Day #18: Fic - A World Without Angels
When Castiel was fully and completely an angel, God was everything. It comes as no surprise, then, when Castiel’s first thoughts when wondering what a world without angels would be like concern God. Angels are God’s messengers as well as God’s warriors. The Bible contains only a handful of the times an angel appeared before Man to proclaim God’s word on Earth, and the battles that angels have been fighting for millennia have barely even been touched upon. God has very rarely appeared before Man to deliver God’s word, and while God has done a fair share of smiting evil, the major and definitely most recent battles have been fought by God’s warriors. Angels do God’s work for God.
If angels did not exist, God would stand alone. No messengers, no warriors. God would still have his chosen people, his prophets and his miracle workers, but angels are the beings God created to carry out God’s will.
Castiel wonders if God would take upon God’s shoulders the tasks that have been assigned to angels if angels did not exist. Would God appear before Man instead of sending angels? Would God fight the battles that angels have fought for millennia? God would be forced to do God’s own “dirty work,” as Dean would call it. And Castiel does not doubt God could take on the responsibility that has been assigned to angels, and more. But God would stand alone, a lone figure in the religious art humans have created over the centuries, a single figure in the annals of history, and Castiel wonders if that alone is why God created angels in the first place.
*****
When Castiel falls, he is on a hunt with Dean and Sam. The signs they’ve been following for the past week have lead them to an abandoned mining village in southern Nevada, but they’ve found nothing more than a rougarou that’s proving more difficult to kill than the last one they dealt with. Castiel lost his powers of exorcism months ago, lost his ability to heal long before that. Now, he’s had to start traveling with Dean and Sam in the Impala because his wings no longer carry his human weight through time and space.
And so Dean hands him a rifle he showed Castiel how to use a week ago, and Castiel checks the knife he keeps in the pocket of his trench coat with a slide of his fingers against cloth, and they set off.
They find the rougarou easily enough. Or, rather, it finds them, and before the fight is over and the rougaro is lying in ashes in the dirt, Castiel finds himself sprawled on the ground, leaning against the side of a mineshaft and feeling pain in his shoulder. His hand goes up, brushes over the pain, and comes away bloody. But the pain does not disappear, and he feels blood seeping down his shoulder, and he knows he won’t hear the voices of angels in his head anymore.
“Cas? Hey, Cas!”
Castiel looks up, sees Dean kneeling before him, brow furrowed.
“You gonna sit there all day? We still got work to do, man.”
Castiel nods once, just a dropping of his chin, but he doesn’t move.
“Cas,” Dean says with a bit more force that time, reaches a hand out and grips his shoulder. And Castiel hisses at the pain, eyes closing against the sharp jab of nerve endings firing off. When he opens his eyes, Dean’s holding his hands up, like he’s afraid he’s done something he shouldn’t have, like he’ll break Castiel if he so much as moves. His eyes are wide, and Castiel feels sorrow in its full, human force hit him. It’s overwhelming, but he swallows, nods a second time, and sees acceptance flicker over Dean’s face.
Dean stands then, says something about the first aid kit to Sam as he holds a hand out in front of Castiel.
Castiel stares at Dean’s hand. Dean’s fingers twitch after a moment, and Castiel glances up, sees Dean staring at him with a worried, guilty expression. Castiel ignores Dean’s hand and stands without help. He brushes his palms over the trench coat to wipe away dirt and straighten the fabric before walking out of the mining shaft, because he doesn’t want Dean to think he’s become weak, less than what he was.
*****
When Castiel is no longer completely angel, but not quite human either, the wisdom of angels and workings of humanity are both open and in full view to him. So Castiel wonders not only how a world without angels would affect God, but how it would affect humanity as well.
In a world without angels, there would be no Lucifer. Lucifer never would have rebelled against God and God’s love for humans. There would be no Hell, because Hell was created when Michael cast Lucifer from Heaven. No Lucifer, no Hell, no demons. Castiel wonders what that would mean for humanity. Humanity would have no one to blame for the problems of the world, the giving-in people experience in the eyes of temptation, greed, lust, want, revenge. People would need to blame their downfalls on something other than the divine, or the divine that’s Fallen. But Castiel knows they would find another outlet for their blame, because it’s too much to hope that people would recognize their own faults, their own susceptibility to sin, and own it.
