Chapter Text
Why do we refuse to hang a light
when the streets are dangerous?
Why does it take an accident
before the truth gets through to us?
Cages or wings; which do you prefer?
Ask the birds.
Fear or love, baby, don’t say the answer;
actions speak louder than words.
Louder Than Words — Tick, Tick… Boom!
I know that the night must end.
I know that the sun will rise,
and I’ll hear your voice deep inside.
I know that the night must end,
and that the clouds must clear.
Oh, the sun, the sun will rise.
The sun, the sun will rise…
Endless Night — the Lion King
I’d never been one for foolish pride.
Pride was one of the Seven Deadly Sins, which humans took to mean vices, failings. They believed if they confessed their sins from behind confessional doors or beneath holy vestments, they could be absolved by their religious leaders, and then go on to sin again. The cycle of transgression and redemption, life and death, birth and rebirth.
One human in the sixteenth century, Peter Binsfeld, had realised that Pride, along with his six other counterparts, was not a disembodied whisper of malice, but a corporeal form of evil — one of seven uniquely powered demons who had been imprisoned in Hell since the Dark Ages with Lilith and their father, Lucifer; a pleiad of death and destruction. One man who discovered the truth. He was disregarded.
Regardless, that being a story for another time, I had never been one well acquainted with pride — the sin or the demon. I was a soldier, a warrior — and a good one. I followed orders. As a commander, I gave orders, with the expectation they would be followed. I was strong and stern and fierce. I was not prideful.
Until the day my commander came to me.
Michael, the first and most holy of the Archangels, called upon me, for what he said was a sacred mission. Protect my vessel, Castiel, he’d said. It will be needed for the impending war against Lucifer. My brother is mere moments from being freed from the Cage, and starting the long foretold Apocalypse, and only the Righteous Man can stop him. You’re the only one I trust with this task.
And then, I… I was proud. Proud to have been seen, to have been chosen. Proud to have stood out among my brothers and sisters, to have been deemed worthy. Then, I was proud.
I was a fool.
Together, with Michael’s power and my grace, we observed the vessel. It looked strong, sturdy. It was a man, tall and broad, relentless in his fight against evil and indurated against the callous ways of the world. Eyes green and burning with an intensity I recognised as purpose.
Much harder to identify, however, were the moments of softness I simultaneously witnessed. The vulnerability in those green eyes, the… passion? Love? The heartache and happiness and laughter and sorrow. And more disconcerting, I saw not just the vessel, but myself, tangled in a strong embrace, laid bare upon a bed, waiting. Expectant. Cherished. I didn’t understand these visions I saw, and thus I did not relay them to my commander.
Michael asked me if I was ready, if I understood my mission, if I understood the consequences. Prideful and foolish as I was, I swallowed my fear, and nodded my assent.
It would be the last action I took in freedom for a very long time.
The next thing I knew was blinding pain, and then nothing but darkness.
The first time I’d been forced into the trunk of John Winchester’s Impala had been in the beginning of 1986. He’d killed Flauros — a demon, handpicked by one of the Princes of Hell, Asmodeus himself to keep me captive in his charge. Flauros was skilled with magic; Asmodeus was the demon of lust, and together, they found a way to bind me.
The knowledge of my inevitable capture had been known; foreseen by Heaven, and I’d been prepared to be a prisoner, however, the blurring of the lines between imprisonment and servitude had not been something I’d thought to expect. Or rather… the lines between servitude, and… what I became.
I felt my wings shred into skeletal, broken things during the descent, felt my grace burn inside of me when Asmodeus stumbled upon me, and incapacitated me with barely more than a flick of his wrist. I felt the dark desire he had for me smother me like a heavy shroud, and for the first time in my exceptionally long life, I became intimately familiar with the stale stench of pain and fear. He sought to shape me into something unrecognisable, and passed me to Flauros for ‘correction and training’. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, he was never granted the chance to fully complete this task during the several months I was under his ownership.
John Winchester killed Flauros, then tried to kill me. And tried and tried, and tried and tried, each time becoming more enraged by his failure to do so. Finally, when both his patience and time ran out, he simply bound and gagged my exhausted body, threw me in the trunk of his car, and drove for what seemed like an eternity, the darkness and pain and fear pressing in on me from every side. It was the first and only time for the next nine years, because I had done all I could to avoid a repeat of that particular punishment.
