”

The air remains still. No flash of wings. No trickster’s grin. Just the gnawing doubt coiling in his chest—that his gift, his trust, his belief in redemption might be the very thing that damns Dean Winchester.

He lowers his voice. Just a breath, a whisper now. “I’m sorry,” he says. He doesn’t know if it’s meant for Gabriel, or Dean. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14

When Castiel blinks, he’s no longer Castiel.

Not fully.

He looks down at his hands — still calloused, still human, but smudged with gun oil and dirt. His coat is shorter; it’s a soldier’s jacket now, the rough wool stinking faintly of smoke. Dried blood stiffens the line beneath his nails. A service knife rests at his hip. Ammunition and field rations are laid out on the table like accusations.

He turns.

Dean.

Only—not the Dean he knows.

“This isn’t funny,” Castiel says eventually, quietly.

Dean doesn’t flinch. “It’s not meant to be.”

But Castiel hears the echo beneath the words, like a second voice braided through: higher, mocking. Gabriel. Not speaking outright, but woven into the illusion like a watermark. He’s everywhere and nowhere, laughing behind the walls of this war-room stage.

“That’s enough,” Castiel says. “You’ve made your point.”

The lights shift slightly—like a searchlight dragging across trenches. Dean steps forward, boots striking the floor with parade-ground precision. “I don’t think I have,” he says. “You were always so certain. So sure of what was right. Of who deserved saving.”

He circles Castiel slowly, bayonet glinting at his side. “But here you are. Playing human. Wounded. Alone. Not so divine now, are we?”

Castiel’s fists clench. The knife at his hip is just a prop; he knows that. Everything here is scripted—a set, a spectacle. But still, he aches for it to end.

“You think this hurts me?” he asks softly.

The false Dean steps closer, casting a shadow across him. “Doesn’t it?”

Castiel lifts his gaze. Gold pulses behind Dean’s eyes, too perfect, too staged—a grotesque inversion of everything Castiel once was. Worse: everything he fears he still is.

“You’re not real,” he says. “None of this is. Just another of Gabriel’s performances.”

The illusion smiles. “And you’re still the perfect audience.”

Castiel leaned in, voice low and even, the way he once spoke battlefield truths. Only now the battlefield was of Gabriel’s making — an endless theater of his supposed wrongs against his own brethren, replayed until confession itself felt like another weapon turned against him.

“Do you want to know why I went into Hell?” His words were stripped bare, clean of theatrics. “I volunteered. It was a suicide mission. Someone had to go.” His breath left him slow, as if the air itself might break under his grip. “I wasn’t trying to be brave. I was… empty. There was nothing in me that cared either way.”

The confession burned on his tongue. He said it to the false Dean Gabriel had set before him, because even a counterfeit face made the truth harder to withhold. It wasn’t a story; it was a weight behind his ribs, a cold ache that stilled his hands. The craving sat low and unyielding, practical — the desperate need for silence. Not a speech. Not a declaration. Just an ache that wanted something, anything, to hold it down — liquor, morphine, powder.

“Let’s go.” Dean’s voice cracked like a rifle shot. He was with Castiel before the thought formed, fingers already closing around a sword, hands that looked like they’d seen men die and done the taking themselves: scarred, steady, impatient. “Move. Now. Kill them and get out.”

A shove sent Castiel toward the parapet; then he tumbled into churned ground where the battlefield did not pretend to be anything but a threshold of blood and iron. Angels surged like a tide across the broken earth. Their swords were knives of light that cleaved flesh and feather with the same hunger. When the first blade bit, a head cracked like a coconut and a spray of blood arced, hot and bright against the flare-lit sky. Feathers flew like white snow and the air tasted of iron and ozone where wings had been singed to black.

For an instant the world narrowed to the iron tang at the back of Castiel’s throat and Dean’s shoulder heat against his elbow. The figures on the far side stopped being silhouettes; they were faces with names and histories and orders carved into their jaws. Castiel felt his knees go soft.

A squadron of angelic horsemen thundered across the ridge, hoofbeats like drums. Lance tips caught flares and became rivers of white heat; a rider’s sword struck a seraph’s breast and the air filled with the wet sound of breaking ribs. One fallen warrior’s throat was opened and the wound spat stars. Castiel ducked reflexively, his coat smeared with another man’s blood. Corpses rolled and tumbled, a rope of elbows and boots and torn wings. Where a blade passed through a wing, feathers steamed and smoked. The spectacle was holy and obscene both.

“I’m choosing to be human, Gabriel — accept it!” he shouted into the smoke, into whatever god-listener might be watching. The words were thrown up like a defiance flare. “This isn’t about some war.”

A seraph drove a spear through a comrade like a skewer; the other’s head snapped back and the scream turned to wet gurgle. Men three paces away were ripped to their knees, skin shredded and dark. The smell of burning feather and seared hair was everywhere. Castiel’s stomach flipped and he tasted bile and rust.

Castiel closed his eyes and listened for Dean’s breath. It was small and real in the thunder—a plain, metronome—and for a second the roar of the battle receded to a distant drum.

The world did not stop. It rearranged.

Not with a man in a coat stepping into the light, but with the feel of a hand offstage pulling a curtain: scenes snapped into being with the precision of a director’s cut. Wounds knit and unknit as if somebody were rewinding, then running the reel forward again. Where a blade had cleaved a seraph’s wing, feathers steamed and knotted back together, then steamed away a second later; the miracle had no mercy, only timing. Brethren who had been gutted sat up clean and smiling for a beat, then crumpled back into the dirt. It was choreography—cold, perfect—and it made Castiel’s stomach drop as if someone were rearranging his ribs.

Castiel blinked through smoke and blood—and Dean was still there. The gold behind his eyes burned with its own terrible light, something older, military, carved into him like scripture.

Dean moved with the precision of a soldier bred for this soil, blade angled low, body braced against the charge. When his sword tore through a seraph’s chest, the sound was not performance; it was the sound of bone parting, of breath unmade.

Dean fought like a man possessed, like a weapon who had long ago accepted what he was made for. Castiel fought with the knowledge that he had chosen something else—and that Gabriel was twisting that choice into spectacle.

“Side by side,” Dean growled, dragging his blade free of a ribcage. The words landed like an oath, like they had said them a hundred times before.

Castiel’s hand slipped from his hilt. The blade clattered against the churned earth as he dropped to his knees, chest heaving, strength hollowed out. He could not summon the will to carve through his brethren again, not when their forms would only be rewound and raised to fall once more.

“Don’t give up, Cas,” Dean pleaded, his grace flaring so bright it burned at the corners of Castiel’s sight. “We finish this together.”

Castiel shook his head, voice low but unyielding. “Sometimes you have to recognize when the battle is already lost, Dean. When all that remains is endless slaughter.”

Dean’s grip tightened on his blade, his eyes burning. “That’s a soldier’s duty, Cas. Can’t you see? This is what you were made for.”

Castiel met his gaze, steady, resolute. “Not anymore.”

Dean’s jaw flexed, rage and conviction warping into the same hard line. For a moment, Castiel thought he would raise the blade against him, that Gabriel had bent this false soldier into the perfect executioner. The battlefield crackled around them, wings shrieking through smoke, blood and ash turning to theater-light dust in the churned air. Everything stank of endings.

“Then what are you, Cas?” Dean spat, voice raw, trembling at the edges though his stance never faltered. “If not this—if not war—then what’s left of you?”

Castiel’s throat burned, but the words came low and certain. “Choice. Defiance. The refusal to become a cog in Gabriel’s script.”

Dean raised his blade, running it through another angel with merciless precision. Grace sparked in the air like static, the corpse collapsing and then twitching as Gabriel rewound the scene for another round of slaughter. Dean didn’t even pause. His movements were mechanical, efficient, the rhythm of a soldier who had no self left—only orders carved into sinew and bone.

“Choice?” he barked, voice raw, the sound almost breaking under the weight of its own conviction. “You think choice makes you better? It makes you weak, Cas. It makes you hesitate. And hesitation gets soldiers killed.” His sword struck again, and another brother fell, wings torn and rewoven like tissue in Gabriel’s cruel loop.

Castiel pushed himself upright, blood soaking the knees of his trousers. His hands trembled but his eyes stayed steady. “If survival means endless obedience, endless killing; then I would rather be weak.”

Dean spun on him, eyes burning gold, jaw set so tight the bone creaked. “You think being human saves you from this? It doesn’t. Humanity is this. They kill, they betray, they destroy each other for scraps. War is what they are, Cas. And it’s what you’ll be too, no matter how much you pretend.”

Castiel stepped closer, voice iron even as smoke stung his lungs. “No. Humanity is not just war. They are also defiance. Mercy. Flaws that break the pattern Heaven tries to bind me to. I would rather bleed with them than reign among obedient angels.”

The false Dean’s blade trembled at his side. For a moment, Castiel swore he saw conflict flicker—something behind Gabriel’s script trying to claw free. But then the light flared harsher, swallowing it.

………

The library was quiet after last bell. Too quiet, except for the hum of the fluorescent lights and the occasional cough from the librarian at the front desk. Castiel sat in the corner by the window, his Latin book open but unread, his eyes following the football field outside where the team was still running drills.

He didn’t belong out there. He didn’t belong in here, either.

Mostly, he just… didn’t belong.

The scrape of a chair pulled him out of his thoughts. He looked up and found Dean Winchester dropping into the seat across from him, his backpack hitting the floor with a heavy thud. Dean grinned, lazy, a little crooked.

“Man, you always camp out here like you’re guarding the Dead Sea Scrolls.”

Castiel blinked at him. “I like the quiet.”

Dean smirked. “Yeah, but you also like hiding. Same thing.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “I’m not hiding.”

“Sure.” Dean leaned back in his chair, balancing on two legs like he had all the time in the world. His jacket still smelled faintly of motor oil and cigarette smoke. His hair was messed up from practice, sweat still drying at his temples. “So listen—prom’s Friday.”

Castiel stared at him. “Yes.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, waiting. “And you’re going.”

Castiel looked down at his book again, pretending to read. “That seems… unlikely.”

Dean tilted his head, studying him. “Why?”

“I don’t see the point.”

“The point,” Dean said, leaning forward now, “is that everybody gets one. One night where you put on a monkey suit, stand around under some tacky decorations, and pretend life isn’t crap for a few hours.”

Castiel met his eyes again. Dean’s grin had softened into something else. Not pity. Not mockery. Just a challenge.

“And you’re saying… you want me to attend.”

Dean shrugged, but his eyes didn’t waver. “I’m saying I want you to go with me.”

The words landed heavier than Castiel expected. His mouth opened, then closed again, no answer ready. He could feel the heat in his face, unfamiliar and sharp.

Dean leaned back, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth again, but his voice was softer when he added, “Look, man, you don’t gotta say yes right now. Just… think about it, yeah?”

He stood, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and walked off with the same careless stride he always carried. But Castiel noticed it—that little pause at the door. The way Dean glanced back, just once, like the answer mattered more than he’d let on.

Castiel stared down at the unread words on his page, heart pounding like he’d been running.

Prom. With Dean.

…

Castiel blinked once, twice. The air smelled different now—wax and perfume, a faint haze of hairspray. A gymnasium stretched around him, ceilings high, banners strung across basketball hoops. Colored lights spun across polished floors. Music thumped low through the walls.

The gym smelled of floor wax and too much perfume. Paper streamers sagged under the weight of tape and staples, catching the spinning light from the rented disco ball. The speakers crackled as a slow song started up, soft enough that Castiel could hear the shuffle of shoes on the floor.

He stood awkwardly at the edge of the dance floor, fingers worrying the cuffs of a rented tux that didn’t quite fit. His tie was crooked. As predicted Dean leaned over and fixed it without saying a word.

Dean’s hand lingered longer than necessary, tugging the knot straight, smoothing it down. “There. Now you don’t look like a total idiot.”

Castiel tilted his head. “And you do?”

Dean’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

For a while they just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, watching classmates pair off—some graceful, most clumsy, everyone pretending to know what they were doing. Castiel watched Dean watch them, the way his jaw worked like he was weighing something.

Then Dean sighed, muttered something under his breath, and held out his hand. “C’mon.”

Castiel blinked at it.

Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s a dance, Cas. You’re supposed to… y’know. Dance.”

Castiel hesitated only a moment before taking it. Dean’s palm was warm, a little clammy. Familiar in a way that startled him.

They stepped onto the floor. It wasn’t smooth. Dean’s movements were stiff, uncertain. Castiel’s weren’t much better. They shuffled at first, tripping once, laughing under their breath. And then the rhythm found them—something small, steady, theirs.

Castiel felt the weight of Dean’s hand on his back, the slight pressure guiding him closer. His own hand curled at Dean’s shoulder, holding on. The music filled the gaps where words would’ve been.

For once, there was no fight to prepare for. No secret to guard. No universe watching. Just the warmth of bodies close together, the nervous squeeze of Dean’s hand, the realization that this—this—was what it meant to be human.

To be young. To choose.

The silence stretched, pressing down heavy as stone. Castiel’s pulse still thundered in his ears, the echo of music that wasn’t real. The weight of Dean’s hand on his back still lingered, too solid, too warm.

And when Dean leaned in, whispering, “Don’t disappear on me, Cas,” it felt less like a plea and more like a promise.

And that was when he knew.

Dean had never touched him like that. Never looked at him with that kind of want. That softness was not his Dean. It was Gabriel’s trick.

Dean’s hand was still at his back, steady, warm. Castiel shoved it away, hard, like the touch burned him. The illusion-Dean stumbled a step, surprise flickering across his face.

“Cas—what the hell?” the copy said, voice low, too tender, too wrong.

Castiel’s glare cut through him. “You are not him.” The realization burned through him like cold fire. His fists clenched tighter. “No,” he growled. “You won’t keep me here.”

The walls shimmered faintly, edges bending, colors bleeding into one another. Gabriel was tightening the trap, pulling at his mind, trying to reassert the stage. The phantom gym flickered back—streamers, music, Dean’s smile—an invitation to surrender.

Castiel bared his teeth. “Enough!” His voice cracked, but the force in it made the lights overhead stutter. “You are powerful, Gabriel. I know this. But I am not your puppet.”

The pull was strong—suffocating. He could feel Gabriel pressing against his thoughts, sliding illusions into the cracks of his mind, trying to rewrite longing into obedience. His body swayed with the effort of resisting.

Every instinct told him it was useless. An archangel’s grip was iron; it was not meant to be broken. But Castiel had been told many things were impossible. And he had never obeyed well.

He closed his eyes, forcing the false images aside, clinging to what was real: the smell of motor oil and leather, the gravel in Dean’s voice when he was angry, the human mess of his laugh. Not the polished fantasy Gabriel dangled. The real man. The imperfect one. His Dean.

Power surged through him, not grace but will, jagged and furious. He shoved back against the pressure in his skull, every thought a blade turned outward. “You cannot make me want what isn’t mine,” he rasped. “You cannot make him love me.”

The room convulsed. The gym shattered like glass, fragments of music and light dissolving into air. For a heartbeat, Castiel felt Gabriel’s presence—hot, amused, straining. Then the grip faltered, just enough.

Castiel gasped, staggering but upright. His shoulders shook, his eyes fierce. He had not destroyed Gabriel’s illusion, not entirely. But he had broken free of its center.

…

Dean staggered ahead of them- thin, hollow-cheeked, his eyes ringed in shadow and blazing with something inhuman. His hands shook as he clutched the broken shard of a grace-vial like it was oxygen. Blue-gold sparks crawled over his skin, worming into pores, threading veins. His breath hitched in ragged bursts, half-sobs, half-laughter.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice cracked, but it wasn’t enough to break through.

Dean’s head snapped toward them, lips peeled back in a grin that looked more like pain than humor. “Don’t say my name like you know me,” he rasped. His voice was raw, scraped down to wire. “I burned it out—burned it out on the grace, tore myself clean until all that’s left is need.”

Cas froze. His own grace recoiled instinctively, thrumming with alarm. Dean’s gaze landed on him, hungry, fevered. “Yours,” Dean breathed, almost reverent. He staggered closer, light flickering under his skin like fireflies trapped in glass. “Yours would fix it. Just a taste.”

Sam grabbed Cas’s arm, pulling him back, but Dean only laughed, the sound wet, broken. His body shook with tremors that weren’t entirely human. Grace bled out of his eyes in pale streaks, dripping like tears that evaporated before hitting the ground.

They stood in a city of marble and flame. Above them, spires cut the sky in jagged shards, glowing with impossible light. The streets were full—Humans wandered barefoot and hollow-eyed, veins glowing faint blue, twitching like puppets pulled on strings of grace. Some clawed at the air, reaching for angels who passed by without looking down. Others sat slumped against walls, trembling, their skin cracking with fissures of light that seeped like wounds.

“Dean…” Sam whispered.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

Cas looked up at the skyline. And there—high above on a dais of cold fire—he knelt. Shackled, wings pinned, head forced low while faceless humans carved across his skin. The sound was worse than the sight: each strike of the blade made the addicts in the streets scream with need, as if his pain fed their hunger.

Dean had a vial clutched in his shaking hands. He tipped it back, liquid light spilling over his chin. The laughter that tore out of him was cracked and feral. Every addict nearby lunged toward him, ravenous, like hounds catching a scent.

“Stop,” Dean rasped, commanding the hoard.

Dean’s eyes stayed locked on the shackled version of Cas, watching as each lash of punishment made the streets howl with hunger, and as he drank deeper, shining brighter, falling apart. The blade came down again. His body bowed under it, grace bleeding in thin rivers down his chest, dripping into the vials below. Their cries rose, fevered, frantic.

Cas lifted his head, iron burning against his skin, and his eyes caught Dean’s across the frenzy. He saw the tremor in Dean’s grip, the hunger shaking him apart, and it was too familiar—because it was his own reflection. Cas felt it: the ache to surrender, the spiral of needing and hating the need, the ruin of being consumed by what once felt like salvation. The resonance between them struck deep, raw, undeniable.

Something inside him refused. If Dean was to be chained by that hunger, then Cas could not remain bound too. The sight of Dean—falling, drowning, laughing himself to pieces—ignited a resolve that tore through his restraints.

The chains cracked first—iron singing against stone as the sigils cut deep into his shoulders flared, then burned away. The people holding him jerked back, blinded as light tore through their grip. His wings, blackened and bound, ripped free in a storm of fire and shadow. Feathers fell like ash, burning holes into the marble where they landed.

Through the smoke and frenzy of addicts, a shape in the crowd stood too still. At first it was another faceless mask, one among hundreds—but then the illusion faltered. A grin too sharp flickered where a blank face should have been, an echo of laughter woven under the noise. Cas’s eyes narrowed, finding the telltale shimmer Gabriel never quite managed to bury. His brother was here, hiding, watching, feeding on the chaos like a stage magician waiting for the applause.

He stood, shirtless, skin marked with blood and seared script. His eyes burned brighter than the addicts’ hunger, brighter than the spires overhead. The sound that came from his throat was not human—low, raw, the voice of something that had been caged too long, breaking free not only for himself, but for the man in the crowd who mirrored his own ruin.

His wings snapped wide, hurling him off the dais. He crossed the square in a single, impossible strike of light, grace smoking in his wake. Gabriel’s smirk hadn’t even faltered before Castiel was on him, fingers locking like a vise around his throat.

The archangel staggered back against the broken wall, smirk twisting into a grin even as Castiel’s grip crushed. “There he is,” Gabriel rasped, voice strangled but amused. “The real you.”

“Enough.” Castiel’s voice was gravel, his chest heaving, every word vibrating with the fury of something finally unshackled. His wings trembled, feathers sparking with fire. He pressed harder.

“Don’t forget Castiel. You came to me! You gave your grace to me! We both knew that I would pull you back when you did something stupid. Now this is me telling you. ….You’ve gone too far. Time to wake up!”

“You will let me out of this prison, Gabriel.” The words rang sharp, flat, without plea.

“Oh, Castiel. Always so… earnest.” Gabriel’s smile was razor-thin, the kind that caressed only to cut. “You aren’t imprisoned, brother. This is mercy. Prescribed rehab. And yet—your wish is always my command.” With a snap of his fingers—casual as a cheap coin trick—the scene collapsed. Chains, wings, fire, all snuffed out. Cas stood there again in his fragile skin, lungs dragging air, human once more “Why you insist on being human is beyond me. Fragile, vulnerable—one common cold could do you in. And for what? When you could live forever, unshaken, with limitless power and control.” His voice slipped into a cruel sing-song, mocking even as it pressed with bitter certainty. “You call it freedom—I call it weakness.” Smoke unraveled where he stood, laughter echoing sharp and hollow as he vanished, leaving only the sting of his words behind.

Relief hit Cas too quickly. He exhaled, shoulders easing, the weight of iron gone. For a heartbeat he thought he’d broken free, that resolve had torn down the cage. But then—

A shiver climbed his spine. Not memory. Presence. Heavy, undeniable. Dean. Sam. Not outside. Not safe. Here. Trapped with him.

His eyes snapped open, scanning the bare room. The air was too still, too staged. The silence pressed like a curtain waiting to drop. And then he saw it: a door. Perfectly plain, perfectly placed. Too neat.

Understanding struck like a blade. This wasn’t escape at all. Gabriel hadn’t freed him—he’d only moved the walls. The illusion had shifted, but the cage remained. His so-called freedom was just another trick, another set in Gabriel’s endless theater.

It stood in the middle of the floor where there should have been nothing. No hinges, no frame, just a door planted upright in the concrete like it had grown there. Its surface hummed faintly, etched with sigils that pulsed like veins. The air around it bent, warped, the way a mirage does on hot asphalt.

His stomach twisted. That was no exit. Gabriel never gave exits. It was a cage. A lure.

Castiel walked forward, fingers scraping the door. The grain of it rasped under his touch—white-painted wood, chipped at the edges where hands had once pressed too hard. He stilled, hand lingering against the surface. The details were wrong for this place, too ordinary, too deliberate. The weight of the brass handle, the faint smell of polish baked into the cracks—he knew them. Recognition stirred in his chest like a blade being twisted.

It was a door he had seen before—in Heaven. One of the countless white wooden thresholds lining the sterile halls, each leading to chambers where angels were judged, disciplined, or quietly broken. To see it here, in this bare room, was an ominous warning. This wasn’t freedom; it was an echo of the cage, dressed in something painfully familiar. A reminder that Gabriel’s stage reached even into Heaven’s architecture, reshaping memory into menace.

He pressed harder, white paint flaking beneath his fingertips. The door loomed in silence, not an exit but a mockery. An invitation to step through and find only another snare. He hated Gabriel for that—for warping the sanctity of Heaven’s gates into a weapon, for turning warning into temptation.

Dean was still inside this labyrinth, still trapped within Gabriel’s illusions, still vulnerable to the endless parade of punishments disguised as choices. To walk through would be to abandon him—to accept the escape offered only to himself. Castiel could not. He would not.

He turned from the door, shoulders set against the quiet lure of its familiarity. Gabriel wanted him to believe that salvation lay in retreat, that survival required leaving Dean behind.

He drew a breath, grounding himself in the raw weight of his body—lungs that burned, muscles that ached, skin that bled. All things Heaven had scorned, but all things that tethered him to Dean. Gabriel could manipulate memory, twist symbols, mock faith, but he could not touch the bond forged in human choice.

Castiel set his jaw and stepped back from the door.

He would not leave.

…

The world buckled, then rebuilt itself into something absurd.

Castiel stood—or thought he did—on ground that felt like a stage. The air shimmered, and when he looked down, he no longer had hands. Hooves, cloven and strange, pressed against the glassy floor. His reflection flickered back at him: a goat. Two heads, horns spiraling in opposite directions, eyes glowing faintly like heat-lamps in a barn. His wings were gone, replaced with shaggy flanks and an ungainly sway.

Dean sat in front of him. Except Dean was a Canine now—ears flopped low, tail stiff with wariness, hackles raised at the sight of Cas’s new form.

Castiel blinked—both sets of eyes—and exhaled through his nostrils. The breath came out as steam, animal and ridiculous. He had endured Gabriel’s illusions before: battlefields drenched in fire, celestial halls twisted into cages. But this? This was idiocy.

The message was obvious, practically written in neon: you are not the same species, stop pretending you belong together. Castiel could almost hear Gabriel’s smug cadence in the silence, the way he would drawl out the moral as if delivering the final line of a joke.