*****
Soon after Castiel Falls, he acknowledges that despite all his best efforts, despite Dean looking out for him, being human kind of sucks. Big time. Everything hurts. When he’s cold, he’s cold. His body aches, his fingers and hands and legs and feet move more slowly, and even his mind becomes lethargic. His body shakes, and he can’t control it. His teeth chatter, and he hates the sound of bone hitting bone reverberating in his head. When’s he’s hot, he sweats, and he can smell everything with human senses and he doesn’t like the smell of sweat. Dean and Sam seem to glean endless amusement at the daily showering this causes. But Dean, Castiel comes to realize, rather likes it, despite his insistence that Castiel has taken over Sam’s role as the girl in their small hunting circle. But his body aches in the heat, and he’s tired and his skin burns easily in the sun. Being cold and hot are both painful.
When he’s hungry, his stomach aches. When he’s tired, his head hurts, along with mostly everything else in his body feeling worn down and heavy.
Hunts are the worst part, physically. Cuts and lashes and abrasions hurt. He bleeds, and he feels skin and, one time, muscle tearing. He feels blood dripping down skin, drying and stiffening and crusting. It is not pleasant. And the smell is almost as bad.
He acquires a sprained ankle a month into being human, and he learns that what he’s feeling is called “hate.” He hates being powerless and a burden and human. And all he wants is to be an angel again, and thinks a world without angels would be worthless. Because that’s all life being not an angel is.
Castiel knows he is falling into sin, not appreciating God’s favorites - humans - as he should, because his own experience as a human has been less than pleasant for the most part so far. Yes, there are moments when Castiel feels peace and hope and something else he cannot yet identify, moments that more often than not occur when he is with Dean. But these moments are often short-lived, because it is the Apocalypse, and if they sit idle for too long either they or the world will be destroyed. And despite the moments of contentment Castiel experiences, they are brief and the pain and weariness often overwhelm those fleeting moments of happiness. He has yet to find something that stays, that makes all the human pain worth becoming one of God’s most favored beings, and that in and of itself seems like a sin to Castiel.
That is why the first time Dean kisses him, Castiel is taken completely, totally, undeniably by surprise.
Castiel hurts when Dean first kisses him. He’s cold. And wet. And he can feel the sharp pain running from his shoulder to his elbow and the slow trickle of blood that’s oozing down his back and chest and arm from the gash the ghoul they’ve just killed gave him. And he feels tired. So tired. If he wasn’t shaking so badly, and sitting in water, in complete darkness, he’d want to curl up and sleep for centuries. But his body is shaking too much for him to sleep.
And besides, Dean’s talking to him, and when Dean talks to him, Castiel listens.
“You should have seen the look on his Face.” Dean chuckles. Castiel can hear the slosh of water as Dean shifts, feels the press of Dean’s leg against his own. “Sam’s still afraid of clowns, and that was years ago.”
Castiel grunts, because it’s become too difficult to form words. And as much as he wants to listen to Dean, responding is something that he just doesn’t have the heart for right now.
“Cas?”
And Dean’s voice is soft and insistent and full of worry. So Castiel opens his eyes, forces his mouth open.
“Yes, Dean?”
“You okay?”
Yes, Castiel means to respond. Of course. Sam will find us any minute, and we can finally find some dry clothes and get warm. But I’m okay.
What comes out instead is, “I hate the cold. I hate being wet. And I hate that I can feel hate, Dean. And why would you ever do this, if you feel this pain every time something goes wrong on a hunt?”
Castiel can answer that question by himself. Because we’re saving people. Because we’re killing the unnatural sons of a bitches who think they can kill people and get away with it. Because it’s just what we do. And Castiel knows he’s being stubborn and whiney and acting like a child. A human child. But he’s just so goddamn tired and cold.
Castiel hears the water slosh again, feels it rise a bit against his body, but all that is forgotten when a hand hits his chest, fumbles in the dark until a palm is cupping his cheek, a thumb swipes over his lips, and then Dean’s mouth is pressing insistent, yet soft, against his mouth.