When the car finally lurched to a stop, I waited, breath caught in my chest like a bird in a cage. Through a feverish haze of hurt and terror, it occurred to me then how offensive it was that so many species of birds had become domesticated — allowed themselves to be kept as pets by humanity, allowed themselves to be caged when they still had their wings.
If I’d still had my wings…
I refused to allow my thoughts to continue down that path, because every time they did, the hurt was almost worse than when my grace had burned out of me.
I found myself being hauled out of the trunk, my new master’s hands fisted into my coat, and he pushed me to the ground. Logically, my mind knew that I could not get away — not merely limited by physicality, but literally could not, between the bond and my mission, I knew my orders were to stay with John Winchester until the vessel was in its prime, ready to be of use to my commander.
My body, however, cringed and scrambled away from him before I could stop it.
John Winchester followed. With a single blow, he was able to send me crashing to the ground, and in a matter of seconds, he was kicking me viciously. I tried to protect the soft parts of my body, knowing that it was only a matter of time before the injuries incapacitated me. With only the slightest amount of grace left — like the last drop of morning dew clinging to a blade of grass as the sun rises — I’d used up whatever power I’d had remaining to begin to heal from the multiple attempted murders this man had bestowed upon me.
There was yelling — screaming — as the other men from this company shouted at John Winchester, blaming him for their dead companions. Truthfully, it was no one’s fault; Flauros’s company had been a fearsome bunch. That they had been able to kill any at all was skill beyond reckoning on the side of the humans. It had been one of the fallen, a human named McNair, who had figured it out. I felt grief at his passing, a sentiment that was evidently not shared by my new master.
And then, unexpectedly, like a shooting star during the waking hours, came a small child hurtling out of the residence we’d arrived at. It was shrieking for its father, and to my horror, it launched itself at John Winchester, clinging to his frame, and using its own body as protection over the man’s heart, despite the firearms that had been drawn during the altercation.
This child, this heroic little boy… was the vessel.
The Righteous Man was barely more than an infant, clinging to its father with tears in its eyes. I couldn’t help but stare amidst my own confusion and horror. It simply couldn’t be right, that I’d been sent to this planet to protect a human barely more than a newborn babe. This child was not the man from my visions, nor would it be of any use to Heaven, not when it stood at barely more than half the size of a fully formed human.
It was then that I realised my mission was to be measured in years — possibly decades — not days, or weeks, or even months, as I’d originally believed. When Michael had said Lucifer was ‘moments’ from breaking free of the Cage, I had taken him at his word, not thinking that to immortal beings like us, centuries were the equivalent of minutes.
I eyed the child as it scurried back into the house, trying to estimate how long it would take for it to grow to the size of the man I had foreseen, but I’d not paid this aspect of humanity enough mind to be able to come to an educated conclusion.
John Winchester noticed me staring after the child, and kicked me again in the side. I doubled over in pain — again — and was thus distracted when the child reemerged from the house with its sibling, and the two children were situated in the back seat of the car. Before I had a chance to even begin to process this information, John Winchester was hauling me back to my feet, and returning me to the trunk with another handful of muttered threats of death and pain.
As we drove away, I couldn’t help but throw my weight against the lid of the trunk to see if there was any chance of release, but even before it remained unmovable, I knew it was futile.
The darkness closed in. Again.
The vessel’s name was Dean. In hindsight, I felt vaguely wrong footed when I learned this from the child it- himself. To be honest, the entire situation suddenly felt almost… untenable. After meeting, and being already subjected to the violence and cruelty of John Winchester, and being unable to even defend myself, how was I expected to protect a defenceless child? Suddenly visions of failure meant not only failing Heaven, but allowing harm to befall the small, helpless being who happened to stumble upon me in the closet where it- his father had left me for the night.
The child cried out when he saw me and scrambled backwards — shock and fear making him cautious, but not aggressive, which admittedly surprised me. I’d known of his bravery after seeing him selflessly defend his father the previous night, but thought perhaps with that bravery came cruelty. I found myself oddly comforted to be proven wrong.
John Winchester returned and issued more orders, demanding I go ‘clean myself up’ and accompany him out to the car. I was wretchedly hopeful that I would be able to comply with these orders to his satisfaction and avoid being returned to the cramped darkness of the trunk.
‘Cleaning myself up’ was… more difficult than I’d expected, as I didn’t know exactly how thorough the man wanted me to be. Due to the apparent time constraints, I assumed he did not want me to wash my entire ves- body, but I felt dirty and sticky — dried sweat and grime, and if I’d had full access to my grace, I’m sure I would have been overwhelmed by the scent of my own fear and suffering.