He shifted his hooves, unimpressed. This was not revelation. This was mockery dressed up as biology.

Dean growled low in his throat—no words, no human shape, just instinct trying to guard something it couldn’t even name. His tail lashed once, confused.

Castiel looked at him, then at himself—an alien beast with two heads, glaring eyes, and an anatomy that didn’t belong to Earth. It was meant to be grotesque, alien, insurmountable.

Instead, he thought it was dumb. Childish, even. If Gabriel’s great proof that they didn’t fit together was to render him a barnyard monstrosity and Dean a mutt, then it said more about Gabriel’s sense of humor than it did about reality.

The floor rippled underhoof, and Castiel sighed. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, though the word came out warped, more bleat than voice.

Dean barked once, sharp and stubborn, as if to agree.

Dean’s growl tapered off into a questioning whine. He pawed at the glassy ground, head tilting, ears flopping in a way that would’ve been comical if Castiel weren’t currently inhabiting the form of a two-headed goat.

Communication should have been impossible. A bleat and a bark, two species pulled from entirely different corners of creation. But when Dean wagged his tail—not much, just a cautious flick like a signal flag—Castiel understood. He dipped both heads at once, horns catching the fractured light above. Agreement.

Dean crept closer, sniffing at Castiel’s flank with the blunt curiosity of his new form. Castiel endured it, though the indignity of being inspected like livestock was not lost on him. One of his goat heads let out an undignified snort. Dean barked back, sharp and amused.

The strangest part was how quickly the rhythm settled between them. Growls became questions, bleats became answers. A twitch of tail, a flick of ear, and somehow they understood one another without needing words. Gabriel had intended mockery, a parable about incompatibility. Instead, the illusion had stripped them down to something more elemental: instinct meeting instinct, bond rendered simple.

Then Dean’s teeth caught gently on one of Castiel’s ears.

Castiel froze, both sets of eyes narrowing. A tug—not cruel, not violent, just… playful. Dean worried the edge of the ear the way a dog might with a favorite toy.

The indignity should have rankled. An angel of the Lord, twisted into a bleating caricature, subjected to canine teasing. Yet one of his heads huffed in disbelief while the other let out a startled, almost reluctant chuff that might have been laughter in another body.

Dean’s tail thumped once, pleased with himself.

Castiel shook free, ears twitching, and stared down at him. Different species, different forms, nonsense barriers forced on them by another’s hand—and still, somehow, they found a way to reach each other.

Gabriel’s point collapsed under the weight of its own absurdity.

Cas followed Dean as he searched for an escape. They came upon a thin stream cut across the landscape only a short walk away, water running clear and quick where none should exist. Castiel’s hooves clacked against the surface as he moved, ungainly and ridiculous, Dean padding along at his side with tail stiff and ears pricked. The closer they came, the louder the rush of water, until it drowned out even the faint hum of the illusion itself.

In the current, a silver shape writhed against the flow. Sam. A salmon, broad and gleaming, fighting upstream though there was nowhere to go. His mouth broke the surface, gills flaring, words spilling in frantic bubbles that burst before they reached air. Nonsense syllables, stripped of meaning. Castiel tilted both heads, trying to decipher, and failed.

Dean, however, pricked his ears and gave a low bark in reply. Another followed, quick and clipped, and the salmon thrashed in what looked like understanding. A dialogue, primitive and absurd, unfolding without Castiel’s comprehension. He stood silent, two sets of eyes narrowing as the irony clicked into place. Gabriel’s hand was unmistakable. See, little brother? Even here, you don’t belong. Dog and fish speak; you only bleat.

Steam huffed from Castiel’s nostrils, bitter and unimpressed. The irony was sharp, cruel, but also childish. He did not need words to see the pattern: Dean’s tail flicking once, Sam’s body twisting in response, some rhythm that bound them. Communication all the same. Castiel lowered both heads, horns catching the fractured light above.

After a while, Castiel grew tired of the exercise. The stream curved endlessly through the grassy landscape, feeding into itself like a looped reel. Dean padded along it, nose down, tail stiff with alertness, every so often darting ahead to where Sam broke the surface in frantic, bubbling phrases. The dog barked; the fish replied; Castiel trailed behind on awkward hooves, circling the same path over and over. No exit. No point.

Eventually, he stopped. Castiel folded his legs beneath him and lay down on the grass, the ungainly weight of his new body settling awkwardly. He let out a long bleat that was halfway between a sigh and a snort.

Then he closed his eyes. Not surrender. Spite. A deliberate refusal. If Gabriel wanted struggle, panic, or shame, he would get none. Castiel would nap. He would endure in the stupidest way possible—by not caring.

When he cracked an eye open, Dean was splashing at the bank, paws darting into the stream while Sam thrashed back in exaggerated annoyance. Dean barked, Sam flipped his tail in retaliation, and the rhythm between them settled into something that looked suspiciously like play. Castiel huffed, both throats releasing a sound absurdly close to laughter. For once, the weight in his chest eased. Goat or angel, battlefield or barnyard stage—it did not matter. He was here, and he was watching Dean. That was enough.

…….

The kitchen was warm with sunlight, curtains lifting gently on the breeze. The smell of coffee and frying batter clung to the air. Castiel moved through it with practiced hands—pan tilting, plates set, hair slipping forward over her shoulders. Each gesture felt rehearsed, like a role she had always played. A wife’s rhythm. A wife’s smile.

Dean stood in the doorway, flannel soft against his frame. His eyes softened when he looked at her, and when the children ran to him—her daughter with Dean’s freckles, her son with her own blue eyes—he bent low and lifted them into his arms. The sound of his laugh should have been peace itself.

But something snagged. The laughter repeated—again, and again—looping until it hollowed. Beyond the window stretched only green, flat and endless. No detail, no depth. When she tried to fix her gaze, the edges dissolved.

She pressed a kiss to Dean’s cheek when he came near. For a heartbeat, warmth bloomed. Yet beneath it, another sensation tugged, deep in her chest—a thread pulling against her ribs, steady and insistent. It grew louder, more demanding, until even the motions of pouring coffee or wiping the counter could not quiet it.

She looked at the family photo on the wall. Her smile. Dean’s. The children’s. Perfect. And yet behind the eyes, she saw it: absence. She stilled, the practiced smile slipping. This picture was not whole. Something waited beyond it.

Her voice left her before she could stop it. “Do you feel that?” The words sounded strange, brittle, as though the walls themselves might answer.

Dean’s brow furrowed, his jaw set, but Castiel did not need his words to know his conclusion: he called it wrong, called it malicious. She flinched at the sound of the word. Malicious. It was not what she felt. The thread tugging at her chest was not cruel. It did not bite. It felt… known. Familiar, even. Like recognition.

Her pulse quickened. If she agreed with him, she would be lying.

The thread pulled harder—and then snapped.

The front door thundered inward. Light surged, not sunlight but a searing white. Wings filled the frame. Angels. Too many.

Castiel’s body froze. Her children—her children—turned at the sound, arms reaching in delight. She tried to cry out, to stop them, but her voice locked in her throat. The first angel raised a hand, no more than that, and both small forms crumpled soundlessly. Dolls with their strings cut.

“No!” The cry tore from her.

Dean lunged forward, but she only saw him thrown back, grace slamming him into the wall. His head struck hard, and she heard the sound more than she saw it.

Her own hands flared, instinct summoning power—but nothing answered. Only emptiness. She reached for the thread that had been pulling at her all along, desperate, but it slipped beyond her grasp.

The angels moved with precision. Blades gleamed though they did not need them. Their purpose was erasure.

Dean staggered up, blood on his temple, and hurled himself at them anyway. Castiel saw him fall again. They swatted him aside like an insect.

She dropped to her knees, powerless, shaking. Her arms gathered the small bodies to her chest, though even as she held them she knew they could not be real. But the ache was. The ache was unbearable.

Coffee still scented the air. Curtains still lifted on the breeze. Yet silence consumed the house, and the weight of loss pressed heavier than any sound.

The angels turned toward her, blades lowered. Patient. Waiting.

A sound ripped from her throat—not prayer, not words, just grief, raw and primal. Her body folded, clutching at children that dissolved like smoke in her arms. Still she sobbed, harder, deeper, until her sorrow shook the air itself.

The kitchen buckled. Wallpaper peeled into nothing. Curtains vanished into dark. Dean’s voice called faintly, strained, but his edges blurred, breaking into static.

She wept harder. Every tear tore deeper cracks. The angels fractured into false light and vanished. The walls split, the photo shattered, until there was only darkness.

Her body trembled on the floor, hollow with grief. No kitchen. No children. No husband. Only the ache, and the echo of her breath in the void.

Only her tears remained real.

Another snap.

The kitchen, the kids—all gone.

Together. The word came unbidden. He did not question it.

Castiel reached. His fingers brushed Dean’s, tentative, and the world brightened at the contact. Grace crackled from him, uncontrolled, ready to burn—but Dean did not flinch. He steadied it, anchored it, as though he had always carried this kind of fire.

The surge almost buckled Castiel, but Dean’s hand did not let go. The current steadied. He felt Dean’s will cut through the storm—raw, stubborn, human—and his own grace bent to meet it. For the first time, it did not feel like bleeding into him or weighing him down. It felt equal. Balanced.

The cavern trembled. Sigils split in the stone. The false light of Gabriel’s illusion wavered.

Gabriel’s smirk twitched. “Careful, brother. You’re pouring gasoline on a match.”

Dean bared his teeth, but Castiel spoke first. His voice cracked, but the certainty in it did not. “Good. Let it burn.”

The power surged outward. He and Dean released it together, braided into something neither Heaven nor Hell could have named. It struck Gabriel and shattered his pretense. His grace broke free form the vial. Gabriels form rippled, wings flaring hard against the blast. For the first time, Castiel saw him stagger.

The force tore through him too—his essence thinned, his body frayed—but Dean’s grip remained firm. Castiel clung back with everything he had.

The light roared through him. For a moment he was nothing but fire and motion.

Euphoria.He felt it course through the hollow places that had ached for centuries, filling cracks he hadn’t admitted were there. The connection was absolute—his wings flared wide and he felt Dean inside them, not as burden, not as weakness, but as part of the flight itself.

Something else stirred in the surge. A presence. New. Not Gabriel. Not Heaven. Not Hell. It pressed at the edges of him—strange, unformed, yet alive. Like a third chord struck from the resonance of two.

Castiel’s breath caught. His chest flooded with a joy so sharp it bordered on agony. For one impossible instant, he thought: This is what it is to be whole.

Then he saw it for what it was. A new creation. Something being built out of their joined will, forged in defiance of every law that bound him.

Fear cut through the euphoria. He staggered back, breaking the contact. The cavern fell silent except for his own harsh breathing. Dean’s hand was still reaching, still steady. Castiel did not take it. His eyes stayed fixed on that phantom presence he had felt rising between them—wonder and dread coiled together in his chest.

If he reached again, it would come back. If he held on, it would grow.

And Castiel, trembling, wasn’t certain if he wanted it to.

Concrete. Cold. The warehouse walls rushed back in, gray and bare. Castiel blinked hard, disoriented. Dean was still close—his hand warm, grounding—but the spell was gone.

Across from them, Gabriel leaned against a beam, bathrobe slung loose, slippers scuffing the floor. He clapped, slow, sardonic. “Cute,” he said, smirking. “Really tugged the heartstrings there. Shame it was wasted on the two dumbest people I’ve ever met.”

Dean jerked back, his hand falling away from Castiel’s. “What the hell was that?”

“A lesson,” Gabriel said flatly. “You wanted to know why he tore his grace out? There’s your answer.” He jabbed a finger at Castiel. “He already knows. He’s just too stubborn—or too scared—to admit it out loud.”

Castiel’s head snapped toward him, eyes sharp, shoulders tight. “Do not presume to speak for me.” His voice was steady, but underneath it was that thrum of grief that never really left him. “I am not your parable. I am not your puppet for moral instruction. I made a choice.”

Gabriel’s smirk faltered, just for a moment, before sliding back into place.

Cas’s voice rose, rough and frayed at the edges. “And I am sorry—for the children Heaven slaughtered, for the life you built and watched burn. But I am not you, Gabriel. I have set assurances. I have protections.” His hands curled tight at his sides, as if gripping the words to keep them from slipping away. “This time it is mine. My life. Not yours. Not theirs.”

Gabriel pushed off the beam, eyes flashing, the humor stripped away. “Protections?” His voice cracked like a whip. “You mean those half-baked, dangerous little hacks you stitched together in the dark? You think that’ll keep you safe? That’ll keep him safe?” He pointed at Dean. “You’re gambling both your souls on experiments you don’t even understand!”

Dean stiffened, but Cas didn’t flinch.

Gabriel’s mouth curled, venomous. “That’s all this is, isn’t it? You two, chasing your fixes. Trading Heaven’s lies for human ones. Addicts swapping one poison for another. You can call it freedom all you want—it’s still a craving, and cravings eat you alive.”

Castiel shot back, his voice ringing sharp as glass. “I have faith.”

Gabriel barked a laugh, ugly and sharp. “Faith? Oh, that’s rich. That’s what got you here in the first place, little brother—faith in a system that carved you hollow. And now you’re trading that in for faith in yourself? You’ll burn just as bright, and just as fast.”

Cas’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away.

The air went cold before anything else happened—a small, hollowing chill that made the dust on the beam tremble. Then a shadow stepped through the doorway and light folded around him like a poor imitation of grace.

“Sam?” Dean asked, glancing up, uncertainty in his voice.

“Uh—hi. My name’s Jack.”

“Jack.” Gabriel said the name like he’d been saving it for dessert. He wasn’t smiling so much as enjoying the way everyone rearranged to look. “Oh — this is interesting.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed, suspicion cutting through his voice. “Is this another one of your tricks?”

Cas wanted to reach for the boy before he even knew why. There was a magnetic tug in the way he looked at him, familiar to the bone; it felt like a name he’d almost remembered.

“I warned you idiots,” Gabriel said with a bark of laughter, sharp and gloating. “But no, you never listen.”

Dean didn’t answer. He scanned Jack the way hunters scanned rooms for traps. Suspicion bled out of him in waves—protectiveness, yes, but also a raw, old refusal to accept anything that smelled of celestial artifice. “I don’t trust him,” he said finally, not to Jack but to the space between them. “I don’t trust anything that comes from you, Gabe. Or from what you do.”

Gabriel’s smile widened, pleased at the tension like a cat delighted by a scramble of prey. “Naturally. That will make this delicious.” He tipped his head at Jack like an inspector surveying a new specimen. “See what happens when you stitch two people together and give the stitch a pulse?”

Cas felt the anger rise, not just at Gabriel but at the whole carved-out cruelty of the setup. At the same time something fierce and protective flared inside her at the sight of the boy who had his eyes. “Jack,” he said, voice rough. He stepped forward despite Dean’s posture, and the boy didn’t flinch from his touch. His skin was warm. His presence was not a blade; it was an ache, an answering chord.

Dean’s eyes locked on the exchange, suspicion flaring hard and fast. His jaw clenched as he rounded on Cas. “Cas—what the hell is going on? Don’t you dare stand there and lie to me. I want the truth, now.”

Cas’s mouth opened, then shut again. His eyes flicked to Jack, then back to Dean, shoulders drawn tight as wire. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted, but the words came out like a half-truth. “Dean, I swear to you, I don’t know what he is. It shouldn’t even be possible.” His hands curled at his sides, as if holding back more he couldn’t bring himself to say. “And until I understand, I can’t—”

Dean cut him off, voice raw with fury. “Can’t what? Tell me the truth? Let me in, for once?” He jabbed a finger toward Jack. “Look at him, Cas. You’re telling me this just happened? You didn’t know? You expect me to buy that?”

Jack looked between them, confusion dragging at his features. “Why are you fighting?” he asked, his voice bewildered, a child’s tone—like adults arguing was a foreign thing he hadn’t been prepared for. “I didn’t ask to be here! So stop yelling at each other because of me!”

Gabriel chuckled, and the sound scraped like a blade. “Perfect,” he murmured, savoring the fracture. “Kid’s barely born and already telling Mom and Dad to knock it off. A family tradition in the making.”

Dean’s voice cut low, the kind of low that meant his temper had just snapped its leash. “Cas, we should end this now. Before it gets worse. Before he—” He jabbed a finger toward Jack, jaw tight. “Before whatever this is becomes something we can’t put down.”

Cas rounded on him instantly, fury cracking his voice. “He is a child. You don’t get to talk about killing him like he’s a monster in a barn!”

“That’s exactly what he is!” Dean shot back, eyes blazing. “You think Gabe stitched this thing together out of love and rainbows? No. It’s another weapon, another test, another—”

And then—Gabriel moved. Smooth as sleight of hand, he flicked two fingers, and a glass vial spun into existence, twirling between thumb and forefinger. Inside, Cas’s grace shimmered faintly, catching the dim light in a razor gleam. Gabriel held it up like a magician showing off his final trick.

“I’m bored of this family drama,” Gabriel said, voice lilting, sly. “Feels less Heaven and Hell, more late-night soap—betrayals, long-lost sons, shouting matches. All you’re missing is the cheesy theme music and a cliffhanger before the ad break.” His eyes swept over them one by one. “Castiel. Dean. Jack.” The smile that followed was thin as a blade. “I’ll be seeing you at the funeral—where, lucky you, the three of you get to be the guests of honour.”

But Jack spoke first. “Uncle,” he said softly, looking straight at Gabriel with a child’s unshakable certainty.

The word cut the air clean. Dean froze, fury faltering into stunned silence. Cas’s mouth went dry, his chest tight. For an instant, the room itself seemed to hold its breath.

Jack’s gaze shifted between them—steady, guileless, impossibly sure. “And you’re my dads,” he said, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. “I was made from love. That’s what you told me.”

Dean’s face went slack. “What the hell—” His voice cracked, lost somewhere between outrage and disbelief. “Cas… what is he—”

Gabriel’s grin stretched wide enough to bare teeth. “Oh, it’s true. Every word. Never been done before, of course. A wild little experiment—stitching divinity and humanity together like mismatched cloth. And voilà—look at the miracle it spat out.” He tousled Jack’s hair with mock affection, and the boy leaned into it, trusting where he shouldn’t.

“History in the making,” Gabriel purred, slipping the vial into his pocket with a casual tap. “Your son. Your love. Your mess.” He tipped his head, expression turning sly. “Not the traditional way, of course. Normally Nephilim don’t pop into existence without a bed involved. But the old texts hinted it was possible. Just… never been tried. Usually, the human half goes grace-hungry, obsessed, burning themselves out—or the angel half cracks and goes feral.”

His tone shifted, sharpening as his eyes darkened. “And let’s not forget—this isn’t just unprecedented. It’s illegal. The oldest law Heaven ever wrote: no mixing, no meddling, no children born of grace and flesh. You shattered that rule, Cas. You broke it wide open.” His eyes narrowed, bitterness seeping through. “I warned you. I tried to show you what happens when Heaven makes examples out of things it doesn’t understand. But you never listen.”

He fixed Cas with a look that cut deep, the grin gone now, replaced with something jagged and weary. “I’m out of here before the God Squad comes sniffing around. I’ve seen enough of my own children butchered; don’t care to watch another. Remember that, little brother. When they come for him—and they will—I told you so.”

Gabriel’s smirk curled again, softer now, almost mocking. He flicked the vial between his fingers like a coin. “Still, you’ve got an out, little brother. One swig of this and you’re back in the choir—full strength, no more bruises or late-night bourbon runs to keep yourself standing.” He held the vial out, dangling it between them. “Go on. Take it. Be who you’re supposed to be.”

Cas stared at the light flickering inside the glass, his grace thrumming faintly, a call in his blood. For a moment he wavered—because he remembered the power, the certainty, the endless song that had once filled him. His throat tightened. Then he shook his head. “No.” His voice was quiet but steady. “I chose this. I will not go back.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “You’d rather crawl than fly?”

“I’d rather be human,” Cas said. He stepped forward, meeting Gabriel’s gaze without flinching. “I’ve seen what certainty makes of us. I won’t be that again.”

Dean’s eyes snapped to him, shock mingling with raw frustration. “Cas—”

Cas cut him off, his voice rising, sharp as glass. “You were an archangel, Gabriel. The most powerful of us. And it didn’t save your Nephilim children. Heaven still came for them. Heaven still butchered them. So tell me—what difference does it make if I crawl or fly? Human or angel, Heaven will still try to destroy what it fears.”

For a moment, silence pressed in. Gabriel’s face hardened, the grin stripped away, and something raw flickered in his eyes before it was buried deep. Then his tone dropped, venomous. “You think I’m your enemy? You don’t even need me. Half of Heaven already hates you, Cas. They’d cheer to see you dragged down for your betrayal. And Dean?” He let his gaze flick to the hunter, smirk cutting cruel across his face. “I already showed you he’s not worth much. A little push, and he crumbles. That’s the man you’ve staked everything on.”

Gabriel snapped the vial back into his pocket, the gesture final. “So stay human. Stay broken. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when the sky itself comes down to grind you into dust. And when it happens—don’t expect me to mourn.”

And with that, Gabriel was gone—his presence snapping out like a light bulb burning out, leaving the warehouse too quiet, too dim.

Dean rounded on Cas instantly, voice sharp with disbelief. “Why the hell would you do that? Why would you choose this? You had a way out—you could’ve been strong again. Whole.”

Cas didn’t flinch. His jaw tightened, his gaze steady on Dean’s. “Strength is not the same as righteousness,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Power didn’t make me whole, Dean. It made me dangerous. It made me blind.” He stepped closer, enough that Dean had to see the resolve in his eyes. “I will not go back to being a weapon. Not for Heaven. Not for anyone. I’d rather fall and bleed beside you than shine in a choir that never cared if we lived or died.”

Dean shook his head, frustration carving deep lines across his face. “You think bleeding out makes you noble? That being human makes you safe? It doesn’t, Cas. It just makes you breakable.”

Cas’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Then let me break,” he said quietly. “At least it will be my choice.”

Silence pressed in, heavy as lead—until Jack piped up, small but cutting through both of them. “Stop fighting.”

The words shattered something in the room. Cas swallowed hard, guilt flickering across his face. Dean blew out a breath, shoulders slumping, his anger blunted by the reminder that they weren’t alone.

Dean dragged a hand over his face, then dropped it, eyes narrowing at Cas. “Alright. Enough. No more riddles, no more cryptic angel crap—just tell me what the hell is going on. What is he? What is Jack?”

Before Cas could answer, Jack stepped forward, voice small but insistent. “I told you already. I was made from love.” His eyes flicked between them, earnest in a way that hurt to look at. “I felt it. It called to me. That’s why I’m here.”

Dean turned on Cas, his tone sharp and incredulous. “That’s not an answer. That’s—” he jabbed a hand toward Jack, “—that’s not even possible. You don’t just… feel love and spawn a kid out of thin air. Biology doesn’t work like that. Angels don’t work like that. Nothing works like that.”

Cas’s expression tightened, but he didn’t argue. “You’re right. It shouldn’t be possible,” he admitted, voice low, almost unwilling. “Even the oldest texts only ever hinted… and I dismissed them as myth. Creation requires form, flesh, intent. Not…” He faltered, gaze flicking to Jack uneasily. “Not this.”

Dean’s voice cut in again, harsh with disbelief. “Exactly. So he’s lying, or Gabriel’s screwing with us, or both. Because there’s no universe where this kid is ours. You get that, right?”

Cas hesitated, the silence stretching too long. When he finally spoke, his voice was edged with reluctant doubt. “I want to believe that. I do. But something in him…” His throat worked, and the words sounded heavy even to his own ears. “It resonates. With me. With you. That shouldn’t happen either.”

Dean shook his head hard, denial flashing like armor. “No. No, Cas. Don’t you start buying into this. It’s insane. It’s impossible. And I’m not—” His voice cracked, anger catching on fear. “I’m not a damn father.”

Jack looked between them, frowning, exasperation edging into his childlike voice. “This is stupid. Fighting over words. Over… facts.” He huffed, crossing his arms like a kid calling timeout. “You both already know. So stop.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s just go.”

The simplicity of it cut sharper than anything Gabriel had said. Jack’s words hung in the stillness, too clean, too certain.

