Chapter Text
Castiel arrives too late. He knows it as soon as he touches down, can already sense the archangel’s grace in the humid air.
“You didn’t come to interfere, I hope.”
For a split second it’s almost as if the voice is disembodied. Castiel’s so focused on his mission here that he doesn’t recognize where it’s coming from at first. It doesn’t help that the archangel’s grace is overwhelming from this proximity, making it almost impossible to distinguish the other member of the Host close by.
The angel isn’t so much standing guard outside of the ramshackle cabin as he is hovering nearby. It’s a bit of a surprise to see that he was the one chosen to embark on this mission when there are stronger soldiers or angels with more blind, stupid faith in Michael than they seem to have in their own Father for the archangel to have taken his pick from. Balthazar is a good many things, but he’s no fighter and he’s renowned for the reluctance that taints his ingrained obeisance.
Balthazar’s vessel is unfamiliar to Castiel, although he shares the same slight build and sandy-colored hair that the angel has always preferred. There is nothing but pure grace coiled within the human body that stands a few feet away, but Balthazar’s battle experience is minimal and Castiel isn’t even sure if his brother’s ever had to fight on this plane, before. Castiel knows that if comes down to it, he’ll have the upper-hand in a fight.
Castiel shifts his stance, ready to attack if need be, but Balthazar doesn’t move except to raise his eyebrows.
“So you did come to interfere, then,” he says.
“I don’t want to fight you,” Castiel tells him.
Balthazar rolls his lips between his teeth in a distinctly un-angelic gesture and crosses his arms over his chest.
“But you will,” Balthazar says. “And much as I hate to admit it, I don’t like my chances if it comes to that.”
A crack of thunder shakes the foundations of the building in front of them with no lightning to precede it and no clouds to produce a storm. Castiel’s grace roils within his borrowed body, desperate to get inside and stop what’s happening.
“Then let me pass,” Castiel says.
It occurs to him as Balthazar takes the time to ponder Castiel’s request that perhaps there is no need for a soldier in this case. As much as Castiel loves his brother – and he does in more than just the cursory way in which he loves every member of the Host – he also knows that Balthazar can be frustrating and derives some amount of joy from talking his brethren in circles.
This isn’t a game Castiel has time for and he feels for the blade tucked up the sleeve of his vessel’s jacket, the metal and power of it cool and electric against the pads of his fingers.
“You’re already too late, you know,” Balthazar says, but he takes a casual step to the side as he speaks. “And you’re not going to like what you find when you go in there.”
If he expects to deter Castiel then he fails miserably in the task. This is Castiel’s choice, one that he made long before he even knew that it would lead him here.
“This is something I must do,” Castiel says.
Balthazar stares at him for a long moment and then rolls his shoulders in a shrug.
“Just make sure that if anyone asks, you tell them I put up a good fight.”
Balthazar takes the opportunity to run and Castiel can’t blame him for that. Michael doesn’t suffer failure lightly.
Castiel moves quickly to the front door; fear isn’t there to weight him down, but that’s less because Castiel’s that brave and more because he couldn’t experience the feeling even if he wanted to. He’s spurred on by an essence-deep conviction, instead, driven forward by the knowledge that in this Michael is wrong and Castiel is the only one who can stand against him, the only one who will.
The door is nearly blown off its hinges when Castiel shoves it open with his grace. The scene he walks in on is even worse than he’d imagined. For all of the wars that Castiel has witnessed, all of the blood that he and his brothers have shed, this is somehow different. Perhaps its Castiel’s own investment that changes things, but he believes there’s more to it than that. This is wrong regardless of what Michael’s told everyone else.
Sam and Dean Winchester are tucked into a corner, the eldest with tears staining his cheeks, the youngest with pale skin, blood-spattered lips and clothing, and a heart that Castiel can hear beginning to beat at a sluggish, dying pace. Castiel takes an instinctive step forward, a well of protectiveness overflowing within his grace but a gruff, unfamiliar voice stops him short.
Castiel tears his eyes away from the boys and looks over at the archangel. He looks strange in John Winchester’s skin, perhaps because Castiel has spent so long spying on this family that it seems like a violation to see one of them inhabited by another being.
“What have you done?” Castiel demands, looking around the room.
Michael follows his gaze and shrugs. “I did what was required of me,” he says.”
How this could possibly be required of anyone, Castiel doesn’t know. There’s blood on John’s hands, his son’s blood, and that little boy is going to die while they all watch.