And Castiel acknowledges, later, after Sam’s found and rescued them, and Dean wraps an extra jacket he’s dug out of the Impala’s trunk around Castiel’s shoulder, hands lingering longer than necessary, that what he was feeling in the dark with Dean, with the press of mouth and palms against skin, totally renders angels worthless. That maybe the pain and downfalls of humanity are worth it sometimes. Because touch and feel and emotion and Dean are all that make life as a human worthwhile, and none of them existed when he was completely, wholly angel.
*****
When Castiel finally comes to terms with his humanity, he can’t help but wonder what the world would be like without angels from the viewpoint of a human. And Castiel’s thoughts, when considering a world without angels when he is human, often come back to Dean Winchester. If angels did not exist, there would be no demons, because there would have been no Lucifer to create them. There would be no Azazel, no Yellow-Eyed Demon, and Dean’s mother would never have died. John Winchester, then, would never have become a hunter, and Dean and Sam could have had a normal life full of little league and chasing tail, whatever those were. If angels did not exist, Dean’s life would be easier, less complicated. He would have had a family, safety, love, instead of the loss and danger he has now. Dean would not have to worry about being used as an “angel condom” and he would not have the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.
If the Winchesters never became hunters and demons did not exist, Castiel knows there would still be werewolves and shtrigas and rougarous and vampires, and people would still be killed by supernatural creatures. Just because demons would no longer exist doesn’t mean evil wouldn’t. But Castiel starts to wonder if it wouldn’t be worth it, to see Dean utterly and completely happy. And Castiel thinks that might be blasphemy, wishing for the happiness of one man over the happiness of hundreds of others.
*****
Castiel’s been human for over a year before Dean and Sam cave and enter an abandoned house instead of the abandoned or rundown motels by the side of a road. After the initial walk through of the house, guns and knives raised, Dean has declared it safe and Castiel lets his muscles relax, allows his eyes to look at the house around him without looking for moving shadows in corners.
“I’m going see if there’s anything we can use,” Sam says as Dean passes Castiel and stands at the bottom of a large staircase leading to the second floor. “We’re running low on supplies.”
Dean nods and starts walking upstairs. Castiel follows quietly, nervous. Dean is restless tonight, and his gaze is travelling too quickly around everything in the house.
Dean pauses at the top of the stairs before heading to the left towards the master bedroom they’d found earlier on their initial sweep through the house. He enters the room, starts walking around it, and Castiel watches silently from the doorway.
“Look at all this shit, Cas.”
Dean’s gaze is going from one object to the next, from the black and white photographs of dogs and kids hanging on the walls to the mess of hair products and shoeshine scattered atop the dresser.
Dean steps up to the dresser, fingers through the mess. “Such a waste with the Apocalypse and all. None of this really matters, does it?”
Castiel wants to tell Dean that it’s all that matters, because it’s human, and that’s what they’re trying to stop the Apocalypse for: Humanity. Dean walks over to the window that’s letting the moonlight into the room, the only light they’ll get because a fire would attract demons right to them. So they go without fire and its light and its warmth, and stay quiet and hidden.
Dean makes a sound that Castiel hasn’t heard in a long time. It takes him a moment to recognize it as laughter.
“They even have a freakin’ white picket fence.”
Castiel goes over to Dean then, stands close behind him so that his chest is pressed to Dean’s back, and wraps his arms around Dean’s waist. Castiel closes his eyes, presses his forehead into Dean’s shoulder.
Famine has recently swept through this area, and Castiel can feel Dean is thinner now, knows he’s thinner as well. The cornfield across the street from this house is withered, and if Castiel thought Famine could work its mojo on houses as well as living things he’d believe it, because there’s living proof all around them in the houses like this one. All of them are falling apart, and people are gone. Too many people have gone.
“I’m sorry.”
Dean stiffens in Castiel’s arms and after a moment his head shifts, turns to face Castiel who still has his face pressed into Dean’s shoulder.
“For what?”
“That you never had this.” That you might never have this.
Dean shifts then, turns in Castiel’s arms until he’s forcing Castiel to look up with a hand on the back of his head.
“It’s not what I need, Cas. Trust me.”
But needing and wanting are not the same, and Castiel knows this by now.