Dean broke first. He dragged in a breath and pointed squarely at Jack, hunter’s instinct burning through the confusion. “No. We’re not just walking out like nothing happened. If you’re real—if you’re anything—you’re getting tested. Blood, DNA, holy water, silver, the whole damn playbook.” His voice hardened, eyes never leaving the boy. “I’m not taking your word for it. And I sure as hell ain’t taking Gabriel’s.”

Cas’s brow furrowed. “Dean—”

“Don’t,” Dean snapped, sharp and immediate. “Don’t you dare tell me to just accept this. You think I’m gonna let some kid stroll in here saying he’s ours without knowing exactly what he is? No. Not happening.” His jaw tightened, anger and fear blurring together. “We test. We verify. Then maybe we talk.”

Jack’s face fell, frustration flashing. “I already told you—”

“And I told you,” Dean cut across, voice iron. “Words don’t mean crap. Not in this world. We find the truth the hard way, or we don’t find it at all.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 16

The Impala hummed low against the dark road, yellow lines strobing past in steady rhythm. Cas fixed his eyes on the window, though the blur outside was nothing but shadow and reflection. In the glass, he could see Dean’s profile — jaw tightening and loosening, again and again, like a pendulum of restrained anger. The rhythm of it unsettled him, a silent message meant for everyone and no one.

Sam had twisted in the passenger seat to watch Dean, posture patient, as though waiting for the right moment to speak. Jack leaned forward between them, his face bright with curiosity, eager not to miss anything. Cas felt the boy’s questions hang in the air like sparks, directed toward Dean and Sam, never toward him.

He remained silent. Silence was safer — though it made his hands twitch against the seams of his coat, restless. He hated the way the air pressed thick in the car, heavy with things Dean would not say out loud. He hated more that he could feel Jack pulling closer to the front, pulled into that gravity, while he was left on the outside of it, staring into glass that gave nothing back.

Cas’s sleeve was fraying under his thumb where he’d begun worrying at it. He tried to stop but couldn’t. He thought of speaking — of cutting through the silence with some practical observation, or some sharp truth Dean wouldn’t thank him for — but the words stalled. His throat felt tight, caught between irritation at being ignored and a deeper, quieter ache he refused to name.

Stop it, he scolded himself, dragging his hand back to his lap. Not a soldier’s habit. Not discipline. And yet, moments later, his thumb found the fabric again, picking at the threads as though he could unravel the tension in his chest one fiber at a time.

So he said nothing. He let the Impala’s engine carry the weight, and told himself he preferred it that way.

Finally, Sam broke the silence. “So. You gonna tell me what that was back there?”

Dean exhaled hard through his nose, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “Yeah. Cliffnotes version? Gabriel went all mad scientist. Took me and Cas, stitched us together like patchwork, hit ‘print,’ and—bam. Kid.” He jerked his thumb toward the back seat without looking. “Says his name’s Jack. Says he’s ours.”

Sam blinked. “Ours… as in—”

“Don’t make me say it,” Dean cut in, voice sharp with warning. “Point is, he’s some freaky experiment. Born outta… I dunno. Angel crap. Whatever. Gabriel swears it’s in the fine print of some dusty book.”

Sam let out a short laugh of disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

Dean’s eyes stayed fixed on the road, mouth grim. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

In the back, Jack piped up, cheerful in a way that made Dean’s shoulders tense. “He’s not kidding. I’m real.”

Sam glanced back at him, then at Cas, who didn’t offer a word of protest. His brows shot up. “Wow.”

Cas didn’t respond. He kept his eyes on the dark blur of the trees rushing past the window, but his chest twisted. Born out of love, Gabriel had said. The cruelest joke of all. Because Dean did not love him. Dean barely trusted him, barely tolerated him on the worst nights. And yet — here was Jack. A child they were told was theirs. A child that, by Gabriel’s hand, was supposed to prove some bond deeper than choice, deeper than grace.

The universe mocked him. Mocked everything he had sacrificed. Jack was not born of love — not when Dean’s eyes never softened for him, not when his words cut sharper than blades. If Jack was proof of anything, it was that even miracles could be twisted into parodies. That God, or Gabriel, or fate itself, still delighted in turning his longing into punishment.

Anger curdled with grief, black and heavy in his chest. Anger at Gabriel for forcing this fate. At Dean for dismissing Jack as a “freak,” as though the boy’s existence was nothing but another burden. At himself, because part of him wanted it to be true. Wanted Jack to be love-made flesh. Wanted to believe it meant Dean’s heart was tied to his in ways neither of them could name.

But it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Dean did not love him.

So Cas folded his hands tight in his lap, his silence a cage for the storm inside him. He said nothing as Dean muttered under his breath, “Yeah. Welcome to my life.”

Cas stared out into the dark. And for the first time, he thought maybe Dean was right. Maybe this was his life: a universe that handed him a child with the words “born of love” carved into his very being, while the one person he wanted it to mean something to never felt that way at all.

Jack’s nose pressed close to the glass, fogging it as fields and dark shapes rolled past. “What’s that?” he asked suddenly, pointing at a flicker of light on the horizon.

Cas followed his finger. “A telecommunications tower. Its function is to transmit—”

“A cell tower,” Dean cut in, shaking his head, a laugh under his breath. “Kid doesn’t need the encyclopedia version.”

Jack tilted his head, absorbing the word like it might stick better than the explanation. “Cell tower,” he repeated carefully. “Okay. And that?” He jabbed at a shadowy outline of a barn.

“A domicile for livestock,” Cas said without hesitation.

Dean barked a laugh. “It’s a barn, Cas. Just a barn.”

Jack giggled, eyes flicking between them. “Livestock house… barn. Got it.”

The next few miles turned into a game—Jack pointing at things, Cas offering the stiff, textbook description, Dean cutting in with the plain-English translation.

“Vehicular thoroughfare,” Cas intoned when they passed a crossroads.

“Road,” Dean corrected, grinning despite himself.

“Agricultural vehicle,” Cas tried when a tractor rumbled by on a trailer.

Dean nearly snorted coffee through his nose. “It’s a tractor, Cas. Just—tractor.”

Jack’s laugh was loud, unguarded, filling the car in a way that made Dean’s shoulders ease without him realizing.

Cas sat straighter in his seat, eyes on the next shape looming in the dark. He could have used the simple term — of course he knew it. But every time Dean’s voice cut in, every time Dean’s exasperated laugh filled the space between them, Cas felt something in his chest unclench. He told himself it was simply accuracy that demanded the longer version, but part of him knew better. It was attention. It was a way to make Dean look at him, even if only to roll his eyes.

Sam watched the exchange, something small and complicated tugging at his mouth as he looked between them.

Dean caught it, but didn’t ask. He just drummed his fingers against the wheel again, smirking faintly as Jack fired off another question.

Jack pressed close to the window, finger jabbing at a line of lights moving along the opposite lane. “That one—what is that?”

Castiel leaned forward, following his gesture. “A commercial transport truck. Designed for—”

“A semi,” Dean interrupted, voice gruff but softened at the edges. He even smiled, fleetingly, as if the word itself amused him.

Jack lit up, repeating the word back like a charm. Dean’s mouth curved further, and Castiel felt the shift—minute but unmistakable. The tension in Dean’s shoulders had slackened; the lines around his eyes eased. He was… allowing it. Allowing himself to respond to the boy.

For a brief moment, the car seemed lighter for it. Jack’s laughter filled the space, and Dean didn’t chase it away.

Then Castiel saw the realization catch him. The smile faltered, his jaw clamped down, and his hands tightened around the steering wheel until his knuckles stood pale in the passing glow of streetlights.

“Enough questions,” Dean said, abrupt, as though the warmth itself had betrayed him. “It’s late. Sit back. Get some sleep.”

Jack shrank into his seat without protest. The boy’s quiet settled heavy over the hum of the engine.

Castiel watched Dean in profile—watched the way he refused to look into the mirror, to look at the child, at him, at anyone. Dean’s sudden withdrawal scraped against something sharp in him—something impatient, weary of watching connection flare and then be strangled before it could breathe.

The silence held for long miles. Jack slumped eventually against the seatbelt, breaths evening into sleep. His head lolled toward the window, mouth parted just enough that condensation bloomed softly against the glass.

Castiel let the boy’s quiet anchor him for a moment, until the annoyance returned, coiled hot and restless under his skin. The cuff of his shirt sleeve was ragged now, threads curling between his fingers. He tore another strand loose, methodical, until it gave with a muted snap.

Dean hadn’t glanced back once. He only kept his eyes locked on the road, as if sheer focus could wall off what he refused to feel.

Sam’s eyes flicked to the back seat, where Jack had slumped against the window, mouth parted in sleep. Sam’s voice came low but easy, filling the quiet car. “The way he watches everything, asks questions, tries to figure the world out… you can already see it. Jack’s a Winchester through and through.”

Cas inclined his head, “He will need guidance. Weapons training, certainly. But also control. Restraint.”

Sam nodded, thoughtful. “We could work something out. A schedule, maybe. Keep it balanced so he’s not just learning how to fight but how to manage himself.”

Cas continued, deliberate now, as though laying out a campaign. “He will need protection, too. Wards around the bunker. Sigils keyed to him.”

“And weapons locked up,” Dean added gruffly. “If he’s training, fine. But we don’t leave anything lying around. He gets to handle stuff when one of us is watching — not before.”

Sam shot him a quick glance, “That’s fair.”

Dean exhaled hard through his nose. “And no damn demon blades or angel swords until he’s older. Kid starts small. Knife work, maybe a bow. Something he can’t level a building with if he loses his temper.”

Cas turned his head toward him, eyes steady. “Agreed. Smaller weapons. Measured steps.”

Dean gripped the wheel tighter, voice rough. “And if we’re warding the place, we make it so he can’t just walk out without us knowing. Last thing we need is him sleepwalking into a fight he’s not ready for.”

Sam gave a short nod, his expression easing a little. “That all makes sense,” he said, then after a beat, his tone gentled. “So… you’re keeping him, then?”

The words landed heavier than he intended, hanging in the car.

Dean’s grip tightened on the wheel, jaw locking as if the question itself was a trap. He didn’t look back, didn’t risk meeting Sam’s eyes or Cas’s steady gaze in the window.

Cas’s breath caught, but he said nothing, waiting.

Dean exhaled hard through his nose, muttering, “Kid’s already here, isn’t he?” His voice was rough, defensive. “Not like I can just drop him off at the nearest orphanage.”

Sam didn’t look away, his voice quiet but firm. “That’s not the same thing, Dean. You know it.”

Dean’s hands flexed once on the wheel. “What do you want me to say, huh? That I’m suddenly fine with raising some… experiment Gabriel cooked up?” His mouth twisted. “I don’t even know what the hell he is.”

Cas’s eyes flicked toward the back seat, lingering on Jack’s sleeping face. His voice came low, certain. “He is your son.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing on the dark stretch of highway. “Don’t do that, Cas.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Cas replied simply. “I’m stating the truth.”

Sam shifted, his tone softer now, careful. “Look, I get it. None of us asked for this. But Dean—whether you say it out loud or not, he’s already looking to you. The way he watches you, copies you… You’ve seen it. He’s not just here. He’s yours.”

Cas watched the glance in the mirror, watched Dean’s hand flex like he was holding back more than words. His own fingers itched at the frayed edge of his sleeve, but he forced them still. “I’m not trying to make this harder for you,” he said quietly, voice low and even, not a plea but a fact. “I’m only reminding you what’s already true.”

Dean’s jaw worked, muscle twitching in his cheek. “What’s true is he’s dangerous,” he muttered. “Gabriel’s tricks always are.”

Sam didn’t blink. “We already checked, man. Everything. If he were dangerous, we’d know by now.”

Dean let out a low breath, barely more than a sound. “There’s more than one kind of danger,” he mumbled. “Not everything that kills you comes with teeth.”

Jack didn’t feel like a threat. Not with the way he laughed in the back seat. Not with the way he looked at Dean like he hung the stars.

Dean didn’t look back.

Instead, he tightened his grip on the wheel, eyes locked on the road ahead like it might offer an escape.

“He’s not ours,” he said flatly.

Sam turned toward him, brow furrowed. “Dean—”

“No. He’s not. I don’t care what Gabriel said, or what kind of cosmic science project he cooked up. Jack’s not our kid. He’s a mistake.”

Silence cracked through the car like a gunshot.

Cas’s voice came low, even. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Dean barked a short laugh — bitter, not amused. “The hell I don’t.”

“He’s a child,” Cas replied. “He is learning. And he is looking to you.”

“Well, he can stop,” Dean snapped, voice too loud in the confined space. “Because I’m not playing dad to some experiment Gabriel yanked out of thin air. I’m not that guy.”

Cas went still.

The silence that followed was heavier than before — a different kind of quiet, dense with disappointment.

Sam looked between them, jaw tight, like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure it would help.

Finally, Cas spoke.

“No. You’re not that guy. But you could be.”

Dean didn’t respond. He just stared at the road, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt.

Cas leaned forward slightly, his voice lower now — not softer, but closer. “You would be a good father, Dean.”

Dean’s hands twitched on the wheel. He didn’t look back.

“Yeah? And what makes you so sure?”

Cas’s gaze didn’t waver. “I am not certain about many things. But I know you, Dean. And I know myself. Together, we would not let a child be without what they need.”

Dean let out a rough exhale, a humorless sound. His grip flexed on the wheel before he jerked his chin toward the passenger seat. “You hear this, Sam? He’s got it all figured out.”

Sam shifted, eyes flicking between them. “I think he’s just saying you’d do better than you think.”

Dean scoffed, low and sharp, but he didn’t push it further.

Cas turned his face toward the window, the cool glass pressing against his temple. His finger traced an invisible line across the pane, slow and deliberate, as if he could etch his frustration into it. He said nothing, but the silence was heavy—disappointment threaded through with a sharper edge he tried to bury. He had expected dismissal, but not this… not Dean dragging Sam into it, as though Cas’s words carried no weight on their own. More than ever, he wished he could escape—slip out of his own skin, step away from the car, from the ache pressing at his ribs. But there was nowhere to go. Only the hum of the road and Dean’s silence closing in around him.

When they finally pulled into the bunker garage, Dean killed the engine and climbed out without a word. His boots echoed hard down the corridor, the sound sharp against the silence. Cas followed a few paces behind, steady but tense, Jack trailing uncertainly with Sam at his side.

Cas didn’t stop. He trailed Dean deeper into the bunker, past the war room and into the quiet stretch of halls. Dean’s door slammed open ahead of him, and Cas stepped through, intent on finishing what had been left unsaid in the car.

The door hadn’t even finished swinging shut before Dean spun on him. A rough hand fisted in his coat, shoving him back hard. Cas’s shoulders hit the wall with a thud that shook dust from the concrete. The force pinned him, Dean crowding close, every line of his body coiled and furious.

Dean’s forearm pressed across Cas’s chest, holding him in place. His other hand still gripped the lapel of his coat, knuckles white. He stepped in closer, boot scuffing against the floor, driving Cas back until there was nowhere left to go — just cold stone at his spine and Dean’s weight bearing down.

For a heartbeat, Cas thought this was it. The punishment. The blow he had been waiting for ever since Jack’s name had been spoken aloud. He saw it in the heat of Dean’s eyes — rage, betrayal, fear — and braced for fists, for impact, for pain.

But it never came.

Instead, Dean’s mouth crashed against his — hot, angry, desperate.

It wasn’t an answer to any question Cas had prepared. It was something else entirely, wild and raw, like Dean was burning through words he didn’t know how to say.

It wasn’t tenderness. It was demand, raw and unfiltered. A kiss like a weapon, like a question Dean didn’t know how to ask any other way.

The impact rattled through him, concrete cold at his back. Dean’s grip tightened on his coat, dragging him forward and slamming him back again in the same motion, lips bruising, breath ragged.

Cas’s hands shot up to Dean’s shoulders, gripping hard, anchoring himself in the storm of it. His body screamed to match the fury, to burn with the same fire. But slowly, deliberately, he shifted — fingers sliding to the nape of Dean’s neck, threading there, pulling him closer but coaxing the violence into something steadier.

He softened the kiss, not to resist but to reshape it — answering anger with need, demand with want. Dean pressed harder, his chest crushing against Cas’s, hips driving forward until there was no space left between them. The friction sparked sharp heat, their bodies grinding together in a rhythm born of desperation rather than control.

Cas’s breath hitched, a low sound escaping before he could stop it. His grip tightened at Dean’s neck, urging him closer, holding him like he might disappear if Cas let go.

And then—Dean staggered back a step, breath ragged, eyes wild like he’d just touched fire and realized it would burn him alive if he stayed. His chest rose and fell hard, words scraping out rough. “Tell me straight. You serious about this? Staying human?”

Cas met his eyes without wavering. “Yes.” His voice was low, certain.

Dean stared at him for a long beat, searching his face like he expected it to crack, to falter. But it didn’t. Something in his shoulders eased, just barely. His mouth twitched—not a smile, not even close, but the ghost of one, fleeting as a shadow. “Good.”

The word hung between them, carrying more weight than the thin syllable should.

Then Dean turned, sharp and sudden, boots thudding hard against the floor as he strode out. He didn’t look back.

Cas stayed against the wall long after Dean’s footsteps had faded, his body thrumming with a strange confusion. The kiss still lingered—rough, urgent, almost cruel in its demand—and yet Dean’s parting word had been good. Not dismissal, not anger. Approval. Relief, even.

Cas didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand why Dean would press him so close, only to leave him standing there hollowed out and reeling. Human choices still baffled him. Dean’s most of all.

He pulled in a breath and pushed himself off the wall, letting instinct guide his feet. They carried him to the library, where Jack sat slouched in one of the heavy chairs, legs swinging a little, watching the room as though trying to memorize it.

Cas stopped in the doorway, simply… staring. His gaze traced the slope of Jack’s jaw, the stubborn set of his mouth. Dean’s features surfaced in fragments, stitched to something that was not Dean at all. Cas’s chest tightened with wonderment and dread in equal measure.

Jack blinked, then squinted at him. “You’re staring.”

Cas startled, realizing he hadn’t spoken. His lips parted, then closed again, then finally curved into something tentative. “Forgive me. I was… looking.”

Jack tilted his head, suspicious but amused. “At my face?”

“Yes.” Cas stepped closer, his voice softening. “You resemble him. More than I expected.” He hesitated, then, with a strange impulse tugging at him, added, “Would you like me to show you how to make an omelette?”

Jack’s brows shot up, caught between suspicion and delight. “An omelette?”

Cas nodded once, solemn. “It is… a useful skill. And—” His mouth pressed into a line. “It was the first thing I ever learned to cook. Dean taught me.”

Something flickered across Jack’s face—curiosity, warmth, the kind of childlike eagerness that needed only the smallest invitation. He hopped down from the chair. “Okay. Show me.”

Cas’s chest loosened, just a fraction. He turned toward the kitchen, the boy’s footsteps quick behind his own.

The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the old refrigerator. Cas set the pan on the stove, laying out eggs and butter with the same deliberate precision he brought to every task. Jack dragged a chair over and climbed up to watch, elbows on the counter, eyes too bright for the dim room.

“First,” Cas said, cracking the eggs into a bowl, “you must whisk them. Firmly, but not violently.” He demonstrated, his movements exact, each scrape of the fork measured.

Jack leaned closer, watching intently. His brow furrowed in concentration—and for a heartbeat, Cas saw it: a flicker of radiance behind his eyes, faint but unmistakable. It wasn’t mortal. Not the dull spark of bone and blood borrowed from a vessel. It was something older, vast, luminous. Other.

Cas’s breath caught. Jack didn’t wear his vessel’s likeness; he bore the echo of Cas’s own grace, untempered, unshaped. The resonance shimmered at the edge of perception, familiar yet alien, like gazing upon the outline of a star through storm clouds, knowing its light was older than the world itself. It was not human. It was something unearthly, and it unsettled him—because it was his.

But Cas’s human senses were dulled, blunt tools compared to what he once wielded. Where once he might have read every thread of Jack’s essence, now it slipped past him like smoke through his fingers. He could sense only fragments, never the whole. The not-knowing gnawed at him, left him unsteady. Frustration prickled beneath his skin, sharp and restless; to be so near and yet unable to truly see Jack for what he was felt like standing before a locked door that should have opened at his touch.

Jack tilted his head in a way that was achingly familiar. “You’re staring again.”

Cas blinked, forced himself back into motion. “Whisk harder,” he murmured, passing the bowl into Jack’s hands.

The boy’s tongue poked from the corner of his mouth as he concentrated. Cas guided him to pour the mixture into the pan, explaining the timing, the heat, the patience it required. But Jack grew impatient, poking at it with a spatula too soon, tearing the edges. Smoke curled up before either of them could stop it. The omelette blackened fast, acrid.

Jack laughed nervously. “Guess we burned it.”

Cas didn’t answer. His gaze lingered on the ruined pan, the smell of scorched eggs filling the air, and Gabriel’s voice rang sharp in his mind: I’ve seen enough of my own children butchered. Don’t care to watch another.

The words clawed through him. Jack’s bright eyes, the echo of grace in his veins, the fragile human warmth around him—Heaven would kill him. They would see him as an abomination, a threat.

He saw the shimmer of his own grace, unmistakable, bound inextricably with Dean’s fierce, stubborn humanity. Jack was not simply angel or human. He was both, and something beyond. Something neither Heaven nor Earth had the language to name.

And the thought of losing him—of Heaven striking him down—was unbearable. It would not just be a piece of Cas cut away. It would be that singular part of himself he had never shared with anyone, joined with Dean in a way he hadn’t thought possible. If Jack died, that part of them—the part born of both—would die too.

To Cas, Jack was more than treasure, more than miracle. He was the rarest thing he had ever known: proof that he and Dean could create something together. Something unearthly, irreplaceable, precious beyond measure.

But Heaven would never see it that way. They would not marvel at Jack’s uniqueness, or honor what he carried. They would brand it corruption. They would call it an abomination—an offense against the natural order. And they would not stop until it was destroyed.

Cas’s chest tightened, his breath thin. Heaven was not something he could fight. He had tried before—he had stood against the Host, and every time he had been broken, dragged back down, forced to watch as they crushed what he had dared to protect. The thought of it returning, of Heaven’s fury bending down on Jack, sent panic crawling through his veins.

This time, if it came to that fight, it would not only be his own ruin on the line. It would be Jack’s. It would be Dean’s. And Cas knew, with a dread that hollowed him out, that he could not bear to lose. Not again. Not this.

Panic rising so fast it strangled him. He stumbled back a step, then another, retreating until his shoulders hit the cool steel of the fridge. His breath came ragged, his hands gripping the counter edge like an anchor.

Jack’s face fell, confusion replacing his laughter. “Dad? Did I do something wrong?”

Cas closed his eyes, unable to answer, too consumed by the echo of Gabriel’s warning and the sudden, suffocating terror of what he might lose before he ever truly had it.

Cas pressed harder against the fridge, his chest aching as though the air itself had turned hostile. He couldn’t still the sound of Gabriel’s warning, couldn’t unsee the burned mess in the pan—an omen, a sign, the fragility of all this collapsing before it began.

“Dad?” Jack’s voice wavered. Small. Hurt. “I don’t… I don’t know what I did.”

Cas shook his head sharply, unable to form the words. He wanted to tell the boy it wasn’t him—that it was Heaven, that it was the inevitability of their cruelty—but the words caught in his throat, strangled by dread.

Jack hesitated only a moment before slipping off the chair. His footsteps pattered down the hall, quick, urgent. Cas let himself sag against the counter, trembling, caught between the impulse to follow and the shame of being seen undone.

It wasn’t long before heavier boots returned. Dean’s. The sound of them struck through the fog in Cas’s mind like flint.

The door swung open and Dean filled the space, eyes sharp, scanning. Jack hovered behind him, eyes wide and worried.

Dean’s gaze landed on Cas—pale, stiff against the fridge—and his expression shifted. The suspicion, the bite, melted into something rawer. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Cas. Hey. Breathe.”

Cas tried, but the air scraped against his lungs, thin and ragged. He dropped his gaze, ashamed. “I can’t—”

“You can.” Dean’s voice firmed, gentler than Cas expected. He set a steadying hand on Cas’s shoulder, warm, grounding. “Look at me. Just me. Not whatever crap Gabriel shoved in your head. Me.”

Cas’s eyes flicked up, green meeting blue. Dean’s hand squeezed once, anchoring him to the present, to something solid that wasn’t terror or prophecy.