(My ‘vessel’ was not a vessel in the typical angelic sense — there had been no agreement between myself and a human host, as had been the routine in my past visits to Earth. Rather, Michael had crafted this body for me based on my ideal vessel. It was a man named Jimmy Novak, who also was nowhere near the age of majority, but Michael said (claimed) that if I was to devote myself to protecting his Sword, the least he could do was to somewhat return the favour. Thus, he created a body for me that he said would not break down the way some were prone to do after continued use.)
I settled for washing my face, scrubbing away as much of the filth and dried blood as I was able, then removing the ragged coat I’d been given in Heaven when I’d taken this form, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt, and washing my hands and arms as best I could. I shrugged the coat back on, grateful for the small bit of comfort it provided.
When I exited the bathroom, I found John Winchester waiting for me, and he grabbed my arm, forcefully guiding me to the car. In the light of day, I could see how large and imposing it was; I’d been in cars before, when extenuating circumstances required the demons to travel as humans did, but they were always small, sleek things, and I was kept in the back seat, something called a ‘child lock’ on the door to prevent my escape.
(I found myself wondering why humans had the expectation that their children would attempt escape, and if so why that would be. I hoped it wasn’t because humans subjected their young to the same things I had been — if this was the case, then protecting the Righteous Man Dean would prove to be even more difficult than I’d been anticipating.)
The noise the vehicle made upon being turned on was harsh and abrasive, and I couldn’t control my reaction to it. The roar it made was reminiscent of the howling void that was some of the darker, more nefarious corners of Hell, and the reminder was not a welcome one.
John Winchester did not appreciate my actions, but the smallest child effectively diffused the situation. Dean watched these events unfold with worried eyes, though I wasn’t sure why. Surely he must have understood that a being as broken and weak as I currently was posed no threat to his father.
I focussed my gaze on the floor of the car, and did not let it waver again, even when I felt Dean’s eyes boring a hole into the back of my bowed head.
As time went on, and the days and then weeks passed, I learned that- that it wasn’t John that Dean was most protective of. First and foremost came Sam, always and above all else, the words take care of Sammy so deeply ingrained in him that it would eventually become a cornerstone of his entire being. Dean was being raised to believe that his inherent worth was in what services he could provide for others, and it seemed as though after the layers of worry and insecurity and forced responsibility were peeled back, there was not enough left of the child who cried in the night from nightmares for anyone who wasn’t specifically looking to notice or care.
After Sam, however, Dean was slowly becoming protective of me, and truthfully, that was the most curious and confusing development of all. How this boy, barely past infancy by Heaven’s standards, could feel anything other than anger, or contempt — or even pity — for some creature bound to his father was almost unfathomable, especially when John barely looked at me most days. He would issue curt orders, and had assigned household tasks to me — cleaning, and cooking meals, and most importantly, watching over the boys in his stead.
Most of my day was spent tending to the younger child, Sam, who was approaching the age of three, and was a generally pleasant and clever child. He favoured plastic replicas of what the humans had taken to calling ‘dinosaurs’, and was less impressed with my explanation of what they had been like when they’d roamed the Earth than he was when I simply made low, growling noises, and pretended to have them eat each other. It was an interesting learning experience for me, to see how the mind of a small child worked, and fulfilling to see how both Winchester boys thrived under the slightest amount of gentle, attentive care. I actually became grateful for my time spent tending to their needs — it made me feel useful, like I was at least making some strides with my mission of keeping Dean safe.
This was much to the displeasure of another hunter called Singer, with whom we stayed on the way home to the city John said was called ‘Des Moines’. Singer seemed to trust me even less than John, despite the demonstration John forced me to give of how even if I were to be foolish enough to attempt to injure my master, the bond would cause the attack to reflect back onto myself.
Singer appeared to not find this sufficient, and he and John argued long into the night about letting some bastard hellspawn play nanny to the only goddamn thing you did right with your life, Winchester. John was angered by this, and ordered me from my kneeling position in the corner I’d tucked myself away in, to go to the second floor of the house, and keep vigil over the children while they slept. Truthfully, it seemed as though he had done this more to prove a point to Singer, than actual concern for his children. I obeyed, and climbed the stairs to the sounds of Singer suggesting other ways John could attempt to murder me. Nothing he said would work, of course, but it would undoubtedly be exceedingly painful. I found myself grateful that John seemed to disregard these suggestions, at least for now.