“Hey,” Dean says, and the word is soft, but questioning. When Castiel doesn’t reply Dean shakes his head, presses closer to him, and forces Castiel to walk backwards. “Don’t get down yet, Angel Boy. When all this is over, maybe we’ll fix up a house like this. No white picket fence, though.”
Castiel smiles, opens his mouth when Dean leans in and kisses him. The back of his legs hit the bed, and Castiel sucks in a quick breath, grips his arms tighter around Dean. As they fall, Castiel maneuvers it so that Dean falls first, and Castiel moves over him, smiling when Dean stares up at him with wide, surprised eyes.
“I like the white picket fence,” he says, placing a kiss on Dean’s jaw.
“No promises,” Dean gets out as he drags Castiel closer, leans up for a kiss again. And it’s nice to pretend that outside isn’t plagued with ruin and death, that the bed beneath them isn’t musty and dust doesn’t start filling the air as they move over each other.
When they wake up in the morning, wrapped up in legs and arms and musty blankets, Castiel watches Dean sit up, glance blearily around the room, at the domesticity surrounding them, and his heart aches just a little bit.
“C’mon,” Dean says, grabbing Castiel’s hand and pulling him up out of bed before releasing him, tossing his clothes at him. “I’m sure there’s some food downstairs.” He flashes Castiel a smile as he pulls on his pants. “Maybe they have pancake mix.”
*****
The Apocalypse, Castiel recalls, was always foretold as the faceoff between Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, God’s forces versus Lucifer’s followers. It stands to reason that Castiel’s last thought, then, when contemplating a world without angels, is the fact that there would be no Apocalypse if there were no angels No angels, no demons, no Apocalypse.
*****
At the end of the Apocalypse, Castiel finds God. And God is female, and alone without angels by God’s side, and God is talking to him and Dean and Sam without a mediator. And God is remorseful, but God leaves again at the end of it.
But the Apocalypse is over, God makes sure that much is accomplished before leaving the world and humans to their own devices, to govern their own lives. But before God leaves, God turns to Castiel, and looks and sees, and Castiel wishes not for the first time, and not for the last time, that he was an angel again.
“You cannot decide that,” God says. And Castiel knows God sees what he’s been contemplating since he started to fall. “No one can. Not even me. But you can decide whether or not angel still exists in you.”
Castiel’s human heart stutters in his chest, and the step he takes back is less than steady. And Dean’s hand is on his elbow, gripping tighter than necessary, and Castiel feels pain.
“It is your decision, Castiel. You have served me as no other angel has served me.” God smiles, and it is a small smile but there nonetheless, and Castiel wonders if God feels emotions the way humans do or angels do. “You deserve something for your loyalty.”
“Carrying out your will is all I ever needed,” Castiel finds himself saying, and he feels uncertainty, because as much as doing God’s will is still everything to him, there’s a part of him now that makes him lean to his right, into Dean’s grip still tight and painful on his arm.
God’s smile deepens, and Castiel knows God feels as humans do.
“So an angel would say.”
And Castiel fears. He fears that as God raises up God’s hand, and light surrounds Her, that that’s what he’s going to become. Angel and not human. He won’t feel pain, he won’t feel guilt or fear or remorse the way humans do, not with a bone-deep ache. And there will be no more lips against skin, no more DeanDeanDean and please and now and harder and murmured endearments in the dark.
Castiel comes to in Bobby’s house. Dean is lying across his chest, his elbow digging into Castiel’s Adam ’s Apple, and Castiel coughs and feels pain.
Dean’s movements are jerky, but he does not move off of Castiel as he shifts his body to look down at Castiel. Castiel hears shuffling to his left, and knows Sam is sitting up, looking around him, because he hears the younger Winchester curse.
“Cas?”
And Castiel focuses on Dean’s face suddenly close to his.
“Am I speaking to an angel of the Lord, or…”
Castiel groans, shifts under Dean, under the press of Dean’s hand into his bicep.
“Dean,” he huffs out. “You’re hurting me.”
And Dean smiles. There’s sadness, guilt, in his eyes though, and Castiel feels the pain of guilt and love surge through him. He pushes past it, lifts his head, and presses his lips against Dean’s.