Behind Dean, Jack whispered, “He was scared. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Dean didn’t look away from Cas, but his tone softened. “You did right, kid.”

For the first time since the kitchen filled with smoke, Cas managed a breath that didn’t hurt.

Dean kept his hand on Cas’s shoulder until the trembling eased. Then, without looking back, he spoke over his shoulder. “Jack. Give us a minute.”

The boy frowned, reluctant. “But—”

“Go,” Dean said, firmer this time, though not unkind. “We’ll be fine.”

Jack hesitated, then nodded. His footsteps retreated down the hall, leaving the kitchen heavy with silence.

For a moment, Dean just stood there, jaw tight, the weight of everything pressing down. Then a sharp smell cut through the air—smoke, bitter and wrong. He turned, cursing under his breath, and yanked the skillet off the burner. The omelette inside was blackened, curled up at the edges like charcoal. He killed the flame with a hard twist of the knob and grabbed a dish towel to smother the smoke curling up from the pan.

“Damn it,” Dean muttered, slamming the ruined pan into the sink. “Leave you two alone for five minutes and the place smells like a grease fire.” He waved at the haze with the towel, scowling, but his voice was more tired than angry. “Omelettes, Cas? Really? You couldn’t start with toast?”

Cas still leaned against the fridge, pale and silent. Dean glanced back, softening just a fraction. He scrubbed a hand down his face, then jerked his chin toward the mess in the sink. “You know, you don’t gotta prove anything. Burning breakfast doesn’t make you human. Trust me—I’ve been screwing up eggs since I was twelve.”

He reached over, twisting the knob on the stove again just to make sure the flame was dead. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint hiss of the cooling pan. Dean leaned his palms against the counter, shoulders tight. “Look, I get it. You’re scared. Hell, I’m scared. Kid shows up, says he’s… Heaven’s probably sharpening the knives already.” He huffed, low and humorless. “But burning the kitchen down isn’t gonna solve it.”

Cas’s eyes flicked toward him, faint bewilderment in the way his mouth parted. “You speak of fear as though it were manageable. But you have not seen what they do.” His voice was low, scraped raw at the edges. “I have stood among the fallen. My brothers. My sisters. Their wings burned black, charred until nothing remained but ash in the air. Not monsters. Not abominations. Merely… disobedient.” He straightened, but the motion was stiff, like memory itself had turned his body rigid. “Heaven does not hesitate, Dean. They do not question. They strike, and what is left is ruin. I watched the sky turn dark with it.” His jaw tightened, eyes glinting with something both fierce and hollow.

Dean’s mouth ticked, but not into a smile. He pushed off the counter, squaring up, green eyes locked on Cas. “Yeah, well… those dicks don’t scare me, Cas. They never have. We’ve taken hits from Heaven before.” His voice dropped, rough but steady. “We’ll face ’em again. Together. Like we always do. As a family.”

The last word hung heavy. Before Cas could answer, Dean reached out, fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve where the fabric frayed from Cas’s restless pulling. He smoothed it once, quick and rough like he might’ve done with Sam years ago, but the touch lingered just a moment too long.

Then his mouth quirked, that flash of cocky bravado slipping through. “And for the record? Heaven shouldn’t scare you, Cas. Hell—Heaven should be scared of me.”

Cas tilted his head, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “That borders on blasphemy, Dean.” His tone was flat, but there was the ghost of something else beneath it—half admonishment, half reluctant affection.

Dean snorted, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah, well… wouldn’t be the first time.” He reached for another skillet from the rack, setting it on the burner with a clang. “Alright then. Round two. Let’s see if we can make something edible before Sam comes sniffing around and calls Child Protective Services on us.”

The corner of Cas’s mouth twitched, but the expression didn’t hold. He watched Dean fuss with the skillet, watched his hands, his shoulders, his back. “Jack—” He faltered, searching for the right words, the right order. “We have to protect him. Hide him. Keep him secret from Heaven. They’ll never understand—Gabriel was right about that. They’ll destroy him before they ever see him for what he is.”

Dean’s voice finally came, rough, scraping through the tightness in his chest. “What is he, Cas?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, the words jagged. “Not in any way that fits scripture or science. He isn’t human, he isn’t a Nephilim—not in the way we knew them. He shouldn’t exist.” His breath hitched; he forced himself to keep going. “But he does. And Heaven will call him an abomination, because that’s what they always call what they don’t understand.” He drew a steadier breath, his voice soft but unwavering. “I don’t have the answers. Only this: he’s ours, Dean. And they will come for him.”

His eyes searched Cas’s, hard and unyielding. “It doesn’t make sense, Cas. It’s too damn convenient. How do you know it’s not another monster messing with us again? Another trick?” His voice dropped, rough with fear disguised as anger. “I just don’t believe it.” Dean leaned in, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been tricked before Cas. Don’t tell me you haven’t.”

Cas’s voice came fast, sharper than he intended. “I felt him before he appeared. And I did not call him forth him. If anything…” his gaze flicked away for the briefest moment, “…I remember turning away from him.”

Dean’s frown deepened, suspicion carved into every line of his face. “Then what the hell are you saying?”

Cas hesitated, silence dragging, the truth pressing hard in his chest. Not Heaven. Not Gabriel. Dean. It was Dean he feared losing. His hands curled at his sides. He could feel the words splintering in his throat.

Dean leaned in, voice rough. “Say it, Cas.”

Cas lifted his eyes, steady now, his tone quiet but absolute. “He is your son, too. Not only mine. I can’t stop wondering how he came into creation if I turned away.” He hesitated, then added, “Look at him, Dean. Anyone can see it. He bears your likeness—the shape of your jaw, the set of your eyes. It is there for the world to recognize, even if you will not.”

The words fell between them like a blade—clean, irrevocable.

Dean’s jaw worked, anger and something else flickering in his eyes. He let out a rough scoff, shaking his head. “Great. So what, that makes me the mom? Figures. Out of all the messed-up crap Gabriel could pull.” His mouth twisted, trying for humor, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess that explains the hips, huh?”

Cas blinked, expression unmoving. “I don’t believe there is a mother in this situation,” he said evenly. “Gabriel described it as convergence, not reproduction. Jack’s existence isn’t biological. He was formed from what already existed—your humanity and my grace.”

“Yeah, well, that’s assuming Gabriel isn’t full of crap. Verdict’s still out on that one.” Dean’s tone was sharp, but a little too quick, like he needed the words to get there first before the silence did.

Cas exhaled, the sound closer to a weary sigh. “Even so, it doesn’t seem like a logical explanation.”

Dean shot him a look, half defensive, half cornered. “Hey, don’t sell us short. We could totally make a little Jack if we wanted to.” His mouth twitched, caught between a smirk and something rougher. “I’m just saying—I don’t trust Gabriel as far as I can throw him.”

Cas went still. He didn’t answer, didn’t argue. But his brow furrowed, and his gaze slipped away. Dean’s words looped in his head, snagging and refusing to settle. We could. It was a careless joke, but to Cas it opened questions he couldn’t reconcile. Jack wasn’t supposed to exist without love—that’s what Gabriel had said. And Dean did not love him. Not like that. So how was Jack real? How could Dean say such a thing, even in jest?

And worse—Had Dean had called Jack forward? He remembered with perfect clarity the moment he had stepped back, withdrawn, he had turned away. He knew he had. Yet Jack was here, and Dean was making no claim to him. The contradiction gnawed at him, made the edges of reality feel uncertain, untrustworthy.

Cas folded the thought back into silence, his hands tightening once at his sides. He didn’t press. He wouldn’t. But the ache of it lingered, sharp and unrelenting beneath his ribs.

At last, his voice returned, low and even, the safest ground he could find. “Gabriel has not proven to be the most trustworthy of siblings.” It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but it was what he chose.

Dean snorted, about to shoot back some jagged remark, but the words died in his throat when Cas moved.

He closed the space between them with sudden intent, fingers catching Dean’s shoulder, then sliding down to his chest. The contact burned—too much, not enough. Cas pressed forward until Dean’s back hit the counter, the edge biting through his flannel. His grip was unyielding, but not cruel; it was hunger, a need that had gone too long unanswered.

Cas’s mouth found his—firm, unhesitating. Not for tenderness, not for comfort, but for silence. To stop the spiral of words, to ground himself in something solid. Dean’s hands came up between them, uncertain, caught between shoving him off and pulling him closer.

Cas leaned in harder, the kiss rough with urgency, his breath shaking against Dean’s lips. He was touch-starved, desperate, his thoughts clawing at him until only this contact could drown them out.

“Cas—” Dean muttered against his mouth, half protest, half surrender.

But Cas only pushed closer, as though proximity alone could quiet the chaos in his head.

But instead of quiet, everything sharpened. Dean’s heartbeat thundered against his chest, every rise of heat magnifying the questions Cas was desperate to bury. The taste, the closeness—far from silencing—only deepened the ache, forcing it into sharp relief. Dean’s words echoed louder with every breath: We could. If we wanted to.

If we wanted to.

Cas broke the kiss with a sharp breath, pulling back like the air had burned him. His hands dropped away, curling into fists at his sides. Frustration lit across his face, quick and volatile, but his voice came out tight and low.

“This isn’t helping.”

He turned away, shoulders rigid, as though retreat was the only shield he had left. The silence after was heavier than before, his own thoughts chasing him even as he tried to outrun them.

Chapter Text

Cas locked the door behind him and sat on the floor. He laid back and stared at the ceiling.

His breathing slowed by force of will, pulled into the old cadence drilled into him on battlefields—inhale for four counts, hold, release. He let his eyes unfocus, tracing the ceiling’s cracks like constellations, as if mapping terrain before combat. In his mind, he catalogued sensation the way a soldier readied himself before engagement: the press of the floor against his spine, the faint hum of pipes in the walls, the weight of his own heartbeat anchoring him.

It was a ritual meant to still the mind, to strip away distraction until only the mission remained. But tonight there was no enemy to strike, no order to obey—only thoughts circling like carrion. He repeated the cycle anyway, the habit of a warrior trying to wrest discipline from chaos, as if silence could be commanded like troops on a field.

He than decided to tidy his room. He started with the obvious, the physical anchors of his old escapes. The pills, the half-empty bottles, the little packets he’d told himself were for “nights when thinking got too loud” — he handled them without drama, with a sort of clinical kindness. He bagged them, labelled the bag, and slid it into the metal box in the corner he used for things that needed to be dealt with properly. Not tossed into a sink, not flushed with decisions made in the dark — boxed, secured, a problem to be solved in daylight with people who knew how to do it right. It felt like choice.

Next came the cleaning. Cas attacked the room as if cleaning were an exorcism: he stripped the sheets, ran the laundry twice, wiped down counters until his fingers whitened, He folded clothes with mathematical care. He threw away trash he didn’t need and put the rest — the things that mattered — in a small box on the bookshelf, a place he could inspect, protect, or burn if the world demanded it later.

When the room looked… honest, he sat at the desk and pulled out paper. The sheets filled with careful handwriting, diagrams, and time-stamped lists. Watch points around the bunker. Routes in and out. He mapped Jack’s day-to-day into the plan — school of one, with lessons in omelettes, stairs, and how to hide a boy’s smile from a celestial census.

He marched down to the library and pulled every book Sam kept on angels off the shelf. The bindings didn’t matter—Sam’s notes, his coffee stains, his careful margins—they were irrelevant. Cas needed them. All of them. He carried the stack into his room, arms full, a tower of text and theory threatening to topple. Some were useful; some were outdated. Some were academic. And a few — the ones steeped in Heaven’s old cruelty — he kept out of spite, determined to strip them bare.

He spread them across the bed and began. Reading aloud at first, steady, though the words struck like old blows. Obedience. Subjugation. Order. Punishment. Each phrase landed like a lash, ringing with memory, every syllable a command he had once obeyed without question. His chest tightened, breath stuttering shallow in his throat. He knew it was paper, only ink, yet his body responded as if the orders were still being barked at him—muscles taut, ears ringing, the room narrowing to the press of authority he thought he’d left behind.

His fingers twitched against the page until the ink blurred under his touch. For a moment he nearly closed the book, but discipline pulled him back. He forced control the way he always had: by clinging to the motions. Underlining, scribbling notes, sketching sigils in the margins. Precision over panic. Order over memory. But his hand trembled, betraying the war inside him, every mark a small act of defiance against the voices he could still hear.

• Angels: A Field Guide for Hunters — “Spot the halo, shoot the halo.”

• Grace 101: Harnessing Celestial Power For Practical Domination — “If you can’t control it, militarize it.”

• Theological Ethics of Nephilim Management — moral superiority embedded in the font itself.

But every book told him the same thing: Jack was dangerous. Jack was unnatural. Jack was doomed. The words weren’t facts, they were judgments—poison in black ink—and still they scraped against his nerves like blades. He kept searching, desperate for one line, one clue, one proof that Jack was more than the fear these texts repeated. But there was nothing. Only doom. Only prophecy.

Cas’s hand closed hard around the page, and he tore it free with a sharp rip. The sound was harsh in the quiet, a release that felt almost like breath. One after another, he yanked out the words that didn’t please him—the prophecies, the condemnations, the venom disguised as wisdom. He spread them across the wall with tacks and tape, a jagged patchwork of damnation staring back at him.

Pinned there, stripped from their bindings, the pages looked weaker, less sacred. Easier to fight. He stood before them like a soldier studying enemy positions, chest heaving, trying to wrest order from the chaos.

He pulled red thread and began stringing it across the wall — connecting phrases, symbols, cross-references. He moved faster than he could think, soldier’s instinct trying to shape chaos into a map. Thread pulled taut between contradictions, circles drawn over words that twisted in his gut. A battlefield diagram, he told himself. Territory staked, enemy positions marked.

At first the wall looked like a war map. But when Cas stepped back, letting his eyes scan the jagged constellation of torn pages and red thread, something else took root. He read the human words again — not as prophecy, not as orders, but as what they really were.

He actually laughed once, sharp and startled, when his gaze caught a line from Grace 101: Harness your angel as you would a stallion — break it young, bridle it fast. The arrogance was absurd. So certain. So confident in its stupidity. He laughed again, a brittle sound, shaking his head as though disbelief could wash it away.

But the humor curdled as he kept reading. The absurdity was also terrifying, because humans had believed these words. They had passed them down, bound them into books, taught them as fact. It was ignorance made permanent. And to Cas, it felt too close to the cruelty he had seen elsewhere — the same blind confidence that fueled wars, pogroms, purges. He had heard the same cadence in Heaven’s halls, and in human mouths condemning what they didn’t understand.

Hours later, he stepped back from the wall. Red thread stretched in every direction, crossing over itself until it tangled. Pages layered with inked sigils, notes over notes, arrows pointing nowhere. The plan pinned at the center was no plan at all, just a manic sprawl of contradictions. His chest heaved, tight, as he stared at it.

Nothing about Jack. Not one truth. Not one fact. Just the same poison repeated in different voices.

The realization hollowed him out. All the effort, all the structure, and the result was nonsense—overwhelming, empty, senseless. A wall screaming back at him in his own handwriting.

Cas sank to the bed, dragging his hands down his face. The silence pressed close again, and this time it was suffocating.

The clock on Cas’s desk ticked past midnight. He sat up slowly, the silence of the room pressing close, heavy as a hand on his throat. His gaze drifted to the metal box in the corner, the lock glinting faintly in the lamplight. He could almost feel it pulling at him, the weight of what was sealed inside — a promise of quiet, of stillness, of silence where his thoughts would finally stop clawing. His fingers twitched in his lap, the urge sharp and immediate.

He turned away before the pull could root deeper. Rising, he slipped from the bed and padded down the hall, steps noiseless on the cold floor. Dean’s door was shut but not locked—never locked. Cas hesitated only a second before pushing it open.

The room was dark, but he could see Dean clearly enough: stretched on his back, hands folded on his stomach, eyes open and fixed on the ceiling. Awake, as usual. Always awake.

Dean’s head turned when Cas entered, but he didn’t move, didn’t speak. Cas crossed the room without a word and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. After a beat, he swung his legs up, crawling beside him. The mattress dipped under the weight, and the silence deepened into something fragile.

“How is Jack?” Cas asked at last, voice low.

Dean’s eyes softened in the dark, though his jaw stayed tight. “Out like a light. Gave him a room down the hall.”

Cas turned that over slowly. “A room,” he repeated, as though the words themselves carried weight. A place of his own. Shelter. Belonging.

Dean’s gaze drifted back to the ceiling. “Yeah. Figured he deserved at least that much.” His tone was gruff, but there was something gentler beneath it. “Can’t have him crashing on the couch like some stray we dragged in.”

Cas lay still for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of Dean’s breathing, the small creaks of the bunker at night. His chest ached with something that felt dangerously like hope.

The silence stretched, warm now instead of sharp. Dean shifted, turning his head just enough to catch Cas’s profile in the dim light from the hall.

Without speaking, Dean reached sideways and caught Cas’s hand. His grip was firm but not rough, his thumb dragging over Cas’s knuckles like he was testing the shape of them. He turned the hand palm-up and traced slowly along the veins of Cas’s forearm, mapping the lines with an odd, quiet intensity. The touch was both grounding and restless, like Dean didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

Cas lay still, watching the motion, chest tightening with each deliberate pass of Dean’s finger. Dean’s hand found the side of Cas’s face, rough thumb brushing his cheekbone like he didn’t know what else to do with tenderness. Cas leaned into the touch, letting himself be steadied, letting the weight of fear and Gabriel’s warnings fall silent for the first time all day.

Dean shifted closer, their shoulders bumping, then their chests pressed flush. The warmth between them settled into something steady, not frantic, not desperate—just there. Present.

Cas slid a hand to Dean’s shirt, clutching the fabric lightly, as if to prove this was real.

But Dean didn’t stop there. His hands dragged down in a rush, fumbling at the buttons of Cas’s shirt with rough, impatient force. He tugged like every second mattered, like he needed to get past the barriers and into flesh before something in him caught up. The hunger in it was sharp, but it carried no pause, no care—just urgency.

Cas caught his wrist, not sure why, only knowing he needed Dean to slow down. His grip was firm but not forceful, confusion trembling beneath it. “Dean,” he murmured, voice uncertain but steady enough to hold.

When Dean tried to pull forward again, Cas shifted, pressing him back against the mattress with more intent than he’d meant to. His hands framed Dean’s face, his mouth brushing against Dean’s slower, softer—an unspoken command to follow his pace. To love, not just devour.

Dean froze beneath him. For a flicker of a moment, his eyes went wide, Then his hands shoved at Cas’s shoulders, not rough enough to hurt but frantic, desperate to break the frame Cas was building around them. “Dammit, Cas—” he hissed, pulling back hard enough to break the touch.

Cas froze, lips parted, confusion cutting through the reverence still soft on his face. “I… did something wrong?” His voice caught on the words, raw in its uncertainty.

Dean pushed away from him, chest heaving. “No—you just—” He scrubbed a hand down his face, muttering under his breath.

Cas tilted his head, steady. “I don’t understand. You wanted this.”

Dean’s jaw worked, eyes hard but glinting with something rawer underneath. “I just… don’t think you get this, Cas.” His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “How humans do this. How this kind of stuff works.”

Cas blinked at him, confusion pressing hard behind his ribs. He felt like a tourist in a place he didn’t belong, trying to follow rules no one had explained. His hands hovered uselessly in his lap. “I’m sorry.”

The words fell flat in the space between them, heavy and inadequate. It was another transgression, another stumble where he hadn’t known the right thing to say or do. Another reminder that he was always too much or not enough—never human enough, never angel enough. Every attempt came out wrong, clumsy, and Dean’s silence only made the edges of his failure sharper.

Cas lowered his eyes, the apology echoing like a confession, hollow and self-indicting. He had wanted to love, but instead he had erred again.

“You should go.”

Cas blinked once, slow, unblinking. “…You want me to leave.”

Dean’s mouth twisted, his eyes fixed anywhere but Cas. “Yeah. That’s what I want.”

Cas’s throat worked, but no words came. At last, he nodded faintly. “Alright.” He turned, pulling his shirt back on with stiff, awkward motions, and moved quickly toward the door. Just before stepping out, he murmured, “I am sorry, Dean.”

Dean’s voice followed him, rougher than he meant it to be. “Stop apologizing, Cas.”

The words didn’t soothe. They struck like another wound. Cas felt worse—because even contrition wasn’t enough. Not here. Not for Dean. Every offering he gave seemed to fall short, and he couldn’t shake the sense that he himself was the failure.

Cas didn’t go to his own room. The thought of it—the silence, the drawer, the weight of what he kept hidden there—was too dangerous tonight. His steps carried him instead to Jack’s door. He opened it quietly.

The boy was awake, sitting up in bed with the covers bunched at his waist, eyes too bright in the dark. He didn’t say anything when Cas stepped in, just watched him with that strange, steady curiosity he always carried.

Cas lowered himself to the floor without explanation, back to the wall, coat still wrapped around him. The chill of the concrete seeped through, grounding. “I’ll stay here tonight,” he said simply.

Jack frowned. “On the floor?”

“Yes.” Cas folded his hands in his lap, settling. “It’s… safer.”

Jack tilted his head, suspicion tugging at him. “From what?”

“From myself.”

Jack blinked, not quite understanding. Instead, he shifted under the blanket and patted the edge of the bed, an unspoken offer. Cas didn’t move. He stayed where he was, steady and firm. Jack sighed and lay back down, but his eyes remained open, watching.

“What are those?” Cas asked, noticing the faint glowing shapes scattered across the ceiling.

Jack followed his gaze. “Dad put them up,” he said softly. “They’re called glow-in-the-dark stars. They… keep the scary things away.”

“Stars, I was among them once. Light without weight. Song without silence. There is… order out there, but also beauty. Infinite, endless.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “What’s it like?”

“Lonely,” he admitted. “Perfect, and yet… empty.”

Jack hugged the pillow closer, listening.

“When I was an angel, I spent centuries among them. Entire lifetimes in a single nebula, where the gases curled like fire and ice all at once. Beautiful, but… hollow. No one to see it with. We were not allowed to leave until the task was done.”

Jack’s eyes widened, “You were alone?”

Cas nodded slowly. “Alone. And yet not. My brethren were always there—voices in my head, their orders, their judgments. The chorus never stopped. It was… noisy, even in silence.” His mouth tugged faintly at the corner, remembering Dean’s collection of scratched DVDs, the smell of whiskey and dust in the motel air. “Not unlike the cowboys Dean loves. The lone rider across the desert. Except in those stories, the rider gets to choose where he goes. We never did.”

Jack frowned, tugging his blanket up to his chin. “The voices… is that the angel radio Dad talks about?”

“Yes. That’s what he calls it.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. “Was it really always on? Couldn’t you turn it down?”

Cas shifted slightly, choosing his words. “It isn’t like a normal radio, Jack. It’s… more like a frequency woven through the universe. We could all hear it, all the time. And others could hear me too, if they knew how to listen. It wasn’t something I switched on or off. Its like when your dad prays to me, I hear him the same way—loud and clear. Some voices are stronger, some softer. Some feel like a whisper, some like a shout.”

Jack blinked at him, eyes wide. “That sounds… really loud.”

Cas’s mouth tugged faintly at the corner. “It was. Sometimes unbearably so. Imagine a thousand stations playing at once. Orders, warnings, songs, and judgments—all overlapping. And you can’t turn the dial, can’t even step away. It’s just there. Always.”

Jack shivered a little under his blanket. “Did it… hurt?”

Cas tilted his head, considering. “Not in the way a cut or a burn hurts. But it left marks, yes. It makes you… smaller, until you forget which thoughts are yours.” His voice went softer, almost a whisper. “And then, sometimes, a single voice breaks through. Clearer than the rest. That’s how you know who you are again.”

Jack peered up at him, curious. “Like Dad?”

Cas’s eyes flicked to the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, then back to Jack. “Yes,” he said simply. “Like your dad.”

Jack hugged his pillow tighter, letting out a small breath. “I’m glad you can hear us, then.”

Cas felt his chest tighten, the words landing somewhere deeper than he’d expected. “So am I,” he murmured.

Sleep found him in fragments. At first, only the stars—endless, searing, distant. He drifted among them as he once had, wings that were no longer his brushing against nebulae like dust motes. They should have felt holy. Instead, they felt cold.