Regardless of Singer’s distrust of me, and general displeasure at my continued existence, life with the Winchesters seemed almost manageable for a time. Dean, himself, proved to be an exceptionally bright child who was frustrated with his educational environment, and as a result, had given up even attempting to be successful. He admitted to me that he thought he was too much of a dummy to ‘get’ school, and that it didn’t matter anyway, cos no college degree ever stopped a moving bullet, and this inaccurate assessment of his own abilities unsettled me.
As a result, I perhaps took more liberties than I should have, but I decided to dedicate myself to teaching the boy to love learning. If I’d wanted to, I supposed I could reason that learning to perform in school would install the compulsion to understand instruction and follow orders, but not only did he get quite enough of that from his father, I also just didn’t feel the need to justify this interest in Dean’s wellbeing — and the resulting happiness that came from him realising he wasn’t actually a ‘dummy’, just lacking in support both at home and in school.
All was well… for a time. And then a man named Bill Harvelle was killed.
John Winchester had come to me asking for instructions on how to destroy an actual hellspawn (not whatever it was that Singer had thought I was), and I told him what sigil to replicate in salt. I… I had not realised that I ought to have specified kosher salt, rather than its more common iodised form, and as a result the man died. Brutally, and in front of my master.
He came home that night, and found Dean curled into my side, listening to me read him a nonsensical ghost story that he clearly didn’t think he should enjoy, so he was trying very hard to suppress his delight at the plight or fate of the various characters. I could tell immediately that something was amiss, just from the way he entered the apartment, but before I could instruct Dean to flee, John had shouted at him to ‘shut the hell up’, and hauled me to my feet.
I was slammed against the living room wall, and John’s forearm was pressed against my throat like an iron bar keeping me in place. It took much of my self control to not panic at the sudden restriction of my airflow — over half a year stuck in human form, and aside from my wings and ability to easily self-heal, one of the things I missed most was not requiring oxygen to survive. It made me wonder how humans lived their entire lives dependent on a steady supply of it; it seemed as though it was such an easy thing to accidentally be deprived of, which, as I’d learned in my first encounter with John, typically had a fatal result.
John… was incandescent with rage, even beyond what I’d witnessed from him during our first encounter. He beat me — thoroughly — and once I learned the reason for his upset, I found I was having trouble believing it wasn’t justified. A man was dead due to my lack of foresight, and that failure weighed on me, heavy like grief for a person I’d never met. John accused me of purposefully giving misleading instructions, under the hope that his death would lead to my own freedom, and for a wild moment, this almost made me want to shout in indignation. If the spirit had killed John as well, I would simply go back to being owned by some sort of demon, and that was something I was more than eager to avoid.
Dean continually tried to intervene on my behalf, and I was too weak, too incapacitated by my breakable human form to stop him. I was almost glad when his father ordered him upstairs, even though my heart ached at the fear in Dean’s eyes when John punched the wall alarmingly close to the boy’s head.
Once Dean was out of sight, John wound a hand into my hair, and yanked my head back until my body was bowed at a nearly painful angle, and I was forced to look straight into his bloodshot eyes. The smell of liquor on his breath seemed to be causing some sort of visceral reaction — already I’d come to learn that when John drank whiskey rather than beer, he was more volatile, and prone to violent outbursts.
‘You think I want to be stuck with you, you stupid piece of shit?’ John hissed, eyes still murderous. ‘You think I wouldn’t bleed you like a pig for slaughter if I thought that would let me be rid of you? I did not ask to be saddled with your worthless ass. How dare you try to fuck me over. Do you have any idea what the fuck you’ve done?!’
‘I- I’m sorry s-sir,’ I gasped, the way my head was craned back, left my throat bared, and, again, made breathing something of a difficulty. ‘I- I did not- intentionally- give- false information. I did not realise…’
John used the fist in my hair to slam my head back against the wall, and through the ringing in my ears, I heard him say, ‘do you know what those demons had to say about you? Do you know what they called you? Said they were training you up to be some bigwig demon’s fuck toy. That’s the purpose you would have served if you’d been left in that filthy fucking hovel I found you in. That’s what you’re worth, and I’ve refrained from putting you to that use, because I thought you might be useful in other ways, but if you’re this fucking determined to prove that that’s all you’re good for, then so be it. Go clean yourself up, and wait for me in my room.’