Sam curses again, and Castiel hears his shuffling, the rustle of cloth, the clunk of shoes against flooring as Sam stands and leaves the room. But Castiel feels Dean moan into his mouth, feels the heat from Dean’s body, feels the ripple of muscle under his palm as he slides his hand up Dean’s back, under his shirt, pulls Dean closer, and Castiel doesn’t care about anything other than that.
If angels did not exist, God would stand alone. No messengers, no warriors. God would still have his chosen people, his prophets and his miracle workers, but angels are the beings God created to carry out God’s will.
Castiel wonders if God would take upon God’s shoulders the tasks that have been assigned to angels if angels did not exist. Would God appear before Man instead of sending angels? Would God fight the battles that angels have fought for millennia? God would be forced to do God’s own “dirty work,” as Dean would call it. And Castiel does not doubt God could take on the responsibility that has been assigned to angels, and more. But God would stand alone, a lone figure in the religious art humans have created over the centuries, a single figure in the annals of history, and Castiel wonders if that alone is why God created angels in the first place.
*****
When Castiel falls, he is on a hunt with Dean and Sam. The signs they’ve been following for the past week have lead them to an abandoned mining village in southern Nevada, but they’ve found nothing more than a rougarou that’s proving more difficult to kill than the last one they dealt with. Castiel lost his powers of exorcism months ago, lost his ability to heal long before that. Now, he’s had to start traveling with Dean and Sam in the Impala because his wings no longer carry his human weight through time and space.
And so Dean hands him a rifle he showed Castiel how to use a week ago, and Castiel checks the knife he keeps in the pocket of his trench coat with a slide of his fingers against cloth, and they set off.
They find the rougarou easily enough. Or, rather, it finds them, and before the fight is over and the rougaro is lying in ashes in the dirt, Castiel finds himself sprawled on the ground, leaning against the side of a mineshaft and feeling pain in his shoulder. His hand goes up, brushes over the pain, and comes away bloody. But the pain does not disappear, and he feels blood seeping down his shoulder, and he knows he won’t hear the voices of angels in his head anymore.
“Cas? Hey, Cas!”
Castiel looks up, sees Dean kneeling before him, brow furrowed.
“You gonna sit there all day? We still got work to do, man.”
Castiel nods once, just a dropping of his chin, but he doesn’t move.
“Cas,” Dean says with a bit more force that time, reaches a hand out and grips his shoulder. And Castiel hisses at the pain, eyes closing against the sharp jab of nerve endings firing off. When he opens his eyes, Dean’s holding his hands up, like he’s afraid he’s done something he shouldn’t have, like he’ll break Castiel if he so much as moves. His eyes are wide, and Castiel feels sorrow in its full, human force hit him. It’s overwhelming, but he swallows, nods a second time, and sees acceptance flicker over Dean’s face.
Dean stands then, says something about the first aid kit to Sam as he holds a hand out in front of Castiel.
Castiel stares at Dean’s hand. Dean’s fingers twitch after a moment, and Castiel glances up, sees Dean staring at him with a worried, guilty expression. Castiel ignores Dean’s hand and stands without help. He brushes his palms over the trench coat to wipe away dirt and straighten the fabric before walking out of the mining shaft, because he doesn’t want Dean to think he’s become weak, less than what he was.
*****
When Castiel is no longer completely angel, but not quite human either, the wisdom of angels and workings of humanity are both open and in full view to him. So Castiel wonders not only how a world without angels would affect God, but how it would affect humanity as well.
In a world without angels, there would be no Lucifer. Lucifer never would have rebelled against God and God’s love for humans. There would be no Hell, because Hell was created when Michael cast Lucifer from Heaven. No Lucifer, no Hell, no demons. Castiel wonders what that would mean for humanity. Humanity would have no one to blame for the problems of the world, the giving-in people experience in the eyes of temptation, greed, lust, want, revenge. People would need to blame their downfalls on something other than the divine, or the divine that’s Fallen. But Castiel knows they would find another outlet for their blame, because it’s too much to hope that people would recognize their own faults, their own susceptibility to sin, and own it.