But then the scene shifted. A desert stretched beneath him, cracked and red, the heat shimmering off the horizon. A lone figure rode across it, a cowboy’s hat pulled low against the sun. The horse’s hooves kicked up dust that clung to the sky like ash.

Dean.

Cas knew him instantly, even in silhouette. He was the rider—always moving, always carrying weight no one else could. The spurs jingled faintly, the rhythm steady. And somehow, impossibly, the rider turned in the saddle, looking back. Green eyes glinted against the sun, and he smiled—just for Cas.

Then another sound joined the rhythm of hooves: lighter, quicker. Jack rode alongside Dean, his legs too short for the stirrups, a hat too big for his head. He grinned wide, bouncing with every stride of the horse.

Dean reached over, steadying Jack with one hand, smirking at Cas. “Well? You gonna ride with us, or just sit back there starin’?”

Cas didn’t think. He leaned over in the saddle, grabbed Dean by the shirtfront, and kissed him—firm and unhesitating. Dean caught him, steadying them both, laughing into the kiss before pressing back just as hard. Jack whooped beside them, throwing his hat into the air, utterly delighted.

But when Cas turned toward him again, the boy’s grin had shifted—strange, sharper. Too sharp. Before Cas could speak, Jack pulled a revolver from the holster at his hip. The weapon gleamed wrong in his small hands, but the sound was unmistakable.

The shot cracked across the desert.

Cas reeled in the saddle, no blood, no wound—only the hollow sting of betrayal echoing in his chest. Jack’s eyes narrowed, his voice flat where it had been joyful. “You really thought it was that easy?”

Cas stared, unable to form words.

Dean said nothing. He only pulled Jack closer into the saddle, steadying him with one hand the way he had before. But his smile was gone. When he looked at Cas now, it wasn’t with warmth—it was with dismissal.

“We don’t need you,” Dean said simply, matter-of-fact, and it cut deeper than the gunshot.

Jack nodded, his voice quiet but merciless. “You’re nothing without your grace.”

Then they turned their horses, riding off together into the horizon. The sound of hooves faded, leaving Cas alone in the desert, the sky empty and cold above him.

The morning came slow, bunker pipes groaning faintly overhead. Cas blinked into the half-light, his neck stiff from the floor, the blanket Jack had tossed him twisted around his legs. Jack was still asleep above, mouth parted, a faint snore betraying his peace.

Cas eased upright, intending to slip out quietly before anyone noticed. But the door creaked, and boots scuffed against the threshold.

Dean.

He leaned in the doorway, eyes narrowing at the sight. “The hell are you doin’ down there?” His voice was low, but sharp.

Cas straightened, smoothing the blanket like the action might disguise the truth. “Jack asked me to stay. He was unsettled.”

Dean’s gaze flicked from the boy in the bed to Cas on the floor, then back again. His jaw tightened. “So you’re what, his guard dog now? You couldn’t even use the damn mattress?”

“I didn’t wish to disturb him,” Cas answered simply. He stood, joints stiff, but his tone stayed level. “Besides… I didn’t trust myself to be alone.”

That last part slipped out heavier than he intended, and Dean stilled in the doorway. He rubbed the back of his neck, face twisting like he was bracing for something. “Cas, about last night—”

Cas didn’t get to hear what Dean was going to say because in that moment Jack awoke, bare feet hitting the floor as he launched straight at Dean.

“Whoa—!” Dean barely had time to brace before the kid collided with him, arms wrapping tight around his middle. The hug was clumsy and too strong for someone so small, but Dean’s hands came up automatically, steadying him. “Easy, kid. You’re gonna knock me flat.”

Jack only squeezed tighter, muffling his words against Dean’s shirt. “We missed you, Daddy. Can we all sleep in the same bed tomorrow night? Please”

Dean huffed, patting Jack’s back. “What, you think this is some kinda slumber party? I snore, kid. You’d regret it.”Jack giggled, tightening his grip anyway. “No I wouldn’t.”Dean rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tugged up despite himself. “Yeah, well… we’ll see.”

Jack grinned, releasing Dean only to spin and barrel into Sam, who had wandered into the hall rubbing sleep from his eyes. Sam let out a surprised laugh, caught off balance, but bent down to return the hug without hesitation.

“Uncle Sam, are you gonna come to our slumber party too?” Jack asked, words tumbling out fast, hopeful.

Before Sam could answer, Dean cut in with a smirk. “Sure, kid. Then we can all take turns braidin’ Uncle Sam’s hair.”

Jack’s eyes lit up, and Sam groaned, shooting Dean a long-suffering look. “Real funny,” he muttered, though he didn’t let go of Jack.

Finally, Jack turned toward Cas, hesitating for half a second before darting forward again. Cas bent instinctively, letting the boy wrap his arms around his middle. He felt the small weight of him press close, earnest and uncomplicated. His hands rose slow, careful, before resting lightly on Jack’s shoulders. Something unspooled in his chest at the contact—an ache, but not a painful one.

Dean watched from the side, expression taut, unreadable.

Sam’s gaze flicked between them, the corners of his mouth tugging up. “Well, would you look at that,” he said, voice wry. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day Dean Winchester got himself a family cuddle at sunrise.”

Dean snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all misty on me, Sammy. Maybe if you’re lucky, there’s a kid in your oatmeal packet just waiting for you.”

Jack giggled into Cas’s coat, the sound muffled and bright, while Sam only raised his brows higher, shaking his head with a grin.

Dean shifted his weight, arms crossing tight over his chest. “Alright, that’s enough,” he said, trying for gruff but not quite hiding the strain under it. “Kid, you don’t gotta hang off Cas all the time. Makes you look… I dunno. Clingy.”

Jack paused, uncertain, but didn’t let go.

Cas glanced up at Dean, brow faintly furrowed. “I don’t mind,” he said, straightforward, no defensiveness in it. His hands remained light on Jack’s shoulders.

Dean cleared his throat, gaze skittering away. “Yeah, well. Just sayin’. You gotta teach ’em young. Can’t have a boy clingin’ to his mom’s coattails forever.”

Cas froze, brow knitting tighter. He looked down at Jack, then back at Dean. “But Jack doesn’t have a mother. What coattails would he be holding?”

Dean’s mouth opened, then shut again. He scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering something unintelligible, and turned on his heel, stalking off down the hall.

Cas tilted his head, baffled. “What does Dean mean?” he asked, turning to Sam.

Sam shrugged lightly. “It’s just… a saying, Cas. Doesn’t really mean what it sounds like.”

Cas studied him, clearly unsatisfied, opening his mouth to press further—

But Sam suddenly straightened, turning his head. “Hey, Dean—what was that?” he called, already striding off down the hall at a quick pace.

Jack frowned after him, small brow furrowed. “I didn’t hear anything,” he said softly. He tugged on Cas’s sleeve. “Why won’t Uncle Sam answer your question?”

Cas smoothed a hand over the boy’s hair, his voice steady. “Because the Winchesters often avoid answering directly. It is how they protect themselves.”

Jack blinked up at him, puzzled. “That’s weird.”

Cas’s mouth tugged faintly at the corner. “Yes. But it is their way.”

By the time Sam got the skillet going, Jack was perched at the table, bright-eyed, rambling about barns and tractors. Dean hovered by the counter, arms folded, watching him with a stare too sharp for pancakes.

When Sam set a plate in front of Jack, Dean moved fast—grabbing the fork out of the boy’s hand before he could start stabbing at the food. He cut the pancakes into neat pieces, too neat, almost rigid. Jack giggled like it was a game, but Dean’s jaw was clenched tight. “Kid’s gotta learn to do this himself,” Dean muttered. “Can’t baby him forever. Gotta toughen him up. Teach him to handle himself.”

Jack didn’t catch the edge in his tone—he was too busy chasing syrup with his fork.

Dean slid the plate back, tapped the fork against Jack’s hand like a command, then stepped back. Arms folded again. Standing watch.

Sam raised an eyebrow over his coffee but didn’t say a word.

Cas took the chair across from Jack. He didn’t reach for the fork or try to guide him. He only watched with quiet focus, offering the occasional reminder—“smaller bites,” “slow down”—in a voice soft enough not to scrape. When Jack smeared syrup across his cheek, Cas simply dabbed it away with a napkin, gentle and precise. Jack giggled, leaning into the touch without hesitation.

Dean’s eyes flicked to Cas, then away, then back again. His jaw flexed, shoulders tight, restless energy radiating from him. He grabbed a dish towel and started scrubbing the counter, hard, even though it was spotless.

“World’s not kind,” he muttered, voice climbing sharper. “Needs to know that. Needs to be strong. Can’t go around soft and messy, makin’ eyes at everybody. That’s not how you survive. You gotta stand tall, keep your guard up, take a hit and keep movin’. That’s how men do it.”

Cas didn’t look up. He wiped Jack’s chin again with calm precision, folding the napkin neatly afterward. “Chew slower,” he murmured. Jack nodded, obedient, grinning around a mouthful of pancake.

Dean barked a laugh with no humor in it, still ranting at the counter. “Yeah, great. Let him think the world’s all hugs and napkins. That’ll keep him safe. That’ll—” He cut himself off, gripping the counter edge until his knuckles whitened.

Jack glanced at him briefly, then back to Cas, unconcerned. Cas only reached out, brushed a crumb from Jack’s shirt, and smoothed his hair back with the same patient steadiness.

Dean turned on the fridge like it had insulted him, muttering under his breath about “raising a man” and “not a marshmallow,” his voice too low for Jack to catch but sharp enough for Cas to hear.

Cas watched him a moment longer, piecing it together. The sharpness wasn’t anger at Jack, or even at him—it was fear. Dean wasn’t posturing for himself. He was imagining every danger waiting outside these walls, and trying to build armor on the boy before he ever had to face it.

Jack was still picking at the last bite of pancake when Cas rose from his chair and crossed to the counter. He came back with a pad of paper and a pen, setting them down with deliberate care.

Jack’s eyes lit up immediately. “Are we drawing?”

“Of a kind,” Cas said. He sketched the first lines slowly, the curve of a warding sigil flowing steady under his hand. “These are symbols. They protect places… people. They only have power if written correctly.”

Jack leaned closer, fascinated, his fingers smudging the edge of the paper as he traced the lines in the air without quite touching them. The page seemed to tremble faintly, as if reacting to the intent behind his nearness.

Jack’s brow furrowed with determination, small hands hovering above the sigil. Cas watched him closely, noting the way the ink shimmered faintly at Jack’s proximity, as though the power in the mark recognized him. It wasn’t just drawing—it was a test. Subtle, careful. To see what lay sleeping in Jack’s blood and grace.

Dean drifted closer too, curiosity edging out his irritation. He stood at Cas’s shoulder, watching the deliberate strokes. Without looking up, Cas pressed a second pen into Dean’s hand, as if inviting him into the quiet ritual.

“Here,” Cas said softly. “Show him, too.”

Dean frowned like he was about to refuse—but then Jack looked up, eyes bright, waiting. With a reluctant sigh, Dean crouched down beside him and scrawled out another protection signal.

“Alright, kid. Your turn. And don’t just scribble—get the lines right.” His tone was light on the surface, but there was a sharpness under it. He nudged the paper closer. “These things only work if they’re exact. No room for error.”

Jack nodded quickly, tongue poking out in concentration as he copied the marks. His small hand wobbled, the line uneven.

Dean’s jaw tightened. He reached over, steadying Jack’s hand in his own, guiding the stroke. “Careful. Do it again. You mess it up, you start over. That’s how this works.”

Cas had intended to keep watching Jack’s hands, to measure the reaction of ink and grace, to see if power stirred where it shouldn’t. But his focus shifted, The test slipped away, forgotten.

Jack tried again, pressing harder this time, the pencil scratching across the paper. Dean watched every line with hawk-eyed focus, correcting him in low mutters—“slower,” “straighter,” “not like that.”

Without a word, Cas reached forward and pulled the paper from beneath their hands. His movements were calm, deliberate, not rushed. He smoothed the sheet flat against the table, the crooked lines and smudged edges plain to see, and set it in front of himself.

Cas’s pen lingered on the page, then began a new set of marks—curves and strokes tighter, more deliberate. The language slipped from his hand before he could stop himself: Enochian.

Not the wards Dean already knew. Not banishments or protection. Symbols for other things—concepts harder to speak aloud.

Love. Family. Home.

He wrote them with a stillness that bordered on prayer, his fingers tightening around the pen as though each curve of ink was a confession he couldn’t voice.

Dean leaned over his shoulder, brow furrowed. “That’s not the usual chicken scratch.”

Cas didn’t look at him. “It’s… just practice.” His tone was clipped, dismissive, but his hand trembled faintly on the page.

Jack tilted his head, squinting. Then, clear as bells, he read the words aloud. “Love. Family.”

Cas froze.

Dean’s head snapped toward the boy, eyes wide. “Wait, wait—he can read that?”

Jack blinked, confused at their faces. “Of course. It’s simple. That one’s ‘love,’ right?” He pointed. “And that’s ‘family.’” He looked up at Cas, almost proud. “Did I get it wrong?”

Cas’s silence was louder than a shout.

Dean, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair, grinning like Christmas had come early. “Oh, that’s rich.” He slapped the table once. “So you’re sittin’ here doodling ‘love’ and ‘family’ in angel-speak like a teenage girl with a crush, and the kid outs you? That’s priceless.”

Cas’s cheeks actually flushed. He tried to gather the papers, to fold them closed, but Dean snagged one with two fingers, smirking at the marks like he could suddenly read them just because Jack had said the words.

“Love, huh? Family?” Dean’s grin widened, smug enough to split his face. “Cas, if you wanted to get all Hallmark on me, you could’ve just said so. Would’ve saved us the art show.”

Jack giggled, oblivious to the weight pressing in the room. “I like them. Can you draw more?”

Cas pressed his lips into a thin line, mortified, but he slid the paper back toward Jack anyway. His gaze, however, stayed locked on Dean—frustrated, embarrassed, but unable to look away.

Dean just leaned back, smug as hell, and tipped his chin at Cas like he’d won something.

And maybe he had.

Dean twirled the pen between his fingers, eyes flicking from Jack’s bright face back to the Enochian scrawled across the page. With a grin that was all mischief, he bent down and scrawled a crude little heart right next to Cas’s careful lettering.

“There,” Dean said, leaning back smug. “Now it’s official Hallmark. Your angel-chicken-scratch could use some romance.”

Cas stared at the heart like it was blasphemy. His mouth opened—ready to object, to explain, to defend the solemnity of what he’d written. But Jack let out a delighted laugh, clapping his hands.

“Family! Daddy love each other, and me too!” Jack burst out, his grin stretching wide. Then he slapped his little hand flat against the paper with all the seriousness he could muster. “Trace me!”

Dean raised a brow. “Trace you?”

“Yeah! Around my hand.” Jack wriggled his fingers, insistent. “Like this is my mark, too. Family.”

Cas hesitated for a heartbeat, but Dean was already setting the pen down at the boy’s wrist, dragging the line around his palm and fingers in a wobbly outline. Jack giggled the whole time, fingers twitching as Dean cursed under his breath trying to keep the lines straight.

When it was done, Jack lifted his hand, beaming at the messy outline left behind. “See? Now it’s all of us.”

Cas’s chest tightened. His gaze lingered on the crude heart beside his precise symbols, the awkward outline of Jack’s hand stitched into the page like a promise. It was clumsy. Human. Imperfect.

And it was beautiful.

Dean leaned in, pen twirling between his fingers, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You know what this picture’s missing? A heart right here—” He tapped Cas’s collarbone with the tip of the pen.

Cas stiffened immediately. “Dean. Don’t.”

Dean grinned wider and lunged, trying to scrawl on the bit of skin peeking above Cas’s shirt. Cas caught his wrist in an instant, holding firm, but Dean only laughed and tried again with his free hand.

“Stop this,” Cas said, voice flat even as they grappled, twisting the pen between them.

Cas’s grip was unyielding, both of Dean’s wrists caught easily in his hands. Their bodies pressed close in the brief struggle.

“Not ‘til you let me make you pretty,” Dean muttered, Dean’s breath was warm against his face

It sounded like a compliment. Cas’s gaze dropped to Dean’s lips, and the pull was undeniable. He leaned in, closing the space, certain now—he was going to kiss him.

But Dean turned his head at the last instant, breaking away toward the table. Jack had snatched the paper in both hands, grinning ear to ear. “I’m gonna show Uncle Sam!” the boy announced, already hopping down from the chair and darting for the door.

Dean’s eyes went wide. “Jack—wait. No. No, no, no—” He let go of Cas, nearly toppling his own chair in the process. “You don’t go running around showin’ that to Sammy, you hear me?”

But Jack was already bolting down the hall, bare feet slapping against the floor, laughter trailing behind him. “Uncle Sam! Look what we made!”

“Dammit,” Dean growled, tearing off after him. “Kid’s faster than he looks!”

Cas stayed behind, still seated at the table, blinking after them as their footsteps faded down the hall. His gaze dropped to the pens scattered across the wood, the sigils abandoned mid-stroke. Dean’s reaction left him aching. Why turn away? Why chase after distraction when he could have stayed—could have let Cas kiss him?

His fingers hovered over one of the pens, still lying where Dean had dropped it. He imagined the moment again, the warmth of breath between them, the nearness that had almost become more. He would have preferred that—preferred Dean’s mouth on his instead of this hollow quiet.

Cas pressed his fingers to the edge of the page that remained beneath his hand. He tilted his head, confusion narrowing his brow. Dean’s panic was another riddle, another contradiction in a man already full of them.

From down the hall came Jack’s triumphant shout, Sam’s confused laugh, and Dean’s voice barking after both of them in exasperation.

On impulse, Cas laid his palm flat against the blank margin, pressing until the ink smudged faintly at the edge of his skin. Slowly, carefully, he traced the outline of his own hand the way Dean had traced Jack’s. The pen snagged once over his knuckle, leaving the line uneven, but when he lifted his hand, the print remained.

He tilted his head, considering it. Crude, yes. But… neat. Personal. Human.

For a moment, something warm stirred in his chest at the sight.

Then the page trembled beneath his fingertips. A low heat spread through the paper, searing the ink. Cas blinked, drawing back just as the traced outline of his hand flared bright—too bright—before licking up into flame.

The fire devoured the outline, leaving only ash curling at the page’s edge. Cas recoiled, his chair scraping harshly against the floor as he rose, eyes wide, breath catching at the sight.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18

The bunker lights flickered, stuttered once like a nervous tick in the walls, before Crowley appeared in a puff of sulfur and arrogance, leaning casually on the map table like he’d been there the whole time.

His three-piece suit was immaculate — obsidian black with a faint, blood-red pinstripe that caught the light when he moved, like veins under the surface. Not a speck of dust dared cling to him. His tie, knotted just so.

The gold of his cufflinks glinted, shaped like tiny crowns, catching firelight from nowhere in particular.

“You know, I’ve had better welcomes. Trumpets, fanfare, a little red carpet—something to acknowledge the King of Hell, not just… blinking lights and your sour faces.”

Castiel’s chest tightened. He felt Jack shift behind him, small fingers curling into the back of his coat. The boy was trying to hide, but Crowley’s eyes were already roaming the room. Measuring. Counting.

Crowley squinted, head tilting. “And who… is this little… addition?”

Dean stepped forward, blocking part of the view. “None of your damn business.”

Castiel leaned in, voice low and tight. "You didn’t ward the bunker against him."

Dean spun around, his whisper sharp, nearly a hiss. "It’s Crowley, Cas. I didn’t exactly think he was gonna stroll in here like it’s open house." His jaw clenched, breath harsh between his teeth. "You think I don’t care about keeping the kid safe? I’m on it. Always."

Castiel’s throat closed. He forced himself to stay still, to keep his body between Jack and the demon, even though every instinct screamed to grab the boy and run.

Crowley paced a slow half-circle, eyes never leaving Jack. “You didn’t.” His gaze snapped to Dean, voice silk wrapped around a blade. “Tell me you didn’t.”

Cas swallowed. “He’s only a child.”

“Spare me the Hallmark card,” Crowley said flatly. He leaned closer, studying Jack like a puzzle he already knew he’d solve.

Dean stiffened. Sam’s jaw worked, like he was already calculating fallout.

“Funny thing, though. He’s not a squalling newborn, is he? Not some fresh bundle in a crib. He’s grown. Old enough to walk, talk, hide behind your coat like he knows what’s coming. Which means he didn’t just pop out yesterday.” Crowley’s smirk sharpened. “Means he’s been here a while, under your noses. Means someone’s been keeping secrets.”

Castiel’s palms itched with sweat. He wanted to deny it, wanted to throw Crowley off the scent, but the boy at his back was too steady, too present. Even silent, Jack radiated the truth.

Crowley’s smirk sharpened as his eyes slid past Cas to the boy lingering in the shadow. “Well, would you look at that. Kid’s a bloody photocopy of Dean Winchester. Those eyes, that jaw—hell, even the attitude. If I didn’t know better, I’d think someone ran him through the Xerox.”

He began to pace, slow and deliberate, boots clicking against the floor. One hand lifted, finger wagging like he was on stage. “But—where’s mummy, hm?” He jabbed at the empty chair by the table. “Mum?” His finger swung to a shelf stacked with old books. “Mummy?” He pointed to the shadows in the corner, eyebrows arched in mock inquiry. “No? How about behind the curtain—mummy hiding there?”

He twirled back toward Cas, grin spreading wide, voice pitching almost singsong. “No mum, no mummy, no proud angelic matron in sight. Just you, feathers clipped and face like a funeral, pretending you’ve got it all figured out. And yet—”

He stabbed a finger at Jack, his tone dropping to a sharp hiss. “The boy’s got Winchester written all over him. Every damn feature. Now tell me—how’s that possible?”

Crowley’s hand swung back, pointing straight at Cas. His smile was slow, venomous. “Unless…”

Cas went still, blood draining from his face.

Crowley tilted his head, savoring the silence.

Jack shifted uneasily behind Cas, small hands clutching at the back of his coat. Cas’s jaw clenched, but no words came. His silence was louder than denial, and Crowley’s grin only widened.

“Tell you what, seeing as Mother’s Day’s just around the corner…” — he gestured vaguely, eyes gleaming — “I’ll send a little something your way, Castiel. Maybe a fruit basket. Or one of those scented candles, some fuzzy slippers?”

Dean’s voice cracked through the air, sharp as a blade. “What do you know about that?” He stepped closer, shoulders squared, every line of him ready for a fight. “Enough Crowley. If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

Crowley’s eyes glittered, amusement curling his lips. “Oh, I’ve got plenty to say, Squirrel. Question is—are you ready to hear it?”

Jack blinked up at Crowley with the open trust of a child who didn’t yet know he should be afraid. Where Dean stood bristling, where Cas kept his body tense and shielding, the boy tilted his head and asked simply, “Who are you?”

Crowley’s brows shot up, amusement flickering. “Who am I? Darling, I’m the best friend you didn’t know you had.” He crouched with surprising ease, bringing himself closer to Jack’s height. “Name’s Crowley. And you are…?”

“Jack,” the boy answered, small but steady.

Crowley smiled. Not warm—never warm—but clever, coaxing. “Jack. Strong name. You like sweets, Jack?” He slipped a wrapped candy from his pocket, twirling it between his fingers with a magician’s ease. “Apple. Always a favorite.”

His eyes flicked up, sharp as the twist of the foil. “But tell me—where does a boy like you come from? Who gave you that name, hmm? Not exactly the kind of thing I’d expect from your two… guardians.”

Something cold dug into Cas’s chest. The sight of them—Crowley offering, Jack accepting—was wrong. Wrong in a way that made bile rise in his throat. It looked too much like temptation dressed as kindness, too much like the serpent with fruit in its hand. “Jack. Do not take what he offers.” His gaze locked on the boy, fierce with a kind of desperate urgency.

Crowley didn’t look away from Jack. “Oh, ignore the fallen angel, love,” he said with a smirk. “He means well, but he’s always had a bit of a control problem.”

He unwrapped the candy with a flick of his fingers — something dark red and gleaming — and held it out between two fingers like a dare. “Go on. Just a taste. No harm in tasting.”

Jack looked at Cas. Then back at Crowley. Slowly, he reached out.

Crowley’s grin split wider, but not in victory — in something more dangerous. Something amused by how easy it was to twist a thread once it was already fraying.

Jack unwrapped the candy fully and popped it in his mouth.