I froze. I’d known- I’d been aware of what the demons intended for me — they made no secret of it. Asmodeus himself had said as much, but I’d thought I’d been spared this once the demons were eradicated. John Winchester was… he was a man with no tolerance in his heart for men who laid with other men, and I thought being in a vaguely male-shaped form I would have been spared this horror, this indignity, but apparently I was incorrect. It appeared I’d been incorrect about far too many things as of late.
‘Sir- I-’ I started stuttering, though I wasn’t sure if I was preparing to explain, or preparing to beg, which is something I had never done in all my millennia of years, but- but when faced with this prospect, I just-
My mind went completely, horrifyingly blank.
John slammed my head against the wall a final time for good measure, then repeated in a low, hateful voice, ‘Go clean yourself up, and wait for me in my room.’
I… I obeyed. As though in a trance, I… somehow managed to stagger to my feet. Somehow managed to cross the floor on weak, trembling legs. Somehow managed to climb the stairs. When I reached the top of the stairs, I just- I stood there clutching the bannister, shuddering exhales forcing their way from me, now that I could breathe freely again — at least for the time being.
‘Cas?’
The voice shattered the silence like a bullet from a gun, and I couldn’t stop myself from reacting as though I’d been threatened, but then I realised it was Dean, pale and shaky, in worn pyjamas that were several sizes too large for him. Distantly, I remembered that John had found at the secondhand store where he’d purchased clothes for me during my first few days in his possession. I supposed he had realised I would need at least a few garments of my own, as the original clothing I had been given with my vessel were, by then, irreparably ruined. I did not weep to be rid of the top and trousers, but I discarded the coat with something close to regret, remembering the small amount of comfort it had given me.
‘Are you okay?’
How desperately I wanted to comfort this child, sensing, even with my infinitesimal amount of remaining grace, that he was terrified and in need of reassurance, but all I could manage was an uncoordinated jerk of my head.
It took some cajoling, and even some blatant lies (‘It looks worse than it is… Your father is right to be angry…’) to try to ease the boy’s upset, but it didn’t seem to make much of a difference. In the end, all I could manage was to thank Dean for his attempt at derailing his father’s anger, but to plead with him to not try something so foolish again in the future. We didn’t have time for this, for any of it, but I wanted to make sure Dean would stay in his room, and not witness… whatever was about to take place.
He finally agreed and said goodnight after I’d told possibly yet another lie, in saying I would try to come keep my usual nighttime vigil over him and Sam, despite the fact that nothing about this night was usual. Regardless, it got him to return to his room, where hopefully he and Sam, at least, would remain safe from harm.
By this time I’d learned what John expected when he told me to clean up, though I didn’t think he would allow me to shower, so just like that first time, I settled for attempting to wash away as much of the blood and general filth from being thrown to and around the floor as I could manage.
And then… and then I followed my orders. I went to John Winchester’s room for the first time, afraid, but I thought I might- I might have some idea of what to expect.
I was wrong.
The ability for humans to feel physical pleasure and arousal during their mating — recreational or for the purpose of procreation — was brought into being as something of a joke at first, I believe. I hadn’t been paying much attention to the first forms of humanity, if I’m being honest; at that time, there was just so much to be witness to on Earth, and in Heaven, that I was simply… distracted. Possibly uninterested. However, it soon became something of a tired source of amusement for some angels to mock humans for over the years, for how often they would engage in intercourse, the sounds and expressions they made while partaking, the poor choices that derived from it, the wars that were started over this carnal, primordial urge.
(Occasionally, when a specific pair of humans was meant to procreate, there would be angelic intervention, but other than that, humans and sexuality was little more than an amusing spectacle.)
There- there was nothing amusing about what happened to me that night — at least from my perspective.
I wondered — as I struggled under John Winchester’s heavy body, as I fought the urge to rail against him, as I- as I wept, which was another new phenomenon for me — if my brothers and sisters could witness this as we had witnessed humans mating in the past. The thought that my humiliation and suffering might be witnessed by any angel in Heaven made me burn with humiliation.
I tried to remember there was a reason for this torment. That my presence in this man’s house was for the greater good of Heaven and my Commander. I tried, I tried, I tried…
And… when it was over — when my body was- was ravaged, slick with my own blood and… other substances — I was pushed from John Winchester’s bed, and finally allowed (ordered) to again ‘clean myself up’ and go watch over the boys. I did not delay my departure.