“This isn’t right,” Castiel says.
“Yes, it is,” Michael says, his voice laden with pity and self-righteousness. “You’re young and ignorant of many things, Brother. You just can’t see this for the strategic move that it is.”
“We aren’t at war.”
Michael simply smiles, small and condescending. “But we will be. And if you want for our side to win, the boy must die. He’ll be at peace, Castiel. His soul will find a place in Heaven and he won’t have to suffer. The rest will fall into place as it’s meant to.”
There is no way of knowing what will be and Castiel knows this just as the other members of the Host are supposed to know this. It’s the first lesson that Castiel remembers learning: the weight of humility. Only their Father is omniscient and omnipotent. They are his servants and therefore limited in their knowledge and their power. And yet Michael seems determined to challenge this truth, acting in their Father’s name but without – Castiel is sure of it – their Father’s consent.
What Michael wants treads too close to blasphemy in much the same way that what Castiel wants edges him ever closer to a long, hard fall. He has considered that perhaps they’re both in the wrong, but at least Castiel is here to save lives instead of end them.
“The consequences of what you’re doing will be irreversible,” Castiel says, thinking of the kind of future a boy like Dean might have after watching his brother die in his own arms.
“That’s the entire point,” Michael tells him. “Now leave, Castiel. Your attempts to get in my way are futile and I’m tired of indulging them.”
A hitched sob comes from the corner. Castiel turns to see Dean with his face buried in Sam’s hair, shoulders shaking with the force of his tears. Something gives a vicious twist in the vicinity of Castiel’s chest and a massive wave of rage rises up fast enough to nearly knock him over.
“If it makes you feel any better,” Michael says, oblivious to Castiel’s emotional response, “the boy won’t remember a thing. To him this will all have been one terrible accident. A hazard of the job, if you will.”
Castiel’s fists clench at his sides. He wishes that he were anything other than a lowly soldier. He wishes, desperately, that he could take Michael on and have a chance of winning. As if he senses Castiel’s desire for retaliation, the archangel shakes his head slowly. They both know that Michael could rip Castiel apart with a thought. If they were to go head-to-head it would be no contest.
The boys, though, they might stand a chance. If nothing else, Castiel thinks that he’d rather die trying to save them then turn around and go back to a life of blind obedience.
“I won’t let you do this,” Castiel says.
Michael opens his mouth to reply, probably with more heretical talk about he’s only doing what’s right, what their Father has asked of him, but Castiel doesn’t want to hear it. He’s tired of it, of the same rhetoric resonating through the Host day in and day out, of excusing immorality in their Father’s name. These children are innocent and Castiel loves them. He shouldn’t – technically it’s not even possible given an angel’s limited capacity for such feeling – but he does. He has ever since he first overheard their prayers, Dean’s in the beginning and then Sam’s not long after.
It only takes a tiny moment for Michael to formulate whatever response he has on the tip of his tongue, but it’s enough time for Castiel to make his move. He’s kneeling in front of the boys before the archangel even knows what’s happened but there are mere seconds for him to act. Dean clutches Sam tighter and pushes himself further into the corner.
“I’m here to help,” Castiel says.
Dean looks up at him with eyes too heavy, guarded, and full of grief to belong to such a young child. Castiel doesn’t have time to wait but he pauses, let’s Dean make the choice to trust him. At the boy’s nod, Castiel reaches out. He can feel the heat from Dean’s forehead and the clammy chill of Sam’s skin brush the pads of his fingers, is almost close enough to get them away, when Sam’s body flies out of Dean’s arms and across the room.
The younger boy crashes through the cabin’s flimsy wall and sails out into the darkness. Castiel hears him land several feet away from the building with a soft thud.
“Sammy!” Dean yells.
He reaches out and pushes at Castiel’s shoulders.
“You said you would help so do it! Please!”
Dean’s voice is steeped in desperation and fear and no small amount of anger but even if he weren’t begging on his brother’s behalf, Castiel wouldn’t be able to refuse him. He recognizes that if they all make it through this, his new loyalties could prove a problem. There’s no time to worry about that, though; Michael’s only a couple of seconds ahead of Castiel, already standing over Sam’s body by the time he gets there.
Michael doesn’t lift his head when he says, “It’s too late. The boy’s dead.”