He didn’t change. He didn’t glow, or crack the ground, or scream. He just stood there chewing, looking mildly surprised. “Nobody named me,” he said simply. “I already was Jack. That’s just who I am.”

Crowley gave a low chuckle, one brow arching with theatrical delight. “Of course you are.” He paced a slow half-circle, eyes glittering. “Jack. How quaint. Such a tidy little name for something so... uncontainable.”

He turned, voice sharpening like a blade. “You know what they say, don’t you? Every fairytale’s got a Jack. Jack climbs the beanstalk. Jack breaks his crown. Jack the giant killer. Jack the Ripper.”

Crowley smiled, slow and cold. “Funny how they never end well.”

“Enough, Crowley,” Cas said, stepping forward.

“Oh, please,” Crowley replied, voice dripping with mockery. “Let’s not get sanctimonious, Feathers. The boy’s not made of glass — or were you planning on locking him in a tower until he glows saintly gold?”

Cas stood slowly, squaring his shoulders. His voice came low, and dangerous now.

“If he falls, it won’t be because he was evil,” Cas said, “it’ll be because you whispered in his ear until he believed it.”

Crowley’s grin widened, flashing teeth.

“Well,” he said, shrugging casually, “from where I’m standing, looks like someone already whispered to him long before I got here.”

Dean stiffened, fists curling but holding back.

Crowley flicked his gaze at Jack, then back to Cas, his smirk sharpening like a knife. “Come on, Castiel. Look at him. Power humming under his skin like a devil’s heartbeat.” He tilted his head. “You’re sheltering him like some stray, but Hell’s in his blood. Always was. Did he ever tell you, Dean?” Crowley asked lightly. “What he used to do, back when he was Heaven’s favorite little soldier?”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “What the are you talking about?”

Crowley’s gaze flicked sideways, amused. “Oh, he didn’t, did he? Figures. Always so good at burying the inconvenient truths.”

He took a step closer, savoring the tension like wine. “There it is. That little twitch. That tiny pause. He won’t lie — not to you. But he will keep secrets.”

He turned back to Dean fully now, voice smooth as smoke.

“Your angel was the one they sent to clean up the mess. Half-breeds. Accidents. Abominations. He tracked them. Found them. Snuffed them out before their halos even had time to tarnish.”

Crowley leaned in, voice curling low, taunting.

“Funny how quickly a blade becomes a cradle when this one showed up, isn’t it?”

Dean glanced at Cas, then back at Jack — who stood very still, his expression unreadable, small hands once again curled into the back of Cas’s coat.

Crowley straightened, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “But maybe it’s different this time,” he said airily. “Maybe the tinman has changed. Grown a heart. Or maybe…”

He gave Dean a long, pointed look.

“…maybe he’s just too close to the fire to smell the smoke.”

Cas’s voice came low and tight. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Crowley’s grin split wider. “Don’t I? Or do I just say the things you’re afraid to admit?”

He turned to go, pacing toward the shadows at the edge of the map room like he owned the place.

“I’ll leave you to sort that out,” he said, tossing a last glance at Dean over his shoulder. “Trust’s such a fragile thing, isn’t it?”

And with that, Crowley vanished, leaving a silence behind that pressed in from all sides — thick with tension, and heavier with doubt.

The air still crackled where Crowley had been, the silence thick and heavy as smoke. Jack’s small hand tugged at Dean’s sleeve, insistent and wordless. His wide eyes were fixed on his father’s face, searching for something steady to hold onto.

Dean blinked down at him, the sharpness in his jaw softening. He let out a slow breath through his nose and forced a crooked half-smile. “Yeah, kiddo. Enough of that crap.” He squeezed Jack’s hand and gave a little tug back, steering him toward the hallway. “C’mon. Bath time. Let’s wash all this off, yeah?”

Jack nodded, relief flickering in his eyes, and pressed closer against Dean’s side as they walked.

Sam caught Cas by the arm the second Dean disappeared down the hall with Jack, dragging him a step aside. His voice was low, tight with frustration. “Cas. Who is Jack?” Arms folded, jaw set, his whole stance radiated suspicion.

Cas’s face didn’t change—calm, but clipped. “Ask Dean.”

“I did,” Sam snapped, eyes narrowing. “He told me to ask you.”

Cas’s gaze flicked upward, weary, as if searching for words in the ceiling. When he finally spoke, it was quiet, unflinching. “He’s our son.”

”You’ve said that but what does that mean? He looks like Dean. He has Dean’s face. How? Explain that to me.” His voice rose, incredulous. “It doesn’t make sense. Biologically, it’s impossible.”

Cas’s breath hitched, irritation flashing, but so did something tighter—something like being trapped. His shoulders locked, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I don’t owe you explanations, Sam.”

“Yes, you do!” Sam snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Because Dean won’t say a word, and you’re just standing there like it’s totally normal that some kid shows up calling you parents.”

He stepped forward, jaw tight, eyes locked on Castiel.

“I’ve been trying to be patient, okay?” Sam said, voice tight, almost trembling. “Tried to be open. Tried to see the kid, not just the lore. But this?”

He gestured sharply—at Jack, at Cas, at the thick tension pulling the air tight around them. “This is a bit much.”

His tone dropped, harder now. Quieter. Not calm—controlled, just barely.

“You know what the lore says. I’ve read it. You’ve read it. Nephilim aren’t stable. They’re Dangerous. And there’s barely anything out there about them living past childhood—just fragments. Scattered mentions. Nothing certain. Nothing hopeful.”

Cas shifted, discomfort threading through the stiffness of his stance. “He is not— The lore is wrong, Sam,” Cas said at last, rough, louder than he meant. His eye burned, sharp and unyielding. “Nephilim don’t die because their bodies fail. They don’t collapse under their own power. They die because Heaven hunts them. Because Heaven fears what they are. Every story you’ve read—every record—it isn’t nature. It’s execution.”

“He swallowed, and there was something dark in his eyes now—quiet fury. “You’re telling me the lore’s not documenting failures... it’s covering up a hit list? Why would Heaven slaughter kids just because of what they are? They didn’t ask to be born. They didn’t choose it.”

Cas’s gaze lowered, his voice gravel-rough. “Because they aren’t natural. They’re a corruption of what we are—and what you are.” His jaw tightened, eyes shadowed.

Sam’s brow furrowed, his tone caught between disbelief and disappointment. “You really believe that?” He shook his head, stepping closer. “Cas, that’s not corruption. That’s just… life. Different, yeah, but not wrong.”

Cas went quiet, but his thoughts pressed hard against the silence until he spoke. “Dean thinks Jack was Gabriel’s doing,” he said at last, his voice low.

Sam’s head turned, brows knitting. “Yeah. That’s what I figured too. Gabriel’s tricks, right? Fits his style.”

Cas shook his head, sharp and certain. “No. Gabriel doesn’t have that kind of power. Not to create life. Illusions, yes. Deceptions, yes. But not this. If Jack were his trick, he would have faded long ago.”

Sam studied him, searching for cracks. “So if it’s not Gabriel… then what?”

The question knotted in Cas’s chest. His brow furrowed, lines digging deep across his face. He tried to answer, but the words resisted him, lodged like stone. Finally, he forced them out, flat and heavy. “We are not the same, Sam. I don’t think you can understand.”

Sam exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. Castiel watched him struggle, expression tightening into something like disbelief. “Okay,” Sam said at last, tone flat but edged. “So… what you’re telling me is this was some kind of… angel mating ritual? That’s what produced Jack?”

The suggestion made Cas’s head snap up, sharp. Offense prickled through him, precise and controlled, the way it always had when a human said something ridiculous.

Sam’s hands lifted in a half-gesture of defense, but he didn’t stop pressing. “Look, I’m not saying you drew up blueprints, Cas. But—two beings fuse, strongest force in the universe mixed in, and suddenly a kid’s standing in front of us? That sounds a hell of a lot like some kind of… biology.”

Cas’s lips pressed into a thin line. He hated the phrasing. The reduction of Jack to some accident of anatomy. “Jack isn’t the product of ritual. Or biology. He’s the product of… choice. Of grace and soul, colliding. Of—” He stopped, words failing him.

Sam raised a brow. “Of you and Dean.”

“I don’t understand it, not fully. But I remember.” His hands tightened at his sides, knuckles pale. “The pull to give Dean my grace. It wasn’t reasoned, it wasn’t chosen. It was instinct. A compulsion that eclipsed everything else. Something inside me demanded it.”

Sam’s brow furrowed, but he stayed silent, waiting.

Cas’s eyes dropped, heavy with memory. “My grace fused with his soul. It shouldn’t have been possible. But it rooted there—wove into him, like it belonged. And when Jack appeared…” Cas’s throat closed around the words. “…Dean called him forward. That’s all I know.” Cas forced himself to meet Sam’s gaze. “I can’t explain it. But I know it’s true.”

Sam frowned, leaning forward slightly. “What unsettles me most isn’t even the act itself—it’s the mystery of it. How? How did your grace combine with Dean’s essence at all?” Sam pressed on, voice low. “Was it something to do with Hell? When you pulled Dean out of the pit? You said your soul crossed his then—in fire, in blood. Maybe something bound you in that moment. Some tether that never broke. Maybe this… Jack… is what came of it.”

The words landed like a weight Cas couldn’t shake. He searched for denial, for clarity, but none came. The truth was as much a mystery to him as to Sam, a riddle that lived beneath his skin.

“I don’t know,” Cas admitted quietly. The words sat between them, fragile and final. Yet in his own mind the questions kept circling, a spiral without end. A human soul was never meant to merge with an angel’s grace. It was forbidden, a line not to be crossed. He forced himself to speak the thought aloud. “Nephilim are considered abominations,” he said, voice low and even. “But at least they’re… explainable. The biological outcome of vessel and mortal flesh. This—” His throat worked, and for a moment he couldn’t meet Sam’s eyes. “This is worse. A transgression deeper than blood.

Sam shifted, his jaw tight, but he didn’t interrupt.

Cas pressed on, each word heavier than the last. “It isn’t just a sin against Heaven. It’s a violation of the natural order itself.”

Sam’s brow furrowed, his voice low but steady. “Cas… have you thought about the other possibility?”

Cas stiffened. “What possibility?”

“Maybe Crowley was onto something.” Sam’s eyes flicked toward the hallway where Jack had disappeared, then back to Cas. “That maybe Jack isn’t really a child at all. That he’s a trick. Some dark creature wearing a boy’s face.” He hesitated, then pressed on. “If that’s true, then this—what happened with your grace and Dean’s soul—it doesn’t have to mean what you think it does.”

The words landed sharp, and Cas felt them like a blade turned inward. Sam’s gaze softened, but his tone didn’t waver. “If Jack’s just a shadow, It’s just another monster. And that… we know how to handle.”

“I felt him, Sam,” Cas said, his voice rougher than he intended. “I know what I felt.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, steady but unyielding. “Monsters can be very convincing, Cas. That’s what makes them dangerous. Take Lucifer, for example.”

Cas’s voice caught, sharper than he meant. “You think Jack is Lucifer, Sam?”

“No,” Sam shot back quickly, but his tone didn’t soften. “But you can’t sit there and tell me any of this makes sense to you.”

Cas’s gaze dropped, the weight of it dragging him down. “It doesn’t,” he admitted. “It’s a law older than the earth itself.” His fingers curled tightly against his palms, nails biting into flesh. “What came of it… what Jack is… it could be a miracle, or it could be a transgression so profound we haven’t begun to see the consequences.”

If Jack was only a trick, then there was no child to lose. No fragile miracle to protect. No boy to carry in his arms while waiting for the day Heaven discovered him. Cas wouldn’t have to live with the certainty of that end—angels descending in light and fire, blades bared, cutting Jack down because of what he was. Because of what they had made him.

A trick would be easier. Cleaner. Something he could destroy with his own hand before Heaven ever noticed.

Sam was quiet for a long moment. Then, quieter than before: “You know what the worst part is?” he said, eyes distant. “I look at him… and I see a kid. Just a kid.” He swallowed. “And I know what that feels like. Being born wrong. Tainted. Everyone looking at me like I was some kind of ticking time bomb because of what was in my blood.”

Cas looked up, his expression shifting. Sam wasn’t looking at him anymore—his eyes were somewhere far off, lost in memory. “I didn’t choose that. And Jack didn’t choose this. But that didn’t stop people from being afraid of me. From wanting me dead. And sometimes…” his jaw clenched—“sometimes I believed them. Still do.”

He turned back to Cas, something harder settling in his voice again. “So yeah. I know what it’s like to be the thing everyone’s scared of. And I also know how dangerous it is to pretend good intentions are enough to stop what’s coming.”

“You’re right, Sam. Jack can’t hide what he is—any more than you could hide being Heaven’s abomination. And you of all people should know… that label doesn’t always mean they’re wrong.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “There’s a ritual. It might give us a clearer sense of what Jack really is… but it won’t be pleasant. Not for him.”

Castiel didn’t respond right away.

He wanted to argue. He wanted to say there was another way — something safer, something kinder.

But the truth was: he didn’t remember enough.

Heaven’s lore was fractured in his mind, worn thin by death, time, resurrection, and too many rewrites of who he was supposed to be. What knowledge remained came in pieces — flashes, impressions, symbols he couldn’t place.,

Gabriel’s riddles hadn’t helped. Cryptic, circular, buried in metaphors and half-truths.

And Crowley’s suggestions had been worse — laced with cruelty, as always, but disturbingly plausible.

Cas looked at Jack back from his bath — so still, so open, unaware of how close the edge might be — and felt dread coil in his chest like wire tightening.

Jack giggled softly, holding out his damp hands. Tiny spheres shimmered into being above his palms, bubbles forming out of nothing, catching the light before popping soundlessly in the air. He looked delighted, innocent, like it was the most natural trick in the world.

But then the shimmer faded, the bubbles thinning into wisps of smoke. They curled lazily through the air, dark threads unfurling across the room. Jack laughed and darted after them, swiping at the drifting trails as if it were only a new game. The smoke bent away from his touch, slinking along the ceiling, gathering in corners. For a moment, Cas could swear it spelled shapes — letters, sigils, something watching — before it thinned again.

Cas’s breath caught.

What if he was wrong?

What if Jack’s power unraveled, and there was nothing left to hold it back?

What if one day Jack lost control — and Dean was the first to fall?

What if the world followed?

What if it happened because Castiel had believed in the wrong version of him?

His jaw tensed. His hands stayed at his sides, clenched.

When he finally spoke, his voice was flat. Not emotionless — just stripped bare. “Let’s do the ritual.”

…

Sam was the one who found the room—a storage nook barely big enough for a table and a chair, tucked behind the supply hallway. He opened the door, glanced around, then looked at Cas.

“It’s out of the way. No one’ll come looking here,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Let’s just get it done.”

He guided Jack gently inside and shut the door behind them. Sat him down. Knelt in front of him. His own hands shook as he pressed them over the boy’s small ones, as though touch alone could reveal the truth.

“Dad?” Jack’s voice wavered. “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” Cas said quickly—too quickly. “I just need to… check something.”

Sam lingered by the door, arms crossed, one eye on the hall. The tension in his shoulders gave away more than his words had—he was scared.

Cas searched—through instinct, through scraps of old ritual remembered from a life that was no longer his. He whispered fragments of Enochian, clumsy in a human mouth, syllables grinding until they scraped raw. Each word pulled like broken glass, leaving him trembling with the effort. His palms tingled, nerves sparking with the ghost of grace he no longer carried—phantom pain that burned without light.

Still, he pressed on. Jack sat obediently in the chair, blinking nervously, his small hands fisted in his lap. Cas’s fingers shook as he dipped into the chalk Sam had given him earlier—passed without a word, just a look. A quiet, shared understanding: we need to be sure.

Cas sketched jagged runes across the boy’s forearms, over his temple, down the ridge of his sternum.

Cas didn’t look back, but he felt Sam’s eyes on his hands—watching every line, every mark, like he was measuring whether it was enough.

But the thoughts crept in anyway, unbidden. Nephilim are wrong. A corruption. Heaven was right to fear them.

His throat tightened as he traced another mark. He remembered the others—the ones he’d cut down without hesitation. How easy it had been to believe then. To act. To obey. The echo of their screams pressed hard against his ribs.

Jack flinched as the chalk bit a little too hard, and shame lanced through Cas. What am I doing? He’s just a child.

And still the old voice coiled in him: If he is Nephilim, he will destroy us. If he is Nephilim, better he never lives long enough to become what he is.

The words terrified him because they didn’t feel entirely foreign. They felt like instinct. Doctrine, etched deep into bone. And worse—he couldn’t even trust his own perception anymore. Once, his grace would have told him the truth in an instant: angel or human, light or shadow. Now there was only silence. Only human senses, fallible and dull, forcing him to grope in the dark with chalk and fear.

He caught himself staring at Jack not like a father but like an executioner weighing the blade.

And then Jack screamed.

It started as a gasp, sharp and confused — and then his back arched, body seizing, a raw, piercing sound tearing from his throat.

The sigils Sam had drawn around him flared to life, pulsing with light and heat. Symbols burned hot against the floor, reacting to something buried deep in Jack’s being — something wild, ancient, and resisting.

Cas was on his knees in an instant, hands reaching without thinking, gripping Jack’s shoulders, trying to steady him, to comfort him — but the power radiating off the boy was too much.

Sam was already scrambling toward the center of the circle, muttering Latin under his breath, trying to reverse what he’d set in motion. His hands were shaking.

“I didn’t think it would hit this hard—“

Jack cried out again, voice ragged, hands clawing at the floor like he was trying to hold on to something that was slipping away.

“Dad!” he choked. “It—hurts—make it stop—”

Castiel’s heart broke in real time.

This wasn’t assessment. This wasn’t clarity.

This was torture.

And Castiel had agreed to it.

The door slammed open.

Dean’s voice hit like a gunshot. “Cas! What the hell are you doing?”

Dean’s boots hit the floor like thunder. He stormed in, eyes burning, gun not drawn—but close.

Dean’s head snapped toward Sam, eyes narrowed and flat with betrayal. Sams finished uttering the last line and the runes deactivated.

Jack bolted. He ran to Dean, small hands clutching the back of Dean’s jacket, face buried in the folds of flannel.

“Dad—I’m scared. It hurts.”

Castiel’s hands fell uselessly to his sides. The runes now looked obscene—jagged and cruel against skin that still bruised too easily. His throat closed. The explanation caught behind his teeth.

Dean didn’t yell. He didn’t have to.

He looked at Cas like he didn’t recognize him.

“What the hell did you do?” His voice was low. Tired. Controlled.

“We had to be sure,” Cas said. The words landed heavy — not defensive, just honest. Like a confession he’d hoped he’d never have to say out loud.

Dean’s jaw ticked. He glanced down at Jack, then back up at Cas, and something behind his eyes went cold. “And are you?” he asked, voice flat. Too controlled.

Cas shook his head, barely. “It didn’t work.”

Dean exhaled through his nose, slow and tight. “He’s not a threat. He’s a kid.” His eyes didn’t move from Cas. “Our kid.”

“Dean, come on. You’ve made calls like this before.” Sam took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Your judgment’s not clean here, man. Not when it comes to Jack.”

Dean turned fully now, eyes narrowing. “What the hell does that mean?”

Sam didn’t flinch. “It means you can’t see straight when it comes to him. You want to trust him so bad it’s blinding you.”

Dean’s head turned, slow and deliberate. When he looked at Sam, it wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even disappointment. It was something colder. Sadder. “You think I don’t know what he could be?” Dean asked, voice quiet and razor-thin. “I do. I see it every time I look at him.

Jack flinched at the word. Dean didn’t look at him.

“But I also remember another kid. Fed on demon blood. Carved up by angels and destined to crack the world in half.”

Sam’s mouth opened — then closed.

Dean stepped closer. “And I remember how I didn’t give up on him.”

That landed. Hard.

Sam’s shoulders slumped, just slightly.

Dean’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the room. “Hey, kid. You remember what Gabriel said?”

Jack looked up slowly, confused. His eyes were still rimmed with red. “What?”

Dean crouched in front of him again, steadier now. “Back when all this started. When you were born. You remember what he said?”

Jack nodded slowly. “He said I was... born from love.”

Dean gave a small nod. “That’s right.”

Then he looked up—past Jack—locking eyes with Cas. Dean’s hand landed gently on the back of Jack’s neck, steering him toward the door with a kind of tenderness that felt at odds with the tension in the room. “Come on, Jack,” Dean said, voice low, but not unkind. “Your uncle Sam and Dad need some alone time to think about where the hell their heads are at.”

The door swung shut behind them with a quiet click, leaving Sam and Castiel alone in the kind of silence that says everything neither of them wanted to.

Cas didn’t look at Sam. He was still staring at the door. Or maybe through it.

Sam’s voice broke the quiet, careful but edged. “What does Dean mean… that Jack was born from love?”

Cas’s jaw shifted, then stilled. “Gabriel told Jack. It comes from old Scripture, older than the Host itself. It claims that if two souls are bound—true soul mates—they can fuse grace with a human soul and create something transcendent. Not angel. Not man. Something powerful and unprecedented.” His tone sharpened, dismissive. “But that’s all it ever was—a myth. Gabriel should never have repeated it. He put ideas into Jack’s head, gave him a story that doesn’t belong in reality. A fantasy about love and destiny that makes him believe he’s more than what he is. It’s dangerous.” Cas’s mouth pressed tight, a flicker of bitterness crossing his face. “And coming from Gabriel… it was probably meant as a joke. A way to get under my skin. He’s always known how to twist a knife with a smile.”

Sam pressed, steady. “Then why did Dean say it? Why would he tell Jack he was born from love if it wasn’t true?”

Cas’s gaze flicked toward him, blue eyes sharp with something close to anger. “Because Dean believes in people. He believes in Jack. He needs him to feel wanted—safe. But that doesn’t make it true.” He looked away again, his voice flattening, stripped of heat. “Jack is tied to us. I can’t deny that. But there’s more about beings like him that we don’t understand. Heaven has offered no answers—only decrees.”

Sam’s throat worked. His arms loosened at his sides as the words came out, low and raw. “Cas… I’m sorry. Genuinely. About all of this. The ritual. The way I pushed it. It was wrong—I can see that now.”

Cas’s head turned back slowly, suspicion etched across his face. “What are you talking about, Sam?”

Sam exhaled hard, shoulders sagging under the weight of it. “I was wrong. Okay? About Jack. About what we did. About thinking we needed proof more than he needed trust.”

Cas regarded him in silence, the words striking not as comfort but as insult. His voice, when it came, was low, precise. “You speak as if apology erases what was done.” His gaze hardened, the blue of his eyes cold as flint. “You insisted we test him. You told me certainty was worth the risk. And now—after the boy has cried, after he has marks on his skin—you say you were wrong.”

Sam swallowed, guilt flashing across his face. “I didn’t know—”

“No,” Cas cut in, his tone flat but edged. “You believed you did. You were certain. And that certainty led us here.” He looked away, his jaw tightening, voice roughened at the edges. “Do not mistake regret for absolution. Jack will not.”

The silence that followed sat heavy between them, Sam’s remorse meeting Cas’s quiet, unyielding anger — not loud, not cruel, but merciless in its precision.

He shut the door of his room and leaned against it, chest tight. The smell of cleaner still clung to the space, sharp and sterile from the night he’d purged it. But his eyes drifted immediately to the corner.

The locked metal box.

His hand twitched. He’d packed it neatly, methodically—pills, vials, powder. Old escapes folded into order, sealed with a key he’d promised not to touch. He told himself it was safe there, a box for the past, something to deal with properly in the daylight.

Now it stared back at him. A quiet, patient answer to the noise in his head.

Cas sat heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the box. His chest ached with every breath. His fingers moved before his thoughts caught up. The key turned. The lid lifted with a muted click. The smell inside was faintly chemical, familiar. He stared at the small white pills sitting like teeth in the bottle.

Just two, he told himself. Enough to quiet the noise. Just for tonight.

He shook two into his palm, the sound soft, almost apologetic. They looked small, harmless. Like a solution instead of a retreat. His thumb rubbed over them once, a strange parody of a blessing.

“It’s only to tide me over. Tomorrow I will stop.” The promise came easy, the way a soldier repeats an order.

He swallowed them dry, no hesitation, no flourish—just a mechanical act, like checking a weapon or locking a door. He set the bottle back into the box, closed the lid, turned the key.