*****
Soon after Castiel Falls, he acknowledges that despite all his best efforts, despite Dean looking out for him, being human kind of sucks. Big time. Everything hurts. When he’s cold, he’s cold. His body aches, his fingers and hands and legs and feet move more slowly, and even his mind becomes lethargic. His body shakes, and he can’t control it. His teeth chatter, and he hates the sound of bone hitting bone reverberating in his head. When’s he’s hot, he sweats, and he can smell everything with human senses and he doesn’t like the smell of sweat. Dean and Sam seem to glean endless amusement at the daily showering this causes. But Dean, Castiel comes to realize, rather likes it, despite his insistence that Castiel has taken over Sam’s role as the girl in their small hunting circle. But his body aches in the heat, and he’s tired and his skin burns easily in the sun. Being cold and hot are both painful.
When he’s hungry, his stomach aches. When he’s tired, his head hurts, along with mostly everything else in his body feeling worn down and heavy.
Hunts are the worst part, physically. Cuts and lashes and abrasions hurt. He bleeds, and he feels skin and, one time, muscle tearing. He feels blood dripping down skin, drying and stiffening and crusting. It is not pleasant. And the smell is almost as bad.
He acquires a sprained ankle a month into being human, and he learns that what he’s feeling is called “hate.” He hates being powerless and a burden and human. And all he wants is to be an angel again, and thinks a world without angels would be worthless. Because that’s all life being not an angel is.
Castiel knows he is falling into sin, not appreciating God’s favorites - humans - as he should, because his own experience as a human has been less than pleasant for the most part so far. Yes, there are moments when Castiel feels peace and hope and something else he cannot yet identify, moments that more often than not occur when he is with Dean. But these moments are often short-lived, because it is the Apocalypse, and if they sit idle for too long either they or the world will be destroyed. And despite the moments of contentment Castiel experiences, they are brief and the pain and weariness often overwhelm those fleeting moments of happiness. He has yet to find something that stays, that makes all the human pain worth becoming one of God’s most favored beings, and that in and of itself seems like a sin to Castiel.
That is why the first time Dean kisses him, Castiel is taken completely, totally, undeniably by surprise.
Castiel hurts when Dean first kisses him. He’s cold. And wet. And he can feel the sharp pain running from his shoulder to his elbow and the slow trickle of blood that’s oozing down his back and chest and arm from the gash the ghoul they’ve just killed gave him. And he feels tired. So tired. If he wasn’t shaking so badly, and sitting in water, in complete darkness, he’d want to curl up and sleep for centuries. But his body is shaking too much for him to sleep.
And besides, Dean’s talking to him, and when Dean talks to him, Castiel listens.
“You should have seen the look on his Face.” Dean chuckles. Castiel can hear the slosh of water as Dean shifts, feels the press of Dean’s leg against his own. “Sam’s still afraid of clowns, and that was years ago.”
Castiel grunts, because it’s become too difficult to form words. And as much as he wants to listen to Dean, responding is something that he just doesn’t have the heart for right now.
“Cas?”
And Dean’s voice is soft and insistent and full of worry. So Castiel opens his eyes, forces his mouth open.
“Yes, Dean?”
“You okay?”
Yes, Castiel means to respond. Of course. Sam will find us any minute, and we can finally find some dry clothes and get warm. But I’m okay.
What comes out instead is, “I hate the cold. I hate being wet. And I hate that I can feel hate, Dean. And why would you ever do this, if you feel this pain every time something goes wrong on a hunt?”
Castiel can answer that question by himself. Because we’re saving people. Because we’re killing the unnatural sons of a bitches who think they can kill people and get away with it. Because it’s just what we do. And Castiel knows he’s being stubborn and whiney and acting like a child. A human child. But he’s just so goddamn tired and cold.
Castiel hears the water slosh again, feels it rise a bit against his body, but all that is forgotten when a hand hits his chest, fumbles in the dark until a palm is cupping his cheek, a thumb swipes over his lips, and then Dean’s mouth is pressing insistent, yet soft, against his mouth.
And Castiel acknowledges, later, after Sam’s found and rescued them, and Dean wraps an extra jacket he’s dug out of the Impala’s trunk around Castiel’s shoulder, hands lingering longer than necessary, that what he was feeling in the dark with Dean, with the press of mouth and palms against skin, totally renders angels worthless. That maybe the pain and downfalls of humanity are worth it sometimes. Because touch and feel and emotion and Dean are all that make life as a human worthwhile, and none of them existed when he was completely, wholly angel.