Cleaning up this time was… far more unpleasant, but I tried to be as clinical and perfunctory as I could. I was not human, and therefore not susceptible to any sort of illness or disease, and I supposed that was something at least, but my non-humanity did nothing to take away my ability to feel pain, and I did feel pain. It seemed to radiate from every part of me, starting from somewhere deep inside, but as I did my best to detach from my surroundings, so as to be able to most accurately take inventory of my injuries, I realised-
I realised that the biggest hurt did not seem to be physical at all. It was a clenching, howling, searing sensation somewhere between my sternum and navel, and I did not have the wherewithal to process it.
I staggered down the hall to Dean and Sam’s bedroom, intending to slip in silently, and take my place at their bedside, but after stepping inside and closing the door, I felt the pain in my chest reach a new high, cresting like a tidal wave, and as it came crashing down, so did I.
I was on my knees before I knew it, and sobbing in a way I never had before, my shame and complete and utter ignorance threatening to choke me worse than John Winchester had as he- when he-
There was someone or something hurtling at me, and some sort of primal reaction was triggered in my nearly human body, and the sound that came from my throat was something akin to an animal being slaughtered. I thought back to early humanity, Abel sacrificing the lamb to appease my Father. Back then, I’d paid no mind to how the lamb might have felt. I knew now I would never be able to have that same oversight again.
I resisted the urge to fight back, and noticed just in time that my assailant was Dean, who had started clinging to me, and for a moment I worried that he was injured or afraid. Then I understood that what he was doing was trying to comfort me.
This child… was truly remarkable.
For the briefest of moments, I felt regret at the idea that this one small ray of light in what I was rapidly learning was an exceptionally dark and cruel world would eventually be hidden under the bushel of Michael’s presence, but that thought was perilously close to blasphemy, so I pushed it away with a vengeance.
Dean, on the other hand, I allowed his earnestly offered comfort for a few more moments, and wondered what all these cumulative events from this night said about me as a fallen angel.
It appeared that there had been more details about my mission that I hadn’t been informed of, than details I had, but I tried with all my might to have faith that there was a divine reason for it all. I needed to believe there was a reason for it all, especially after John Winchester began ordering me to his room almost every night he was home. Some nights I was permitted to return to Dean and Sam’s room after he found his release. Some nights I was not.
He began putting me to regular use, but it seemed to not get any easier. I wondered if it would eventually, because surely humans would not engage in these acts so frequently if the results were the same as what I had experienced.
Under John Winchester’s brutal and angry instruction, I very quickly learned the various carnal acts that humans performed with or on each other. I found none of them pleasant, but I did learn which ones were less painful than others, and would- would sometimes suggest — offer — these options instead, in hopes of avoiding a greater hurt. I estimated I was successful about sixty percent of the time.
One of the facts about my mission that I had been told, very loudly and very clearly, was that I would be entirely isolated from Heaven during my internment. I don’t know if I would have agreed so readily — or at least so eagerly — if I had known that the duration of my… servitude would be on an indefinite sort of time frame.
I missed Heaven. I missed my wings. I missed my grace, and feeling powerful, and being able to defend myself. I missed my brothers and sisters, even though the camaraderie between angels was something quite different than between humans, but still, the solitude and helplessness was beginning to wear on me, and it made me concerned for how I would possibly survive the next… however many years it took for Dean to become a man whose body could house an archangel.
That is to say… I missed Heaven until I found myself unexpectedly at one of its portals on an insignificant summer day when it became too hot to stay in the stifling apartment any longer. Dean and Sam had become unhappy and listless in the heat, and even I found myself perspiring in a way I’d not really experienced before — typically these bodily functions took place following some sort of physical exertion, but that day, not one of us had energy for little more than walking back and forth to the kitchen to fetch ice cubes from the freezer in an futile attempt to cool down.
Dean asked, finally, if we could leave the apartment, and after the briefest hesitation, I agreed. I’d been giving thought to taking the boys to sit in the small strip of grass between the back door of the apartment, and the rear parking lot, but there tended to be some unsavoury individuals who loitered there. John had had several heated exchanges with them, and I worried that they might attempt to retaliate in his absence, and I would not risk harm befalling Dean or Sam, even in exchange for a respite from the heat.
We walked for a time far longer than it should have taken, due to Sam’s insistence that he walk on his own two feet, despite being easily distracted, and with a far shorter stride than myself, or even Dean. Still, I enjoyed watching Sam explore the world around him with bright, fascinated eyes. It reminded me of the early days of humanity when they were learning how to do things such as walk upright, or when they discovered fire. It warmed some odd inside part of me to realise that millennia may have passed, but the innate joy and wonder of humans young and old, evolved and ancestral never really changed.