Then he sat very still, palms pressed to his knees, head bowed. His wings—if he’d still had them—would have shuddered under the weight of the lie he’d just told himself.

But outwardly, Cas’s face was calm. Almost serene. For a moment Cas sat still, palms on his knees, waiting for silence to fall over the noise in his head.

It didn’t.

If anything, it got sharper. His heart thudded against his ribs in a rhythm too fast, and a tightness crawled up his throat like a hand closing. He bent forward, elbows on his thighs, pressing his palms to his temples.

Wrong. The word flared like a brand in his mind. Wrong. You promised. You swore you were done with this.

A tremor ran through his hands. He clenched them into fists, tried to steady his breathing. But the sound of Jack’s screams from earlier echoed through his skull; the sight of Dean’s face — angry — rose up and burned. It all felt louder now. Louder than it had before the pills.

His eyes slid to the box again.

Just a little more. The thought came soft, seductive. Enough to shut it off. Enough to be steady, to be useful. Only tonight.

He unlocked the box again with a clumsy twist. Two more pills rattled out into his palm. His hands were shaking so badly the pills almost rolled off. He swallowed them before he could change his mind.

The effect came faster this time. The tightness in his chest loosened, the frantic edge blurring at the corners. His muscles went slack, the tremor quieted. His head tipped back against the wall and his eyes slid shut.

Relief was not peace. It was heavy, foggy, a soft veil over panic rather than an end to it. But it was something, and in that moment something felt like survival.

Cas exhaled through his nose, slow and long. He tried to tell himself he could think clearer now, that he could plan, protect, do what was needed. But deep down, under the quiet haze, a small voice whispered that he had just lost ground instead of gaining it.

Still, he stayed sitting there, back to the wall, hands loose on his knees, the locked box only inches away, and let the weight of it pull him under.

A soft knock rattled the door. Cas froze. For a heartbeat he thought he’d imagined it—another trick of his restless mind.

“Dad?” Jack’s voice, small but bright, carried through the wood. “Dad says we’re watching cowboy movies.”

Cas blinked, lowering his hands from his temples. The sound reached him oddly delayed, like it had traveled through water. His thoughts moved sluggishly, heavy and unhurried, but warm at the edges. The jagged noise in his chest had dulled to something distant, replaced by a lightness that felt almost… pleasant.

Relaxation spread through him in slow ripples, a false kind of grace, like his body had been poured full of warm sand. His head tipped forward, then back, as if the act of deciding how to sit took more effort than usual.

Cowboy movies. The words felt round and strange in his mouth, though he hadn’t spoken them. Dean’s movies. Dean’s smile flickered across his mind, soft as the desert light in those films. Euphoria tugged faintly at him, numbing the sharper thoughts. The panic from before was gone. Everything was blurred, softened.

He swallowed, slow and thick. The door seemed too far away. Jack’s voice echoed again in his head, not quite aligned with memory or sound. Cas breathed in, then out, deciding—much later than he meant to—that he should answer.

But all that left his lips was a low hum, content, disconnected.

“DAD!?” Jack knocked again, louder more insistant. “Are you coming?”

The words tugged at him. Uncomplicated. Honest. Jack wasn’t asking for explanations or proof—just presence. Cas let out a long, rough sigh and pushed himself upright. He ran a hand over his face, smoothing it into something steadier, something the boy wouldn’t question.

When he opened the door, Jack grinned like the world hadn’t been burning down around them only hours ago. His hair was mussed, his eyes wide with excitement. “C’mon. They’ve got hats and horses and shootouts.”

Cas hesitated in the doorway, still half-anchored to the box behind him. Then he forced himself forward. “Alright,” he said, voice quieter than he intended. “I’ll come.”

Jack beamed, catching his hand for a moment before darting down the hall ahead of him. Cas followed, step by step, leaving the room—and the box—shut behind him.

The sound of the television grew louder as they neared the war room: a trumpet fanfare, a gunshot, the whinny of a horse. Dean’s voice carried over it, gruff but lighter than it had been earlier. “Hurry up, Cas! You’re missing the good part.”

Cas lingered in the doorway a moment, watching. Dean sprawled on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in his lap, pretending not to watch for him. Jack had already claimed the other end of the couch, eyes glued to the screen.

Cas stepped inside at last, and though the ache in his chest remained, it dulled under the simple warmth of the room—the glow of the screen, the boy’s laughter, Dean’s grumble of pretend impatience.

Dean leaned over under the noise of gunfire on the screen, his voice pitched low. “...Are you high?”

Cas turned his head, “No,” he said, flat, softly A lie smoothed into place like armor.

Dean didn’t buy it. He reached over and cuffed him lightly on the back of the head, not hard—just enough to jolt. “Don’t lie to me, Cas.” His voice was rough, but quiet, meant for Cas alone.

Cas’s gaze dropped, the warmth in his chest humming too bright. “It’s only a little bit,” he murmured, almost childlike in its honesty once the first lie cracked. “I promise.”

Dean had a bottle tucked against his thigh, half-hidden by the popcorn bowl.

When Dean’s hand dropped again, Cas reached back without turning. His fingers brushed the glass neck of the bottle, and Dean startled.

“What’re you—” Dean began, but Cas had already pulled it free.

He lifted it, studying the amber light sloshing in the bottle, then raised it to his lips. One sip—sharp, burning, bitter. He coughed faintly, throat stinging, but forced it down. Jack barely noticed, too caught up in the movie.

Dean stared down at him, something caught between disbelief and a sour kind of anger. Cas didn’t explain. He only set the bottle carefully on the floor, then shoved it under the couch with the heel of his hand until it was out of sight.

Dean’s brow furrowed, his voice edged sharp. “You get that this is hypocritical, right?”

Cas met his gaze, steady. “I’m aware.”

Dean looked away “As long as you are aware.”

Jack laughed at something on the television, the sound bright, cutting through the tension. Dean leaned back into the couch with a muttered curse, choosing silence over fight—for Jack’s sake, maybe for his own.

Cas stayed where he was, hands clasped in his lap, eyes fixed on the shadows playing across the screen. The bourbon’s heat lingered in his chest, sharp but grounding. Hidden now, out of sight, but not gone.

The movie played on, the trumpet fanfare giving way to long stretches of desert silence. Jack leaned forward, eyes wide, every gunshot making him jump.

“Why are they always spitting?” he whispered suddenly.

Cas answered without hesitation, his words oddly flat. “They lack proper hygiene.”

Dean snorted. “It’s called chewing tobacco, Cas. Not a dental crisis.”

Cas tilted his head slowly, eyes a little too glassy, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wasn’t quite present. “I’m aware. Still unhygienic.”

Dean rolled his eyes and shoved another handful of popcorn into his mouth, muttering something under his breath.

A few minutes later, one of the cowboys on screen tipped his hat to a woman. Jack leaned sideways, curious. “Do you have a hat like that, Dad?”

Cas blinked too long before answering, voice distant but certain. “No. But your other dad does.”

Dean stiffened, squinting at him. “How the hell do you know about that?”

Cas’s shoulders lifted in a loose, uneven shrug. His eyes stayed on the flickering screen, pupils blown wide, like he was somewhere far away. “I know many things,” he murmured, almost dreamy, as though the answer cost him nothing.

Dean set the popcorn down, staring at him now instead of the movie.

Cas’s hand drifted from the cushion, not to Dean but to Jack. In one smooth, deliberate pull, he tugged the boy into his lap. Jack yelped in surprise, then laughed, wriggling against the too-tight hold as Cas’s arms folded around him.

“Cas—” Dean started, but Cas ignored him, pressing his cheek to the top of Jack’s head like the boy was a compass pointing north. The warmth of Jack’s small frame seemed to hum through him, amplifying the haze already soft in his blood. His voice dropped low, reverent, thick with affection.

Cas’s voice slipped low, thick with sadness. “I’m sorry for carving hurt into you — you were never meant to carry that pain, little star.” His arms trembled as he held Jack closer. “Unnatural or not, you are loved more than the order of Heaven ever allowed.”

Jack squirmed, confused but not unhappy. “Dad, you’re squishing me.”

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face, groaning. “Alright, c’mere, kid.” He reached over, trying to pry Jack free from Cas’s grip. “Cas, you’re high as a kite, man, you can’t—”

Cas held tighter, shaking his head like a stubborn child. “No. Mine.” His eyes were bright, pupils blown wide, words softened by the floaty slur of euphoria. “He’s ours. Dean. Don’t take him from me.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. He crouched forward, voice low and tight, meant for Cas alone. “I’m not takin’ him. But you’re holdin’ on too hard. He’s a kid, not a lifeline.”

For a beat, Cas just stared, confusion and devotion tangling on his face. Then slowly—reluctantly—he loosened his grip, letting Jack slip off his lap and scramble back to the couch with a grin.

Dean let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, then dropped down on the floor between them, shoulder to shoulder with Cas. His presence was solid, grounding, protective—not just for Jack now, but for Cas too.

Dean grabbed the popcorn bowl back from Jack and shoved it into Cas’s hands, giving him something to do. “Here. Hug that instead.”

Jack laughed. Cas blinked down at the bowl, baffled, then held it tight against his chest as if it, too, were proof of something real.

The movie ended before any of them noticed Jack’s head had tipped against Dean, Popcorn scattered in his lap, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. At first Cas thought it was ordinary restlessness, the way children sometimes stirred through dreams.

Then Jack whimpered.

Cas leaned closer, frowning. Jack’s face twisted, mouth pulling into a silent cry. His hands clawed weakly at himself. And then—his body arched, eyes snapping open though he was still asleep. The air in the room changed, heavy, sharp with the faintest tang of sulfur.

“Jack,” Cas whispered, reaching.

The boy’s back bowed, and for an instant—only an instant—wings flared behind him. Not black like Cas’s had become, not white like the choir once carried, but something caught between: smoky, smudged at the edges, as though still deciding whether to burn or to shine. They stretched wide, trembling, and Castiel’s breath locked in his chest.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19

Jack jerked awake with a cry, wings vanishing as quick as a blink. He sat up shaking, scrubbing at his wet face with the back of his hand. “There was fire,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Hot everywhere, but… cold too. The ground was sharp. I tried to run, but it just went on forever. I couldn’t find the door. I couldn’t get out.”

Cas’s hand hovered uselessly at his side. Visions of Hell. Too much, too soon. He should have known what to say, how to soothe, but the words tangled in his throat. All he managed was to sit down beside him, voice low and stiff. “You are… secure here. This place is warded. No one can reach you.” It sounded clinical, hollow, even to his own ears.

Jack pushed at his chest with small fists, eyes wide and wet. “I don’t want you. You’re mean. I want other Dad.”

The words landed like a blade. Cas froze, hand still half-raised, every instinct to comfort curdling into silence. Jack didn’t want the wards, the promises, the hollow reassurances. He wanted Dean. And Cas understood why. Dean was warmth where Cas was cold, certainty where Cas was faltering. Dean didn’t need spells or wards to make the world safe—he simply was. Jack reached for that instinctively, the same way Cas had for years. Because Dean was… exceptional. The kind of father Cas could never quite manage to be.

Dean’s brows pulled together, sharp and tired all at once. His movements weren’t steady. When he spoke, his voice carried that faint, lazy slur Cas had come to recognise—the soft edges of whiskey still on his breath. “Hey,” he said, cutting through Jack’s hiccupped breaths. “That’s enough. Don’t talk to your Dad like that.”

Jack flinched, eyes darting between them. “But he—he hurt me.”

Dean’s mouth opened, then closed again. His expression wavered, trying to balance reason and fatigue. When he spoke again, his tone had softened, but only just. “What your Dad did earlier, he thought it’d help. He was trying to protect you.”

“It didn’t feel like that,” Jack whispered, voice small. “It felt like a test.”

Cas’s hands curled against his knees. “It was,” he admitted quietly. “But never to hurt you. Only to be sure.”

Jack shook his head hard, tears spilling fresh. “You said I was safe, but you still thought I was bad.”

Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. The motion was sluggish, his voice slipping between gentleness and weariness. “Nobody thinks you’re bad, Jack. You had a nightmare, that’s all. Cas screwed up, yeah, but he’s still on your side.” He crouched lower, movements slow but heavy, the way drunk men try to seem deliberate. His tone shifted, firm but frayed at the edges. “You don’t get to talk to him like that, you hear me? You say you’re mad, fine—but you say it right.”

Jack’s shoulders hunched, guilt flickering through the fear. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, half into his sleeve.

Cas blinked, slow and tired, unsure whether the apology was meant for him or for Dean. The silence after felt too big, pressing at the edges of the room. He wanted to tell Jack it was all right—that he understood—but the words felt wrong in his mouth. Instead, he just sat there, still as stone, listening to Dean’s voice fill the space where his own should have been.

“You’re safe,” Dean said again, softer this time, though his breath caught slightly on the words. “We’re all good now. Yeah?”

Jack nodded, but his fingers still twisted in the blanket, and his gaze avoided Cas entirely. The sting lingered longer than Cas wanted to admit.

Cas opened his mouth, closed it again. He wanted to say wings, wanted to say Hell, but the words lodged in his throat. Dean hadn’t seen them—couldn’t have. To him, Jack had only cried out, only clutched at the air like any child caught in a nightmare.

Jack gave a shaky laugh that was almost a sob. “It felt real,” he whispered again, muffled against Dean’s flannel.

Dean hummed in response, a sound halfway between comfort and exhaustion. Cas could smell the whiskey even from where he sat. He wondered if Jack could too.

Jack shifted, his voice still small. “But what if it wasn’t just a dream? What if it was—”

“Hey.” Dean cut him off, voice rougher this time. The gentle tone cracked under the whiskey. “It was a dream. That’s it. No fire, no doors, no Hell. Just your head messin’ with you while you sleep.” His words slurred at the edges, not enough to mistake, but enough that Cas noticed. “You don’t carry that crap, kid. You hear me? That’s not you.”

Jack blinked at him, startled by the shift in tone. “But—”

“No ‘but,’” Dean snapped, too sharp. Jack flinched. Dean closed his eyes, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. When he spoke again, his voice dropped to something softer, regret threaded through the rasp. “It’s over, okay? You’re safe. Nobody’s hurtin’ you.” He gave a weak chuckle, trying to reel it back in. “Not on my watch.”

Cas stayed still, watching them both. He wanted to believe it was that simple—that Dean’s voice could banish fire and shadow with nothing more than blunt conviction. He wanted to believe that safety could be given so easily. But when Jack’s breathing evened out, it wasn’t Cas’s hand he had clung to. It wasn’t Cas’s words that had reached him. And in that quiet, Cas felt the familiar hollowness creep in—like he was a guardian in name only, a soldier with no map, a father who didn’t know how to be one. He wanted to believe it was that simple—that a father’s arm, a hunter’s oath, could banish the shadow’s clinging to the boy. He wanted to believe Dean’s certainty was enough for all of them. But in the corner of his vision he could still see it: wings smudged with ash, trembling between light and dark.

It’s my fault.

“Cas?”

His head jerked up too slowly. Dean’s mouth was already closing, like he’d asked something and expected an answer. Cas had missed it completely—The sound of his name lingered anyway, rough and steady, pulling him back into the room he hadn’t realized he’d left. Dean’s voice sounded like it was coming through water—warped at the edges, carrying too many tones at once.

“Cas,” Dean said again, slower now, as though testing if he was even listening. “You with me?”

He was right there, close, but Cas swore the man’s outline shimmered, doubling, swaying. Then the image snapped away, leaving only Dean, human and solid, staring at him with that sharp, swirly look Cas couldn’t quite pin down.

Cas blinked hard, The room felt tilted, like the floor wasn’t steady. His lips parted as if to answer, but all he managed was a faint, distracted murmur: “You’re… more than one.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed, sharp now. He tilted his head just enough to keep his voice low, but the edge carried. “What’d you take?”

But Cas only shook his head slightly, gaze wandering past Dean to the shadows beyond. “Not sure.”

Dean’s brows snapped together. “Not sure?” he hissed, voice low but sharp. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean, Cas? You playing pic-and-mix with pills again—like you’re at some damn lolly shop grabbing whatever looks good? Look, having a few drinks is one thing,” he muttered, voice rough. “But this? This is too far.” The words came out with too much force, as if saying them made them true.”

Then, half-asleep, Jack stirred. His voice came out small and slurred with drowsiness. “You’re loud when you’re angry, Dad,” he mumbled, the words soft as a sigh.

Cas moved first. “It’s my fault,” he said softly, voice even but thin. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Jack’s half-lidded eyes blinked toward them, confusion stirring in the sleepy haze. “You were yelling,” he mumbled. “Did I do something bad?”

“No,” Cas said quickly. “You didn’t. It was me. I said something I shouldn’t have.” He kept his voice calm, quiet, the way one speaks to fragile things. “Your father wasn’t angry at you.”

Dean shot him a look—sharp, conflicted—but didn’t speak. The silence between them hummed, heavy with everything unspoken. The whiskey had burned out of his tone, but not out of his eyes.

Jack’s brow furrowed faintly, still fighting sleep. “You shouldn’t make him mad,” he murmured, already drifting again.

Cas’s lips twitched in something like a smile—sad, self-contained. “I’ll try not to,” he said quietly.

Dean cleared his throat, softer now. “Now bedtime kiddo.”

Jack grabbed Dean’s hand first, then Castiel’s, his small fingers closing stubbornly around theirs as he pulled them both down the hallway toward his room. “You always fight,” he said, voice thick with exhaustion and accusation. “I don’t like it when you do.”

Dean exhaled through his nose, some of the anger leaving his shoulders. “Yeah, I know, kid,” he murmured. “We just… butt heads sometimes, that’s all.”

Cas glanced at him, expression unreadable. “That’s not all,” he said quietly. He kept his tone soft so Jack wouldn’t hear judgment in it. “He’s afraid when we argue. He doesn’t understand what it means. He thinks he caused it.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t fight him. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I got that, Cas.”

They reached Jack’s room, and Dean lifted the blanket so the boy could climb into bed. Jack didn’t let go of his hand even then—he held on like he was afraid one of them might slip away if he loosened his grip for even a moment. Dean stayed close, brushing Jack’s hair back, murmuring something quiet and human and grounding.

Castiel watched them, a dull heaviness gathering behind his ribs. He saw how Jack leaned into Dean instinctively—the way Dean’s presence seemed to steady the room, settle the boy’s breathing, make things safe without effort. That was what fathers did. Real fathers.

The thought formed before he could stop it: Maybe he should leave. Not tonight, not like this—but eventually. Quietly. Maybe Jack would be better off if he grew up under Dean’s care alone, untainted by whatever darkness still clung to Castiel. Dean was steady. Dean was human. Dean knew how to build a life instead of destroying one.

Castiel had only ever known how to fight. And if everything he touched was stained by Heaven’s violence—or by his own—then Jack deserved better. Dean could give him that. Castiel wasn’t sure he could.

Jack’s small brow furrowed, as if he could feel something beneath the surface—something Castiel hadn’t spoken aloud. Dean didn’t notice; he was still focused on keeping Jack calm. But Castiel knew. Somehow, Jack knew. The boy’s grace pulsed faintly in the room, brushing against Cas like a ghost of thought, a quiet echo of knowing. Too perceptive. Too exposed.

Castiel met his gaze, that wide-eyed trust that always seemed to both steady and undo him. The words rose before he could stop them.

“Would you like to hear the story,” he murmured, “of how I became human?”

Jack nodded immediately. “Yes.”

Castiel hesitated, then smiled. It felt wrong on his face—thin, fragile—but he let it stay. “I was an angel once,” he began, voice low and distant. “In Heaven, we had no choices. Only orders. We were told that obedience was goodness, that questioning was weakness… even betrayal.”

He drew a slow breath. “But I always had doubts. Small ones, at first. Moments where something felt wrong. Where the orders didn’t feel just, or kind. But angels don’t question. Angels don’t feel. And when I did…” His jaw tightened. “I was punished for it.”

He looked down briefly, voice quieter now. “So I learned to bury it. To follow. To conform. To pretend obedience made me righteous instead of hollow. I thought that if I tried hard enough, if I obeyed long enough, I would stop feeling alone.”

His gaze drifted, unfocused—haunted more by memory than grief. “But obedience is not goodness. And Heaven is not love. I hurt people because I believed I was saving them. I followed orders because I was afraid of being cast out.” His throat worked. “When I finally realized I was wrong… it was already too late to undo the damage I’d done.”

Jack didn’t interrupt. His small hands rested in his lap, still and listening.

“I watched humans grow and change,” Castiel went on. “Fail and try again. Love and lose. Break and still choose hope. They didn’t obey orders—they made choices. They built families.”

“You became human because of me,” Jack said softly.

Castiel shook his head. “No. I was already changing long before you were born.”

Jack frowned. “Because of Dad?”

Castiel paused. The question settled in the air like ash—light, but impossible to ignore.

Jack’s eyes narrowed just a fraction, not in accusation but in thought. He tilted his head, studying Castiel in that quiet, analytical way he sometimes did—like he was taking apart an engine to see how it worked. “but I was born from love,” Jack said.

Castiel stiffened. “Gabriel says many things,” he replied evenly. “Most of them designed to cause trouble.”

Jack didn’t look away. “Is it true?”

“No,” Castiel said too quickly.

Jack blinked. “You don’t think so?”

“It isn’t about what I think,” Cas said, voice tightening. “It’s not… literal. Love doesn’t create life. Power does. Circumstance. Consequences. Your existence was not destiny or fate—it was a result.” His jaw clenched. “And not a pure one.”

Jack studied him for a long, quiet moment. “You don’t believe it,” he said finally.

“Because it isn’t true.”

“What about you Dad?” Jack asked. “Do you think I was born from love?”

Dean froze mid-motion, one hand resting on the back of a chair. His eyes flicked between Cas and Jack, feeling the weight of the question. He took a breath.

“I think,” Dean said slowly, “that not all kids are born from love.” He shrugged a little, unapologetically honest. “Some people have kids from hook-ups. Some from tragedies. Some by accident. World’s messy like that.”

Jack’s brow creased. “So… then how do you know what I was born from?”

Dean didn’t flinch. He held Jack’s gaze, calm but firm. “Because love isn’t just how somebody gets made, Jack. That part’s biology or bad timing or two idiots who didn’t think things through.” His eyes softened. “Love’s what happens after. It’s what you show up for. It’s what you choose—day after day—even when it’s hard.”

He nodded once toward Jack. “And I choose you, kid. Every time.” Then he glanced at Cas—pointed, deliberate. “Right, Cas?”

Cas’s jaw worked like he was grinding down something sharp. “Yes,” he said finally. The word came out thin. Measured. “Of course.”

”Alright, that’s enough of the bedtime stories,” he said gently, but his voice was strained at the edges. “Time for sleep, kid.”

Jack looked like he might argue, but one look at Dean’s face made him think better of it. Within moments, his eyes fluttered shut.

Castiel watched him, still smiling faintly. His thoughts didn’t feel linear anymore—more like light bleeding through water. Everything shimmered, soft and golden. Dean moved around the room quietly, picking up a stray toy from the floor, switching off the lamp until only the faint blue glow from the hallway remained.

“You shouldn’t tell him stuff like that when you’re—” Dean stopped himself. He exhaled hard through his nose. “He’s just a kid, Cas.”

Castiel tilted his head, unbothered. “It was true.”

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, well, so’s Santa Claus if you ask him. Doesn’t mean it’s good for bedtime.”

Castiel blinked slowly, eyes still fixed on Jack. “He deserves to know where he came from.”

“He deserves a full night’s sleep,” Dean muttered, softer now, and crouched beside the bed to pull the blanket higher over Jack’s shoulder. He lingered there for a moment, his hand resting gently on the boy’s hair.

When Dean stood again, Castiel was still watching. Still swaying faintly, like his body couldn’t quite remember the rules of gravity. The room tilted just a little, slow and forgiving. Dean’s gaze caught on him—green eyes steady, cautious, accusatory

Castiel straightened, or tried to, pulling his shoulders back in a faint parody of composure. He even smoothed his coat like that might disguise the tremor in his hands. “I’m fine,” he said quietly, a little too soft, a little too slow. “Completely functional.”

Dean didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The silence between them was heavy enough to make the air hum.

Castiel’s lips curved then, the smile small and unsteady, like light flickering behind stained glass. He looked at Dean for a long moment—long enough for the edges of him to blur, the color of his eyes to deepen into something warm and almost holy.