*****
When Castiel finally comes to terms with his humanity, he can’t help but wonder what the world would be like without angels from the viewpoint of a human. And Castiel’s thoughts, when considering a world without angels when he is human, often come back to Dean Winchester. If angels did not exist, there would be no demons, because there would have been no Lucifer to create them. There would be no Azazel, no Yellow-Eyed Demon, and Dean’s mother would never have died. John Winchester, then, would never have become a hunter, and Dean and Sam could have had a normal life full of little league and chasing tail, whatever those were. If angels did not exist, Dean’s life would be easier, less complicated. He would have had a family, safety, love, instead of the loss and danger he has now. Dean would not have to worry about being used as an “angel condom” and he would not have the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.
If the Winchesters never became hunters and demons did not exist, Castiel knows there would still be werewolves and shtrigas and rougarous and vampires, and people would still be killed by supernatural creatures. Just because demons would no longer exist doesn’t mean evil wouldn’t. But Castiel starts to wonder if it wouldn’t be worth it, to see Dean utterly and completely happy. And Castiel thinks that might be blasphemy, wishing for the happiness of one man over the happiness of hundreds of others.
*****
Castiel’s been human for over a year before Dean and Sam cave and enter an abandoned house instead of the abandoned or rundown motels by the side of a road. After the initial walk through of the house, guns and knives raised, Dean has declared it safe and Castiel lets his muscles relax, allows his eyes to look at the house around him without looking for moving shadows in corners.
“I’m going see if there’s anything we can use,” Sam says as Dean passes Castiel and stands at the bottom of a large staircase leading to the second floor. “We’re running low on supplies.”
Dean nods and starts walking upstairs. Castiel follows quietly, nervous. Dean is restless tonight, and his gaze is travelling too quickly around everything in the house.
Dean pauses at the top of the stairs before heading to the left towards the master bedroom they’d found earlier on their initial sweep through the house. He enters the room, starts walking around it, and Castiel watches silently from the doorway.
“Look at all this shit, Cas.”
Dean’s gaze is going from one object to the next, from the black and white photographs of dogs and kids hanging on the walls to the mess of hair products and shoeshine scattered atop the dresser.
Dean steps up to the dresser, fingers through the mess. “Such a waste with the Apocalypse and all. None of this really matters, does it?”
Castiel wants to tell Dean that it’s all that matters, because it’s human, and that’s what they’re trying to stop the Apocalypse for: Humanity. Dean walks over to the window that’s letting the moonlight into the room, the only light they’ll get because a fire would attract demons right to them. So they go without fire and its light and its warmth, and stay quiet and hidden.
Dean makes a sound that Castiel hasn’t heard in a long time. It takes him a moment to recognize it as laughter.
“They even have a freakin’ white picket fence.”
Castiel goes over to Dean then, stands close behind him so that his chest is pressed to Dean’s back, and wraps his arms around Dean’s waist. Castiel closes his eyes, presses his forehead into Dean’s shoulder.
Famine has recently swept through this area, and Castiel can feel Dean is thinner now, knows he’s thinner as well. The cornfield across the street from this house is withered, and if Castiel thought Famine could work its mojo on houses as well as living things he’d believe it, because there’s living proof all around them in the houses like this one. All of them are falling apart, and people are gone. Too many people have gone.
“I’m sorry.”
Dean stiffens in Castiel’s arms and after a moment his head shifts, turns to face Castiel who still has his face pressed into Dean’s shoulder.
“For what?”
“That you never had this.” That you might never have this.
Dean shifts then, turns in Castiel’s arms until he’s forcing Castiel to look up with a hand on the back of his head.
“It’s not what I need, Cas. Trust me.”
But needing and wanting are not the same, and Castiel knows this by now.
“Hey,” Dean says, and the word is soft, but questioning. When Castiel doesn’t reply Dean shakes his head, presses closer to him, and forces Castiel to walk backwards. “Don’t get down yet, Angel Boy. When all this is over, maybe we’ll fix up a house like this. No white picket fence, though.”