It’s not quite the truth. Castiel reaches out with his grace and senses that Sam’s almost beyond any help that Castiel can provide but he isn’t gone, not yet. If Castiel can get him away from here there’s still a chance; slim, yes, but Castiel’s entire existence sometimes relies on belief in miracles.
This time Castiel pushes himself faster and harder than he ever has in a human vessel. His grace pounds at the confines of skin and muscle and bone but Castiel needs the body in tact so he does his best to hold it together, splitting his focus between his borrowed form and Sam. Castiel manages to sneak past Michael just long enough to press two fingers to Sam’s forehead.
There’s a shout so loud it resembles a sonic boom more than anything human, and he can feel Michael’s grace tangle with his just as he and Sam disappear from the field outside of the cabin. Michael traps them all in that space between spaces, a vast expanse of nothingness that Castiel’s always traveled through too quickly to take notice of.
It’s pitch black and there’s no sound. Castiel can feel the weight of Sam’s body tucked against his own and the shackle-tight grip of a hand around one wrist, but this place is occupied by more than just human bodies. Michael’s grace is a physical thing here, and the archangel wastes no time wielding it like a weapon. It spears through Castiel, pierces the flesh of his vessel and the threads of his own grace. And then it withdraws and does so again and again, until the physical body has been peeled away in strips and chunks.
Castiel has never felt more vulnerable or exposed and there are no words in his vast vocabulary to describe the depths of pain Michael’s left him in. He’s raw grace, now, and it hangs in shreds and tatters and ragged pieces around him. But Castiel can’t die here. He refuses.
Sam’s body gives one last shuddering breath and falls away, back to Dean and the cabin. All of the pieces of his grace shudder with remorse and guilt and then go quiet and still. There’s a pulsing flash of light, dim in comparison to what Castiel himself emits in his true form but still bright enough to chase away some of the darkness.
Michael reaches for it but the light shies away. It pulls itself into a tight orb and launches itself at Castiel, instead. There’s an explosion when it connects with Castiel’s grace, dazzling enough to illuminate every corner of this non-place.
Castiel reels on impact. A warmth surges through the connection, something pure and full of hope and love. There are other feelings that accompany it – loss, fear, confusion, all things Castiel’s never truly experience before this night – but there’s an overwhelming sense of trust that overshadows it all.
It’s an amazing thing, touching a soul. Castiel’s only heard of what it feels like while eavesdropping on quiet, illicit whispers tip-toeing through the Host. His brothers and sisters had spoken of pure power and strength but this is incomparable to their murmured experiences.
Sam’s soul is familiar in a way Castiel can’t describe and it burrows into his grace seeking safety and shelter and offering strength in return. The soul attracts pieces of Castiel’s grace like magnets, unable to stitch them together but soothing the ache enough to allow them to escape. Castiel forces himself through the barrier of space and surges past Michael, his grace curled tight around the soul it carries.
They hit the physical plane with an impact that jars his grace so hard he can’t hold onto it. Pain spears him in a million different ways as his grace is ripped from him, Sam’s soul still tucked inside. There’s an infinitesimal shred left in him, barely enough to offer a small measure of comfort as he falls.
It’s all too quick and inexorably slow at the same time; anguish slams into him as he watches most of grace catapult off into the distance, the rest of him left to crash-land in a strange land. The feeling is indescribable, some roiling mess of foreign emotion that makes him wish he were dying.
He imagines this can’t be much different from death in a lot of ways – the pain and the fear and the inability to comprehend what’s waiting for him when he lands.
Of all the things he might have expected, this isn’t one of them. There’s a tug, light at first and then stronger until what’s left of him is all but sucked through the dark streets of an unknown town. There’s no use trying to fight this magnetic pull so he relaxes into it instead, allows himself to be dragged toward its source.
It originates from a very tiny, very thin body in a very large hospital bed. There’s too much pain for Castiel to take in all of the details of the room. He only has eyes for the boy with dark hair and pallid cheeks laid out on stark white sheets.
The monitor by the bed shrieks one monotonous beep and, as if prompted by the sound, that pull grows stronger, almost desperate. An orb of light, identical to Sam’s soul in appearance only, collects just above the boy’s chest. It pauses as Castiel is drawn toward the body. What’s left of him collides with the departing soul, another jarring impact that stings and pinches. He can feel traces of the boy’s soul, of Jimmy Novak’s soul, stick to his grace as he slips into something that’s not quite a vessel and not quite a home.