He reached for Dean without thinking—like instinct, like gravity—his fingers brushing along Dean’s jaw with aching reverence. Dean went still beneath the touch, breath catching, eyes flicking up in warning. Cas didn’t hesitate.

He leaned in.

Not reckless. Not hungry. Just—certain. A kiss not born of impulse but inevitability, something raw and wordless pulling him forward. Something truer than speech. A plea masquerading as calm.

His lips brushed Dean’s.

“Cas.” Dean’s voice broke against the moment, low and strained. He turned his head sharply. “Don’t.”

It wasn’t harsh. It was worse—it was gentle. Hurt in a way that made Cas’s chest tighten. He froze, inches away, breath trembling against the space between them.

The rejection didn’t compute—not at first. His mind lagged behind, high and slow, trying to make sense of something that shouldn’t have been wrong. He hadn’t crossed a line. He’d only reached for something that already belonged to him. Something that had always been there between them.

But Dean had said no.

Cas stepped back like he’d been struck. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, though he didn’t understand what he was apologising for. The distance between them snapped into place—cold, immediate, suffocating. Like a door slamming in a burning room, shutting him out of the only air he knew how to breathe.

The second the door clicked shut, Dean turned, shoving Cas hard into the wall. His forearm pressed across Cas’s chest, pinning him there with raw, angry force.

Sam stepped out of the library at the sound, eyebrows lifting. His gaze flicked between Dean’s fury and Cas’s silence. Something unreadable crossed his face—guilt, maybe, or regret.

“Not now, Sam,” Dean barked without looking away from Cas.

Sam’s eyes flicked between them, uncertain. Cas met his gaze, gave a single small nod: I’m alright.

Sam held his ground, voice calm but edged with tension. “Dean, listen to me—this wasn’t just Cas. The ritual was my call. I told him to do it.”

Dean’s stepped away, eyes flashing toward his brother for just a second. “Yeah,” he bit out. “I know.”

Sam frowned, confused. “Then why are you—”

“Because he’s high, Sam!” Dean exploded. The words cracked through the room like a strike of glass. “He’s high. Right now. Look at him.”

Castiel stood still, silent. He didn’t understand why Dean wouldn’t look at him—why his voice shook on words that should have come easily. This should have been a familiar fight. Predictable. About control, responsibility, judgement. But something else hung beneath Dean’s words. Something heavier. Something Cas couldn’t name.

Dean kept going, not looking at him. Not once. “He’s supposed to be the one who keeps it together for our kid, and he stands there slurring garbage and—” His jaw locked. His throat worked once, hard. “—and acting like nothing matters.”

Nothing mattered. The words cut sharper than they should have. Cas didn’t know why. He hadn’t said anything that should have landed like that. Nothing cruel. Nothing reckless. Just the truth as he believed it.

So why did Dean look wounded?

“He’s struggling, Dean. We all are. You can’t just—”

“Yeah, well,” Dean shot back, sharp and bitter. “You think this is easy for me? You think I don’t wanna disappear sometimes, same as him? But I don’t. I show up. I deal with it. I don’t check out and call it coping.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word, the anger sounding more like exhaustion now. “Jack needs someone here. Not someone floating off in la-la land.”

Cas blinked slowly. Dean’s outline doubled and shimmered, fire and water at once. His chest hummed with euphoria—waves of warmth too strong to be undone by Dean’s fury. The words rolled over him without sting, like rain against glass. He smiled faintly, unfocused and slow. “You said ‘our kid.’” His head tilted, eyes bright. “It’s just… nice when you say it. Like it means something.”

The anger drained from Dean’s face, leaving something rawer behind—something small and tired and human. Pain flickered there, quiet but unmistakable. Cas saw it. Even through the haze, even through the warmth blurring the edges of the world, he saw it. The hurt in Dean’s eyes struck through the euphoria like a pin through silk. It didn’t shatter it—just made it tremble, made it ache. He hated that he’d put it there. Hated that his words, his need, always seemed to wound. “I can’t talk to him like this,” he muttered to Sam.

Sam stepped in closer, lowering his voice. “What did he take?”

Dean shook his head, eyes still locked on Cas. “I don’t know. He must’ve had a stash hidden in his room.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “You think he got it from those dealer friends of his?”

Dean’s head snapped toward him. “What do you know about it?”

Sam’s tone stayed calm, but his words cut clean. “I know he wasn’t answering his phone the whole time you were laid up in the hospital. And when he finally showed up—he was high as a damn kite.” He hesitated, lowering his voice further. “I think he’s been using a while, Dean. And not just the gentle stuff either.” His gaze flicked to Cas, who swayed slightly where he stood, eyes glassy and unfocused. “Look at him. You don’t get that kind of high off low-grade anything.”

Dean stared at Cas, jaw tightening. The anger in his face had nowhere to go; it just sat there, sharp and useless. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath.

Castiel’s head tilted slowly, like he was trying to line up thoughts that wouldn’t stay still. “You think I don’t want to stop?” His voice wasn’t sharp or defensive. It was worse—soft. Honest. “You think I don’t try?” He blinked, pupils wide. “I don’t know how, Dean. Every time I stop, it’s… loud. Inside.”

He swayed once, then steadied. “You drink,” Cas said quietly. Not accusing—just truth. “Every night.”

Dean’s shoulders bunched. “Watch yourself,” he muttered. “Couple of drinks doesn’t make me a bad father,” he snapped. “I show up. I handle my shit. I’m still here, aren’t I? I’m not checking out on that kid. I’m not disappearing.”

Cas met his gaze, trying to understand the shape of what he was seeing in Dean’s eyes. Anger, yes—but something else too. Something heavier.

Cas didn’t move. Didn’t argue. He simply looked back at Dean—honest, unflinching—and maybe that was what made Dean unravel.

Dean’s voice dropped, raw now, the anger stripped down to exposed nerve. “Tell me the truth. Do you even care what happens to you?” His grip on Cas’s coat tightened. “Is there anything in there—anything at all—or did you burn it all out a long time ago?”

Cas stared at him, stunned—not by the words, but by the pain in them. Dean’s eyes were bright and unguarded in a way Cas had rarely seen. Not angry. Hurt.

“Because I swear to God,” Dean went on, voice shaking, “you keep going like this, one day I’m gonna be the one picking your body off a floor.” His throat worked. “And I won’t know how to explain to Jack why his dad just… gave up.”

The words should have hurt. Maybe they did. Maybe the high dulled it. Maybe nothing could. He watched Dean’s chest rise and fall too fast, watched his hands flex like he wanted to hit something but couldn’t decide what.

So he spoke the thing that mattered most. “Dean,” he said softly, “I’m worried about Jack. There is something wrong with him.”

Dean went still. The anger didn’t leave him—it froze. His expression didn’t soften. If anything, it shut down completely.

“I’m not doing this,” Dean said.

Cas blinked slowly, his focus drifting between them. “I’m not the only one,” he said, voice unsteady but calm. “Sam agreed with me. That’s why we did the ritual.” He turned slightly, as if seeking backup. “Sam, tell him.”

Sam froze under the weight of both their stares. He hesitated, guilt flashing across his face. “Cas…” he started, voice low, regret already bleeding through. “I did agree, yeah—but I was wrong. I shouldn’t’ve pushed it.” He looked at Dean, eyes heavy. “It got outta hand.”

Cas frowned faintly, confusion ghosting over his features. “You said it was necessary,” he murmured, like he was trying to remember. “You said we had to be sure.”

Sam’s throat worked. “I know what I said,” he admitted quietly. “But that was before I saw what it was doing to you—what it did to Jack. We crossed a line, man.”

Cas tilted his head. “You haven’t noticed anything strange?”

“Cas,” Dean cut in, sharp but not angry—just steady. “He’s a kid. That’s all I see. A good kid who keeps trying, even when he screws up. Hell…” he huffed, almost laughing, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “He reminds me of you. Same stubborn heart, same ‘gotta fix everything even if it kills me’ thing.” His eyes softened just a fraction. “He didn’t get that from me.”

“That’s why I know something’s wrong,” Cas said, and though his voice shook, his conviction didn’t. “He dreams of Hell. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it in him.” His eyes were bright, too wide. “His wings—they’re not just damaged. They’re stained.”

He swallowed hard. “The edges are scorched. Not by Heaven. Not by his power. By me.”

Dean frowned, not following. “What the hell does that mean?”

”I didn’t know that Jack could be created by giving you my grace. If I knew I wouldn’t have done it.” Cas dragged a hand through his hair, restless. “Jack wasn’t just made with my grace—he inherited everything that was broken in it. Everything that was broken in me.”

Images flickered behind his eyes—things he’d done under Heaven’s orders. Villages turned to ash. Souls judged and discarded. Innocents killed for prophecy. His corruption hadn’t begun with Lucifer’s influence or Naomi’s manipulation—it had been there long before that, carved into him by obedience.

“He didn’t just inherit my power,” Cas said, voice low and unsteady. “He inherited my damage. My darkness. My corruption.” He met Dean’s gaze, pained and pleading. “He dreams of Hell because there is Hell in him—because there is Hell in me. He builds things from nothing because I broke the rules of creation inside him. And I don’t know if I can fix it. I don’t know if I should be anywhere near him.”

Dean let out a humorless laugh—dangerous and unsteady. “So that’s it? You’re corrupted, Jack’s corrupted—story over? Real neat job takin’ all the blame, Cas. Real noble.” His words were starting to slur now, not heavily, just soft around the edges. Whiskey softened the anger but not the pain.

Sam shifted in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Dean—”

“No,” Dean snapped without looking at him. “No, he wants to do this, we’re doing it.” He turned back to Cas, eyes glassy. “You think Jack’s messed up just ’cause of you? You think your so-called corruption is worse than everything I’ve done?”

Cas frowned, frustrated. The drugs made it hard to form focus but not intention. “He needs to be protected.”

“He is protected!” Dean barked. He threw a hand out wildly toward Sam. “He’s got me! He’s got Sam—hell, he even had you before you decided narcotics were a personality trait!”

Cas blinked. The insult didn’t land. Nothing did, not through the glow. “I’m protecting him the only way I can. If I am a danger to him—if my presence puts him at risk—then you should say so.” He met Dean’s eyes, steady and startlingly calm.

Dean stared in disbelief. “Yeah, that’s classic. You’re not talking about protecting him, Cas. You’re talking about running.”

Sam’s voice cut through, quiet and tired. “Dean—”

“No, I’m right,” Dean bit back. “He’s gonna do it again. I can see it. He’s getting ready to disappear. Tell himself it’s for Jack’s own good or some tragic angel bull—”

“Dean.” Sam’s voice cut in—low, steady, warning. Both Dean and Cas turned toward him. He hadn’t moved from the doorway, but his presence shifted, grounding the room. “Enough.”

Dean let out a sharp breath. “Don’t start, Sam—”

“No, seriously—both of you, just shut up a minute.” Sam’s tone wasn’t harsh, but it was firm, tired, and suffocatingly honest. “You’re talking about Jack like he’s some—problem. Or a curse. Like he’s gonna turn into whatever you’re both scared of because of your screwups.” His gaze flicked between them, disappointment in his eyes but not judgment. “He’s not.”

Cas frowned, dazed but listening.

Sam continued. “Jack isn’t broken because you two are. He isn’t some mirror of your damage. He’s just a kid trying to figure himself out.” His voice softened. “And yeah, maybe he’s got stuff in him that’s dangerous. So do we. That doesn’t get to define who he is.”

Cas shook his head. “You didn’t see his wings.”

“Do you hear yourself Cas? You sound like every lunatic hunter we ever put down — corruption, monsters in disguise. You’re strung out, Cas. You don’t even trust your own head right now, so why the hell should I?”

Cas absorbed the words, but they didn’t wound the way Dean seemed to think they should. He had long accepted that Dean didn’t trust him—not really. It made sense. Trust required belief. Belief required closeness. And closeness came from love.

Cas had given up hoping for that a long time ago.

“I don’t expect you to trust me,” Cas said softly. The words weren’t bitter—they were simply true. “You never have.”

Dean froze, thrown by that. “That’s not—”

Cas shook his head. “It isn’t your fault.” His voice wasn’t accusatory—if anything, it was gentle. Understanding. “You don’t… see me. Not the way I see you.”

Dean’s brow furrowed, confusion and anger flaring together. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Cas didn’t answer. Not directly. He wasn’t sure he could explain it without saying more than he was allowed to say—without letting something leak out that could never be taken back.

Instead he simply said, “I know you don’t believe me. But I’m telling you the truth. There is something wrong with Jack.”

“What do you want me to do Cas? Put a knife to that kid while he’s sleeping?” He swallowed, the anger folding into something worse — hurt and disbelief and a fear he didn’t know how to name. “You want me to look at our son and pull the trigger because you’re scared?”

It hit like a blade to the chest. Cas’s vision stuttered—one moment Dean’s furious face, the next Jack small and trembling, A sword through the chest. White wings burning away. The sound was faint but sharp, like steel cutting through prayer.. This is Heaven speaking through me again.

He shook his head, hands pressing to his temples as though he could force the thoughts out by touch. “No,” he whispered. “No, I don’t—” His voice cracked. “That’s not what I meant.”

Cas couldn’t stop the flood now. The world was folding in on itself—the floor tilting, the walls breathing. Every light in the room felt too bright. His pulse thundered in his ears, too fast, too loud

“Cas,” Sam said, turning toward him now, voice softening when he finally took in the state he was in. “Hey—are you okay?”

Cas blinked, slow and unfocused. The image of Jack dying wouldn’t leave his mind—Jack small and trembling, blade through his chest, light spilling out like breath. It replayed every time he closed his eyes, bright and merciless. His chest clenched, breath catching somewhere between a gasp and a prayer.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, the words slurred and uneven. He tried to steady his breathing—slow in, slow out—but it only made the shaking worse. “I’m fine,” he repeated, quieter this time, like saying it softer might make it true.

Sam didn’t move. “Cas, you’re not fine. Just—”

But Cas was already moving. He pushed past him, unsteady but determined, one hand dragging along the wall to keep himself upright. The hallway lights smeared into streaks of white and gold, too bright to look at directly. Each step felt wrong, heavy and disconnected, but the only thing worse than walking away was standing still.

“Cas, wait,” Sam called after him.

He didn’t. He couldn’t. He just kept walking—away from Sam, from Dean, from the sound of his own name echoing through the hall—until all that was left was the ringing in his ears and the ghost of Jack’s small, dying breath still looping in his head.

The training space was dark except for a single flickering bulb overhead. Dust hung in the air, the faint smell of oil and old leather thick against the concrete. Cas stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. He needed to move. Needed to do something before the weight of Dean’s words crushed him completely.

He shrugged off his coat, rolled his sleeves to his elbows, and reached for a blade from the rack. It felt wrong in his grip—too heavy, too slow—but it was something. He squared his stance and swung at the air.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath. Another swing. Then another. “You think I’m paranoid?” He twisted, his breath sharp. “You think I’m wrong?” His blade cut through empty space—until it didn’t feel empty anymore.

Something flickered in the corner of his vision—dark, thin, the shape of something that moved when he didn’t. He swung toward it, blade slicing through the air, but the sound that followed—like wings dragging over stone—made his stomach drop. “You didn’t see him,” he hissed, voice rising. “You didn’t feel it.”

He pivoted, the flickering light above throwing shadows across the walls—shadows that twisted, lengthened, took form. The room pulsed. For a second, he could see them clearly: silhouettes with burning eyes, whispering in Enochian. You made him. You broke him. You will lose him.

Cas swung again, wild, desperate. The blade hit nothing, air shivering around it. He stumbled forward, heart pounding in his ears. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the shelf near the weapons bench—a half-open crate, the faint glint of glass inside. He crouched, reached in, and pulled out a familiar bottle of whiskey.

Dean’s stash.

Cas stared at it for a long moment, his reflection distorted in the amber liquid. His breath came fast and uneven, torn between fury and despair. “You get to drink,” he muttered, unscrewing the cap. “You get to drown yourself every night, and no one calls you broken.” He lifted it to his mouth, taking a sharp, burning swallow. “But when I do it—when I try to quiet it down—I’m strung out. I’m crazy. I’m dangerous.”

He took another swallow, larger this time, the liquid biting down his throat until it made his eyes sting. “You think I don’t see it?” he hissed to the empty room. “You and your bottles and your silence and your self-righteous anger. You’re drowning too, Dean—you’re just better at pretending it’s a swim.”

Another shadow shifted near the far wall, whispering with that same soft, guttural Enochian tone. Cas’s head jerked toward it, fury burning through the haze. He hurled the half-empty bottle across the room. It shattered against the concrete, amber splattering across the floor like spilled blood. The scent of alcohol hit the air, sharp and sour.

“Get out!” Cas shouted, though it wasn’t clear if he meant the shadows or Dean’s voice still echoing in his head. He lunged forward, swinging again, the blade cutting through the dark. The shadows seemed to flinch and dissolve—but the laughter remained, thin and low, curling around him like smoke.

He stumbled, his legs giving out beneath him. The blade slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. The room was empty again—silent except for his own shaking breath and the drip of whiskey from the wall. He dropped to his knees, hands trembling as the comedown hit him full force. Tears burned behind his eyes before spilling freely, hot and silent.

He pressed his palms to his face, voice raw. “I’m not wrong,” he whispered, over and over, until it barely sounded like words anymore. “I’m not.” But the shadows didn’t answer. Only the hum of the dying light remained—buzzing, flickering, watching him from above.

And when he finally looked up, all he could see was the smear of amber on the floor—proof that even when Dean wasn’t here, his hypocrisy still was.

The shadows had stilled, but their shapes lingered in his mind — the burn of wings, the whispers of damnation, He dragged in a breath that rattled in his chest and pressed a trembling hand to his mouth. His pulse thudded hard, uneven, each beat another reminder that he was still human, frail, and fallible. The high was gone, the fury burned out, leaving only the hollow space where faith used to live.

He sank lower, knees hitting the concrete with a dull thud. The sound echoed through the room — sharp, final — like a confession. His hands shook as he clasped them together, the motion clumsy, almost instinctive. He hadn’t prayed in a long time. Not really. Not since he’d stopped believing anyone was listening.

“Father,” he rasped, the word foreign on his tongue. “I don’t know what I’m seeing anymore.” His breath hitched; the words came rough, uneven. “If it’s the drugs, take them from me. If it’s madness, take that too. But if I’m right—if there’s darkness in him—show me. Please. Don’t let me damn another child by pretending not to see.”

His fingers tightened until his knuckles went white. “I tried to be what you made me,” he whispered. “I tried to protect him. To protect them. But I can’t tell the difference anymore—between grace and corruption, between love and fear.” He swallowed hard, eyes squeezing shut as a tear slipped down his cheek. “I need you. I need you to tell me I’m not alone in this.”

He lowered his head further, forehead pressing to clasped hands. His voice dropped to a broken whisper. “Cleanse me,” he breathed. “If there’s anything left of what I was—make it pure again. Take what’s rotted in me, burn it away. I don’t care if it hurts.” His shoulders shook. “And Jack… please. Whatever he is—whatever I made him into—don’t let it be corruption. Make him whole. Make him good. If I’m too stained to reach him, then reach him yourself. Don’t punish him for what I’ve done.”

Only silence answered. Not the divine kind he used to feel — vast and peaceful — but an empty one. A silence that felt like absence. Like abandonment. It filled the room, pressed into his ears, into his chest, until it hurt to breathe.

Cas’s shoulders sagged. His hands fell open in his lap, trembling. “Please,” he whispered one last time, barely audible. “Just… show me what’s true.”

But nothing came. No warmth. No light. Only the faint hum of the bulb and the sting of whiskey in the air, and the distant, awful certainty that he had never felt further from his Father—or from grace itself.

He stayed there, kneeling in the dark, tears drying on his face, the echo of his prayer dissolving into silence. And in the stillness that followed, Cas wondered if this was what damnation truly felt like—not fire, not punishment, but the unbearable ache of being unheard.

The silence didn’t let him go. It clung to him—heavy, suffocating—until something in his body reached its limit before his mind did.

His stomach lurched.

Cas turned his head just in time, scrambling weakly toward the corner as bile forced its way up. He gagged, retching hard, body shaking with each heave. There was nothing in his stomach to give—just acid and whiskey and whatever was left of his restraint. It burned his throat on the way out.

When it was over, he stayed there, one hand braced against the wall, breath shuddering. His vision blurred and cleared again. The room tilted, then steadied.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

And then he gave up pretending he still had the strength to get up.

Cas lowered himself onto the cold floor, cheek pressed to cement. The chill sank into him slowly, a numbness he didn’t fight. He closed his eyes, exhausted down to the marrow, and listened to the pulse in his ears.

He waited for something—grace, purpose, a sign, anything—to rise inside him.

Nothing did.

So he stayed there, alone on the bunker floor, tasting acid and ash and failure, and let the quiet swallow him whole.

“Really, Castiel,” drawled a voice from the doorway, smooth as polished venom. “If you wanted to hit rock bottom, you didn’t need to be dramatic about it. A text would have sufficed.”

Cas didn’t rise. He didn’t even look up. “Go away, Crowley.”

“Oh, I tried.” Crowley stepped inside lazily, hands in his pockets. “But your prayers were impossible to ignore. Loud, miserable things. Inherited darkness, was it?” His mouth curled. “Interesting theory. Hell doesn’t breed, you know—it rots. Infects. Carries on through… exposure.” He tilted his head. “Wouldn’t surprise me if Junior picked up a little contamination. Kids absorb things.”

Cas’s pulse stumbled. “Then it’s my fault.”

“Fault?” Crowley chuckled. “No, no. Let’s call it what it is: legacy.”

The word sliced clean through him. Legacy. As if what he passed on could be anything but ruin.

He looked down at his hands—human hands. Unsteady. Trembling.

Crowley’s voice softened with predatory interest. “But let’s not pretend you’re Jack’s only influence. Dean’s fingerprints are all over that boy.”

Cas finally looked up, stomach twisting. “Leave Dean out of this.”

“Oh, I’d love to,” Crowley sighed. “But unfortunately he’s already in it. Up to his pretty green eyes.” He crouched to Cas’s level. “Dean Winchester spent forty years in the Pit. Forty years being broken into manageable pieces. And you dragged him out—but you didn’t cleanse him. You rebuilt him wrong.” His smile sharpened. “And then you helped raise a child in the shadow of all that damage. Even angels shouldn’t be that reckless.”

Cas’s voice scraped out of him. “Dean is not the problem.”

“Of course not,” Crowley purred. “Dean is never the problem. Not to you.” His eyes darkened. “But Hell leaves marks, Castiel. And if Jack carries your stains…” He leaned in, voice like a needle. “…he carries Dean’s too.”

Cas’s jaw locked. He didn’t speak.

Crowley’s smile spread. “And let’s not act like you’re some paragon of innocence.” His eyes flicked over Cas with surgical precision. “You’ve slaughtered in Heaven’s name. Tortured in Naomi’s little lab. Led armies to ruin. Wiped out bloodlines. Executed Nephilim children.” He raised a brow. “Tell me—did you ever apologize to their fathers?”

Cas’s stomach churned. He said nothing.

“And now you’re human,” Crowley continued softly. “Mortal. Which means—for the first time—you get to die properly.” His grin widened. “So where do you think you’ll go? Upstairs?” He scoffed. “Trust me—Heaven doesn’t forget butchery, angel or not.” He leaned close, voice iced. “You belong to Hell, Castiel. You always have. You just didn’t know it.”

The room seemed to contract. Air turned to stone in Cas’s lungs.

Crowley watched it all land. Slowly. Savoring it.

“But chin up,” he added lightly. “You won’t be alone down there. Because corruption runs in families. And Jack?” Crowley’s smile was shark-white. “Jack belongs to Hell just as much as you do.”

Cas staggered to his feet. “You’re trying to turn me against him.”

“Turn you?” Crowley laughed. “Please. You’re already afraid of him.” He took a step closer. “That’s why you tested him. Why you carved sigils into your own son. You’re not afraid of losing him—you’re afraid you already have.”

Cas said nothing. Couldn’t.

Crowley studied him. “So stop pretending you’re innocent in this. You’re not fighting corruption, Castiel. You’re spreading it.”

Cas swallowed hard. “Then tell me how to stop it.”

Crowley paused—then smiled like a closing trap. “Now we’re having a productive conversation.”