I foolishly was not on my guard as I should have been when we entered the children’s play area with the questionable looking metal equipment, having spent much of my energy and patience on herding our little group onward, and redirecting Sam as he tottered around, looking as though he might leap into oncoming traffic at any moment. There was a time where I might not have feared for his physical safety as vehemently, but that was a time when I could have healed any injury or ailment simply by wishing it to be so, and accessing my grace. Now, in my current useless body, the best I could offer the boys was a bandage and an ineffectual promise that the pain would soon pass.
It wasn’t until I had seated myself on a bench near the area where Sam chose to amuse himself — there was a smaller replica of the larger play equipment, presumably intended for smaller children, and at least looked slightly more structurally sound — that I caught sight of, and then felt the power from the portal. It burned. I felt like a moth being drawn to a flame, but knowing I could never cross the threshold. Every fibre of my being yearned to pass through, to simply bully my way through my discomfort, and try to plead with Michael to allow me to return, but I knew I would never do this. I was disgraced enough already without openly proving that I was incapable of following orders. I might have been a powerless servant on this plane, but first and foremost, I was a soldier, and soldiers do as they are told.
I’d intended to only allow Sam a few more minutes of time to play on the equipment, but then Dean had decided to come sit with me, rather than play himself, which I found odd and somewhat concerning at first, thinking something might be wrong. However, when he asked for my blessing to remain by my side, I was certainly not going to deny that request, especially since his company was one of the few — if not the only — factor that made my situation even remotely bearable.
Unfortunately for me, Sam chose that moment to go play in the sandpit that was the portal. For a human child, there should be no reason to draw the attention of Heaven, but I was in too close proximity as it was. When Dean asked me if I wished to accompany them there, I hastily, and gracelessly declined, thinking if I, perhaps, stayed where I was, my presence might continue to go undetected.
I was, of course, woefully incorrect.
I felt Hannah and Bartholomew’s approach before I saw them, and for the first time heard it as humans do — the quiet whoosh of wings that I had, for so long, taken for granted. If I did ever manage to return to Heaven and reclaim my grace and my wings, I would hold onto them like a lifeline. I would not give them up again for anything.
‘Commander,’ Hannah greeted me, and this, too, burned. Before I could correct her, however, Bartholomew let out a derisive laugh.
‘Don’t be so simple, Hannah,’ he chastised her condescendingly, which even made me bristle. Hannah was an incredibly powerful, intelligent, and efficient soldier, not some fool or small child to be spoken down to. ‘Castiel has no garrison any longer. All he has now is a place in John Winchester’s bed.’ He eyed me thoughtfully. ‘You know, Naomi did always say you had a… bent halo, so to speak. Makes one wonder…’
He brought his hand up to my cheek, and I was unable to control my flinch, which made him laugh even more. He ran his thumb across my mouth, applying slight pressure to my bottom lip, reminding me forcibly of how I had been ordered to orally satisfy John the night before. I wondered if the proof of having performed fellatio was still visible, and worried briefly if this was the case, that one of the boys might notice something.
Before I could ponder this too thoroughly, or even pull away from Bartholomew’s touch, however, we were interrupted by Dean tearing across the park, looking furious, and yelling at Bartholomew to keep his hands to himself, which was the formulation of a rule I remembered him learning from school. It had seemed like a reasonable demand at the time, for a room full of small children. Today, in the park, it was not only unreasonable, but dangerous.
‘Dean-’ I choked, finally having the presence of mind to move away from Bartholomew, just as he elected to withdraw his hand, and focussed his full attention on Dean.
‘Dean Winchester,’ he said, sounding amused, and I hated that he had Dean’s name in his mouth. ‘I thought you’d be… taller.’ He laughed, and gave me a cold smile, making me realise that I hadn’t been the only one to think I would be crossing paths with the Righteous Man once he was past the age of majority. For one ridiculous moment, I found a cold comfort in this clue that perhaps I had not been singularly, or intentionally, misled.
After some more taunting, Dean — that brave, compassionate, foolish child — installed himself between Bartholomew and I like a tiny, well-intentioned bulwark between myself and a perceived threat, and had I been any less alarmed, I likely would have found this show of protection endearing. However, when I noticed Bartholomew’s hand twitch threateningly, I realised I was no longer intimidated, but found a fierce protectiveness in myself as well. This was my mission — to protect Dean from outside danger, even from Heaven itself.