Castiel smiles, opens his mouth when Dean leans in and kisses him. The back of his legs hit the bed, and Castiel sucks in a quick breath, grips his arms tighter around Dean. As they fall, Castiel maneuvers it so that Dean falls first, and Castiel moves over him, smiling when Dean stares up at him with wide, surprised eyes.
“I like the white picket fence,” he says, placing a kiss on Dean’s jaw.
“No promises,” Dean gets out as he drags Castiel closer, leans up for a kiss again. And it’s nice to pretend that outside isn’t plagued with ruin and death, that the bed beneath them isn’t musty and dust doesn’t start filling the air as they move over each other.
When they wake up in the morning, wrapped up in legs and arms and musty blankets, Castiel watches Dean sit up, glance blearily around the room, at the domesticity surrounding them, and his heart aches just a little bit.
“C’mon,” Dean says, grabbing Castiel’s hand and pulling him up out of bed before releasing him, tossing his clothes at him. “I’m sure there’s some food downstairs.” He flashes Castiel a smile as he pulls on his pants. “Maybe they have pancake mix.”
*****
The Apocalypse, Castiel recalls, was always foretold as the faceoff between Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, God’s forces versus Lucifer’s followers. It stands to reason that Castiel’s last thought, then, when contemplating a world without angels, is the fact that there would be no Apocalypse if there were no angels No angels, no demons, no Apocalypse.
*****
At the end of the Apocalypse, Castiel finds God. And God is female, and alone without angels by God’s side, and God is talking to him and Dean and Sam without a mediator. And God is remorseful, but God leaves again at the end of it.
But the Apocalypse is over, God makes sure that much is accomplished before leaving the world and humans to their own devices, to govern their own lives. But before God leaves, God turns to Castiel, and looks and sees, and Castiel wishes not for the first time, and not for the last time, that he was an angel again.
“You cannot decide that,” God says. And Castiel knows God sees what he’s been contemplating since he started to fall. “No one can. Not even me. But you can decide whether or not angel still exists in you.”
Castiel’s human heart stutters in his chest, and the step he takes back is less than steady. And Dean’s hand is on his elbow, gripping tighter than necessary, and Castiel feels pain.
“It is your decision, Castiel. You have served me as no other angel has served me.” God smiles, and it is a small smile but there nonetheless, and Castiel wonders if God feels emotions the way humans do or angels do. “You deserve something for your loyalty.”
“Carrying out your will is all I ever needed,” Castiel finds himself saying, and he feels uncertainty, because as much as doing God’s will is still everything to him, there’s a part of him now that makes him lean to his right, into Dean’s grip still tight and painful on his arm.
God’s smile deepens, and Castiel knows God feels as humans do.
“So an angel would say.”
And Castiel fears. He fears that as God raises up God’s hand, and light surrounds Her, that that’s what he’s going to become. Angel and not human. He won’t feel pain, he won’t feel guilt or fear or remorse the way humans do, not with a bone-deep ache. And there will be no more lips against skin, no more DeanDeanDean and please and now and harder and murmured endearments in the dark.
Castiel comes to in Bobby’s house. Dean is lying across his chest, his elbow digging into Castiel’s Adam ’s Apple, and Castiel coughs and feels pain.
Dean’s movements are jerky, but he does not move off of Castiel as he shifts his body to look down at Castiel. Castiel hears shuffling to his left, and knows Sam is sitting up, looking around him, because he hears the younger Winchester curse.
“Cas?”
And Castiel focuses on Dean’s face suddenly close to his.
“Am I speaking to an angel of the Lord, or…”
Castiel groans, shifts under Dean, under the press of Dean’s hand into his bicep.
“Dean,” he huffs out. “You’re hurting me.”
And Dean smiles. There’s sadness, guilt, in his eyes though, and Castiel feels the pain of guilt and love surge through him. He pushes past it, lifts his head, and presses his lips against Dean’s.
Sam curses again, and Castiel hears his shuffling, the rustle of cloth, the clunk of shoes against flooring as Sam stands and leaves the room. But Castiel feels Dean moan into his mouth, feels the heat from Dean’s body, feels the ripple of muscle under his palm as he slides his hand up Dean’s back, under his shirt, pulls Dean closer, and Castiel doesn’t care about anything other than that.