I stood to my full height, and stared down at Bartholomew, and I was irrationally pleased to realise that I was nearly a head taller than he was in his current vessel.
‘Leave the boy alone, Bartholomew,’ I said, and I felt an echo of the power and authority I once had as a commander ringing in my every word. It ached a little, but I forced myself to carry on and pointedly reminded him that we both had orders to follow. Simply put, I reminded him that I could, and would destroy any threat to Dean, grace or angel blades be damned.
Bartholomew did not take kindly to this, but he did eventually back away at Hannah’s cajoling, though not before again reminding me of the fact that I had become little more than a bedwarmer. The disgrace and shame I felt over this paled in comparison to the relief I felt at his departure.
The feeling was short lived, however, because Dean — being the clever, observant, anxious child that he was — immediately had questions about the strange interaction, and I- I had no answers that I could reasonably provide. And I realised that, were his father to learn that I’d subjected the boys to more ‘monsters’, as he thought I was, the result would be detrimental, to both myself and my mission. I realised, still, that I was less afraid of pain than of failure, and surprisingly found this comforting. Perhaps I was not as irreparably altered as I’d originally suspected.
I quickly lifted Sam into my arms, despite his displeasure at not being able to walk ‘like a big boy’ as he called it, not wanting to spend any more time near the portal than was strictly necessary, and we hurried off, anxiety still thrumming through me.
In response to Dean’s inquiries, through some brief conversation that felt far too close to begging, I was able to ease Dean’s worry, but it appeared, in exchange, I’d earned his anger, and it felt cold in my chest, like a vice around my heart. Over the course of the few months I had been in the Winchester household, I’d selfishly grown hopeful that with some guidance, some protection, and some time, Dean would perhaps be able to- to step out from the shadow of his father’s influence.
In my initial visions of the Righteous Man, I had seen him both hard and soft, light and dark, and these opposing side of the same coin would sometimes play through my mind during my long, solitary nights. I would think, ponder, worry that that darkness that I saw in his father would consume him as well.
Some nights, I would consider what had happened to John Winchester to turn him into what he was. On the nights he would drown himself in whiskey, then have me on my knees or bent over the side of his bed, I would wonder how the stumbling, foul-breathed, red-eyed monster beside — inside — me was the same creature as the cheerful boy who marched off to war, and found a love so magnificent that Heaven and Earth was literally moved into make sure it came to fruition.
I would wonder how a being, swathed in so much anger and hatred and fear, could possibly have been the one to have sired the Righteous Man who would be the one to save us all.
It was on those lonely, painful nights that I laid tangled in John Winchester’s sheets, held in place by the weight of his arm, that I lamented my inability to sleep and find even a moment of sweet release, most of all. It was in those moments that my thoughts would always turn back to Dean, and how very much I prayed hoped he would not become his father.
(I did not pray, for fear that my prayers would be heard by Heaven, and I worried that these thoughts also edged uncomfortably close to blasphemous territory. They weren’t quite as prominent as my growing sorrow of the idea that Dean would some day cease to be Dean, and instead become just a consciousness locked away in the corner of the mind of an empty body, but they were certainly toeing the line. I knew I should not be having any thoughts or emotional investment in Dean’s future at all, but the more days that passed, and the more I got to witness this strange, kind, enigmatic small human grow, the more… illogically invested I was becoming in his life and wellbeing.)
Needless to say, the idea that- that despite all this, I might have been the one to push Dean towards taking a step down a darker path of anger or fear or hatred sat heavily within me, like a stone in my stomach.
‘Are- are you angry with me, Dean?’ I asked finally, unable to stand my own silent contemplation any longer. ‘I swear — I would never bring danger down upon you or your brother.’
The look he gave me was so startled and confused, that I almost immediately felt reassured, even before he responded with, ‘What?! No, of course not! Why would you think that?!’ as though I’d said something truly outlandish.
It felt ludicrous to admitted that the reason I had began to so thoroughly panicked was that when leaving the park, he’d referred to me as ‘Castiel’ rather than ‘Cas’, and that struck a chord with me as well — my name for millennia had been Castiel, and yet after only a few short months, I had become so accustomed to Dean’s shortened version of my name, that I associated it with kindness, or safety.
With Dean.
And when Dean admitted he’d given me this unintentional ‘nickname’ because it was something humans did with their friends… well, that made me feel somewhat cheered as well.